They came for me in the morning, the atabeg and his cavaliers. Their casual riding coats whipped around below their knees, disturbing the dust that had settled on the cobblestones overnight. Umar and Amjad stood up in respect as they approached but I remained seated. I placed my hands on my knees with my sword out of sight.
The atabeg was a stout man. He had old scars on his jeweled fists. His beard was thick despite his baldness and when he stepped up to me, I caught a whiff of strong perfume. His wore gold necklaces underneath the coat against an otherwise simple white tunic. He was a man who belonged in the stables, but was trying to fit in among aristocrats.
His mustache twitched as he scrunched his nose at us. “You’ve become a bloody nuisance, haven’t you?” he said to me gruffly. “You should have left when I gave you the chance.”
“Peace, Atabeg,” I said.
Hoshyar was at his side, poised and smiling politely, as if we’d gathered for an afternoon cup.
“You’re ordered to appear in front of the Emir, at noon,” the Atabeg said matter-of-factly, then he made to turn but noticed Khwaja stepping out of the coffee-house across the square with the company of Samir Ali. The aide called to us and waved. I felt a re-assuring calm fall over me at Samir Ali’s smile.
“That’s it?” Khwaja asked the Atabeg. “The Emir has you delivering messages, now?”
“Stay out of this, Khwaja.”
“Out of what?” the physician feigned confusion and took a sip. The Atabeg sighed, but didn’t leave. Something was odd about this interaction and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Good evening, Master Khwaja,” Hoshyar began eloquently, “this man here has viciously attacked a cavalier of Emir Murtaza. Regrettably, and with great patience, the Emir has decided that cutting of this man’s left hand is—“
“Where is the Ra’is?” Khwaja cut in. Hoshyar shit his mouth sourly but didn’t speak again.
The Blight guard beside me shrugged, “I think he’s sleeping. We’ve been knocking but no answer. Do you want me enter around the back?”
“No, need,” Khwaja waved his hand, “we can just assemble the public council. Or does the Atabeg prefer to take this to the court?“
The Atabeg was nodding, “look, look, the Emir wants a word, understand? This is his order, and we should…we have to…” In the rambling and the nervous gestures of the cavalier commander, I finally understood what was happening. I was watching a man stuck between two persons of power. The Emir and Khwaja.
And just like the Atabeg was a pawn of Emir Murtaza, I had unwittingly become the same for Khwaja and the people’s council.
“The militia captain answers to the Ra’is and the town council,” Samir Ali interrupted the Atabeg. The cavalier commander bristled and jabbed in my direction, “he is not Militia. He’s not even a Blight guard. He’s just some thug that your master has anointed to bully our men. This is a trying time for our blighthunters and champions, and this man almost injured one of our finest riders.”
Hoshyar bowed his head humbly. Amjad was shifting his feet beside me, whether through nervousness or from when I’d injured his feet. Umar stepped up to the Ra’is door again and banged his fists against the rickety wood.
“Leave it,” Khwaja ordered the Blight guard. “It appears the Atabeg wants to settle this matter here and now.”
The others didn’t noticed, but Hoshyar placed a hand on his hilt. Even the Atabeg widened his stance. The Blight guards beside me, Umar and Amjad, failed to notice the danger, so I turned my cloak just enough to present the hilt of my weapon.
Khwaja, perhaps realizing the effect of his words, explained further, “What punishement will the Emir be happy with, do you think?”
The Atabeg visibly relaxed, running his fingers through his thick beard. “The left hand of this man.”
“A public apology,” Khwaja replied quickly.
“An apology?” Hoshyar blurted. “What is this—“
“Quiet!” the Atabeg snapped. “Ten lashes for all the militia.”
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“Agreed,” Khwaja said.
Hohsyar laughed and shook his head incredulously, “this is a farce.”
“No,” I said. Most of the militia were young boys who were not responsible for what I’d done yesterday. “I will take them. I will take all the lashes.”
“That’s over a hundred—“
“Agreed,” Hoshyar snapped, to the annoyance of his Atabeg and others. Slowly the commander nodded and looked toward Khwaja, who was studying me closely.
“If that is what the Captain wishes,” the old physician said slowly, and it was decided.
***
The militia boys and their families gathered at noon to watch the public whipping. They were scolded by the Atabeg as the whipping pole was nailed down by the fountain in the middle of the square. The commander reminded the boys how close they were to being whipped as well, and that the Emir commanded respect, no matter their age. I listened to the drawn out speech, watching the anxious young and the town-folk filing into the square as news reached around Salamiyya. Khwaja had returned with an even older lady, who had her own retinue of servants and seamstresses I recognized from the laundry yard. Khwaja leaned over to speak in her ear as he gestured towards me. She nodded.
