Pillars of Light

by Jane Johnson

  Somehow they had got their ropes around the prow and were pulling the Crescent Moon around. And while the smaller ships harried it, ramming its sides with the iron beaks attached to their prows, the ship he was on came up on the Arab ship, and its crew hurled grappling irons over the side and hauled themselves closer, till the two vessels collided broadside. And then suddenly the main deck of the Crescent Moon was swarming with foreign soldiers, and there was a chaos of hand-to-hand fighting as the Muslim soldiers met them in force, and the pigs charged and squealed.

  Even at a distance, Kamal could smell the foul stench: pigshit and blood, and the sweat of terrified men. The ship gave a shudder as if it too felt Kamal’s disgust, and then one of the foreign vessels staved a hole in the Crescent Moon’s starboard side. As the iron beak withdrew, taking splintered planking with it, he saw the water rush in. He imagined it, a boiling sea filling the hold, weighing it down. He watched while the ship began to list as water filled the hold; and then men were throwing themselves off the decks down into the waves, giving themselves up to the sea rather than be taken by the Franj. Kamal felt a frisson of horror, mixed with a nasty, small stir of satisfaction.

  Again and again the Christian galleys attacked, ramming their monstrous beaks into the Crescent Moon’s sides. The greedy sea rushed in and suddenly the mighty vessel foundered. Just moments later the Crescent Moon sank, taking to the bottom its precious cargo—men and weapons, and the food to sustain the city and its inhabitants.

  For the briefest moment Kamal thought of his father, of his brother Sorgan, of his sister Zohra and his twin, Aisa, no doubt slowly starving to death or dying of pestilence, like everyone else in the doomed city. And then he remembered what he had done to them, and shut all his feelings away as the Grand Headmaster had taught him to do.

  The red-haired man strode to the prow of his galley, smiling with satisfaction. Beside him stood the captain of the Trenchemere, and beside them both was Kamal Najib.

  They stared intently at the ochre city beyond, now close enough to see the blackened scorch-marks made by Greek fire and the scars made by the rams and mangonels on the east wall.

  “I see Philip has kept his promise not to take the city until I arrived,” the red-haired man said cheerfully.

  The captain grinned. “If that ship had made it through our blockade, our task would certainly have been made a great deal tougher, sire.”

  Sire.

  Kamal stared up at the red-haired figure: a giant of a man. He had felt in his bones the identity of the man even as he had given up to him his information. It was similar to the way he felt when he was in the presence of the Old Man of the Mountains, that corona of power, as if God had crowned them both in some intangible yet unmistakable way.

  Well trained in the ways of the Franj, he went down on one knee.

  “King Richard, I am yours to command,” he said, with hardly any trace of an accent.

  27

  “Christ! Another one.” Quickfinger fiddled in his mouth, grimacing foully, pulled out a tooth and brandished it at us.

  Our gums were bleeding; we had sores on our tongues and the insides of our cheeks. We were scrawny and aching in limb and joint, in no fit state to fight a determined foe.

  “Yah, get away with that thing!” I scrambled to my feet. Black stars and nausea: the ground met my face. I felt so weak it was like dying, but Ezra got me sitting up.

  “Ah, look at the two of you. Ain’t it sweet?” Little Ned gave us both a nasty look, then spat a brown streak of phlegm onto the ground between us.

  We had found him at last—or rather, he’d found us. He had been wounded in the battle near the Spring Head but had been dragged on a litter back to camp with two or three others, and on the return journey he’d taken a random arrow in the back. We’d missed him when we made our rounds of the hospital because he was face down and unconscious. How he had survived I had no idea, but it had not made him any more cheerful, and sometimes I caught him watching us with slitted eyes, as if he blamed us for leaving him. I suppose he had a point.

  Ezra brought me water and gave me a bit of jerky to chew on till I got some strength back. “I’ll fetch you something from Savaric’s secret stash later,” she promised.

