Edward breathed heavily. He began another question, but his breaking voice cut in, and all that came out was a boyish squawk. I smiled again, and got another black look for the effort. I closed my eyes and wriggled pleasurably under the firm hands of the masseur.
‘Will you tell me, at least, why you saved me from the northerners?’ he asked despairingly.
I opened my eyes and focused. I conveyed every pretence of having thought he’d gone away.
‘You can surely answer that for yourself,’ I said. ‘Wilfred and I weren’t up to the job. I needed someone to row that boat once I’d disposed of its oarsmen.’
With a gasp of rage, Edward was up and walking stiffly over to a table that held a jug of spiced honey juice.
‘Edward,’ I called sharply. ‘Edward, come back here.’ I waited, then spoke firmly but patiently. ‘Back on the Tipasa beach, you were at perfect liberty not to offer that oath of fealty. I was certainly at liberty to laugh in your face. We went through with the ceremony because there was already a bond between us. Now, your oath was of unquestioning obedience. For my part, I assumed responsibility for your long-term interests. If I don’t share with you whatever surmises may lurk in the undergrowth of my mind, it really is for your benefit. There really are certain things I cannot share with you. Please try to understand this.
‘Let us, then, leave this conversation where it so far lies, and let us not come back to it. Do you see that black man over there – the one with the beard dyed orange? Well, take a half-solidus from your purse and give it to him. If we understood each other aright this morning, he will have smuggled in a whole skin of Syria’s finest. If you are nice to him, he should give you some of it. You can mix mine with an equal volume of snow from the mountains.’
I woke from my doze just as the light was fading. There was a slip of parchment beside the bed. The messenger who’d delivered it stood wordlessly and bowed. I took it up and peered at the gold writing. Black on the yellow parchment would have taxed me in that light. Gold was quite beyond me. I’d speak to the messenger in due course. I called him over with my stick, and got up with stiff weariness. At my age, there’s a limit to what massage can do. And I had strained myself in that pool. But the smell of charcoal from the glass furnace had reminded me of the works in progress. I hobbled expectantly out of the room and along the corridor.
In the large room beside my office – I noticed the books had now arrived, by the way, and were already out of their crates and arranged in the dark racks – the workmen were still hard at their jobs.
‘Let’s see how far we’ve got,’ I said in Syriac. I picked up the glass discs, each one about five inches in diameter, and held them to my face. I swapped them round, then was about to reverse them, when the bearded craftsman gently took them back and handed them over again in the right order. I held them an inch from my face and looked through them at the golden writing. I moved them closer and focused hard.
‘Excellent,’ I said softly. The man breathed a sigh of relief. I’d not been happy with his colleague’s explanation that glass as clear and hard as I’d directed would need to be specially made, and that I’d need, until then, to put up with a bluish tinge. Nor had I been impressed with the crumbling about the edges of his own first effort with his polishing tools. But they’d worked like maniacs while I slept, and the results were nearly as good as where I’d been forced to leave off in Constantinople.
‘I suggest you polish this left one a little thinner in the centre,’ I added. I raised my voice and spoke generally. ‘I am pleased, my dear friends, with the speed and accuracy of your work. Though what I want you have never before thought to attempt, you have followed my directions nearly to the letter. For tomorrow, I want the work repeated – this time with both discs a sixteenth of an inch thicker all over. We can then polish them down with less enthusiasm. For the moment, I am pleased with this first effort, and I want the discs set immediately in a gold framework with a long handle. I suggest you measure my face, so that the centre of each disc corresponds with the centre of each eye.’
The men bowed, and one reached for his measuring rod.
‘Isn’t civilisation a wonderful thing?’ I asked Edward. I sat down opposite him and reached for his wine cup. When I’d nodded off, he was lost in his game of chasing a ball down the winding ramps to the ground, and then running back up with it. Now, he appeared to have been sitting here for some while by the open window to observe the progress of my works. He gave me a sulky look. I pretended it was all a matter of the stolen cup. I pushed it back across the table, and stretched my still tired limbs. He’d retreated back into blankness. I leaned on clasped hands and looked at him. I’d still not tell him what we were about. But I could at least tell him what I was doing here and now.
