by Dan Davis
“We cannot enter like this,” I said, standing up straight and shaking Eva from my arm. Wincing in the sun, she pulled her robe tight over her face and muttered black curses at me. “Come, Abdullah, come to the front here. We must wash ourselves clean in the waters and comb our beards with sticks if we must.”
On the city-side of the river, a wide sloping bank descended into the water on the inside of the lazy arc of a bend. There, hundreds of fishermen mended their nets while remarkably large coracles bobbed upon the sparkling, wide river. Strange vessels, circular with bowed sides coated in thick, black bitumen, large enough for a dozen men. Behind them were clustered a multitude of suburban houses on the outside of the grand walls that rose above it all and stretched away for miles to either side like the ramparts of fabled Troy. Our way across the river was a pontoon bridge with a sturdy roadway raised high over the anchored boats. Though the floating bridge was thronged with tramping feet, horses and camels, it hardly swayed at all.
“Abdullah,” I said, dragging him by the arm as we crossed, “why are you dawdling so?”
His mouth gaped as he stared at the city and I believed first of all that he was overwhelmed by his homecoming.
In fact, he was staring in horror at the heavily armoured riders pushing their horses through the crowds.
They were coming right for us.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said to my company as we clustered together once more, “they cannot possibly be coming for us.”
We were promptly surrounded, seized, and thrown into gaol.
Part Five – Baghdad ~ 1258
“You still wish to become an immortal, Stephen?” I said into the darkness.
We were locked in a cell beneath the city. We Christians together in one cell, along with the two Mongols. Hassan, Jalal, and the two other fedayin were somewhere else. Whether they had been given better treatment as fellow Mohammedans or had been taken away and executed as Assassin heretics, I had no idea.
Abdullah had been taken away from us as soon as we were brought within the massive gateway through the grand outer walls. That wall was thicker even than the length of Ashbury manor house.
The riders from the city had surrounded us on the pontoon road as we crossed to the far side of the Tigris. Magnificently-attired men, all big, fine-looking fellows with shining armour and glistening beards.
“Someone we spoke to along the way,” Abdullah had said, “must have run on ahead and sent word that Franks and Assassins were coming.”
“Bloody shitting bastard Saracens,” I had cursed.
But there had been no point in fighting. We had lost most of our equipment during the journey, through one means or another. I had dropped my shield not far from the mountains and sold my precious mail hauberk weeks after that for a pittance. Even my helm, which I had been determined to keep, had been sold for the price of six scrawny chickens. All I had left of note was my sword and white dagger, and the Saracens of Baghdad had taken those from me, too.
It was not quite the arrival into the city I had been hoping for. Not by any means. Still, it did not dampen my astonishment at the sight of the city itself. All my life, I had heard of how the place was a wonder, was enormous, was beautiful. Soldiers in Outremer had spoken of the impenetrable walls and myriad towers, of how it would take an army from all Christendom to take the city. The Franciscans had spoken of it as something akin to Rome, in that it was the spiritual home of the Saracens, as Rome was to us.
Seeing it with my own eyes, though, demonstrated the limits of my imagination. It was vast. Far bigger than any city I had ever seen. The waters around it were wide and beautiful. The towers and spires jutted over it all like the masts in the ports of Constantinople, only far larger, more numerous and almost as lovely.
Our captors did not treat us with any malice. Perhaps that was Abdullah’s doing, for he had jabbered at them so rapidly that I could understand barely one word in ten, and he had spoken incessantly. The leader of the guards had hardly responded at all, and I could not tell if we were being escorted directly to the Vizier himself, or to our deaths.
In the end, we were dragged through busy guard quarters and pushed into a series of cells. The Mohammedans into one cell, and the rest of us into another. Before I was impolitely propelled inside, I saw Abdullah being escorted back up the steps into the light.
“Why would I not want to become an immortal?” Stephen replied. “Surely, that is better for me than being your blood slave, is it not? What shall my fate be now? To be drunk dry by Eva and Thomas and these two heathens, prolonging their lives while ending my own? Perhaps I would rather lose myself in the blood hunger and become a savage like those Ismaili revenants.”
I considered turning him, there and then. Giving Thomas and Eva and the Mongols one last drink by draining Stephen, then make him one of them.
But he was right, in a way. What if I was taken, and could not provide Eva with my blood? I had to keep him human so that she might not be driven mad by the hunger.
“If you want me to turn you,” I said to him in the darkness, “you must have something to offer. Can you fight for me?”
“So, I am unwise in war. But as I have shown you, I have my mind and my knowledge. I could advise you on the course of action you might take, for example, drawing on the writings of…” He trailed off, perhaps realising he sounded absurd. “I would do whatever I could,” he said, quietly.
“Which is nothing,” I said. “Nothing of value.”
Eva, beside me in the dark, spoke. “Richard.”
It was all she said. By her tone, I knew that she was warning me that I was being unnecessarily antagonistic and that I should stop bullying Stephen. She was always the more sensible one. The more rational one, less fuelled by rage, more aware of what was in men’s hearts.
One day, not too long after, Eva would be at my side no more and I would miss her presence in every way.
