by Tom Holland
Then, without delay, the march was begun upon the walls. Very briefly, entering within their massive shadow, Haroun paused and gazed up in silent wonder, stupefied by the radiance of the city’s glittering towers, its temples encrusted with gold and fiery jewels, its arches, and pyramids, and alabaster domes. But it was not only awe which had served to freeze Haroun, for along the length of the battlements could be seen the bodies of men impaled upon hideous instruments of torture - yet though the tortures seemed deadly, the men were still alive. And Haroun, gazing upon them, felt a desperate surge of anger at the thought of how long they might have suffered in that way, bound upon the torments of endless centuries; and so he stood frozen no more, but drew his gleaming sword and, galloping forward, he raised the cry of battle.
Like a raging lion he fought, he and his men, to breach the gleaming walls of Lilatt-ah, for the conflict was bloody and the enemy strong, and the result stood doubtful all that fierce morning. Yet as the sun climbed ever higher and blazed brighter in the sky, so the strength of the enemy began to ebb and Haroun knew himself borne upon the tide of victory. By midday the streets had been drowned beneath blood, and the dust of the slain lay thick in the air; but still Haroun pressed into the heart of the city. A temple stood there of stupendous size, with gateways of gold and towers of black marble, carved with the portraits of loathsome-headed demons; and it was to the courtyards of this temple that the injured had sought to crawl. Haroun paused in almost pity, gazing upon their wounded, mutilated forms; but then he turned to look up at the midday sun, and he thought how soon it would start to sink into the west. ‘Kill them all!’ he cried -- for he feared that with the darkness their strength might be restored. ‘Not one must be spared! Not one must survive!’
Yet already he felt sick with the sight and stench of slaughter. Up and down his sword arm stabbed, up and down, as he passed from courtyard to hallway and to yet further hall, deeper and deeper into the darkness of the temple until at last, it appeared, there were no hearts left to stab, and no one left in all that monstrous place alive. But still Haroun could not be certain, for although the hallways before him seemed empty now, he had not yet reached the very heart of the temple; and the further he pressed, so the darker it grew, as the roof grew ever lower and each hallway still more small. The air was heavy now with incense, but also with a foetid, strangely sweet smell, and Haroun could feel it lying thick upon his lungs. He stopped suddenly. Gazing ahead, he could make out wisps of brown smoke curling through the gap left by two bolted doors, and beyond them what seemed to be a flickering orange glow.
Haroun crept forward, then all at once hurled his weight against the doors, which splintered and gave. Gingerly, he made his way through the wreckage and into the room beyond. Along either side of it, stacked up to its ceiling, there lay long rows of bodies. They appeared dry and withered, but since they had been bound very tightly with thin swathes of cloth, it was impossible to make out anything of what lay beneath their wrappings. Haroun approached the nearest corpse. Of its face, only the profile of a nose could be distinguished through the cloth, and indeed it appeared barely a human thing at all. Haroun reached out to touch it, yet when he did so he discovered that the head rolled from the neck on to the floor, for the entire body had been dismembered into many parts. At the same moment, from the smoke-wreathed, furthermost end of the hall, he heard a soft hiss of laughter and then a voice as withered, so it seemed, as the dried head by his feet. ‘Do you presume to touch the mystery of the gods?’
Haroun turned. With one arm, he sought to disperse the brown smoke, and with the other he lifted his glittering sword. Slowly he advanced down the length of the hall. He could make out the silhouette of a man now -- shaven-headed, so it seemed, and dressed in the flowing robes of a priest -- standing behind a brazier which was filled with soft flames. A shallow pan had been laid across it, and it was from this that the brown smoke was billowing upwards. As Haroun approached the brazier, he saw a thick black liquid bubbling within the pan.
‘There are no mysteries,’ said Haroun, ‘which the sight of Allah cannot pierce.’
The priest laughed again, an awful, crackling, desiccated sound. ‘Yet I am older than your god by many thousands of years.’
Haroun stretched his arm across the brazier. ‘A vaunting claim indeed.’ He placed the tip of his sword upon his adversary’s chest. ‘Let us hope, then, that it has served to prepare you for your death.’
