"A friend of yours?" I asked. Though my voice was but the faintest gasp of a whisper, she spun round as if I had screamed aloud. She gave me a wide-eyed, horrified look and fled the room. I heard her pattering footsteps grow fainter as she ran away.
I turned my attention to the room. It was the same bare cell I had known before: only the low pallet of carpets for my bed, beside which had been added two large cushions on the floor and a wooden stand bearing the weight of a large brass platter containing fruit, and a pitcher and jars. The walls were rose-coloured, and the floor white marble. Save for the windhole, there was nothing else to be seen.
My injured shoulder was still wrapped, but my other arm was free, so with small, slow, aching movements I grasped and drew aside the thin cloth which covered me to get a better look at my battered limbs. The bruises were still there, of course, in their hundreds; they were deep-coloured, but they had lost the awful purple hue and were now the ghastly yellow-green tinge of old wounds. The swelling had gone, however, and the throbbing ache as well; what is more, some of the smaller cuts were almost healed over. By this I surmised that a fair amount of time had passed-days, at least; possibly many days.
Though I possessed no recollection of how long I had been unconscious, my mind was clear. Aside from the bruises, my body felt reasonably sound. Determined to prove this for myself, I took a deep breath and pushed myself up into a sitting position. The attempt was a disaster: instantly, black flecks swarmed in my eyes, and pain seared through my head. A sound like churning water filled my ears, and I collapsed on the bed.
A moment later, the sound of voices and rushing feet beyond the doorway alerted me to the arrival of visitors, so I quickly pulled the light coverlet over myself just as a white-turbaned man with skin the colour of polished mahogany and a nose like a hawk's beak appeared in the doorway; he was dressed in white and wore a circular medallion on a thick gold chain around his neck.
Kazimain hovered behind him, her dark eyes shining with excitement. Seeing that I was awake, the man raised his hands heavenward, threw back his head, and loosed a long, heartfelt paean. Then, composing himself once more, he proceeded to my bedside and bent over me. He placed a cool hand on my forehead, and gazed searchingly into my eyes. He reached down and took me by the hand and pressed his fingers to the underside of my wrist.
After a moment, he turned and spoke to Kazimain, who ducked her head and withdrew from the room. Then, taking hold of the cloth, the man pulled the covering aside and knelt down, pressing his fingers here and there, and glancing now and again when I winced at the pain his probing caused. Next, he took my head between his palms, moved it this way and that, touched my chin and opened my mouth to peer inside.
These obscure ministrations finished, he sat back on his heels and proclaimed, "Allah, All Wise and Merciful, be praised! You have come back to us. How are you feeling?"
This he said in a soft, lilting Greek and, though I understood him quite well, it was a moment before I could make an answer. "Who are you?" I did not mean to be so blunt, but I did not think my voice strong enough for more than the simplest utterances.
"I am Farouk al-Shami Kashan Ahmad ibn Abu," he replied and lowered his head in an elegant bow. "I am court physician to Amir Sadiq and his family. To you, I am simply Farouk." He raised his hands and professed himself well pleased with my recovery. "By Allah's will, you are summoned once more to life. Greetings and welcome, my friend; the peace of Allah be with you."
"How long?" I asked, swallowing hard.
"It has been my pleasure to serve as your physician these last seven days."
Seven days! I thought. A long time to lie at death's threshold.
I was still pondering the meaning of this revelation when another man, larger and darker than Farouk, entered the room carrying a brass bowl of steaming water and a roll of linen cloth, which he placed on the floor beside the physician. "A bath for you," he said, shaking out the linen cloth into a large square. "Have no fear, Malik will assist."
On the whole, it was more in the nature of a trial than a simple bath. Malik, who throughout the entire ordeal uttered never a word, levered me up into a sitting position, and proceeded to rub me with the wet cloth. I am certain he worked as gently as he could, but even the slightest touch hurt, and when he raised my arm, tears came to my eyes. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out, and even so did not succeed. Farouk watched the procedure with cool interest, speaking now and then an instruction to Malik, who obliged without reply. I slowly perceived that, along with his bathing, Malik was systematically moving and massaging all my joints and limbs and would not stop until every part of me had been examined in this fashion.
