Chapter 25: The Lady and the Hawks

Isabelle sat huddled in one corner of the slave auction area, her eyes surveying the happenings around the vicinity. For the last two months nothing much changed from day to day. Unlike when she was on the pirate ship from Britannia, where things were often chaotic and unpredictable. But at least here she was safe from those pirates. She never liked them. They always made her nervous and edgy.

She had also met and befriended a Bolgar woman, Shamira. She had a son, named Ozalan, six years of age. The boy had quickly become close to Isabelle. She knew that he saw her as the big sister he never had.

Isabelle often recalled the words of her grandaunt, Katherine the Seer, as often told to her by by her own grandmother, Meredith the Healer, when she was a little child. As she grew up, she came to increasingly doubt that anyone could really see into the future, let alone with such conviction that Katherine often seemed to do.

Nevertheless, the latest unexpected events in her life had made Isabelle reconsider Katherine’s prophecies about her. For those predictions now remain to give her the hope and strength she needed to continue to face the seemingly endless sequence of tribulations that had come her way. And then she saw him.

He was with two friends. One of them looked to her like a Persian. The other one, she could not really guess his tribe, but there were quite several others of his like around Constantinople, and their number seemed to her to be growing.

As for the man himself, it was even more difficult for her to make out his origin, although his features hinted of part Persian ancestry.

§

Somewhere in the main square of the city of Constantinople, Shakranta and his two friends, Ashgar and Tegrud, found themselves wandering through a large slave market. Numerous slaves of all tribes and nations, men and women, children and adults, sat or stood. Some alone, some huddled together in groups, mostly appearing either glum or bored, with that lost forlorn look in their eyes. But all seemingly waiting in the hope that they would eventually be bought sooner or later by a kind master.

Shakranta then noticed a young girl. Still in her early teens by the look of her. She had sparkling blue eyes and striking yellowish brown hair about the same colour as Zvietta’s. Her skin looked like it had recently become a bit tanned from the strong Byzantine sun. Though it was probably originally fair with a pinkish tone. A child of the northwestern lands, Shakranta guessed. A Saxon, perhaps.

Her whole face as well as her arms and legs looked mostly stained and dirtied. She would talk to herself almost constantly. Every once in a while she would sob and cry. Other times she would break into a laugh all of a sudden. Sort of a bit loony, Shakranta thought. Quite common though, he had heard, among some newly captured slaves. It was the extreme trauma. Suddenly, she glanced at Shakranta and their eyes met momentarily.

She kept looking at his mutton kebab as he was munching away on it. Probably very hungry, Shakranta thought. Shakranta picked out a piece more from the food pouch he had been carrying and held it out to her. The girl grabbed it from his hand and gulped it down in a heartbeat. Shakranta gave her another piece ... and then another ... and then another.

Moments later, Shakranta was about to leave. A servant of Sultan Mahmud, escorting Shakranta, pulled the reins to Shakranta’s new horses.

"Excuse me, Sir!", a young female voice, speaking in Persian with a thick foreign accent rather unfamiliar to Shakranta's ears, startled him. He turned around to see the speaker. It was that young girl with the yellowish brown hair.

"I’m sorry," the girl continued, smiling for the first time. She looked rather sweet when she did so, Shakranta thought.


"That's all right", Shakranta answered. "You must be hungry".


"I was. You look like someone from afar. Got a bit of the Persian look in you, but a little different, though."

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"Must've got that from my Kambhoja grandfather."

"Kambhoja?"

"A nomadic Iranian tribe, of the Western Himalayas, as my father told me. They're closely related to the Persians."

"I see. That explains it then. You’re not going away already, are you? You get bored so fast. Won’t you just consider buying me?”

With both Shakranta and the girl having limited fluency in Persian, it was left to Ashgar to interpret whatever stilted conversation taking place between the two. Fortunately, Ashgar knew a smattering of Saxon too, from his days as a young mercenary with Byzantium’s multi-ethnic army. Having a certain aptitude for languages, he had also picked up bits of Malay from his months of association with Shakranta.

Shakranta just stood there for a few moments. Lost for words for a while. Suddenly he felt a tinge of sympathy. Or was it pity?

"Isabelle!" a man shouted. Shakranta turned and saw a hirsute, heavy set man. He looked like he had thick dark hair sprouting from all over his body. It was the slave trader, owner of the girl, probably. A Greek merchant, Shakranta thought. "You talk too much. Hey, why can’t you ever get it into your head? You’re just another lowly little slave girl ... and ..."

