by Tom Harper
‘But where am I going?’
Brother Luke pointed to a door under the windows. ‘You can begin by getting some fresh air.’
I shuffled uncertainly to the door, onto a shaded balcony which ran along the front of a wide building. Behind me, regular doors studded the whitewashed wall, no doubt leading to the monks’ cells and offices; over the balustrade, the rest of the monastery sloped away down a gentle incline, a jumble of squat buildings, domes and faded tile roofs. It was a true fortress of God, bounded by a massive mud brick rampart whose single gate might have been ripped from the walls of Constantinople herself. Beyond it, a few miles distant, I could see the solitary hump of the rock where we had fought our desperate battle. Otherwise, the monastery stood alone in the desert.
I heard the quick slap of sandals and turned, expecting the infirmarian had come to examine me. Instead, I saw a monk I did not recognise, a tall man in a black habit, with a heavy gold cross swinging around his neck and a ruby ring on his finger. He walked with a brisk, confident stride, though his close-trimmed beard masked a face no older than my own. He came level with me and extended a rigid arm, holding his hand just low enough that I had to stoop to kiss the ring. It was an awkward movement with one arm tied to my side, and I almost overbalanced attempting it. He snatched his hand away with an affronted tut.
‘Are you the abbot?’ I asked.
He nodded, and tried to force a smile. It did not keep the disapproval from his eyes. ‘How is your wound recovering?’
I touched my good hand to my shoulder. ‘With God’s grace the infirmarian thinks it will heal. Though he tells me it will take weeks.’
The abbot avoided my gaze. ‘In a just world, you would of course remain with us until your wounds were whole.’
I thought I had recognised something about him, the way he stooped forward, too eager to cow you with his authority. I had seen him arguing with the infirmarian in the night. ‘You want me to leave.’
‘In a just world . . .’ He twisted his hands together. ‘Your presence here is dangerous. You must know that.’
‘I don’t even know how I came to be here.’
‘The Nizariyya brought you.’
It was the second time I had heard that name. ‘Who?’
‘They are rebels . . . brigands. Your friends will explain. But when the caliph’s men do not return, he will send others to search for them. If they come here and find you . . .’ The abbot turned and stared out into the desert, as if he was expecting to see the full might of the caliph’s army thundering across the horizon. But there was only a hawk, circling in the cloudless sky.
‘It is not easy living as Christians in a heathen land.’
‘I’m surprised the caliph allows it,’ I said.
The abbot gave me a sharp look, alive to any insult. ‘We pay our tributes, as he requires, and he leaves us to practise our vocation.’
I looked around at the encompassing wilderness, silent and vast. ‘You found a good place for it.’
‘Yes.’ The abbot nodded eagerly. ‘Yes. Here we can be apart from the world and live as Christ taught.’
‘And did Christ teach you to cast out the wretched and wounded who crawled to your doorstep?’ barked a voice from over my shoulder.
I turned to see Nikephoros and Aelfric walking towards me, and immediately had to stifle a laugh. Both of them were dressed as I was, in novices’ grey habits, but where mine was a little snug across my shoulders, theirs rode high above their knees and elbows, more like labourers’ smocks. Nikephoros, in particular, seemed utterly ridiculous – though his face was as proud as ever.
‘My Lord.’ The abbot bowed low – evidently Nikephoros had already impressed his rank on the man. ‘My Lord, you know we have extended you every kindness. But we live here to escape the snares of the world. We cannot allow them to intrude in our community, or they will destroy it.’
‘You will have to run further than this if you want to escape the cares of the world. How much do you pay the caliph to leave you alone?’
The abbot swallowed. He was young, and too used to ruling unchallenged over his little kingdom in the desert, I guessed.
‘We render Caesar his due, as Christ commanded.’
‘And if Caesar demands the three men who escaped his captivity?’
Three men? I glanced at Aelfric and mouthed Jorol’s name. Aelfric gave a small shake of his head.
The abbot was backing away along the balcony. ‘No. No! I would never betray fellow Christians to the Egyptians. It is for your own safety that you must go, as much as ours.’