  I gave her a sideways look. “Secret stash?”

  She put a finger to her lips. “I know where he keeps it.”

  I chewed on the jerky; it was so tough and my gums were so sore that it hurt like fire. It was like trying to eat my own boot, and at the rate we were going I suspected I’d be down to that soon. The winter had been terrible. I’d seen men eating grass, men gnawing on bones they had to fight the feral dogs for. The merchants profited, but didn’t they always? One of the Genoans had his stores set on fire when he refused to sell at a reasonable price. You could understand the anger, but what a waste of food!

  It had been better since then; ships were making it through the storms with necessaries. Still, the good stuff vanished at once and we always ended up with the leavings.

  King Richard had arrived on the Saturday before the Feast of the Apostle with galleys full of warriors, weapons and war machines, and a ton of huge boulders brought all the way from Sicily. My, how we laughed to watch his crew unloading that lot, staggering up from the beaches, or trying to roll the things uphill, as if they had no idea we had plenty of rock already. They said he also brought all manner of provender with him—flitches of salted bacon, white flour, a herd of Sicilian sheep. No doubt Savaric was stockpiling it against greater disaster, or eating it secretly himself. Ezra was appalled, but I just took this for granted: it was what the nobility did, thinking they had a God-given right to survive while the hoi polloi starved.

  The king also brought his newly acquired wife, some Spanish princess with an unpronounceable name. We were curious about this Berengaria. Who in her right mind would choose to come to this hellhole, let alone a sweet girl from Navarre? Quickfinger took himself off to get a look at her and reported back that she was a “reet eyeful.”

  “It’s all right for the fooking gentry, they get a nice piece of arse while all poor Enoch Pilchard gets is his own right hand.” He contemplated his palm mournfully. And off he went to find a quiet spot.

  Ezra caught my eye and I looked away.

  There had been jubilation throughout the camp when King Richard arrived: we built bonfires on the shore, barrels of wine and spirits were broken out of the stores of the newly arrived fleet and we all drank our fill and sang and danced and toasted his health and our own. Richard the Mighty would huff the walls of Acre down like the wolf in the old tale, and then, laden with the fabled treasure of the siege city, we’d be on our way to Jerusalem the Golden.

  But it had already been a fortnight and still the wretched garrison was holding out, even though we were smashing their walls by day and night with the hundreds of catapults Richard brought with him, as well as the great tower—Mategriffon—from which the archers rained death upon the soldiers on the walls. Trouble was, no matter how many of them we killed, there were always more of them manning the walls the next day. And still I couldn’t manage to hate them.

  “I seen a woman up there yesterday, I swear,” Red Will told us. “And sometimes there are children.” He shook his head. “It ain’t right, killing women and children.”

  “It’s war,” Hammer said. “Everyone dies.” He’d been angry as a banked fire since the death of his twin. On the battlefield, he was remorseless, hacking and stabbing with such loathing you could see he was killing each man as if he were the man who murdered his brother. It was a personal vendetta, a blood-oath between Hammer and the entire Muslim army. If we’d had an army of Hammers we could have stormed the world, left it bleeding and writhing on the ground.

  The big routier, Florian, came over. “There’s a prisoner exchange going on,” he said. He was looking particularly splendid: a new surcoat, or one newly washed; his biggest sword; and his helm all sanded to a high polish. Was he was out to catch the eye of a greater n
oble than Savaric now that the taking of the city was coming closer, one who would guarantee the best looting rights?

  “Why exchange the bastards?” Hammer said. “They should just execute the lot of them.”

  Florian merely shrugged. “Some of these men are valuable, fetch good ransoms. And war is business.” The way he said this was like “bees knees.”

  Hammer leapt to his feet, fists balled. “My brother’s dead, and you call it ‘business’!”

  Florian held his hands up as if to say “nothing to do with me, mate” and looked to me for backup.

  “Leave it alone, Michael,” I said.