"Let her speak!" Shakranta cut the man off, raising his hand, signalling to him to stop scolding. "I need to hear her talk. To gauge her suitability."

Shakranta turned round to face the girl again.

"Umm," Shakranta felt his interest piqued. "All right then, young lady. Tell me what you can do. Convince me that you will be useful to me."

"Those young Norman horses of yours," the girl continued. "They’re magnificent. Destrieres, they’re called. Great war horses. Used as chargers, mostly. They’re going to need good care and proper handling from young. If they’re going to grow up into the formidable war horses that they were born to be. Otherwise, they’ll just end up as ordinary farm horses."

"Oh?" Shakranta turned his head slightly. "That's really interesting. And how do you know all that?"

"I grew up on a farm, Sir. My family bred all kinds of horses. I can help you to raise your destrieres correctly, Sir. Educate them in the right way. So that they’ll one day turn into fine battle steeds."

"But you're only a little girl,"Shakranta commented wryly. "And a skinny one at that too. I don't know whether I should really believe that you have what it takes to teach and train big strong war horses."

"I won't be wrestling or grappling with them, Sir," the girl riposted. "I'll be riding them like a friend. Showing them how to move, turn, leap or charge."

"You got a point there," Shakranta observed after a brief contemplation. He already knew a thing or two about horses, having been taught and trained by his father, but he'd never seen anything like a Norman destrier before he came to Byzantium. And this girl seemed to know what she was talking about.

"Sir. Buy me. You’ll get the best from me, I promise. You won’t regret it. And I’ll bring you good fortune too."

The girl was practically begging Shakranta to purchase her. Quite persuasive she was as well, Shakranta thought. Could it be that she could no more tolerate her owner’s harsh treatment, Shakranta wondered. He did look the cruel type, Shakranta pondered.

But then, she was a girl from the cool northern climes. Would she be able to adapt to the heat and humidity of the Golden Peninsula, Shakranta contemplated. Then he noted that during the summer days, Constantinople sometimes got as hot as the hottest day in Bukit Panau.

"Umm, what tribe are you? And where do you hail from?"

"I'm of mixed blood, Sir. Father was Saxon, Mother was mixed Saxon-Norman, and she gave me a Norman name. I come from Angli Land ... in the island of Britannia."

"That's quite far in the northwest, as I understand it. Very cool, the climate, I hear. Where I come from, it's very much hotter, for much of the year. Think you can cope with that?"

"Well, I've made it through one summer in Constantinople, haven't I?"

"All right," said Shakranta, eventually. "What’s your price?"

The girl pointed her finger in the direction of her stocky owner. Indicating to Shakranta to ask the man himself. "Kolanos!" she called out to him.

Shakranta turned to face the man again. "What’s the price of this girl?"

"60 drachma," the man answered with a straight face.

Ashgar leaned toward Shakranta and whispered something.

"40, and I’ll pay for her in cash right now,” replied Shakranta, haggling for a better price.

"Are you crazy? Hey, she's different from the rest. She can sing, play music and tell a good tale. Besides being pretty too. And she's still young. She'll give you many years of good entertainment. 55 drachma, special price for you."

"45?" Shakranta continued, testing his luck.

"I said 55," the man stood firm. "Last price. Take it or leave it."

"All right, I accept," Shakranta answered. "I’ll take her for 55 drachma."

The girl seemed to beam with pleasure. She looked so happy. Or more like relieved. Now she’d be free from Kolanos. That fat, hairy, cruel, ugly Greek slave trader.

"Oh no," Shakranta sighed, feeling the money in his pouch. "I don’t think I have enough on me. I’m short of 15 drachma. Shall I top up the 40 drachma I have now with this two rubies here? Beautiful gems of the highest quality. From Suvarna Bhumi, the Land of Gold, far yonder in the east. You can easily get 30 drachma for them."

"No," the fat one answered. "I’ve already got too many of those."

"In that case, I’ll come right back with the other 15 drachma. Keep the girl for me. Consider her mine."

§

Returning from Mahmud’s ship with more money, Shakranta quickly made his way back to the market, accompanied by Ashgar and Tegrud. About midway to their destination, they saw a servant of Sultan Mahmud riding in the direction of the port. The servant saw them, and slowed his horse down to a trot as he approached them.

