Siege of Heaven da-3

by Tom Harper

‘Then the tomb must be empty. But your priests still offer their prayers here.’

  I looked up at the walls again, thinking of the other, greater sepulchre within. If we ever reached it, we would find that lying empty too. A desolation swept over me, a feeling of terrible absence. I suddenly knew in my heart that God had departed this place, that these half-buried tombs were nothing more than fossils, footprints left in the clay where He had once walked. ‘So many deserted tombs.’

  ‘Even the dead cannot bear to stay here,’ said Bilal. I could not tell if he was joking.

  ‘If your cavalry had not kidnapped my family, I would never have come.’ It was an unfair thing to say, perhaps, but it seemed to pierce the curtain that had descended between us again. Bilal thought for a moment.

  ‘We cannot speak to each other in innocence, but I will tell you this. If you ever have cause to use it, I will be in God’s hands. You have seen the Noble Sanctuary on the mountain top?’

  ‘The great courtyard with the octagonal church?’

  ‘It is a shrine, not a church,’ said Bilal irritably. ‘It was built by the caliph to mark the place where the Prophet, peace be upon him, ascended to heaven.’

  ‘It is a church, built by Byzantines to mark the place where Solomon’s temple stood and where Abraham went to sacrifice Isaac,’ I retorted, repeating what I had heard from pilgrims. ‘It is called the Temple of the Lord.’

  ‘For the moment it is called the Dome of the Rock. God willing, it will be for ever. But if the day comes when it is not, then your family will be in as much danger as me. So listen. Beyond the Noble Sanctuary lies a valley that divides the two hills, Mount Moriah and Mount Zion. A stone bridge crosses over it. On the far side of the bridge the street runs west, to a corner where two tamarisk trees grow. If you go right, there is a house with an iron amulet in the shape of a hand nailed to its door.’ He held up his own hand, palm out. ‘That is where you will find your family — if you take the city.’

  ‘Do you really think it so unlikely?’

  Bilal shook his head — though whether to answer my question or to deny it I could not tell.

  ‘I will send for the king of Babylon,’ Bilal murmured. ‘I will bring him against this land and its people and I will destroy them utterly. The whole land shall become a ruin, a waste, and its people will be his slaves.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I heard Achard say it, when we came here on our way north from Egypt. He said it was an ancient prophecy.’

  ‘It comes from the prophet Jeremiah.’

  ‘Then perhaps it is true.’ Bilal turned away. ‘I must go — I have already been away too long. Malchus will take you back to your camp.’ He whistled, and the youth emerged from the darkness where he had waited.

  ‘Goodbye, Demetrios. I would say I hope we meet again, but I fear it will be a terrible day if ever we do.’ He considered this for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Allahu a’alam. God knows all things best.’

  He climbed the cracked steps out of the sunken church and vanished into the night. There were no Franks watching this part of the city — the ground was too steep, their numbers too few — and I supposed he would slip in through one of the gates easily enough. Even so, I delayed a few minutes lest anybody see us together. While I waited, I lowered myself to my knees and offered a few, heartfelt prayers — thanks that my family were safe, and intercessions for those who had died that day. Above all, I prayed that all those I loved would escape that place where God had gathered them. Those were the prayers that tested my faith the hardest.

  The night was warm, and I had been awake since well before dawn. I must have prayed longer than I thought, for eventually I felt an arm shaking my shoulder and opened my eyes with a start. The youth was looking down on me.

  ‘You fell asleep,’ he chided me. ‘Come. You must go back.’

  Keeping to the shadows once again, we clambered up the valley and followed the walls towards the camp. Behind us, two priests stood in the pit and offered their prayers to an empty tomb.

  40

  The next day Count Raymond moved his camp to the south, to a narrow tongue of land in front of the walls on Mount Zion. It was perilously exposed, within easy bowshot of the archers who manned the Zion Gate: the other princes condemned his decision, and many of his knights refused to accompany him. He went anyway and we followed. The failure of the assault had dissolved whatever ties of fealty and honour he still held over his men. He could no longer even garrison his camp, but had to send envoys to his rivals to buy their knights’ service with gold. Each day, I heard, the price went up.

  Two days after the battle, the princes held a council and agreed they would not risk another assault without siege engines.

