Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  My head felt as if it were made of lead-covered stone; I tried, but could not raise it, and the effort brought waves of black dizziness besides. I closed my eyes—only for a moment, or so I thought—and when I opened them again, my clothes had been taken away and I was now covered by a thin white cloth. My arm was still bound to my chest with a winding cloth, and what little I could see of the rest of my body was grossly swollen and discoloured; the blue-black bruises were turning a hideous purple colour. A clear fluid oozed from the places where my skin had burst from the swelling. My mouth was dry and my eyes burned—indeed, I felt as if I were being slowly roasted from the inside.

  I heard a movement beside me, and Faysal appeared; he squatted at my bedside, peering doubtfully into my face. “You are awake, my friend?”

  I opened my mouth, and made to answer, but no sound came out. Faysal, seeing my difficulty, raised my head and brought a shallow bowl to my lips. The bowl contained honey water which I drank, and it seemed to free my tongue. “Where am I?” I asked; the voice I heard was not my own; at least, I no longer recognized it as mine.

  “Lord Sadiq’s palace,” he answered. “Do you have much pain?”

  It took me a moment to think about this. Yes, I decided, there was pain—a continual, insistent pulsing ache in every limb and muscle—but I had become used to it. “No more than before,” I answered in the same husky, wheezing, unfamiliar voice.

  “The amir wishes you to know that he has sent a messenger to bring a physician from Baghdat. He will arrive tomorrow, if it pleases Allah. Meanwhile, we will do all that may be done to preserve your life. You must help us in this by eating and drinking what is given you. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  I nodded.

  Faysal sat for a moment, an expression of keen appraisal on his face; had I been a horse, I do not think he would have given much for me. “It is important to the amir that you live,” he said, as if I might require persuasion. Finally, he rose to go, but as he stepped to the doorway, he said, “Kazimain is skilled in healing. Lord Sadiq has ordained that she shall attend you until the physician comes. Do whatever she says.”

  He left me then, but I heard him speaking to someone in the corridor outside. After a moment, the voices stopped and a young woman entered the room. She carried a small brass platter with flat bread and fruit, and small brass bowls. Kneeling, she placed the platter beside me, and began tearing the bread between her long fingers.

  When she finished, she took a bit of bread, dipped it into one of the bowls, and held it to my mouth. I opened my mouth and she fed me; the bread was soft and the sauce sweet. I chewed and swallowed, whereupon the process was repeated until I had finished. She then gave me another drink, and prepared to feed me some more bread. All at once I was overwhelmed by exhaustion; sleep, like a rolling billow of the ocean, pulled me down into its dark depths. “No more,” I murmured, fighting to keep my eyes open.

  The young woman replaced the bread, picked up the brass tray, and stood. “Thank you, Kazimain,” I whispered in my own tongue.

  My use of her name surprised her, I think, for she paused to look at me curiously before turning and vanishing from my sight. That expression of surprised curiosity occupied my shattered thoughts for a goodly while—indeed, for far longer than anyone might have imagined. It was the last thing I saw, or remembered seeing, for a very long time. During the night, late and alone, I lapsed into a fevered sleep from which they could not wake me.

  48

  Alone and in darkness I wandered, a spirit lost and unaware, clouds of unknowing bearing me wherever they would. I descended to the realm of the dead, the dominion of lost souls who, in an earlier age, ended their lives in the underworld as shades in a lightless, hopeless eternity. In this state, I endured: beyond caring, beyond feeling, beyond all desire…save this and this alone: to wreak vengeance on the one who had betrayed me.

  I no longer feared death, but I refused to die while the man who had brought about my suffering still lived and drew breath. Whatever life was left to me, I would devote to avenging myself and all those who had likewise suffered and died at his hands. This I vowed with all my heart. If I was to die and endure the torment of an everlasting existence beyond God’s grace, so be it! But before I lay down in my grave, I would savour the cold solace of revenge.

