by Martin Lake
She felt a presence in the room and turned. A woman was standing in the doorway, gazing thoughtfully upon her.
'I didn't hear you,' Agnes said in Arabic.
The woman shook her head. 'No matter.'
She was fifteen or more years older than Agnes. She was short and round, the sort of woman who seemed designed to take children into her arms and hug them. Yet, as Agnes looked at her she realised that the woman must have been strikingly beautiful in her youth. Most of that beauty had dwindled with the years but there was still a radiance about her which those who troubled to look would find. Her eyes were like those of a wounded deer, melancholy and sad yet still trusting and hopeful.
'You are called Agnes,' the woman said.
Agnes nodded.
'I am Johara.' She held out her hands towards Eleanor who ran to them as if drawn by magic. 'And what is this little one called?'
'I'm Eleanor,' she answered before her mother had time to speak.
Johara chuckled. 'A pretty name for a pretty girl.' Her fingers played with the child's hair for a moment.
'Habib told me that you have two boys as well.'
'Gerard is my child,' Agnes said. 'Claude-Yusuf is my brother's son. He is an orphan and we care for him.'
'There are too many orphans in this world, don't you think?'
Agnes nodded, warily.
Johara smiled and came towards Agnes. She stared at her face, as if she was looking for something familiar in it or, perhaps, seeking for a blemish. She smiled, like she was satisfied at last.
'You will please the Caliph,' she said. 'At least for a time.' She smiled once again but this time there was a wintry look to it.
'What about the boys?' Agnes asked. 'What's happening to them?'
Johara patted her on the arm. 'Do not fret yourself. Habib will look after them. He will keep them with him for a week or so and work out the best position for them within the palace.'
'Will I see them again?'
Johara shrugged. 'Possibly. But do not build up your hopes.'
Agnes closed her eyes and felt the tears squeeze through the lids.
'Do not worry. At worst they will become servants and what better service can there be than that of this Palace. And they may become more. Some of the most loyal of the Caliph's servants are infidels, like you.'
Agnes braced herself. 'I saw a eunuch here. Habib said that Claude-Yusuf was a clever boy and that he might suffer…'
Johara stopped her lips. 'If that is the will of Allah, so be it.' she said. 'But Habib was being provocative for some reason known only to himself. It is not the clever boys who are taken for eunuchs but the strong and handsome ones. If the lad is clever then he may do well and still keep his manhood.'
'What's a eunuch, Mama?' Eleanor asked.
'Just a name for a servant of the Caliph,' Johara answered quickly.
Eleanor reached out for Agnes' hand and stared up at Johara, uncertain of this woman who answered for her mother.
'You mention the Caliph,' said Agnes. 'Who is he? What is he?'
Johara sighed. 'I can see that you will need much schooling,' she said. 'Come, this is best done over food.'
She led the way down a long corridor. Doors were placed at intervals of twenty feet or so and all were shut.
Finally, they turned a corner and Johara opened a door, beckoning them to follow.
Agnes gasped. They were in a large room, perhaps twenty feet by twenty. It was as if they were walking in early morning mist.
Veils and swathes of silk and muslin hung from the ceiling, fluttering in the breeze from open windows. To one side of the room was a large bed, heaped up with cushions as plump as Johara, each decorated with bright colours and lavish designs. Lamps smouldered beside it, giving off not light but the heady scent of spices.
Beside the window were a small table and four chairs. The table was overflowing with food. There was a platter of fruit: apricots, figs, plums, dates and grapes. There were soft breads, some plain, some sprinkled with seeds and herbs. A dish in the centre was crammed with grilled meat, one next to it stacked with fish of every shape and size. On the far side of the table were platefuls and platefuls of cakes.
'Is that for us?' Eleanor asked, open-mouthed.
'It is, child,' Johara said.
Eleanor ran to the table and filled her plate to overflowing with a selection of food.
Agnes wished that she was a child and could fill her plate in the same way. Despite her hunger she did not want to look greedy so she selected carefully.
