Siege of Heaven da-3

by Tom Harper

  At last, when even Nikephoros’ patience must have worn bare, Bilal appeared. We had not seen him all day, though we had sometimes heard his voice in the passages beyond our room. He strode through the double doors, pushing them back with such force that the dust in the air was swept into great swirling vortices. He wore a ceremonial coat of armour whose silver scales were edged in gold, with a chain mail coif draped over his shoulders like the folds of a cowl. Strange designs were embroidered on the hem of his cloak, jagged lines that cut across the fabric like wounds. I had never seen anything like them, and they only served to heighten his dazzling barbarity.

  ‘Come,’ he said simply.

  Bilal led us through a succession of gates and tiled courtyards to a stifling anteroom where he left us for some minutes. Nikephoros paced the small room without bothering to hide his impatience, and when one of his Patzinak guards ventured a question he snarled his reply. At one point his gaze settled on me, and I quailed, but it was only to bark a reminder: ‘Heed everything the caliph says, and remember it faithfully.’

  I nodded. Whatever calm I had found in the broad waters of the sea had boiled away in our confinement, leaving only sharp crystals of misgiving. I longed for this audience to be over so that I could return to Antioch and see Sigurd and Anna — but that was too much to think about now. I squirmed under the unaccustomed weight of the robes Nikephoros had lent me: I could not understand why they should feel heavy, for they were lighter than the armour I had worn often enough. Unease magnified the discomfort. They were too large for me and too grand, though shabby enough to Nikephoros’ eyes, and I felt absurd.

  Bilal returned. Without a word, he led us back out through the door, down a short corridor, and into the caliph’s audience room.

  I had seen ambassadors received with the full ceremony of the imperial court in Byzantium: I suppose I should not have been overawed by the ritual of a lesser, pagan king. But in Constantinople I had watched from a distance, secure in the knowledge that every piece of pageantry and theatrical trickery only emphasised the grandeur of the Byzantine emperor and — by reflection — his people. Here I stood on the opposite side, and it was not a comfortable place to be. Unlike the open expanse of the emperor’s throne room, the caliph’s hall was supported by a forest of pillars, which stretched away in every direction and cast a maze of long shadows. The spaces in between were crammed with a throng of courtiers who lined both sides of the long aisle that led to the back of the room. There, raised on a stone platform beneath a domed recess, seated cross-legged on a low, bench-like throne, sat the caliph.

  Bilal led us forward. It took all my courage, and the sound of the guards advancing behind me, to follow him along the corridor of onlookers, under the weight of their strange and foreign gazes, to the open space below the caliph. Gilded lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a pool of light into which we stepped, but that was a dim hole compared to the radiance that shone from the dais above. It seemed to be bathed in sunlight, though I could not see any windows, so bright that I could hardly look directly at the caliph but had to keep my eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. It was covered in rich carpets, which in turn were strewn with the pale-yellow petals of narcissus flowers. Their ripe scent filled the air.

  Whether Nikephoros was cowed by the surroundings, or whether he had mastered his pride in the cause of diplomacy, he showed nothing but deference to the caliph. Without prompting, he dropped to his knees and kissed the ground three times. Clumsily, I and the rest of his retinue, the ten Patzinaks, did likewise. Above us, I could hear someone — Bilal? — speaking solemn words in Arabic. When he had finished, I risked a quick glance upwards. The caliph had stood. A disembodied voice drifted down from the podium, echoed imperfectly in Greek by Bilal.

  ‘Praise be to God, the Lord of the universe. In the name of God, the lord and giver of mercy, and Mohammed His prophet, peace be upon him, the caliph al-Mustali welcomes the emissaries of the emperor of the Christians. Peace be on you.’

  Still on his knees, Nikephoros responded with a recitation of titles and credentials. When he finished, I saw him darting sideways glances to Bilal, waiting for some signal that we could rise. None was given.

  ‘The emperor Alexios honours us with this embassy,’ said the caliph. His voice sounded surprisingly young for one so exalted, though the foreign language made it hard to be sure.