  That thought flickered in my consciousness like the flame of a solitary candle. Whenever I felt myself drifting away, the flame drew me back, holding me with its feeble, guttering light. It seemed I spent a lifetime like this, hovering between life and death. I heard voices speaking in obscure tongues; sometimes I dreamed strange dreams of exotic places beneath suns of burning white. Oft-times I had visions wherein I was laboured over by beings in white robes who administered draughts of healing elixirs.

  Then one day I came to myself; awareness returned and I heard someone close beside me singing—a low, lovely voice, though the words were unknown to me. I opened my eyes to see Kazimain sitting beside me, dressed in palest bird’s—egg blue, a bag of crimson silk in her hand. The honey-yellow sunlight of a late afternoon was pouring in through a high-arched open windhole behind her. Outside, I could see rooftops—a few red-tiled and pitched, and some with bright white bulging domes like great eggs; most were flat, however, with canopies of various colours strung over ropes; many had plants, or even small trees. I saw several tall, finger-thin towers with pointed tops soaring above, striving like spears above the rest.

  From the bag in her hand, Kazimain withdrew a few kernels of barley and, half-turning, placed these on the white stone windhole ledge. Even as she withdrew her hand, a small grey-green bird appeared, cocked a bold bead of an eye at her, and began pecking at the kernels.

  “A friend of yours?” I asked. Though my voice was but the faintest gasp of a whisper, she spun round as if I had screamed aloud. She gave me a wide-eyed, horrified look and fled the room. I heard her pattering footsteps grow fainter as she ran away.

  I turned my attention to the room. It was the same bare cell I had known before: only the low pallet of carpets for my bed, beside which had been added two large cushions on the floor and a wooden stand bearing the weight of a large brass platter containing fruit, and a pitcher and jars. The walls were rose-coloured, and the floor white marble. Save for the windhole, there was nothing else to be seen.

  My injured shoulder was still wrapped, but my other arm was free, so with small, slow, aching movements I grasped and drew aside the thin cloth which covered me to get a better look at my battered limbs. The bruises were still there, of course, in their hundreds; they were deep-coloured, but they had lost the awful purple hue and were now the ghastly yellow-green tinge of old wounds. The swelling had gone, however, and the throbbing ache as well; what is more, some of the smaller cuts were almost healed over. By this I surmised that a fair amount of time had passed—days, at least; possibly many days.

  Though I possessed no recollection of how long I had been unconscious, my mind was clear. Aside from the bruises, my body felt reasonably sound. Determined to prove this for myself, I took a deep breath and pushed myself up into a sitting position. The attempt was a disaster: instantly, black flecks swarmed in my eyes, and pain seared through my head. A sound like churning water filled my ears, and I collapsed on the bed.

  A moment later, the sound of voices and rushing feet beyond the doorway alerted me to the arrival of visitors, so I quickly pulled the light coverlet over myself just as a white-turbaned man with skin the colour of polished mahogany and a nose like a hawk’s beak appeared in the doorway; he was dressed in white and wore a circular medallion on a thick gold chain around his neck.

  Kazimain hovered behind him, her dark eyes shining with excitement. Seeing that I was awake, the man raised his hands heavenward, threw back his head, and loosed a long, heartfelt paean. Then, composing himself once more, he proceeded to my bedside and bent over me. He placed a cool hand on my forehead, and gazed searchingly into my eyes. He reached down and took me by the hand an
d pressed his fingers to the underside of my wrist.

  After a moment, he turned and spoke to Kazimain, who ducked her head and withdrew from the room. Then, taking hold of the cloth, the man pulled the covering aside and knelt down, pressing his fingers here and there, and glancing now and again when I winced at the pain his probing caused. Next, he took my head between his palms, moved it this way and that, touched my chin and opened my mouth to peer inside.

  These obscure ministrations finished, he sat back on his heels and proclaimed, “Allah, All Wise and Merciful, be praised! You have come back to us. How are you feeling?”

  This he said in a soft, lilting Greek and, though I understood him quite well, it was a moment before I could make an answer. “Who are you?” I did not mean to be so blunt, but I did not think my voice strong enough for more than the simplest utterances.

