Byzantium

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  With this, Mahmoud began saying the letters of the Greek alphabet, interposing them with their Arabic counterparts. Faysal watched for a moment, then left the room with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Thus began a long and arduous grappling for mastery of what must be the world’s most insidious speech. Wonderfully fluid and subtle, it is nonetheless fiendishly difficult to utter for one not born to it.

  I might have despaired ever succeeding, but from the beginning I determined that I stood a far better chance of rescuing my friends, and taking revenge on Nikos, if I could speak Arabic. It was to Gunnar and Dugal, then, and for vengeance sake, that I dedicated my efforts. Curiously, this determination took hold in me and produced an unexpected result. For as I dwelt on it over the following days, I began to feel different within myself. This feeling festered like a boil on my soul until it suddenly burst. I remember the very moment it happened. I was standing on the roof as the sun went down on another hot, wearisome day; I was watching the dusky reds and lavenders of the sky deepen towards night, and I suddenly thought: I will be a slave no more.

  The idea shocked me with its potency. Instantly, as if a long-sealed vessel were shattered, spilling its contents every which way over the floor, thoughts scattered everywhere. Too long had I been the unwitting victim of fate; too long had I meekly accepted as my due whatever those in authority deigned to give me. Too long had I been the dupe of circumstance, the feather blown hither and thither, the leaf tossed on eventful waves. But no more.

  I will be free, I thought. Men may rule me, but from now on I will be my own master. I will act, and not be acted upon. From this moment, I am a new man, and I will do what I want.

  What did I want? I wanted to see my friends free, of course, and to see Nikos dead, or in their place. But how to do it? The answer did not emerge at once. Indeed, it took me some time to work out how it might be accomplished. When I finally glimpsed the shape of my ambition, it took a form far stranger than any I could have imagined at the time.

  Meanwhile, I redoubled my efforts at learning to speak, as Faysal had it, “like a civilized man.” In this I did not suffer alone. Through myriad blunderings, failings, mistakes, errors, and confusion, the patient Mahmoud stood by me, commending my feeble progress and patiently correcting my lapses. It could not have been easy for him to sit with me day after day, often in bitter disappointment over his thick-headed pupil’s shortcomings. Nor was it easy for me—I cannot count the times I threw myself down gasping with strangled frustration at the difficulty of making sense.

  “It is for your own good, A’dan,” Mahmoud would say gently, before adding: “The amir wills it.” Then, once I had composed myself anew, we would begin again.

  My chief and only solace through this interminable ordeal was Kazimain. She continued to bring me my meals each morning and evening—as I could not speak well enough to attend the amir’s table, Sadiq had decreed that I take my meals alone in my room. This was not a punishment, I discovered; he treated his own children the same way. I found this out some time after Farouk departed, pronouncing me well enough recovered to be safely left. Employing my feeble abilities, I spoke to Kazimain one evening when she came with my food.

  “The days are growing shorter now,” I observed mildly.

  She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed. “Soon Lord Sadiq will return and you will begin taking your meals at the amir’s table. Then you will see Kazimain no more.”

  “Truly?” I said. It was the first I had heard of anything like this.

  She nodded, her head still bent to her work.

  “If my speaking Arabic prevents me from seeing you, then I shall pretend not to speak at all.”

  She glanced up in horror. “You must not!” she warned. “Lord Sadiq would not be pleased.”

  “But I do not want you to go away. I like seeing you.”

  She did not look at me, but placed the tray of food on the tripod, turned quickly, and made to leave.

  “Wait,” I said. “Stay.”

  Kazimain hesitated. Then, unexpectedly she straightened and turned back. “I am your servant. Command me.”

  Her reply, if I understood it correctly, surprised me. “It is tedious eating every meal alone. Stay and talk to me. It will be good for me to speak to someone besides Mahmoud.”

  “Very well,” she agreed. “If that is what you require.”

  “It is.” I sat down on a cushion beside the tray, and gestured for her to join me in my meal.