Haroun felt the priest tense. He jabbed in the point of his sword a fraction deeper, and as he did so he swept at the veil of smoke again, so that he could see what lay beyond it clearly for the first time. A stare as bright and cold as moonlight met his own, and a face drained utterly of all emotion. Once, Haroun thought, it might have been handsome -- once long ago, before the mutilations, for the priest had no ears and his nose had been slit.
‘Death,’ the priest whispered. He smiled suddenly, and Haroun observed that on his brow there were now beads of sweat. ‘I had almost forgotten it, and what it might be.’ Then he closed his eyes. He cried out suddenly, some strange foreign prayer, as he let his body drop forward and drove the sword deep into his heart. ‘Tyi,’ he whispered; then he screamed the same word, ‘Tyi!’ Still he stumbled forward. He crashed into the brazier, so that coals were scattered in an arc across the hall and the pan with its contents was knocked into the air.
Haroun flinched and stepped back as splashes of the liquid fell across his cloak. They seemed without effect, but he had no time to inspect them, for fire was starting to spread through the hall and by his feet the corpse was already a pool of dust and spreading blood. Higher and higher now the flames began to reach, but still Haroun lingered, for he had seen how the blood was flowing fast away into the flickering shadows of the far end of the hall. He recalled the advice of the people of Iram, which had enabled him never to grow lost in the desert, and to discover the fateful city of Lilatt-ah, and so he stepped beyond the brazier to seek the idol out.
He discovered it set against the furthermost wall, but as he approached it he felt his courage start to fail. He could not explain this effect, for the idol was nothing, in the darkness, but a silhouette. Impatient with himself, Haroun muttered a prayer beneath his breath, then turned and reached for a brand of burning wood. He turned back to the idol, and raised the flames up to its face. His first thought, on gazing upon it, was that he had never before seen a woman of such beauteous perfection, for the statue had been sculpted with unearthly skill, so that the marble appeared softer than the softest skin and he was almost tempted, gazing upon her lips, to crush them with his own. But then he blinked and shook his head, and when he gazed at them again he saw -- as he had not done before -- how the curl of their smile was mocking and cruel, as though hinting at secrets too monstrous to pronounce and depravities too terrible for mortal contemplation. Even her head-dress of gold appeared deadly, for it bore the image of a spitting cobra and Haroun, gazing upon it, suddenly imagined himself trapped, as though he were nothing but a morsel of prey. He began to feel himself melting with the strangest thoughts, desires which he would never have known that he possessed. Nearer and nearer to her bright mouth he drew, more and more he felt himself lost. . . and then he closed his eyes and brushed her lips with a kiss. At once, though, he shrank back in horror and wiped at his mouth, for the statue had been cold and damp to the touch, so that to kiss it had seemed like kissing a serpent indeed; and Haroun struck it with his sword, and sent it toppling to the ground.
Still it smiled up at him, but all Haroun’s desire had now been transformed into disgust. He could see how the flagstones on to which it had fallen were a glistening crimson, and when he glanced round it was to find that the hallway was damp with a flowing tide of blood, lit every shade of orange and red by the flames. Haroun turned back to the idol. For a moment his arm was frozen by its gaze, but then he shuddered and brought his bright sword swinging down. The neck was shattered by the impact, and the head rolled across the floor. Haroun fol
lowed it and again he brought his arm down, this time hacking at the smile. Only when it had been obliterated did he turn and hurry from the hall, wading through blood, passing between twin walls of roof-beating fire.
Returned to the streets, he issued his commands. ‘Burn the city and all its dead. See that its foundations are sown with salt. Let nothing be left to show where it stood.’ Then he turned and rode out through the gates of Lilatt-ah. For a long while he stood upon a nearby hill, gazing at the inferno of the City of the Damned, as its towers were consumed by red lashes of flame, its walls and pyramids and alabaster domes, until at last all was blackened, and silent, and still.
‘It is done,’ Haroun whispered. He bowed his head in prayer. ‘But never more, I here swear it, shall I spill such blood again.’ And pulling out his sword, he snapped the blade in two.
In the throne room of the palace of the Caliph al-Hakim, Haroun al-Vakhel bowed low before the throne. ‘In obedience to your wishes, O Commander of the Faithful, I have destroyed the city of Lilatt-ah, so that not a brick of that monstrous place survives. Its treasures, loaded upon a caravan of many camels, have been brought to you here, that you may employ them to succour the sick and the poor.’
