by Tom Harper
‘I would rather serve the man I choose, than the man who tore away my country, who killed my father and raped my family.’
‘That man died twelve years ago. One of his sons rules England now — and another, as I hear it, is a prince in your Army of God. Have you noticed that the emperor you adopted to escape the Normans has now sent you to fight beside them?’
‘The emperor takes his allies as he needs them,’ said Sigurd tightly.
‘And he abandons them when they’re no more use to him.’ Saewulf rose, swaying, though whether that was the effect of wine or his habit of being at sea I could not tell. ‘I know what you think of me — that you stand fast and defend your oaths while I go where the wind blows.’
‘And where the money calls.’
‘And where the money calls,’ Saewulf agreed. He was slurring his words now, slopping wine over the rim of his cup as he waved his arms. ‘But there’s nothing noble clinging to a rock when the tide is rising. Especially if the rock turns out to be nothing but sand.’
Sigurd lumbered to his feet, his face red in the firelight. ‘I came to Byzantium as an orphan: without family, without a home, without even a country. Now I am a captain of the guard in an empire that was young when our ancestors hadn’t even learned to build boats.’
‘An empire that has only survived so long by buying barbarians like you in the dark times — then throwing you out with the night soil the moment they see the dawn.’
‘Liar!’ bellowed Sigurd. ‘The emperor has never betrayed me. I stood beside him at the battle of Paradunavum, when almost every other man in his army had deserted or been slaughtered, and when we took our revenge four years later at Lebunium, I was at his side again. Are you telling me that instead of that, I should have spent those years scratching at soil that the Normans had left barren, grovelling in the dust each time a Norman rode by and praying his eye wouldn’t fall on my daughter?’
‘I’m telling you that when you’re among your own people, you know who your enemies are.’ Saewulf reached out and grabbed the golden ring on Sigurd’s arm, pulling him forward like a bull. ‘The emperor you love so much may have thrown you some crumbs when he was in trouble, but now he has betrayed you. Do you know why I have arrived here with a ship full of siege equipment?’
They were standing almost chest to chest now, Saewulf’s fingers still tight on Sigurd’s arm. I was amazed at his boldness. Sigurd towered over him; for a moment I thought he might slam his forehead against Saewulf’s skull in rage. But the sea-captain’s question had surprised him.
‘Did the emperor send you?’
Saewulf laughed. ‘The emperor sent the siege weapons — but not to Jerusalem, and not on my ship. I took them off a Cypriot convoy we surprised two weeks ago at sea.’
‘Piracy.’ Sigurd almost spat the word in Saewulf’s face. Saewulf shrugged it off.
‘Where do you suppose the Cypriot captain told me he was going with his cargo? To Jaffa, to help the poor Franks? No. He was going to Alexandria, to deliver these supplies to the Fatimid caliph to use against the Franks when he brings his army up to Jerusalem.’
Sigurd tried to pull away, but Saewulf kept a tight hold on his armband. ‘The emperor you love so much has betrayed the Franks — and you. You can hardly move on the seas out there for all the imperial grain ships hurrying to Egypt. The emperor has found new allies; now he will cast his old ones into the fire.’ He laughed again, a taunting, harrowing laugh. ‘At least he has betrayed the Franks because he wants to get Antioch back from them. You, who served him so faithfully, have been discarded simply because he cannot be bothered to save you.’
With a roar of anger, Sigurd tore himself from Saewulf’s grip, picked him up and hurled him against a pile of barrels. They tumbled over and rolled around the wharf like pigs on their backs. Sigurd bounded towards his opponent, but this was not the first dockside brawl Saewulf had fought. He was already on his feet, crouching low; he ducked aside as Sigurd sprang past him, kicking the Varangian’s feet from under him so that he sprawled on the stones.
I looked around. Dozens of ruddy faces were watching the fight, but none moved.
