Pillars of Light

by Jane Johnson

  He was so convinced that he’d almost convinced me. Almost.

  This time the message came with a swimmer, a young man much exhausted by his ordeal. Malek aided him into the sultan’s war tent as the sun was dying. Bare-chested, he had patches of salt drying in a white crust on his skin, and all within took note of the stark geometry of his ribs. His prostration was more a collapse than a courtesy.

  Salah ad-Din raised him up with his own hands and took the oilcloth-wrapped message from him. Baha ad-Din read it aloud:

  “To our beloved sultan, Salah ad-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub, Commander of the Faithful and hope of Islam, greetings from your faithful servants Saïf ad-Din Ali al-Mashtub and Beha ad-Din Karakush. It pains us to tell you that we are so utterly reduced and exhausted that we have no choice but to surrender the city. If you do not effect anything for our rescue, we shall offer to capitulate and make no condition but that we receive our lives.”

  The sultan—never outfaced by anything—put his head in his hands. When he raised it up again, he looked deathly, his skin grey and his bright black eyes dulled. Malek felt a sharp pang of sympathy for his commander.

  “Do they not know that we have received reinforcements?” Salah ad-Din asked of no one in particular. A few days before, more troops from Sinjar and Egypt had ridden in, followed by Ala ad-Din, the Lord of Mosul.

  “My lord, they will surely have seen the levies arriving,” his brother, Al-Adil, said quietly. “But we have not yet been able to break through the enemy lines, and the emirs will be aware of that failure.”

  “The Emir of Shaizar will arrive imminently, and my nephew, too, will soon be with us. They must hold out, just a little longer. They must!” The sultan turned to the messenger. “Are you able to swim? No, don’t answer that. I know you will say you can, but it is clear to me that you are exhausted. We will send a pigeon.”

  There was a quiet muttering at the back of the tent, then Imad al-Din coughed politely. “I am afraid to report, sire, that we have no pigeon to send. None have arrived from the city this day and there are none roosting in the cote.”

  The sultan took up his copy of the Qur’an and opened it at random. He read silently for a moment, then quoted aloud, “ ‘Do they not look at the birds, held poised in the midst of the air and sky? Nothing holds them up but the power of Allah. Verily in this are signs for those who believe.’ ” He looked up and now his face was serene. “We will have faith and wait for the pigeons to arrive.”

  Sure enough, two birds settled on the cote just after sunset.

  The cavalry sprang into their saddles, and Malek patted Asfar’s flank. For once they were not holding back to watch the battle from on high. This time they would ride at the forefront of the army, and the sultan and his brother, in their desperation, would lead them.

  Down from the hill they charged, one battalion after another, with the drums thumping and the trumpets blaring, with the orange silk banners flying and with cries of “For God and Akka!” The noise of their coming was immense, a thunder in the ground and in the air, and seeing their attack, the Franj manned their defences determinedly, setting flights of arrows to fall upon them, spears and pikes to keep the cavalry at bay. Again and again the Muslim army attacked, and every time they were repulsed, the Franj infantry standing as solid as a wall.

  The sultan rode tirelessly, as restless as a mother grieving for a lost child; tears stood in his eyes as he charged from battalion to battalion, urging his men on.

  Malek saw a huge Franj warrior hold a parapet on the ramparts against all comers, although pierced by dozens of arrows. It was only when one of the naft-throwers hurled an ignited pot of Greek fire at him that the warrior fell, his body engulfed by flame. In response, the Christians killed several prisoners, covering them in Greek fire and hoisting them up on the ramparts that guarded their trenches, so that they burned like torches. Malek, horrified, said a prayer, but could not stop looking. There was a cry behind him and to his horror he saw his own people do the same with a Franj prisoner: the smoke from the two pyres mingled, rank and acrid, making Malek’s eyes water. At least, that was the excuse he told himself for the tears running down his face. And all the time the great machines bombarded the city.

