Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

Bilal was hastily pulling on his tunic. ‘Do you remember Fustat? The ruined city you saw from the boat?’

‘You said it was destroyed in a civil war.’

Bilal wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and clasped it at the neck. ‘That was a war between the black legions and the Turkish legions in the caliph’s army. It raged for years and desolated the country. Eventually the vizier, al-Afdal’s father, stopped it by bringing in his Armenian troops who hated Turks and Africans equally. But the wounds are not forgotten. That is why no one must know that a black man has killed two Turkish guards.’

He spun around and advanced on me. ‘I know it is probably to your emperor’s benefit if we tear ourselves apart, but you must swear not to tell what has happened here. If you had not followed them. .’

‘Then the boy would have been raped in secret, and no one would have known or cared. Is that what you would have preferred?’

Bilal had come very close to me, blocking the light of the fading lamp. Once again, he looked as he had first appeared in that chamber, a featureless void in the shape of a man. I shivered. Then he smiled, his white teeth breaking the darkness, and touched my arm.

‘I am glad you did what you did.’

‘And I am sorry for what came of it. I will keep it a secret, you have my word.’

‘Then we should leave this evil place.’

Dusk was falling by the time we arrived at the palace. A damask haze hung over the low water, while the sky flushed pink over the western desert. Even so, the royal wharf thrived with activity. A fleet of long ships, easily large enough to navigate the sea, had arrived — so many of them that they had to moor three abreast. Their sailors were still coiling ropes and furling sails, while on shore a great throng of soldiers milled about. There was no sign of the litters that had carried us to and from the palace, and little chance that they could have forged a way through the crowd in any event.

‘We will have to walk,’ said Bilal. ‘It is not far.’

We could not even dock, but had to tie up alongside one of the outermost ships and clamber from deck to deck until at last we reached the wharf. Instantly, we were plunged into the bustle and jostle of soldiers, bewildering after the emptiness of the desert. A babble of voices filled the air — and it seemed to me that the language they spoke was not Arabic but something else, something I had heard before among Pakrad’s men in the monastery at Ravendan. Our guards made a tight circle around us, while Bilal approached one of the soldiers and questioned him. The man answered so volubly that Bilal had to wave him to be quiet, indicating Nikephoros and me with a cautionary glance. The soldier giggled and put a calloused finger to his lips, then wheeled away to join the throng of his fellow soldiers.

‘What was that?’

I suspected I was not supposed to know, and that Bilal would either ignore me or pretend not to have heard. Instead, after a moment’s pause to frown in thought, he looked me in the eye.

‘It is the vizier, al-Afdal, He has returned.’

The following evening we had our first glimpse of the man who held sway over the caliph. We were invited to a banquet — to celebrate his latest triumph, said the courtier who brought the summons, though when I asked where the victory had been won he retreated from the room. Meanwhile, I had other concerns: I had not seen Bilal since we returned to the palace, and I feared lest he had suffered some punishment or revenge for what had happened in the pyramid. I tried to ask our guards, but they spoke no Greek and could not answer.

The sun was setting when we left our apartments, though we could not see it for the high walls that surrounded the courtyard. I had spent most of the day beside the window, watching the comings and goings and looking in vain for Bilal. Even if I had not known that the vizier had returned, I would have recognised that something had changed, for there was a new sense of urgency and activity in the palace. Now it had subsided, and the loudest sounds in the courtyard were the muted splashing of the fountains and the slap of our footsteps.

The quiet receded as we climbed a broad flight of stairs. I could hear a babble of voices, and the fragile melodies of flutes and a lyre in the background. The noise grew as we came out onto an open balcony: it was surrounded on three sides by wooden screens in the shape of foliage, while the fourth side offered an unbroken view across the river and the plain beyond, all the way to the high peaks of the pyramids several miles distant. I shivered to see them, and turned away to take the cup of sherbet a slave was presenting to me. I was half a pace behind Nikephoros, as befitted my station, and could ignore the functionary who was busy greeting him in a flurry of solicitudes and bows. The dying sun washed Nikephoros’ face; with his head held proud and stiff, he looked like some haughty, golden statue. I could not see his eyes, but the tight curve at the edge of his mouth suggested he was in his element, basking in the mastic of protocol and courtesy.

It was a scheme where I had little part to play, save to stand behind Nikephoros and make him seem taller by lengthening his shadow. Ignoring the functionaries, I skimmed my gaze across the terrace, searching for the vizier. There must have been well over a hundred courtiers in attendance, some with faces as dark as Bilal’s, others as fair as Sigurd, all dressed in long robes trimmed with gold and embroidered with the sharp-edged letters of their scripture. I could not see the vizier — but at the balcony’s edge I saw four men clustered together, watching the gathering with wary concentration. They stood a little apart from the main assembly, sipping nervously from their silver cups, lumpen and awkward amid the fluid ease of the other guests. They were Franks.

I slipped away from behind Nikephoros and made my way towards them. I lost sight of them in the bustle; by the time I emerged, they had noticed my approach. They turned to face me, squaring their shoulders and watching me cautiously as if I posed some unknown danger.

‘You’re far from home.’ I spoke in the bastardised Frankish that had become the Army of God’s common tongue. At the sound of it, nervous glances flashed between the Franks.

‘Further than you.’ It was the nearest Frank who answered, a strongly built man with russet-brown hair and a face that, while smooth-skinned, appeared neither youthful nor handsome. Perhaps it was because of his eyes, which seemed somehow too large for his face; they drilled into me with such fierce and unhidden suspicion that I was almost embarrassed to look at them.

‘Further than me,’ I agreed. ‘I am Demetrios Askiates, from Constantinople.’

‘A Greek — but you have marched with the Army of God?’

‘All the way to Antioch.’

The intensity in his eyes seemed to focus still sharper. ‘You came from Antioch? What is the news there? We heard that God had given us a great victory over the Turks, but that was months ago. What has happened since?’

‘Little except plague and delay.’ I spoke shortly; Antioch reminded me of too many things I could not bear to think of. ‘But why are you at the caliph’s palace? How long have you been here?’

‘Almost six months.’ He laughed bitterly as he saw my shock. ‘You will soon discover that the Fatimids do not hurry their guests. We were sent here by the princes to make an alliance against the Turks, but so far. .’ He held open his empty palms. ‘Nothing. We have been feasted and entertained, we have marvelled at the caliph’s new city and the pagan marvels of the ancients. . Have you seen the pyramids?’

He pointed back over my shoulder, though I did not look. ‘I have seen them. Have you met with the vizier, al-Afdal?’