The girl entered the chamber cautiously, as she always did in such occasions. After a night of sex, smoking and (she suspected) strong beverages, the Emir was usually exhausted and slept until well into the mid morning. She went around quietly, recovering the waste of the night: broken glasses, clothes, jewelry or other small things. Sometimes she used to think that the harem girls, though slaves like her, bought or born into that condition, were lucky, as they were spared of the menial duties she had, which would sometimes be heavy, and could live in a relative luxury and comfort. But on second thoughts, she always concluded she had been the lucky one; she and those like her, who were spared of the unpredictable task of satisfying the Emir (and sometimes, it was rumored, his latest wife, or even both) sexually. Sometimes he would turn violent, and bruises and small wounds were a common result, while broken members were not unheard of, especially when the Emir had just come back from campaigning (something which hadn't happened for a long time now) or consumed a quantity of his unknown beverages. It was not that she wouldn't be palatable to the Emir; she was of Armenian stock, slim and muscular, with pale olive skin and long dark hair, and if dressed as richly as the girls in the harem, she would better more than one of them.

But that morning there was something weird, for she could not hear the Emir snorting loudly, as he usually did. She closed on the veil surrounded bed, barely making out the big shape of his body. It was suspiciously still. Very carefully she slide the veil, and what she saw paralyzed her, for the Emir was dead, his throat opened with a dagger which was still on the pillow, his blood pooling the sheets. She had to put her hand on her mouth and bite it not to yell. She quickly finished taking the rubbish, and left the place as soon as she could.

II

Only one week after that, a high official sent by Nur-ed-Din arrived from Aleppo; the Muslim ruler could not have the assassination of his steward at the fortified city and port of Adana, close to Christian held Antioch, go unpunished, however in low esteem he had him. He was a man in his forties, tall and fair skinned and had the small scar over the nose bridge that denoted he had been in battle. He came with only four men as escorts, and a few camels laden with baggage. He introduced himself as Rashid-al-Farsi, and handed over his letters to the chief of the garrison. After the traditional greeting (“Salaamaleikum”, “Aleikumsalaam”) and accepting the customary glass of water as a welcome, he immediately asked to see the late Emir’s chambers. The steward, an Arab officer called Ahmed-ibn-Yusuf, took him to the place. Rashid looked attentively at the surroundings, the bed, and the entrances. He then wanted to see the corpse, or what was left of it. Ahmed officials had kept it in vinegar; it was decomposing quickly, but still an useful, if grim, view. Then he asked to be shown the slaying weapon. A dagger was brought to him.

“You are sure this is the weapon used? This may be very important,” Rashid said.

But Ahmed replied, “Definitely. The culprit has identified this as the weapon.”

Rashid looked at him, but he was rather unimpressed by the revelation.

“You mean you already have identified and caught the culprit?”

“Yes, kadi”, answered almost triumphantly Ahmed.

“And why you didn't tell me?”

Rashid looked amused. He was not a “kadi”, an Islamic judge, but a special advisor to Nur-ed-Din. “You didn't ask, kadi,” said Ahmed. He resented this foreigner, a man of Persian blood, having such a high rank. But he was aware that Nur-ed-Din, a Kurd himself, didn't trust Arabs and preferred men from other origins or even converted Christians. However, he was also aware that impressing this man would be highly beneficial for his own career. On the other hand, Rashid had a past reputation as a warrior that could not be ignored to a medium rank military commander like him.

“May then ask who he is?” said Rashid, with a hint of irony, but obviously quite relaxed.

“It’s a she, actually. A girl from the harem. We can go to the chamber we have prepared for the proceedings and have her brought there,” answered Ahmed.

“A girl from the harem? Interesting,” said Rashid reflectively.

“Actually, she’s not from the harem, but from the household service,” replied Ahmed, expecting the obvious question about how the girls from the harem were selected. But Rashid limited himself to say:

“Even more interesting. Let’s see her.”

III

The room which had been arranged for the hearings was provided with chairs and a table on top of a small stage accessible through stairs of several steps. To Rashid it looked like a ceremonial dining room, not unlike the main hall in the Christian castles. He approved the arrangements with a nod to Ahmed. He took seat in the middle of the table, while two of his assistants took places at his side; one was a scribe, while the other was a woman. No one had noticed that when he arrived, even though she had not concealed her condition in any way; simply, no one had taken notice, or thought that possible. Ahmed and his own officers looked in distress. It was extremely unusual to have a woman as an official in any proceeding, let alone a criminal one.

“Bring the accused forward,” said Rashid, and Ahmed made a gesture to his men. They came in bringing a young girl by the arms. She was wearing a tunic of coarse material and had her hands chained, her dark hair disordered, and dry blood over her nose and mouth, though she had evidently been washed for the occasion. She evidently walked with difficulty and looked to be in some pain. Rashid and the woman exchanged a quick glance. Ahmed started the proceeding.

“The accused has confessed having killed Emir Pasha in the early hours of the Al Jumu’ha day a week from now.”

“Does she?” said Rashid meditatively. He then added, addressing to the girl.

“Have you killed the emir, your master, girl?” It was part of the proceedings, hear the confessed culprit by himself.

“Yes, kadi,” she said without looking at him. He was not a kadi, but he had already decided to let it pass.

“Why?”

“I am a Christian, kadi, my family was killed by the Emir’s men long ago,” she explained. Rashid remained unimpressed.

“You are of slight build, and the Emir, though an old man, is much stronger and heavier than you. How did you manage to do it?” he asked the girl.

“I waited until he fell asleep; I noticed because of his snorting; then entered the chamber and killed him,” she said without hesitation, but looked at Ahmed.

“But… how exactly did you do it?” insisted Rashid. He could see Ahmed and his men growing uneasiness.

“I cut his throat with a dagger”

“Could you repeat the exact movement you did?” everyone in the hall, including the girl, was surprised, and stares were exchanged among almost everyone. Then the girl, rather in doubt, and looking at Rashid, made a movement with her right arm that unequivocally could be interpreted as a slash. Rashid and his two assistants exchanged looks, and then he went down the stairs and up to the girl.

“Remove her chains,” he said. The guards did it.

“Please, don't be afraid” he said to the girl in a reassuring voice. “Remove your clothes.”

The girl hesitated and looked at Ahmed, but he was looking at the floor. The girl got naked; she was pretty, slim and fit, with pale olive skin. But it was evident that she had been tortured. Whip marks went all over her body, her shoulders were bruised, showing internal bleeding, indicating a session on the rack, and her breasts were swollen and bruised, denoting the attentions of the pincers called “claws”. Rashid had seen breasts all but removed with the use of those. He turned to Ahmed.

“You had her tortured.”

“Yes, kadi. It is the procedure,” he replied quickly, and Rashid knew the man was right.

“Why did you lie? he asked her. "Why did you incriminate yourself?”

“Kadi, I would have said anything to stop them torturing me,” she said calmly.

“I can agree with that. Cover up,” said Rashid. “I promise you that you will not be touched again, but you have to tell me the truth. Understand?”

“Yes, kadi.”

“Good. Tell me what happened that morning.”

“I entered the chamber at the second hour, to clean it, as usual. I expected the Emir to be alone and asleep by then. I found him dead, got scared and ran away.”

“Scared of what? Why didn't you report the incident immediately?”

“I was afraid I should be blamed for his death.”

“This was exactly what has happened... good,” Rashid looked at his assistants; the woman made a gesture. He assented and asked, “Why did you say 'alone by then'?”

“Because he had been having... intercourse... with one of the girls in the harem.”