Nikephoros stared at him and said nothing.
‘A caravan will come past the monastery this afternoon. They will take you to the coast. There are men there – Christians – with ships.’
‘And what use are ships in winter?’
‘Winter does not trouble these men. They are accustomed to it. They will take you . . .’ He shrugged, perhaps uncertain where three vagabonds who had crawled out of the desert might want to go. ‘Home.’
Despite myself, my hopes leaped to hear it. Nikephoros, meanwhile, took two quick strides and stared close into the abbot’s face. They were almost the same height, and for a moment their eyes met on a level plane.
‘If you betray us, master abbot, or deal unfairly with us, I will personally march back across this desert with a legion of the emperor’s troops at my back, and tear apart every brick of your monastery.’
The abbot dropped his gaze. ‘I will not betray you. I only want peace, and for my community to be left to their Christian lives.’
Before we left, I sought out Brother Luke the infirmarian to thank him for his care.
‘You saved me from death.’ I wished I had something to give him but I had nothing.
The infirmarian smiled a gentle rebuke. ‘God saved you; I merely dressed the wound. I pray it is enough. I have little call here to practise on the wounds you brought me.’
‘You could come with us. Your skills would save many lives, especially among the Army of God.’
‘My vocation . . .’
‘It would not be betraying your vocation,’ I insisted. ‘It would be serving God – more than sitting comfortably in the desert and tending to men who have blistered their knees with too much prayer. It would be a mercy to many.’
Brother Luke looked down in embarrassment, and I realised I had spoken with too much passion. ‘I’m sorry. I only meant – ’
‘I know what you meant. And what you say has its truth. But God has called me here to withdraw from the world. That is my vocation; whatever small skill I have to heal proceeds from that.’
A bell tolled through the high windows. Brother Luke gave a smile. ‘Now, however, I am called to prayer.’
‘Let me join you,’ I said impulsively. For all the prayers I had hurled at God in recent days, it was an age since I had entered the warm womb of a church, wrapped in candlelight and incense. Suddenly, I longed for it.
But Brother Luke shook his head. Outside, down the hill, I heard the creak of a gate and the tramp of many hooves.
‘I think you are called back to the world.’
Above us, the stern Christ stayed fixed in his firmament. One hand clutched the sealed book, in which were written all things; the other was raised, as if in farewell.
After the strange familiarity of the monastery, it was something of a shock to meet our new escorts: a dozen Saracens dressed all in black, with crooked faces and fearsome swords. They rode on camels, with another two score of the beasts roped together in a train laden with sacks and bundles. Just walking past them brought a feast of exotic scents to my nose: sweet, musky and forbidden. It was like walking up the eastern end of the main avenue in Constantinople, outside the palace gates where the perfume-sellers kept their shops.
‘Who are these men?’ Nikephoros demanded, bristling with suspicion.
The abbot sniffed. ‘Spice traders from Arabia. They are on their way to the coast.’
There was a brie
f delay while the abbot negotiated with the Saracen leader. We could not understand a word, but the exchange of a purse full of coins seemed to decide the matter. The Saracen leader gestured to a riderless camel, and with much unloading and rebalancing of their burdens, two more were found for the rest of us. I noticed that a couple of the sacks were not reloaded, but remained beside the abbot. Servants filled the caravan’s waterskins from the monastery well; then we mounted our camels and rode out. With only one arm free to cling to the reins, my balance was precarious, but I managed to turn myself enough to see the monastery receding behind us. Looking back, seeing it alone in the empty desert, its mammoth walls and towering gate seemed more folly than ever – defences against an invisible siege. Yet they had not been built against the armies of men, but against the world itself, and for that even those bulwarks were no more than sand before a tide. Perhaps mindful of that fact, the monastery’s builders had sited it artfully in the lee of a low ridge, almost the same colour as the faded mudbricks of the ramparts. It seemed extraordinary that anything so vast as those walls could disappear, yet already it was hard to tell where the walls ended and the ridge began. The next time I looked back, it had vanished completely.
