Pillars of Light

by Jane Johnson

  “For God and Islam!” Salah ad-Din cried, and raised his sword to signal that the centre should advance.

  For a long time it was hard to tell who had the advantage as the currents of battle flowed back and forth, but about an hour into the conflict the tide turned abruptly and the Muslim centre was overwhelmed. Quite suddenly there were enemy knights in clear view, and then they were coming at them, sensing an advantage, rapacious and unstoppable.

  “Retreat!” Salah ad-Din cried, but his words were lost in the din.

  Malek tried to shield his commander, but a grey warhorse came out of nowhere, blocking his way, rearing up in front of him to batter him with its massive hooves. Asfar skipped sideways, as nimble as a goat, and Malek stuck the big horse with his lance. He sensed rather than saw the huge beast falling, but he heard its scream and the cry of its rider. Before he could follow the sultan, another knight was before him and he had to parry a blow from the right, feeling the shock of it run up his sword-arm, jarring it to the bone, which set up a wild, trembling ache, almost causing him to drop his weapon.

  Asfar turned, as if she saw the next threat coming before he did, and more by instinct than judgment Malek ducked as a man came at him with an axe. My, but his horse was fast! Malek spun and buried his sword in the man’s unprotected back, shearing through cloth and mail, the blade snagging for a long moment in the warrior’s spine and then coming free.

  At last there was a gap. He stared through it, seeking out the sultan’s retreating banners, but all he could see was a chaos of battling knights.

  There! A flash of apricot silk. Up the slope, heading for the tents.

  Evading another challenger, he wheeled Asfar around and pressed through the fighting men, riding down a pair of Franj infantrymen, leaving one clutching the place where his arm had been; the other simply disappeared beneath his horse’s pounding hooves.

  “Those bastards from Dyar-Bakr!” a man growled in Arabic, and he recognized through a mask of blood one of the sergeants from the watch, the man who had helped him when he had fallen exhausted from Asfar’s back on his return from Akka. “They gave way at the first sniff of the enemy, ran bawling back to their wives!”

  The sergeant raised his sword, spurred his mount forward in an ungainly leap and neatly skewered a man who was coming at Malek. “Get back to guard the sultan!” he called to Malek. “The centre’s caved in—it’s slaughter. You need to get him away from here.”

  Now there was a big Flemish knight coming at him, the green cross on his white surcoat splattered with red and brown. Malek faced him, but the warhorse ran past him a little way up the hill, then turned and charged at him. He gritted his teeth and hacked upwards and his sword met the Fleming’s with a screech. Malek felt the fearsome power in his opponent’s arm and knew he was done for. He dodged to one side, trying to set the Fleming off balance, but the man was wise to the manoeuvre and grinned, showing a row of strong yellow teeth. He drove his charger into the side of Malek’s slighter mount, bulling her backwards till Asfar whinnied and reached out to bite, her feet skidding on grass now slippery with blood.

  Malek thought they were both going down and freed his feet of the stirrups, aiming to jump clear, but then suddenly the sergeant popped into view. So intent was he on his prey, and with no peripheral vision in his heavy helm, that the Flemish knight did not see the man coming, knew nothing about it until the sergeant stabbed him in the side. Blood ran from the Franj’s flank, and Malek saw a gap and took his chance, no time for thanks or pleasantries, pressing his knees sharply into the chestnut’s ribs till she shot forward as if propelled from a slingshot.

  Up the hillside they ploughed, heading for where he had seen the sultan’s banners, but now there was no sign of them except for scraps of orange silk trampled into the ground. Discarded drums and instruments lay crushed among dying horses, dead men. And then he was upon the commander’s war tent, that oasis of calm well above the battlefield, and there were Franj there, rooting through it, a pair of big Templar knights at the doorway and others he could glimpse moving about inside.

  Where was Salah ad-Din? Malek urged Asfar on past the pavilion, on up the hill until she was blowing. He should never have allowed himself to become separated from his master. Somehow he had let the battle impose its own will on him, rather than keeping his discipline and maintaining his place. He pushed on, dispatching a man who was examining a wooden chest he had looted. The man’s blood flew in an arc, and was lit for a single, almost beautiful, moment by the sun, before the headless corpse collapsed over its booty.

