by Tom Harper
‘That perhaps al-Afdal is not here?’
Nikephoros nodded. ‘And that is more disconcerting than any amount of tedium. Al-Afdal would not remove himself from his capital this long without good reason. But what that is . . . I do not know.’
After that, I watched the numbers of Armenian guards more closely, for it seemed that until the vizier al-Afdal returned we would be condemned to our unchanging, stifling confinement. I never saw any change, but one day we were treated to a rare release – not only from our rooms, but from the whole city itself.
‘The caliph fears you may soon leave us without ever having seen the grandeur of Egypt,’ Bilal announced, with what might have been an apologetic smile threatening to overcome his serious expression.
Evidently the caliph did not count his own capital among the grandeurs of Egypt, for we were taken to the docks on the same curtained litters that had carried us to the palace and loaded onto a gilded barge, which quickly pulled away from the wharf. The other river traffic, I noticed, steered a safe distance away from it. Looking back, I could see the southern edge of the city receding, and the arid fields beyond the walls. A little distance beyond, to the south, I saw a second city, utterly in ruins. Flocks of birds wheeled over the remains, and a few thin trails of smoke told tales of thieves or fugitives squatting inside, but otherwise it was silent, and the fleets of boats that scudded along the river ignored its broken wharves.
I saw Bilal standing alone near our prow. ‘What happened here?’ I asked quietly.
‘This was Fustat. One of our great cities.’
‘Who destroyed it?’
Bilal’s face creased with anger. ‘We did.’ He must have seen my bafflement, for he continued: ‘A civil war.’
‘Recently?’
‘Before you were born.’
I considered this. ‘Then why . . . ?’
‘Why is it still deserted?’ Bilal gave a grim, sad laugh. ‘Before the war we had enough men to fill two cities. Afterwards, we only had enough for one.’
We beached our barge a few miles upriver. A squadron of Turkish cavalry was waiting for us, with half a dozen camels and twice as many slaves. Though I had seen camels often enough from a distance, I had never ridden one, and I must have entertained the guards no end in my undignified attempts to haul myself onto its rolling back. Hardly was I in the saddle than the beast unfolded its spindly legs and lumbered to its feet, tipping me about like a ship in a storm. A small boy, black as Bilal but half his size, held the reins. Beside me, I could see Nikephoros suffering similar indignities; Bilal, evidently more practised, was sitting as calm as a monk in his saddle. Our Turkish escort, all mounted on Arabian horses, watched with grim amusement.
As my seat steadied, I was able to cast my gaze slightly further afield – and gasp in wonder. Now I saw why the caliph had sent us here. A few hundred yards to the west the flat ground of the flood plain ended suddenly in a steep, stony escarpment. Atop it, looming over the river valley, I could see the peaks of fantastic mountains unlike any I had ever seen. They had no foothills, no ridges or ravines, but rose in an unbroken line from the earth. Their long slopes were so vast and perfect that surely only a god could have carved them. They seemed unspeakably ancient.
Bilal saw my astonishment and nodded. ‘There is nothing else like them on earth. Come.’
With the awning slung low over the barge I had not seen the mountains from the river; now I could look at nothing else. Their immensity was hypnotic, and only grew as we approached across the parched flats of the river basin. There were three peaks in total, the third a good deal shorter than the other two. For a brief moment I was reminded of the three peaks of Antioch – though they could hardly have been more different.
I gestured to Bilal, riding between me and Nikephoros, and he guided his camel closer.
‘What are these? Churches?’
‘Tombs.’ Bilal raised his eyebrows. ‘You have not heard of the pyramids?’
‘Of course. They were once reckoned among the wonders of the world.’ Nikephoros swatted his cane at the boy who led his camel, and was obediently led nearer to us. ‘“It is through deeds such as these that men go up to the gods.”’
‘Did the caliphs build them?’
Nikephoros laughed. ‘It was the ancient kings of Egypt. Long before the caliphs, the Caesars or even Alexander. Scholars say that they were built by the Jews before Moses led them out of their bondage.’
