Kingdom

by Hight, Jack

  The sun had reached its zenith when the ruins of ancient Heliopolis – only a few miles north-east of Cairo – appeared on the horizon. The first thing John saw was a tall column that came to a point, like a needle reaching towards the sky. As they rode closer, he could make out the remains of the city’s wall of crude brick, now crumbling to dust. Beyond the wall, blocks of dark granite stood here and there, the obelisk towering over them. Its sides were decorated with strange symbols; John identified snakes, cranes and ploughs, and men in what looked to be skirts. An ornate tent of red silk stood beyond the obelisk. Surrounding the tent were ranks of Egyptian warriors holding long shields and lances.

  Amalric held up a fist to signal a halt. ‘Have the men take water and food,’ he told the constable Humphrey. ‘But be prepared for trouble.’ He waved John forward.

  ‘Yes, sire?’

  ‘You will come with me to interpret. Fulcher and De Caesarea, you come as well,’ he called to two of the nobles. Geoffrey Fulcher was an older man with greying hair and a pleasant face. He wore the dress of a Templar knight: a white surcoat with red cross and a white mantle about his shoulders. He had returned not long ago from a mission to the court of France. Hugh de Caesarea was a hot-blooded young man, but he was reputed to have a silver tongue.

  The four of them rode down an ancient street with occasional paving stones protruding from the dust. As they neared the tent the ranks of soldiers parted and a man strode out to meet them. He wore fabulous robes of red silk decorated with a swirling pattern of roses picked out in gold and silver. A jewelled sword hung from his waist. The man was tall and thin with a trimmed beard and very short black hair. He had an arresting face – sharp cheekbones and full lips that stretched back in a dazzling smile. ‘God keep you, King Amalric,’ the man called in Frankish. He then switched to Arabic, and John translated his next words. ‘I am Shawar, vizier to the Caliph. Welcome to Heliopolis, ‘Ayn Sams, as my people call it: “Well of the Sun”.’

  ‘God grant you joy,’ Amalric replied as he dismounted. He clasped Shawar’s arms and kissed him on the cheeks in the Saracen style.

  Shawar stood rigidly, as if he were being kissed by a leper. But he recovered his composure quickly, and when the king stepped away, Shawar was smiling. ‘I am so pleased that you have come! Step inside my tent, you and your men.’ The tent was a grand affair, large enough to hold a hundred men. Scribes were seated cross-legged on the floor, writing desks on their laps. Shawar went to a table that held several glasses of water. He handed them to Amalric and the others. John noticed that the glass was cold, beads of moisture forming on the outside. Cold water in the desert; he wondered how the vizier had managed that. ‘Drink!’ Shawar said. ‘You must be thirsty after your journey.’

  Amalric took a gulp, then set his glass down. ‘Where is Nur ad-Din’s army?’

  ‘They are camped at Giza, on the far side of the Nile.’

  ‘Have you sought to dislodge them?’

  ‘To leave the walls of Cairo to confront such a powerful foe seemed foolish.’ Shawar again flashed a toothy smile. It reminded John of a cat toying with its prey. ‘But now that you are here, we outnumber Nur ad-Din’s forces nearly two to one. Together, we will drive his army from Egypt!’

  ‘Together?’ Amalric asked when John had translated. ‘There is a matter of a treaty to sign first.’

  ‘It is all arranged. You will be well rewarded for your assistance. Four hundred thousand dinars, as was agreed.’

  ‘And when will we see this money?’

  ‘Half will be paid now and half once you have driven Shirkuh from Egypt.’

  John spoke for Amalric before the king could reply. ‘And the Caliph will agree to this?’

  Shawar blinked as if surprised. He examined John for a moment. ‘Of course. I speak for the Caliph.’

  Hugh spoke now. ‘That is not good enough. The Caliph must witness the treaty himself. He must swear to its provisions.’

  ‘Very well.’ Shawar replied tersely. It was clear that he did not like the idea. He went to one of the scribes and held up a sheet of paper, fresh with ink. He handed it to Amalric. ‘Here is the treaty. The Caliph will confirm it this very night.’

  ‘Then it is settled.’ Amalric extended his hands to embrace the vizier, but Shawar was already bowing and backing away.

