by Jane Johnson
As if in a trance, I found myself walking slowly up the steps and dropping to my knees before the bishop.
That night, on our return to the dormitory, thick in the head with the gallons of ale I had drunk to drown my desperation, I found tucked carefully beneath my drawing satchel a pouch of soft leather. When I picked it up, it lay heavy in my hand. Inside were about twenty silver coins, a small fortune. Surely this was all the money the Moor had amassed for his part in our unholy charades these long months.
There was something else in the bottom of the pouch. Wrapped in a square of green silk was a heavy length of crystal hanging from a leather thong. And inside the crystal was the Nail of Treves.
10
City of Akka
JULY 1189
Zohra yawned and stretched out the crick in her back. She’d been up and working since before first prayer. She had prepared the day’s dough, taken it to the oven, made a sweet barley porridge, swept the downstairs rooms and watered the plants—all those small tasks that men could not be expected to do themselves. Then she had changed her mother’s linen, turned her, washed her, brushed her hair and smoothed rosewater over her face. Her father’s sisters had often come to offer their help with her mother, but Baltasar, too proud to admit to the extent of the disability caused by his old war wounds, had turned his face away from them.
Zohra propped her mother’s head up on the yellow silk cushion to help the water go down her throat. For the past week Nima Najib had stopped swallowing of her own accord, but just lay there, breathing through her mouth, her brow furrowed as if deep in dream she was concentrating on some insoluble problem.
She stroked her mother’s cheek, so dry and diminished, and suddenly felt a wave of anger. How could she deteriorate so quickly and leave Zohra to do everything? Nima was not an old woman, was maybe in the middle of her fourth decade, but ever since catching that fever she’d been getting weaker all the time. Zohra sensed this new phase was no longer the normal exhaustion of a suffering patient. But she was too young to die. Wasn’t she? Zohra took one of the lax hands in her own and shook it in a sort of rage. But her mother did not stir.
The call to dhuhr, the noon prayer, rang out across the city. Zohra looked through the window-grille to the city beyond. Under a turquoise sky a clutter of ochre roof terraces, seemingly piled one on another, stretched all the way to the sparkling sea, punctured here and there by slender turrets, cupolas and the great minaret of the Friday Mosque, and finally by the Tower of Flies at the end of the breakwater.
“Is she still asleep?”
Her young brother Kamal was a troublesome boy, much given to outbursts of temper—the last thing you needed in a household in which one parent was sick and the other crippled.
“Yes, she’s still asleep.”
“Is she going to get up today?” His light eyes, so like her own—more gold than brown—blazed at her.
“Maybe later, insh’allah.”
Kamal stared at his mother. “She’s drooling.”
“I just gave her some water.”
He laid his head down beside Nima’s, then jerked back. “Her breath stinks! You should give her mint leaves to chew.”
Nima could no longer chew but there was no point in saying so.
“I want her to be well again!”
“You just want her to fuss over you.” She ruffled his hair. Kamal was their mother’s favourite, despite his petulance. “Have you seen Aisa?” she asked.
At once his twin bristled. “Why?”
“I have to go to the bazaar. I thought he might sit with Ummi.”
“He’s up on the roof with Baba and his pigeons.” He wrinkled his nose. “Filthy, smelly things.”
The year before, Kamal had stolen a pair of Baltasar’s precious birds and sold them to a butcher in the souq. Only Zohra knew the truth about the missing pigeons: when she’d come to do the washing, she’d found guano all over Kamal’s sleeve. He’d sworn it was from the gulls—an unlucky hit—but Zohra knew pigeon shit when she saw it.
“I’ll watch over Mother. Don’t you trust me?”
She smiled, but he was not far wrong.
He stood there, looking down at Nima, his face dark. “If she does not get well soon, I will hate God and all mankind.”
