Siege of Heaven

by Tom Harper

  He murmured something in Arabic, and the chamberlain stood. ‘In the name of the Most Illustrious Lord, the Counsellor of the Caliph, the Sword of Islam, the Commander of the Armies, Protector of the Muslims and Guide of the Missionaries, al-Afdal Shah-an-Shah – welcome.’

  I thought I saw a sardonic smile play over al-Afdal’s lips as he listened to his titles – and it grew subtly wider as Nikephoros responded with the full litany of the emperor’s honorifics, taking great care, I thought, to draw them out longer than the vizier’s. When he had finished, al-Afdal sat back. It seemed strange that for all his magnificent titles he should not know Greek, when even Bilal had managed to learn it, but he spoke in Arabic and left the chamberlain to translate.

  ‘An embassy from the emperor of the Romans always brings honour to our court. And we have much to discuss. I have heard that the emperor wishes to forge an alliance.’

  ‘We have both suffered many defeats against the Turks – often because we could not unite against the common threat. Now that they are on the brink of defeat, they should not escape on account of our differences. We both have too much to gain.’

  Al-Afdal smiled. ‘It is true that we have both allowed the Turks too many victories. But let us be honest with each other. It is neither Byzantium nor Egypt that has now brought the Turks low. According to what I hear, that has been accomplished by this army of Franj – the so-called Army of God.’

  Nikephoros shifted uneasily on his cushions. ‘It is true that the Frankish armies have done much of the fighting. But it has all been on the emperor’s behalf. He called them into being, and they have sworn allegiance to him as their ultimate lord.’

  ‘So do you speak for them?’ Al-Afdal popped a sticky sweet into his mouth, rubbed his fingers together in a bowl of water, and let one of the slaves dry them. The question hung unanswered in the lazy air – though al-Afdal obviously guessed the truth well enough. He had had six months to learn all about the Franks from Achard, after all.

  ‘Only the Franks can speak for themselves,’ Nikephoros said at last. ‘But the emperor is a valued ally and he has . . . influence. When he speaks, they listen.’

  Al-Afdal nodded. ‘It must be hard for an army to provision itself so far from home. And if he asked for Antioch? Would they surrender it?’

  ‘The Franks do not want Antioch for themselves.’ I marvelled that Nikephoros could say that with such conviction. ‘They only need it as a staging post to Jerusalem.’

  ‘Ah, Jerusalem.’ Al-Afdal leaned forward and dipped a finger in the tiled pool, swirling it around until he had whipped up a vortex. ‘Have you ever seen Jerusalem?’

  ‘Not yet, my lord.’

  ‘I have. Until twenty years ago it was part of our holy empire.’

  ‘Your kindness to its Christian inhabitants then is well remembered.’

  Al-Afdal ignored the flattery. ‘It is a terrible place, without water or comfort. But do you know what it’s greatest problem is?’

  Nobody answered.

  ‘Too many gods. Even the pagan Egyptians would have struggled to squeeze so many deities into such a small space. The city cannot hold them. That is why only a fool would seek to conquer it.’

  I could see Nikephoros struggling to measure his words appropriately. ‘The Franks believe they are ordained by God to retake Jerusalem.’

  ‘So Achard of Tournai has told me – many times.’ Al- Afdal smiled again. ‘And the Byzantine emperor? Does he believe that he too must possess Jerusalem?’

  ‘He is of one mind with the Franks.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Nikephoros uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. ‘Thirty years ago, before the Turks came, Egypt and Byzantium lived peacefully as neighbours. When our pilgrims travelled to the holy places, you protected them, and when famine threatened the Egyptian harvest we sold you grain. The emperor wishes to return to that happy state.’

  ‘But only if he extends his lands to Jerusalem.’

  ‘If the Turks are eventually driven out of Syria and Palestine, it will be the Franks who have struck the most telling blow,’ Nikephoros insisted. ‘They will deserve their reward.’

  ‘And they will accept nothing other than Jerusalem?’

  ‘Their ambassadors have surely told you so.’