Sigurd got up, brushing dirt from his tunic. ‘Liar,’ he shouted again at Saewulf. ‘Why should I believe the word of a pirate and a traitor?’ He looked around, defying anyone in the crowd to defend Saewulf. ‘Would we be here if the emperor had betrayed us? Would we have spent the last two years fighting beside the Franks, crawling through deserts and over mountains?’ He was staring straight at me, and my face must have revealed the truth for he took a step towards me and demanded again, more loudly, ‘Would we?’
I had never told him what Nikephoros revealed to me the night before he died. I couldn’t have. How can you knock down the pillar of a man’s world? But my silence told him enough. All I could do was shake my head in misery.
Howling like a wounded ox, like Samson chained in the temple, Sigurd raised his arms and charged. Saewulf tried to sidestep him again but was too slow; Sigurd thumped into him and together, grappling and struggling, gouging and biting, they lurched across the dock. The men about them leaped to their feet, but none moved to help. They knew this was not their fight. I stood with them, watching, numb with desolation. How had it come to this?
Sigurd and Saewulf staggered to the edge of the dock. Ripples of light reflected on the water below, as if the sea itself had turned into a pool of fire. For a moment I saw them silhouetted against it, two dark shapes locked in inexorable combat. Then, with a cry and an almighty splash, they toppled off the edge of the wharf and fell into the water.
We rushed to the side and looked down. Two heads bobbed in the harbour, their arms flailing around them to keep afloat. The shock of the water and the risk of drowning had finally driven them apart, each more concerned with saving himself than destroying his opponent. With much splashing and spluttering, they paddled across to the harbour stairs and hauled themselves out.
‘Drowning me won’t change the truth,’ said Saewulf. ‘Nor will drowning yourself.’
Sigurd shook himself like a dog, and stalked away.
There were no more songs that night. The sailors and Varangians scattered around the harbour, making their beds wherever they could or wherever the wine overtook them. Sigurd found himself a niche in the wall and collapsed there alone, cursing away any man who came near him. As for me, the fire had burned low before I got to sleep. But once I did, I found to my surprise that I slept more peacefully than I had in weeks. Perhaps it was the wine; perhaps I had simply reached a place beyond hope or fear. Either way, I lay on the deck of one of the ships, letting it rock me like a cradle, and slept without dreams until the sun had climbed over the knuckle of the hill and started to warm my face.
But perhaps it was just another trick of the fates. For if I had slept less, and listened more closely to the darkness, maybe it would not have been so late before I discovered our new danger.
41
‘How badly do you want my cargo?’
I opened my eyes. Saewulf was crouching over me, the dawn light soft on his scarred face. Red weals and bruises bore witness to his struggle with Sigurd the night before.
‘How badly do you want your siege equipment?’ he asked again.
I lifted myself on one elbow. My mouth was dry, my head uneasy from too much wine the night before. ‘What do you mean?’ A horrible thought struck me. ‘Do you want money?’ I looked to see if he had a knife in his hands. He did not, but the fish-handled dagger was still tucked in his belt within easy reach. Had Sigurd been right about him?
He bared his teeth at me. ‘This isn’t about money. Come.’
He dragged me to my feet and led me onto the dock, up a crumbling flight of stairs to the rampart atop the harbour walls. He pointed out to sea.
‘That is what I mean.’
It was a scene the ancient poets could well have recognised. The rose-fingered dawn reached down to the water, her caresses stirring rippling waves. The sea shone w
ith a blinding light, and a fresh wind blew in from the west. Birds soared in the cloudless sky, then swooped down in search of fish, barely disturbing the waves as they dived beneath them. And there, black as flies against the shimmering water, a fleet of ships sailed towards the harbour.
‘Are they. . ours?’
Saewulf shook his head soberly. ‘Egyptian.’
I counted them — eight, against six of Saewulf’s ships in the harbour behind me. Glancing back, I could see his crew still sprawled around the docks, slowly beginning to stir as word of their danger spread.
‘Can we fight them?’
‘Not at sea — not with an onshore wind.’ He turned to me. ‘So, how badly do you want that cargo?’