  The archers darted in and out of the cavalry, sending flights of flaming arrows over the earth ramparts towards the stone-throwers and the soldiers who manned them, but the Christian archers who stood their ground seemed to have greater accuracy. One figure in particular, wrapped in a green cloak, took a bold stance atop the rampart, shoulder to the fore, a narrow target, and sent bodkin after bodkin into the ranks of the faithful from his odd long bow, each one unerringly finding its mark. Malek whirled his horse around, beating off enemies, but every time he looked back the archer was still there with a small forest of arrows planted in front of him, letting fly, bending, taking another bodkin, nocking it to his string. What coolness, Malek thought, half-admiringly. Then a Franj foot soldier came up under his sword arm and tried to haul him out of the saddle and his attention was returned to the crucial matter of staying alive. Swinging hard, he struck the man with his shield until he fell beneath Asfar’s stamping hooves.

  To his right, he could hear the sultan’s war cry. He turned in time to see an arrow graze the commander’s turban, carrying a clout of cloth with it as it flew, straight into the burning coal behind him. With horror, Malek saw his friend Ibrahim fall with a shout.

  “Ibo!” he cried in despair. “No, Ibo!”

  Digging his heels into Asfar’s barrel, he surged towards his fallen comrade, but the press of bodies was too tight, the tide of the fighting too fierce: it was as much as he could do to keep his seat. Another arrow fell close to the sultan, then another. Malek looked up and saw clearly that the green archer was the culprit, again. Suddenly wild with anger and grief, he forced Asfar through the fighting, cutting a bloody path through the Franj infantry who swarmed towards him, his sword arm rising and falling in a fury all its own.

  “For Ibo!” he shouted. “For Ibrahim!”

  He soon found he was not the only one to have identified the green archer as a menace. Malek saw another man draw back his arm and then the graceful arc of the lance as it flew through the air and found its mark. The green-cloaked figure toppled with a scream.

  That scream drove a bolt of ice down Malek’s spine. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had spurred Asfar on towards the foot of the berm where the archer’s body lay. He saw the figure try to rise, using its bow as a crutch. Bringing the chestnut around, he leaned down out of the saddle and grabbed the archer, hauling him up and over the horse’s withers with an ease that surprised, and yet did not surprise. Then he turned and charged back through the ranks towards the sultan and his cadre.

  He had never taken a prisoner before: as one of the burning coals, he had more pressing duties that banished thoughts of personal gain or strategic captive exchange, and by the time he caught up with his fellows he was already having second thoughts about his rash venture.

  But Salah ad-Din looked at the figure draped over Asfar’s shoulder and nodded his approval. “He wears the colour of the Prophet. God give him grace for he has fought valiantly, and if he must die let him do so in the ease of our hospital.”

  Twilight was falling, purpling the air, but still the Franj defence was fierce and the bombardment of the city continued. Wearily, the faithful drifted back to camp, called by the muezzin, retrieving their fallen comrades on the way.

  The burning coals delivered the sultan into the waiting hands of his anxious physicians, but still he would not rest. He paced to the edge of the bluff and stared down at the city that he would soon lose, at the fires and the stone-strike besetting its walls, at the sea of Christian besiegers awaiting their chance to sack and rape, and tears made runnels in the dust on his sunken cheeks.

  Dismissed, Malek led Asfar to the hospital tent. His captive still had hold of the deadly bow that had wrought such havoc and no one could persuade him to part with it.
At last, a tall, dark man detached himself from the other caregivers and spoke to the archer quietly in one of the Franj languages. The archer’s eyes went wide with shock and he tried to rise, but the other pressed him down gently and without struggle took the bow from his stiff fingers. The archer subsided, feebly pulling his bloodied jerkin close.

  “You have done a good deed in saving this … man,” the dark man said.

  He had a western accent, Malek noted again, and for a moment wondered if that was why he had hesitated. But something in him knew it was not the reason.

  “It’s a woman, isn’t it?” His eyes travelled over the archer’s spare frame, lingered on the torso. There was no clue there, since the blood of men and women flows the same colour, but he knew he was right.