We carried on, climbed a narrow path up the escarpment and emerged on the plateau high above the river. Once again, I was dumbfounded. Though parched by the drought, the valley’s inherent fertility was obvious; here, only a few hundred yards distant, we were in a desert, a sea of sand and dust that stretched as far as the horizon and lapped around the base of the pyramids. And rising out of it like a sea monster, straight ahead of us, towered an enormous carved head surrounded by a stone hood. I started, frightening my camel, and the boy with the bridle had to run back and calm it before I was pitched over the cliff.
‘That is Abu al-Hol,’ said Bilal. ‘The Father of Terror.’
I crossed myself, and gave the creature a wide berth as we picked our way across the sands. The head seemed to be attached to a body which, if anything, was even larger – but an animal’s body, not a man’s, stretching out behind the head like a crouched cat or lion. I could just see the ridge of its back bursting out through the enveloping sand. It almost made me forget the grandeur of the pyramids, which seemed even more vast now that I could see how close we were. Until then, I had thought that no man could build anything larger than the cathedral of Ayia Sophia, but these must have been more than twice its height.
And yet, as we came around the side of the middle pyramid I saw that it was neither so perfect nor so permanent as it had been made to look. Scaffolding had been erected up one side of it, and the heirs of pharaohs’ slaves still toiled in the heat with chisels and hammers. But instead of building this monument to eternity, they seemed to be dismantling it. Huge blocks of dressed limestone had been carved away from the pyramid’s side, exposing ragged tiers of crumbling rocks and mortar beneath. As I watched, they slowly lowered one of the blocks down a long wooden slide, straining on the ropes.
‘What are they doing?’ I asked in astonishment.
Bilal shrugged. ‘The caliph needs cut stone for his new city, and it is easier to quarry it from the past than from the ground.’
We made our way into the shade at the base of the largest pyramid and dismounted. Bilal had brought food – figs and dates and cheese – and also wine and sherbet. The slaves laid carpets on the hot sand, and we sat and ate in the shadow of antiquity. Our Turkish guards stayed on their horses and ate in the saddle, watching us from a little distance.
‘Do they expect us to steal a camel and escape into the desert?’ I wondered, pulling a fig from one of the baskets. A little way across the sand, the African boy sat in the shade of his hobbled camel and watched us impassively. Impulsively, I threw him the fig and watched his squinting eyes widen. He snatched it from the air, peeled back the green skin and sucked out the purple flesh and seeds. A trail of dark juice spilled onto the desert beside him.
Nikephoros looked away, bored or embarrassed, and pretended to examine the construction of the pyramid. Bilal glanced at me approvingly. It was a rare moment of empathy after so many weeks of guarded emotion, and I was suddenly desperate to make more of it.
I swept my arm across the desert, and back towards the river valley. ‘Is this your country?’
He shrugged. ‘I was born here.’
That wasn’t what I had meant. ‘Where are your people from?’
‘From the south.’ He spat a date seed onto the sand. ‘But that is not my country.’
‘Why not?’
‘My mother was brought to Egypt when she was a girl. I was born here. I have campaigned in Palestine, in Syria and in Arabia, but I have never set eyes on Zanj, where she came from. How could that be my home?’
‘And when your emperor conquered it – what happened to all the Turks who were born there?’
‘I suppose they went back to their homelands in the East.’ I saw the look Bilal was giving me. ‘They did not belong there. It was Byzantine land.’
‘And Jerusalem. Is that Byzantine land as well?’
‘It’s Christian land,’ I said defensively.
‘And when did Christians last own it?’
‘Hundreds of years ago. But that is no reason why they should not have it again. Otherwise, you have nothing more than the rule of conquest.’
Bilal leaned sideways and sketched an abstract circle in the sand next to our carpet. ‘Of course I believe in the rule of conquest. Show me a soldier who doesn’t.’
‘A defeated soldier,’ said Nikephoros, who had shown every sign of ignoring us until then. Somehow, his attention now cast a chill on the conversation, and we lapsed into silence.