  ‘The emperor Alexios has always esteemed your friendship. Now he seeks an alliance.’

  The mood in the room tensed as Bilal rephrased this in Arabic. The pillars stretched away all around us, and I began to feel like a lamb caught by wolves in a forest. The caliph leaned forward on his throne, blocking out the light like a cloud covering the sun.

  ‘Who does he wish to make this alliance against?’

  Bilal’s voice was louder than the caliph’s, and the vaulted roof spun his words about so that they seemed to come from all around us.

  ‘Against the Turks of Palestine.’

  A great agitation spread through the crowd of courtiers, as though the surrounding forest had come alive in a breeze. The caliph let it build unchecked for a few moments, then hushed it with an unseen gesture.

  ‘I have heard rumours of a mighty Christian army,’ he announced. ‘Not Greeks or Rum, but Franj. What do you know of them?’

  ‘They have come from the west to liberate the holy city of Jerusalem.’

  ‘They are the emperor’s mercenaries?’

  Nikephoros hesitated. ‘His allies.’

  The caliph sat down, and let the full radiance of the invisible sun bathe his face. If I squinted, I could just make out his face beneath a white turban. His features were soft, though held fast by a furious effort of concentration. As I had thought, he seemed very young — not much past twenty.

  ‘If the emperor Alexios has so many allies, why does he seek our help?’

  ‘Because we have a common enemy.’ Nikephoros rocked forward on his knees, and I wondered if they were beginning to ache as much as mine. Perhaps that was why diplomats wore such thick robes. ‘Because the Turks have stolen their land equally from both of us. Our army is poised at Antioch to strike south; if the Fatimids could come up from Egypt, we would crush them between us.’

  This time there was no murmuring from the crowd. All waited to see what the caliph would say.

  ‘It is easy to speak of crushing the Turks — and far harder to achieve it. They have the full power of the court of Baghdad behind them.’

  ‘And we have broken it,’ said Nikephoros urgently. ‘You have heard of Kerbogha the Terrible? Two months ago the Franks routed him in battle at Antioch. Palestine is open for the taking.’

  The caliph’s face remained impassive — too impassive, I felt, for someone hearing this news for the first time.

  ‘If Palestine is laid open, why not take it yourself? Does the emperor always seek allies in victory?’

  ‘All Christians should abhor war and unnecessary killing — as indeed do faithful Muslims.’

  ‘Fight in God’s cause against those who fight you, but do not overreach yourself, for that is hateful to God,’ the caliph murmured.

  ‘The stronger our army, the less we will have to use it.’

  ‘But how, then, will you reward your allies?’

  There was an undisguised sharpness in the question. Nikephoros considered his answer carefully.

  ‘The emperor has no claim on Palestine. The Frankish army want only Jerusalem, and enough land about it to sustain themselves. For the rest, as much as we conquer can be yours.’

  The caliph clasped his hands together and pressed them against his chin. He looked down on us from his height, while the crowded nobles around us craned forward. I could not look at the caliph: my eyes ached from the nimbus of light that surrounded him, and the heavy robes pressed down on me like lead.

  ‘The emperor’s friendship is a prize for any man,’ he declared. ‘But an alliance for war cannot be entered into lightly or in haste. I will think on your
proposal, and give you my answer as soon as it is decided. In the meantime, you will stay in the palace. As. .’ There was a pause in the translation as Bilal — unusually — struggled to find a word.

  ‘As my guests.’

  ‘How was the audience?’ asked Aelfric.

  I unpeeled my borrowed robe and threw it over a wooden stool. In the adjacent room, I could see Nikephoros’ slaves pulling off his opulent lorum and dalmatica, leaving only a loose white smock beneath. I was desperate to release some of the tension of the audience, but it was not easy with a company of Bilal’s African guards stationed outside our door. And my head still ached.

  I shrugged. ‘The caliph saw us in person — he didn’t defer us with some string of lesser officials. I suppose that was good.’

  ‘Are you so dazzled by royalty, Demetrios?’

