I will write again. Meanwhile, the sun hides behind dark and heavy clouds until you return to me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Days passed. The thing in the mirror, the exhumed corpse that had once been Petroc of Auneford, began to resemble him again, and one morning I awoke, stretched without being racked with horrible pain, and found I was looking at myself in the silver. Scarred, of course, and my teeth would not grow back, but Ibn al-Nafis had been right: the years had fallen away. When the doctor came to make his morning inspection, I asked him if I could leave my room and take a walk. He cocked an eyebrow and told me to be patient. But not much patience was required, for an hour later he returned with his silent assistant, who carried an elegant package of clothing.
‘We burned your own clothes,’ said the doctor. ‘I trust you will not mind looking like a Mussulman.’
‘No indeed,’ I said. The clothes fitted perfectly, and the long robe of silk was cool and light. When I was dressed, the doctor took me over to the window.
‘You are free to walk about the courtyard,’ he said, ‘and below us you will find pavilions and fountains. Do not go near the women’s quarters, over there. And do not go outside the palace, for a Frank would not live long beyond these gates. There. I almost discharge you from my care. You have healed well, my friend. But you know, there are many old scars on your body. This is worthless advice to give to a man of war, but one day soon you will not heal so readily. You are not young – not old, but believe me: you have spent much of your power recovering from these injuries. Many warriors test their bodies until they give out. If I might presume to take you for a man of some sense, I would tell you to seek a life of peace. It will reward the flesh, and also the soul.’
‘If God wills it,’ I said in his own language. He smiled sadly.
‘But God also gave us free will,’ he said. I waited for him to explain, but he did not. Instead he patted me on the shoulder. ‘Do not over-exert yourself,’ he said brusquely. ‘An hour, no more. Longer tomorrow. I shall see you after the evening meal.’
I waited for a few minutes after they had left, and then opened the door. Beyond was a cool hallway tiled in complex patterns of stars and lines that led my eye towards the stairway. There was nobody about, though I could hear voices quite far off. The stairway was gentle but even so my legs felt like overboiled carrots as I gingerly made my way down to the colonnade below. The fountain, which I had stared at from above, hours at a time, was chuckling to itself in the courtyard, and so, rather nervously, I padded across the tiles, under the palms and citrus trees, and dipped my hand in the water. It was cold, though the sun – the same sun that had killed crusaders by the hour just days before – was pouring its searing light almost straight down upon it. I splashed a little water onto my forehead, as I had seen men do, and sat down with my back against the low, marble side of the pool.
Little brown birds were leading busy lives in the complicated shade of the trees. From the women’s quarters came the sound of laughter – not very ladylike, as if someone had just told a dirty joke. A man in a long white robe came through a door at one side of the colonnade, walked round two sides of the courtyard and went into another doorway. He did not look in my direction. It was very peaceful here, and soon I felt my eyes growing heavy. I drew one leg up and rested my chin upon my knee. The pattering water and the rustling birds were soothing, and I let myself be soothed.
People came and went under the colonnades, always men, and they never so much as glanced in my direction. I wondered what they thought of me. It was only a few weeks ago that I had been fighting for my life under the walls of this very palace. Hundreds of crusaders had died out there. For all I knew, the Saracen knight I had knocked off his horse that day was one of the silent figures gliding by in the shade. The water ran on behind me, and the little birds, growing bolder, began to swoop down and search the ground for morsels. I had the feeling I was being watched, as one does when surrounded by many shuttered or empty windows, and from the women’s quarters came the faint sound of a mild argument, and then a wistful song. No doubt people were watching me. But I was too drowsy to feel much like a trespasser.
At last, the heat and the endless chiming of the water began to make me thirsty, and then the thirst overcame my lethargy and I tottered off, stiffly, to find something to drink. The brown birds took off as one creature and began to rattle the fronds of the palm leaves overhead. In the colonnade the air was cool, almost sharp. I leaned against the wall, for I found my head was spinning a little. A man, tall and bearded, walked past and I smiled and murmured a salaamun. He gave me a curious look but touched his forehead and returned my greeting.