If it would help me get inside Jerusalem and reach my family, more than life. But I could not carry it back singlehanded — nor stand alone against the Fatimids.
‘How badly do you want your gold?’
Saewulf grinned, though there was no humour behind it. ‘That cargo cost me nothing. I could as easily have thrown it overboard as bring it here.’
‘But you did bring it here.’
‘And now I’m trapped.’ Saewulf looked around, his eyes ever calculating. ‘Each one of those Egyptian ships carries more men than my entire crew. They’re armed with catapults and naphtha throwers. If they get into the harbour’ — he gestured to the hawser, which sagged across the harbour mouth — ‘they’ll burn us down like haystacks.’ He brushed his hand over the rampart. A trickle of mortar and rubble crumbled away at his touch. ‘We won’t get much defence out of these walls. If you value your life, you’ll run inland as fast as you can. They won’t risk straying too far from their ships — unless they’ve got allies on shore on the way.’
‘But we have allies coming too. If your men reached Jerusalem, then the Franks should have sent men to collect the cargo. They might even come this morning.’
‘And if they don’t?’
I shrugged, helplessly. Looking out to sea, I could see the Fatimid ships roving towards us, ever closer. ‘I would not count on them to save us.’
‘Then we’d better fight hard.’
I stared at him. ‘You’ll stay?’
Saewulf shrugged. ‘I’m a sailor — I’ll stay with my ships. And hope your reinforcements come quickly.’
As if to mock his words, a crack echoed from the deck of the foremost Egyptian ship. A clay canister, pink like the sun, sailed through the air over our heads. We spun about to follow its arc, watching it drop into the harbour just past the hull of Saewulf’s flagship. It seemed to bounce on the surface of the water, then slowly sank. Steam blew from its spout as the water met the burning oil inside.
‘Christ’s shit.’ Saewulf looked down at the docks, at the drowsy sailors stirring themselves from sleep. The cargo lay stacked all about them; suddenly all the timber, sacking and barrels looked like nothing so much as piles of kindling waiting for the match.
‘We’re sitting on top of our own pyre,’ Saewulf muttered. ‘We need to clear it off the docks.’
I hardly cared for myself, but the siege materials were our last, best chance of breaking into Jerusalem. If they turned to ash, so did all our hopes. Even as I watched, another oil canister shot out from the Fatimid fleet. This one carried all the way over the harbour and smashed against one of the warehouses that lined the shore. There was a flash as the pottery vessel exploded into shards, and then a burst of oily smoke. Liquid fire slithered down the stone wall. Over my shoulder, out to sea, three splashes rose as a ranging flight of arrows dipped into the water. With the white feathers on their tails, they almost looked like the diving gulls.
Saewulf turned and hurried down the steps two at a time. ‘Have your men move the cargo up the hill, near the gate. It’ll be easier to grab it there when we have to retreat.’
I followed him, trying not to lose my footing on the crumbling stairs. ‘What will you do?’
Saewulf gestured to the warehouse opposite. The naphtha had burned out, leaving scorched tentacles trailing down the wall. ‘I’ll start a fire.’
Down on the docks, Saewulf’s men had already shaken off their slumbers and were hurrying about. Despite the suddenness of our desperate plight, they seemed calm enough, moving to some purpose they evidently understood. I could not guess it — nor, apparently, could the Varangians. I found them clustered in a knot in the lee of the walls, watching unhappily. Facing an enemy on land they would be fiercer than any man; confront them with a battle at sea, even one contained in the confines of the harbour, and they did not know what to do.
Sigurd had woken and was standing among them, squinting against the light. A black bruise ringed his left eye and his matted hair sprawled untidily over his shoulders. At the sight of me approaching, his face screwed up in disgust. The last night’s quarrel had left us with too many things to say to each other.
I said none of them. As quickly as I could, I relayed Saewulf’s instructions. I thought Sigurd would object, but he simply sneered his approval, then picked up the nearest sack and threw it over his shoulder. It must have held almost twice his weight in iron, but he did not flinch.