  Now he was passing Muslim soldiers, writhing and dying: one man with his arm attached only by the tendons; another with his guts spilling between his fingers. With a shock he realized the second man was Hicham, his fellow burning coal. He turned back, intent on doing something—what? Everyone knew a belly wound like that was slow death, but even so, he had to try. But by the time he got there a Christian soldier had stabbed him through the throat and was helping himself to Hicham’s helmet. Malek yelled at the enemy and ran him through. “Salah ad-Din!” he cried. But the shout was lost amid the moans of dying men, the Franj and the faithful, calling on their god or for their mothers.

  Malek found himself thinking about his own mother. Poor fragile Nima, who had succumbed to her illness even as he was making his way back to Qala’at al-Shakif all those weeks ago. Just a day after they had set up camp here outside Akka, a bird had flown to the Hill of Carobs, a piece of scarlet wool affixing a scrap of paper to its leg. When the pigeon was caught and the message unfurled it appeared to have been written in some sort of code, which caused consternation. Was someone trying to harm the sultan by sending an evil spell? Was the bird a djinn? When Malek heard about the curious message his heart stuttered. Seeking out the man who had the pigeon, he demanded to see the scrap. In it he read, in the code he had devised all those years ago, “Ummi died. Sorgan.” That was all it said.

  He told no one but the sultan, who said, “God ever takes first those he loves best, for he cannot bear to be without them.” Malek tried unsuccessfully to hide his tears, and Salah ad-Din looked aside until he had mastered himself. Then he asked, “Are there more birds trained like this one to fly here?” and Malek, who knew nothing of his brother’s avian massacre, said yes, many. At this, the sultan looked thoughtful.

  At the crest of the hill the fighting was at its worst, for the Christians, seeing the Muslim retreat towards their sultan’s banners, thought them in flight and saw the chance of a rout. Malek found himself swept into the fray and beset on all sides. How long he fought he did not know. Weariness became a second skin, dulling all sensation. The necessity of concentration and reaction subsumed all else. He did not even feel the blade that caught him in the shoulder, or the arrow that nicked his thigh, or the myriad smaller wounds he sustained as he swept his sword high and brought it down again and again, on horse or man, shield or blade, mail or jerkin, helm or spear. He became aware of other Muslims fighting beside him, of cries of “Allahu akhbar!” and “Y’allah islam!” and more than once he drew back his blade at the last moment, realizing the man before him was one of their own.

  Details leapt out at him, vivid and surreal—an eye knocked from its socket, hanging by a skein of fibres; the beautiful gold embroidery on the cuff of a dead man’s tunic; a notched blade; the plaited mane of a piebald horse; coins spilling bright from a dropped purse. He saw a warrior with yellow hair and eyes the colour of the sky, and another with a red beard plaited in peculiar patterns.

  When at last he emerged on the other side of the conflict he was covered in blood, and so was the valiant Asfar. At the top of the hill, forming a protective battalion in front of the apricot standards of the sultan, he found the mamluk soldiers, and what was left of his fellow burning coals. Their ranks opened for him and closed behind him. He had never been so relieved in all his life, for inside was Salah ad-Din, without visible sign of harm, sitting his bay, sword in hand, delivering orders as he had so
many hours ago when Malek had last seen him.

  More Muslims rallied to the standard as the day wore on and the sun began to dip. The Christians charged wildly and the sultan’s army drove them back. The slaughter was terrible, but after a time the tide of violence lessened and gave way to the taking of prisoners, of whom there were many, among them the Master of the Temple, Gerard de Ridefort. Malek was surprised to see this beast of a Templar offered mercy by Salah ad-Din, given the opportunity to accept Islam and be ransomed back to his people. But the warrior-monk refused to save his own skin and accepted his death like a man, bowing his head to the sword. Other Templars were less resolute in their faith and gabbled the shahada as fast as they could.

