Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

Al-Afdal smiled. ‘It is true that we have both allowed the Turks too many victories. But let us be honest with each other. It is neither Byzantium nor Egypt that has now brought the Turks low. According to what I hear, that has been accomplished by this army of Franj — the so-called Army of God.’

Nikephoros shifted uneasily on his cushions. ‘It is true that the Frankish armies have done much of the fighting. But it has all been on the emperor’s behalf. He called them into being, and they have sworn allegiance to him as their ultimate lord.’

‘So do you speak for them?’ Al-Afdal popped a sticky sweet into his mouth, rubbed his fingers together in a bowl of water, and let one of the slaves dry them. The question hung unanswered in the lazy air — though al-Afdal obviously guessed the truth well enough. He had had six months to learn all about the Franks from Achard, after all.

‘Only the Franks can speak for themselves,’ Nikephoros said at last. ‘But the emperor is a valued ally and he has. . influence. When he speaks, they listen.’

Al-Afdal nodded. ‘It must be hard for an army to provision itself so far from home. And if he asked for Antioch? Would they surrender it?’

‘The Franks do not want Antioch for themselves.’ I marvelled that Nikephoros could say that with such conviction. ‘They only need it as a staging post to Jerusalem.’

‘Ah, Jerusalem.’ Al-Afdal leaned forward and dipped a finger in the tiled pool, swirling it around until he had whipped up a vortex. ‘Have you ever seen Jerusalem?’

‘Not yet, my lord.’

‘I have. Until twenty years ago it was part of our holy empire.’

‘Your kindness to its Christian inhabitants then is well remembered.’

Al-Afdal ignored the flattery. ‘It is a terrible place, without water or comfort. But do you know what it’s greatest problem is?’

Nobody answered.

‘Too many gods. Even the pagan Egyptians would have struggled to squeeze so many deities into such a small space. The city cannot hold them. That is why only a fool would seek to conquer it.’

I could see Nikephoros struggling to measure his words appropriately. ‘The Franks believe they are ordained by God to retake Jerusalem.’

‘So Achard of Tournai has told me — many times.’ Al- Afdal smiled again. ‘And the Byzantine emperor? Does he believe that he too must possess Jerusalem?’

‘He is of one mind with the Franks.’

‘Of course.’

Nikephoros uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. ‘Thirty years ago, before the Turks came, Egypt and Byzantium lived peacefully as neighbours. When our pilgrims travelled to the holy places, you protected them, and when famine threatened the Egyptian harvest we sold you grain. The emperor wishes to return to that happy state.’

‘But only if he extends his lands to Jerusalem.’

‘If the Turks are eventually driven out of Syria and Palestine, it will be the Franks who have struck the most telling blow,’ Nikephoros insisted. ‘They will deserve their reward.’

‘And they will accept nothing other than Jerusalem?’

‘Their ambassadors have surely told you so.’

Al-Afdal furrowed his brow, and stroked his beard in mock concentration. ‘So to enjoy the emperor’s friendship again, I must allow his allies to take and hold Jerusalem.’

‘And then, with your left flank secured, you could drive east to Baghdad — to Mecca, even.’

‘And if I do not?’

To the guards standing by the gates and watching us across the courtyard, it must have seemed that al-Afdal was entirely overwhelmed by Nikephoros. His shoulders were hunched and his head bowed, his hands clasped penitently before him as if hoping for a benediction. I could see Nikephoros was no more deceived by the charade than I, but even so he could not resist raising his voice a fraction to drive home his point.

‘The Franks have proved that there are few who can resist them. They are destined for Jerusalem, and — for all our sakes — the emperor would prefer that they came as your allies, to make the victory complete. But, whatever you choose, they are coming.’

A hot silence hung in the courtyard. Even the fountains seemed to have stopped their flow. Al-Afdal sat very still, while Nikephoros sank back onto his cushions. His diplomat’s face was as composed as ever, but his eyes were strained with anxiety.

Al-Afdal looked up with an apologetic smile. ‘That is a pity.’ With a start, I realised that I was no longer hearing his words through the chamberlain’s translation, but direct from his mouth in fluent Greek. ‘Because, you see, I already possess Jerusalem. I conquered it from the Turks a month ago. That was the victory we celebrated last night.’

I was lucky; in my insignificance, no reaction was demanded of me. Nikephoros had no such comfort. Al- Afdal’s sudden leap into Greek had denied him even the translator’s delay, and every second that he did not respond only doubled the oppressive expectation on him. To his credit, he absorbed the full weight of al-Afdal’s blow with little more than a tightening in his cheeks, and a narrowing of his eyes.

‘I did not know you spoke our language so well. I am surprised you need bother with an interpreter.’

Al-Afdal gave an ingenuous smile. ‘I would speak it more often, but it is hard for me. I would not want you to misunderstand what I say.’

‘Your Greek is flawless. Everything you say is perfectly clear.’

Al-Afdal took another sweet from the tray and kept his eyes fixed on Nikephoros.

‘Although the caliph’s obligations to his people kept him from leading the campaign personally, he is delighted by its result. Jerusalem is the holiest city in the world after Mecca and Medina: possessing it exalts the caliph and disgraces the Turks with their heretic Sunni faith.’

Nikephoros glanced at the cup of wine in his hands, but did not drink. ‘The caliph would be reluctant to give it up, even to a loyal ally?’

Al-Afdal nodded a profession of regret. ‘If Jerusalem was yours, would you surrender it?’

‘The emperor might — if he gained by the transaction.’

I glanced at Nikephoros in astonishment, then remembered my place and hastily hid my face behind my wine glass. How could he contemplate giving up Jerusalem, even speculatively? A cunning edge had crept into his tone; I could not understand it, but al-Afdal seemed to have noticed, for he was sitting straighter and nodding slowly.

‘But — forgive me — I do not see how the caliph could gain by surrendering his claim to Jerusalem. What does the emperor have to offer besides promises and protestations?’ He lifted a stout hand in apology. ‘You understand the caliph does not belittle the emperor’s promises of friendship; he cherishes them. But the two halves of a bargain must balance each other. A promise for a promise, a city for a city. A war for a war.’

Al-Afdal rearranged himself into a more elegant repose on his cushions. ‘I am grateful for your embassy, but I fear that events have overtaken us. It would be cruel to keep you here pretending otherwise. No doubt you yearn to see your homes and families again, and autumn will soon close the seas. If you have nothing else to discuss with the caliph, you could start for the sea tonight.’

The strain of concentrating on the shifting conversation, the heat of the sun beating through the awning and the sour bite of the wine in my mouth had contrived to raise a throbbing ache in my skull. For the past few minutes I had been staring at the cool water running through the fountains, wishing I could forsake protocol and plunge my head in. But the vizier’s final words swept away all pain and care in an instant: for the first time in weeks I could think of Anna and Sigurd with hope. I looked expectantly at Nikephoros.