I stayed there, letting the chill from the stone drive the sun from my body, until I saw a servant emerge from an archway across the courtyard. He was carrying a large pitcher with a white cloth across its mouth – water, or something drinkable. I ambled slowly to the archway and looked inside. There was a long hallway with daylight at the far end, and the unmistakeable smells and sounds of a busy kitchen.
Again I had the sensation of someone watching me. I imagined the hidden women, tittering behind their hands: ‘Look, the ridiculous Frank is going to the servants’ quarters!’ A man crossed the hallway carrying a basket of vegetables. My mouth was getting unpleasantly dry, so I gave the watchers a shrug of my shoulders and went on my way. There were a number of doors on either side, storerooms and rooms where water was being boiled in great cauldrons. The kitchen must be on the other side of the small courtyard I was approaching, and which I found was a little garden planted with leafy herbs.
‘What are you seeking?’
The voice came from across the herb beds. A man was standing in a doorway, smiling reassuringly. He had spoken in strangely accented Norman French, which surprised me, but I smiled back and bowed.
‘Salaamun ’Aleykum. I am thirsty – some water? And I am sorry for intruding.’
‘No matter. Here. You will come.’ He beckoned and I stepped carefully through the little mazy path that led between the beds. Footsteps sounded behind me, more than one person, but I paid them no mind: more servants. The man held out his hand in greeting and I took it. He grinned: his teeth were brownish. He had deep pox-scars on his face and a freshly healed slash across the bottom of his jaw. Looks like a soldier, I was thinking, when his grip on my hand tightened and he pulled me towards him, taking me off balance. Then his knee came up hard between my legs. As I doubled over I heard feet trampling the garden behind me and a hand was clamped across my mouth as another arm wrapped itself around my neck. As I flailed, trying to bite, the man let go of my hand and punched me in the stomach. Someone took my ankles and pulled them out from under me as the pockmarked man caught me under the left arm. Suddenly I was being carried, fast, face-down and still gagged by someone’s hand, down a narrow passage. Three men … They were hissing to each other urgently. The tongue was familiar but I could not understand the words. Suddenly I was dropped on my face, a knee landed with all the weight of its owner between my shoulders, and the hand left my mouth only to be replaced, in an instant, with a twist of cloth that was being knotted viciously behind my head so that I was bridled like a horse. The hand groped inside my tunic and with a horrible wrench the amulet and Iselda’s stag were torn from my neck. Of course … I said to myself, groggily. Then I was gathered up again.
I was still very weak and there was no struggle in me. I was lugged like a sack up a couple of steps and through a dark, dusty space that smelled of ginger and old onions. Rusty iron scraped and screeched and we were out in the daylight. Below me, trampled earth and old rubbish. The light seemed to be coming from high above and I guessed we were in an alleyway outside the servants’ quarters. Then I was dropped again, but they kept hold of my arms so that they twisted painfully behind me. A hand grabbed my hair and I was yanked onto my knees. The gag, full of my spit, was starting to swell and choke me. The man with the pockmarks bent down to look at me. He ran his eyes quickly,
expertly, over my face, then nodded to his accomplices. There had been a certain interest in his eyes but no humanity. And then he glanced about quickly and drew a long knife from inside his clothes. It had a tapered, slightly curved blade and had been lovingly polished. One of the men wrenching my arms from their sockets hissed something. There was no mistaking the meaning: get on with it.
You get your head cut off after all, I said to myself bitterly. And then, Thank you, Lord or life or luck, for the birds and the fountain, and for Iselda’s letter …
My mouth was full of dirt and ancient vegetable peelings. Somehow I was on my face again, still alive. There was sound and struggle overhead. A heel caught against my hip and a body pitched backwards across my legs. A bare foot appeared in front of me, toenails filthy and cracked. It twitched and went still. My arms were free: very carefully I got my hands underneath me and pushed myself up. Lying across the foot was an arm, and from the hand trailed four broken leather cords. I grabbed them and wrenched at the amulet and golden stag, ending up face-down again as they came free. Then I was pulled to my feet. I staggered and fell against someone. The gag was loosened, then gone.