  Al-Afdal furrowed his brow, and stroked his beard in mock concentration. ‘So to enjoy the emperor’s friendship again, I must allow his allies to take and hold Jerusalem.’

  ‘And then, with your left flank secured, you could drive east to Baghdad – to Mecca, even.’

  ‘And if I do not?’

  To the guards standing by the gates and watching us across the courtyard, it must have seemed that al-Afdal was entirely overwhelmed by Nikephoros. His shoulders were hunched and his head bowed, his hands clasped penitently before him as if hoping for a benediction. I could see Nikephoros was no more deceived by the charade than I, but even so he could not resist raising his voice a fraction to drive home his point.

  ‘The Franks have proved that there are few who can resist them. They are destined for Jerusalem, and – for all our sakes – the emperor would prefer that they came as your allies, to make the victory complete. But, whatever you choose, they are coming.’

  A hot silence hung in the courtyard. Even the fountains seemed to have stopped their flow. Al-Afdal sat very still, while Nikephoros sank back onto his cushions. His diplomat’s face was as composed as ever, but his eyes were strained with anxiety.

  Al-Afdal looked up with an apologetic smile. ‘That is a pity.’ With a start, I realised that I was no longer hearing his words through the chamberlain’s translation, but direct from his mouth in fluent Greek. ‘Because, you see, I already possess Jerusalem. I conquered it from the Turks a month ago. That was the victory we celebrated last night.’

  I was lucky; in my insignificance, no reaction was demanded of me. Nikephoros had no such comfort. Al- Afdal’s sudden leap into Greek had denied him even the translator’s delay, and every second that he did not respond only doubled the oppressive expectation on him. To his credit, he absorbed the full weight of al-Afdal’s blow with little more than a tightening in his cheeks, and a narrowing of his eyes.

  ‘I did not know you spoke our language so well. I am surprised you need bother with an interpreter.’

  Al-Afdal gave an ingenuous smile. ‘I would speak it more often, but it is hard for me. I would not want you to misunderstand what I say.’

  ‘Your Greek is flawless. Everything you say is perfectly clear.’

  Al-Afdal took another sweet from the tray and kept his eyes fixed on Nikephoros.

  ‘Although the caliph’s obligations to his people kept him from leading the campaign personally, he is delighted by its result. Jerusalem is the holiest city in the world after Mecca and Medina: possessing it exalts the caliph and disgraces the Turks with their heretic Sunni faith.’

  Nikephoros glanced at the cup of wine in his hands, but did not drink. ‘The caliph would be reluctant to give it up, even to a loyal ally?’

  Al-Afdal nodded a profession of regret. ‘If Jerusalem was yours, would you surrender it?’

  ‘The emperor might – if he gained by the transaction.’

  I glanced at Nikephoros in astonishment, then remembered my place and hastily hid my face behind my wine glass. How could he contemplate giving up Jerusalem, even speculatively? A cunning edge had crept into his tone; I could not understand it, but al-Afdal seemed to have noticed, for he was sitting straighter and nodding slowly.

  ‘But – forgive me – I do not see how the caliph could gain by surrendering his claim to Jerusalem. What does the emperor have to offer besides promises and protestations?’ He lifted a stout hand in apology. ‘You understand the caliph does not belittle the emperor’s promises of friendship; he cherishes them. But the two halves of a bargain must balance each other. A promise for a promise, a city for a city. A war for a war.’

  Al-Afdal rearranged himself into a more elegant repose on his cushi
ons. ‘I am grateful for your embassy, but I fear that events have overtaken us. It would be cruel to keep you here pretending otherwise. No doubt you yearn to see your homes and families again, and autumn will soon close the seas. If you have nothing else to discuss with the caliph, you could start for the sea tonight.’

  The strain of concentrating on the shifting conversation, the heat of the sun beating through the awning and the sour bite of the wine in my mouth had contrived to raise a throbbing ache in my skull. For the past few minutes I had been staring at the cool water running through the fountains, wishing I could forsake protocol and plunge my head in. But the vizier’s final words swept away all pain and care in an instant: for the first time in weeks I could think of Anna and Sigurd with hope. I looked expectantly at Nikephoros.