  “It is not allowed,” she said. “But I will sit while you eat.” She picked up a cushion, moved it further away and sat down. “What would you have me say to you?”

  “Tell me about—a,” I could not think of the word I wanted, so said, “—Kazimain. Tell me about Kazimain.”

  “That is a tale soon told,” she said. “Your servant Kazimain is kinswoman to Lord Sadiq. My mother was the amir’s sister—one of four. She died of fever eight years ago.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” I said. “What of your father?”

  “My father was a very wealthy man; he owned many olive trees and three ships. When my mother died, he grew unhappy and lost interest in his affairs. One night when he did not come to his meal, the servants found him in his room. He was dead,” she intoned without emotion. “In our city it is said he died of a wounded heart.”

  Though I did not understand all she said, I grasped the essence of it, and found it fascinating. I had no words to express my interest, so I merely asked, “What happened then?”

  “As the amir was eldest of all his brothers, I was brought here. It is our way,” she paused, then added: “Here have I been, and here will I stay—until Lord Sadiq makes a suitable marriage for me.”

  This last was said with the merest hint of resignation—which I understood well enough, though I did not understand the word she used to describe the marriage. “This would not please you?” I asked.

  “My pleasure is to serve my lord and obey his will,” she answered mildly, but I sensed a disposition in sharp conflict to her words. Then she gave me a look of such direct and open appraisal, I saw a very different young woman before me than I had known before. “You speak well,” she said.

  “Mahmoud is an excellent teacher,” I answered. “He makes his poor pupil appear better than he is. I am only too aware of how much I do not know, and how much more I must learn. I do not think I shall join the amir’s table soon.”

  She stood abruptly. “Then I will come again tomorrow night so that you may speak to me—if that is your command.”

  “It is my…wish,” I said.

  She left the room without a sound, leaving only the slight scent of jasmine lingering in the air. I finished my meal and lay on my bed looking out at the night sky, and whispering her name to the southern stars.

  51

  Through casual questioning of Mahmoud, I was able to discover that, after one delay and another, Lord Sadiq had given up waiting for Abu’s oft-promised return, and had ridden to the south with a company of warriors—his rafiq, I was told; a word which meant companions. These particular companions however, had not been chosen for fellowship’s sake, but for other qualities, such as loyalty, courage, and skill at arms.

  Although my young teacher did not know why the amir had gone away, I reckoned it was all to do with the information I had given Sadiq regarding the treacherous death of the eparch and the betrayal of the peace treaty. Abu was still fighting the rebellion in the south, and it made sense that the amir would wish to hold council with his superior before attempting to repair the ruptured peace.

  Meanwhile, I continued to learn all I could from Mahmoud, a remarkably intelligent fellow, whose knowledge extended far beyond language to include religion and science and music. He could play several instruments and knew many songs, and composed music which he performed and sang. He read whole portions of the Qur’an, the holy book of Islam, and we discussed what he read.

  Mostly, however, we talked of ethics, a subject in which Mahmoud was
particularly adept, and which the Arabs had developed into a sacred art. Simple hospitality, for example—the ordinary care of visitors observed in some fashion by most peoples—for the Arab faithful imposed enormous spiritual obligations on both host and guest which were transgressed at great peril to the soul. The list of proscriptions, prohibitions, duties, and responsibilities was endless, and the tiniest nuances parsed to the finest hair.

  As my strength returned and stamina increased, my lessons were often conducted outside the walls of the amir’s palace. Mahmoud took me into the city where we wandered the streets and talked about what we saw. This allowed me the opportunity to question him on the things I found puzzling about Arab ways. We always had much to discuss.

  Oddly, the more I questioned, the less I understood; I came to suspect that my questions only served to expose the vast chasm of difference between the Eastern and Western mind that could not be observed from a distance. The life Mahmoud revealed to me was strange in many hundreds of ways, and I began to believe that any similarities between East and West were purely accidental, and not an affirmation of a common humanity. Certain resemblances or affinities of thought I might perceive in the Eastern races were likely to be my own invention; for upon closer scrutiny the imagined similarity was sure to alter beyond recognition, or disappear altogether.