After lunch, I excused myself from the party and wandered across the desert to the northernmost of the pyramids. The Turkish guards watched me go but did not follow. There was nowhere I could have escaped to.
The pyramid was so vast that long before you entered its shadow you ceased to see it for what it was. Its geometric perfection, so obvious from afar, distorted until it became nothing more than a huge wall lifting out of the sand. Only as I reached its foot did it change again, resolving itself into a giant staircase, which seemed to rise to the heavens. Captivated, I began to climb without even thinking. The stripped courses were pitted and irregular, and I had to scramble to haul myself over each tier. Before I was even halfway up, my tunic was filthy with dust and sweat. Too late, I remembered I was supposed to be a representative of the emperor and probably above such things.
I paused in my ascent and looked down, shading my eyes with my hand. The green-brown smear of the Nile valley trailed away to the north, a thin vein of life between two apparently endless deserts. I could see the towers of al-Qahira, and the sprawling ruins of Fustat, the ghost city, beside it. Ahead and to my right, the blows of the masons’ chisels rung in the still air.
It was too hot to sit there long, but I did not want to go back to Nikephoros and Bilal so soon. I rose, and edged my way around the pyramid along the uneven course. As I came around to the western face I looked down, and saw two horses tethered to a fallen rock at the pyramid’s base. Even in this alien place, it seemed the Turkish guards would not allow me too long a leash, though I could not see the riders.
Sweating profusely, I reached the next corner and turned onto the northern side. I paused. A few tiers below me, and not quite in the centre of the face, a large gap broke the regular lines of stone. At first I thought it must just be where the caliph’s workmen had cut away a deeper layer, but as I scrambled closer I saw that it was actually a hole, the mouth of a sloping tunnel leading down into the unseen depths of the pyramid. The stones about it were jagged and raw, as if the pyramid had been smashed open, while the walls of the tunnel within were impeccably smooth, inviting and sinister. I shivered, despite the heat. I had pried into pagan temples once before and found nothing but blood and wickedness. On the other hand, confronted with a dark cave, who does not long to know what lies within?
It was then that I heard the scream. It shrilled out of the tunnel as if squeezed from the ancient stones themselves, as if the ghosts of the pharaohs had stirred in their coffins. I stepped back, almost over the edge of the ledge, and flailed my arms furiously to keep my balance. The effort seemed to right my senses. I believed there were demons in the world, of course, and I believed that evil lurked in the pagan inheritance of our ancestors. Sometimes I had felt it. But along with the scream, just after it, I had heard something else: a voice raised in anger. And as I peered at the sand that had drifted into the entrance, I could see two sets of fresh footprints – and two snaking lines as if something, or someone, had been dragged between them. Ghosts and spirits might dwell in the pyramid, but the sounds I had heard were the sounds of men. Crossing myself twice, I stepped into the darkness.
I had expected that the monumental scale of the building would be matched within: I had imagined cavernous chambers, high galleries and vast columns rising into darkness. Instead, almost immediately, the passage tapered into a shaft so small that I had to first crouch, then crawl – though it was so steep that I was grateful to be able to brace myself against the low ceiling for fear of losing my grip entirely and sliding forwards . . . how far down? My misgivings mounted as the light from outside vanished behind me, but almost immediately my eyes seemed to adjust to the gloom. No – something was illuminating the passage before me. A flickering orange glow, a torch or a fire, licked up the tunnel walls from below. Blood rushed into my head, paining and dizzying me. I suddenly saw what a lunatic mistake this had been; I wanted to turn back, but the tunnel was so thin I did not have the space. Would it ever release me, or would I have to crawl on my belly all the way into the depths of hell? All I could do was hasten my pace.
At last, the passage opened out. The air inside was cool and stale, smeared with the oily smoke of a lamp set in a niche in the wall. By its billowing light I could see I had entered a chamber tall enough that I could stand. At the far end, a black granite boulder blocked the passage beyond, though a heap of rubble suggested someone had once tried to burrow around it. For myself, I no longer had any desire to penetrate deeper into the depths of the pyramid: I would have turned around and counted myself lucky just to see the sky again. But I could not. The smoky lamplight cast three shadows over the polished granite: two were Turkish guards, their swords and belts unbuckled from their waists and their robes hanging open; the third was the black-skinned boy who had led my camel, now lying cowering on the floor. He was completely naked, and I saw a balled-up cloth in a corner where his thin tunic had been ripped from his body.