  But Nikephoros was frowning and shaking his head. ‘I am grateful for your kindness, but our duty to the emperor must overcome thoughts of home. Your great victory over the Turks has changed matters, but I do not think it means we cannot be allies. Perhaps, by your leave, we could talk further on this. Who knows what common interests we may discover?

  ‘In the meantime, if the caliph permits it, we would be honoured to remain here as his guests.’

  ιγ

  I did not know then how Nikephoros thought he could persuade al-Afdal to give up Jerusalem, but he certainly had no lack of time to consider it. After that first audience, the vizier showed little interest in continuing the conversation. Days lengthened into weeks, and gradually we forgot even to think of expecting another meeting. It did nothing to ease the burdens on my soul. I found that I slept later and later into the mornings; even when I did wake, I would pretend otherwise. I began to hate our quarters, though on the infrequent occasions that we were allowed out I suddenly found the prospect filling me with dread. All of us suffered from the long confinement, of course, and the perpetual pressure of being among enemies, but I seemed to feel it worst. Perhaps I only handled it worst.

  Even when we did venture out into the palace grounds or the wider city, we never saw Achard and the other Frankish emissaries. Had they given up when they heard of al-Afdal’s victory and returned to the Army of God? Or had they concluded their own bargain with al-Afdal, one that would turn him against us? I tried to ask Bilal one day, but all he would say was that he had not been assigned to guard them. There was much more I wanted to ask him – had the murdered Turks ever been found? were we suspected? – but before I could think of a way to broach it, he put a finger to his lips and shook his head. He too seemed under strain – as did many of the Fatimid courtiers. If Nikephoros ever managed to speak with them to ask when al-Afdal might receive us again, their eyes would flicker in alarm and their faces crease with tight, automatic smiles. Al-Afdal had many things to attend to, they said: the welfare of the caliph’s subjects demanded his full energies. He would see us as soon as he could be sure of giving us the attention we deserved.

  In the meantime, we were cast adrift on a sea of supposition and conjecture. We did not know why al-Afdal continually deferred us, we did not know how he would respond to whatever Nikephoros offered him, we did not know if he even still controlled Jerusalem, or whether the Army of God might have finished their journey and captured it for themselves by then. In which case, I thought, we would be left as mere flotsam, thrown up on a strange shore by the currents of distant storms.

  ***

  One question, though, we did eventually answer. The Frankish envoys had not departed, nor been murdered in their beds, but remained at the palace in much the same condition as we did. We did not discover it by accident; instead, we found them waiting for us at the royal wharf on a river barge. I remembered Nikephoros’ dark warnings from before, that the vizier would not have allowed us to meet the Franks except to further his own designs, and wondered whether this portended some new change in our mission. Nikephoros himself was not there to see it – he had declined the invitation, claiming he had letters to compose, though he had not asked me to stay behind and write them.

  Aelfric and I climbed into the boat and seated ourselves on cushions in the bow with Achard and another of his companions. Achard’s staring eyes followed Bilal as he went aft to relay some orders to the steersman, and he crossed himself fervently.

  ‘How can you stand to be around that black devil?’ he whispered in my ear. ‘To live among the Ishmaelite heretics is perilous enough – but I never expected to see the demons of hell walking the earth. The devil is gathering his strength for the final contest. When demons walk the earth, the last days are near.’

  ‘Not too near, I hope.’

  ‘Closer than you think. No man will know the day or the hour – but there are signs, for those who can read them.’

  I looked at him in astonishment, wondering if the long months of confinement had unhinged his mind. He appeared to be in deadly earnest, but before I could question him further Bilal returned, and Achard lapsed into a sulky silence.

  As the barge crawled upstream, the brick walls of the city faded behind us and we came into the wasteland beyond. Saplings had already grown tall in the disused fields, and toppled waterwheels lay broken beside siltedup channels. In the distance, to the south, I could see the ruined walls of the abandoned city.

