Anno Domini 1229

"...are demons of the utmost cruelty which torture anyone who cometh to this diabolical place with red hot irons and their sharp claws, poisoned with the poison of the devil himself."

The Monks walking across the market place of the city of Danzig, some praying quietly, some preaching to the crowd definitely not quietly, had everybody's attention.

"Thou should gratefully give thanks to God," continued the main preacher, at which the listeners hastily crossed themselves, "that thou are of God's elect who have the chance to be granted entry into the bliss of paradise when the time for thee has come. Of course," he continued, remembering something,"thou might not be welcomed by St. Peter if thou has not proven yourself one of those worthy Christians, who give generously unto the poor and the church, but, thou are, at least, to be considered for eternal bliss."

His face darkened.

"There are those, however, who refuse to bend their knees before his Holiness the Pope and our Lord Jesus Christ. There are those who persist in worshiping the golden calf, thereby not only endangering their own souls, the fools, but insulting God and ourselves, his faithful children."

The preacher raised a hand, threateningly. "Not more than twenty miles away they are, beyond the safe borders of the Holy Roman Empire: the heathens, the foes of God, and yet, what, what does our Emperor Frederick II do? What do we do? Do we storm their lands? Do we force them to accept the only true faith? Do we spread the word of the Lord, as St Paul and St Peter did? No! We stay here and do nothing. That cannot be!"

Now the preacher raised both hands to heaven, and then folded them. "Join me, my faithful brothers in Christendom, join me in my prayer that one will come and make the heathens see the light of God."

Satisfied, the monk watched as all passers-by stopped and put their hands together to pray. Yet then the preacher noticed one man, whose behavior made his brow furrow. It was not so much that the man had not raised his hands in prayer. In fact, the man was standing with his back to the preacher, so he could not actually see whether his hands were raised or not, but the mere fact that he had his back turned on a religious sermon, preferring instead to talk to a merchant behind his stall, pointed to a certain lack of religious interest.

"My good friend," the monk called out, stepping forward and tapping the uninterested man on the shoulder, "will you not cast aside worldly matters for a while? Will you not turn around and pray with all the rest of us for the conversion of all who do not believe in the one, true God to the only true faith?"

At this, the merchant behind the stall suddenly had a fit of hilarity totally inappropriate, considering the serious matter at hand and the pious atmosphere. As the merchant ducked out of sight, giggling, the monk shot him an angry look and only then returned his gaze to the merchant's customer, who by then had turned around.

"Now, as I said, will you pray with us for the conversion of all who do not believe in the one, true God to the only true fai-"

He stopped. He was looking into a very bright smile. The smile was so bright because the rest of the man's face in front of the monk was not. In fact it was dark. Darker than dark. There were several other aspects to it, such as the round form, the long nose in the center, the warm, golden-brown eyes or the high hairline of the curly black hair in danger of early extinction, but at the moment the monk was not paying attention to those.

"Gladly", the stranger answered in an accent telling of cypresses and the hot desert sun. "I only thought that you might not be very pleased."

"Begone, accursed infidel!"

"I'm very glad to meet you, too."

"May thou be cast into the fiery chasm below! May the flames of hell devour thee!"

"Yes, of course, I am sure we'll meet again."

The monk marched off, muttering furious bits of Ave Maria. His brothers and part of the crowd followed him.

The merchant chose this moment to reappear from below, though not from any fiery chasm. As proof of this, he had several rolls of totally unburned parchment in his arms.

"That would be it, Harun. Or do you need ink today?"

"No, I've still got plenty, thanks."

"And how about some bible or a small prayer book? I know most people don't know a word of Latin anyway and wouldn't have any use for it. But a learned man like yourself should have a bible."

"Why?"

"It might help to save your soul from being devoured by hellish flames, for a start."

"And earn you an extra week's profit?"

"Well, if, by coincidence, one can combine two positive aspects..."