  ‘If we can find the wood to build them,’ Raymond complained. He had called me to his tent next to a small church on Mount Zion. The air inside was stifling, and flies buzzed about our heads. ‘There’s barely enough wood here to build a campfire. It’s a miracle the Romans found enough to crucify Jesus.’ He stopped, blushing furiously. ‘Christ forgive me, I did not mean that. But we must have wood if we are to get into Jerusalem.’

  I could guess why he was telling me this.

  ‘I want you to take your men west towards the coast and search for wood.’ He swatted at one of the flies. ‘It will do you good to be away from this place for a few days.’

  ‘Did he say if he wanted us to come back?’ Sigurd enquired.

  It was a fair question: for two days our search had taken us ever further from Jerusalem, with nothing except stunted olive trees and shrubs to reward us. The sun burned down on us, parching our throats, and all the time we felt the heavy threat of the Ishmaelites all around us. Several times we came around turns in the road to find dust still lingering in the air where departing hooves had kicked it up; twice we saw their riders silhouetted on distant hilltops, watching us from afar. Though they never came near, their presence stirred a poison in my belly: the fear that I might die in one of these forgotten valleys and leave my family condemned to perpetual slavery. I often walked with my sword drawn from its scabbard; at night I lay awake long after the others had fallen asleep, staring at the darkness and trembling at every sound it made.

  Two mornings after leaving Jerusalem, the rugged hills dipped towards the coastal plain. I was worn down to exhaustion; I had hardly had anything to drink, and my tongue had swollen so fat in my mouth I thought it might split my skull open. Sharp pains spiked through my head with every step — steps that only took me further from Jerusalem. The loathsome city had wrapped itself tight around my soul, and the further I went from it the more strongly I felt it pulling me back.

  We had just descended into yet another valley when Aelfric, who had gone ahead, came running back to meet us.

  ‘Three riders coming towards us,’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But the sun was in my eyes — it was hard to be sure.’

  We scrambled up the hillside, hiding ourselves behind boulders and trees. I found a small depression in the slope masked by a bush and lay there. Thomas crouched down beside me, stroking the blade of his axe. In a matter of seconds, all the Varangians had vanished.

  We waited. For what seemed an age we heard nothing but bird song and the chatter of insects; once, there was a clatter as one of the Varangians dislodged a pebble, but otherwise no one made a sound. I could almost hear the sweat sliding down my face and dripping onto the stones beneath me. And then, rising slowly beneath the other sounds, the regular clop of horses’ hooves. The noise grew louder, echoing around the valley — and with it came voices.

  I edged forward to the lip of the depression, keeping low behind the foliage, and peered out between the branches. The three riders had come level with me. They wore neither helmets nor armour, and if they sat uneasily in their saddles it was only from lack of habit. Otherwise, they talked and laughed like men on holiday; as I watched, one even broke into a s
ong.

  Hw?r cwom mearg? Hw?r cwom mago? Hw?r cwom ma??umgyfa?

  Hw?r cwom symbla gesetu? Hw?r sindon sele-dreamas?

  To my astonishment, another voice answered — not among the riders but from the hillside. It picked up the melody and carried it on. Four more voices joined in, and suddenly the valley was awash with the weird sounds of a song it had never heard before.

  Eala beorht bune! Eala byrnwiga!

  Eala?eodnes?rym! Hu seo?rag gewat,

  genap under nihthelm, swa heo no w?re!

  Sigurd stepped out onto the road, still singing. It was he who had first answered the song, I realised, and its foreign sound was his native tongue. He stood in front of the riders, and at last I saw what should have been obvious from the start. The men on the horses were almost indistinguishable from the Varangians who swarmed down the hillside to greet them. All had the same rough red skin that came when pale white skin had been alloyed by the sun, and each face was covered by hair the colour of metal: gold, copper and bronze. Some wore it in braids and some tied with twine; some had beards and others were cleanshaven. Otherwise, they could have been brothers.

  The lead rider sang the last verse of the song in unison with Sigurd, their eyes locked on each other. A sardonic grin had spread over the rider’s face, while Sigurd’s remained cool and distrustful. When the song was done, they eyed each other cautiously.