  Sick of the sight of blood, Malek went to tend to Asfar, washing her clean and dabbing on her wounds a salve he had bought for his own use from Yacub of Nablus. Her wounds were not life-threatening, though some projectile had skinned her right hock, laying it open to the bone. With a needle and silk thread that he carried always in his pack, Malek sewed the skin shut, and Asfar stood trembling all the while but never kicking. “You are the best horse in the world,” he told her, and laid his cheek against her flank and wept.

  Later, much later, he sat at the campfire of what remained of the sultan’s personal guard. They had, it seemed, lost almost half their number. “They are probably at other campfires,” one lad said hopefully. “I saw how Hicham and Yusuf went charging down the hill together. They may be with Taki ad-Din even now, eating goat stew and rice.”

  Malek remembered, painfully, his last sight of Hicham. “I do not think so,” he said.

  One of the mamluk officers approached out of the gloom, all that was visible of him the white of his teeth. His name was Ibrahim, a Nubian from the southern banks of the Nile. They passed some time in talking of where they had grown up, of their wives and children, or their sweethearts, or which battles they had seen.

  Malek sat silently, overwhelmed by the sights of the day, wishing he had a wife or sweetheart on whom he might lavish his love, whose image he might hold in his heart as a refuge from all the horror. Still the sound of clanging steel, screaming horses and shrieking men echoed in his head. Still the memory of blows dealt and blows avoided came at him over and over again. It would be worse when he lay down to sleep.

  At last, forcing himself to take part in the conversation, he asked Ibrahim, “Where is your captain, Aibek al-Akhresh, he of the head harder than any stone?” and they all laughed.

  The Nubian had become very still. By the light of the leaping flames his eyes looked bloodshot. Then tears brimmed and spilled and he let them fall without shame, for his people’s ways were different from those of the Arabs. “Aibek died a martyr’s death,” he told them, his voice as deep and as low as thunder. “His horse was killed under him, but he set his back against a rock and continued to fight until his quiver was empty. Then he defended himself with his sword and killed many of the enemy, until he was overwhelmed at last.”

  It was not the only tale of heroism and disaster Malek was to hear that night; at every campfire, similar stories were being told. No doubt the same sort of tales were being recounted down the hill among the campfires of the Christian army, and when he considered this he felt a terrible sadness fall over him. We are all just men, he thought, yet God asks so much from us.

  17

  “What is your name and where do you come from?”

  “Why are you here? Who sent you, Salah ad-Din or the Prince of Hama?”

  “How did you find the High Path? We do not welcome visitors here.”

  Kamal Najib shifted uneasily from one foot to the other while his friend Bashar gave the answers they had prepared. The journey to this remote fortress had been long and hazardous, the mountains appalling. He had never seen anything like this terrible region before. The tawny hills outside the city, where they had spooked his brother Malek’s horse and nearly been discovered, were the highest things he had ever climbed—higher even than the minaret of the Friday Mosque—but these mountains in northern Syria were of another order altogether. Most of the time their peaks were shrouded by cloud, but he still felt their presence towering high above him, and the sensation of such weight and mass looming there crushed his soul. To walk up and up into such a wilderness defied all logic, each pace a step into madness, a step nearer oblivion. A dozen times he had thought he would freeze to death, drown crossing a tumbling stream, be hit by rockfall; a hundred times he had near-wept at the sound of jackals crying in the night, hugging himself as their howls shivered through the chilly air. A thousand times he had wished he’d never left Akka at all, never followed Bashar on this terrifying expedition.

  But then he remembered what he had done, and how he could never go back.

  Now the scary guard was standing in front of him, prodding him forward. “Prostrate yourself to the Grand Headmaster of the Order and speak your name!”

  Trembling, Kamal threw himself to the ground; touching his forehead to the cold stone floor, he pushed his name out through chattering teeth and waited for judgment to come upon him.

  But no sword kissed his neck, and the sky did not fall. Instead, the old man who sat on his throne like some ancient, bearded prophet bade him rise.

  “Come here, boy. Look me in the eye and tell me why you have come to Masyaf.”

  And Kamal, recalling with difficulty the words Bashar had drilled into him all this long, long way said, “Sidi ad-Din Sinan, I have come to offer myself as one of the fida’i, to be among the foundation of the faithful, to serve you and the Order in whatever fashion I may be of use, even to the death.”