‘Are you Petros?’ a man demanded. ‘Petroc?’
‘Petroc, yes,’ I said. There was dust in my eyes and the world was wavering like the northern lights, but then a white figure came into focus. It was a man, but not the pockmarked one.
‘Good. Come with us.’
I walked, supported on both sides, a few steps. As my eyes cleared I saw that I was indeed in an alley, dirty and piled, here and there, with burned stubs of wooden beams. I was being led towards a wider street, and on the corner stood four horses.
‘Wait. Who are you?’ I asked in Saracen, hastily knotting the cords of stag and amulet together and slipping them over my head.
‘Mamluk.’ The man in front spun round. He was dressed in white robes, with a white scarf wrapped round his head and draped under his chin and across his shoulders. He was young and his beard was still soft and just beginning to curl. But there was nothing soft about his manner. A shamshir hung from his belt and he wore soldier’s boots. ‘You are coming to see our master.’
‘The queen?’
The man laughed, and the other two, who were dressed in the same manner, laughed as well. It was a careful laugh. I saw blood on one man’s robe and I glanced behind me, to where three sprawled bodies lay in the shadow of a handcart.
‘Thank you,’ I said. I hoped they could tell I had rarely meant anything so sincerely.
‘Why those convert pigs were going to kill you, O Frank, we do not know. Our master does know, so thank him.’
‘I thought they were …’
‘Moslems?’ He spat. ‘No, and not Egyptians either. Convert scum from Sicily – paid murderers. Fucking cowards.’
‘Let us go, Aytmish!’ called one of the men. He nodded. ‘No more questions from you, O Frank. Now, can you ride?’
I thought I could, and when they hoisted me onto the back of a sorrel mare I found my limbs just about under my control. We took off at a trot, the young man called Aytmish – who seemed to be the leader – in front, me behind and the other two riding side by side in the rear. The street was full of people and they parted respectfully at the sight of the Mamluks. To me they threw curious, cautious glances: a battered man in dirty Saracen robes. Who knew what they thought? I hung on grimly to the reins and kept my eyes on the man in front. We were riding down the main thoroughfare of the city, but to my amazement there was little sign of the horrible battle that had happened there. The great beams of wood that had trapped the crusaders were all gone. A building was being rebuilt; I guessed one of those that had been burning as I escaped. I wondered where Robert of Artois had died, and William Longspée … But now we were turning right, and there were the city walls pierced by a gate, beyond which I could glimpse the dark green of the countryside. The guards saluted as we rode past, out into the chequerboard fields. The leader kicked his horse into a canter and we followed.
We were on a good, hard-packed road that ran beside a narrow canal. All around us men and women were working in the fields, pumping water and cutting reeds. Mattocks rose and fell and dust hung over everything in a haze of pale gold. The road stretched ahead over a wide, flat plain to a small, thick wood of palms, and quite soon we were riding under the outlying trees. The road divided, a narrow, unkempt path curving off to the north while the main track led straight on. We took the narrow way, and plunged immediately into green, cool silence. As I began to wonder why a company of Mamluks should have business in such a place, we came to a clearing.
It was a large, almost round space amongst the trees, through which a small stream, one of the irrigation channels that run everywhere through the delta country, flowed from a square pool with stepped sides of packed, whitewashed mud. Next to the pool stood a little building, a cube of brick topped by a low dome and pierced by small arched windows and one pointed doorway. In front of the door was an area of laid bricks, and four ancient olive trees spread their shade over it. Like the sides of the pool the little building was painted white. All around the clearing stood low tents of white cloth, some flying brightly coloured pennants, and people were sitting here and there in patches of shade. The young Mamluk reined in his horse and jumped down. He led the beast to the pool and a little boy ran out from one of the tents and, taking the reins, let it drink. I slid down gingerly and led my own horse over to the water.
