by Tom Harper
His words seemed at odds with the sight that greeted us as we ducked through the doorway. Inside was a dim, square-sided chamber that seemed to rise the full height of the tower and, more curiously, to drop away almost an equal distance below. Broad windows had been cut into the tower’s walls, and though they seemed to admit less sun than they should it was enough for me to see that the entire tower was one tall shaft, with a staircase winding around its edges until it disappeared into a pool of blackbrown water at the bottom. From its centre, an eight-sided column rose to a stone beam above our heads.
‘Is this a well?’ I asked. Now that we were all inside and the noise of our entry had subsided, I could hear the water lapping against the stones — and a steady gurgling, as if somewhere it was pouring through a spout.
‘This is where we measure the rising and falling of the Nile.’ Bilal pointed to the central column. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the light, I could see it was scored with hundreds of parallel lines, each a finger’s breadth apart from the next. ‘By this, we know how strong the harvest will be even before it is sown. Look.’
I peered down. The measuring marks reached right to the top of the column, though if the river ever reached that high then there would be no hope of reading it, for the entire island would be inundated. That had evidently never happened, for the upper reaches of the column were clean and smooth, gleaming with a sheen of moisture from the damp air. Further down, the high-water marks of the past stained the marble a dirty grey, progressively darker as it descended. Finally, a still-living scum coated the pillar a few feet above the water where the river had only recently subsided. Even at its height, it seemed a great deal lower than the floods of previous years.
Achard coughed, perhaps overcome by the dank and spore-filled air. ‘Is this what you brought us to see?’ He glanced uneasily at the plaques mounted on the wall, filled with inscriptions in the Arabic script, as if they might be written with spells to damn his soul. ‘I have seen villages with more impressive wells.’
‘Perhaps you would like to wait outside. The air is cleaner there.’ Bilal turned to me. ‘But there are some carvings you have not seen. You will like them.’
‘I do not need to see the works of demons and heretics,’ declared Achard. With another fit of coughing, he led his Franks back out through the door. Aelfric looked after them, then back at me; I nodded to him, and he followed them out, leaving me alone with Bilal.
I sighed. ‘I had forgotten how rude the Franks can be.’
Bilal laughed. ‘And these are their diplomats. Come.’
He led me down, skirting the sides of the central well until the stairs vanished into the dark water. He sat down by the water’s edge, a few steps up, and beckoned me to do likewise.
‘I cannot see any carvings,’ I observed.
‘I needed to speak with you.’ Bilal glanced up to make sure that we were not overheard; I could see the priest’s shadow hovering by the doorway, but that did not seem to trouble him.
‘You are not safe. None of you.’
‘What?’ I craned my head around and looked into his face. I saw no trace of deceit.
‘The vizier’s capture of Jerusalem has changed many things. There are voices at the palace who say that we are strong enough now to challenge all our enemies. They are stirring up old grievances to breed hatred — it is not difficult.’
‘Does al-Afdal support this?’
Bilal shook his head. ‘He knows our strength too well. It is those furthest from the armies who are keenest to use them.’
‘But I thought. .’ I paused, unsure how frankly I could speak.
‘You thought al-Afdal controlled the palace? He does. But there are many factions, and al-Afdal cannot always master them all.’ Bilal looked across the water and gave the column an appraising look, as if counting off the exposed notches. ‘And there are other pressures on our kingdom, too.’
A wave of bitter helplessness swept over me. ‘Why have you told me this? Is there anything I can do?’
Bilal glanced up again at the shadow by the door. ‘You can be careful. And take this.’
He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a short knife in a leather sheath. He handed it to me. It was a plain weapon, with no carving or ornament on its bone handle, but the blade looked sharp enough when I slid it out.
‘Is this yours?’
‘I bought it in the bazaar. No one will know where it came from, unless you tell them.’
‘I will not tell them.’
‘It will not be much use if the caliph’s guards come for you, but. . it may be helpful. I hope you do not need it.’