  ‘You should be more careful, riding alone and unarmed in these mountains,’ said Sigurd.

  The rider glanced around at the Varangians. ‘Careful of what?’ he asked insouciantly. ‘I heard there was nothing in these hills except peasants and goatherds. And woodcutters,’ he added, looking at the axes we carried. ‘Have you come to sell us firewood?’

  ‘Or to cut you down to size,’ Sigurd growled. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here? Have you come from Byzantium?’

  I could not understand his attitude. If I had been in their far-flung country and met a fellow Greek on the road, I would have rejoiced. Sigurd, by contrast, seemed to take his countryman’s presence as a personal affront. Perhaps it was the way of their people — certainly the riders seemed unworried by it.

  ‘Varangians?’ He shook his head. ‘We’re just humble sailors with a cargo to sell.’

  ‘What cargo?’ Apart from a few panniers and blankets tied to their saddles, the Englishmen carried nothing.

  The rider crossed his hands in his lap and stared up at the sky, as if trying to remember. ‘Nails. Ropes. Grease and oil. Saws, planes, adzes and augers. Timber.’

  Sigurd flushed and lifted his axe angrily. ‘Do not mock me,’ he warned.

  The rider remained infuriatingly calm. ‘Everything I described — and more — is sitting on the docks at Jaffa, waiting for someone to buy it. Come and see for yourself.’ He laughed. ‘Saewulf will be happy to see you.’

  On a knuckle of land that pressed out into the Mediterranean, flanked by sandy beaches, we found the port of Jaffa. Its western face descended steeply to the sea, so that from below the houses built on it seemed to blend into a single construct of golden stone, red pantiles and wooden balconies. Only when you looked closer did you see that the picture was imperfect. Many of the buildings were missing their roofs; no washing hung from the houses, no children played in the alleys between them, and no guards paced the badly ruined walls. Even the fortress which should have guarded the town was reduced to a single tower.

  ‘The city is abandoned,’ said Thomas, as we stepped over a fallen arch into the town’s main street.

  Sigurd grunted. ‘There are always rats who’ll move in.’

  At the foot of the hill, a dock crooked its protective embrace around a small harbour. White foam ruffled the water at its mouth where a thick hawser had been stretched across it, but it had not kept out the six ships that lay moored against the wharf. Stout masts rose from their decks, and their high prows were carved in the likeness of fantastic beasts. One was shaped like a dragon, another like a monstrous fish, while the largest took the form of a ravening wolf.

  I knew that ship, had spent long weeks enduring a difficult winter voyage aboard it, cursing its heaving deck and leaky seams. Bobbing at anchor, bathed in June sunshine, she was almost unrecognisable now. As to what she was doing there, I could no more guess than when I had first seen her drawn up on a beach on the dusky Egyptian coast.

  We descended to the harbour. A great quantity of crates, sacks and barrels had been piled on the dock, together with some long timbers. In the corner where the harbour walls turned across the bay, an unused sail had been draped over a frame of lashed-together oars to make a rough awning. As we reached the bottom of the hill and stepped out onto the hot stone of the wharf, the figure resting in its shade rose; he did not approach, but stood there waiting, watching while we crossed towards him. The ships’ crews lounged among the cargo, and the smells of salt and alcohol were thick in the air.

  Saewulf had not changed much in the six months since we parted on a freezing January day near Antioch. The leather band was still bound across his forehead, tying back his long brown hair; he had shaved off his beard, though perhaps that had to do with the fresh scar that ran livid down his right cheek. Many men would have been disfigured by the wound, or would have hidden it in self-conscious shame. With Saewulf, it was simply one more line among many. He stood with the same cocky posture, his hands thumbed into his belt and his shoulders thrust back, and still watched the world with the same amused detachment I had seen on that beach in Egypt.

  In contrast to his easy confidence, we must have seemed an awkward and ill-tempered group. Gathered behind Sigurd, we shuffled to a stop in front of the awning and waited nervously, our gazes darting about our surroundings, while the two captains stood and stared each other in the eye in some sort of unspoken contest. All around, the sailors put down their tools and cups to watch us.

  ‘I thought I’d got rid of you twenty years ago, when you deserted Byzantium to go back to the ruin of England.’ Sigurd’s words were slow and clear, carrying to every corner of the harbour.