‘Where do you want it?’
It was hard work that wanted many men; instead, the twelve of us laboured to carry the sacks and barrels through the deserted streets of Jaffa, up the slope to the fallen arch where the gate had once stood. Each time we reached the gate and deposited another load, we looked out to the east in search of an approaching army. Each time we turned back towards the harbour we looked west, over the harbour walls to the sea beyond. The Egyptian ships had dropped their sails for battle and had their oars out, prowling the water like wolves. For some reason, they did not seem to have fired any more naphtha canisters at us.
‘Why don’t they attack?’ I wondered.
‘Perhaps they’re waiting for reinforcements,’ said Aelfric.
I looked back to the east but there was nothing. Meanwhile, down in the harbour, Saewulf’s men seemed to have started doing the Fatimids’ work for them. On all but one of the ships they had stripped away the rigging and felled the masts; I could see the long trunks lying on the wharf, the sails still wrapped around the yards. Perhaps Saewulf meant to deny the Egyptians a target — though if so, he had forgotten his own flagship, whose green banner still flapped defiantly from its masthead. By the time I had brought my next load up to the gate, the ship had slipped its moorings and was creeping out towards the harbour’s mouth, its banks of oars rising and falling. I could see its crew manning the benches, and Saewulf standing by the tiller in the stern, a coat of chain mail pulled over his green tunic and a helmet gleaming in the sun.
‘But he said he wouldn’t attack.’ I did not understand. The Fatimids would surely burn Saewulf into the water, as he had predicted — or crush him head-on. Their lead ship had neared the harbour mouth and was closing rapidly. Two more followed close behind on its flanks.
‘Perhaps Saewulf found his balls after all.’ Sigurd dropped a sack of trenails with an angry thud. ‘Thirty years too late.’
‘Or perhaps he’s lost his mind.’ No other ships were moving to support Saewulf’s lone charge — in fact, so far as I could see, their crews seemed to be busy dismantling them. One was already at least a foot nearer the water, and I could hear the urgent sounds of saws and hammers reducing it ever further. What was Saewulf doing? I looked at Sigurd, wondering if he understood his countryman’s madness any better than I did. He gave no sign of it.
It looked as though Saewulf meant to ram the Fatimid ship bow to bow. Watching, I felt a memory stir in me, of an October afternoon without a trace of autumn, when Bilal had taken me to see the caliph’s shipyards. Was this one of the boats I had seen drawn up on that island in the middle of the Nile, then a skeleton, now clothed in its full war-like flesh? Had fate been drawing back the curtain that day, offering me an unwitting glimpse of my future?
The two ships were barely a spear’s throw apart now, their collision inevitable.
The Egyptian ship was broader, heavier and stronger: with the carved lion’s head on her prow, and the banks of oars like wings, she looked like nothing so much as a griffin in flight. With her copper ram she would overwhelm her adversary in an instant, then overrun the harbour and the cargo. We would save none of it — we would barely have time to save ourselves.
And then something extraordinary happened: a new madness, which made everything else seem almost rational. A cluster of sailors on Saewulf’s deck let go the ropes they held. The square sail they had bound tumbled loose from the yard and was immediately hauled taut. With the onshore breeze almost straight ahead, the effect was dramatic: the ship shuddered to a halt; then, pushed by an invisible hand, began to drift backwards.
Next to me, Sigurd turned away in disgust. ‘Coward,’ he hissed.
Whether a desperate tactic or a sudden loss of nerve, Saewulf’s trick would not save him. The Egyptian ship was too close, the carved lion’s outstretched arms almost ready to maul the retreating wolf. One more heave on their oars would surely bring the two together.
The lion-headed prow passed between the two ruined watchtowers. Saewulf had placed archers in the ruins: they loosed a few arrows, but they were mere pinpricks, fleas against the lion’s side. They would not stop the ship. It ploughed forward, its bow wave intersecting the line of surf across the harbour mouth. The line, I realised, where the water rippled over the submerged hawser that lay there.