  ‘Al-Khlata will show you to your camp. I have selected a suitable location beside the Nile, just north of the city. This evening I will send a man to guide your envoys to the palace. Now, I must hurry to the city to prepare the Caliph for their arrival. Ma’a as-salaama, King Amalric.’

  The vizier stepped from the tent and Al-Khlata, the messenger who had come to Jerusalem, stepped forward. He bowed to Amalric. ‘If you please, great King, I will show you and your men to your camp.’

  Al-Khlata led the army down a dirt track between black fields dotted by bright green sprigs of sprouting wheat. Ahead loomed the pyramids of Giza. Amalric slowed his mount to put ten paces between himself and Al-Khlata. He began to speak in a low voice to Gilbert d’Assailly, the Hospitallers’ grand master. John spurred forward, just close enough to hear. ‘Four hundred thousand dinars!’ the king was saying. ‘How many chests do you think it will take to carry such a sum?’

  ‘But what happens once we have driven off Nur ad-Din’s army?’ Gilbert said darkly. ‘Shawar will have no more use for us. What if he refuses to pay the rest of the gold?’

  ‘Then we will take it.’

  ‘And if we cannot? Cairo is not an easy nut to crack, and if we spend too much time here then Nur ad-Din will attack our lands in the Kingdom.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘We leave a garrison in Cairo. Shawar will see that they are housed and fed. They will take charge of the city’s gates.’

  ‘But he will never agree to such a thing.’

  ‘How can he not? If he refuses, we leave him to face Shirkuh alone. And besides, he can hardly haggle over the details of the treaty before the Caliph.’ Amalric said nothing. He was tugging at his long blond beard. ‘Just think, sire, with a garrison in Cairo we will win more than gold. We can force Shawar to do as we wish. He will be vizier, but you will be master of Egypt.’

  Amalric was nodding. ‘Make it so, Gilbert. Have the scribes draw up a new treaty.’

  ‘How many men do they have?’ John asked, pointing across the Nile to Shirkuh’s distant camp, where hundreds of campfires blazed in the evening twilight.

  ‘Something like six thousand, all mounted,’ Al-Qadi al-Fadil said. The Egyptian official was a small, hunchbacked man with thin, ink-stained fingers. He had been sent to guide Amalric’s envoys to the caliph. Amalric had again selected Geoffrey Fulcher and Hugh de Caesarea, and John as translator.

  ‘And they have made no move to attack the city?’ John asked.

  ‘To attack across the river would be suicide. We would cut them to pieces as they emerged from their boats.’

  ‘That means we cannot attack them either,’ John pointed out.

  ‘Not directly,’ Al-Fadil agreed.

  John gazed at the camp across the Nile. Yusuf would be there. John wondered what his friend would think if he saw John now. For the occasion of meeting the caliph, John had put on his full priestly regalia: the heavy, gold-embroidered chasuble over his white tunic, the long stole around his neck, the band of decorated silk tied to his left arm and the amice draped over his head. He carried copies of the treaty in a tube that hung from a leather cord around his neck. He was sure he looked impressive, but the outfit was damnably hot, even in the relative cool of the evening.

  Ahead, the torch-lit walls of Cairo stood out in the gathering darkness. The path they followed led to a gate, but Al-Fadil turned away. ‘Why do we not enter the city?’ Hugh asked, and John translated.

  ‘Your presence might upset the people,’ Al-Fadil explained. ‘We will enter directly into the palace.’

  Al-Fadil led them to a narrow strip of land that ran between a canal and the city’s wes
tern wall. Hugh whistled in appreciation as he gazed up at the battlements. ‘How tall do you think those walls are?’

  ‘Thirty feet, maybe,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘Of solid workmanship.’

  A gate framed by burning torches appeared in the darkness ahead. ‘Bab al-Kantara,’ Al-Fadil declared. The enchanted gate. The Egyptian led the way up a ramp and across a short drawbridge to a wooden double door some ten paces wide. It swung inward and they rode into a low-ceilinged room, the walls of which were lined with guards. As John dismounted he noticed that a few of them were making the sign of the evil eye – forming a circle with the thumb and forefinger of their right hand and shaking it at the Franks. Shawar entered at the far end of the room, and the soldiers stopped gesturing.

  ‘As-salaamu ’alaykum, friends,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘The Caliph is eager to see you, but first, I must ask that you leave your weapons here.’