"Ma'a as-salama, Otto." Harun grasped his parchments and counted some money into the bowl before the merchant. "Till next time."

Otto pulled a sad face, and then giggled once more. "Till next time. I'll keep the bible for you, shall I?"

"Yes, of course. I'll come and fetch it on Judgement Day, if that's all right with you."

Harun went away, whistling.

He was not sure what he was whistling. It couldn't possibly be a melody from the Land of his birth which he had not seen for years, nor a minstrel's song which he had not heard for some time, his Lord being not altogether fond of minstrels. And Harun believed his faith, and more importantly his musical taste, to be good enough not to resort to church music. For a while he had tried to imitate birds, but that had given him a sore throat. As he couldn't think of any alternative, he just mixed all of the above and enjoyed the result.

Even if, sometimes, others were not prone to enjoy it.

Harun walked through the streets of the city and out through the gates. The guards never gave him a second glance. In the beginning, he had been an attraction. The only real live Saracen from here to the Holy Land. By all accounts of the latest Christian ventures in the east, maybe even the only live Saracen between here and considerably further than the Holy Land. But people had gotten used to him.

Outside, he stood beside the driver Jan by the wagon and waited for the others to come back. It was not a very pleasant way to spend his time. Not that the driver was usually a surly fellow. He often could be heard talking to his horse, his oxen, the guards, and especially the castle priest. The only problem was that Harun was not a Christian, making him in the eyes of the driver a far lowlier creature than an oxen or even a castle guard could ever be.

Nevertheless, Harun made some tentative attempts at conversation.

"How are you today?" he inquired politely.

Jan made a head movement which could mean anything from 'fine' to 'get stuffed', and turned to his horse.

"I'm fine," Harun told the air.

The driver crossed himself and continued busying himself with the carthorse. Harun wondered whether it too was baptized. He supposed it would have to be.

The other members of their party, a peasant and a castle guard, returned after about an hour of such continued intriguing conversation, and they all climbed onto the wagon, Jan in front, Harun, to the latter's obvious displeasure, beside him. The cart took off. For a short distance they would travel on the road; after that on the meandering gravel paths that were the only way to arrive at the castle and village of Sevenport.

Harun sighed, and embarked on the traditional cart-drive conversation.

"How long is the drive going to take?," he asked.

"About three days," Jan grunted. "You know."

"Yes, I know. And because I know, I feel obliged to again point out, that there would be a much simpler way of obtaining and selling the necessary wares. Only three miles away from the village, there is a town which sells all the goods we require and..."

"No decent town," the driver grunted.

Harun closed his eyes.

"Oh yes. I had forgotten that. I do beg your pardon."

The village of Sevenport, which would have probably been both a bit bigger and more important than it actually was if it had had at least one, lay near, but alas, not near enough the river Vistula, which was the border between Pomerania and Prussia. Just on the other side of the river lay the buzzing town of Turso, which would have been just the place to exchange surplus food and wool for other much-needed wares. It would have been, had it not been buzzing with the wrong kind of people, i.e. heathens who were by all accounts likely to burn in the fires of hell. You couldn't just go and buy goods from people like that now, could you?

Harun, for his part, wasn't so sure. He did not quite know what to think of heathens. Once, he had thought them abominable creatures, until he had arrived in this land and learned that he himself was supposed to be one. Experiences of such a kind tend to increase a man's tolerance, and Harun had learned to come to terms with the fact that he was a heathen living in a land of heathens next door to another land of heathens, and all three did not get along very well with one another. What a crazy world this was, to be sure...

Not everybody shared Harun's viewpoint, however. And thus it was that his Lord, Sir Christian of Sevenport, whose first name really told one all about his personality one needed to know, repeatedly sent his people to buy and sell goods not to the heathen town of Turso, just across the river, but to the proper, Christian town of Danzig, just 3 days cart ride away through marshy and often dangerous country. Not that Danzig wasn't a nice city, Harun conceded, as the autumn landscape slowly passed them by. He had several acquaintances and even, with Otto the merchant, a friend there he liked paying visits to. But every time the ride to Danzig was drawing near again, he could not help but feel that ten minutes time spent with Otto was a somewhat disproportionately poor recompense for six days time enforced vow of silence with Jan and his devout cart horse.

