“So,” he continued, resuming his reckoning, “Bohemond’s army must go on foot. But it is far faster by way of Marionis on the coast, here.” He placed a long finger on a small spot on the coast north of Antioch. “From there, Mamistra is easily reached on the river. See it there?” He indicated another black wavy line which was the river to another brown smudge north and a little west of the port. “From Mamistra, it is horseback the rest of the way. With good luck and God’s speed, Anazarbus is but ten days’ ride from the river. Even if Prince Bohemond marshaled his troops and marched the same day you fled Antioch, you will reach the city at least four or five days ahead of the prince and his army.”
He glanced up to make certain that we all understood. “You are frowning again, my friends. Now what is the matter?”
“We have some money with us,” I explained, “but not enough to buy horses.”
“But I have money enough for anything,” said Yordanus, rubbing his hands enthusiastically, “and I am going with you. Gregior, run and fetch my box.” The old trader’s sudden industry was amazing; it was as if he had shed not only the dull languor and melancholy which had gripped him so tightly, but entire decades of years as well.
The sluggish servant returned with a small chest made of a dark, heavy wood. Yordanus opened the box and withdrew three leather bags, then bethought himself and took three more. “Here,” he said, thrusting three of the bags at me, “a man on a journey can never have enough money.”
Thanking my host for his thoughtfulness and generosity, I tied one of the purses to my belt, and gave the other two to Padraig to carry in his monk’s satchel. “With your help, we shall travel like kings,” I told him.
“Ragged kings, at best,” Yordanus said, indicating our clothes. “Fortunately, I have something for you.” He crossed to a large chest and threw open the lid. Delving into the chest, he began tossing lengths of cloth and various garments onto the floor around him. “Ah, here! Here!” he said at last, and brought out a long flowing garment like an overlong tunic.
Made of fine, lightweight cloth, it was the color of the northern sea as night sweeps in from the east. There were trousers of the same cloth and color, and new boots of soft leather, the sides of which were stitched with colored thread in a plumed emblem. The tunic’s sleeves were long and wide, but close around the wrists. The trousers were secured around the waist with a long cloth belt of woven purple strips to which hundreds of tiny bronze discs had been attached.
In all, it was the raiment of an eastern prince, and although I was impressed, I could not imagine myself wearing such a garment. “People will think I am pretending to be an Arab,” I said. “I will feel foolish. It would be better to stay as I am.”
“Nonsense,” said Yordanus, ignoring my objections, “your clothes are unsuitable for the rigors of the journey ahead. Not only that, they mark you out as a stranger and an outsider. If you wish to travel swiftly without arousing unwanted interest in your affairs, you must not fly the banner of the ignorant foreigner.”
Sydoni agreed with him, and after my initial skepticism, I allowed myself to be convinced. Despite his protests that he was a monk dyed in the wool of his monastery, Padraig, too, came in for the same treatment. In the end, we changed our clothes and marveled at the difference; I felt cooler and more comfortable instantly, and bade farewell to my tattered homespun in favor of the lighter Eastern stuff.
Only when both Padraig and I were suitably attired did Sydoni allow us to leave the house. “I will see you as far as the harbor,” she told us.
Leaving the villa, we crossed the darkened courtyard and waited while Gregior unlocked the door, then slipped out onto the deserted road. We hurried down the hill through the new town, and continued on to old Famagusta and the quiet harbor as crimson sunrise broke in the east.
“I will speak to the harbormaster directly,” Yordanus told us as we came onto the quay. “He will know which sailors are available for hire and, of those, who can be trusted.”
“As it happens,” volunteered Padraig, “we know our way around a ship. Count us among the sailors.”
“Splendid,” said the trader. “The fewer who know our business, the better.”
Among the vessels riding peacefully at anchor on the tranquil crescent of blue water, there were the usual fishing boats plus a few more substantial craft used by the island traders. There were also four large ships, which I took to be of Venetian or Genoan origin. I was wrong.
