by Jane Johnson
He never tired of hearing about the famous rout of the Christians—how their great general Salah ad-Din had prevented the invaders from reaching the wells and water sources along their route, and delayed the battle until the sun beat mercilessly down on the heads of the infidel and all they could see behind the shoulders of their foe, stretching like a sheet of cool silver, was Lake Tiberias, that the Franj called Galilee. How the Christians had rushed into the fray with the sun in their eyes and their minds ravaged by the promise of water, and been herded and slaughtered like sheep at Eid. It was a thousand times more exciting to hear such events from your own brother’s lips than from the fat old baker or the water-seller.
“Another time, little brother. I did not come here to tell war stories.” Malek stole a look at his father, his glance resting on the telltale traces of the cruel wounds the old man had suffered in a battle with a less fortunate outcome. “How is she, Baba?”
Baltasar sighed. “The doctor says the hand of death is upon her.”
“Dr. Abas? That old fraud. Have you let Yacub of Nablus see her?”
The older man looked away. “He’s a Jew,” Baltasar said shortly, as if this was explanation enough.
“Yacub attends the Emir Karakush. The emir is known to be very difficult to please, so, Jewish or no, he must be good.”
“If he’s so good, why hasn’t he cured that damned eunuch? Tell me that!”
Malek took a breath. “At least let him take a look at Ummi. What harm can it do?”
“You’ve been away for two years, and within ten minutes of being back you think you can tell your father what to do in his own home, with his own wife?”
Malek held his father’s angry gaze for a long moment, then he spread his hands and took a pace backwards. “I am sure you know best, Baba,” he said.
Behind them, Aisa stole a surreptitious glance over the wall of the terrace. From up there you could see right over the city—the Friday Mosque, with its green-tiled roof and tall minaret, the reed roofs of the covered market and the great bazaar beyond, past the whitewashed houses of the Genoan and Venetian merchants to the boats bobbing in the inner harbour, and beyond that to the narrow spire of the Tower of Flies, rising stark against the glinting sea beyond. Somewhere down there was the house of a renowned Jewish doctor by the name of Yacub of Nablus, and he intended to find him.
A rattle of feathers broke the stillness of the air, and the black dewlap returned, wings and feet spread wide for a landing.
“Good girl,” Baltasar crooned. “What a good girl you are, Ayesha.” He had names for all of them, and could tell them apart in a second.
Aisa ran across the terrace. “Look, look! She’s carrying a message!”
Attached to the pigeon, above the red twine, was a curl of paper. Baltasar carefully teased it off the bird, but unwinding it without his missing fingers was difficult, and when he dropped it for the third time Aisa could bear it no longer. Bending his head over the tiny scroll, he squinted, then pulled back, disappointed. “I can’t read it.”
Malek peered over his shoulder, and grinned at the series of dots and dashes. Malek held it out to Baltasar and the old man laughed, a creaky sound like a rusty gate, as if laughing was a thing he had forgotten how to do.
Aisa looked from one to the other. “What? What is it?”
“He knew I was coming home.” Malek smiled, a flash of delight that brought a light to his eyes.
Aisa looked puzzled. “Is it a code?”
His brother nodded. “We devised it when I was about your age.”
“What does it say?”
“Hello from Sorgan.”
Aisa was disappointed. Then he brightened. “Will you teach me the code? Will you, Malek, will you?”
His elder brother ruffled his hair. “Perhaps, little pest. If you are good.”
That night Zohra lay awake beneath her cover on the divan opposite her mother, listening to the ragged draw of her breath. With her eyes closed, she conjured Nathanael’s dark, laughing eyes, his long, clever fingers. A thrill of heat raced through her core.
No! She must not think about him and the things they did together. He was Jewish; she was Muslim. For them even to be alone together was wrong. And if her father ever found out, he would assuredly kill them both. The honour of their family was at stake. The trouble was, it was this very transgression that made their liaisons so thrilling.
And so she lay there beneath the covers, trying not to touch herself in the way Nathanael touched her, trying not to think of the sounds he made when she touched him, trying not to think at all.