‘What is this place?’ I asked the young man.
‘The zãwiya of Sheikh abd’ al-Azeem al-Ansari,’ he said. ‘The water is sweet. Drink.’
The pool was clear and still – a spring. I dipped my cupped hand and sprinkled some over my head and face, then dipped again and drank.
‘It is not only the thirsty man who seeks water. The water also seeks the thirsty.’ The voice was deep, and with a shock I understood that the words had been spoken in Occitan. I turned, dazed.
‘Those are the words of another,’ said Nizam, the helmsman. ‘But in my own words I bid you welcome, brother. I was beginning to fear you had lost your way.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Inside, the little building seemed larger than it looked. It was very plain, with white walls and a floor of fired earthen tiles. The only decoration was a thin pattern of twisting lines in gold and vivid green glaze that ran around the room just below the ceiling. Wrought-iron lanterns hung on chains, there were simple iron candle-stands, and on the floor was a thick carpet woven with an eye-aching conceit of knotted stars that seemed to become flowers and even Arabic script. There were many fat pillows and bolsters scattered about, and Nizam bade me sit.
‘You should lie down, Patch. I’m afraid you do not look very well.’
‘It is the joy of seeing you,’ I said, but gladly pulled a collection of bolsters together and sank back into them. ‘Now, it is really you, isn’t it?’
‘It is, my dear friend.’
‘So strange … You vanished. I had come to think you had died, like everyone else seems to have. But you are not dead, O beloved of Mamluks. Surely you could have sent word to me!’
‘I could have,’ he agreed, nodding solemnly. ‘But might it not seem that we were riding, very fast, in quite opposite directions? What does the man of God, sitting in the wilderness, have to say to the banker with Christendom at his feet?’
‘You’ve heard wrong.’ I laughed, but he shook his head.
‘Oh, no. I have heard right. I am proud of you, brother – do not think I am not. But have you not been looking outwards, outwards all this time? I knew Michel de Montalhac very well, Patch, and I know what he taught you. I have spent the years since we last saw each other searching inside myself.’
‘What for?’ It was a foolish question, and I regretted it instantly, but Nizam grinned.
‘You remembered my song all these years, brother. You know all there is to know already.’
That was too owlish for me in my present state, so I let i
t pass. This miraculous Nizam, this very solid ghost from my past was utterly confounding, and yet he reminded me of someone, or something. But I could not think properly just now. ‘So you did become a Sufi, just as you wished,’ I said, feebly.
‘Ah. I was always a Sufi, Patch.’
‘Always? Strange work for a holy man, steering a ship full of villains.’
‘What else should a holy man do? But I am just a man, brother. Others call me holy. I am still a helmsman, only now my sea is here.’ And he laid his hand flat upon his breast, above the heart.
‘But you were … This was your life before the Cormaran?’ I insisted. Nizam was the person with whom I had spent some of my happiest times at sea, standing beside him as he held the great beam of the tiller still and steady, yet he had never told me anything of what had brought him there, and I had not asked, for you did not do that aboard the Cormaran, and you learned men’s tales only when they decided to honour you with them.
‘A life like this,’ said Nizam gently. ‘I am from a country called Manden, very far away from here on the other side of the Great Desert. My father was an imam and when I was still small he sent me away to study with a holy man, because even then I was large and strong and unruly, and he did not wish me to become a warrior, but to learn the ways of God, as he had. Now this holy man was a great teacher. He lived out in the rocky waste in a place a little like this one: just himself and a few disciples. As I was bigger than any of them I had to do all the rough work, fetching water, gathering wood, digging the ditches to water our little garden. But I did not complain, for I liked the master’s words. I had always felt strange and unnatural because of my size, and people would find me amusing or useful, as if I were a beast, but when the master spoke I felt different. My size melted away, and then, as time passed and I learned more, understood more, I discovered peace, and in that peace was God.
The Fools’ Crusade Page 28