“That's interesting,” he said, and his woman assistant assented and smiled. “Who was the girl who was... scheduled... for that night?”

“Oh, sir, I do not know that, I have nothing to do with those matters, please believe me...” but he moved his head giving her assurance. Ahmed came forward.

“Kadi, there is a man who manages such tasks.”

“Good, Ahmed. Bring him forward. Take this girl to my surgeon. Prepare the documents to set her free. Your wounds will heal, girl... what's your name?”

“Dilbar, kadi.”

“Farewell, Dilbar.”

Ahmed came forward to him.

“Kadi, may I ask how did you realize she was not the murderer?”

“Very easy, Ahmed. You told me the murdering weapon had been identified without doubt. I hope that is not only because this poor girl said so...”

“Of course not, kadi, it was found beside the body by me,” he answered quickly. May be he had been cheating a bit, but he was an honest man.

“Good. You see, this is a kind of Christian knightly dagger called a basilard. It can only be used for stabbing... you see?... it even lacks an edge. It is made to stab through the slits of a helmet's visor. You cannot slash a throat open with this, you have to stab at the throat and break it.” He made the movement with smoothness, as if thoroughly familiar with it, which probably he was. “The girl didn't know that. That accords with the wound that can still be seen on the late Emir's corpse.”

Ahmed was genuinely impressed at the exposition. Rashid went on.

“Torture, Ahmed, is good for quickly getting someone to execute and teach a lesson to others. But when you are interested in finding the truth, it should be handled with care. But you did well,” he added, reassuringly.

IV

The man whom Ahmed brought forward to Rashid was terrified. He was middle aged, completely bald, with a whitish skin and overweight. A eunuch, thought Rashid. He disliked that kind of being deeply.

“Fear not, if you say the truth," he said dryly when the guards left him in front of the tribunal. “What's your name and what're your duties?”

“My... my name is Ibrahim... I am the tender of the harem," he said trembling. He looked to be very scared; Rashid couldn't tell yet if it was because of his... condition, like a natural mood, or because he would be hiding something.

“What are your duties exactly?”

“Well, I procure everything that is needed in the harem, from food to garments to jewels.”

“Do you procure the girls also?”

“Sometimes, kadi. Some are gifts from other dignitaries.”

“Did you prepare the roster of girls for the late Emir's pleasures?”

“Yes, kadi.”

“So you know for certain who was the girl that had intercourse with the Emir the night he was killed, don't you?”

“Yes, kadi.”

“Good. Give the name to my assistants. Ahmed, put this man under custody and bring the girl or girls he mentions.” He turned to his woman assistant.

“Gohar, check the... facilities... we may need them tomorrow. Judging for the work on that poor's girl body, they have more than enough, if primitive, devices, here,” the woman assented with a smile. Rashid was tired, and the old wound in the hip (a stone hit before the walls of Antioch) was hurting again. Before closing the day's work and going to wash, have some food and rest, he had the strange feeling that things were running smoothly but that he was not a step closer to finding the truth. Yet.

V

The following morning a girl was brought up before the makeshift jury formed by Rashid, Gohar, and his scribe assistant. She was in her early twenties, was tall, fair skinned, had long dark hair and a shapely, curvaceous figure, with long legs and arms, barely concealed under a plain tunic. She had a round face with big, round, hazel eyes, well formed lips and white teeth. She looked evidently to be in distress.

“What is your name, girl?” asked Rashid to start the proceedings.

“My name is Azizgyul, kadi,” she answered. “Another Armenian girl", thought Rashid. “I wonder if there is any one left at Anatolia.”

“Master Eunuch Ibrahim has pointed you as the one on duty the night the Emir was murdered. Is that true?” he went on.

“No, sir, kadi... well, it should have been, but it was not,” she said, nervously.

“How's that?”

“I was appointed to assist the Emir that night, true, but it wasn't so.”

“Why not?”

“Master Eunuch Ibrahim told me not to go, and rewarded me with a silver piece.”

“And why would he say so? Did he provide any explanation?”

“No, kadi... well, in fact he said he would take care. I understood that he would bring another girl to him that night; that is not usual, but sometimes happens. Sometimes the Emir himself asked for a particular girl; sometimes, though less often, some another girl from outside the harem was brought to him.” That was a highly irregular procedure, and an obvious security breach, Rashid realized. He looked at his assistants, exchanged some signs and said to Ahmed.

“Bring Ibrahim,” the girl started to breathe as if agitated.

“Kadi, I am telling the truth, please...” she began to plead, but Rashid made a sharp sign to her to shut up.

When Ibrahim entered the room, he looked strangely calm. He exchanged looks with the girl, and he did not refuse her look. Rashid made her repeat her statement, and then looked upon Ibrahim.

“Do you have something to say, Master Ibrahim?”

“Yes, kadi," he said resolutely. “That this girl is lying. It was she who went to the Emir's chambers that night, as it is recorded, and can be verified by many members of the harem as witnesses”. His coolness impressed Rashid, who exchanged looks with his team, and then looked at the girl, allowing her to speak.

“It is not true! Well, some of the other girls certainly saw me as if going to the chamber, but before entering, Ibrahim himself led me to another room”. Rashid took his hand to his nose, and exhaled, reflectively.

“Where is that room?”

“There is a small door at the end of the corridor. It takes to a small staircase embedded in the wall, which leads to a small room in the upper floor.” Rashid looked at Ahmed, who assented with a nod. Ibrahim stepped in.

“That proves nothing! I have led her, and others, to that room when for some reason a girl had to be put out of the way quickly…” Rashid was upset.

“Master Ibrahim, speak when you are demanded to.” But the fact remained that nothing could be extracted from the exchange.

He said to Ahmed, “Put these two under custody.” They were immediately taken away. He spent some time pondering the next moves. Then he said, “Goshar, go to the harem and talk to the girls. Try to find out what usually happened with the illegal additions to the duty list. Try to get an opinion on Ibrahim and Azizgyul. Return to me by midday.” She assented and went out.

“Parham,” he addressed his scribe. “Go with a guard and inspect the stairs and the room they were talking about.” He immediately left.

“Ahmed, I need twelve trustworthy men available any time. They will be the only ones allowed to take part in this investigation.” The man assented. Rashid went to break fast with a worrisome expression. He asked for the accountant to bring the books for the Emir’s treasury, and kept reading them and listening to the old man (another Christian Armenian) explanations for the rest of the morning.

VI

At midday the team gathered to share their findings. Parham had found the stairs and the room as they had been told. Goshar reported the girls found Ibrahim to be a tight master, permanently nervous and prone to accesses of hysteria, which was nothing out of the ordinary. Inserts and change of places in the duty list from within the harem were considered unlucky, but were a relatively frequent occurrence. Inserts from outside were rare, but not unheard of. The opinions on Azizgyul were mixed, some considered her just a proud and troublesome gal, while others an arrogant bitch. She had not been bought at the slave market, but to a local Armenian family in exchange for some commercial privileges; obviously she considered herself a free woman and thus a superior to her slave comrades, and probably she was. Sometimes, harems functioned like that, as deposits of hostages, who the ruler used to hold from wealthy local families to ensure their loyalty. Anyway, she was one of the few to have meaningful contacts outside the harem. Everybody agreed in that she was the one on duty that fateful night; and some even had seen her going to the chambers. Besides, it was clear that she was not liked by comrades and superiors alike.

“One of them is lying,” said Rashid. “Who? Any take?”

“You first, you are the boss,” said Parham.

“Mmhh… fine. I say it is Ibrahim.” Goshar laughed.