Nikephoros must have seen my glance, for he brought his camel alongside.
‘Fools.’ He jerked his head back towards the monastery. ‘If God was obliged to come into the world and toil as a human, I doubt he intended that abbot and his flock to be spared.’
‘Perhaps.’ I was unsure whether I envied the monks their vocation, or pitied them for it. I tried to change the subject, nodding towards our Saracen guards. ‘Who are these men?’
‘Smugglers.’ Nikephoros’ camel began to drift back, and he swatted it with a short stick to bring it level with me again. ‘No doubt when we reach the coast they’ll find some pirate who will spirit their cargo across the sea.’
‘But they are Ishmaelites. Why should they have to skulk about in their own country?’
‘Because Ishmaelites hate taxes just as much as Christians and Jews. And also because the Saracens of Arabia follow a different sect of Islam, the same as the Turks. They are the Fatimid caliph’s bitterest enemies.’
‘Are they the same as the men who rescued us from over there?’ I pointed to the west, where the outcropping rock was now a small blot on the horizon.
‘No. Those were Nizariyya.’
It was the third time I had heard that name. ‘Who?’
‘Four years ago, when the old caliph died, his chosen heir was his eldest son, a prince named Nizar. But the vizier al-Afdal, whom we met, preferred the youngest son who had only recently come of age.’
‘He thought the younger son would be more easily governed?’
‘And the boy was married to al-Afdal’s sister. Al-Afdal installed the boy on the throne – the same throne where we saw him; Nizar fled to Alexandria, raised a revolt and proclaimed himself the true caliph.
‘Al-Afdal crushed the revolt easily enough, but it was only half a victory. To the Fatimids, the caliph is not just their king but also their high priest, the imam. There can only be one lawful imam at a time, and each must proceed from the last. They claim that the line stretches unbroken all the way from the heresiarch Mohammed. Supporting a caliph is not only a question of politics, but also of faith. And that is much harder to defeat.’
I considered this a moment. ‘What happened to Prince Nizar?’
‘He was captured and disappeared.’ Nikephoros grimaced. ‘No doubt in the same manner, perhaps the same place, as we would have done if we had not escaped. Al-Afdal hoped he would be forgotten; instead, his partisans believed that Prince Nizar had been concealed by their God until he could return in glory and vengeance. Naturally, that only redoubled their determination in their war against the caliph, though they were scattered and weak.’
‘And these partisans: they are the Nizariyya who rescued us?’
‘They have a hidden camp on the heights of that rock. When they saw that we had been pursued by the caliph’s troops, and fought against them, they spared us.’ He laughed. ‘They are also the caliph’s bitterest enemies.’
‘There seem to be many.’
‘And more now that he has offended Byzantium. When the Nizariyya realised we were Greek, they brought us to the monastery. The abbot did not say as much, but I guess there is an understanding between the monks and their neighbours.’
‘And Jorol?’
‘He fell from the cliff. They could not say whether it was the fall or the arrows that killed him. The monks buried him in their cemetery.’
We rode for two days, resting in the hottest hours of each day and the darkest hours of each night. Then, just before dusk on the second day, we came to a rise and saw a sight I had almost forgotten existed. Trees. Olive groves scattered the valley before us, and on the opposite ridge I could see a row of date plams swaying softly in the breeze. The same breeze blew across my face – not a parching desert wind, but a cool, wet wind flavoured with salt and fish.
Even with one arm tied to my side, I would have flogged my camel bare to gallop across that final stretch more quickly. Instead, we had to endure the painstaking pace of the pack animals as they picked their way among the crumbling stone terraces and irrigation channels in the valley. Up the far slope the ground became sandier – not the floury dust that coated the desert, but paler and coarser sand, which ground and crumbled underfoot.
We reached the line of date palms I had seen and looked out, onto a few low sand dunes, a flat beach and the sea beyond. If I had been standing I would have dropped to my knees to thank God; as it was, I stared at the water, unblinking, until my eyes wept from the salt breeze. To our left, I could see a small village of ramshackle huts thatched with palm leaves. Children played in the sand dunes, while women knotted broken nets and men caulked the boats they had hauled up to the top of the beach.