  The use of his real name had some sort of magical effect on Hammer—he looked more like a boy than a man.

  “I’ll come with you,” I told Florian.

  A delegation of Saracens had come down from the sultan’s camp under a flag of parlay, a big contingent of archers amongst them, with their neat little horses and spiky helms and gleaming round shields, pennants fluttering from their lances as if they were out for a day at the lists. They had a hundred or so prisoners with them, all immaculately clean and glowing with health.

  The prisoners we had for exchange were a motley collection: some warriors, others crewmen and merchants. Even stripped to their underclothes, they bore themselves bravely. Our men looked rather less delighted to be returned, truth be told. “Better to be taken captive by Saladin than to be in this place,” I said to Florian, and he grinned and pointed some noblemen out to me. They were all French—big-boned and arrogant—and it didn’t take me long to get bored. I was just turning away to trudge back to camp when I saw him.

  His profile was unmistakable. Long, straight nose, angular cheekbones, hooded eyes, taller than the rest of the Saracen captives, carrying himself straight and upright. All at once, the dizziness returned. I clutched at Florian’s arm to stop myself going down. I missed my mark and ended up grabbing his sword. Florian pushed me away with an exclamation.

  The captive turned his head. His eyes widened, he took a step towards me—and one of the Templar guards lifted his mailed fist and beat him down. There was an outcry from the Saracens, who surged forward. A scuffle broke out, and then King Richard himself waded in, conspicuous by his short red hair and height, bellowing, separating one man from another, sending them flying.

  I recovered myself and was running, my knees shaky, my heart thundering. I was making good progress until someone caught me by the shoulder and spun me around. I lost my footing and went down hard.

  “I know how you feel,” Florian said, helping me to my feet. “Fuckers. See them up close and you just can’t help yourself. You want to kill them, like cockroaches. But the deal’s done. They’re all bought and paid for by the sultan.”

  I stared at the retreating backs of the Saracens, but they were too far away, and already I was questioning what my eyes had seen. But my body knew; my body was quite certain.

  It was the Moor.

  Malek stared down from Tell Ayyadieh at the scene of devastation below. The Christian campfires stretched far and wide, even down to the sea. It was as if the whole valley was on fire. They were inexorable: they stopped for nothing, not for holy days, nor sleep, nor darkness. How the gates and walls of Akka were still standing seemed inexplicable, and yet they had withstood the bombardment.

  Men and women were standing shoulder to shoulder on the walls, he had heard, as everyone took a turn to relieve the exhausted garrison. They said that children ran about gathering up fallen enemy arrows, rolling unbroken boulders that had flown over the walls to the city’s own trebuchets to fire back at the Franj; that women hurled pots of Greek fire down upon the siege towers and ladders, screaming at the invaders with such venom it put a fire in their men’s hearts.

  Were his aunts among those women? Was Sorgan? All he knew for sure was that Aisa was not. The realization of that loss yet again made him want to weep. A new swimmer had relayed the news. “A martyr,” he kept telling Malek. “A true hero of Islam, like his brother.”

  Malek did not feel like any sort of hero, not with his family dying beyond his protection, not with women fighting on the walls of his city. Was Zohra up there? Would he lose her next? He closed his eyes against the welling tears and felt again the slip of the dying woman’s silky hair across the back of his hand, the hot iron of her helmet in his palm. That image invaded his dreams at night: thick metal, fine hair, too tangible, except that sometimes the two transposed their qualities in a nightmarish way so that the hair became as thick as rope, while the armour floated as fragile as a bird’s wing, and his mind tried to wrestle the concepts back into their rightful places.

  What courage the defenders show, he thought, and felt ashamed. Ever since he had broken down over the Franj woman he had unknowingly cut down, the sultan had kept him by his side, as if it were his duty to take care of his burning coal rather than the other way round. “When the generous man stumbles, God takes him by the hand,” he’d said, which humbled Malek further.

