I was led across the empty expanse of floor to that door. It was opened, and one of the soldiers indicated that I was to enter. I did so, the door closed behind me, and I found myself in a small chamber, alone. In the light of a single candle tree, I saw a small three-legged stool with a leather seat and a large blue satin cushion of the kind favored by the caliph. There was a table with a bowl of dates and figs, and a brass bell.
As I stood looking at these things and wondering why I had been brought here in the dead of night, I heard a curious grinding sound—very like that of a mill wheel when it turns; it seemed to come from across the room and, even as I looked, a small seam opened in the corner of the wall. This seam became a low door, which swung outward. A belch of cool air washed over me and I smelled the stale scent of damp, musty earth, and it came to me that the many scattered rooms and buildings of the palace compound were no doubt connected by an elaborate system of passages and tunnels. I heard the slap of a footstep and, an instant later, who should emerge from the hidden passage but Caliph al-Hafiz himself with torch in hand.
He wore no turban, and was dressed only in his night-clothes. His white hair streamed from his head as if he had been tearing at it, and his beard was wild and uncombed. Indeed, he looked like a man driven from his bed by the force of a nightmare that yet bedeviled him.
He started when the door closed behind him and looked around at me. His eyes were baleful, dark, and staring. The grimace with which he beheld me did not bode well, I thought, for the outcome of our meeting.
Nevertheless, I bowed respectfully, and waited for him to begin. He placed the torch in a sconce beside the door and pointed to the stool, indicating that I was to sit. I did so, and he sat, too, cross-legged on the blue cushion facing me. A strange meeting this, I thought—no advisors, counselors, servants or minions; no impressive array of guards to lend him stature; no lavish and costly appointments of gold and silk and sandalwood—just the two of us, man to man.
He looked at me hard, and I returned his gaze. I saw that he trembled slightly, as old men do when palsy claims them—a quiver of the head, a minute shaking of the hands. Then he began nodding, and intoning a chant in Arabic. After a moment he sighed and then leapt up again, and began striding around the room.
I watched him, mystified by his behavior, yet moved to pity by the severity of the agitation which gripped him so tightly.
“So!” he cried at last. Then, as if frightened by the violence of his outburst, he repeated it again, but more softly. “So! It comes to this.”
“My lord,” I replied.
“I am khalifa! Ruler and Protector of Egypt. Armies march at my command! I say what will be and it is. I am the law and the hope of my people, and I answer to Allah alone.” He stared at me as if daring me to defy him.
“Indeed, my lord,” I said.
“Yet,” he thrust a finger into the air, “it comes to this!”
He seemed content with this statement, and took up his pacing again, legs stumping, arms jerking stiffly. I still could not understand his meaning, and the suspicion that he might be mad was rapidly hardening to certainty. “You wished to see me, my lord,” I reminded him gently.
“Do not presume!” he shouted, instantly angry. “I have but to speak a word and your life is forfeit to your impertinence.”
“Forgive me, Most Excellent Khalifa. Your servant awaits your pleasure.”
This seemed to calm him somewhat. He sat down again.
“You are a father,” he said, almost accusingly so it seemed.
“That I am, my lord.”
“You know the love of a father for his children,” he declared, speaking as if it were a celebrated and widely proclaimed fact of my existence.
“I do, yes. God knows.”
He nodded. “Then you know also the anguish of a father who must chastise his rebellious child.”
“It is a torment that tears at the very soul,” I sympathized.
“Ya’allah! It is true!” he cried. Closing his eyes, he began slowly rocking back and forth, his wrinkled face an image of the pain that was torturing him.
He sat that way for a long time, and I did not intrude on his misery. After awhile, he drew a long breath, and opened his eyes. “I am the law and the protection of my people,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “Justice is my decree. It is written: a man who knows the will of Allah and fails to do it shall not escape the everlasting flames of damnation. And again: A believer who departs from the path of righteousness is no better than an infidel; he shall find his reward among the damned.” He regarded me sharply, defiant once more. “Is this not so?”
“It is so, my lord,” I agreed.
“Yes,” he sighed, his voice soft, almost broken. “It comes to this: my son is rebellious and unbelieving. He has done great wickedness and the blood of the murdered demands justice. You are a father. You love your child. You know what I am saying.”
Until that moment, I had struggled to understand his anguish, but as he spoke these last few words, the awful import of his summons awakened in me. I knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and life for life. That,” he said, “is the cold heart of the law.”
I felt my own heart grow cold.
“My son must answer to Allah for his wickedness,” he continued. “Justice must be satisfied and righteousness upheld. As I am khalifa, it must be.” He looked at me meaningfully, willing me to understand.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as his purpose broke upon me: I was to be that instrument of justice. That was why he had summoned me.
“You are a nobleman and a father,” he said again. “You understand these things.”
“I understand your predicament, my lord,” I admitted woodenly, wishing with all my heart that I did not.
“I am khalifa!” he snapped suddenly. “Do not presume!”
“Forgive me, Most Excellent Khalifa. I am unworthy of your regard.”