“Obviously you would say that. You are prejudiced against homosexuals, and find eunuchs disgusting!” She teased him. Some subordinates would have been surprised at the familiarity with which Goshar treated Rashid; not Parham.

“I am not! Even if I were, I would be supported by the Book! And anyway you would say the girl lies because she comes from a wealthy family and she’s beautiful!” Goshar took the comment with a bad face. “Like you, Gosharik,” Rashid added, politely.

“I haven't said that,” she protested. “And I have to admit she is beautiful. But I have seen many a beautiful assassin…” The word “assassin”, in place of “murderer”, made immediate reference to the Sect in the Mountains.

Rashid asked her, “Do you think they have something to do with this?”

“Again, I haven't said that…” she said quickly.

“I know. But it is very possible.” Rashid said. “Have you checked the facilities?”

“Yes, I have. They have a rack, not the most modern but in working order, some cradles and metal frames, and assorted thongs and tools… they will be enough together to what we have brought. So… who will be the first customer?” She teased Rashid again, who considered having to resort to torture as a failure of his deductive powers.

“You start taking the girl.” he said. Goshar smiled and assented; had he said otherwise, she would have teased him again about his prejudices. But it was the reasonable course of action: she was a harem girl, and Ibrahim was after all a court official. “Soften her up for while; then, I shall join you.”

VIII

The girl was really terrified when she was dragged into the basement chamber where the torture implements were. Goshar made sure she waited for her several minutes, while looking at all the equipment and guessing the effect that each tool and device would have on her body. At last she entered the room.

“Aziz, I hope you understand that you will be charged with the death of the late Emir; that’s a capital punishment and the methods of execution are nothing but long and painful. However, if you give us the answers about your accomplices, we may show mercy to you,” she bluffed. She doubted this aristocratic girl would have had the guts to do it.

“But… but… I told you the truth! It wasn't me who was there that night! Why you don't believe me?” she said, already in tears.

“Because your explanation is a ridiculous one. You won't expect us to swallow it. So, why did you do it and who are the people that helped you?”

The girl was flabbergasted. She kept in silence, her lips trembling. Goshar ordered the guards.

“Strip her.” They removed the tunic and most other accoutrements she was wearing; then, they tied a loincloth to her waist, a concoction made of a thin leather strip and some cloth which barely covered her private parts. Goshar confirmed that the girl was indeed beautiful. She had full breasts, a flat belly with a perfect button; generous hips with rounded buttocks and shapely thighs and legs. She was a formidable specimen; the Emir’s men had chosen well. It was a pity to eventually have to tear all that apart, she thought. At a signal, the men placed her on the rack and tied her to the rollers. It was a rather old machine, but the wheel had metal screw and notches that allowed for fairly precise, small incremental turns; wooden ones only allowed for an “all or nothing” stretching.

“I beg you have mercy, I have done nothing wrong!” She pleaded, but Goshar started turning the wheel. The rollers starting moving and the girl’s body got taut, and she struggled to keep her breath. Sweat started to flow, turning her body shiny.

“This is only the beginning, Aziz. Will you talk before the real pain begins?” But the girl only moaned, her mouth open. Goshar turned a couple of notches; the wheels of the rack made a metallic sound. Aziz screamed in agony.

“Stop, stop, you are tearing me apart!” she cried. In the rather cruel and remorseless world of the harem, she had seen several girls punished, but that never amounted to more than some canning, or possibly some nipple squeezing. She had never imagined that such a pain could be inflicted to a human being without killing him. But Goshar replied sarcastically.

“You would be surprised at how much a human body can be stretched, and how much pain it can take.” And she turned the wheel another notch.

When Rashid entered the room, it had been a good hour of torture. Goshar had stretched her little by little and released her in turn. Her back had been lifted a couple of inches from the table because of the stretching; only her buttocks were barely in contact to the rack’s table. She alternated pitched screams when she was stretched with low moans when tension was released. Rashid signaled Goshar to ease the wheel a bit more so he could interrogate her better. She did so, and Aziz’s back rested back on the table, though her limbs were still taut. She began breathing better, still moaning. She was covered in sweat and her long brown hair was all over her face and shoulders, stuck to the tears and sweat. Her belly moved frantically up and down in her attempts to catch breath. He swept the hair from her eyes and held her face, so that she could look at him. She was too weak to resist.

“Aziz, you must tell me why you murdered your Master and who you accomplices are. We know you couldn't do it alone. Telling us will help you.”

“I… didn't… kill… anyone…” she said faintly, moving her head from side to side as if trying to release off the pain.

Reluctantly, Rashid signaled Goshar to turn the wheel. Aziz’s back went up again, as she screamed. Goshar released the tension a little.

“Aziz, we know the Emir had business with your family. We know there has been a quarrel between them. Is that the reason they ordered you to kill him?” Goshar looked at him in surprise; then, she remembered he had passed the whole morning shut down with the Emir’s accountant.

But she could only say:

“I… don't… know… I … didn't… kill him…” She said and sighed, so Rashid gave another signal, and the wheel was turned another notch. Aziz screamed, her mouth fully opened, looking for air. Rashid and Goshar left her in like that for a long while; the girl moved her head and opened and closed her mouth, gasping for air, producing a kind of sibilant moan. Her belly was moving fast and spasmodically; taut as her body was, it was not easy to catch breath. Her breasts were flattened against her ribcage, the nipples erect with the pain. Her ribs and hip bones were protruding conspicuously from her stretched belly, covered in sweat. Even the loincloth was wet in sweat.

“Was your job to let the assassins into the chamber?” he insisted, but the girl only moved her head in denial. Goshar turned the wheel another notch. She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a faint guttural sound came out.

“What was the business exactly about? Smuggling? Fermented beverages? Slaves? Opium?” But she didn't answer, just kept denying with her head while she moaned. Her whole body was trembling. At a glance from Rashid, Goshar turned another notch. One of Aziz’s arms made a snapping noise, probably at the elbow; she screamed and then held a low howl, like a wounded animal. This was exactly what she was at that moment, Goshar thought.

“No… no… stop…” It was the only thing Aziz could mutter. Another sign, and another notch; she renewed her screaming. Her right arm made a noise and adopted a funny angle to the shoulder, a clear sign that it had been dislocated. The screams turned into a guttural howl. Alarmed, Goshar looked at Rashid, who immediately signaled her to decrease the tension. She lowered it several notches. Aziz struggled to recover her breath, and Rashid let her rest for a moment. He then grabbed her chin and shook her head to get her attention. Seeing the girl was too weak to speak, he put his ear next to her trembling lips.

“There… was… no… quarrel… between them… believe me… I… didn't… do it,” she said almost in a whisper. Rashid quickly seized the information. A theory began to take shape in his head. “Who had a commercial quarrel with the Emir?”

“I… don't… know… I don't…” Aziz moaned in pain, moving her head while trying to catch breath, her mouth half opened and trembling. Damn, girl, give me something, Rashid thought. He insisted in a different way.

“Who are the main competitors of your family?” he shook Aziz’s head again, but gave her a while to answer.

“Com… petitors? The… Abbas family… of course… bastards… they knew… the Emir liked me… and that… they would never… improve… their position… with me… here…” she said, among her sighs and heavy breathing. The girl kept some spirit however the pain, but she was positively exhausted. Rashid put his hands over his face and strolled around the room. “Of course!” he thought, “At the same time removing the Emir and their contact in the Palace! Fool of me!”

“Release the girl! Kept her under custody! Bring the surgeon! Tell Ahmed and the accountant to meet me at the main room! Bring the books!” And he rushed out of the torture chamber.