‘The sick and the poor?’ The Caliph raised an eyebrow. ‘I had not thought, O General, you were grown so compassionate.’
‘I serve you best, O Caliph, by serving your people.’
‘You serve me best, O General, by fighting my wars.’
Haroun bowed his head, but then from under his cloak drew out the pieces of his sword.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ the Caliph demanded.
‘I am sworn, O Commander of the Faithful, by a terrible oath, never again to shed mortal blood.’
Once again the Caliph raised a single eyebrow. ‘Then we must consider,’ he murmured in a silken tone, ‘some new and fitting position for you.’
‘It is my ambition now, O Prince, to study the ancient sciences, that I may grow wise in the magic of the Angels and bring life, Allah willing, where before I brought death.’
For a long while the Caliph did not reply, but rose instead to his feet and crossed to a window, where he gazed out at the gateways which led to his palace. Upon three of them corpses could be seen, almost skeletons now, exposed to the hunger of the vultures and crows. Upon the fourth gate there stood a stake which was still without a corpse. The Caliph shuddered violently through all his frame. ‘I cannot think clearly on this matter,’ he exclaimed in sudden anger, ‘not now, not now!’ and then he stamped his foot and stormed out from the room.
Haroun was left alone. All that day, he was in hourly expectation of being seized and taken to his death. At last, late in the afternoon, he was approached by two guards. For a moment he felt that all was over, and he committed himself to Allah’s grace, but the guards bore only a command from the Caliph that he was to wait by the gateway to the palace gardens. Haroun did as he had been ordered. Afternoon deepened into purple dusk, and then dusk into beauteous and star-encrusted night. At last, when the moon stood full in the sky, he heard the gates behind him open, and he turned. It was the Caliph, heavily cloaked. He had with him only a single companion, Masoud, the blackamoor.
‘Come,’ said the Caliph, taking Haroun’s arm. ‘For there is nothing finer, nor more instructive, than to walk through the night and trace the ways of man.’ So saying, he began to lead the way out past the palace wall, and then down into the maze of the city’s narrow streets. Soon all was stench, and clamour, and filth, and yet the Caliph’s eyes shone -- to Haroun’s mind at least -- much brighter than they had ever done amidst the splendours of his palace. ‘So,’ he hissed suddenly, pinching Haroun’s arm, ‘you would no longer kill?’ He gestured towards a row of butcher’s shops. Although it was night, there was still a cloud of flies shimmering above the shopfronts, the visible particles of an even thicker cloud of odours, formed from the sweetness of rotten meat and spices. The Caliph laughed with delight, and clapped his hands. ‘All must kill!’ he exclaimed. ‘For have you not understood, O General, how the lesser must ever be the prey of the greater? Why, it is the eternal law of this world! And so it is that I order you’ -- he pointed to a butcher - ‘to kill that man now!’
Haroun frowned. ‘What harm, O Caliph, has he ever done you?’
‘Ask rather, what harm he has done to the innocent cows, the wide-eyed calves who now lie dismembered across the flagstones of his shop.’ The Caliph paused, and his eyes began to roll. ‘Kill him!’ he shrieked suddenly. ‘Kill him, kill him now!’
But Haroun shook his head. ‘O Prince, I cannot.’
A shudder passed all the way through the Caliph’s body. He turned to Masoud; he clapped his hands, and the blackamoor at once bared his teeth in a grin. He crossed to the butcher who, turning round and seeing such a giant, let out a cry of terror and sought to back into his shop. But Masoud seized him easily and, having gripped him by his hair, forced his face into a slab of stinking meat. The Caliph, as he had done before, clapped his hands with delight, then crossed to the shop and picked up a cleaver. He brought it down hard upon the butcher’s head, and did not cease to wield it until the dead man’s corpse had been riven in two and hung amidst the other carcasses from hooks. Only then did he turn to the watching Haroun. ‘You see,’ he shrugged, ‘what an easy matter death can be. Had you done as I ordered, I would have granted you half of the treasure which you brought from Lilatt-ah. As it is, however, you shall have not a dinar.’
They continued to walk together through the streets. After a short distance, they passed by a further row of shops. A large crowd had gathered around one of them, and it soon appeared that a baker had been discovered employing false weights. Again, the Caliph pinched Haroun’s arm. ‘Redeem yourself he ordered. ‘For here is a thief, caught in the very act of his villainy. Kill him!’ he shrieked suddenly, ‘kill him, kill him now!’