The coffee-house’ outside seating was removed as the afternoon crowd grew; from green-cappers to mosque-goers and the few caravaners and tradesmen still left stranded in town. Maidservants joined the seamstresses and aides that were clustered in the other corner. I avoided the stares, not wanting to see any familiar faces. Especially of Samir Ali and Rabia. I imagined she was pleased to see me punished for my trespasses. My wounds would be a painful reminder of her words. I deserved no less, she would say.
But this punishment wasn’t for what I’d done. I understood that now. The Emir wasn’t present, but this was still his attempt to subdue the council and whatever threat Khwaja posed to his men. And as Hoshyar led me to the pole, unnecessarily bound, I had no regrets. I held my chin level and didn’t let the cavalier push me. He tried, though; quickening his steps, placing a hand on my shoulder, jutting it forward, hoping I’d stumble or trip over the stones.
I made sure he looked like a lineman, following with a hand on my shoulder, trying to match my long strides and failing. I quickly knelt at the pole before he could push me down.
“Shirt,” Hoshyar said. The voices around the square died out quickly as soon as my knees hit the sharp cobblestones. I heard Hoshyar’s soft, curt voice again, “Your shirt, please.” There was disappointment in his presence. He’d wanted more than just a whipping.
My wounds stretched painfully as I lifted my tunic, folded it, and laid it carefully beside my feet. The square was completely silent now, and only the soft lap of the fountain water could be heard, along with a few gasps— I understood why when I saw my arms and chest. The Tuqtuq wounds had ripped open again, bleeding through the stitches. If Samir Ali was watching, he’d be furious at my lack of care for the stitches. And I found myself smiling at the thought—
The first lash came unexpectedly, driving air out of my chest and left me breathless. I inhaled quickly and deeply, steeling myself for the ne—
My back screamed; was it the third lash or the second? My eyes blurr—
Hoshyar grunted, reminding me of his presence. He was there. Behind me. The pain was his. Not mine.
Hoshyar paused, after the tenth or twentieth lash. Maybe it was the fiftieth and it was almost over.
The young cavalier resumed his attack and fell into a rhythm I could predict. I closed my eyes and it was just the darkness and the pain and the wooden stake I clung to, afraid of slipping and falling on my face any moment.
Somehow, every lash begun conjuring images of Balak and his golden face, frozen in an apathetic stare. The inevitable pain followed the mask and the mask followed the pain. He raised his hand, like he’d done again and again, striking me with red, hot fire.
It was relentless and my hands slipped. Balak quickened his pace and gasped at his effort. You’re tiring, I thought and found the strength to stay kneeling. I will outlast you.
With the blood now running down my back, it felt as if I’d been doused in oil and set on fire. Balak was tiring though. I could hear him. This was my chance to repel him. To show him that Munqidh wasn’t so easily consumed, and make Samir Ali proud.
“That’s enough,” I heard a strong voice call across the square. Balak’s gasps faded into Hoshyar’s and the next lash never came. The whip dragged across ground beside me as the cavalier slowly coiled it around his arm.
Hoshyar’s fine braids were messy and undone. Sweat rolled down his face. He glanced at me with ill-intentions still clear in his eyes. And if he struck me down now, I was sure would fall flat on my face. But I blinked away my tears and rose to my feet. My legs trembled to keep me upright and a hair’s movement burned my back hotter than it was burning now. I half-expected to see flames rising around my shoulders.
Umar was next to me before Hoshyar could take his chance at another blow. The Blightguard captain took me over his shoulder and I finally let go, resting my weight on his and closing my eyes. Tears of pain mixed with sweat and I gasped at every step through gritted teeth and tried my best to keep a straight face as we passed through the nervous crowd. Someone else took my other arm and I was quickly carried to a soft bed in a dark room.
I heard the door click shut behind me, but not before someone shuffled in. It was Samir Ali and another aide. I heard their voices but didn’t quite understand their commands, until the aide pushed me gently to roll over on my stomach where they could work on my back. I held my tongue the entire time, counting the seconds and minutes while they worked. Occasionally a gasp would escape and I would bite my lips.
“Don’t turn over,” said Samir Ali at some point. I thought I felt him get up but no one was there anymore when I looked. His voice lingered in the darkness for a while and I waited until it faded away and I was sure that I was finally alone.
My moans woke me up every time I drifted to sleep. It was fine, though, I was alone. My gasps were so loud and ragged they seemed like death rattles— the sound turning into the clicking of a Tuqtuq as it pounced on me again and again until Rabia stood over me with a crossbow.
***