"Good morning, Lord Shakranta," the man greeted him. "I bear a message from His Majesty Sultan Mahmud. His Majesty Emperor Basileios of Byzantium requests to see Your Lordship at his palace. He is keen to hear a bit more about Langkasuka and the Golden Peninsula, the land that you come from. He would be pleased if General Ashgar and General Tegrud could come along too."

§

The meeting with the Byzantine sovereign took much longer than Shakranta had expected. The Emperor seemed so fascinated by everything that Shakranta told him about Langkasuka and the Golden Peninsula. He was especially keen in establishing direct trading links between Byzantium and the Langkasukan kingdoms. He was also mulling over the idea of setting up a Byzantine trading post in one of the Langkasukan kingdoms.

The Emperor’s advisers felt that it could help to facilitate better and more direct trade between Byzantium and China, which until then had been conducted through the Tamils, Gujaratis, Persians and Arabs. The emperor himself was particularly interested in the spice trade, the kingdoms of the White Continent having recently begun acquiring a taste for the exotic foodstuff. Regarding that, dealing directly with the native kingdoms of Suvarna Dvipa, the Golden Islands, would certainly bring in much greater profits for Byzantium.

For Shakranta, a Byzantine base in former Amdan Negara, the fallen ancestral kingdom that he had been working hard to restore, especially if supported and defended by Byzantine troops, would make a brilliant strategic counterweight to the overwhelming power of Palembang in Kedah Negara and Gangga Negara. In the turmoil still enveloping the Langkasukan Federation, wealthy powerful Byzantium would be a dream ally for Amdan Negara. By the time their discussions were finished, it was late afternoon. The Emperor had also invited them all to a private dinner with him the following day.

Shakranta rode back to the market in a hurry, accompanied by Ashgar and Tegrud. As they approached it, Shakranta felt himself somehow getting anxious for some inexplicable reason. Many of the slaves were still around. But the girl, Isabelle, she was not among them. Then he saw the stocky figure of the Greek slave trader.

“Kolanos!” Shakranta spoke in a loud voice, calling the man by his name.

The man started. He looked a bit worried.

“Where’s that girl whom I bought from you this morning?”

“Is … Isabelle … has been bought ... by someone else,” Kolanos muttered. “Some guys from the northwest. They offered me 75 drachma. I ... I had to sell her to them. They just wouldn’t ... take no ... for an answer.”

“Liar!!!” Shakranta roared. In one movement, he sprang down from his horse, pounced on Kolanos, placing his sword blade right up against the man’s thick bull neck. “They?” Shakranta demanded with a look that said mean. “You greedy slave trader! Pray tell me, who were they? And which way did they go?”

“They, they looked like, a band of mercenaries,” Kolanos replied in an anxious tone. “Franks, by the look of them. They took Isabelle, with them, to those hills.”

“Now, Kolanos. You’d better pray that you’re right,” Shakranta said, now looking calm and resolute. “Because, if I don’t find Isabelle safe and sound, you will not live beyond this night.”

“Ashgar. Tegrud.” Then Shakranta turned to his two friends. “You two don’t have to come with me. You are both here to escort Sultan Mahmud. This fight is mine, and mine alone.”

“Pardon me, my friend,” Ashgar replied. “With the first part of that, I agree. But with the second part, I beg to differ. Sultan Mahmud is also a warrior. Not just a mere warrior, but a warrior among warriors. He will understand. A true warrior will never forsake a friend in his hour of need. Your fight is now my fight too. I shall go with you.”

“Me too, comrade,” Tegrud weighed in.  

Shakranta and his two friends then sprang onto their horses and started riding away. A familiar man stood in their way, with his hand raised at Shakranta, pleading with him to keep his wits about him. Shakranta knew him. Parmenion, his name was, or something like that. A merchant dealing mostly in textiles, garments and apparel. His stall was close to the slave auction area.

“Be careful, my friend,” the man advised. “Those guys look like Frankish mercenaries. Battle hardened fighters, they are. From a fierce, warlike race of the northwestern lands. They kill guys for fun. My prayers go with you all.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Shakranta answered. “We’re going to need that.”

“I hope you save Isabelle,” the man continued. “She’s a good girl.”

“So do I,” Shakranta said. “Thank you again.”

“Ashgar. Tegrud. Let’s go!”

“Wait!” Ashgar spoke. “Something just flashed through my mind.” He leaned towards Shakranta and whispered something to him.

“Fantastic. Let’s do it.”

“Now, Lord Shakranta," Tegrud grunted. "I have an idea too,”

“Well, let’s hear it then, comrade,” replied Shakranta.