“But why, Stephen?” I asked, softening my tone. “Why would you want this? You know the price. You renounced your vows, did you not? You could yet take a wife. Make some sons.”
Thomas cleared his throat but said nothing, while Stephen shuffled around on the cold floor before answering. “I already feel the years slipping through my fingers. There is so much that I could accomplish, yet I am so far from where I need to be.”
“And where is that?”
“You speak often of England, Richard,” Stephen said. “And that is where my heart lies, also.”
“I do?” I asked.
Thomas, Eva, and Stephen chorused that it was, in fact, the case. Eva reached out and patted my leg.
“You said before,” Stephen continued, “that you feared what Hulegu could achieve as an immortal king. And rightly so. But what if there was a king who was good?”
Not bullying the man was all very well but I was exhausted, starving and fretting and so had little patience remaining. “You do understand that the blood could never make you into a king, do you not, Stephen?”
He sighed, almost growling in frustration. “You could advise a king. You could advise an entire dynasty, king after king, and shape a kingdom into what it needs to be. Make England into what it could be.”
“And what is that?”
“A great kingdom. The greatest kingdom. A kingdom greater even than France.”
I burst out laughing. “Your hunger has made you delirious, Stephen.” He began to protest but I spoke over him. “It is a laudable fantasy, I am sure. But you are dreaming about something so far away from where we are, that it is meaningless. Stephen, we sit in a gaol, confined in darkness. Show me your worth by freeing us from this place. You do remember why we are all here? We have each sworn to kill William, Hulegu, and the immortal Mongols who serve him. We are here in the hope that we can somehow help the Caliph’s army defeat the Mongol hordes and so complete our quest. Even if the Saracens cannot defeat them, we can use the chaos of the siege to creep into Lord Hulegu’s tents and execute him there.”
“And to save the Christians of Baghdad from slaughter,” Thomas said.
I sighed. “If such a thing is possible.”
Stephen was hurt, I could hear it in his voice. “I know why we are here.”
“Good. Now, we all know what we need to do. But, ignorant and uninspired as I am, I do not know how we might accomplish these things. Can you show me your worth and tell me what we should do, Stephen?”
He was silent.
“Perhaps you could begin by drawing on the wisdom of ancient sages to get us out of this gaol?”
His only answer was a wet sniff.
Thomas cleared his throat, then spoke very softly. His voice gruff with age. “There is no need for you to turn your frustration at your own failures on the young man, Richard.”
I was about to turn my anger on the Templar but Stephen finally answered.
“Perhaps we could pray,” he said.
“I shall pray with you,” Thomas said.
“Ha!” I scoffed. “Do what you wish. I am going to get some sleep.”
I do not know how long I slept for. It seemed but a moment before the bolts on the door slammed back and it was thrown open, flooding us in the painful glare of lamplight.
***
We were escorted with relative civility by the soldiers who came for us. They wore magnificent armour, all polished and shining. All their cloth was shimmering silk. These men were the personal guard of someone important. I hoped that the Caliph of Baghdad had ten thousand such men in addition to his other troops, but I doubted it.
It was with some considerable relief that I saw Hassan, Jalal, Radi and Raka waiting for us in the antechamber of the gaol, blinking and dishevelled from their incarceration but no worse for wear than we were. A strange thing, to feel so connected to Saracens, to Assassins, men who would have happily seen me and my loved ones dead, had we been strangers to one another. I tried to tell myself that my relief was a result purely of their utility to me as soldiers but going through such an ordeal as our journey across Persia together had helped to strengthen the bond formed in Alamut. What is more, three of them had been changed forever by their ingestion of my blood and I felt a faint sense of responsibility for them. Not as one might feel for their own child but perhaps reminiscent of the accountability one feels when one of your trusty old hounds suddenly mauls the face of a little servant girl.
The Saracen soldiers guarded us closely as they led us through the corridors, beneath covered walkways and across courtyards that resounded with the sound of tinkling fountains. It slowly dawned on me that we were weaving our way deep into a magnificent palace via the routes used by servants rather than guests. The guards barked orders at servants and functionaries we crossed along the way, demanding they stand aside for us. We climbed flights of steps and were finally ordered in through a rather magnificently gilded doorway and into a large audience chamber.
One side was open with a view onto a beautiful courtyard, with bright green trees sculpted into perfect shapes surrounding a series of small pools. The high ceiling above was supported by slender pillars of pale red marble that arched together in scalloped carvings of intricate patterns. Beneath my filthy, half-rotten shoes, the floor was a gleaming cream and grey marble, polished so highly that it reflected everything above it with remarkable clarity.
A handful of men stood at the edges in small clusters. They had the demeanour of minor lords and senior functionaries but their clothing was very handsome indeed, and I felt utterly out of place in my tattered, Persian serf’s robes. I was very aware of how we prisoners radiated a foul stench into that civilised beauty. Some of the Saracens glanced in our direction, disgust, and contempt on their faces.
In the centre, an angry Saracen lord was ruining the harmony of the space by ranting in a loud voice whilst pacing back and forth. His deep blue coat, worn over his patterned cream and white robes, flowed behind him and his huge sleeves flapped as he gesticulated. All of his clothing, including his red slippers, was trimmed in flashing gold. Over his neat, glistening beard and beneath his white and orange headdress, his dark eyes flashed and bulged.