  Half-moon eyes regarded him enigmatically. “Who knows what any of us are? We are just people, good and bad, women and men, strong and weak, believers and unbelievers—sometimes all at once. We waver constantly between the boundaries others set for us: none should judge another. But yes, this is Ezra, who once was an English woman called Rosamund, and a brave fighter in every sense of that word. Take her bow, for it is her pride and joy, and keep it safe while I treat her wound.”

  Malek took the bow in his hand. It was very different to the bows with which he was familiar, which were short and recurved, compact enough to use on horseback. This one was long and straight, as elegant as a woman. He looked from the bow to the woman on the pallet, taking in the set of her jaw, the smoothness of the exposed throat, the curve of her cheek, and felt a warmth rise in him that had nothing to do with lust. Suddenly, he felt intensely pleased that he had saved her from the battlefield, even though she had killed his friend.

  He turned and found himself face to face with Ibrahim, his arm in a sling, his face split by a gigantic grin, one eye closed from swelling. They embraced like brothers. Over Malek’s shoulder, Ibrahim caught sight of the green-cloaked archer. In two strides he was at her bedside, staring down.

  “That is the devil who nearly killed the sultan!”

  “The one that shot you, yes!” said Malek, feeling almost light-headed.

  Ibo stared down at her. “I have sons older than this one.” He looked to the tall man. “Will he live?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “Make sure he does.” A new speaker: a familiar but unexpected voice.

  Suddenly there were people prostrating themselves all around, foreheads touching the ground; even the groaning of the wounded stilled.

  The sultan ignored them. “If I had an army of men as brave as this one, nothing would withstand it.”

  Ibrahim and Malek exchanged glances. How much braver did they have to be?

  The sultan continued to gaze at the prostrate, barely conscious, archer. Then he frowned. A moment later, he bent and ran a finger along the archer’s jaw, then withdrew his hand as if burned. “A woman,” he said. He shook his head, disbelieving. “A woman?”

  Ibrahim stared and stared. Then he laughed. “You see what I mean,” he said to Malek, “about the strength of women?”

  Now the sultan’s physicians arrived, all a-bustle: Salah ad-Din had obviously outpaced them. They milled about the commander, tutting and fussing until at last, under their stern instruction, he removed his helm, turban and all, and they examined the damage impassively. The cloth was torn; the steel beneath scratched.

  There was a general intake of breath. Then, “Alhemdulillah!” cried one of the physicians fervently. “All praise to Allah for preserving your life!”

  “It seems my death is not yet written,” the sultan said, exhaustion graven in the deep lines of his face, “though I would give it gladly to save Akka. But it will take a miracle now to give the defenders sufficient heart to hold on until my nephew arrives. A miracle.”

  The tall, thin man stepped forward. “If it’s miracles you’re after, I may be able to help.”

  29

  I went to look for Ezra to say farewell before my suicide mission into Acre, but she was nowhere to be found. I asked after her and people shook their heads. “Don’t know, mate, haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

  But one man took me aside. “I saw her fall.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean ‘fall’?”

  “Big black horseman chucked a lance at her and she fell. Off the rampart.”

  “Show me where.”

  “No point. All the bodies have been buried.”

  I turned on my heel and ran to the hospital tent. But she wasn’t there either, and the lad they led me to when I described Ezra looked nothing like her. Sick at heart, I trailed back to the others.

  “No luck?” Quickfinger was sincere in his inquiry, but Little Ned gave a twist of the lips—a small satisfaction. I wished we’d never taken him on. Or that he’d never come back from the Haifa mission.

  “No sign of her,” I said.

  Hammer looked stricken. “Not Ros—not Ezra,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”

  Red Will burst into tears.

  “Christ’s sake,” said Ned, disgusted.

  Quicksilver shook his head. “She can’t be dead. Not Ezra. If she were, we’d know.”

  “You never ‘knew’ whether I was dead or not,” Ned said sourly. “You all looked at me like you’d seen a ghost when I turned up.”

  “Like a bad penny,” Quicksilver muttered. He turned his attention to me. “What time we off, then?”

  “Hour after sunset,” I said. “Be ready.”