But again Haroun shook his head. ‘O Prince, I cannot.’
The Caliph stretched and shook himself like a hungry cat. He turned to Masoud, who once again began to grin. He crossed to the baker and seized him by the hair, then forced his face into the mud by the Caliph’s feet. The Caliph stepped upon the wretched man’s head, stamping upon it very hard, then nodded to Masoud. The blackamoor at once raised the hem of the baker’s robe and then, having loosed the cord which bound his trousers, began to inflict upon the baker that sin which should never be named. The wretched man shrieked uncontrollably until Masoud, with the vigour of his assault, succeeded in rending the baker in twain. He then dropped the body into the mud, and stuffed its mouth with a loaf of bread.
The Caliph turned to Haroun. ‘Again,’ he shrugged, ‘you see what an easy matter death can be. Had you done as I ordered, I would have spared you your home, your slaves and all your worldly goods. As it is, however, you shall have not a dinar.’
They continued to walk until at last they neared the city’s most northerly wall. Here, by the Bab al-Futuh, there came the sudden sound of women laughing and shouting. The Caliph froze at once, and his face grew black with indignation and rage. ‘What is this?’ he cried. He turned towards the source of the noise, and saw a bath-house tiled with many-coloured marble and fretted with delightful patterns of gold. ‘How can it be,’ the Caliph shrieked, ‘that women should dare to stain a place of such beauty with their filth? Have I not ordered them never to leave their homes? Have I not, to make good this command, forbidden the manufacture of shoes for them to wear? How could I have served to make my desires more clear?’ He turned to Haroun. ‘I am the Caliph, the Beloved of Allah! I shall be obeyed!’ He pointed to the bath-house. ‘Kill them!’ he screamed. ‘Kill them, kill them all now!’
But again Haroun shook his head. ‘O Prince, I cannot.’
The Caliph chewed upon his lip, and his face grew pale. ‘Beware, O General, for you have nothing left now to forfeit, nothing in all the world save only one thing.’
But Haroun bowed his head and did not reply, and so th
e Caliph turned to the blackamoor. ‘Do it!’ he shrieked. Masoud went to a brazier by the Bab al-Futuh and seized a brand from it. He crossed to the bath. First he locked the doors, then circled the building, setting fire to all he could. The laughter of the women soon began to change to screams and Haroun, who had been standing in motionless disbelief watching the actions of Masoud, could endure to watch no more. He ran to the doors. Unlocking their bolts and venturing into the bath-house, he was able to save some few of the women who had been trapped inside, but many more were already in their death throes, boiled alive within the hissing waters of the baths. Desperately, Haroun sought to reach them through the flames, but even as he did so, he was seized by Masoud and dragged back to the Caliph.
‘In Allah’s name,’ Haroun cried, ‘O Prince, what are you doing?’
The Caliph drew himself up tall but made no reply.
Haroun gestured back wildly at the blazing bath-house. ‘Are you not the Commander of the Faithful?’ he cried. ‘Is it not your duty to protect those weaker than you? Are we not, all of us, the children of Allah?’
A flicker seemed to pass through the Caliph’s every limb. He motioned Haroun to be silent, but still Haroun spoke.
‘The women you have boiled alive, O Prince, were mortals just like you. They could have been your own flesh and blood.’ He shook his head in disbelief, then exclaimed at the top of his voice, ‘Why, they were like your sister, the Princess Sitt al-Mulq!’
The Caliph’s face twitched violently, and again he was racked by a strange convulsion. He bit very hard on his lower lip, so that blood began to flow, and then he moaned and hit his head with his hands. He gazed up at the blackamoor. ‘Well,’ he screamed suddenly, ‘what are you waiting for, you accursed lump of offal, you dog bred from whores?
Extinguish the flames!’ Then, still shuddering, he reached for his purse. Opening it up, he began to hurl coins at the survivors of the fire, where they stood shivering beneath the archway of the Bab al-Futuh, desperately clutching scraps of clothing to themselves. The Caliph gazed at them, his eyes very wide, and then he turned back to Haroun. ‘Who would have thought,’ he murmured, ‘that flesh could look so sweet?’