The next day she overslept past first prayer and failed to wake in time to prevent Nima soiling the bed. She had to strip and wash her mother, then quietly fetch Aisa to help her move the patient across to the other divan. After that she had to manhandle the wool-stuffed mattress out into the courtyard to be washed and then dried by the sun, which refused to come out from behind the clouds. This meant the mattress was still wet by the time the ram had to be slaughtered, and she feared the djinns would be drawn by all the spilled blood and would creep into the mattress.
Kamal came in to see his mother and threw a tantrum that she was not able to see him in the beautiful white robe Malek had bought for him. “I hate you!” he shouted at his father. “I’m not coming to the mosque—I don’t want to be seen out with you. You’re such a hypocrite! You don’t care about Ummi at all. All you care about is your goddamned pigeons!”
And then he fled Baltasar’s clutches and ran from the house, weeping.
Through it all, a pebble in a stream, Nima slept on.
Malek and Zohra exchanged glances. Her elder brother’s face settled into its habitual cast, with lines deeply graven on his brow and hollowed cheeks, and a natural expression of gravity rather than lightness. He had gone away a boy of nineteen, but he had returned a man, bearing the marks of battle—little white scars crisscrossing his tanned forearms. She wondered what would happen if he found out about Nathanael, and had to push the thought away for fear he would read it on her face.
Malek waited until Baltasar, Sorgan and Aisa left for the mosque, saying that he would catch them up, then asked, “How long has he been like this?”
“Ever since Ummi fell ill, really.” She stopped. No, it had been longer than that. Even as an infant he had been given to terrible rages, biting his twin for stealing his toys, flinging his food around if he didn’t like it. “He’s always been troublesome.”
“It’s more than that,” Malek said, frowning. “Maybe you don’t see it, because you’re with him every day, but he’s changed. There’s a nasty edge to him, a hardness that wasn’t there before. He wouldn’t have said such a hurtful thing to Baba before.”
“He’s very upset about Ummi.”
“As we all are. Especially Baba. He’s looking thin.”
“I do my best!” Zohra cried. “It’s hard running the household all on my own.” Then she, too, burst into tears.
Malek shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, well, I want to talk to Baba about that.” And before she could ask him what he meant he turned and walked quickly upstairs to change.
While the others were at noon prayers, Zohra took her frustrations out on the carcass of the ram, hacking the chitterlings out of its belly and hurling them over the washing line on the first floor roof terrace to dry. But when she came to marinate the meat for the meal, the scent of the honey ambushed her and she stood there, dazed, remembering how Nathanael had once dribbled honey over her bare skin and licked it off again with a tongue as neat and rasping as a cat’s. It had been at once disgusting and ecstatic. It thrilled her now, remembering. How could she give him up? Surely she deserved a little happiness amidst all the turmoil and gloom, a little reward for all her hard work?
The atmosphere over dinner was strained. Zohra could feel the tensions like the over-tightened strings of an oud, each word spoken striking a discordant note. Kamal had not returned from wherever he had run to in his fit
of temper, and Malek and Aisa had been unable to find him. Sorgan was carefully concentrating on his food. Even the usually irrepressible Aisa was quiet. The conversation was left to Baltasar and Malek, and it soon became combative.
“Salah ad-Din made a big mistake with Tyre, not winkling Conrad out of the city when he had the chance. He had all the luck running for him after taking al-Quds.” Baltasar refused to call Jerusalem by anything other than its Arab name.
“He could not have expected the Egyptians to be so lax.”
“Egyptians!” his father shouted. “Who would trust an Egyptian? If it hadn’t been for the Egyptians, we would never have been routed at Ramla, and I would still be in the army teaching green boys like you the way to do things!” He waved his damaged arm at Malek. “The sultan does not learn his lessons. After that fiasco everyone knew you couldn’t trust an Egyptian to do anything right. You have to give them orders three times, and then put a good Syrian in charge of them.”