VII

Rashid thought long about how to handle this particular task. He hated torturing men. Men, even brave ones, those who would have charged against Christian spears without hesitation, were naturally much less resistant to pain than women; and were always torn between their fear for physical pain and their inner desire to appear brave. Smart ones very soon considered the later task fulfilled and sought for a deal; men were quicker to do that than women. Coward ones, like Ibrahim evidently was, were dumber and failed to realize when the force used against them was unbearable. But once they reached that point, they would break completely, and they could be made to confess anything. Again, that was great for having a quick execution to show to the people, but bad for finding out what had really happened.

Now he had this… eunuch, sobbing and sweating in fear in front of him. He could scarcely control his rage.

“You made me have that innocent girl tortured… you had hoped she would not stand the torture and incriminate herself and her family… you'll pay for it, Ibrahim.” He said in a cold rage. The eunuch started weeping.

“I had to do it, kadi, I had to do it…“ he said as he wept.

“You knew about the Emir’s business with her family… you thought it would made an excellent motivation for the killing…” Rashid said, still enraged, but the eunuch could only sob and weep.

“Who paid you to have the Emir killed?” Rashid asked.

“They didn't pay me for that, kadi, only to smuggle a girl of their choosing into his chamber,” he replied.

“What did you think she would do there? Kiss his feet?” He was positively upset. “Who?”

“I cannot tell… they will kill my family… please, kadi…” he said among his tears.

“You have been bought in a slave market aged six years, made an eunuch at ten… you don't have a bloody damn family! Tie him to the frame!” Two guards grabbed him and tied him to a kind of metal frame resembling a chair. His feet were tied to a metal bar in front of him, exposing the soles.

“Goshar!” Rashid called, and she came forward with a cane. She started canning the soles of his feet. Rashid had carefully thought what kind of torment he could have Ibrahim subjected. It couldn't be anything too strong, or the man would break down and turn completely useless. Ibrahim started screaming and crying like a child. Rashid ordered Goshar to stop. The soles of his feet were red with the canning, but no real harm had been done yet.

“So?”

“I don't know!” he cried weeping loudly. “All I know is who presented the girl to me and paid me! Kadi, I swear I'm telling the truth!” Well, we are reaching somewhere, thought Rashid, deeply disgusted by the whole scene.

“That being…?” He pressed on.

“It was the owner of a bordello in town… a woman called Zaira… please, kadi, have mercy!"

Rashid only had to look at Ahmed for him to rush out of the room with one of his men. He looked around. Here he had this… man… crying and sobbing and weeping, and he had not even begun to have pain inflicted to him. Aziz had endured much more, having nothing to confess. He was enraged.

“You'll have the punishment you deserve when all this is over, Ibrahim. I shall not forget the pain inflicted to that girl.”

“They forced me… my family… please, kadi…” he repeated as he wept loudly.

“Take this… man… out of my sight!” he said enraged. “And I am not a kadi, by the beard of the Prophet!”

The utter obscenity of the swearing took everyone by surprise; everyone stood frozen. Rashid looked around at everyone in the room, finally fixing his eyes on Goshar.

“What?!!” he said. Goshar didn't reply; she just put her hands up and forward, showing the palms and looking down to the floor. Rashid went out of the room in rage.

It later transpired that the eunuch was supporting a poor Armenian family, the widow and children of a dead soldier, which Rashid had later resettled to Aleppo with some money. But to Ibrahim, he showed no mercy.

VIII

Ahmed’s party was very successful: they got the woman and they managed to keep the operation discreet. The following morning, she was brought before Rashid’s team. She was well over thirty, which meant she was not young any more; however, she was still in shape and very attractive; tall and pale skinned, she had a pretty round face with small nose and nice lips, white teeth, grey eyes and a long black hair, denoting some white strands. She was wrapped in a blanket and was barefoot, revealing to have been little less than kidnapped in the middle of the night, which was exactly what had happened. At a sign of Rashid, a guard took the blanket, revealing the woman as dressed, or it might be said half dressed, in a short white tunic. Her body was curvaceous, with barely covered, full breasts, still firm; but she had moderate hips and, for her age, a flat belly. She stood defiantly looking at him.

“What is your name, woman?” Rashid asked

“You know that, Persian,” she answered quickly, but he retorted, equally quickly.

“Your Christian name, I mean. You come from Frankish stock; it is evident in your complexion.” She thought for a moment before answering.

“Isabel. And I am not a Frank, I come from Venice.” And added: “You will not soften me up by faking tenderness”.

“No, I know you are impenetrable to that. But not to other things, I guess. Besides, I do not have the need or inclination to show tenderness to you. You understand that you are charged of conspiracy against a Muslim ruler.”

“Yes.”

“Your situation might improve if you cooperate with us.”

“How would be that?”

“You should tell us where the girl is hidden and who paid you to have her introduced into the late Emir’s chambers.”

“What girl?” she said, with a sarcastic look. Rashid felt disappointed; for a moment, he had thought that an intelligent woman like this would have understood the utter hopelessness of her situation, and started cooperating easily.

“If you show contempt of this authority, it will be only for worse.”

“What do you know about what’s good, or bad, or worse? You have a horse, a mail shirt and a sword and think everything is honorable. In that sense, you are not different from the Christian lords. I have seen many of these being killed at Edessa, together with people that deserved that so much less!”

The woman was intelligent and full of bitterness. This would be a difficult one, Rashid reckoned. “Take her to the chamber and show her the implements,” he said conspicuously. But she smiled as conspicuously to show her contempt, and did not take her eyes from him while she was carried away.

“Quite a character, eh?” Goshar said. Rashid assented.

“We'll need more than a rack session on her,” he retorted; it was Goshar’s turn to assent.

They joined the party at the torture chamber, after the customary delay, so that the victim would familiarize herself with the implements there. Rashid made the also customary invitation to confess. “Will you cooperate or should we proceed?” but she retorted.

“Do you think I fear you, Persian? You were a knight once, or so I've been told. What happened to you? Did the stone at the walls of Antioch break more than bone?” Neither Goshar nor Parham could prevent an ironic gesture.

“Do not try to be too smart, Isabel. Bring him.” A door opened, and weeping Ibrahim was brought. “Is this the woman?” Rashid asked.

“Yes, yes, cadi, she is,” Ibrahim answered sobbing.

“Take him.” Rashid could not bear his presence for long. He would be thoroughly punished, in due time. But Isabel had not changed her defiant stance.

“You see? Your accomplice has accused you. Why not yielding?”

“I repeat, I do not know which “girl” you are talking about,” she said calmly, looking into Rashid’s face. He made a sign, and the guards stripped her naked, and put on her a loincloth like the one used on Aziz. Her expression didn't change.

“Do not think you can bully me. Or even that humiliation will break me. I was sold as a slave aged eight. I entered a bordello at the age of ten. You cannot hurt me more; even those… tools… cannot.”

“I know. I have something different for you, Isabel.” Rashid made another signal, and the guards tied her to the metal framed chair. This time, her legs were tied to the chair’s legs, by the ankles and the knees, and the arms were tied opened to the crossbar. Another crossbar was run over her thighs, preventing her from moving her hip forward, though she could make a little movement sideways.

“Let me introduce my little pets to you, Isabel,” said Rashid, and Goshar came forward holding a closed pot. She opened the lid and showed the content to Isabel. It was full of leeches, the size of a little finger. She made a squirm in disgust, but controlled herself.

“You know, or have heard about, these little beasts, surely. They are used in some new medicine treatments. They stuck to a skin with these… little teeth.” He took one with long pincers and showed its business end to Isabel, holding it close to her face, who promptly looked aside in disgust. “And suck some blood. Not much, so many have to be used on a body.” He put the animal back into the pot.

“That’s what we'll do with you; place these friendly animals onto the most sensitive parts of your body until you deem appropriate to talk to us about business.”

Isabel shivered. Collecting leeches was one of the most feared slave works. The poor fellows were introduced into marshes and pools infested with the worms and kept there until their legs were full of them; then, they were allowed to exit and the leeches were taken from them, only to repeat the process, time after time. The men were kept alive with strong beverages and sugar; even so, their useful life was extremely short. Before realizing, she was covered in sweat. Goshar closed on to her, holding the pot and the tweezers.

“Ah!” she said. "It is said that these worms secret a humor that lower the skin sensitivity where it is stuck, for the victim not noticing it. I have to tell you that it is not true. It hurts, all the time, a lot”

Isabel was looking at her in the face when a guard emptied a bucket of dirty water on her. She was surprised and incensed; she opened her mouth gasping for air.

“They like it filthy, Isabel. Nothing personal,” Goshar said and smiled, waiting for Rashid to give the signal to start the treatment. He nodded, and she knew she could start.

She took one leech with the pincers and showed it off to Isabel, who squirmed in disgust. She then placed it carefully on the soft flesh above her right breast. The worm took hold at once. Isabel let go a short, high pitch scream and then hissed. The pain was acute and intense when the worm bit, then diminished a little, but remained very present and constant, akin to a burn; moreover, she could feel clearly a sucking motion. Both Rashid and Goshar were conscious of the psychological impact of knowing that something attached to your body was literally eating you, like a parasite. Isabel got agitated, but tried hard to control herself as she stared at the worm, which was moving rhythmically as it sucked her blood. Goshar took another and presented it to Isabel, who let go a sigh of terror.

“You see,” Goshar said, “they would feel lonely otherwise.” She placed the worm just above her belly button, with the same result; Isabel opened her mouth in a sigh and made a short movement with the hips as the bite hurt her, then started squirming as if trying to make the worm loose its grip. But it didn't. Goshar was already going for the third one; this one she placed in her left armpit. Isabel looked at her in terror, and then followed the pincers until they deposited the worm; she tried to clench her arm against her ribcage, but she couldn't move it more than a few millimeters, so she arched her body towards the left. Her breath was becoming heavy and she was sweating profusely.

The fourth worm went to the lower dome of her right breast, below the nipple; she made a short scream of pain and fastened her breath trying to stave off the pain, blowing through her teeth. But to no avail; she felt as if red hot coals were glued to her skin. The fifth worm was placed on her left breast, just above the nipple; this time she screamed. Then Goshar took a distance and let the worms work their magic on Isabel. She was having her whole body squirm, in pain and repulsion, breathing fast and hissing. Her face was becoming very distressed, and tears began flowing off her gray eyes. When Goshar closed on her again, she looked at her with imploring eyes, while moving her head and lips in an unequivocal sign of “No”. But Goshar, not having a signal from Rashid, went on.

The sixth worm she placed in her belly below her button, then a seventh on the soft flesh around her shoulder. Those were very sensitive parts of a woman’s body; her squirming became spasmodic as she tried to release her bonds and shake the little beasts off her body, she was covered in sweat, the dirty water she had been sprayed running in stains on her breast and belly. The eighth worm went straight to her right nipple; she screamed loudly, looking up with her neck stiffened; she moved her head from side to side in pain. She tried to move her shoulders to shake the worm off; her breasts dangled, but the little beast knew its job and remained firmly stuck. Goshar looked at Rashid, but he nodded, so she placed a ninth worm beside the woman’s left hip bone, another highly sensitive part. She immediately began moving her hip frantically, as if trying to shake it off, to no avail. Then Goshar went back again, beside Rashid, and said, in a low voice, “I think she has enough for the moment.”

To which Rashid nodded, and made a signal to wait. Isabel was growing desperate, squirming and contorting frantically, her moans turning into screams of pain and terror. After a while she started begging them.

“Please… stop… please… take them off… please…” but they stood unmoved for some time.

Then Rashid asked, “Are you ready to answer our questions now?”

“Yes… yes… please, take them off, take them off!" Rashid looked at Goshar. He said, “We shall take them one by one as you answer our questions… but the answers should be the correct ones, understood?”

“Yes… yes… please!" she answered.

“Let’s start by something basic and easy… it was you who agreed with Ibrahim to introduce a girl into the late Emir’s chambers?”

“Yes… yes… it was me," she answered, sighing and moaning. Rashid nodded to Goshar, who proceeded to remove one of the leeches, an operation painful in itself.

“Did you know he was going to be murdered?”

“They didn't say… but it was obvious… I wouldn't have… agreed… if the Emir… wasn't killed… he was… a vengeful man," she moaned in pain. Goshar extracted another worm.

“Where does the girl come from?”

“I… I don't know… it’s the truth… please… believe me… they… they provided her…” she said in distress. Rashid believed that; another worm was removed.

“Have you seen her?”

“Yes… yes, I have… a young, blonde girl… very pretty."

"Blonde?" Rashid raised an eyebrow.

“Frankish?”

“Norman… she was captured in Sicily… please!" Rashid signaled Goshar to remove another worm.

“Where is she now?” Ahmed had the exits of the walled town sealed.

“She is… she is hiding in a warehouse… at the city port… I can provide the details." Goshar took off another worm.

“Who hired you to contact Ibrahim?”

“I don't know… I… I have always dealt with… a middleman… a woman… I… don't know… who… was her master…”. Rashid didn't move. Isabel insisted. “It’s the truth… believe me… please… please take them off!”

“Wrong answer, Isabel. Goshar!” She came forward holding a worm in the pincers.

“No… no, please… no…” Isabel cried, but Goshar placed the worm neatly on her free nipple; she screamed and contorted.

“Whose is the warehouse?”

The woman was squirming in pain.

“Please… they will kill me!"

“In your position, I would be worried about what we are doing to you now, and not about what they could eventually do to you in the future. Whose?” Rashid insisted. Tears flowed renewed from Isabel’s eyes.

“The Abbas family… they hired me… please, take them out…” she said, moaning and sighing in pain. She added, “It is not… just him… do you understand?” Rashid did, fully.

“Fear not'" he said. "No one will touch you after seeing what we'll do to him.”

Everything was clicking in place, now. Once you get the end of the thread, it unfolded easily.

“Remove our friends form this lady. They have earned a good rest. Have her indicate the exact place the warehouse is to Ahmed. Put her under custody.”

He went to have some food, rest, and plan the raid on the warehouse, and the taking of the leader of the Abbas family. A powerful lord was never easy to catch.

IX

In the late night, Ahmed and four men entered the Abbas’ clan warehouse in the port of town, after subduing a guard. They found a blanket and pillow, and some personal belongings, among the stores. They separated in a search pattern, and soon one gave the alarm; a figure, clad in trousers, long shirt and head covering was seen trying to make for the rear door. One guard bashed him, the figure sank a dagger in his belly and attempted to resume his running, but a second guard hit him in the head with a wooden mace. The figure fell down, and he was very soon tied up and dragged away.

Two men, led by Parham, presented themselves at the front door of the Abbas family mansion, demanding to see the chief. They were received by the household lady, a young Lebanese woman, who retained there in the outside for a while, asking for the reason of the intromission. Suddenly, there was a noise of horses at the back of the house.