Visiting the bazaar meant running the gauntlet of neighbours’ good intentions. There were only so many ways of saying “No change” without giving offence. Neighbours wanted to chatter about their own sick relatives, or people they’d heard of who had survived the sweating sickness. They wanted to reassure and offer support, but their kind words felt so hollow that Zohra could not face them and had taken to wearing a full veil whenever she left the house. It was not the only reason she wore the veil. Disguise was sometimes necessary.
She kept her head down and walked quickly past the friendly baker on the corner and his portly son, Brahim. Past Widow Eptisam with her eager rabbit face and darting eyes. Past the Armenian sisters who sat on their doorstep all day, watching the world go by. Past the fierce, blind imam and his stone-faced daughter, Fatima.
But now as Zohra passed the road that led to the eastern ramparts, she felt a sense of doom settle over her. Great changes were coming, none of them good. She had a terrible feeling that Ummi was not going to survive this latest bout of illness. And then Zohra would be forced to marry her rich cousin Tariq. A family must look after its own: that was what everyone said. She had no power to refuse the union. Other girls would be happy to marry Tariq; she had heard them say as much at the hammam. But the idea of being wed to her cousin, forced to submit to his pleasure, to bear his children, was the worst thing she could imagine.
She had come to the edge of the bazaar now, could see the reed roof of the qissaria, the covered market, which led into its shady depths. But instead of taking her usual route she turned aside and walked through the copper-workers’ quarter, where the men sat outside on their stools, dinging away at great pans and vessels with their little hammers. Other girls might dream of an “outfit” of kettles, pots and pans made here for their dowry, but not Zohra. She could admire the workmanship without coveting the object and all it stood for: a life of servitude.
But passing through the woodworkers’ quarter, she stopped to admire a collection of nesting bowls, very finely made and burnished to a rich honey-gold by the sun. She picked up the topmost bowl. It sat as sleek as a kitten in her palm. The band of decoration around the rim was made from a tiny mosaic of different-coloured woods arranged in a geometric pattern.
“Do you like it?” The speaker wore a complexly woven turban and had a foreign accent; the bazaar had an ever-shifting population of traders and customers.
“It’s lovely work,” she said. “But I was only looking.”
“I’m afraid we charge for that, and more because you touched the piece.”
What effrontery! She put the bowl down. “That’s absurd!”
The stallholder grinned. His long fingers picked up the bowl. He held it out to her again. “Here, take it. You won’t find workmanship like that from here to China. I’ll give you a very good price: a single qirat.”
Zohra’s eyes lingered on the little bowl. How pretty it would look full of beads or small coins. “It is a beautiful thing, but no.” There was no money to spare.
“Take it. Please. For no more payment is as valuable as a compliment sincerely given.”
She surprised herself by reaching out to take it. But he did not let go. Instead, he closed his hands over hers so that the bowl, smooth and fragile, was held between them. For a brief, heady moment she felt an illicit thrill rush through her, which somehow had nothing to do with this man, but had to do with the magical transactions that took place between all men and all women. Then she realized that the stallholder still held her hand. She pulled away.
“Just lift your veil for a moment. It is the only price I ask for the bowl.”
Zohra had been tricked. But instead of showing her anger, she laughed. What had com
e over her? Was it that he was a foreigner, a transient in the city, and almost as old as her father? Or maybe it was because she was already bound upon a dangerous adventure, one that rendered this small transgression as nothing.
Zohra unpinned the black cloth that veiled her face and looked him boldly in the eye.
The man touched his heart. “Beautiful,” he said. “A good craftsman always recognizes beauty, even when it is hidden.”
Zohra hastily restored her veil, then tucked the bowl into her basket and ran from the scene.
The stallholder called after her, but she did not turn back.
At a brass-studded door at the end of the Street of Tailors, Zohra stopped. She looked quickly back over her shoulder, then gave three sharp raps with the Hand of Miriam doorknocker. A face appeared at the window overhead, a tall, narrow window fretted with ironwork. She heard a grating sound, and then a set of heavy keys came flying down from the grille that had opened in the window’s base. Zohra made a grab for them, juggled them awkwardly and dropped them with a clang at her feet.