Tegrud leaned towards Shakranta and whispered his thought to him.

“Another brilliant one,” said Shakranta. “We’ll merge your two gems together.”

The three then dismounted and spent some time making up their final combined plan.

§

They rode out towards the hills at full gallop, digging their heels hard into the flanks of their horses. Shakranta, Tegrud and a tall, striking Persian lady wearing a long flowing turquoise dress topped with an elegant purple silk shawl. Her long, thick, luxuriant hair, wavy and brownish in colour, was tied back in a neat ponytail, with a dazzling red rose pinned through it. She rode with Tegrud, perched at a slight angle sideways behind him, both legs hanging over one side of the horse, like a polite Persian lady. A spare horse galloped along with them.

Sir. Buy me. You’ll get the best from me, I promise. You won’t regret it. And I’ll bring you good fortune too.

Isabelle’s last words kept ringing in Shakranta’s ears all the way to the hills. Why had he not brought Isabelle back to the ship straightaway with him, he scolded himself. He could have asked either Ashgar or Tegrud to stand as surety for him with Kolanos until he came back.

And then he recalled Isabelle’s face, as she had last looked in the morning. It had dramatically glowed into life the moment Shakranta had agreed to buy her from Kolanos. If he did not find Isabelle, that imposing, princessly face of hers was going to haunt him forever. The utmost regret now filled his heart.

Midway through their ride, Shakranta called out for a short break.

“Ashgar, Tegrud," Shakranta spoke. "Remember. Those guys are mercenaries. They’re paid to fight and kill, and therefore highly dangerous.”

“And so are we, my friend,” Tegrud retorted.

“Thanks for the reminder, comrade,” Shakranta suppressed a smile. “Nevertheless, we must be prepared for any possibility. At the same time, I want us to do our best to avoid any shedding of blood. As far as that is reasonably possible.”

“Very well then, Shakranta,” answered Tegrud. “That would be the ideal case. But don’t you worry too much. They are big, strong guys, I know. But they’re slow. I’ve fought their likes many times before. Furthermore, they’ve probably been drinking a lot. That’ll slow them down even more. With us on our big horses, and them on the ground, drunk, we can cut them all up to pieces if that’s what we have to do.”

The boundless confidence of the Oghuz warrior sometimes worried Shakranta. But he knew that Tegrud spoke from actual experience, having served as a mercenary commander for several years each in both Byzantine and Bolgarian armies. Which had got him into numerous bruising scraps with big boned fighters like the Normans, the Skandi, the Varangi, and the Franks. While Tegrud himself was no little runt either.

Moments later, a lone rider appeared. He was tall, with reddish brown hair and a light skin complexion.

"Another Frank?" Tegrud wondered, softly.

"Looks quite nearly like one," Shakranta muttered under his breath.

"Greetings, friends," the man ventured in Greek as he neared them, then looked at Shakranta.

"Greetings, gentleman," Shakranta responded.

"I overheard your conversation with Parmenion at the market," the stranger continued, now addressing Shakranta alone. "I reckoned that you could use an extra man. You know, just in case, if push comes to shove."

"Sounds good. Only that, you look too much like one of them," said Shakranta.

"But I'm not," the man dismounted from his horse.

"Could have fooled me," Tegrud grunted.

"Believe me," the strapping stranger continued. "I am Einhard from Angli Land. Folks here call it Anglia. It's in the island of Britannia. I'm a Saxon. Between our tribe and the Franks, we're sworn enemies. We've always been, for centuries."

"Isabelle, the girl that we're planning to rescue, she's a Saxon too, I understand," Shakranta explained.

"That makes it one more good reason for me to join you all," the man continued. "So I could help save a fellow Saxon from some bloody Franks. It's also been quite some time since I last killed a Frank."

"That's just fabulous," Shakranta smiled. "But I'd rather we don't have to spill any blood today. Still, welcome to the group, anyway. You're one of us now."

"Great stuff, chief."

Shakranta explained to Einhard the plan that he and his friends had devised.

"Bloody good plan you've got there, mate!" the man exclaimed. "Couldn't have done any better myself."

Just as they were getting ready to leave, another horseman came, decked in full plate armour. He looked like a Greek.

"Greetings, friend," the man addressed Shakranta straightaway, then nodded in aknowledgement to the rest. "You must be the warrior Shakranta."

"Indeed, I am."

"Good. Parmenion told me everything he knew about you."