  The old man smiled, but the fire that burned in his dark eyes had a cold, cold flame. “To the death, you say? Are you sure you know what you offer?”

  Bashar had not prepared him for this. Kamal swallowed but no saliva went down, his throat was so dry. Unable to get the words out, he nodded dumbly.

  Grand Headmaster Sinan—known to the outside world as the Old Man of the Mountains—leaned forward, fixing Kamal with his glittering black eyes. “I don’t believe you do.”

  He made a tiny gesture with his right hand and a man stepped forward. He was clothed in a plain white robe and headcloth to denote his rank among the faithful, but his feet were bare, the soles offering a glimpse of tender pink in contrast to the polished wood-brown of the sunburned upper. He moved like a young man, but as he came close Kamal stared up into his face and was surprised to find grizzled streaks in his beard, even though his face was smooth and unlined, his expression one of perfect serenity.

  “Walk into the flames,” Sinan commanded, indicating the fire that burned in the central hearth. He spoke so nonchalantly it was as if he were suggesting the man merely fetch him a drink of water.

  Without a beat of hesitation, the adherent turned and walked purposefully towards the fire. Kamal watched as the man’s leading foot planted itself firmly amongst the glowing embers.

  Beside him, Bashar let out a yelp, as high and feeble as the sound the feral dog had made when Kamal put out its eye.

  Coals grated and spat, but the man stood where he was, still and silent. The fire took hold around his ankles, making the air shimmer above its new fuel, but still the man’s expression remained serene, unchanged. The air was filled with an acrid stench, then with the smell of roasting meat. Something in Kamal’s mind found this second aroma hard to make sense of; for a second his stomach remembered that it was empty. It rumbled, and saliva flooded his dry mouth, and then he was reminded of what had caused the smell, and Kamal felt something in him give way. There was a sudden warm, liquid sensation at his groin, and looking down at the dark stain spreading across his breeches, he realised he had wet himself. Shame gripped him: the blood rose in his face, and he was thinking he might further disgrace himself by vomiting, when there was a loud thud and he saw the adherent lying face down on the floor. The fire had burned his feet away from under him, leaving nothing to balance on but the bones.

 
Grand Headmaster Sinan clicked his fingers and a group of white-garbed men stepped forward and dragged the body away. The Old Man transferred his impassive gaze to Bashar, who looked sick and sallow, then to Kamal. In those cold black eyes Kamal knew he had taken note of the tangible marks of his fear.

  “That’s what I expect of my hashshashin: that they act upon my orders without question or delay, knowing that their fate is written, and that they are as nothing before the will of God and will receive their reward for their obedience in Heaven. So must you be, if you are to be accepted as one of the faithful. So I ask you again, do you know what it is you offer? Are you ready to be one of my fida’i?”

  They will kill me where I stand if I say no, Kamal thought. And yet I must die horribly at some day in the future if I agree. The realization was piercing, awful.

  He was without hope, without home, without a future, and his only clothes were soaked in his own piss. Everything was already lost. He croaked out a single sound.

  Na’am.

  I am ready.

  18

  “You’re so lucky, Zohra.” Jamilla rested her withered arm on the edge of the olivewood mixing bowl and regarded her cousin with glowing eyes.

  Zohra did not look up. Lucky. Yes, that’s me. My mother’s dead, my father’s mad, my little brother’s a murderer, my house is a shambles, my heart is wrecked and it’s all my own fault. So very, very lucky …

  She had made the foolish error of mentioning Nathanael to her cousin in a moment of weakness a few weeks earlier, before Ummi’s death. Not by name, of course. Nor had she referred to him as Jewish, or called him “the doctor’s son.” All she had said was that there was someone, a man, who had shown her some kindness and brought little treats from time to time. As soon as she had uttered these hints about him, she had regretted it deeply, even though she knew Jamilla would keep her secret. But her heart had been bursting with the need to talk to someone about the extraordinary emotion that gripped her. She had stolen from Nat’s room a small volume by the poet Ibn Hazm and learned one of the poems by heart, whispering it into the dark air before she slept: