The Pillar (11 page)

“All the better.”

They set off down the path, Boro belting out a bawdy tune he claimed was popular in his home village.

S
NOW
BEGAN
to fall in earnest when they were still fifteen minutes from the cottage. Large, fluffy flakes spiraled prettily through the air and clung to the men’s caps and cloaks. Boro was in a jolly mood, but Faris worried a little. On the one hand, the cloud cover meant the temperatures probably wouldn’t get deadly cold. However, snow might turn to ice, and ice inevitably meant people slipping and hurting themselves. Two years ago, one woman had fallen on the slick cobbles and broken her wrist so badly that infection had set in and Faris had to work hard to save her life. She still couldn’t use that hand properly.

“I’ll make us dinner,” Boro announced. “Something hot and filling. And if we visit the butcher tomorrow, I can make sarma. We still have cabbage, don’t we?”

“I think so.” Faris licked his lips. Stuffed cabbage sounded good. He’d never learned to make it himself.

Boro’s thoughts seemed to have strayed for a while from sex to food. “Do you suppose we could persuade the ironsmith to make us a peka?”

“A what?”

“Peka. It’s a big domed pot. It’s the best way to roast meat. You heat it in the fire all day, and by dinner the juices have collected….” He rubbed his belly and grinned. “Yes, we need a peka.”

“We can ask the smith tomorrow. I treat his burns, and lately he’s had some problems with cramping in his hands. If you describe it to him, I’m sure he can manage.”

“Good. For now we can roast beef and trout, but in the spring I can make a lamb with some young vegetables.” He paused. “If I had a potter’s wheel and kiln, I could make a peka myself from clay.”

Faris nodded. He’d already been thinking about how to get a wheel. Perhaps in the next few days, he could slip away from Boro long enough to speak with Tomo the potter. Wouldn’t that be a good surprise for Boro!

Each happy with his plans, they made their way home. They stomped the snow from their boots, and Faris hung their cloaks and hats while Boro stoked the fire. Faris made them tea, then sorted his new plant acquisitions as Boro began to prepare their meal. They chatted lightly as they worked. Faris enjoyed having a companion, someone who made little jokes and told stories about his home village far away.

The door shook with the force of the knock.

Faris and Boro exchanged uneasy looks, and Boro grabbed a knife on their way to the door. Despite Faris’s trepidation, he was happy to see Boro strong and confident enough to no longer cower in the corner.

Ratko Kurjak stood at the threshold. He wore a very fine cloak and hat, trimmed with matching fur. The swelling in his nose had gone down, but the nose itself appeared to have gained a marked and permanent cant to one side. Kurjak was flanked by his armed guards again, but that wasn’t what disturbed Faris. No, what made his stomach clench into a tight, hard ball was the man standing with them. Osman Divjak was the qadi—the town governor and judge. The last time Faris had spoken with the man was a decade earlier, when the qadi had convicted Faris and sentenced him to the pillar.

Kurjak’s smug smile worried Faris immensely. “Yes, Qadi Divjak,” Kurjak announced very loudly. “This is the thief.” He pointed at Faris.

Although Faris’s bowels had turned to ice water, he kept his voice steady as he addressed Divjak. “I have stolen nothing, sir. Kurjak removed his collar from Boro—from his former slave. I am sure there were many witnesses. I was within my right to take Boro from the pillar, and now he is free.”

Divjak nodded. “Yes. I was there. I saw him remove the collar myself.”

Faris should have been relieved, but Kurjak’s smile didn’t dim. “I’m not talking about my… chattel. That slave is worthless anyway. Qadi, this man stole something of real value. He took a large gold necklace. It’s a family heirloom.”

That made Faris blink. Had Kurjak gone insane? “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve only seen you once before. I didn’t see a necklace, and I certainly didn’t take one.”

“He lies,” insisted Kurjak. “I believe the slave told him about the necklace, and the thief broke into my house and took it.”

Looking at the qadi rather than Kurjak, Faris shook his head. “I don’t even know where this man lives.”

“More lies! The slave told him. And everybody knows that the thief spends his days tramping around the countryside, no doubt looking for houses to burgle.”

The accusations were utterly ridiculous, yet Faris was terrified. He also had to keep a hard grip on Boro’s arm because Boro looked ready to leap forward and stab Kurjak at any moment. “Sir,” he began, “I walk the hills to collect herbs. There’s a basket on the table I collected today. Why would I steal anything? I have everything I need already.” Which was true, but Kurjak sniffed disdainfully, and Divjak—who lived in a very large, fine house on the river—looked doubtful as well.

Divjak shook his head to clear the snow from his long hair. “We can easily solve this matter. Kurjak, you and your men may search Faris’s house. If you do not find the necklace, I will consider the matter permanently settled.”

Faris cried out in distress. “No! My herbs, my notes….” He could only imagine how much destruction Kurjak and his men could do.

The qadi nodded and turned to frown at Kurjak. “You are to take care not to damage any of the herbalist’s possessions as you search.”

Kurjak’s smile was wide and oily. “Of course, qadi, of course.”

“Wait out here,” Divjak commanded Faris and Boro. And they had no choice but to obey. So while they stood in the doorway, shivering and exchanging desperate glances, and while the qadi watched from just inside, Kurjak and his guards began looking through the house.

The search was oddly lackluster, as if none of the men expected to find a stolen necklace under Faris’s rugs or tucked in a cooking pot. After only a few moments of prodding and poking, all three of them converged on the bed. They didn’t speak, but the guards tipped the mattress up, toward the wall. They’d barely moved it when Kurjak crowed in triumph, dove down, and came back up with a gaudy gold braid clutched in his hand. “You see!”

Boro growled, and again Faris had to grab him to stop him from rushing forward. “Don’t, Boro! You’ll only… you’ll only make matters worse.” Still, Boro would have broken free if the qadi hadn’t stepped in front of him.

Divjak looked at Faris sadly. “You’ll have to come with me.”

“No!” roared Boro. “He didn’t steal it! Can’t you see? Those pig-fuckers put the necklace there when we were out. They—”

“Silence! There is enough evidence to back the claim, and I will take Faris into custody. It’s too late tonight. We’ll hold the trial in the morning.” Divjak clapped his hands and shouted, and as if from nowhere, four soldiers appeared. He pointed at Boro. “Hold him until we’ve gone. Do not harm him unless necessary. He is not the accused.”

Boro tried to fight, but the soldiers knocked the knife out of his hands. It thudded against the snow-covered cobbles. They held him tightly as he struggled and swore. Kurjak watched, grinning obscenely.

A strange, cold calmness descended on Faris’s soul, as if the snow were falling inside him as well. He straightened his back and raised his chin, then turned to Divjak. “Qadi, you will not allow these men to take Boro?”

Divjak shook his head. “I will not. Boro is a free man and will remain so.” He gave Kurjak a stony glare to show he meant it.

Faris momentarily dipped his head in gratitude. “Thank you, sir. And… my house, all my possessions, any debts owed to me… they belong to Boro now.”

“I understand,” said Divjak. He had a reputation for being overly rigid about the law, but everyone said his word could be trusted.

“May I fetch my cap and cloak?”

“You may.”

Kurjak sneered as Faris passed him, but Faris did his best to ignore the man. He pulled on his boots, which were still muddy from the day’s walk, and wrapped himself in his cloak. He couldn’t help a quick last look around his home, but at least he kept the tears from falling. When he stepped outside, he walked up to Boro, who was red-faced and sweaty in the soldier’s grip.

Boro stilled. His face was stricken, and that more than Faris’s own situation made Faris want to scream. But he remained calm. “Please,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t do anything rash. Don’t give them a reason to take you too. I couldn’t bear that, beloved.” He didn’t care who heard the endearment. He was already lost.

“Faris, dusho, no….” Boro’s blue eyes swam with moisture, but the tears didn’t fall.

“Please.”

Slumping in his captors’ arms, Boro gave a short nod.

They stood like that for a long moment, simply looking at each other. Faris ached to give his lover one last caress, one final kiss. Instead, he tried a weak smile. “Beloved,” he said again.

And with Divjak in front of him and Kurjak and his men behind, Faris marched away.