"Are you his friend?" Shakranta enquired.

"I'm his brother, Philokles. Just came back from Pella, in Macedonia. Army duty. I'm pleased to meet you."

"And I to meet you, soldier," Shakranta answered.

"I heard about the girl Isabelle," Philokles continued. "So I've come to lend you a hand. Someone has to show that not all Greeks are as sly and unfeeling as Kolanos. There are times when pride and honour must be fought for and allowed to stand."

"I'll second that," Tegrud grunted in support.

"Me too," Einhard weighed in.

"How glad I am to hear you all feel that way," Shakranta responded.

The Persian woman kept silent as she remained on Tegrud's horse, waiting. Shakranta then looked at Tegrud.

"Very well, then," the Oghuz gave a casual smile. "Now our army is nearly twice bigger."

Shakranta explained his group's plan again, this time to Philokles. The men then continued their journey with all haste.

§

Shakranta saw ten big warriors at the foot of one of the hills. Most of them were at least half a head taller than either he himself or Tegrud. They seemed to be having some sort of a party. Practically every one of them was staggering and lurching about with that sort of unsteady, inebriated sway.

They were pushing, shoving and occassionally throwing about what looked like a screaming, shouting young girl between them. Her hair looked unruly, and her clothes torn to shreds. The men had apparently been ripping and slicing them up with their daggers and swords. It was quite obvious then the one thing they had on their minds. As Shakranta moved closer, he recognised the girl.

Yes. It was Isabelle. She seemed on the verge of hysteria, and she looked absolutely terrified. For some reason, he felt at once both relieved and anxious.

“But she’s too small and too skinny, not attractive enough for me,” one of the men complained in Greek, although he looked like a northerner. Luckily for Shakranta, it was the only language spoken around Byzantium which he could understand, besides Persian. Even then, it was only with a huge effort.

"Oh, shut up, Ragnar!" one of his companions, Helmut, shouted in Frankish. Time for Tegrud to put his linguistic skills to good use again. "Aren’t we all big, strong warriors? Hey! When arse gets scarce, anything in a dress is good enough for me. As long as it’s not a pig."

"You’re right, Helmut," another man, Wulfgar, sneered. "You know Ragnar. He can’t stop moaning and griping even at a party. He’s just a big, bloody, disgusting blob of bad whine. Gets worse with age."

The other men guffawed at Wulfgar’s wisecrack.

"Hey, Wulfgar. You’re going to pay dearly for that one, some time." Ragnar responded gamely with an obviously fake threat, considering the amused smile on his face, to his stocky, barrel chested, one-eyed friend.

Shakranta, Tegrud, Einhard and Philokles slowed their horses gradually to a trot, then a walk, well before they got near to the Frankish mercenaries.

“Friends!” Shakranta alerted the men to his group’s arrival in Greek. He raised his right hand in a gesture of peace as they all turned around to face him. “Wait. Apparently, there has been a little miscommunication.”

“Who’re you?” Mathias, another one of the Franks, demanded while also giving Richard a curious glance. He was easily the tallest and biggest of the bunch, far exceeding the others. “And what do you want? Answer me fast. Or my halberd is going to split your face in two very soon,” he continued, caressing the blade of his massive double-edged battle axe as he spoke.

Shakranta dismounted from his horse calmly, showing neither fear nor hostility. He approached the men slowly, while Tegrud, Einhard and Philokles stayed on their horses.

“Steady on, my friends,” Shakranta coaxed, gently. “We come in peace. That scrawny, dirty little girl, Isabelle, has actually been bought by us this morning. But Kolanos, the trader, assumed, quite wrongly, that we had cancelled the purchase.”

The Franks listened intently.

“Now, we gladly offer to you all, this beautiful, elegant, full bodied Persian lady in exchange for Isabelle,” Shakranta continued. “Her name is, Mehrandokht, Daughter of Mehran. Mehran, the River of the Gods far yonder in the east. She’s from Hamadan, of aristocratic extraction. You can just see it in her, the sharp features, the high cheekbones.”

“Such a beautiful name. For such a beautiful lady.” Guntur responded in an obviously approving tone.

“Wow,” Ragnar enthused, practically drooling with desire. “Wow. Wow. Now, now. That’s what I call a real woman. Vivacious, gorgeous and voluptuous. Glowingly attractive like the full moon. She will be my Aphrodite tonight. And I shall be her Zeus. Hey, friends. Let’s take this one. I’ve long dreamed of a sweet, exquisite, adorable Persian lady such as she.”