Johara had no such compunction. She filled one plate with meat, fish and bread and a second with fruit and cakes.
'You asked me about the Caliph?' Johara said. 'What do you know of him?'
Agnes shook her head. 'I don't know anything. The first I had even heard of him was when Habib told me that I had been bought for his harem.'
Johara picked up a piece of chicken and bit on it.
'Do you know about any of the great men of Islam?' she asked.
'Only Sultan Saladin.'
Johara smiled. 'That upstart.' She wiped her mouth with a silk handkerchief. 'Saladin is a Kurdish mercenary, a nobody who just happens to be a very good warrior. He has a brother, al-Adil, who is more of a concern to the wise men of Baghdad.' She plucked the bone from a small fish and swallowed the flesh whole.
'The Caliph is different all together.' She sighed. 'Caliph al-Nasir is the descendent of the Prophet's uncle. He is the head of the whole Islamic world. All emirs and sultans are subservient to him.'
Agnes said nothing but wondered why, if this was the case, she had never heard of him.
'What manner of man is he?' she asked.
Johara sighed. 'He is a wise man, a kind man. He is young, only thirty years of age, but he has the wisdom of an older man.'
She turned towards Agnes and gave a wistful smile. 'His wisdom can be understood when I tell you that twelve years ago, while still a very young man, he decided to give his heart to an older woman who would help him learn the mysteries of life and of love.' She fell silent.
Agnes glanced at her. She could not prevent a smile from growing upon her face, a smile of amusement and of sympathy.
'The older woman was you?' she asked.
Johara nodded. 'And he regards me still with special favour,' she said quietly. 'I have not, however, been his favourite for many years.'
'So who is his favourite now?'
'A Frankish woman, Beatrice. She was stolen from her parents by one of the Frankish barons and sold to the Caliph when she was only six years of age. She is twenty three now and she rules us all.'
Agnes watched as Johara stabbed a piece of meat and tore it into tiny shreds before scooping it into her mouth. Her thoughts looked as if they were focused on something or someone far away.
'And what is Beatrice like?' Agnes asked.
Johara blinked. 'I cannot say,' she answered. 'She is Caliph al-Nasir's favourite. Let that be sufficient for you.'
At that moment there sounded a short knock upon the door and it opened immediately.
A young woman entered and hurried over towards them. She looked startled to see Agnes and Eleanor and turned towards Johara with a questioning look.
Agnes took the opportunity to examine her. She was young, not yet twenty years old by the look of her fresh complexion and clear eyes. She moved like a young antelope, quick and supple yet with a timid way of holding herself. She was the most beautiful woman Agnes had ever seen. Her breath caught and she felt her heart quicken. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eleanor glance up at her as if perplexed.
'Who is this, Johara?' the young woman asked. Her voice was quiet yet it rippled like a young stream.
'This is Agnes. Habib bought her in Damascus. She is a Frank from Jerusalem.'
'A Frank?' There was a touch of alarm in her voice.
'Don't worry,' Johara said. 'I do not think you need fear this one.'
Silence fell. After a few moments Agnes r
ealised that she was still staring at the young woman. She found herself blushing.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I don't mean to seem rude.'
'You're not rude,' said Johara. She reached out and touched her hand. 'Everything is so new to you.'
The young woman sat upon the divan and smiled at Agnes.
'This is Lalina,' Johara said. 'She is almost as new here as you. She has been with us for only a few months.'
'I am from the lands near the Dark Sea,' Lalina said. 'I was caught by Turks in the summer and brought to Baghdad as a slave.'
'Fortunately for Lalina,' Johara said, 'Habib happened to be at the market when he saw her. He was not on an errand to buy slaves but he took the chance and bought her for the Caliph. It was a risk for him.'
'Luckily, the Caliph seemed to like me,' Lalina added.
Johara laughed. 'How could he not? You are like a goddess of the Greeks.'
Lalina blushed and bent her head. She could not, however, prevent a giggle of pleasure from bubbling to the surface.