He stood again quickly. He shouted for the guards, and the door opened at once. Pointing to me, he spoke a rapid command in Arabic, whereupon, they seized me and pulled me away. As I was dragged from the room, al-Hafiz shouted, “Pray to your God, Christian! Pray as a father that you might live to see your beloved child once more!”
Thus, I was returned to my cell and left to think about what had taken place. The more I pondered the implications of the strange audience, the more extraordinary it became. In his great despair, the Caliph of Egypt had turned to me; he had sought my aid with his wretched son. In some way I had become confessor to the caliph.
Why? I asked myself. Why had he chosen me?
He commanded armies, as he had needlessly reminded me. The word of the caliph is law…justice is my decree…Why confide these things to me, a mere prisoner in his keep?
The old man’s reasons remained as dark and inscrutable as the beclouded night itself.
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and life for life.
The reasons for the caliph’s confidence may have eluded me, but his purpose I suspected—and feared. He was asking me to be the instrument of his justice…he was asking me to kill his son.
Great King and Savior, I prayed, inwardly quaking, may this cup pass from me.
At the command of the atabeg, I was taken out onto the plain to join the other prisoners awaiting execution. Too exhausted and dispirited to lift their heads, they sat slumped on the ground with eyes downcast, their faces ashen with fatigue, their hearts numb with terror.
Those with presence of mind enough to know their peril were praying fervently; their voices formed a continual low gabble over which the moans and cries of the wounded among them drifted like a mournful dirge.
My Turkish captors untied me and pushed me down with the others. The man next to me raised his head as I settled in beside him. He regarded me dully, his battered face rapidly blackening beneath livid bruises to his cheek, and jaw, and neck; his chin was split to the bone and oozing big drops
of blood. “Are you a priest?” he asked in a ragged voice.
“No,” I replied. He made no reply, but his head sank lower. And then it came to me what he was asking. No man, feeling the cold hand of death on his shoulder, wishes to die unshriven. “But I will pray with you, if you like,” I offered.
He nodded and, clasping his hands beneath his chin, struggled to his knees before me and began to pray. It was a simple prayer, yet well composed, and at the end of it, he begged the Heavenly Father’s forgiveness for his many sins, and asked the Good Lord to remember his mother and his wife, and not to let them sink into beggary now that he was gone.
When he finished, I prayed that Christ the Blessed Redeemer of Men would carry the prayer before the Heavenly Throne, and—“What is your name?” The man opened his eyes and glanced at me. “Your name, friend, what is it?”
“Girardus.”
“—carry the prayer before the High Throne of Heaven and that Girardus’ last wish for his family will be granted.” I said the Amen and signed him with the cross, as I had seen Emlyn and Padraig do when shriving sinners.
Rubbing unshed tears from his eyes, the soldier thanked me, and then, having made peace with his Creator, bent his head to prepare himself for death.
All at once there arose a commotion across the field. I glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a rider streaking toward us, followed by at least a dozen more. They reined in before the resplendent Amir Ghazi, on his milk-white stallion, exchanged a few heated hasty words, and the amir called a command to his men, who were at that moment dragging another screaming wretch out from among the beaten crusaders.
Then, one of the newcomers—a small, dark-skinned Turk with a bristly white beard and a face as flat and scuffed as the bottom of a boot—shouted something, turned his mount and rode out to where we were awaiting execution. This Arab carried no weapons, save a curved gold-handled knife, the pommel of which protruded from his dirty cloth belt. He glared at all around him with a dark and angry countenance, as if furious that we should be reclining while he labored long in the saddle.
The glittering amir advanced and, smiling pleasantly, addressed the angry Arab in, as I thought, placating tones. The two began to converse, and I supposed the agitated newcomer was being informed of the disposition of the captives.
“He is furious as a tarred ferret,” observed Girardus.
“The amir does not appear overly concerned,” I pointed out.
“He is not the amir,” Girardus informed me. Indicating the small dark angry man, he said, “That is Amir Ghazi.”
I looked again at the man I had taken for a lowly scout. Unlike the other Arab chieftains I had seen, the amir was arrayed no better than the lowest soldier in his war host. Instead of flaunting his superiority, he wore the simple black dress of tunic and trousers of a Seljuq warrior, with black boots of soft leather; the only difference that I could see was that where their turbans were black or brown, his was sand-colored. If Girardus had told me he was a trinket peddler, I would have believed him. Certainly, the man I saw glaring down at us from the saddle appeared more disposed to selling brass baubles in the street than commanding the combined armies of the mighty Seljuq tribes.
“That is Amir Ghazi?” I said, staring at the dusty, sweating Turk. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, and he is enraged.”
“Why?”
“He is angry with his commanders for killing so many captives. Noblemen are worth fortunes in ransom, and the rest can be sold as slaves. Ghazi says their thoughtlessness has cost a great deal of money which could have been used to farther the war against the Franj.”
I looked at Girardus in amazement. “How do you know this?”
“I speak Arabic a little,” he said. I professed this to be a very wonder. “No.” He shook his head. “It is six years in Antioch.”
“If that is Ghazi,” I said, “who is the other one?”
“That is Kaisin Tanzuk, Sultan of Jezirah,” my informer replied. “They say he is wealthier than the Caliph of Baghdad.”