  When John translated, Hugh frowned, but he removed his sword belt nonetheless and handed it to one of the guards. Geoffrey did the same.

  ‘They will be returned to you when you leave,’ Shawar reassured them. ‘My men will polish and sharpen them, so that they are better than new. Now come, the Caliph awaits.’

  The vizier led them through a second room and out into a colonnaded courtyard in which dozens of rose bushes bloomed, releasing their sweet scent into the evening air. As John entered the next courtyard, a caged panther hissed and roared at him. There were other animals that looked like something out of a dream: a horse covered in white and black stripes; a strange, deerlike creature with spindly legs and an impossibly long neck; and a huge lion with golden eyes.

  From the menagerie, they passed through a series of luxurious rooms before arriving in a larger chamber, divided in the middle by a curtain of golden silk. ‘You should kneel,’ Shawar told them.

  John dropped to one knee, but neither Geoffrey nor Hugh moved. ‘It will help our cause,’ John told them. ‘It would be impolitic to refuse.’

  Geoffrey reluctantly knelt, but Hugh remained standing. ‘I kneel before my king and before God,’ he grumbled, ‘not this infidel.’

  ‘It means nothing,’ John assured him. Hugh looked doubtful.

  ‘Please,’ Shawar said. ‘You must kneel if you are to see the Caliph.’

  ‘Then I will not see him.’

  John chose not to translate that. ‘My lord,’ he said to Hugh, ‘as a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I tell you that God knows the difference between a knee taken to honour and a knee taken under duress. Kneeling means nothing.’

  ‘You are sure, priest?’

  John nodded. Hugh hesitated for a moment longer and then knelt. Shawar placed his jewelled sword on the ground and prostrated himself so that his forehead touched the floor. After his third bow the curtain was raised. John’s first impression of the caliph was that he was a statue or carving. He was covered from head to toe in jewelled silks and where his face should have been was a mesh veil that created the impression that his features had been erased. He reminded John of one of the statues of the saints that adorned the great portal of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The illusion was spoiled when the caliph’s hand moved in a gesture for them to rise.

  Shawar addressed the caliph. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, God’s deputy, defender of the faithful, may I present the Frankish envoys.’ John translated quietly for Geoffrey and Hugh.

  ‘As-salaamu ’alaykum,’ the caliph said, his voice high at the beginning before breaking at the end. ‘Welcome to my court.’

  Geoffrey took a step forward. ‘Great Caliph, I am Geoffrey Fulcher, Preceptor of the Temple in Jerusalem. God bless you and grant you joy, health and fortune.’

  ‘And I am Hugh of Caesarea. God keep you, Caliph.’

  John translated for both.

  ‘We have brought the treaty, signed by King Amalric,’ Geoffrey said.

  John removed four copies of the treaty from the tube around his neck and unrolled the parchments. He stepped forward to hand them to the caliph.

  ‘Wait!’ Shawar ordered. He held out a hand, and John gave him the treaties. Shawar read quickly. His face remained expressionless, but his cheeks tinged red. ‘We did not agree to your quartering troops in Cairo,’ he hissed in a low voice that the caliph could not hear.

  ‘It is for your protection, Vizier,’ Geoffrey replied once John had translated.

  ‘We can protect ourselves.’

  Hugh smirked. ‘In that case, we shall take our army back to Jerusalem.’

  Shawar’s face reddened further. The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Is there a problem, Vizier?’

  ‘No, Imam,’ Shawar replied. ‘All is well. Al-Ifranj will help us to drive the Sunni invaders from our lands.’

  ‘That is good. Sign the treaty.’ When the boy caliph spoke again, his voice was harsh. ‘We must teach the infidels a lesson.’

  John knew of the rift between the Sunni and Shiites, but he was still surprised. The caliph seemed unconcerned that the Franks were Christians. He hated the Sunni Muslims much more.

  Shawar turned to Geoffrey. ‘The Caliph has given his consent to the treaty.’ Shawar went to the table and signed all four copies. He had regained his equanimity, and he smiled as he handed two of the treaties to Geoffrey. ‘There. It is done.’

  ‘That is not enough,’ Hugh said.

  The vizier’s smile faded. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A treaty is only a sheet of paper. The Caliph must give me his word, man to man.’