The target of his ire was Abdullah.
Dressed as he was in fine robes, I hardly recognised him at first. And perhaps would not have done were it not for the way he bowed his head and curled his shoulders, withering under the verbal barrage from the older man.
“I assume that is Abdullah’s uncle,” I said under my breath to Eva. “The vizier.”
The captain of the guard escort whipped around and snarled an order at me under his breath. I smiled and nodded, bobbing my head in what I hoped was a subservient manner. As I did so, I took note of how he wore his sword and where his dagger was beneath his sash. Probably I could snatch both of his weapons and cut his throat before he could raise a warning cry.
Our presence was noted by enough of the men in the room that the vizier must have sensed he was losing the attention of his audience and he broke off, turning to us.
The vizier pointed at us across the room and barked something I did not quite catch.
Nevertheless, I cleared my throat, preparing mentally for what arguments I would make when called upon to do so. During the journey to Baghdad, Abdullah, Hassan and I had thought up different points that might sway the vizier into taking immediate action to defend the city, such as describing the astonishing swiftness of the Mongol assaults on the Ismaili castles and stressing the expertise of the siege engines, and the vastness of the forces coming for his city. We had practised for months, refining our arguments with the most emotive examples we could think of, all for this one, vital meeting with the vizier.
So, I was quite astonished when one of the magnificently-attired Saracen lords strode across to Abdullah, seized him quite roughly, and dragged him through the audience chamber across where we stood. The vizier watched, hands on his hips, while his nephew was removed at his instruction, and then he gestured at us again.
This time, I did understand the orders he gave.
“Take them away. And kill them all.”
The soldiers guarding us used their shields and weapons to herd us out of the audience chamber, following the lord who had taken Abdullah.
I knew that I would have to take the soldiers’ weapons, kill them, and then flee. I thought it likely I could do that but escaping from the palace, and then from the centre of the biggest city in the world would be beyond me alone. If I could free Abdullah, then he could lead me and Eva out. Thomas, too, if possible. And perhaps even Stephen, seeing as he was an Englishman and all.
As a general rule, I have always found that it is better to take action immediately rather than to wait for potentially more favourable conditions. But in the circumstances, I wondered if we might be taken to the outer city, or even outside the outermost walls to some execution field. Eva could sense my tension, and she also began eyeing the soldier’s weapons.
After a few turns through narrow and ornate corridors, our captors directed us into a walkway that had a dead end. They stopped behind us and propelled us forward. We were trapped. Cornered.
“Get ready,” I said, in French and then in Arabic.
Thomas balled his fists and stepped in front of Eva as if she needed protecting. Hassan and his Assassins spread out along the wall at our backs.
“Wait.”
It was the Saracen lord who spoke, in a powerful voice that echoed from the arched ceiling above. He pushed his way through the soldiers and stood between us and them.
“You will not be harmed,” the lord said. “I am Feth-ud-Din. I will not kill you.”
Thomas whispered. “What does he say?”
I ignored the old knight. My attention was wholly given over to the Saracen lord.
Most men that one meets in life are hiding behind layers of dishonesty. They lie to themselves about their abilities or what their station is in life and what they think it should be. Or they are confused about who they should be, what role in life they should fulfil t
he most fully. Many are deluded about how they are regarded by other men. Yet, once in a while, one will come into contact with a man who is totally self-possessed. A man who knows who he is, what his purpose in life is, what his true talents are and what he contributes to his society. These men may be a country priest, or the village blacksmith, secure in their position as shepherd for their flock, or father and contributor to their community.
As I laid eyes on the Saracen lord, I knew he was one of those. A man of robust build, with a rider’s straight back and the shrewd eyes of a soldier. The stockiness of a strong man growing thicker in early middle age while yet radiating health. There was a stillness to him, a calm centre and a hard, steady gaze.
Though he was an enemy of mine due to his race and faith, and though he looked completely different, his presence brought to mind another man who I had known; William Marshal.
I think I understood the Saracen immediately. Understood who he was.
A moral man.
“You would disobey your master?” I asked.
He turned his eyes to me, took in my filth. If he was surprised by a Frank speaking Arabic, he gave no sign of it. Perhaps because I butchered his language so terribly.
“I serve Caliph Al-Musta'sim Billah,” he said.
I fixed him with my gaze. “We have come to fight the Mongols. We have come to protect this city.”
“Who do you serve?”
“I serve only my oath of vengeance,” I said. “Against Hulegu Khan. And his keshig bodyguard and certain men of his court.”
He glanced at the others. “And who do these others serve?”
“Me.”
I caught Hassan whip his head in my direction but he had the sense not to argue. And anyway, it was not far from the truth, now.
“Why do you bring this one with you?” he pointed at Abdullah.
“He serves me, also,” I said. “He served me in Karakorum, and he served me in Alamut. He wants only to save his city from the Mongols. We had word of them during our journey, as their riders ranged about all across these lands. One day, soon, sooner than any of you think, Hulegu Khan will bring his vast army down on you.”