But those were not the only vessels. Drawn up at the water’s edge where waves rippled between their hulls lay five ships – much bigger than the fishing boats, with stout masts and high, curving prows. Their sails were furled and their oars stowed, but one flew a green banner showing a man with outstretched arms at her masthead. Seeing it, Aelfric gave a small cry; he leaped down from his camel, almost tumbling into the sand in his haste, and ran across the beach.
The men by the boats saw his approach and advanced to meet him. Some snatched up their swords, and several carried long axes. It did not deter Aelfric: he ran straight into the throng, shouting something I could not understand. The nearest man stared in astonishment – but it was the astonishment of recognition, not fear. He dropped his axe, spread his arms and wrapped Aelfric in an engulfing hug.
‘What . . . ?’ Nikephoros slipped out of his saddle and strode after the Varangian. For myself, I could not dismount unaided but kicked my camel forward, overtaking Nikephoros and reining in just behind Aelfric, who was now deep in conversation. I paused and listened. It was not a language I could speak or understand, but it was familiar to me nonetheless. I had heard it spoken among the Varangians many times.
Nikephoros pushed forward. ‘Who are these men?’
Aelfric broke off and turned to us, his eyes shining with excitement. A circle had begun to form around us as the men from the ships gathered. Looking at the assembled faces, I saw that many bore more than a passing resemblance to Aelfric: fair hair, light skin tanned red by wind and sun, and broad shoulders, which held their weapons easily.
Aelfric pointed to the man who stood at the centre of the throng. ‘This is Saewulf. These are his ships.’
The man called Saewulf stepped forward. His chestnut-coloured hair hung lank over his shoulders, tied back by a leather thong, while his beard was so thick it almost covered his mouth. He wore a green tunic and red leggings, and a dagger with a handle carved like a fish tucked into his braided belt. He stood with his legs far apart, his shoulders back and his chest out-thrust. I suppose it was a posture learned from many months balancing on
a heaving deck, but the effect on land was vaguely obscene.
‘Is he English?’ I blurted out.
Aelfric nodded.
No doubt it would take many questions to establish why an English sailor and his fleet had made their camp on the shores of Fatimid Egypt. But at that moment, there was only one question that mattered, and Nikephoros asked it with his customary brusqueness.
‘Will he take us home?’
ιζ
That evening, Saewulf’s men built fires on the beach and roasted goats. It was the first meat I had tasted since we fled the caliph’s palace and I forced myself to eat it cautiously, though I could have devoured it in a mouthful. I licked the fat from my fingers while Nikephoros and Aelfric talked with Saewulf. He had avoided Nikephoros’ question, insisting we could not speak before eating; and once we were seated around the fire he had asked to hear our entire story. Nikephoros told it, with some explanation from Aelfric in English but mostly in Greek, for Saewulf’s voyaging profession had taught him many languages. For all his barbaric appearance he made a charming host: he filled our cups with beer, cut us the choicest pieces of meat, and gave us fresh cloaks and tunics to replace the ill-fitting novices’ clothes we wore.
When Nikephoros had finished his account, he fixed his gaze on Saewulf. ‘That is our story. But why has an English seafarer beached his ships on these shores, at this time of year? You are a long way from safe harbours.’
‘So are you.’ Saewulf grinned; the goat-grease on his teeth gleamed in the firelight. ‘I came to fish.’
Nikephoros gestured towards the ships, though all we could see of them were high prows sweeping up into the darkness. ‘Are those fishing boats?’
‘For me – yes.’ Saewulf leaned forward. ‘I was in England when I heard that the Pope had preached his holy pilgrimage – ’
‘I thought all of your people had been driven out of England when the Normans invaded,’ I interrupted.
‘Even William the Bastard could not kill every Englishman. He needed us to plough his fields and quarry stone for his castles. And sail his ships.’ He shrugged. ‘I carry many cargoes, but I have never profited from carrying a grudge.’