‘According to Epicurus and his followers,’ I began slowly in Latin – English being wholly insufficient for the summary I had in mind – ‘every visible object is continually shedding its outermost layer of atoms. When these strike on the eye, they produce an impression of that object in the mind. That is the cause of what we call vision. If the eye is damaged, these impressions are produced imperfectly or not at all. It seems that the conscious focusing of the eye on an object is at best a minor adjustment. The basic perception depends on an unconscious focusing of the atoms from what may be a large or a distant object into the small part of the brain that deals with vision. In the case of the aged, the eyes lose some of that unconscious focusing ability. It has long been known that water or glass can distort objects viewed through them. This may be because the atoms cast off by objects are diverted from their straight course by the dense packing of atoms in the medium through which they pass.’ I was speaking as simply as I could, and I was glad to see that Edward understood this lesson.
‘All this being so, I have decided that these accidental distortions can be refined to the point where they offset the lost ability of the eyes to do their job. I have been thinking for some years of a set of mathematical formulae that could be applied to the shape of lenses so that every defect of vision could be exactly offset. These formulae have so far eluded my understanding – on account, I am sure, of a lack of precise empirical knowledge. However, I found, shortly before leaving Constantinople, that some degree of offset can be achieved by trial and error. I am now taking advantage of the Caliph’s hospitality to push these efforts further. Perhaps, it is by such trial and error that the knowledge will grow on which some abstract, all-explaining theory can be based. But it is enough for me at the moment that I shall, before evening, be able to read for myself again.’
I snapped my fingers and called to the workman who was holding my lenses. I took them back and held them up to see out of the window. ‘No,’ I went on, ‘I’m not able to see Damascus at all through these. The shape of the city is more blurred than with nothing at all. To see distant objects, we shall need to work on some other convexity of the glass. But if I hold these lenses in the right position, I can easily read the lettering on this letter from His Highness the Governor of Syria.
‘It says, by the way, that His Majestic Holiness the Caliph has been called away by the needs of war with the Empire. In his place, the Governor of Syria invites us to a banquet to be held in my honour tomorrow evening.’ As I spoke, one of the slaves wandered in and gave me a despairing look. Keeping the door shut had confined the dust of all that I’d commanded. But I could see the charcoal smoke had caused some resentment. I wrinkled my nose at his dustpan and brush and waved him from the room. He slammed the door as he went. I turned back to Edward.
‘So, made young again by artificial hair and artificial teeth – and now, I hope, by artificial eyes,’ I said, ‘I plan to see how closely we are held prisoner in this most glorious of palaces. If possible, we shall tour the shops of Damascus tomorrow morning, and spend more of my gold on silken robes finer than the tailors of Beirut can imagine.’ Edward nodded. I could see he was still upset with me. But that would have to be. I handed the lenses back
, and wondered if my demand for ‘immediate’ work would allow me to spend all evening among my books. I’d picked up a Saracen chronicle of the last big war with the Empire that might repay my attention.
‘As for you, Edward,’ I continued, ‘I have not forgotten your own bodily needs. At dusk, a deputy of the eunuch we met yesterday will attend on you in your bedchamber. As in Beirut, I advise you to be honest about your tastes. You have arrived at an age where the physical pleasures can be enjoyed at their fullest. Do not waste this time.’
I got up and went over to the glass cutter to suggest a refinement that had just come to mind. Suddenly, I remembered the messenger. Squatting on his haunches, he’d been waiting politely beside one of the larger cutting wheels. His master deserved nothing at all – from me or anyone else. The messenger, though, deserved an answer.