Agnes saw that, as she gazed upon Lalina, Johara's look of fondness became clouded with a hint of concern. She reached out and brushed the young girl's hair very gently.
'But always remember child,' she murmured, 'that you are mortal.'
At that moment there came a loud rapping on the door.
'Enter,' Johara called.
An elderly eunuch came into the room and bowed. 'The Lady Beatrice desires to see the new concubine,' he said.
Lalina's hand went to her mouth and she looked towards Agnes with alarm.
'I'll go with you,' Johara said, quickly.
'And me,' said Lalina.
Johara stared at her for a moment, pondering whether this was a good idea or not. Then she nodded.
She turned towards the eunuch. 'Look after the child please, Basil,' she ordered.
She led Agnes and Lalina out of the room. The last thing that Agnes heard was Eleanor wailing for her.
They hurried down the corridors and finally reached a room with two guards standing outside. They were expected and one of the guards silently opened the door and gestured for them to enter.
This room was twice the size of Johara's and even more opulent. Where the dominant feature of the older woman's room was silks and fabrics, in this room it was gold and precious stones. Coming from a family of inn-keepers, Agnes knew the value of such things. She only had to glance around to see that in this one chamber there was more wealth than she had seen in a life-time.
A divan lay on the far side of the room, close to the cool airs wafting from off a large terrace. Lying on this divan was a woman with gold and silver glittering in her long dark hair.
Johara led Agnes and Lalina towards the divan and gave a little bow, which the others emulated.
The woman on the divan slowly turned her face towards them and stared at them in silence.
Agnes almost staggered back. Wave upon wave of rage seemed to beat down upon her. Is she a basilisk she wondered for one terrified moment?
Agnes forced herself to look at the woman. She was beautiful, that could not be denied. Her face looked almost perfect, with high cheek-bones, fine nose and well-shaped chin. Yet, despite this, there was something mask-like about her, as if she had decided to freeze her own face into one rigid posture for all time.
But it was her eyes which were terrifying. They were so green they looked like gems. It was a beautiful colour and it would have made her eyes look beautiful save for one thing. Her gaze was dead and pitiless.
She looked Agnes up and down and then her eyes turned to take in Johara and Lalina in one swift, dismissive glance.
'So,' she said. 'The new toy has already been sniffed out by the old carcass and the pretty doll.'
She sat up and held them in her gaze. Her mouth moved into a smile but it was as bleak as frost. 'Remember this always, ladies,' she said. 'You are nothing but toys and dolls. Or old bloated carcasses. But I am Beatrice.'
She looked away as if she was becoming bored by their continued presence.
When she spoke again it was in a voice little more than a whisper.
'I hold your lives, and your deaths, in my hands.'
Agnes stared at Beatrice. She had never felt such fear in her life.
The Caliph's favourite plucked up a fig and split it open. Her movements were delicate, the delicacy of a cat disembowelling a mouse. Not a sound disturbed the silence of her movements.
Agnes moved her eyes to look at the others. Lalina was snared just as much as Agnes. As Beatrice tore open the fig she watched with something akin to fascination.
Johara, on the other hand, stared at Beatrice with a cold, impassive face. Beneath the surface there was nothing but contempt and scorn but she buried it so well that no one could have accused her of it.
Beatrice finished opening the fig. She held it close to her eyes and examined it closely, turning it this way and that with her immaculate hands.
Then she flung it on the floor.
'The Caliph may take his pleasure with you, inn-keeper,' Beatrice murmured, her eyes fixed in the middle distance. 'Then again, he may not. But even if he does, he will tire of you. Perhaps immediately.'
She yawned and leaned back in the chair.
'And then he will summon me to his bed once again.'
Her mouth took on a smile as cold as midnight.
Agnes stared wide-eyed at her.
'And he will never,' Beatrice continued, 'never, take back in his bed a trollop as fat as a cow.'
Now she turned and looked towards them. 'I mean you, Johara,' she said.
'I know you do,' Johara answered. 'I know you do.'