T
HE
CELL
hadn’t changed at all. It was four paces wide and four paces long, with walls of rough stone. The single window was a narrow vertical slit through which he could see the river and the hills. The door was made of iron, kept closed by a large sliding bolt on the outside. The only furnishings were a pile of dirty straw to sleep in and a reeking waste bucket in the corner. The cell was nearly as cold as the outdoors, so Faris was thankful for his cloak, boots, and hat.

The first time he’d been locked in this cell, many years before, he’d been nearly wild with fear. And he’d been unused to confined spaces—it had been years since he’d slept indoors—so he’d paced the little room restlessly, sometimes stopping to pound or scratch at the walls.

This time Faris wasn’t afraid, although his heart sat heavy and the rest of him felt dull and empty. He spent the night walking the floor of the cell, but it was only to keep warm and because he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t think, didn’t weep. He didn’t wonder what was to become of him—he already knew the answer to that.

In the morning the door opened with a squeal, and a soldier handed him a tin cup of water and a tin plate with dry bread and a few shriveled olives. Faris wasn’t hungry. After the door was locked again, he dumped the food in the waste bucket. He drank the water, however, since his lips and throat were parched. He had a sudden intense longing for his herbs. If he could magically transport some of his jars to the cell, he would make a tea that would cause him to fall into a deep sleep and never wake up. He’d made that tea twice before. Wouldn’t his own painless death be just as much of a mercy?

The morning dragged on and his herbs never magically appeared.

Sometimes he caught himself thinking about Boro. He didn’t want to; those thoughts were too painful. But there was also a dose of comfort in knowing Boro would remain free, that he’d have a home to call his own.

It was too bad Faris’s plants and notes would do Boro little good, but surely he’d find another way to put food on the table. He was smart and strong. Maybe Mirsada would help. Although she never said much, she seemed to have taken a liking to the man who wore her dead husband’s clothes.

When Faris finally crouched in one corner, he dozed lightly for a while. The first few moments after waking up, he almost thought the last ten years had been nothing but a dream—the last hope of a lonely, doomed boy. But no, here he was, a grown man in good boots and a warm cloak, and it had all been very real. His throat tightened and he almost cried out of gratitude for what he’d been given during those years: a father, a vocation, a home, a lover.

Faris knew that the priests spoke of heaven and the imams of paradise, and he also knew he would be denied entry to either. What did that leave him? Nothingness, perhaps. Peace in a silent grave.

It must have been past noon when the door opened again. This time two soldiers stood there, mustaches bristling.

“Come,” said the taller one.

With one soldier in front of him and the other behind, Faris walked the length of a narrow, bare hallway, up two flights of worn stone stairs, and through an arched doorway. The next corridor was wide, with walls painted white and several large wooden doors, the largest at the end. One of the soldiers rapped twice before they entered.

Faris had never recalled the details of the qadi’s office, mostly because during his first visit, he was too scared to notice much of anything. But now he saw there wasn’t much to see, apart from some large windows with fine views of the river and city, and some shelves of parchments and books.

Osman Divjak sat on a carpet-covered bench with a few tables of dark wood arranged nearby. A fire rumbled within a tall tiled stove. Several red rugs covered part of the wooden floor. Ratko Kurjak stood in the center of one of those rugs, wearing the ugly necklace and an uglier smile. The only other people in the room were the soldiers, who remained near the door, and a small man named Ramiz, who was the qadi’s secretary. Faris knew Ramiz slightly—he’d treated the man’s debilitating headaches from time to time—but Ramiz busied himself with a large scroll and didn’t look at Faris. No doubt he was too disgusted.

“Let us begin,” Divjak said. He looked tired. He mumbled a brief prayer, closed his eyes for a long moment, then looked at Kurjak. “I have seen the evidence. But I have some questions.”

“Of course, Qadi, of course. Whatever I can do to see justice done.”

Divjak asked for some specific information, and in return, Kurjak gave an elaborate and well-embroidered tale. He claimed that recently, one of his guards had seen a man skulking near the house and had recognized him as the herbalist. The guard had given chase, but the herbalist disappeared into the woods. Not too long after, Kurjak had gone to fetch the necklace out of the chest where it was always stored, and he’d discovered it was missing. He had his servants search the entire house and he’d questioned everyone, but there was no sign of the precious jewelry. “And then it occurred to me that the slave must have told the thief about it.”