Chapter 36 And Yazid wrote unto his father Muawiya, saying: The Greeks take fright and starve behind the walls of their great city on the two waters. With all the new might you have sent me, I will storm their walls. By the grace of God, O Father, before you read these words, the capital of the world will be yours. As it was prophesied, so you will sit upon the Throne of the Caesars, and the Message of God shall be spread through all the nations of the world. But the Old One al-Arik readied himself once more to snatch victory from the Faithful. To the generals of Caesar he said: Degenerate, unworthy seed of the Greeks, bearded women who never speak but to counsel rendering up our city to the Men of the Desert; yea, let me take this war into mine own hands. Old as I am, yet shall I deliver us. And al-Arik sought out one al-Inkus, a man of Syria, and gave him money, saying: Give as thou hast promised, and I will reward thee an hundredfold more. And al-Inkus gave as his father had found among the learning of the Egyptians. And the day of battle dawned, and three score and ten thousand of the Faithful prepared themselves, and the sound of their battle cry reached unto the Infidels of the North, whose own numbers were as the grains of the desert sand, and who stood on the far shore to wait the command of Yazid; and the Infidel King said: The Men of the Desert shall know victory this day; let us prepare ourselves to take the Greeks from behind, and ours too shall be the mountains of gold and precious jewels and the fair virgins that are sheltered by the walls of the City. But al-Arik stood on the walls of the City on the Two Waters, and gave orders that the great chain of defence be lifted; and from behind this there came five ships, and these five ships were as al-Inkus had been commanded to fit them. And among the numberless ships of the Faithful the five ships of al-Arik sailed; and
I looked up. I’d come across a Saracen word I didn’t recognise. And, even with my two lenses to sharpen that elaborate, flowing script, the wavering lamplight wasn’t enough for my old eyes to continue drinking in the narrative. But I’d read enough. Back in Beirut, I’d been assured that this was the standard history of the late war. It had little analysis, and the collapsing of two vast, opposed enterprises into a series of personal exchanges was a sure sign of barbarism. Even so, the writer had got his facts more or less as I’d myself let them seep out into the world. I thought back to that night meeting of the Imperial Council, where I alone had faced down those useless generals. The walls of Constantinople – ‘incapable of holding’? I’d never heard such nonsense! They’d looked down once too often over that double sea of campfires, and their hearts had died within them. Constantine himself had attended the meeting got up by his eunuchs as a common fisherman, bag of gold tied to his waist.
The Saracen chronicler was right enough that it had all been down to me. But for me, Constantinople would now be the seat of the caliphs. Scrubbed and whitewashed, the Great Church would echo to the mournful wail of the muezzin. The Danube and Rhine would already have been crossed, and, one by one, the Germanic kingdoms would be going down before that terrible cry of God is Great. Instead of all that, we controlled the seas. Instead of that, the Greek provinces of the Empire had been made impregnable. Instead of that, the Saracens had been forced into the second best alternative of expansion towards the rivers of India.
I smiled and rubbed my eyes. I’d rather have been famous as the man who’d cut taxes and controls, and humanised justice, and given land to the ordinary people and let them keep and bear arms. Perhaps I might be that after another hundred years, when my reforms had fully renewed the Empire. For the moment, there was worse than being called ‘the Old One al-Arik’.
‘You can take me to bed in a moment,’ I said in Syriac. I’d caught the faint scraping again of sandals on the tiled floor, and felt ashamed of how angry I’d been earlier. It was very late. The last time I’d got up for a piss, I’d looked out of the window. There hadn’t been a single light burning in Damascus. The moon might have shone above a deserted city. So far as I could tell, the palace itself was in complete silence. Edward must have finished with his whores and drunk himself blotto. Only I was still awake, rejoicing in the partial restoration of sight – I and some poor slave who might have been on his feet since the previous dawn. He’d only been doing his duty with those regular coughs and coded offers of boiled fruit juice. I slid a bone marker over the sheet where I’d finished, and rolled the papyrus book shut. I took up a pen and made a note for myself about my lens makers. The glass discs immediately available had all been five inches across. But the results were unmanageably large. We’d see how it went with three or even two inches. I wondered if that would make them harder to work. Unless I’d been given inferior workmen, Syrian glass didn’t seem anywhere near so good as Greek. Perhaps I should order a dig in one of the ruined palaces I’d been hurried past by Karim. If cloudy with age, old glass might not have so many bubbles in it.