Upon arriving at the wharf, Yordanus pointed to the four large ships and said, “My beauties. Which one do you like the best?”
“The smallest,” I replied, thinking how much work it would be raising sail.
“The fastest,” suggested Padraig. The canny priest was, as usual, closer to the mark.
“That would be Persephone,” the old man said, indicating the long, low vessel at the end of the line. Although painted in the Greek style—with a green hull, a slender red mast, and a rail and keel of bright yellow—the ship owed more to the ancient Roman design which had held sway in that part of the world for a thousand years or more. “Not the smallest, but she fairly flies before the lightest breeze. With God’s help and a good wind, we will be in Anazarbus before Bohemond makes the Syrian Gates.”
TWENTY-FIVE
CAIT, YOU WILL not believe what has taken place. I can scarce believe it myself, and hardly know where to begin to explain. Nor can I say with any certainty whether it is good news for me, or bad. Good, I think. For, if nothing else, it has delayed my execution for another day at least, maybe more. Lord of Hosts in heaven, let it be more!
After dismissing Wazim to learn what he could of matters in the city, I returned to my writing and thought no more about what the caliph had said about the affairs of Cairo. You have been reading the result of my diligence.
This account grows more ungainly by the day, I confess, and my poor hand cramps and burns, and the effort tires me—Cait, sometimes I feel as if I have been wrestling giants from dawn to dusk, though I have not stirred from the chair! Nevertheless I worked through the day and into the night—a common enough practice for me, to be sure; the only difference was that this time no meals were brought to me. I assumed this was because I was soon to die, and the grim assumption spurred me on. Tired as I was, I worked all the more diligently for the knowledge that each page before me might be my last.
It was very late when I again heard rapid footsteps in the corridor. I lay aside my pen, and turned as Wazim burst into the room, excitement making his eyes bulge out. He had gone out to discover what it was that had caused the caliph to suspend the ordered executions; and he had returned with the tale which has caused such alarm throughout the city, and which I shall swiftly relate. First, however, I must explain a detail which is necessary for your understanding.
You will have gathered that the caliph is supreme among Muhammedan rulers. Yet, he is not singular in his authority. Not by any means. He shares the administration of his government with other authorities, chief among them the wazir—or vizier, as some say. This he does so that he may undertake more fully his primary duty as the spiritual leader of his people, thus leaving the ordinary charge of temporal matters to the vizier.
As it happens, the Caliph of Cairo, however fortunate in other respects, is cursed with a wayward and unruly son, Hasan. The caliph, upon taking the throne, had struck upon the idea of at once making peace with the stormy youth and bringing him under his control by raising the young man to the rank of vizier. Wazim tells me that, while many counseled against this, the plan nevertheless worked very well at first.
After a time, however, Hasan began to find his office too constricting. He drifted back into his former bad habits. Soon he was once more the bane of his father’s life, only this time he was placed where he could work great harm to any and all who opposed him. Although none of this reached my ears, it was well known all along the Nile from Alexandria to Luxor, for the wicked young man ran from one tantrum to the next, plunging the
government of Cairo into scandals and skirmishes of every kind.
Matters grew so precarious and unpleasant, and the outcry of aggrieved citizens so loud, that the caliph had lately begun to entertain the suggestions of his advisors who insisted that Vizier Hasan must be deposed. This, I suspect, had been behind al-Hafiz’s inquiry into what I knew about affairs in Cairo—but more of that later.
So, there it is. All that remains is for me to say that on the day my execution was to have been effected, Vizier Hasan, on an insane whim, summoned no fewer than forty amirs and atabegs from the city and surrounding region to meet with him that he might receive their heartfelt homage. Once they were assembled, he charged them with plotting against him. Thinking it a crude jest, the noblemen made light of it. Enraged that they should laugh at him, he had them thrown into a hafir—a grain house—and then ordered the warriors of his personal bodyguard to slay them all then and there. Without weapons or aid of any kind, there was very little the noblemen could do. The soldiers waded into the hafir, killing all who stood up to them; the rest were butchered one by one as they tried to escape.
