Siege of Heaven

by Tom Harper

  ‘I can see three at this very moment.’

  The Franks, who had been pretending not to listen, glanced over their shoulders and shifted in their seats, away from the side of the boat. But Bilal’s gaze was fixed on the far bank. With a tremor of terror I looked up, half expecting to see a trio of winged dragons snorting fire as they ripped a horse limb from limb. Instead, there was nothing – only the sloping shore and a few tree-trunks that had floated away from the shipyard lying on the mud.

  ‘Are you trying to make fools of us?’ Achard demanded.

  ‘They are sleeping at the moment.’

  ‘And do they become invisible when they sleep?’

  ‘They lie still as logs.’

  I pointed to the long shapes I had taken for fallen trees. ‘Those?’ I squinted harder, shading my eyes against the sun, but even under close scrutiny they looked nothing like the monsters Bilal had described. Their bodies tapered into what might have been snouts, and there were small bulges by their sides which could have been stunted feet, but otherwise they looked no more alive – or dangerous – than rotten wood.

  Achard evidently thought so too. ‘I have seen mice more dangerous than your monsters.’ He leaned back against the side of the boat and draped an arm provocatively over its edge – though when I peered down, I saw that he took care to keep his hand just above the water. I wondered if he was trying to goad Bilal into an outburst he would regret.

  Bilal simply looked at him seriously. ‘I hope you never have to learn otherwise.’ He glanced across to the island. ‘But I think we have admired the caliph’s shipyard long enough. There is something on shore you should see.’

  He spoke a command, and the crew hauled the boat forward against the current. The island slowly slid past, ending at a wooded point with a slim minaret rising through the trees and a dock by the water. The barge steered towards it, and soon bumped up beside a flight of stone steps. Bilal stepped out and beckoned us to follow.

  At the top of the stairs, a broad and well-paved path led between orange and citron trees towards an arched gateway. Here it was easier to believe that autumn was coming: the desiccated leaves had curled back on their stems, tinged with brown; others had fallen and lay in heaps at the side of the path. They barely rustled as we passed in the still air.

  We halted at the gateway, though there were no gates to stop us. Stone walls led away in both directions, framing a wide courtyard. A small mosque stood in one corner, and a square tower rose on the far side opposite us.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Bilal. He disappeared through the arch.

  The six of us – the four Franks, Aelfric and I – stood in silence. The heat in the air and the flies buzzing around us made a strange contrast with the dead leaves by our feet, as if we had entered a new world where seasons collided without reason. It was an uncomfortable feeling – not helped by the weight of Achard’s unblinking eyes on me.

  I had to speak eventually to dislodge that stare. ‘Do you ever wish you’d taken the vizier’s offer and returned home?’

  Contrary to what I had intended, my words only seemed to double the force of Achard’s gaze. ‘What offer?’

  I paused, wishing I had kept silent. I tried a noncommittal shrug, but Achard’s interest was as fixed as his stare. ‘Did the vizier say you could return to the Army of God?’

  ‘There seemed little purpose staying here when . . .’ In the back of my mind I could almost hear Nikephoros’ jeering laugh as I plunged towards another indiscretion. I wished Bilal would return, but there was no sign of him. I took a deep breath.

  ‘You know that al-Afdal has conquered Jerusalem?’

  ‘Of course.’ Achard’s studied indifference could not have been entirely contrived, but I noticed that for the first time he had dropped his gaze.

  I shrugged. ‘There seemed little left to negotiate.’

  ‘But you chose to stay.’

  I didn’t choose to stay, I wanted to scream. I would give half my life to be back in Constantinople now. ‘While there is any prospect of peace, we must work to achieve it,’ I said piously. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’

  Achard looked surprised. ‘You cannot make peace with Babylon – only destroy her, as was prophesied.’

  Now it was my turn to stare at him. Did he mean the abstract, biblical Babylon or the kingdom where we stood at that moment? Either way, it was a foolish thing to say, and I looked around anxiously. I did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed when I saw that Bilal had reappeared.

  ‘Come.’

  He led us across the courtyard to the tower opposite. As we approached, I saw that its walls were not the evenly cut masonry they looked from a distance, but were built from a host of different stones, which seemed to have been plundered from across the ages and hammered, chiselled or cemented into one. Some of the lower stones were carved with shocking pagan images: men with heads like birds and jackals; men bowing prostrate with sheaves of corn; crows and beetles. Others were decorated with scrolls and rosettes, and curved as if they had once framed windows or doors. One of the stones even bore an inscription in Greek, though so old I could not read it. It unsettled me to see it there amid all those relics.

  An old man in a white robe awaited us by a doorway. He bowed courteously, though there was anxiety in his eyes as he spoke to Bilal in Arabic. Whatever his concerns, I saw Bilal dismiss them with a shake of his head, and the man reluctantly stepped aside. Just before we entered, Bilal turned to us.

  ‘This is one of the most important sites in Egypt. Few outside the court are allowed to see it.’

  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 al
one 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.

  ιδ

  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.

  Afterwards, 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. Th
ey 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.