Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

‘Many times. He speaks constantly, sees everything and says nothing. He is the arch-deceiver.’

It seemed a dangerous thing to say at the vizier’s own gathering, and I glanced around nervously. To my alarm, I saw a Fatimid courtier striding towards us, with Nikephoros close behind him. Although the two men could hardly have been more different, the disapproving scowls on their faces were almost identical.

‘Demetrios.’ Nikephoros twitched his head to order me back to my allotted orbit behind him. ‘The chamberlain was about to present us — but it seems you could not wait.’

I swallowed my pride and stepped back into Nikephoros’ shadow, shaking my head in wonder. Yesterday I had shattered a man’s head with a rock; today I was rebuked for anticipating an introduction. As for Nikephoros, he might stand in front of a burning house and his only concern would be to ensure that the inhabitants escaped in order of rank.

The Fatimid chamberlain had begun to make the appropriate introductions — flattering Nikephoros by presenting him first. Then he turned to the Franks.

‘Achard of Tournai.’ He bowed to the man I had spoken with earlier. ‘He has been our guest some months now.’ He introduced the other three, though I promptly forgot their names. None of them even pretended enthusiasm at meeting us.

‘Why does the Greek king need his own envoys here?’ Achard’s staring eyes were trained full on Nikephoros, who stiffened as I translated for him.

‘The Greek emperor sends his envoys where he chooses. Perhaps together we can succeed where alone we may have failed.’

‘When you have been here six months you can judge who has failed,’ Achard muttered in Frankish. I did not translate it.

‘All that matters is that we reach Jerusalem and that we take it from the Turks.’

‘On that we can all agree,’ said the Fatimid chamber- lain piously. There was something knowing in his eyes, an amusement that I could not understand, though perhaps it was just the studied artifice of a courtier.

Before I could ponder it further, a train of slaves with long tapers appeared at the head of the stairs, and the crowd began to drift down to the banquet.

I did see the mysterious and all-powerful al-Afdal that evening, though only from the distant corner of the banqueting hall where I ate. I suppose, having heard his reputation, I had expected a lean-faced schemer with a predatory hunch and hawkish eyes; instead, he seemed a jovial figure who filled out his robes, lounged easily on his seat and laughed often. He speaks constantly and says nothing , I remembered with a cold chill. The hope I had felt the day before, that al-Afdal’s arrival would hasten my return to Sigurd and Anna, had all but died when I heard Achard’s story. Though I could not deny a small spark of optimism when I learned, next morning, that al-Afdal would receive our embassy.

‘This time, you will do well to keep your eyes lowered, your mouth shut, and your feet planted one pace behind and to the left of my own,’ said Nikephoros, as a slave combed and oiled his hair. ‘The caliph’s palace is not a fairground — you cannot wander about it entertaining yourself as you please.’

I said nothing, but sullenly rinsed my hands in a bowl of rosewater. Nikephoros sighed.

‘I know you have followed paths where aggression is prized. But now you are in a different world, where humility and obedience are the chief virtues.’

‘I didn’t know I had joined a monastery again,’ I said sulkily.

Nikephoros gave a short laugh. ‘You saw how long those clumsy Franks have waited here. Do you want to waste as many months fretting away your life?’

I shook my head.

‘The Franks were fools to send their embassy when they did, when their army was mired in a fruitless siege and faced every prospect of destruction. Of course al-Afdal would not accept their alliance in those circumstances. Now that the Franks have proved their worth at Antioch, our proposal is more compelling.’

‘Do we speak for the Army of God?’

‘We speak for the emperor, and the Franks are his tool. Though it would be easier if their own emissaries were not here.’

‘Strange that we have not seen them before.’

Nikephoros snorted. ‘Do you think it was a coincidence that we met them last night? Al-Afdal permitted it because it suits his purposes. There was no chance in that meeting. Now that we are aware of each other’s presence, al-Afdal will seek to divide us, and profit by our suspicions. That is why we must finish our business as quickly as possible — if al-Afdal allows it.’

Footsteps in the hall outside announced the arrival of our escort to the audience. Bilal’s face appeared around the door; he gave me a sad, private frown, then bowed to Nikephoros, who was straightening the hem of his sleeves and did not notice.

‘The vizier al-Afdal begs you to attend him at his home.’

Whatever schemes he might entertain, al-Afdal had no need of the petty delays that the caliph had inflicted on us before our first audience. The litter-bearers carried us through bustling, unseen streets and set us down in a small courtyard hung with silk awnings to keep off the sun. Four fountains rose in the corners, and ran through green-tiled channels to a shallow pool in its centre. On the far side of the pool, reclining on cushions on a low marble dais, sat al-Afdal, and although he sat in the shade, the golden threads in his ivory robe still caught the sun like ripples on water. The sight was so unexpected and peaceful — a man enjoying the comforts of his garden on a hot day — that for a moment I completely forgot his power. Then I saw Nikephoros stoop to one knee in front of me, and hastily followed suit. Nikephoros did not offer the full proskynesis , I saw — that was reserved for true kings — but he held his bow several beats longer than was necessary.

Slaves brought honeyed wine and almond cakes, and al-Afdal’s chamberlain motioned us to sit. Al-Afdal did not say a word, but smiled kindly at us as he waited for the attendants to finish. I took the opportunity to study him: as I had seen the night before, he had the rounded figure of a man who enjoyed his pleasures unabashedly — though he would still sit easily enough on a warhorse, I guessed. His black beard was streaked with grey; the creases at the corners of his eyes gave him a benign, avuncular air, but the eyes themselves were as dark and impenetrable as onyx. When he lifted the cup at his side, I saw a fresh scar livid on the back of his hand, and I wondered again about the victory he had celebrated the night before.

He murmured something in Arabic, and the chamberlain stood. ‘In the name of the Most Illustrious Lord, the Counsellor of the Caliph, the Sword of Islam, the Commander of the Armies, Protector of the Muslims and Guide of the Missionaries, al-Afdal Shah-an-Shah — welcome.’

I thought I saw a sardonic smile play over al-Afdal’s lips as he listened to his titles — and it grew subtly wider as Nikephoros responded with the full litany of the emperor’s honorifics, taking great care, I thought, to draw them out longer than the vizier’s. When he had finished, al-Afdal sat back. It seemed strange that for all his magnificent titles he should not know Greek, when even Bilal had managed to learn it, but he spoke in Arabic and left the chamberlain to translate.

‘An embassy from the emperor of the Romans always brings honour to our court. And we have much to discuss. I have heard that the emperor wishes to forge an alliance.’

‘We have both suffered many defeats against the Turks — often because we could not unite against the common threat. Now that they are on the brink of defeat, they should not escape on account of our differences. We both have too much to gain.’