  I looked up wearily. Nikephoros had left his attendants folding his garments and had come through into our room. He was sipping a cup of sherbet, though it did nothing to sweeten the look on his face.

  ‘The king is not always the most powerful man at court,’ he said, and I remembered that in Constantinople he had been of that faction that sought to make emperors the tools of their officials. ‘The caliph has barely come of age.’

  ‘He seemed well enough in command of his court to me.’

  ‘Because his court wanted you to think so. There is only one man who commands the court, and it is not the caliph.’

  ‘Who, then?’

  ‘His vizier, al-Afdal. Nothing happens except by his authority.’ There was genuine respect in Nikephoros’ words.

  ‘Was he there at the audience?’

  ‘No. But I do not doubt he will have been watching and listening. He flatters us by granting an audience with the caliph, but it is only the first move of a long game. Knowledge is the root of all diplomacy, no less than war. At the moment, our positions are almost equal — we know as much as he does, perhaps more on some matters. But now he will lock us away — with silk cords and golden keys, of course — and starve us of information, while he learns everything he can and watches how matters develop. He will wait until the situation has swung to his advantage before he seriously negotiates with us.’

  ‘And how are we to know what is in the emperor’s interest then?’

  Nikephoros gave a savage grin, perhaps the first time I had seen him happy. ‘That is the game.’

  11

  It was not a game I wanted to play, but I no longer had any choice — if, indeed, I ever had. We lived almost entirely in the three rooms we had been allocated, and wanted for nothing except freedom. After three days we were all like caged beasts alternately sulking in corners and snarling at each other; after a fortnight we had learned to contain our passions enough to feign peace. Occasionally Nikephoros would have me write a dispatch to the emperor, emphasising the Fatimids’ hospitality and his sincere hopes for an honest alliance with them; for the rest of the time, I sat by the window, trying not to think about Anna and Sigurd, and observed the comings and goings of the palace. At first it was merely something to watch, a small corner of movement in an otherwise still existence, but gradually I began to notice patterns: the different attires and the deference each man drew, who bowed and made way for whom, which hours were busy and which quiet. Most of all, I noticed the guards. There were a great many of them: Africans like Bilal, Turkish archers, Armenian cavalrymen, and brownskinned desert-dwellers who carried short, stabbing spears. As with the Franks, or even the emperor’s armies, there seemed to be a great rivalry between the different races — and it seemed to be the Africans who suffered worst. Each time a detachment of Turks or Armenians marched through the courtyard, the Africans were forced out of the way, and if they were not quick enough they often suffered kicks and blows. I mentioned it once to Nikephoros, and drew a predictably condescending response.

  ‘Of course they beat the Africans — they are the least of races, savages worse than Franks. Why do you think they appointed them to guard us, if not to demean us? Is that all you’ve noticed?’

  I hesitated, unwilling to risk drawing his scorn again.

  ‘Which race do you see least?’

  ‘The Armenians?’

  ‘Exactly. The vizier, al-Afdal, is an Armenian, and he rests his authority on a private army of his countrymen. What does that tell you?’

  ‘That perhaps al-Afdal is not here?’

  Nikephoros nodded. ‘And that is more disconcerting than any amount of tedium. Al-Afdal would not remove himself from his capital this long without good reason. But what that is. . I do not know.’

  After that, I watched the numbers of Armenian guards more closely, for it seemed that until the vizier al-Afdal returned we would be condemned to our unchanging, stifling confinement. I never saw any change, but one day we were treated to a rare release — not only from our rooms, but from the whole city itself.

  ‘The caliph fears you may soon leave us without ever having seen the grandeur of Egypt,’ Bilal announced, with what might have been an apologetic smile threatening to overcome his serious expression.

  Evidently the caliph did not count his own capital among the grandeurs of Egypt, for we were taken to the docks on the same curtained litters that had carried us to the palace and loaded onto a gilded barge, which quickly pulled away from the wharf. The other river traffic, I noticed, steered a safe distance away from it. Looking back, I could see the southern edge of the city receding, and the arid fields beyond the walls. A little distance beyond, to the south, I saw a second city, utterly in ruins. Flocks of birds wheeled over the remains, and a few thin trails of smoke told tales of thieves or fugitives squatting inside, but otherwise it was silent, and the fleets of boats that scudded along the river ignored its broken wharves.