“Hell and salt!” Zohra retrieved them and swiftly let herself into the house, locking the door behind her.
“When did you get so clumsy?”
She looked up and there was Nathanael, sitting on the stairs, smiling gleefully, the light from above making a nimbus of the dark hair tumbling around the pale moon of his face.
“Father says the inability to coordinate is the first sign of senility.”
“I’m only two months older than you,” Zohra protested, disarmed as she always was by the laughing brown eyes that could go from candour to wickedness in an instant.
“You’re late. I thought you were never going to come.”
“Nathanael.” Reproachful now. “Don’t I always manage to come?”
A snort of scandalized laughter. “Such a temptress! Now, quickly, upstairs with you before the djinns magic you away again.”
“I can’t stay for long. There’s still the shopping to be done.”
“Ah, now that’s where the djinns are so useful. They’ve brought me chicken and saffron, figs, pistachios, goat’s cheese and rice. And those little red chili peppers your brothers like so much. Onions, honey, balsam and white benzoin. Did they forget anything?”
Zohra cocked her head. “Sometimes I think you are in league with the Devil.” She shook the contents of a pouch into her hand and Nathanael extracted a number of coins, then folded Zohra’s fingers over the remainder.
“No more? That seems a remarkable bargain!”
“The honey’s my own, and since I look after the damned bees, I’ll give it to whom I please. The balsam and the benzoin are from the storeroom. Now stop your chattering or you’ll make my little helpers hungry, and then we’ll all be in trouble.”
There were times when Zohra was convinced the doctor’s son was able to summon demons and djinns. But she could not seem to help herself; she came back again and again.
The room upstairs was in its usual untidy state. Books and scrolls were piled everywhere, gathering dust that Zohra itched to sweep away. On the shelves lining the walls were yet more arcane items: glass bottles, bundles of dried plants, stones, birds’ wings and bits of bone, even two or three skulls that made her shudder whenever she looked at them. They didn’t look human but she did not like to think where they might have come from.
On a low table in the middle of the room, paper, ink and reeds had been set out; beyond this a wide divan was spread with a patchwork of covers in a riot of hues and fabrics. Zohra made to sit down, but Nathanael took her by the arm. “Which lesson do you want first?”
“I, well, I may not be able to come for the next two days, so perhaps the letters …”
“Foolish girl, wrong answer. Must I punish you?” He pulled Zohra’s veil away, took hold of two handfuls of lustrous black hair and, silencing her with his tongue, pulled her down onto the divan, then twisted and straddled her.
Between the two of them, something made a cracking sound. Zohra drew away, feeling something sharp jab into her ribs. “Oh …” She investigated the contents of the cloth bag she wore across her body, then held the victim out to him. “It was a gift. For you.”
In her hands lay the little bowl from the woodworker’s stall. It had cracked cleanly in two.
11
The pigeon struggled in Aisa’s hands, attempting to flap its wings. He knew he was not good with the birds, not like his father or his big brother Sorgan. He was too afraid of hurting them so he tended to hold them too loosely, and, recognizing his lack of confidence, they would try to get away. Now he tightened his grip.
The pigeon stretched its neck with a squawk, and at last Aisa’s father, Baltasar Najib, could hold his tongue no longer. “Hold her gently, no need to squeeze. Like this.” He took the bird from Aisa, caging his fingers loosely around its breast, and at once the bird stopped struggling. It bobbed its head as if to bring the man into focus. The high sun lit its black neck feathers to an iridescent green tinged with pink and purple.
“She’s so beautiful. I’m sorry I squashed her. I thought she was going to escape.” Aisa stroked the bird’s head. “All those little bones.”
Baltasar smiled, and for a moment his craggy face was transformed. “Never mistake delicacy for weakness, son. Females of a species are often tougher than the males.”
Aisa frowned, uncertain as to what his father meant. He was fourteen, on the edge of manhood, but being fine-boned and small for his age, like his twin, he often looked younger. No more so than now.