I spoke without thinking if I would be understood, or what my words would provoke. ‘Stop!’
The two guards turned. The boy, who had seen me first, lifted himself on his hands like a dog scenting his master, though there was little hope on his face.
‘Stop,’ I said again. The sudden act of standing up had left me dizzy, and there was less conviction in my voice this time. The guard to my left scowled, then stepped towards me and spat out a stream of angry words. I shook my head dumbly, understanding nothing but terribly fearful for what I had begun. I glanced back at the boy: he had crawled over to his discarded tunic and reached out for it, but as he did so the second guard stamped a heavy boot on his hand. The gruesome crack of bone echoed around the chamber; the boy howled, and flung himself back into the far corner where he lay, whimpering, not even bothering to cover himself. How old could he be – ten? Twelve?
‘I demand you stop.’
The guards could not understand my words, but the meaning must have been clear enough. An ugly look spread across the nearer man’s face. He stepped forward again, reaching for the sword he had unbuckled. He pulled it from its scabbard and whipped the blade towards me; I retreated, but almost immediately felt the cold stone of the wall against my back. I had no chance of escape. The only way out was the narrow passage, and even if I had managed to squeeze into it my opponents could easily have hauled me back out. And that would have meant leaving the unfortunate boy to his fate. Even as I watched, I saw the second guard lift him off the floor and spin him hard against the wall. Would they make me watch?
The nearer guard was still holding the sword, its point angled towards my heart. A part of my mind refused to believe it: I was an ambassador, after all. Surely they could not afford to sacrifice me so carelessly. But I was alone, deep in a dangerous, crumbling monument. They could kill me, bury me under the rubble and pretend I had suffered an unfortunate
accident. Or drag me into the desert and let the sands bury me for ever.
I brushed away those thoughts. This was not the first time I had seen a blade held to my heart, and by more desperate men than these. I tried to swallow the pulsing fear which my heart pumped through me.
‘Let me go,’ I said. ‘I am the emperor’s ambassador. You cannot—’ I broke off as I saw the bored incomprehension on the Turk’s face. He inched closer, and raised the sword a fraction higher. I could hardly look beyond the silver spark of the hovering point, but beyond it I saw the blurry shadow of the second guard approaching the boy with outstretched hands. The muscles in my back tensed, and I had to fight back the urge to hurl myself forward. I would only have impaled myself.
Neither of us moved. The only sound in the chamber was a grunting, fumbling noise by the far wall. I closed my eyes. Then, suddenly, I heard a scraping by my feet, a trickle of cascading pebbles and a half-checked cry of surprise. My eyes flashed open, and before I could even look at what had caused the noise I saw that my opponent’s gaze had been distracted. It was all I needed. I braced myself against the wall and lashed out with my right boot, hammering it straight into his groin. He squealed with pain, though he was too well trained to let go his sword. He bent double, which only served to present his face to my upswinging fist. His nose cracked under the impact.
The guard reeled away, clutching his face with his left hand, and I turned belatedly to see what it was that had distracted him. Even with the blood of battle scorching my veins, I recoiled. A black demon had crawled out of the tunnel, the ghost of some long-dead denizen of this tomb. He stood almost as high as the ceiling; his yellow cloak swirled around him like fire, and his round head was black and featureless as shadow. The sword in his hands smouldered in the lamplight as he advanced into the room.
He turned to glance at me, and I saw with grateful relief that he was no demon. There were white eyes and a mouth in the black face, and the yellow cloak was real enough to have been smeared and stained by his passage through the tunnel. It was Bilal. He strode towards the second guard, spun him around and hurled him against the wall with such force that I almost expected to see the granite crack. He shouted in the man’s face, a furious tirade that needed no translation, and I sagged against the wall in relief.