Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

More arrows flew; I could hear them striking the ground, stalking up behind me, drawing level and overtaking me. I thought to try and weave between them, to make a harder target for the archers, but that would have cost me precious speed. I had to hope my lurching progress was enough to confuse them. Now the sound changed: ahead of me, I heard the crack of an arrow striking stone. I looked up. A wall of rock rose before me — and splitting open its face, a ravine. I hurled myself in as a hail of arrows clattered on the walls beside me.

The world went dark again. The two halves of the fractured rock rose so steep and close that even the sun could not prise its way between them, except to touch the very tops of the walls high above me. As my eyes balanced the gloom, I saw where I had entered: a sandy lagoon cupped between the rocky walls. Grasses and flowers grew out of the rock above me — stunted and pale, but the first green things I had seen since the Nile. There must be water somewhere, though that was my last concern at that moment.

I had been the last of our company to enter the ravine. Ahead of me, where the gap widened, I saw Nikephoros and the others scrambling up the steep slope, trying to find a path to the top. I followed them, though it seemed a hopeless task. Even if we had the strength to climb this mountain, the Egyptian archers would shoot us off its side long before we reached the summit.

But not yet. Whether they feared to bring their horses into the narrow defile, or whether they had sent some men around the rock to be sure we did not escape through the other side, they did not follow us in straight away. Meanwhile, Nikephoros seemed to have found some sort of goat path up the cliff, and we climbed it desperately, crawling on our hands and knees as it steepened. How could goats ever have come here? I wondered.

About a third of the way up, the path ended. I would have surrendered there, but Nikephoros was already moving on, scuttling up the sheer cliff like a spider. I was astonished, until I saw what he had seen: a ladder of recesses and handholds cut into the cliff, rising straight to the sky. Some were so freshly made I could still see the chisel scrapes on them, though I did not think to question who had carved them.

Fifty feet below, the horsemen swept into the ravine and dismounted. With cruel deliberation, I saw the archers pull fistfuls of arrows from the quivers on their backs and plant them in the sand beside them. They would not need so many, I thought. The others were already halfway up the cliff, caught like flies, while I still stood on the ledge where the path ended. I was safer there from the archers below — but that was no solace, for soon the spearmen scrambling up the path would reach me. The sharp snap of bowstrings echoed around the ravine, immediately drowned by the quick-fire rattle of iron on stone. Not only stone — several hit flesh, and a mortal screaming joined the cacophony that filled the air. A shadow fell from the sky as the arrows plucked one of my companions from the wall above. I did not see who it was; he fell into the sand at the foot of the cliff, and in its soft embrace I did not even hear his neck break.

Pebbles rained down on me as my companions climbed on. To my right, the spearmen were only a few yards down the path, though something seemed to have delayed them. They crouched behind their shields, looking up and across the ravine. Following their gaze I saw the dark shapes of more archers silhouetted against the sky on the opposite summit. Now they could rain arrows on us from above and below. There would be no escape.

Yet even where there is no hope of escape, men will try beyond reason. I could not get past the spearmen; the only other path was up. I scooped a handful of pebbles and threw them down on the archers in the ravine, a vain gesture of defiance, then turned and began hauling myself up the cliff.

It was easier than I had thought it would be. Whoever had cut the footholds had placed them well, so that my feet found grooves and fissures exactly where they expected. I pulled myself up, hand over hand, deaf now to the sounds of battle, to the arrows around me, to the voice in my heart that pleaded this was madness. The discipline of climbing brought a rare order to my body, and I embraced it eagerly. Perhaps I might even reach the summit, I thought, though I did not know what I would do when I reached it.

An arrow tore into my shoulder, and as I screamed my hand let go of the rock. I tried to cling on with my other hand, but I did not have the strength. I fell, felt a rush of air and then a life-emptying thud.

I lay back, and let the desert take me at last.

Angels hovered over me in a golden sky, their faces still and solemn as they circled the bearded man in their midst. In his left hand he clutched a thick book, bound with many seals, while his right was raised as if in blessing or judgement. There was a seriousness about him, which I had expected, but also a sadness, which I had not: his mouth seemed to droop away from his gaunt cheeks, and dark bags ringed his sunken eyes. In the distance, and seemingly all around me, I could hear the quiet chanting of prayers.

‘Christ?’ I asked uncertainly. I had thought I would recognise him immediately, but now I was not sure.

‘You are in the presence of Christ.’

His lips did not move, nor did the voice even seem to emanate from him. Instead, I heard it whispering in my ear.

A bolt of terror sparked through me. I tried to bow, or kneel, but at once an invisible force pushed me back. I did not resist.

‘Will you judge me, Lord?’

He chuckled, though his drooping mouth did not move. ‘It is not for me to judge you. And your time has not yet come.’

‘Not yet. .?’

‘Wake up,’ said the voice. ‘Wake up, Demetrios Askiates.’

Christ seemed to recede away into the sky as a larger, gentler face leaned close over me. There was no ethereal stillness in this man’s features: his head swayed from side to side, and his blue eyes darted about as if searching for something within me.

‘Are you Saint Peter?’ I guessed.

He chuckled — the same laugh as I had heard before, but this time his cheeks creased and his mouth opened wide with mirth. His breath smelled of onions.

‘I am Brother Luke. The infirmarian.’

I tried to rub my eyes, though only one hand obeyed. The other seemed to be tied down to something. I turned my head to look.

The golden sky disappeared. Instead, I saw a row of stern-faced prophets lining a long wall, and afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows above their heads. In front of them, at my bedside, an elderly monk in a black habit was pouring something from a jug into a plain cup.

‘Where am I?’

The monk set the cup down on a wooden table and turned back to me. ‘At the monastery of Mount Abraham.’

‘I thought I saw-’ I broke off, uncertain if it was blasphemy. The monk, however, showed no offence.

‘Perhaps you did. You were half dead when they brought you here.’

‘Who brought me?’

‘The Nizariyya .’

I did not understand, but before I could ask anything else he had crooked an arm around the back of my head, lifted it forward and was tipping the contents of the cup into my mouth. I tasted honey and rosemary, and something bitter I did not know. It was only as the cool liquid touched my throat that I realised I was no longer thirsty — or hungry.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Three days.’

Unbidden, I suddenly pictured a dark chasm filled with screams and the hiss of stinging arrows. ‘And my companions?’

The monk dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. ‘They both survived — better than you. You will see them tomorrow. Now, rest.’