“She will get better, won’t she?”
They were not talking about birds any more.
His father did not answer. Instead he turned the pigeon over and inspected its feet. The bird was a handsome creature with extravagantly feathered fetlocks. It was hard fitting a message to the thin little leg hidden amidst those ridiculous plumes, but Baltasar was sentimental about his birds and proud of their looks. He’d never trim their plumage. Besides, he always said dewlaps were the best fliers, better even than his adanas.
Aisa watched his father make several attempts to tie the piece of red wool in place and itched to do it for him. Among the many other wounds Baltasar had taken at the Battle of Ramla he’d lost a couple of fingers, and even though the bird was quiet it was a fiddly job. At rest, the tendons in his father’s hand would sometimes contract till he was left with little more than a claw. Aisa’s mother, Nima, used to massage her husband’s maimed hand for him with almond oil, but she had not been well enough to do that these past weeks, and the old man would not suffer anyone else to do the job. To pass the task to someone else—to his sister Zohra or to him—was a betrayal, Aisa thought, as if doing so was to accept that Nima would never get better.
Finished with the wool, his father cast the bird into the bright sky. “Off you go, my lovely girl.”
For a moment the pigeon hung over them, its spread wings radiant in the sunlight, then it wheeled away northwards. They watched it go till even the speck of its silhouette was invisible. By the time Baltasar turned back to his son, his eyes were wet and his voice was breaking.
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe there can be such beauty in the world.”
Aisa didn’t think the remark was meant for him, but before he could think of a response, his father had limped across the terrace and was busying himself among the nesting boxes, row upon row of them lining the shelves against the highest wall, his grey head bent over the cooing birds.
They worked in companionable silence, cleaning out the guano, sweeping the floor, refilling the seed-trays, making small repairs to the woven reed covers and perches, until a tall, spare figure appeared suddenly in the doorway. The man stepped into the light.
Aisa’s eyes widened. “Malek, Malek! You’re home!”
His brother was austerely handsome, with high cheekbones and an aquiline profile, a solemn set to his mouth, until he smiled, as he did now.
“Who is this, then? A cousin visiting
from Aleppo?”
Aisa giggled. “Have you forgotten me so soon?”
Malek pretended shock. “Aisa? No, it can’t be.”
“But it is!” Aisa felt alarmed now. Had he really forgotten in the two years since he’d last come home?
“How you’ve grown! And gained some muscle, too.”
“I swim every day. I can hold my breath underwater for a count of two hundred now. Soon I’ll be able to join Salah ad-Din’s army too!”
“You’ll do no such thing, not while I breathe.” Under his shock of grey hair their father’s face looked as if it had been carved out of wood by a man who had not yet mastered the tools for delicate work.
“Father.” Malek inclined his head, placed the flat of his hand over his heart.
Aisa could feel the tension filling the air between them. Then, as if breaking through an invisible barrier, Baltasar strode forward and wrapped his eldest son in a close embrace. “Allah be praised for sending you safely home to us!” He stood away. “You aren’t wounded, are you?”
“Sound in every limb, alhemdulillah.” Malek ran his hands down over his face, kissed the palms, touched his chest. He hesitated, weighing his words. “The fortress at Shakif Arnun is proving stubborn. I’ll not be able to stay here long. The sultan was concerned when he heard Ummi was so ill, but I must return to my duties shortly—”
“If the sultan was so concerned, why could he not have released you once the Franj were trounced?”
Malek drew himself up. “The war is never over. From one end of the empire to the other there are insurrections. And there have been attempts on the sultan’s life by the hashshashin, though praise be to God he has thus far escaped unharmed. But as his protection and his shield I must go back to him as soon as I can.”
“The life of Salah ad-Din is clearly more important to you than your own mother’s.”
Aisa looked from one man to the other, his loyalties torn. He did not understand the root of the anger between them, but he felt he must somehow intervene. He grabbed his brother’s arm. “Tell me again about the Battle of Hattin!”