  ‘A destroyer of nations has come forth to lay waste your lands, and your cities will be ruins without inhabitants,’ Achard muttered. I glanced at Bilal, but he showed no sign of understanding the Frankish – only the weary indifference of a man used to half-heard whisperings behind his back.

  If I peered out from under the barge’s awning I could see the three fangs of the pyramids rising on their summit above the river valley. Closer to us, though, the river forked around a thin island, which seemed to have escaped or repaired the ravages of the civil war: low mud-brick warehouses lined the shore, and dozens of wooden jetties marched out into the water on stilts. Between them, a score of boats in various states of progress sat lifted on wooden cradles in shipyards. Some of them were little more than bare-ribbed hulls, but most seemed almost ready to sail to Constantinople if required. They were certainly large enough for the task.

  I did not hear any order, but the boat suddenly slowed and stopped in midstream. There was no splash of an anchor; instead, the rowers kept their oars in the water and manoeuvred them gently to keep us steady. Even with the river so low and sluggish, it was an impressive feat.

  ‘Is this where we are going?’ Achard did not look at Bilal as he addressed him.

  ‘The caliph was keen that you should see his dockyards,’ said Bilal heavily.

  I waved towards the shore. ‘All these ships are his?’

  ‘Of course. They will be ready for the next campaign season, when spring opens the seas again.’

  I looked again. Of the ships that were nearing completion, all had heavy rams attached to their bows and fortified towers amidships. There was no mistaking their purpose. ‘I am not surprised he wanted us to see them.’

  One of Achard’s companions tapped him on the arm and whispered in his ear. I could not hear the words, but I guessed them. When the Franks advanced on Jerusalem – if they had not already – they would have to take the coastal road, for the emperor could only supply them from the sea. I remembered the vast supply fleet I had seen gathering in Cyprus, and tried to imagine these skeletal vessels of the caliph encountering them at sea. One, even larger than the others and wanting only her oars, had a prow carved like a ravening eagle, and a copper-tipped ram which gleamed with menace.

  We sat awkwardly in midstream and said little, listening to the creak of the thole-pins, and the hammering and sawing and songs drifting across from the shipyard. We were well into October now, and though the temperatures had cooled a little since our arrival it was still almost too hot to move. At home, autumn would be descending on Constantinople with falling leaves and shorter days, but here the sun shone and the palm fronds stayed green as ever in the still air. Only a few wispy clouds, far off on the sky’s horizon, hinted at
a changing season.

  I dropped my arm over the boat’s side and dipped my hand in the brown water. The current was stronger than I had expected; I felt a spark of pity for the rowers and their imperceptible efforts to keep us still.

  ‘No!’

  I had been staring into the knots and whorls on the river’s surface and could not see behind me. Suddenly, a strong arm reached around my chest and hauled me backwards, yanking my trailing arm out of the water. I fell on my back, paddling my limbs in the air like an upturned crab while Achard and Aelfric and the others stared down on me in surprise. I rolled away and looked back to see Bilal lifting himself off the deck and smoothing down his cloak.

  ‘What was that for?’ I asked, breathing hard.

  ‘It is not wise to touch the river.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Keeping his arm well clear of the water, Bilal gestured over the side. ‘Do you see that?’

  I looked, but could see nothing in the swirling silt. Perhaps there was a dark smudge beneath the surface, like a fish or sunken log, but I could not be sure. It might have been the shadow of a cloud.

  ‘The river is infested with crocodiles – and too many careless unfortunates have given them a taste for human flesh.’

  ‘What are they?’ I had heard the name of crocodiles, but only in the company of mythic beasts: leviathans, basilisks, griffins and the like. ‘Is it a fish?’

  ‘A lizard. Longer than a man, and with jaws that could tear a horse in half.’

  Even in this strange and ancient land, where men built mountains and the seasons never changed, it was hard to believe. ‘Do they really exist? Have you ever seen one?’