  I tried to put all thought of Ezra out of my mind. Like Quicksilver, I could not imagine her dead. In any case, it hardly mattered, since we would surely be dead ourselves in a matter of hours.

  Our quiet passage through the camp provoked little notice, but the mood of the troupe sank at the sight of the fierce fires burning within the walls, the ragged tumble of debris beside the Accursed Tower where the breach had been made the day before and the fierce defence that continued into the night as our forces pressed their advantage.

  “What if the city falls while we’re inside it?” Will asked nervously.

  Quickfinger laughed. “We’ll just have to run faster’n the rest of the bastards heading for the treasury.”

  “Aye, and get hanged for our pains,” said Little Ned.

  “You can go back now if you don’t want to come,” I told him sharply.

  He gave me a nasty look. “What, and see the rest of you rich and lording it about? No thanks.”

  Kamal, the young spy who had been in the king’s tent, led us past the north-east salient and around into the French quarter of the camp where Conrad of Montferrat had his pavilions before quitting the siege a week earlier, having got what he wanted. As soon as poor Queen Sibylla succumbed to the same illness that had carried off her girls, he had set about pressing his claim to the Jerusalem throne, and now had reinforced it by marrying her sister Isabella. After that, Acre didn’t matter to him, he’d take the long view: sit back and let it stand or fall. “One cunt in, one out,” as Hammer had put it succinctly.

  Here we had to show Savaric’s ring to pass beyond the camp, and I had to have a heated discussion with the Frenchman who tried to pocket it, which ended with some pushing and shoving until another officer recognized our livery.

  “De Bohun,” he laughed. “Upstart.”

  I didn’t much feel like defending Savaric’s honour, especially in French, so I ignored the insult.

  “We’re on a reconnaissance mission,” I told him. “The boy says there’s a weak area of wall down near the marsh. We’ve been sent to take a look.”

  He eyed Kamal suspiciously, then transferred his narrow gaze to me. “We use deserters for target practice round here,” he said, showing his teeth.

  “We’re not deserters.”

  “If you’re not back this way in an hour we’ll come looking for you. We still have a horse or two. Don’t think you can turn Turk,” he sneered. “You may be happy to give up your foreskins, but you’ll end up losing your
heads.” And he brandished something at me that looked suspiciously like dried ears threaded on a string, worn like a baldric across his chest. I wondered how I’d not noticed it before.

  Once out of sight of the lines we darkened our skin with some gall-ink mixed with oil, donned the hooded cloaks the men of the region wore and wrapped lengths of coloured cotton about our heads—the boy showed us how. Under the cloaks we had sacks for the booty. We carried daggers in our boots and tucked into the back of our belts, and Little Ned had his throwing knives. The disguises took us back to our mumming days: we looked at one another and laughed. You’d not even have recognized Red Will under the soot and the scarf and the soot-darkened beard—even with his light eyes he looked like some sort of demon, till you saw his hands trembling.

  While Kamal was rewinding Hammer’s turban, which had already come undone, I took Quickfinger aside. “I don’t trust him, but since he’s the only guide we’ve got and none of us know the city or speak the language, we can’t afford to lose him, so keep your eye on him. If he tries to run off—well, you know what to do.”

  He nodded.

  At this point the city walls were too high to scale and the good land gave way to marsh that wouldn’t support war engines. We could see the sea now, glittering dimly under the light of a quarter moon.

  “What we going to do, then, swim?” Hammer asked the guide. I hoped he was joking; I had never learned.

  The lad turned a blank, flat-lidded stare upon him, as unreadable as a cat’s gaze. “No. Now you follow me, do as I say.”

  Hammer looked at me. “Can we trust him?”

  “You can trust me.” His expression did not change. “There is tunnel leading into what was Templars’ Ward, from when city was held by the Franj.”

  A moment later, the sliver of moon fell behind the clouds and the night became darker. I shivered. This was madness, being led by a traitor into a besieged city in which the survivors had been starved down to the bone, hating the enemy with a fierce passion. If they find us, I thought, they will kill us. And probably eat us.