I tucked the knife into my boot, wondering if the bulge was too obvious. ‘Thank you. You did not have to.’
A movement above our heads caught my eye, and I looked up. Nothing stirred, but it seemed that the shadow by the door had moved. Bilal noticed it too.
‘We should go.’
As we climbed the stairs, I looked around the great stone well once more. Even in the time we had been there, the river level seemed to have dropped further down the column.
‘How old is this measure?’
Bilal shrugged. ‘Who knows? But it was here before the Fatimids came. Perhaps the same men who built the pyramids erected it.’
We came out into the courtyard. In the short time we had been inside, the sun had sunk lower and dusk was hastening on. I could see our companions loitering impatiently by the gate.
‘Thank you for showing it to me,’ I said.
‘The vizier thought you would find it interesting. It is a shame your master Nikephoros did not see it. You should tell him about it.’
‘I will give him a full account.’
We rejoined the others and walked down towards the boat, while a too-hot October sun stained the clouds with a mess of bloody colour.
14
I told Nikephoros everything as soon we returned. His impatience soon turned to interest, particularly the account of the Nile measure, though he rolled his eyes when I repeated Bilal’s warnings of danger.
‘That is just part of their tactics. Like the men in Constantinople who convince you your house is on fire so they can rob it when you flee.’
‘He seemed serious enough.’
‘Of course he did — there would be little point in the lie if he did not.’ Nikephoros took a piece from the tray of sweetmeats before him. ‘I am surprised the ape had the wit for it.’
He flashed a sly glance as he said it, quick as a razor, but I did not rise to the provocation. Not that I let him see, anyway.
‘But why show us that their harvest is failing?’ I said. ‘Surely that weakens their position?’
Nikephoros gave me a withering look. ‘Is that all you saw? If you had looked out of the boat two months ago you would have seen as much.’
Even after so much experience of it, his vitriol could still sting me. I waited, wondering if he would explain himself or grow bored.
‘Al-Afdal will negotiate.’
‘How do you know?’
Nikephoros took the last two sweetmeats off the tray and crammed them in his mouth. ‘Because he has finally shown us what he wants. And because he sent word while you were away. He will see me tomorrow.’
Whatever Nikephoros had to say to al-Afdal, he did not need me to hear it. He went alone, and when he returned a couple of hours later he said nothing except to call for wine and retreat to his own room. The meeting must have pleased him, though, for when he came out for supper he was in a better humour than I had seen him for weeks. The setting sun filled the room with a bright copper glow, moulded into intricate shadows on the wall by the carved window screens. The caliph’s slaves kept us well supplied with wine, and the feeling in the room was of an army on the last night of its campaign. Even I found myself caught up in the false and easy camaraderie. I looked around at the laughing faces and thought that if this was to be our last night in Egypt, it was at least a happy ending.
Afterwa
rds, like the others, I regretted drinking so much wine, but it was the wine that made me bold enough to question Nikephoros directly.
‘What came of your meeting with the vizier?’
If the wine had made me incautious, it had evidently mellowed Nikephoros’ humour. Or perhaps he did not want to cut into the good feeling. He waved an arm expansively and said, ‘Good things.’
‘Will he take our grain in exchange for Jerusalem?’
Even with the mist of alcohol in his mind, Nikephoros was alert enough to give me a keen look. I could see he was minded not to answer my guess, but eventually he acknowledged it with a shrug. ‘He will take the emperor’s grain to relieve the famine here.’
‘And surrender Jerusalem in return?’ I pressed.
‘Al-Afdal has been called to Alexandria for a few days. When he returns here he will give me his answer.’
Aelfric, sitting in the corner, raised his cup. ‘And then we can go home.’
I drank to that.