That night, they camped near the old ruins of Joringard Castle. The Castle itself was inhabitable only for bats and cockroaches nowadays, and even if that had not been the case, no Christian soul, and even no non-Christian soul, Harun thought, as he looked up at the dark, mossy walls, would have set a foot within its walls. But an old shed in the grounds served as a passable shelter. While Harun went to ground early, his bed being unavailable, and Jan as well as the peasant followed his example, the castle guard showed no intention of going to sleep. He opened the door of the shed, stepped outside, and leaned against the wall. The old wood creaked, threateningly.

Harun sat up. "It is very nice of you to watch over us," he said, "but you don't have to, you know. I'm sure you're doing a marvelous job at the castle, but the conquest of this shed is not likely to be the deepest desire of a sinister, power-hungry foe."

The Guard shot him a dark look.

"Not guarding you", he growled. "Guarding the wagon."

"What for?" Harun asked. "Is there a thief around here?"

The guard shrugged. "Heard rumors. Stuff going on. Bad folk about."

He shot Harun another, very meaningful, dark look.

The Saracen nodded. "Of course. You could tie my hands, if that would make you feel safer."

The offer was not reacted upon.

*~*~*~*~*

The next day, the four continued their journey east. As much as he looked around, Harun could not see a sign of bad folk anywhere, though, being not entirely sure about the meaning of the expression, he might not have been able to recognize the appropriate signs. Once, he saw smoke rising in the distance out of the morning mist, but, if anything, this was a sign of the falling temperatures and people lighting their fires. An act with which Harun could completely sympathize. Shivering, he tugged at his woolen coat so as to let as little of the warmth flee as possible. Ah, now to see the sun burning on the sea before Alexandria....

The only water he got to see next day was the river Vistula, which had to be considered a rather poor replacement. At least having arrived at the river meant having half of the way behind them. At the bridge, there were guards, too. Harun shot a look at the surly fellow-at-arms beside him. What was there to guard at a bridge everyone could cross freely. Had this something to do with what the guard had been talking about the night before last?

This gave Harun plenty to think about, which was good, since his companions continued to be of negligible interest. He was so immersed in his thoughts, that this and the final day of their journey flew past, and he was quite surprised, when the driver elbowed him in the ribs and said, in his usual polite tone of voice: "Get down."

Harun looked up, and saw Sevenport Castle before him. Built on the top of a small green hill, with its four old-fashioned, rectangular towers, the well positioned to the left side of the gates, only a ridiculously narrow moat and scores of little half-timbered houses all around it, the castle would have been absolutely unable to withstand any modern siege weapon. In Harun's opinion, who had never had a great interest in siege weapons of any kind, that did not matter at all for a building which was so lovely picturesque, in its old-fashioned way. The picturesque nature of the castle however, had nothing whatsoever to do with the decision of its Lord, Sir Christian of Sevenport, never to modernize his home. He simply did not hold with worldly matters. Modern military defense tactics were certainly among these, and so the castle remained as it was. Who cared about siege weapons when you had your trust in God, anyway?

Harun did not think too much about his lord's motivations. Not that he was not generally interested in what made people tick, but if you made inquiries in that direction about Sir Christian of Sevenport, you rather sooner than later came up against the phrase 'It is my duty as a Christian', and that was it, really.

Harun climbed down from the cart, still thinking about bad folk and rising smoke. He took down the protective leather bag, in which he had stowed his parchments, and started to make his way up the hill towards the castle gates. He was pleasantly surprised when he found that the guard currently on duty there was Wenzel, a scruffy little man with a scruffy little beard and a scruffy voice which was by no means as little as the rest of him. He was about the only one of the armed protectors of the castle who was in the habit of exchanging more than 3 words with Harun per day.