The Persian woman blushed with embarrassment at Ragnar’s unabashed admiration for her. She nervously shifted her position on Tegrud’s horse.

“Yes, Ragnar,” replied Wulfgar. “For once I agree with your taste in women. You know, I’ve always loved a big girl. Only that we’ve very rarely, if ever, been in accord on this matter.”

“Naaah,” his comrade, Siegfried, scoffed. “You’re not qualified to talk about taste, Wulfgar. You’d take even a wild boar when you’re hard up.”

“Pity that boar found by Wulfgar when he gets desperate,” another friend, Friedrich, added.

The other Franks all roared again in loud hilarity at the increasingly bawdy humour.

Tegrud then urged his horse to approach the Franks, slowly. They appeared to be gradually losing interest in Isabelle, eventually releasing her. She ran towards Shakranta and hid behind his back, holding on tightly to his shirt tail as she did so. Richard and Philokles looked on in silence.

“Get onto my horse,” Shakranta instructed Isabelle, softly, offering his hands as support for her feet. “Slowly. Then wait for me.”

“But be careful, my friends,” Shakranta continued loudly, addressing the Frankish men again. “The lady, Mehrandokht, she’s of noble birth. She despises the barbarian way. You know, rough, savage men. But if you treat her gently, and if you know how to win her heart, then she’ll make you happier than you have ever been.”

“Ooooooh,” Siegfried cooed. “Love it. Love it. I love it. She’s just the woman for me.”

“Me too,” Mathias concurred with his big booming voice.

§

Tegrud helped the Persian lady seated on his horse to dismount. She did so, slowly. Very, very slowly. Until both her feet had touched the ground. And then ...

A pair of young hawks flew up high into the air from somewhere around Tegrud’s horse, in the direction of the group of Franks, each firmly clutching a small bright pouch in its talons. One after the other, the birds let go of their pouches from high above the men, then flew away quickly. A fiery arrow loosed from Shakranta’s bow, striking one pouch.

The contents of the pouch immediately broke out into a riot of explosive sounds, followed by numerous, scattered wispy palls of smoke wafting out into a multitude of brilliant colours. As the Franks looked up, completely awed and enthralled, another fiery arrow shot out, this time from Tegrud, striking the other pouch. Suddenly ...

“Hiaaah!!!”, the Persian lady roared loudly, with a voice that sounded rather deep for a female, and vaulted onto the spare horse, now seating herself with legs astride.  It was Ashgar all along, all dressed up and made up to look like a sophisticated, aristocratic Persian woman.

At the same time, Tegrud and Shakranta each sprang back up onto his horse, Shakranta seating himself behind Isabelle. With no time to waste, the five riders galloped away from the Franks like the wind.

The Frankish warriors were stunned beyond belief. Then they swore and cursed. Lifting and shaking their weapons, waving them at Shakranta and his friends in anger, obviously challenging them to a fight. Shakranta ignored their taunts.

“Thank you, Sir,” Isabelle spoke to Shakranta, after a long silence. “Thank you so much. You and your friends, you all saved my life. And you all risked your lives, for mine.” And then she broke down, sobbing.

“We only did what we could, young lady,” Shakranta answered. “Obviously, someone somewhere up there still loves you.”

Isabelle then cried uncontrollably. It had been an extremely stormy day for her, emotionally as much as physically. Her body started feeling feverish. Her heart seemed to wilt when she pondered what might have happened to her, if the three men that she had met only this morning had not come to her rescue, with their two new friends.

“Won’t they ... chase us?” Isabelle asked, in a shaky voice, as she recovered a little, still sounding very scared.

“I don’t think so,” Shakranta answered. “They look too drunk for a chase. They’d fall from their horses if they do. Anyway, it’s growing dark fast.”

As soon as they had got to a safe enough distance, Shakranta stopped briefly and wheeled around to look at the Franks again. He took out a white pouch and waved it at them. They were still looking confused and bewildered about what had just happened. Some of them made obscene signs at Shakranta.

Tegrud put two fingers between his tongue and lower lip, and whistled, loud and shrill. His two young hawks flew back in from a distance, one perching itself on his thickly gloved left hand, the other on one of his padded shoulders.

Shakranta tossed the white pouch, containing eighty five drachma, in the direction of the Franks. Seventy five drachma was repayment for the money they had paid for Isabelle, the other ten being compensation for loss and damages. The men then galloped onward toward the city.