‘You can let me sleep until I wake by myself,’ I said as the sandals came closer still and stopped just behind me. ‘I’ve made a list of books on this papyrus sheet. Have the goodness to give it to one of the clerks when they come in. I want-’
I did see the dark cord as it was slipped over my head. But I barely had time to register the fact when I felt the knot against my throat and it being pulled tight. There was a sudden flash of coloured lights in my head as I felt myself pulled up and backwards. I heard the scrape and crash of my chair as it went over. I heard the sharp, excited breathing of the man behind me.
Unless the cord is so thin that it cuts your head off, strangulation is – compared with most other forms of murder – a pretty slow death. But, supposing the noose is properly arranged, you black out almost at once, and there’s not much to be done in the way of self-defence. That doesn’t make you completely helpless, however. I still had the pen in my hand. Almost without thinking, I swung my right arm upwards and behind me. I hit something hard, and the pen glanced off. I struck out again and again, until I got lucky. I felt the sharp reed sink into something soft. With a cry of pain, the man moved left out of my reach, stooping down until I felt his head just behind mine. The knot loosened just long enough for me to take in a ragged lungful of air. Then it was tight again. I threw my whole upper body forward, and swung back. The hardest part of my head smashed like a club into his face. There was a shocked scream, and I dropped loose on to the floor.
You really have just moments in this sort of fighting. I knew that I had to be up on my feet and reaching for any weapon at hand. But I rolled, gasping and shaking, on the floor. I couldn’t see past the white flashes still bursting in front of my eyes. Except for the wild thudding of my own heart, I was effectively deaf. I fought desperately to pull myself together. I got hold of the noose that was still about my neck and tore it free. I threw it behind me. As I heaved myself slowly on to hands and knees, I felt my walking stick where it had fallen. I grabbed it, and, wheezing and shuddering, pulled myself to my feet.
I leaned on my desk for support and looked round. At first, I thought I’d chased the attacker off. But, no – he was on the far side of the room. He wasn’t a big man, but was young and wiry. Leaning with one hand against the wall, he was doubled over. I’d got him hard on the nose, and he was too busy wit
h blood and tears to come after me. I looked round for a weapon. The penknife was useless. Still holding on to the desk with my left hand, I raised the stick in my right. Watching it tremble and shake as I held it before me would have been comical if I hadn’t been in so much danger. I opened my mouth and tried to call for support. But, if my windpipe hadn’t been crushed by that first tug of the noose, nothing came out but a rattled croak.
The killer was now upright again. He had no knife in his hands, and didn’t seem to have come out with any other weapon beside his noose. He too was looking about for a weapon. Like me, he didn’t find much ready to hand.
‘Christ is my Saviour,’ he called in a low, triumphant Syriac. ‘My Saviour is Christ.’ There was no chance of seeing his eyes. Even so, I had the impression that he was high on the usual hashish. He smiled and went into a wrestler’s pose. He moved slowly towards me. I swung round with my stick and began rapping it hard on the desk. I hit out at my cup, and, with a loud noise, it shattered on the floor. I clutched harder at the desk and held the stick out as if it had been a sword.
‘Help!’ I was now able to gasp in the feeble voice of the very old. ‘Help – murder!’ I jabbed uncertainly at him with my stick as the killer came forward again, and pulled it back before he could take hold of it. I used the advantage as he jumped out of my way to snatch up the inkwell. I threw it at his head. I missed, and it smashed on the floor, leaving a pool of blackness under his feet.
Perhaps the penknife might be some use after all, I thought. Unlike with the oarsman, I had no advantage of surprise, and this wasn’t the murderous little instrument that Joseph had given me. But I might be able to get in a lucky cut before those strong outstretched arms got to me and closed too tight round me. The killer saw what I had in mind. He put his arms into a semblance of the praying position.
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