  “I am Farouk al-Shami Kashan Ahmad ibn Abu,” he replied and lowered his head in an elegant bow. “I am court physician to Amir Sadiq and his family. To you, I am simply Farouk.” He raised his hands and professed himself well pleased with my recovery. “By Allah’s will, you are summoned once more to life. Greetings and welcome, my friend; the peace of Allah be with you.”

  “How long?” I asked, swallowing hard.

  “It has been my pleasure to serve as your physician these last seven days.”

  Seven days! I thought. A long time to lie at death’s threshold.

  I was still pondering the meaning of this revelation when another man, larger and darker than Farouk, entered the room carrying a brass bowl of steaming water and a roll of linen cloth, which he placed on the floor beside the physician. “A bath for you,” he said, shaking out the linen cloth into a large square. “Have no fear, Malik will assist.”

  On the whole, it was more in the nature of a trial than a simple bath. Malik, who throughout the entire ordeal uttered never a word, levered me up into a sitting position, and proceeded to rub me with the wet cloth. I am certain he worked as gently as he could, but even the slightest touch hurt, and when he raised my arm, tears came to my eyes. I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from crying out, and even so did not succeed. Farouk watched the procedure with cool interest, speaking now and then an instruction to Malik, who obliged without reply. I slowly perceived that, along with his bathing, Malik was systematically moving and massaging all my joints and limbs and would not stop until every part of me had been examined in this fashion.

  I gritted my teeth and endured, until Farouk commanded Malik to desist, and the abuse ceased. I lay back painful and aching, but refreshed nonetheless. The water with which I had been bathed was infused with lemon—a bitter yellow fruit highly regarded in the east, but unknown in the west—which imparted an astringent quality to the water which both refreshed and soothed me.

  “We will leave you in peace for the moment,” Farouk told me. “Meanwhile, I will inform Amir Sadiq of your splendid return.”

  “I must see him,” I said, my voice urgent, if slightly ragged. “Please, Farouk, it is important.”

  “I have no doubt that it is,” the physician replied.

  “When can I see him?”

  “Soon,” he said. “In a day or two, perhaps, when you are feeling better. I can tell you that the amir is most eager to speak to you as well.”

  Despite the amir’s professed enthusiasm, it was a good many more days before I saw him. Farouk visited every day, however, sometimes with Malik, other times with Kazimain. She was often hovering nearby, and it was Kazimain who brought my food each day; occasionally, she stayed and waited while I ate. I found her quiet company entirely agreeable.

  Some days were better for me than others, but on the whole I felt my strength returning. I also felt the hard place inside me, gnarled and tight, clenched like a fist full of walnuts, deep down inside where nothing could reach it ever again. Two things I kept there: my will to vengeance, and the determination to free my friends.

  My recovery proceeded apace, especially after Farouk succeeded in getting me on my feet: that was another ordeal, far more miserable than the bath, and far more painful—so much so that I fainted the first time and Malik had to carry me back to bed. Nevertheless, under Farouk’s keen and compassionate eye, I grew strong once more. My appetite returned and I began to eat with vigour. Kazimain continued to come to my room each day—it was like the sunrise to see her each morning—and Faysal looked in on me from time to time.

  Gradually, with much slow and painful exercise, the stiffness in my limbs and the ache in my joints diminished. I was able to shuffle around the bare confines of my room without collapsing or fainting. My shoulder still pained me, but I could tell that it was healing. The winding cloth was changed every few days, allowing Farouk the opportunity to examine my shoulder and arm. He assured me that no bones had been broken, and that without Faysal’s crude-but-effective treatment I would not be so well off. “You were very fortunate,” he insisted. “It could have been much worse.”

  One day, after I had expressed mild discontent at remaining in my room all the time, Farouk told me he thought it was time I saw more of the palace. The next evening, Kazimain brought a bundle of green and blue cloth tied with a wide band of red silk. This she placed on the bed beside me, departing again at once. Using my good hand, I worried loose the red silk band and unfolded the cloth. There were two garments, both thin and lightweight; the first was a long, loose blue robe, and the second a billowy green cloak like those Farouk and Faysal wore.