I listened with dread amazement at Wazim’s gruesome tale. “When did this happen?” I asked when he finished.
“Da’ounk, at the very moment you stood before the caliph’s throne of judgment,” he answered, “even then this black deed was taking place. Forty amirs—all dead,” he said, shaking his head at the grotesque audacity of it. “Everyone is most upset.”
“I can see how that would be,” I allowed. “What has become of the vizier?”
“The khalifa, as you know, was forced to send out the guards. They surrounded the vizier’s palace and demanded Hasan to give himself up to them. He refused and there was a small battle.” Wazim paused to gulp down some air, and then hurried on. “When the vizier’s bodyguard saw it was futile to fight against the khalifa’s soldiers, they surrendered and delivered Hasan to his father’s troops. It is said they have taken the vizier out of the city to a secret fortress where he is to be held until Khalifa al-Hafiz can decide what shall be done with him.”
Now, Cait, that is how the matter sits at the moment. As Padraig so often reminds me: All things work together for the good of him who loves the Lord. Great of Heaven, this is my prayer even now.
Sydoni would not be left behind. While her father discussed suitable crew members with a sleepy harbormaster, Sydoni offered to show us around the ship. Taking one of the small boats, Padraig and Roupen rowed us to where the trim Persephone was anchored, and we climbed up onto the deck. Once aboard, it quickly became clear that she had no intention of being put off.
When the last of the provisions had been brought aboard and stowed below deck, Yordanus turned to bid farewell to his daughter. “Save your breath, Father,” she said, kissing him lightly on the cheek, “I am going with you.”
He was against it. There was a brief discussion and, of course, she had her way. The more I saw of Sydoni, the more convinced I became that if she wanted a thing, it was hers already—and no amount of argument would sway her; likewise flattery, threats, or reason. In this, I suspect, she was just like her father, and even he could not compel her against her will.
Thus, with the help of two additional sailors and a pilot, we set off well before midday. Persephone was a fine ship; neat and spare in its lines, but able to hold a sizeable cargo with ease. As we had no cargo, the pilot and his two crewmen were able to manage the ship almost entirely on their own. Once under sail, they required only an occasional hand from Padraig and myself, leaving us plenty of time to ourselves.
The first day at sea was a joy. The wind stayed light out of the west, but the ship surged along pleasantly. It felt good to be moving forward with such efficiency and speed, and with such righteousness of purpose. Very soon our hearts were soaring and our worries seemed to recede like the island behind us. Quietly exhilarated by the inevitable success of our mission, I allowed myself to accept Yordanus’ assurances that Bohemond could not possibly outrace us, and that we would reach Anazarbus to deliver our warning long before the greedy prince and his army. Thus, the pressing urgency of our flight began to recede.
Toward evening, dolphins gathered to sport before the prow. Sydoni liked watching them and, drawn by her exuberance, I joined her at the rail to see them leap and dive.
“They say that dolphins are naughty children who taunted Neptune from the safety of the shore,” Sydoni told me. “In his anger, the god sent a great sea wave to sweep the children off their rock and drown them, but Old Nereus did not have the heart to see them killed, and so gathered them up and changed them into fish, instead.”
“I have never heard that story,” I said. “But seeing how they play in the waves, I can well believe it.”
We watched the sleek dark shapes dart and glide, splashing in and out of the waves, slicing the wake with their agile fins and weaving trails of bubbles as they rolled and spun in the fire-rimmed water. On the deck behind us, the sailors had lit a small brazier, and the aroma of spit-roasted fish began to steal into the air.
“I love the sea,” Sydoni said lazily, resting her chin on her palm as she leaned on the rail. “I have spent half my life on ships.”