“He’s running away!!” shouted Parham, and tried to force his way inside. A big black Nubian slave armed with a scimitar tried to stop them; Parham dodged a slash and took him down with blow from the hand axe he was carrying. He realized it would be useless to chase, so he secured the woman and waited.

Rashid was in the alley behind the house, stalking the escapees with four men. As the party raced through the alley, five horses in all, they rushed to give chase, and a running skirmish ensued. Rashid tried to get the horse in front, richly accoutered, but a Nubian close his path. He attacked sword in hand by the left side, parried a blow and hit the man in the back. The horse straddled out of the way, but another closed on him. Again he parried the scimitar, but the Nubian was very strong and his blade found Rashid’s torso, slashing his tunic. He however managed to reprise; the Christian broadsword he was using was heavier than the scimitars and he knocked down the man. At last he reached the horse in front, ridden by a man richly dressed with a head cover. One of his men expertly took the bridles, and he knocked down the kufiya the man was wearing; but great was his annoyance when he saw it was not Abbas, but a young Lebanese, who smiled at him. He erased his smile with a stroke of the pommel of his sword.

The team gathered again in the fortress and palace. Rashid was utterly annoyed at the frustration of having failed to catch ibn Abbas. Ahmed saw his slashed tunic and asked:

“Are you fine, cadi? Shouldn't you see your surgeon?” But Rashid opened his tunic, showing she was wearing a leather jerkin underneath.

“This is my Bizantine friend, Ahmed. No scimitar slash can cut this. It is a bit warm, though, I tell you!” He relaxed a bit. He tried to summarize the results of the raid.

“Well… we have the assassin girl; we also have this Lebanese woman. Has Isabel identified her?” he asked Goshar.

“Yes, she has. She has become quite cooperative. She said she is the one acting as middleman.”

“Good. She will lead us onto the Abbas elder. See she will, Gosharik, let’s say by the early morning.”

Goshar was usually flattered when Rashid called her by the diminutive of her name.

“After getting him, we'll see what we can learn from our blonde guest.”

X

The woman was surely Lebanese; she had middle stature and a tanned skin, with long, jet black hair. She was still young, possibly just under thirty. She had a pretty face, with big round hazel eyes, sensual lips, a straight nose and a hole in the chin. She was not voluptuous, but she had full breasts, generous hips and firm buttocks, though not exactly long legs; Goshar could assess that while she walked slowly around her as she stood at the basement chamber.

“What is your name, woman?”

“Jamila Al-Razhi,” she said.

“You have been very brave covering your master’s escape, Jamila. But your bravery will have dire consequences for you unless you tell us where he is now.” She felt suddenly very obvious; usually, it was Rashid who did the talking.

“He must be safe by now. You'll never get him.”

“Well, “never” is something we “never” know…” she knew that the exits from the city had been guarded by loyal men since the assassination. “Anyway, you must know that you will be charged with the assassination of the late Emir, therefore, it will only help you to be cooperative.”

“I have no fear of what happens to me. You may torture me and might be you break me, but I have no fear of you or the torture.” Again that fierce loyalty shown before by Zaira, or Isabel… she wondered why, but it was not a moment to ask and add to the determination of Jamila. She couldn't help but wondering if she would die for Rashid; she would, and indeed had, killed for him. Would she stand torture for him? Would she for their nominal master, Nur-ed-Din?

Goshar swept those thoughts away, she had work to do. She had prearranged with the guards, so she only made a gesture and they promptly took Jamila tunic off and put on her the customary loincloth; she was then secured to the metal frame chair, her arms tied well to her back, with the crossbar below her armpits; her knees and ankles secured with a leather strap to the seat and legs of the chair, while her neck was also secured to the frame, preventing her to move her torso forward. The position was tight and uncomfortable but not painful; and it had the effect of throwing forward the woman’s breasts. On them Goshar intended to work.

She brought forward a stool and single implement; a device a bit elaborate, which she had found on the broken body of a female colleague of hers, who had been uncovered while infiltrating the household of a potentate in Cairo. It was a metal frame resembling the Hindu numeral “8”, turned on its side; the separated upper and lower parts were connected by two screws on the sides and a guide on the middle. Each concave part could be placed above and below of a woman’s breast, and tightened by means of a winged nut at each screw, like a press; teeth on the inner, concave side of the frames would add to the pain inflicted. Goshar started unfastening the device in front of Jamila, to her full sight; the shape of the thing made its use obvious, and the slightly audible metallic sound the screws made added to the effect. Though her determination did not seem to quench, she couldn't prevent staring at the device and at Goshar’s face in quick succession. The latter was of course fully aware of the effect produced, and smiled.

“We are up to a long night, Jamila; unless you are ready to talk,” she said, as she passed Jamila's abundant hair to her back. But she spat in the floor, in a reaction as predictable as dawn. Goshar smiled, and finished unfastening the device.

“We call it “the eight”, she said, showing it to Jamila on its side. “It is simple and effective enough, though not necessarily a fast persuader. Someone like you could resist a few hours, at the cost of some excruciating pain and possibly some irreparable damage.”

But her reaction was just violently looking aside, so Goshar placed the device on the base of her breasts, and tightened it only enough for it to hold. Jamila made some unequivocal reactions of discomfort, and avoided looking to her face.

Goshar started now to tighten the device, operating both nuts at the same time, provoking repressed short sighs of pain in Jamila; she tried hard to keep control of herself, tightening her teeth and holding and releasing her breath. The base of her breasts started to get compressed by the device and swollen and stretched where they came out of its jaws. As Jamila’s breath started to become faster, and her body covered in sweat, Goshar decreased the speed of the tightening, and then stopped. Now Jamila showed the pain, moving within her bonds as if to trying to release it; her breath was heavy and she let go sighs and moans almost continually.

“I… shall not tell you anything… bitch…”, she said, but Goshar simply smiled. She tightened the screws a turn. Jamila let go a short scream, and resumed the moaning, a bit louder. Goshar knew the principle for operating “the Eight” was no different from the rack; only the offended body part varied. It relied on a game of pressure and release: increasing the pressure by small amounts, with a lot of pauses, keeping an ever increasing level of pain, and in the critical moment inflicting some acute pain, to withdraw immediately to a lower level. She knew she was good at it, and she had time.

Jamila’s body was now fully covered in sweat; her breath lacked rhythm and her belly moved deeply, as she tried not to breath with her thorax, which would have increased the pain. She was moaning continually.

“Will you talk, Jamila? Where is your master hiding?” Goshar asked. Jamila looked at her while she gasped for air.

“I… shall never… tell you…” and she moaned in pain. Goshar made a small gesture with her eyebrows and tightened the device. Jamila screamed, and contorted her body within the restrains while moaning. Goshar waited a long while, as she knew she had reached the threshold of pain, and then took her face by the chin.

“Jamila, we could go on with this for the whole night, and you know you will talk in the end. Spare yourself of that ordeal and tell me now: Where?” But she moved her head in a sign of negative. Goshar very slowly put her hands on the screws.

“No…”, said Jamila, in the midst of a sigh, but Goshar tightened them a turn. Jamila screamed fully, contorting even more violently and spasmodically, her breathing heavy and full of moans and sighs of pain.