I woke craving water. Lifting myself from my mattress, I fumbled my way across the room and felt around until I found the alcove where the palace slaves had left a jug and a pair of cups. I splashed some water into the cup, spilling it in the dark, and drank gratefully. Between the privations we had suffered at Antioch, and the recent hospitality of the Fatimids who seemed to drink alcohol rarely if at all, it had been an age since I drank so much wine. I shook my head to clear it, and immediately wished I had not.
I was about to return to my bed when a noise outside the door drove all thoughts of sleep from my head. I heard a rush of footsteps, and the ominous clattering of spearshafts on stone. The guard in the passage issued a challenge, and was instantly answered by a sharp torrent of unintelligible words.
I did not know what was happening — I barely knew if I was dreaming or not — but I knew that I wanted to be armed. I let the cup drop from my hand and ran to my bedside, rummaging under the mattress where I had hidden Bilal’s dagger. Around me, the others were stirring uncertainly, their dreams interrupted by the shattering cup and the noises in the passageway, but it was not until the double doors flew open in a blaze of shouts and torchlight that they realised what was happening. By then, I had managed to pull on one boot and slip the knife inside it.
A couple of our Patzinak guards managed to leap to their feet, but they were quickly pinned back against the walls by the incoming horde. They wore long hauberks of quilted leather and carried short stabbing spears with leafshaped heads. The caliph’s personal bodyguard — not al-Afdal’s men, but Berbers from the deserts of Africa.
Two of the guards tore open the curtain to Nikephoros’ private quarters. I thought they would find him in bed, but either he had heard the intrusion and acted quickly, or he had expected it. He stood there dressed in a plain tunic, his arms by his side and anger burning across his face. He might be a bully, I realised then, but he was not a coward.
‘What in Christ’s name are you doing?’
The words were lost on the Berber guards. Their hard faces never flinched as they stepped forward and seized him between them. Nikephoros shrank instinctively from their grasp; then he mastered himself, and let them lead him with silent dignity. Two more guards took hold of me, while others rounded up Aefric and the Patzinaks and herded them after us with spears. It was too soon to feel shock: the whole business had taken barely a minute, and I saw men still rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they left the room. In the corridor, the guard who had been assigned to watch us — one of Bilal’s men — stood back and watched in disbelief, his wide eyes like moons in the dark. He had not expected this any more than we had.
‘Fetch Bilal,’ I called to him as we passed.
The eyes blinked, but otherwise there was no acknowledgement.
The Berbers brought us quickly to the hall where the caliph had first received us. Circles of torchlight overlapped to form a bright arena in the open space before the dais, while the myriad columns stretched away like a forest at midnight around us. From above, the caliph looked down from his low throne, flanked by a chamberlain. His face was drowned in darkness.
‘This is an unexpected honour, Your Highness.’ Nikephoros could not disguise the fear in his words. ‘With a little more warning, we might have prepared ourselves more as your dignity demands. As it is-’ He broke off, as he saw the chamberlain had not bothered to translate his words. An ominous silence overtook the dark room. The caliph let it grow until even Nikephoros began to fidget. Then he spoke.
‘The vizier, my loyal servant’ — he sneered as he said it — ‘has told me your proposal.’
Nikephoros licked his lips and glanced nervously around. ‘The illustrious vizier had me understand you looked kindly on our offer, Your Highness.’
‘Al-Afdal does not speak for me,’ barked the caliph, and even before I heard his words transmitted into Greek, I heard the aggrieved petulance in his voice, and remembered how young he had seemed at our first audience.
Nikephoros offered a too-humble bow. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness, I-’
‘You are a snake, Greek — a snake and a liar. You glide into my court and offer sweet promises of friendship and aid, but you are lying, waiting to strike when I am vulnerable. Jerusalem belongs to me; I who am descended from the Prophet himself by the line of the seven true Imams.’
The caliph had leaned so far forward on his throne that his face was almost in the light. ‘You have listened to the rumours spread by my enemies. The harvest is not failing. Not one of my subjects will go hungry this winter. Not one!’