“And Yordanus?” I asked, because the doughty old trader had gone below deck shortly after we left sight of land, and had not put his head above the boards since.
“He is the worst seaman on any sea,” she observed gleefully. “The least little ripple in the water and poor Yordanus turns green and goes below.”
“Vexing for a man who must make his living aboard a ship.”
She looked at me for a moment, the setting sun glinting in her dark hair, and turning her dusky skin to warm, glowing bronze. “Yes,” she agreed softly.
Even as she said it, I knew she had been about to say something else, to confide more personally, but had pulled back at the last instant. Silence fell between us, and I thought she would not say more.
With a last flash of pale underbelly, the dolphins dove down into the darkening water, disappearing in a trail of bubbles, but Sydoni did not seem to notice. She went on staring down at the waves, a pensive look on her face. “I want to thank you for saving my father.”
I opened my mouth to dispute her claim, but saw that she was in earnest. “Did he need saving?”
She turned her face toward the far horizon. “He was dying in that house.” The way she spoke made it sound like a prison. “He had lost interest in his food, his affairs, life itself—you saw how he was.”
“I see he has changed,” I agreed. “He has become a very lion on our behalf.”
“Yes, and that is because of you. I am grateful.”
“My lady, I have done nothing. Your father has taken an interest in our troubles for reasons of his own, and has decided to help us. Believe me, I am the one who should be grateful—and I am.”
“I do not expect you to understand,” she said stiffly, and moved away along the rail.
That night we sat on the broad, uncluttered deck and ate flat bread and roast fish basted in olive oil and sprinkled with dried herbs and salt. The moon rose slowly in a clear sky and made the sea bright. Sydoni went below deck as soon as she finished eating, taking a little food for her father. Padraig, Roupen, and I sat and talked to the sailors, all three of whom had traveled to and from the Holy Land many times.
When the others went to bed, I decided to walk around the deck a little before going down to my berth to sleep. I strolled idly, letting the tranquillity of the night seep into my soul. My thoughts turned to prayers and I prayed for the family I had left at home, and for the swift and successful completion of our journey.
So occupied by my devotions, I did not notice that I was no longer alone. I heard a soft footfall beside me and glanced around to find Sydoni watching me. “I am sorry to disturb you,” she said softly; not the least apologetic, she stepped nearer.
“I am finished.”
“A fine night,” she observed, tilting her face toward
the heavens. “I can never sleep when the moon is so bright and the air is so warm. I often sit out alone all night watching the moon and stars.”
“I have been known to do the same at home.”
Still gazing skyward, she asked, “Is it nice where you live?”
“It is very different from here,” I told her, “and very different, I would think, from your home in Egypt.”
She smiled, her teeth a glint of whiteness in the dark. “Not all Copts are born within sight of the Nile. I have never lived in Egypt—nor has my father.”
“But I thought—”
“I grew up in Damascus,” she explained. “No doubt I would have lived there all my life. It is a glorious city—or used to be. I was very happy there.”
“Why did you leave?”
“We were forced to flee,” she replied, her voice darkening slightly, “and we were not alone. Three thousand Christians were driven from their homes that day. We were far more fortunate than most. Many lost everything, including their lives. They took most of the ready gold and silver, but we were allowed to bring anything else we could carry.”
“Was it because of the crusade?” I asked.
Sydoni gave a slight shake of her head. “No, it was the Fida’in.”
He wondered at the word. “What is a Fedayeen?”
“The Fida’in” she corrected. “Have you never heard of them?”
“No,” I told her, “but I have not been long in the Holy Land.”
“I wish I had never heard of them. They are vile and hateful murderers,” she replied with disgust. “Some call them Batinis—those who hold a hidden faith. It is because of them that we were forced to leave Damascus.”
As if fearing she had said too much, she fell silent. I tried to engage her in conversation again, but she said she was tired, and soon went below, leaving me alone once more and gazing at the stars.
The Black Rood Page 24