  This conclusion, however, was long in coming. I did not hold this view when wandering the streets with Mahmoud. It is always my fate to arrive at a thing too late. To think of the suffering I might have saved shames me now. Still, if I was ignorant—and, oh, I was—at least I was innocent in my ignorance. Pray, remember this.

  My first impression of Ja’fariya was of immense wealth; the place was less a city than a congregation of palaces, each more ostentatious than the last. It had been built on the banks of the Tigris river by Caliph al’Mutawakkil to escape the closeness and squalor of Samarra, which itself had been built by Caliph al’Mutasim to escape the closeness and squalor of Baghdat, a few days’ journey down river. Samarra, mere shouting distance to the south of its lavish neighbour, was larger and only slightly less extravagant and, save for housing the caliphs and their noblemen, served in every other respect as the official centre of government.

  Clearly, no expense had been spared by the caliphs on their pleasure homes, or on those works they deemed best able to bring them credit in the eyes of men and Allah. The Great Mosq of Samarra, for example, had been conceived with an eye toward dwarfing all other rivals. From what Mahmoud told me, I reckoned that it had achieved the aim of its patron admirably well. He took me to the mosq on one of our rambles.

  “Behold!” he cried, raising a hand to the edifice upon our approach. “The walls you see before you are eight hundred paces long and five hundred wide; they sit on foundations thick as ten men standing shoulder to shoulder. Forty towers crown the wall-top, and the inner yard alone can contain a hundred thousand faithful and fifty thousand can pray inside! The minaret is unique in all the world. Come, A’dan, I will show you.”

  With that, we stepped through a huge wooden door set in an even greater timber door which formed half of the pair which made an absolutely gigantic gate. There were two men in white turbans standing just inside the door; they wore long white robes with wide belts of red cloth wrapped around their waists many times. Into their belts were thrust the curious curved thin swords of the Arabs. They regarded us impassively, and allowed us to pass without a word.

  “Since the rebellion began,” Mahmoud whispered as we moved away quickly, “the mosqs are guarded at all times.”

  He led me into the immense inner yard: a vast and virtually empty square within the many-towered walls enclosing only the hall of prayer and the minaret which, as he said, was certainly exceptional. “The khalifa was inordinately fond of Babylon’s ancient artifacts,” Mahmoud informed me. Indicating the steps spiralling up the outside of the prayer tower, he said, “Al’Mutasim copied his design for the prayer tower from the ruins of ziggurats which abound in the south.” Mahmoud gazed in admiration at the towering minaret, then added, in a tone that left no doubt regarding the caliph’s madness, “He liked to ride to the top of his tower on the back of a white donkey. He kept a herd of white donkeys solely for this purpose.”

  Turning away from the minaret, we moved towards a low stone basin standing in the centre of the yard; this basin, though shallow, was fully large enough to hold the entire population of Ja’fariya, and was filled with water which swirled about the stone rim where people sat washing their hands and feet before going into the prayer hall.

  “The pool,” explained Mahmoud, dipping his hands into the running water, “is continually replenished by fresh water from the river in such a way as to make it flow. Washing is sacred to Islam, and standing water is unclean. Therefore, the water in the pool must flow.”

  A large circular plinth sat near the basin, a bronze spike projecting from its surface. Though its prominence suggested some importance, I could perceive no use for the massive object. “This is the Divider of the Hours,” he said when I asked what it could be. “I will show you.”

  Stepping to the plinth, I saw that the face of the thing was uniformly flat, and inscribed with a bewildering array of lines both straight and curved which had been etched into the stone. “Heaven’s light strikes the marker;” Mahmoud touched the bronze spike, “the shadow falls upon the line,” he indicated one of the series of lines, “and as the sun moves the shadow moves, dividing out the hours of the day. By this the muezzin knows when it is time to mount the minaret and make the call to prayer.”