“What is he say—”
“Shh!” Girardus cut me off as he tried to follow the exchange. After a moment, the crusader turned to me, his bruised features forming an expression of pathetic relief. “The killing is stopped. We are to be taken to Damascus.”
Satisfied that his command was understood, Amir Ghazi returned to his chieftains and began ordering the withdrawal of the army. While I was mightily grateful to be spared a messy and inglorious death, my relief was tempered somewhat by the realization that my rescue would now take longer. I had allowed myself to hope that once Padraig and the others discovered what had happened to me, they would ride to Anazarbus, alert Roupen, and the Armenians would instantly ride to my aid.
In a little while, a number of Turks approached with coils of rope, and began tying the captives together. It is only for a short while, I told myself as the Seljuq warrior passed the loop of tough leather rope around my neck. They will come for me. When they realize what has happened, they will come for me.
The rope was pulled tight around my throat, looped back to my hands, and secured. When he finished, I was bound to Girardus—who was joined to someone else, and so on—and the warrior gave the rope a final tug and began leading us away. I stumbled forward into the strange and frightening nightmare world of the war captive.
THIRTY-THREE
SO BEGAN THE most wretched portion of my life. I will spare you the most painful incidents, dearest Caitríona. I could not bear the thought that my distress should cause you grief. Even through my sorest trial, my chief consolation was that you would not know how your father suffered. Thus, you would remain forever blissful in your memories of me—if indeed you should remember me at all. You were so young when I left you, heart of my heart; and for that I am sorry. Believe me, I have repented ten thousand times since then.
Ah, but dull ignorant man that I am, I did not perceive the Swift Sure Hand of God moving mightily in the chaos of those calamitous days. No doubt Padraig would have had the wit to perceive the subtle textures of our Lord’s grand design in the intricate warp and weft of time and the myriad actions of men.
“Look here, Duncan,” the good priest might have said, “see how the cloak is made of many threads—some light, some dark. The pattern is in the interplay of both, and who but the weaver can foresee the design?”
I miss Padraig greatly and pray for him constantly, as I do for you, my soul. Yes, and every day I curse my ignorance and folly. How arrogant I was, imagining I could bring some small order into the chaos of the seething, benighted East. I rue the day I allowed myself to become so deeply mired in affairs that did not concern me, and which only drew me farther and farther away from the true aim of the pilgrimage.
If we had but waited one more day—half-a-day, even!—the battle would have reached its inevitable conclusion, and I never would have been captured. Had we but waited half-a-day, I would not be here now at the pleasure of the Caliph of Cairo, by whose sufferance I yet draw breath. And yet, as Padraig never tires of pointing out: the Swift Sure Hand does bend all things to the good of those who love him.
As much as I entrust my hope to this belief, I cannot truly say I perceived the smallest tincture of good in that arduous and harrowing journey to Damascus. If there was a design in that, I confess I never saw it. Perhaps I may be forgiven my dullness of sight, however; most days, I was busy fighting for my life.
Amir Ghazi commanded the massed armies to move south at once. As I think on it now, he must have recognized the priceless opportunity he had won. Having vanquished Antioch’s protecting forces, he moved to press his advantage as far as it would go.
So, without a pause to draw breath, much less celebrate their victory, the amir’s army was on the move once more. In preparation for this, Seljuq warriors searched through the ranks of crusader captives with swords; anyone with a disabling wound was instantly put to death. Those with lesser injuries were spared, and allowed to continu
e so long as they could walk. Still, as the days passed, there were times when I reckoned a quick chop in the neck might have been the greatest kindness.
We marched from the plain of battle and into the low hills to the north and east. It was long past dark when we stopped. I spent a cold night on the ground in the company of eight other prisoners. We were tied together in groups to keep us from escaping, and each group separated from the others so that we could not raise rebellion.
Too disheartened to speak, we lay there on the stony ground and slept the sleep of the dead. Indeed, a good few did not rise in the morning; and a fair few more who did begin the day’s march did not finish.
That day cast the pattern for all the days to follow: our captors roused us at first light, prodding us awake with the butts of their spears. We were bound together two-by-two, each man to another with short cords around the ankles, and a slightly longer one around the neck; our hands were tied behind us. Then we were given a drink of water, and the army moved off, heading south. The main body of the Seljuq war host rode on ahead; the captives traveled behind with the slower-moving baggage train.
We shuffled along, watching the dull sky brighten, trying to ignore the leather rope chafing our ankles with every step. Soon the sun broke above the surrounding hills and we began to feel the heat of the day to come. As the sun climbed higher in the empty white shell of the sky, the heat mounted and leeched away the little strength the night had restored to us. By midday, some of the worse off had reached their journey’s end; they collapsed along the trail.
Our Arab masters were deaf to the cries of the suffering and dying. They pushed mercilessly, pausing only to give us enough water to keep us alive and moving—never enough to satisfy our parched and burning throats.
Hungry, thirsty, aching from our various wounds and injuries, we shuffled over the barren hills, our heads down, our hearts cold hard stone in our chests. Day after infernal day. We did not talk; there was nothing to say.
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