  ‘But—’ Shawar’s words ended in a gasp. Hugh was striding across the room, his hand extended to shake that of the caliph. The caliph shrank back against his throne. John heard the whisper of steel against leather as several of the mamluks standing along the back wall drew their blades. Shawar held up a hand to stop them. ‘My lord!’ he beseeched Hugh in Frankish. ‘You cannot touch the Caliph!’

  Hugh ignored him. He thrust his hand towards the caliph’s face. ‘Swear that you will abide by the terms of this treaty.’ He looked to John, who translated.

  ‘What more does this man want?’ the caliph asked, his voice breaking. ‘I have already given my consent.’

  ‘You are to clasp his hand.’

  The caliph turned towards Shawar. ‘Must I?’

  John had not translated these last statements. Hugh looked to him questioningly. ‘Why will he not give his word?’ he demanded. ‘I knew there was treachery afoot.’ John chose not to translate that, either.

  Shawar ignored Hugh’s outburst. ‘Yes, Imam. It is necessary.’ The caliph extended a trembling hand.

  ‘He must remove his glove,’ Hugh insisted. ‘The oath is not valid unless we clasp hands, flesh to flesh.’

  Shawar went pale. ‘But that is impossible!’ he cried in Frankish.

  ‘Then there will be no treaty!’ Hugh declared.

  Geoffrey nodded in agreement. ‘We must be certain the alliance will be honoured.’

  Shawar looked from one to the other, then to John. ‘Make them understand,’ he said in Arabic. ‘The Caliph cannot take this man’s hand. It is impossible.’

  ‘Even if it means the failure of the treaty?’ John asked.

  ‘Even then.’

  Hugh was standing with his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting forward belligerently. John doubted he could speak reason with the man. Instead, he looked to the caliph. He approached the throne and knelt, bowing low so that his forehead touched the floor. ‘Representative of God, defender of the faithful,’ he said in Arabic. ‘This man is not worthy to be in your presence. He is an ifranji, a savage, an animal. He is filthy and impure, but he longs for purity. He wishes to embrace the true faith.’

  The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Truly?’

  Hugh placed a rough hand on John’s shoulder. ‘What are you saying, priest?’

  John ignored him. He continued speaking to the caliph. ‘This man has done terrible things. He has defiled his body with the flesh of swine. He has drunk alco
hol. He has killed members of the faith. But he believes that if he touches your flesh with the flesh of his hand, it will purify him.’

  ‘But that is ridiculous!’ the caliph scoffed.

  ‘It is. But the Franks are like children, Imam. They believe in mysteries and magic. You have no doubt heard that the Franks believe that in their rituals bread and wine are transformed into the very flesh and blood of their god, Jesus. They also believe that the touch of Jesus could cure the sick and raise the dead. To Franks, the touch of a holy man is a miraculous thing. They are like children, and if they embrace the faith, they can only do so as children would do.’

  ‘Damn it!’ Hugh growled. ‘What are you saying, man? Will he shake my hand or will he not?’

  ‘I am explaining the terms of the treaty in greater detail,’ John replied tersely. He returned to the caliph. ‘Imam, he says that it would be the great honour of his life to touch your hand, that he would count himself forever blessed.’

  ‘And he truly wishes to embrace the one true faith?’ the caliph asked in an uncertain voice.

  ‘Yes.’ John had a flash of inspiration. ‘He wishes to fight against the Sunni army, against the false caliph in Baghdad, who has led so many astray. He wishes your blessing for the coming battle.’

  ‘Very well,’ the caliph consented. He removed his glove and extended his hand. John could hear the alarmed gasps and urgent whispers of the courtiers lining the walls.

  Hugh grabbed the caliph’s manicured hand in his own callused paw. ‘We are sworn to one another, to uphold the treaty signed here today,’ he said as he vigorously shook the caliph’s hand. ‘May God smite you if you break your word.’

  ‘May Allah give you strength in your battle against the infidel Sunni,’ the caliph replied in Arabic. Hugh released his hand, and the caliph wiped his own on his caftan before slipping on his glove.

  ‘Shukran,’ Shawar said to John. Then he took Hugh by the arm and led him away from the throne. ‘Are you satisfied now, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, Vizier. We are allies, and we shall drive Nur ad-Din’s armies from your lands.’