Beatrice clapped her hands. 'Leave me,' she said. 'All of you. Your grossness troubles my sight, it upsets me.'
They rose, and taking their cue from Johara, bowed to Beatrice and made a swift exit.
They walked back to Johara's room in silence.
Johara slammed the door behind her and paced up and down in fury. 'I will have my revenge,' she said. 'I will have my revenge.'
'Don't say that,' whispered Lalina. 'Don't say that. She frightens me.'
Johara stopped pacing and held out her arms. The young girl flew into them and allowed herself to be held tight.
'There is no need for fear,' Johara said. 'Beatrice may be the favourite now. But a young ram never forgets his first ewe.'
There were tears in her eyes. She knew that the Caliph's fondness for her was the only thing keeping her safe. She also knew that as the years passed by this fondness, this shred of power and this safety were being slowly but surely eroded.
She blinked the tears from her eyes and gently moved Lalina from the hug. She forced a sunny smile upon her face. It fooled Lalina but it did not fool Agnes.
CHAPTER 31
SANCTUARY AT LAST
Antioch
The refugees approached the city of Antioch. They had been journeying for two weeks since being refused entry to Tripoli and most had given up hope of any succour.
There were far fewer refugees than the numbers who had fled Jerusalem. Two months of marching with dwindling food and growing despair had taken its toll on the weakest. It was now close to the end of November and as the nights grew cold Balian feared that many more might succumb.
He tried hard not to show his fears but those like Simon who were in daily contact with him saw and took note. It was only the old lord's determination which was keeping the people on the march and if that were to fail then all might be lost.
Simon pondered this as he gazed upon the refugees.
He could see the hope in their faces as they got their first glimpse of the city. Hope mingled with the fear that they would be turned away from here as they had been from Tyre and Tripoli.
Antioch lay on the river Orontes, in the centre of rich agricultural land. To the west was a huge, brooding mountain chain, to the south-east, at the edge of the city, the mountain of Silpius.
The city looked like a para
dise ringed by the outliers of hell.
Simon gazed at the ramparts of the city in awe.
They were immense. They circled the city for sixteen miles and even forced their way up the steep slopes of the mountain. Imposing towers reared above the walls with only a distance of eighty paces between each one. The citizens of Antioch claimed there was one tower for each day of the year.
The walls gave an impression of power and resolve. The citadel crowned the top of the mountain and was considered unconquerable. Upon its heights the huge flags whipped ceaselessly in the fierce winds.
Gregory, one of the grooms who made up Simon's guard, whistled aloud. 'We should be safe here, my lord,' he said.
Simon stared at him. The young man had begun to address him as lord three weeks before at Tyre when he had leapt to defend the refugees against Saladin's horsemen.
Simon had given up trying to reprimand him. In fact he liked being called lord. Continual usage of the term appeared to give it substance. A number of the younger refugees had also begun to refer to him as such, though most of their elders still looked upon him warily, as a parvenu.
'It's bigger than Tripoli or Tyre,' Gregory said, 'and stronger. We'll be much safer here.'
'If they allow us entry,' Simon said. 'It's said that the Prince of Antioch has no liking for the Patriarch.'
'Perhaps we should desert him then, lord.'
'Perhaps,' Simon murmured without thinking.
When the first of the refugees got close to the city the huge gates were slammed shut. Simon's heart fell. Where on earth will we find sanctuary, he wondered.
Three horsemen galloped up from the rear of the column, Eraclius, Balian and Jerome. They reined in when they reached Simon.
'Have they just shut the gates?' Eraclius demanded.
'They have, my lord,' Simon answered. 'Perhaps they fear our great numbers.'
'Maybe Bohemond has heard that you are with us, Patriarch,' Balian said quietly.
'That quarrel was long ago,' Eraclius snapped back. 'I told Bohemond that he had done wrong in the eyes of the church. That was my duty.'
'But you came between the love of a Prince and his wife,' Balian said.
'I came between a Prince and a witch,' Eraclius answered.