  I saw Bilal standing alone near our prow. ‘What happened here?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘This was Fustat. One of our great cities.’

  ‘Who destroyed it?’

  Bilal’s face creased with anger. ‘We did.’ He must have seen my bafflement, for he continued: ‘A civil war.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘Before you were born.’

  I considered this. ‘Then why. .?’

  ‘Why is it still deserted?’ Bilal gave a grim, sad laugh. ‘Before the war we had enough men to fill two cities. Afterwards, we only had enough for one.’

  We beached our barge a few miles upriver. A squadron of Turkish cavalry was waiting for us, with half a dozen camels and twice as many slaves. Though I had seen camels often enough from a distance, I had never ridden one, and I must have entertained the guards no end in my undignified attempts to haul myself onto its rolling back. Hardly was I in the saddle than the beast unfolded its spindly legs and lumbered to its feet, tipping me about like a ship in a storm. A small boy, black as Bilal but half his size, held the reins. Beside me, I could see Nikephoros suffering similar indignities; Bilal, evidently more practised, was sitting as calm as a monk in his saddle. Our Turkish escort, all mounted on Arabian horses, watched with grim amusement.

  As my seat steadied, I was able to cast my gaze slightly further afield — and gasp in wonder. Now I saw why the caliph had sent us here. A few hundred yards to the west the flat ground of the flood plain ended suddenly in a steep, stony escarpment. Atop it, looming over the river valley, I could see the peaks of fantastic mountains unlike any I had ever seen. They had no foothills, no ridges or ravines, but rose in an unbroken line from the earth. Their long slopes were so vast and perfect that surely only a god could have carved them. They seemed unspeakably ancient.

  Bilal saw my astonishment and nodded. ‘There is nothing else like them on earth. Come.’

  With the awning slung low over the barge I had not seen the mountains from the river; now I could look at nothing else. Their immensity was hypnotic, and only grew as we approached across the parched flats of the river basin. There were three peaks in total, the third a good deal shorter than the other two. For a brief moment I was reminde
d of the three peaks of Antioch — though they could hardly have been more different.

  I gestured to Bilal, riding between me and Nikephoros, and he guided his camel closer.

  ‘What are these? Churches?’

  ‘Tombs.’ Bilal raised his eyebrows. ‘You have not heard of the pyramids?’

  ‘Of course. They were once reckoned among the wonders of the world.’ Nikephoros swatted his cane at the boy who led his camel, and was obediently led nearer to us. ‘“It is through deeds such as these that men go up to the gods.”’

  ‘Did the caliphs build them?’

  Nikephoros laughed. ‘It was the ancient kings of Egypt. Long before the caliphs, the Caesars or even Alexander. Scholars say that they were built by the Jews before Moses led them out of their bondage.’

  We carried on, climbed a narrow path up the escarpment and emerged on the plateau high above the river. Once again, I was dumbfounded. Though parched by the drought, the valley’s inherent fertility was obvious; here, only a few hundred yards distant, we were in a desert, a sea of sand and dust that stretched as far as the horizon and lapped around the base of the pyramids. And rising out of it like a sea monster, straight ahead of us, towered an enormous carved head surrounded by a stone hood. I started, frightening my camel, and the boy with the bridle had to run back and calm it before I was pitched over the cliff.

  ‘That is Abu al-Hol,’ said Bilal. ‘The Father of Terror.’

  I crossed myself, and gave the creature a wide berth as we picked our way across the sands. The head seemed to be attached to a body which, if anything, was even larger — but an animal’s body, not a man’s, stretching out behind the head like a crouched cat or lion. I could just see the ridge of its back bursting out through the enveloping sand. It almost made me forget the grandeur of the pyramids, which seemed even more vast now that I could see how close we were. Until then, I had thought that no man could build anything larger than the cathedral of Ayia Sophia, but these must have been more than twice its height.