  Saewulf shrugged. ‘If you had stayed in Byzantium, you would have kept rid of me.’ His eyes played across the group of Varangians behind Sigurd; he saw me and Aelfric and smiled.

  ‘At least two of your men already have reason to be grateful to me. And now perhaps I can help you again — unless you came to Jaffa for fish.’ He swept a hand around the harbour. ‘All the fishermen have gone, I’m afraid. But perhaps I can interest you in my cargo.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ Sigurd stepped closer, looming over his countryman. The Varangians around me put their hands on their axes. ‘Why has a coward like you happened upon this port, five hundred miles from any friendly harbour, with enough supplies to besiege Constantinople? Are you still working for the Normans — or have you whored yourself to someone else since then?’

  Saewulf let Sigurd’s outburst break over him like spray from the bow.

  ‘I work for myself — as I always have.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re very good at it.’ Sigurd had not backed away.

  ‘Good enough to see that when a desperate army besieges a city without any trees, they’ll pay well for wood. Unless, as I said, you came for the fish.’ He squinted at us. ‘What did you do with the men I sent to Jerusalem?’

  ‘We sent them on to Jerusalem to fetch men to carry back your supplies.’

  ‘If they can carry the gold to pay for this, they’ll have enough men to carry back what they buy.’ He saw Sigurd’s scowl of disdain. ‘I’m offering them the keys to Jerusalem. They should pay well enough for that. Besides, it wasn’t easy to bring it here. There are Fatimid ships swarming all over these waters. Three nights ago they would have sunk us, if the wind hadn’t turned.’ He patted one of the nearby casks. ‘If God does want the Franks to have this, then He surely wants them to pay for it.’

  Saewulf glanced out of a narrow window in the seaward wall. It had taken us most of the day to reach Jaffa and the sun was setting
, a golden bowl pouring out its rays on the burnished water.

  ‘The Franks won’t be here before tomorrow morning. Stay with us tonight, and I’ll tell you about England.’

  Whatever quarrels he and Sigurd might have had, Saewulf feasted us royally. His men had been out in the hills that day and brought back two boars and a small deer, which they roasted over a fire at the end of the dock. There was no lack of wood here. Waves lapped against the stone piers, fat sizzled in the flames and wine poured freely into cups, spilling as they clashed in toasts, then draining into thirsty throats. For all their captains’ hostility, Saewulf’s crew and Sigurd’s Varangians met each other with the joy of longlost friends, proving their delight in the quantities they drank. Many of the sailors, like Saewulf, had served in the Varangian guard at one time or another, and the rest all seemed to share cousins, half-sisters or friends in common.

  ‘To England,’ Saewulf toasted, raising his glance and then emptying it. ‘You should come back, Sigurd — see what a green country looks like. Escape all this dust and rock.’

  ‘Not while there’s a Norman sitting on the throne,’ said Sigurd. He emptied his own cup and poured another, splashing the wine in his haste.

  ‘You would never see him. You would walk in English fields, eat and drink English bread and beer, and see your grandchildren grow up where they belong. What does it matter who sits in the castles?’

  The wine had infused passion into Saewulf’s usual detachment. His face was flushed, and he waved his hands earnestly as he spoke.

  ‘The Normans stole our country,’ Sigurd insisted.

  ‘England is still there. The white cliffs still stood when I sailed away. The only person who is keeping you out of your home is you, sitting here and sulking over injustices you suffered more than thirty years ago.’

  ‘What should I have done? Surrendered to them like you did?’

  ‘Surrendered?’ Saewulf laughed, the cup swaying in his hand. ‘Do you think I got down on my knees in front of King William and swore him allegiance? I have never seen him in my life. If I sailed you back to England tonight, do you think he would be standing on Pevensey beach to meet you — to fight you in single combat for the crown of the realm?’ Sigurd made to interrupt, but Saewulf carried on over him. ‘You’re no more to him than the mud on the sole of his boot. The only person who cares about your righteous exile is you. And when you’re on your deathbed, what will you tell your grandchildren? That you wasted your life because you could not bear to let go of your hatred? That your pride would rather you served a foreign king in a foreign land than live in your own?’