  As no one was about, I shrugged off my mantle and, with some difficulty, pulled on the robe. I was still trying to adjust the voluminous garment when Farouk arrived. He crossed the room to me in quick steps, picked up the band of red silk and put it around my waist, tied it expertly, and suddenly the robe felt right on me. He stepped back, raised his hands and proclaimed: “As the light hidden beneath a bowl shines out when the covering is taken away, I see a new man revealed.”

  “I feel like a very old man,” I remarked. “I can hardly move.”

  “The heat of the day has passed,” he declared. “I have come to take you for a walk.” Putting a hand to my elbow, he led me to the door and out into a low corridor that seemed to stretch on and on into the distance; doorways opened off the corridor to the right, and large, pointed windholes to the left. The walls and floors were coloured marble, and the lintels polished wood. I saw that my room was the last one at the furthest end of the corridor.

  “This is the amir’s principal residence,” Farouk informed me. “Lord Sadiq has a summer palace in the mountains, and a house in Baghdat. I am told they are both fine houses. Perhaps you will see them one day.”

  His comment awakened my latent curiosity. “Why am I here, Farouk?”

  “You have been brought here to recover your health,” he said simply.

  “So you have said. Is there no other reason?”

  “You remain here at the pleasure of Amir Sadiq,” the physician said, adjusting his answer slightly. “I am not privy to my lord’s purposes.”

  “I see. Am I a slave?”

  “We are all of us slaves, my friend,” said Farouk lightly. “We merely serve different masters. That is all.”

  We walked on—my own gait a laboured, hobbling shuffle. My legs felt as if I were dragging blocks of marble from my ankles. Eventually, we reached the end of the corridor and I saw a wide stairway leading down to rooms below, and another stairway leading up. A gentle breeze, fragrant with the scent of roses, was drifting down into the corridor from above. “What is up there?” I asked.

  “It is the roof garden of the amir’s wives,” answered Farouk.

  “I would like to see it. May we go there?”

  “Most certainly,” he said. “It is allowed.”

  Taking the steps one at a time, very slowly, we ascended to a softly warm summer evening. The sun had just set and the sky was tinted an exquisite golden hue with fiery purples and dusky pinks over hills of slate blue. The sky itself was immense, and stars were alrea
dy glinting overhead. There were other large dwellings nearby, but the amir’s was the largest, and overlooked them all.

  The palace roof was a flat expanse onto which hundreds upon hundreds of plants had been arranged in clay pots of all shapes and sizes, and placed around a raised central pavilion made of slender wooden slats woven in open latticework, and overdraped with red-and-blue striped cloth. There were small palm trees, and fronded shrubs large and small, and flowers, many of which had closed their petals for the night. It was the roses, however, that caught my attention, for the air was heavy with their fragrance, and everywhere I looked, I saw whole thickets of tiny, sweet-scented white roses, which seemed to breathe their luxurious perfume upon the evening air in silent sighs.

  While we were yet standing at the top of the stairs, there came a strange, chanting wail from across the city. It seemed to emanate from one of the slender towers I had seen from my bed. This sound waxed and waned eerily, and was quickly fortified by other chants and wails.

  Upon listening for a moment, it occurred to me that I had heard this very sound before, though I could not remember where or when. “What is that?” I asked, turning to Farouk.

  “Ah!” he said, reading the expression on my face. “It is the muezzin,” he explained, “calling the faithful man to his prayers. Come.” He turned and led me towards the pavilion where he sat me down upon a cushion. When I was thus settled, he said, “If you will please excuse me, I will return momentarily.”

  Farouk took himself a few paces away, turned his face to the east, bowed low three times, then knelt, placing hands flat before him and touching his nose to the ground. I watched him perform this curious ritual, rising now and then to bob his head up and down once or twice, before lowering his face again.

  Though I did not doubt my physician’s sincerity, his actions put me in mind of the gyrations some of the monks at the abbey would perform, with their genuflecting and kneeling and prostrating themselves, up and down, down and up, repeating the same words over and over again in a high reedy voice until they formed a meaningless gabble.