“Are you ready to talk, now, Jamila?” Goshar asked, but she said, sobbing, "No… I can't… no…”

Goshar started to tighten the screws even further, but in quick movements, followed by a small release of the tight. Sometimes just one of them; each time she tightened it, Jamila screamed, moving her head from side to side, her face covered in tears and sweat. After some time of this treatment, Goshar release a bit of the tight and backed off. Jamila’s breasts were swollen and red, the skin stretched and the nipples protruding, while the “teeth” were starting to bite deep into their base; they lacked enough of an edge to open the skin, but the lacerations were starting to show. Goshar started caressing the swollen nipples; each time she made the slightest pressure, Jamila moaned in pain.

“So? Where?” she asked, but she didn't answer, just breathed through her teeth, looking at her face with tearful eyes and trembling lips. She tightened the screws once more; she could feel the inner tissue in the base of her breasts tear with the pressure. Jamila was trembling incessantly, covered in sweat and moaning loudly; the skin in her breasts reddened and bruised, looking as if they were about to explode. Goshar loosened the screws, and Jamila relaxed the tension, her heavy breathing deepening and her head falling on her chest. Goshar held her chin, taking her hair out of her face, for her to look into her face.

“Come on, Jamila, where is he? How does he intend to leave the city?” Jamila clenched her teeth and shut her eyes in a futile attempt not to weep.

“She’s the fastest… you'll… never… catch… him…” she whispered. Goshar blinked, but kept on asking, while she caressed her cheeks and lips almost tenderly.

“Why is that you keep so loyal to this man? What has he done for you?”

“He… bought me… from a Berber trader… when I was a child… raised me… never forced me… never handed me over to his friends… he was kind… I shall… not… betray him…” But still she did not yield. She started tightening the screws once more.

“No… no… no…” she said, almost in panic, and then screamed, as the teeth and the pressure of the device bit once again into her breasts, making them feel as if on fire. Then Goshar picked up something; she loosened the grip at once, almost without thinking.

“You said 'she’s the fastest'… what you were talking about?” But Jamila evaded her look, hiding her face looking aside and sobbed loudly. Goshar took her violently by the hair and raised her head.

“It is a ship, isn't it?” She grabbed the nipple of Jamila’s tortured left breast and she started squeezing it. “Is it? He’s hiding in a ship!”, but Jamila just screamed and wept. Goshar released her of the Eight and her bonds, and, rushing out of the chamber, ordered the guards:

“Take her to her cell, give her some water, guard her!” and as lightning rushed up the stairs.

XI

The chain protecting the entrance of Adana’s port was raised at once, just in time. A roving dhow, trying to slip away in the dark, was caught by the city port patrol. It was indeed a fine ship; in open seas it, would have been all but impossible to catch. Inside it, Muhammad ibn Tarik ibn Abbas was caught. He was a true elder, tall, proud, imposing and distinguished, with clear eyes and a white moustache; surely he had been pretty handsome when young. His men would have fought to the death, but he restrained them; he realized it would have been futile. He was taken to the presence of Rashid and his assistants.

“So you left a trail of tortured people until you have been led to me at last, eh, Persian?”

Rashid was silent. “I have heard about you; you were a knight once, or so it is said, and now you are no more than a thug for your master Nur-ed-Din. You are despicable.”

“Despicable or not I might be, that’s not the subject of our… conversation. We have enough evidence that you have conspired to have the late Emir assassinated. Will you deny it?”

“I shall not, lest you subject everyone in my family to torture. I detested the old, fat, perverted Emir, resting on dubious old war feats, like all of you, beasts. I don't care any more. I had him killed and I am proud of it.”

“You make it sound as if you did it for the One god, but actually you resented being sidelined in favor of your commercial competitors,” Rashid observed.

“Yes, those miserable Christian dogs, those Armenians. They even put a whore into that perverted old man’s bed. It is a shame a Muslim ruler even considered making business with people like that!”

Rashid started feeling a bit sick at all the venom the man spat, but it was understandable. There was not much else he could do.

“Take him,” he said softly. There was no more needed to have him executed.

XII

The guards dragged the girl into the hall. Her arms had been secured at her back to a metal bar by wrists and elbows. She was wearing a short, mid thigh length, tunic of coarse material, roughly cut at neck and shoulders. She stood defiantly before Rashid and his team; as he came down to examine her, she stood the scrutiny without a gesture. She was very pretty, though would have been considered thin to the point of starvation by most Arab males; indeed, she was slim and muscular, and the loose garment made her body look almost boyish like. She was not tall, but well proportioned; long muscular arms and legs, small hips and breasts. She had a pretty face, with fine and elegant features, thin nose, small blue eyes and well formed lips. Her hair was golden yellow, long to her mid back; though presently it showed a patch of dried blood where her captor had stroke.

“What is your name, girl?” Rashid asked.

“Firuz,” she said, but he asked again.

“Your Christian name.”

“I don't have a Christian name.”

“Yes, you do,” he insisted.

“Sela,” she said, simply. It was a traditional Norman name; the girl had surely been caught in a ship bound to Sicily.

“You have been charged with murdering the late Emir, Sela. I hope you understand the implications. Did you murder him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“On behalf of whom?”

“I was instructed to get in touch with a woman called Al-Rahi, but I do not know to whom she answered.” The girl was telling everything plainly, knowing that her position could not be made worse, and possibly, no better.

“How was the operation carried out?”

“This woman would have me introduced into the Emir’s chambers at night, posing as a sex slave, and I would kill him. I did it with a stabbing dagger. It was easy.” The coolness of the girl impressed everyone in the hall.

“Who do you work for?”

“I told you, I do not know who the final customer was.” Rashid knew that was a very usual way of doing business.

“Who?” Rashid insisted. The girl looked at him. Both knew what he was asking.

“My Master is the Old Man in the Mountains, Persian. I might be lost, but many others wait their turn. He cannot be stopped, you know that. He will get you, sometime, and also your master.”

“Maybe what you say is true, Sela. Sometime in the future. But for now, it is you who is caught, and who will pay for your master’s deeds. Do you have anything to say?”

“I have no fear. My flesh may, but I do not,” Rashid assented.

“Take her to the basement. Goshar, she’s yours.” The guards took her out; she kept staring at him as long as she could.

“She’s confessed… why the torture?” protested Goshar. But Rashid answered.

“A message. And a lesson.”

“To what extent am I to carry on my task?” she asked.

“She should be alive and in one piece in the morning.”

“Understood,” she said, and, bowing slightly her head, she left. She always felt uneasy when Rashid turned like that, hard and cold as stone. He was usually very emotional.

Goshar spared the girl the usual showing of the torture implements; in fact, she should have been quite familiar to them. She had her garment replaced by the usual loincloth; while the guards stripped her, she saw she had a beautiful body, which could be best appreciated in nudity, with muscular buttocks and belly, and firm breasts, with well proportioned nipples. During the whole operation, Sela remained silent, staring at her. Goshar didn't feel comfortable about this assignment; though she had executed people, she had never tortured someone just for punishment. She wouldn't have thought Rashid, who was always quite reluctant to have someone tortured and prided on relying mostly on his deductive abilities, would order such an action. But he did.

She thought the rack an instrument appropriated for questioning, not for punishment, so she leaned for some whipping, of which she was not usually adept. A punishment was exactly what she was asked to administer. Therefore, she order to hang her from the frame Jamila had been hung before.

While she was inspecting the bonds, Sela said, “You don't have to pretend you are reluctant to do this. You are not. In fact, you are eager to do it: it would prove you took the right decision.”