“It was their navy,” Malek pointed out mildly. “You can’t just catapult your own commanders in over the top of their officers. Granted, they should have been on better guard, and not taken the words ‘night watch’ at face value, but it was a daring raid. You can’t prepare for every eventuality.”
“Hark to the hero!” Baltasar looked around the table in mock astonishment. “Seven years in the army and he talks as if he’s a veteran of thirty campaigns! Salah ad-Din lost us a navy and the port of Tyre that day. He should have stuck to his task and taken it when he had the chance. Instead he gave Conrad a year to strengthen the city’s defences, and if the bloody Franj decide they want their holy city back, now they’ve got a safe port for a beachhead.”
Malek applied himself to the communal dish of lamb and apricots. “This is very good, Zohra,” he said stiffly.
She gave him a tight little smile. “It’s Ummi’s recipe.”
But Baltasar was not to be deflected. “And on top of all that, he shouldn’t have let their so-called king go free.”
“The King of Jerusalem was ransomed for a great deal of money,” Malek said. “His wife pleaded piteously for his life.”
“Some perfumed Franj chit falls to her knees before your beloved sultan and his heart melts like sugar in tea.”
“Sibylla is a queen, and the sultan is a man of mercy. And Guy gave his word never again to draw a sword against the sultan, and always to be his faithful bondsman—”
“The word of a Franj! I’d sooner take the word of a dog! He is too trusting, Salah ad-Din, a fool.”
Malek sighed. “The Guardian of the Faithful is a very great man. I feel honoured to be one of his burning coals.”
“Burning coals! What crap.” Baltasar glared at his eldest son, then looked away. Malek clenched his hands in his lap.
Kamal did not return until the next morning. When he did it was in the company of Bashar Muallem, a narrow-faced lad Zohra did not like. She had once overheard him talking nonsense with the twins—extremist rubbish about murder and martyrdom—and he and Aisa had got into a heated argument. Bashar had picked up a stone and hit Aisa in the mouth with it, and Aisa had lost some teeth: an unpleasant encounter. But at least Aisa had had the wisdom to avoid Bashar since then.
For Kamal, however, this assault on his twin had the opposite effect: he began to dog Bashar as if he were some sort of hero. One day, Zohra had turned a corner on her way to the bazaar and found the pair of them crouched in an alley, their backs obscuring whatever creature was making small whining sounds. Had they found an injured animal? she wondered, but only for an instant. Bashar looked up, alerted to her presence, and said something to Kamal, who started and leapt to his feet. The next thing she knew a small feral dog shot past her, one eye a gory hole. She wanted to believe her brother did not hurt the animal, but all she could remember was the surreptitious way Kamal wiped a hand on his robe when he thought she was not looking.
The two boys were in the courtyard now. As she passed them on her way to the kitchen, Bashar raised his head and his eyes followed her, assessing her. His knowing eyes stripped her naked, not with desire but with a cold cruelty. His gaze made her feel unclean.
A moment later Kamal came into the kitchen. “Tea, with plenty of sugar. And some honeycakes. We’ve been up all night and we’re starving.”
She turned. “Up all night? What have you been doing?”
“Nothing.”
Kamal looked guilty, but under the guilt she could detect glee. She put her palm on his forehead. “You look feverish.”
He swiped her hand away. “I’m fine, woman. Just bring us the tea.” And he turned on his heel rudely and went back outside.
“Make your own!” she shouted after him.
In the end she made tea, but not for Kamal and Bashar. Instead, she made up a tray of tea, bread, oil and olives and the last of the baklava and took it to her father and Malek in the upstairs salon. Even before she got to the top of the stairs, she could hear raised voices. The air was hot with anger.
“It’s not a matter of what I say, it’s what sources are telling us. There’s a big army on the march under the command of the Holy Roman Emperor Barbarossa. They say it’s the largest fighting force the Christians have ever mustered.”
“If the sultan is the general you say he is he’ll stop them before they reach Antioch.”
“Even so, you’d be much safer in Damascus.”
Zohra startled so badly she almost dropped the tray. Damascus? She couldn’t leave Akka. Panic made the blood beat so loudly in her ears she could hardly make out her father’s response, and then her brother was talking again.