‘We — ’
‘And even if we did suffer famine, I would sooner scrabble for seeds in the ground with my own fingers than beg your emperor for relief. Do you think I have forgotten what happened in my father’s time? All Egypt starved — even for a thousand dinars you could not find a loaf of bread. The Greek emperor offered to send us two million bushels of grain and we gratefully accepted — but the ships never came. He betrayed us to appease the heretic Turks. I would rather slaughter every horse in my stable to feed the poor, pawn my treasury and send my wives to work in the bathhouses than beg your emperor’s help again. Who will he not betray if it is to his advantage? He is like Satan: he says to a man, ‘Do not believe!’, but when the man obeys and forsakes God, he says, “I disown you.”’
The caliph stood, rising into the darkness. His voice had become a fevered shriek, a disorienting counterpoint to the calm monotone of the chamberlain’s translation. ‘You are faithless hypocrites. You say that if we are attacked, you will help us; but when we are attacked you soon turn tail and flee. Truly, it is written: “You who believe, do not take the disbelievers as allies and protectors.”’
Nikephoros stepped forward and looked defiantly up at the caliph. Even stripped of his magnificent robes, with no jewelled lorum wound about him like armour, his pride was enough to clothe him in self-righteous dignity.
‘We came in peace and friendship, as ambassadors of the emperor Alexios. It is unwise to renounce that friendship — but if you do, I ask you to at least honour our safe-conduct as ambassadors. We will leave in the morning, as soon as you permit it.’
They were the words I had longed to hear for two months; now I barely noticed them. The caliph was still standing, though his twitching movements had calmed, and when he spoke there was more reason in his voice.
‘You cannot leave. Winter has closed the seas, and all the harbours are shut.’
The words struck me like a blow to my stomach. Even Nikephoros looked uncertain now. The caliph continued: ‘But you cannot stay in my city. I have issued an edict that all unbelievers must leave. Your presence here disturbs my kingdom.’
Nikephoros stared at him. ‘Then where shall we go?’
‘I have a hunting lodge on the western bank of the river. My guards will take you there immediately — your possessions will be sent after you in the morning. You will wait there until the seas open in the spring.’
Too much wine, t
oo little sleep — and then the grim shock of being dragged before the raging caliph: a dark mist seemed to hang before my eyes as the guards bustled us out of the caliph’s throne room. As we reached a turn in the passage, I managed to draw ahead of my guards long enough to catch up with Nikephoros. He glanced back over his shoulder and tried to force a reassuring smile. That worried me more than anything.
‘Al-Afdal will be back within the week,’ he said. ‘He will bring the caliph to his senses.’
But there are many factions, and al-Afdal cannot always master them all. I remembered Bilal’s words with a shiver as the guardsmen pulled me back.
Once again, a fleet of litters awaited us by the palace gate. I climbed into mine without resistance and settled onto the cushions — like a corpse being laid on his funeral bier, my mind whispered. I thought of Bishop Adhemar draped in his shroud, but that took me to Antioch and that was too much to bear. Until the seas open in the spring, the caliph had said. After my hopes had been raised so high, my soul flinched even to think of it. I looked out from under my canopy at the other litters — squat boxes scattered around the courtyard like tombs in a necropolis. Why were all my thoughts of death? Then a guardsman drew the curtains, and the view was shut away from me.
They carried us from the city at great speed, the litters swaying and shuddering: the streets must have been entirely empty that deep into the night, and we travelled them unseen and unseeing. When we emerged at the dock, though, all was bustle and activity. Torches had been lit, and a great throng of slaves and guardsmen milled about on the wharf. In a knot in their midst, I saw the four Frankish envoys and their attendants. They must have been hauled from their sleep as peremptorily as we had, for they wore the same disarray of under-shirts and mismatched boots, and the same harried confusion on their faces. Achard stood among them, his head darting about like a cornered cat’s.
Our guards hustled us towards the Franks and gestured us to wait. Out on the water I could hear the approach of splashing oars, and nearer to me, a low and ragged chant.