"Ahlan ya, Wenzel," Harun greeted him. "Have you seen any bad folk about?"

"I don't know." Wenzel thought for a Moment. "How does one recognize them?"

"You must ask your fellow man-at-arms there, my friend. On the way here he was especially solicitous for the safety of our cart."

"Now I understand what you mean." The guard nodded.

"I still don't. What do I mean?"

"Haven't you heard about it? The rumor is all over the village. Everybody is talking about it."

"The only interesting news I learned lately was that my soul is predestined for eternal damnation. Wenzel, you know nobody ever tells me anything – apart from 'Begone, accursed infidel.', maybe."

"Well you see, there's this rumor about raiders from Prussia. Some Lord or other to the south-east has taken it into his head to show the Prussians the light of Christianity..."

"Was he using a lantern?"

"A sword, more like."

"And the Prussians didn't take kindly to that kind of enlightenment?"

"Yep, that's about it."

"But why attack us?", Harun asked surprised. "We haven't had a hand in this attack, have we?"

The guard looked at him with a sort of exasperated benevolence.

"You know, Harun, sometimes I wonder how after reading all these complicated books of Plato and Aristurtle and..."

"Aristotle."

"Aye, that one. Sometimes I wonder how after reading all these clever books you still can be so simple-minded."

"Simple-minded? But if we were not the original perpetrator, it was illogical to attack us."

"Iwhat?"

"Illogical. Logic is a concept from ancient Greek philosophy which presupposes..."

"Look here, mate, raiders aren't interested in Greek. All they care about is booty. And right now, with thousands of Prussian homes burned, villages and crops destroyed, there are a lot of men interested in booty. And here we are – just across the river, only a ford to cross."

"Which means...?"

"Which means that it I would advise you not to take any more evening walks from now on. The Captain of the guard is doubling the number of men stationed at the gates at night. Now trot off and read Plato, will you? I am supposed to be keeping a look out for bad folk."

Harun indeed trotted off through the courtyard, up the castle steps into the keep and in there through a side door into his Scriptorium, as he called it. He did not however read Plato. Firstly, because he had other things to do. Secondly, because, his lord's interests being in religious writings only, there was no Plato available anyhow. An excellent excuse to start especially tedious work.

He sat down, took a parchment from his leather bag, unscrewed the ink-bottle on his writing desk and started writing. After a while, he yawned. He did not very much enjoy his usual work of copying psalms and other religious texts. But when doing the castle accounts for the overlord he almost missed the archangel Michael and his jolly band of flying friends.

The afternoon passed slowly, and the light started to fail. Unfortunately, Sir Christian of Sevenport was generous in his supply of candles to his scribe. Harun lit one, and settled down again to continue his work. It had to be finished by the morning after next. Sir Christian's overlord, a rather suspicious man by nature, had demanded a prompt account of all the castles, fields, crops, cattle and who knows what else. In writing. Had Sir Christian protested? No, he had said 'Of course, you shall have it by next week.'

Conscientiousness really was a problem that needed to be eradicated, Harun thought grumpily, as he wrote on and on.

He worked until the sun had set. After the tiring journey no one could really expect him to work on into the night. Three days of flattening your rear end on a rough peace of wood next to a morose religious fanatic would have to exhaust any man. With a weary glance at the high stacks of notes still remaining to be processed, he got up. Now loomed the climb up to his room – a disused guard chamber on top of the east tower. Just the right thing to top off the evening. He left his scriptorium and crossed the hall. Everybody, barring the guards on night duty, had long gone to bed. With heavy feet, he climbed the circular steps, fell into bed and thought no more.

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Hi! Not much mystery for a mystery book in the the first chapter, right? I wanted to introduce the main character before things really got going. Did I do a good job? Did I portray the middle ages well? Comment please!! I love feedback :)

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Kind Regards

Robert Thier