Goshar didn't answer. Maybe she was right. Which decision of hers was she talking about? The girl was brave; she reminded her of herself, some years ago. She had a man who understood the not so simple mechanics of whipping; that was not so common. She decided to skip the lightest whip and start with a moderately heavy one. The man moved to the left of hanging Sela and started hitting her back and buttocks. She had been flogged before, more than once; she knew Goshar had selected a relatively light whip to begin with, and that heavier ones would come later; so she put a brave face to the beating. However, she couldn't help squirming and moaning if ever so slightly when the whipping effects started to build up. Nor could she prevent sweating, an unavoidable effect of pain; soon her body was wet and shiny. But not even once did she stop staring at Goshar straight in the face, defiantly. “Soon you'll lose your pose”, she thought.

After a while, Goshar stopped the beating and inspected her back. It was a bloody bruised mess, and it hurt an awful lot, as she could test when she just passed her finger over her skin and Sela squirmed and moaned as if touched by a red hot coal. At her command, a man picked up a bucket and threw a shower of hot sand on her tortured back. Sela yelled in pain as her body felt like burning; the scream subsidized into a growl, and she almost fainted, hanging loose from her wrists for a moment. Goshar turned round her, and shook her face, holding it by the chin.

She recovered, and didn't avoid her gaze, but said, among her heavy breathing, “I have heard… about you… Daphne.” It required all the self control from Goshar not to show any feeling. She was still a young woman; her slim body of average height, her jet black hair and straight nose with angular jaws betrayed her Greek blood. She simply smiled and handed a stronger whip to her executioner. He started hitting Sela again in the back; the rhythm of the strokes was much slower, as the whip was much heavier and would wound her. It bit into her already sensitized skin, making her squirm and scream low in unequivocal pain with each stroke; she tried to prevent screaming by almost biting her upper arms, but to no avail. The skin at her back started tearing apart; long bloody marks appeared, and blood began to run along her spine, mixing with the sweat and the stuck sand, and running to her buttocks. She started loosing her footing; she was about to faint when Goshar ordered to stop.

She had her put down, tied to the metal seat frame, arms extended, and a bucket of water emptied onto her burning body. The way her shoulders were thrown back and tied to the metal frame made her breasts pop forward; this position made more justice to them than the hanging; they were rather small, but firm, round and well formed. As Goshar prepared to work on them, she could not but admire them.

Sela put up her head, looking at her in the face, and said, “You… betrayed us… once… Daphne… the Old Man… never forgets… remember… and watch around…” Goshar pretended to be unmoved, and took a seat directly in front of her.

“Send my regards to the Old Man, if you see him,” she bluffed, and had a hot brazier be brought up to her. On it, there were several iron needles, of different sizes, but all very substantial, like a carpenter’s heavy nail. She took one, red hot, from its wooden handle, and put it in front of Sela’s face. She didn't say anything, but touched her right thigh with the tip, burning her skin; she squirmed and hissed in pain. Sela stared at her face.

Goshar said, “You'll plead.”

“I… shall not,” she replied.

“We'll see,” Goshar said. And, grabbing Sela’s left breast, she pierced it with the needle, sideways. Burning skin and fat and fluids hissed, and vapor rose in the air. Sela’s screamed with her head fully tilted backwards. Goshar gave her some time to recover; she contorted, clenched her teeth and tried to stave off the pain breathing fast. She grabbed her breast again and inserted another needle, this time from below; this time Sela's howled and moved her hips violently as far as her restrains would allow. But she didn't plead.

Goshar took another needle with her left hand, grabbed right breast and sent the needle inside it sideways. Again, Sela screamed like an animal and contorted wildly. Goshar waited a bit; then, she held the needles she had inserted from the outside of the breasts one with each hand, and, looking straight into Sela’s face, she started squeezing them. Sela squirmed and contorted, screaming continually; when she was about to faint, Goshar stopped. Sela was moaning and sobbing.

Goshar picked up her face and said, “Have you had enough?”

“Be… damned,” she answered, in a whisper, so Goshar again squeezed her breasts, moving the inserted needles, pulling, pushing and rotating them. Sela screamed and howled, contorting and squirming; when Goshar stopped, her head fell violently on her chest, trembling and breathing spasmodically. Goshar shook her face, to reanimate her, and noted her imploring, wet eyes, but Sela didn't say anything. She then took another needle, a short one, and looking straight into her eyes, presented it in front of her left nipple, red and glowing. This time, Sela looked at her with imploring eyes, her lips trembling; that was an unequivocal plea to stop, but Goshar went on and very slowly inserted it right through her nipple. She yelled and contorted wildly and mercifully fainted. The sunrise was already beginning; Goshar felt a bit sick at her job; she decided the girl had had enough. She took the needles out of her tortured breasts with the utmost care.

“Take her to her cell!” she ordered, and went to wash up for the breakfast meeting with the rest of the team.

XII

It should have been a very satisfied group the one that met that early morning to sip coffee and eat some dry fruits. In just a few days, Rashid had found out not only who had had the late Emir killed, but also the material executor; moreover, he had unveiled both the motivation but the political implications as well. He said, “Ahmed ibn Yusuf, you and your men have performed exceedingly well in this difficult situation. With the powers that my Master Nur-ed-Din has conferred onto me, I appoint you the steward of the city of Adana, its fortress and its port.” Ahmed thanked him with a nod of the head.

“Now,” he continued, “we still have decisions to make. Muhammad ibn Tarik ibn Abbas shall be executed for treason.” Everybody agreed.

“Azizgyul will be returned to her family.” He turned to Parham. “See that a good sum of money is allowed to her, so that they can find a good husband for her.” Parham said, "Her family will have the bigger portion of the trade in Adana; it will not be difficult.”

“Are you applying, Parham?” asked Goshar mockingly, and everyone laughed. The joke had been an obvious one, but she didn't feel like joking.

“Both Isabel and Jamila will be freed,” Rashid continued. “They have suffered enough.” Again, everybody assented.

“Ibrahim will be executed and his body hanged from the city gates.” Rashid looked at his team. “Goshar, strangle him in his cell.” She nodded. Her Master was again in that grim merciless mood she used to fear.

“Sela will be returned to the Old Man In The Mountains, as a warning that his plots can be unveiled and thwarted.” That was the message, thought Goshar. Everybody assented, except her.

“Master, you cannot let her live,” she said.

Rashid looked at her a long while.

“Why not, Gosharik? Don't you remember how we met?”

“Because I do is that I advise you so, Master.” He looked at her approvingly.

“Good. Do it. Send her hands to the Old Man, he will understand anyway.” He looked at her, and she understood for whom the lesson had been.

They ate and sip coffee in silence for a while. Then Rashid asked, “At what time does the tide rise?”

XII

The sun was already well down when the party gathered at the sand dunes of the beach near the port of Adana. Downwards, the beach showed three speckles protruding from the sand. They were the heads of those who were going to die. Rashid walked his horse slowly among them.

One shouted to him, with a juvenile voice, "Master, I am smart and strong; take me into your service!”

But Rashid replied, “Having an Abbas near me? You take me for a fool.”

Then, the voice of a girl: “Master, master… I am young and beautiful… I can give you many years of pleasure!” He looked at her. Though still very young, she was indeed pretty; she had inherited the clear eyes and imposing figure of her father.

But he replied, “I would get that somewhere else if I wanted.” The girl started sobbing, but he pretended not to pay heed, and approached the third half-buried man.

“Kill me, but forgive my sons!” Muhammad ibn Tarik ibn Abbas said, still in a proud voice.

“You knew the risks when you conspired against the emir and the Master Nur-ed-Din, Muhammad ibn Abbas,” Rashid said, emotionless.

“Be cursed, Persian; might the One god punish you for this in this world and in the Jennah! Slave!” he said proudly and spat in the sand.