“Zohra is run off her feet—you only have to look at her. She’s worn out trying to run the household with no help—”
“What would you know about it? You’ve been away for two years. Zohra is doing a fine job, and the boys, they help as much as they can.”
Zohra wanted to go in, but at the same time she wanted to hear the discussion.
“Besides,” Baltasar went on, “your mother is far too sick to be moved now.”
“She would have a better chance of recovery in Damascus. I could arrange a litter to carry her, with guards to accompany you all and a doctor for the journey. The cousins will pack up the house here and keep it safe while you’re away. Until she’s better. Or, if you decide to stay in Damascus they’ll arrange to send everything to you in the city.”
Baltasar’s face darkened. “You spoke about this without my permission?”
“Do I need your permission to speak to my own cousins?”
“I am still the head of this household, cripple or no!”
There was a long, charged pause. Then Malek said, “There’s another reason. The Pisan navy has joined the siege of Tyre and is blockading the port.”
His father snorted. “Conrad’s no fool. He’s reinforced Tyre’s defences and he’ll not give the city up. The king with no kingdom will be made to sit outside the walls till his army starves itself to death and his brigand Pisans desert.” He shook his head. “Salah ad-Din should have cut the head off the man when he had the chance.”
Malek sighed. “Having offered the King of Jerusalem hospitality, that would have been a dishonourable act. It’s easy to judge the actions of the past. But Guy will need a port as a beachhead for his forces and supplies. If he decides to give up on Tyre—”
“He will come for Akka next? Is that what you mean? Spit it out, boy.”
Wearily, Malek acceded.
“Well, he won’t take it. With the arsenal and treasury here, the eunuch has made the city near impregnable. I’ll take my chances against the cur and his band of snapping dogs. We are staying put—here, in this house—and there’s an end to it.”
Into the heavy silence that followed this pronouncement Zohra stepped. Malek, looking defeated, got to his feet and took the tray.
“Thank you, sister. It’s very good of you.”
“I heard what you said. About moving to Damascus.”
> “You were listening outside the door?”
“You were shouting to high heaven. It did not take much spying! I’m not sure we can move Ummi. She’s very weak. It would be a great upheaval.”
The two men exchanged a long look. The argument was brewing again, so Zohra left them to it.
Later, Zohra was sitting with her mother, some mending lying idle in her lap, not quite dozing, when Malek came in. Her head snapped up.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He watched his mother for several long moments. Then he said, “Is there nothing you can do to persuade him to move to Damascus?”
Terror stirred again. “He’s a very proud man. He can’t bear anyone to say he can’t take care of his own family, that he needs help. He chased Jamilla and Khalida out of the house when they came bringing food for us when Ummi first fell sick. Honestly, he roared at them like a lion. But it’s true what I said: I don’t think she can be moved. Well, you’ve seen her, how weak she is. And it’s a long way, Damascus.”
She watched as he set his jaw. “Zohra, it’s not only Ummi I’m thinking about. I have to go back in a few days. It’ll be harder if I have to worry about you here. Look, I’ve spoken to Rachid and Tariq. They’ll assemble an escort and a litter for Ummi, and Uncle Omar will find a reputable doctor to accompany you. The family in Damascus will have everything else you need. But if there’s anything you need sent, Uncle Omar will arrange to have it sent on.”
“But, Baba—”
“He must choose to come or stay as he will. He’s head of the family, but, Zohra, he’s not in his right mind. Pain and grief are fogging his judgment. I must act for him. How could I ever forgive myself if anything were to happen to you?”
Zohra felt her mouth go dry. She had been sure Baba would have the last word, that Malek would bow his head to his decision. It was not her place to make her opinion heard—but what if she did not? She wet her lips. “Just look at her. Does she look like a woman who can survive even two miles in a litter?” When it seemed as if he might still press on, she said quickly, “And you know Baba will never leave. He has his pigeons. And Aisa and Kamal have their friends, and their studies—”