  Their army was depleted. Taki ad-Din had left a couple of months earlier, selfishly to see to his own lands in the north-east, on the promise of a swift return, but he had not yet come back. The men of el-Adil, the sultan’s youngest brother, who had been there since the very beginning of the siege almost two years before, had also been granted leave. A fresh force had been called up from Egypt, but they had not yet arrived. Daily they lobbed pots of deadly naft into the Franj camp, causing destruction and chaos. It was to do with distraction, the sultan explained quietly to his impatient generals: to give respite to the garrison, and enable running repairs to be made to the damaged walls. It was all they could do while they waited for reinforcements.

  “Some tea?”

  He opened his eyes with a jolt, and turned to find his friend Ibrahim carrying two glasses of steaming liquid. He took one gratefully, relieved that the darkness hid his weakness.

  “What news, brother?”

  “They say the infidel lord, Malik al-Inkitar, is sick.”

  “The English king?”

  Ibrahim nodded. “Our spies say he has leonardia: his hair is falling out, and his teeth and nails are loose. He is in great pain, they say, his mouth full of ulcers, and his muscles are as weak as grass. He cannot even walk, they say, let alone fight. The French king is suffering too, not as badly, but he is of a weaker constitution.”

  Perhaps they would die, as the German king did. It was an uncharitable thought, but sometimes all Malek wanted was an end to this war, to lay down his arms and walk away. To be an ordinary man again, rather than a butcher of men. And women …

  “Salah ad-Din, may God bring peace upon him, has asked Damascus to send fruit for him. He says it will aid his recovery.” Ibo shook his head. “We’ve been spending all this time trying to kill the enemy, and yet our lord would preserve them.”

  Malek smiled. “He is the finest war leader the Faithful have ever seen, and yet he has too gentle a heart. I’ve served him a long time but I don’t pretend to understand him.”

  The next day, Malek was back on duty at the door to the sultan’s war tent when a man came running, his face and clothes covered in dust and grime, blood and filth on his hands. “There is something Salah ad-Din needs to see!” he panted.

  Malek looked him up and down. “You should know better than to come to the sultan’s tent in this state.”

  The man laughed bitterly. “I have come out of Akka.” When he spread his arms his ribs were visible through the thin cloth of his shirt.

  Malek apologized, humbled. “How are things in the city?” It was a stupid question; he regretted it at once.

  The man cocked his head, took in Malek’s immaculate tunic, his polished shield and helm, his clean boots. “It is worse than anything you can imagine,” he said. “We’re dying in droves. Disease is rampant, and everyone is starving. There’s hardly a bean left to eat, even in the citadel storehouse. It’s said that it’s best not to walk in some parts of the city at night: people g
o missing, and feral dogs—the canny ones that haven’t yet been eaten themselves—fight over bones that never came from any creature that walked on four legs.”

  Malek could not imagine his genteel neighbours so reduced, let alone his own family. Chills ran through him.

  Suddenly the man prostrated himself, forehead to the ground, and Malek turned to find the sultan standing at the entrance.

  “Please, get up.” Salah ad-Din reached down and caught the filthy man by the elbow, helped him to his feet. “Tell me your name,” he said gently.

  “I am Iskander, son of Nahr,” the man said.

  When he raised his face to the sultan Malek saw that he was younger than he had originally thought, barely more than a boy. But his eyes—his eyes were older than any eyes he had ever seen.

  “Before the war I earned my living as a dancer. Now, well now …” He looked away. “Now I do what we all must do to get by. I am sorry to come before you in this condition. Even water is limited in Akka.”

  The sultan called for a page, but the man shook his head. “You must see what we have brought out of the city.”

  Iskander led Salah ad-Din, with a number of his emirs and Malek following behind, to gather around a giant boulder. The men of Akka had rolled it out of the city, it was explained, all the way uphill to the camp.

  “This rock killed twelve people in one strike in the central plaza,” one of the Akka men said.