  “A sun dial,” I murmured. I had heard of them, but I had never seen one—not even in Constantinople. The Christian monks in sunny climes could make good use of such a device to reckon the times of prayer, regularly spacing them throughout the day, summer or winter. But then, I reflected, I was no longer a monk and held no interest in the problems of abbey governance and the daily round.

  “Come, I will take you into the prayer hall now.”

  “Is it permitted?” I was still finding the intricate assortment of prohibitions and allowances entirely baffling; it was impossible to guess what might be permitted or denied.

  “Certainly,” Mahmoud assured me. “All men are welcome in the house of prayer, Muslim and Christian alike. The same God hears our prayers, does he not?”

  Mahmoud led me back to the basin where we washed our hands and feet, then proceeded to the hall where we were met by more white-turbaned guards, who regarded us closely, but made no move to hinder us in any way. We lay our sandals alongside those of many others on grass mats provided for the purpose at the doorway. The entrance to the hall was closed, not by a wooden door, but by a heavy green cloth with an Arabic word sewn in yellow.

  Mahmoud took hold of the edge of the cloth and drew it back, beckoning me to enter. I stooped under the cloth and found myself in a cavernous dark space, the darkness pierced by shafts of blue light from small round windholes high in the upper reaches of the hall.

  The air was still and cool, and I could hear the murmur of voices like the insect drone in an orchard. Owing to the brightness of the sun outside, it was some moments before my eyes adjusted and I could see properly, but the impression of a grove only deepened; before me marched row upon row of slender pillars, like gently tapering trees, their boles illumined by moonlight.

  I took a few hesitant steps and felt as if I were walking on cushions; looking down, I saw that the great expanse of floor was spread with carpets—thousands of them—from one wall to the other, thick like moss grown deep on a forest floor.

  Soon I was able to make out the forms of people kneeling or standing here and there. A low wooden beam, like a ship’s rail, provided a boundary to the right and left. “Go in, go in,” urged Mahmoud softly. “Only women must stay behind the rail.”

  Indeed, there were, I noticed, a few women kneeling in the area provided for them; they wore their shawls over their heads and knelt low so as to disappear. Mahmoud and
I passed deeper into the hall, and proceeded towards the place where, in a Christian church, the altar would have been. Here there was no altar, however, nor any other sort of furniture; the only feature to distinguish the place from the rest of the hall was an empty niche, the qiblah, Mahmoud told me. “Kneeling thus,” he indicated the niche, “we set our faces towards Makka, the holy city.”

  “What is the significance of this city?” I asked.

  “From the beginning of time it is a holy place—the place of the Ka’aba, the House of God built by the Prophet Ibrahim,” replied my teacher. “For the Faithful, Makka is the centre of the world. It is also the birthplace of the Blessed Prophet, peace be upon him, and the place where he was called and consecrated to his work. It is the destination of the Hajj.”

  I had never heard this word before, and asked what it was. Mahmoud thought for some moments before answering. “The Hajj is a journey,” he said. “But unlike other journeys a man may make, it is both physical and spiritual at the same time, a journey of the body for the good of the soul.”

  “A pilgrimage,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” he allowed ambiguously. “For the Faithful, it is this way: when a man comes to his maturity, he begins to prepare himself for the Hajj. Depending on the man, and where he lives, this preparation may take many years. But one day he orders his affairs and sets out on his way to Makka. When he arrives, he will perform the sacred rituals of our faith: he will perform the Greater Hajj and the Lesser Hajj; he will drink water from the Well of Zamzam, and make sacrifices on the plain of Min; he will make progression seven times around the Ka’aba and go inside to kiss the sacred Black Stone. These things, and others, he will do, as all the Faithful must do, if they are to stand ready before God on the Day of Judgement.

  “So,” concluded Mahmoud, “when we pray, we face Makka out of respect for this holy place, and to remind ourselves of the journey we must all one day make.”