Tom Harper - Siege of Heaven

‘Not as close as you think. You cannot measure the distance to Jerusalem in miles alone.’ The Fatimid leaned forward on his cushion. ‘Even if you take Arqa, there are a dozen cities just as strong between here and Jerusalem. Will you reduce them all? Then there are the natural obstacles. You have heard of the Raz-ez-Chekka , the Face of God? It is two days’ march from here, a place where the coastal road runs so close between the cliffs and the sea that you can only pass in single file. Twenty men there could block your passage for ever. And even if you did reach Jerusalem, you would find yourselves in a desolate land, dying of thirst before impregnable walls.’ He shook his head, as if he could not comprehend the hardships he described. ‘You have come a long way through extraordinary dangers, yes. But that does not mean the worst is behind you.’

‘All the more reason to hurry on then,’ said Tancred, staring at Raymond. Many in the tent muttered their agreement.

‘You would only hurry on to your doom. And you would make enemies where you do not need them. When I spoke of the hardships you have suffered, it was not to belittle them. My master the vizier’ — I noticed he had dropped the pretence of serving the caliph — ‘has seen how you long to pray at your shrines in Jerusalem. He can see it would be neither just nor prudent to deny you your goal after you have come so far.’

‘It is not for him to deny or grant. Only God has that power,’ said Godfrey.

‘God is truly strongest and most mighty,’ the envoy agreed. ‘But, mashallah , al-Afdal controls Jerusalem and its approaches.’

‘Not for long,’ Tancred interrupted.

The envoy’s face hardened, and he lifted his hands as if calming a misbehaved child. ‘Please. I did not come here to swap boasts and insults. I have come, at the command of the vizier, to make you this offer — if you will hear it.’

Tancred smirked. ‘What could an Ishmaelite have to say that was worth hearing — except his death cry?’

‘ Silence! ’ Raymond swept his stern eye around the room, before returning his gaze to the envoy. ‘What does your master propose?’

The envoy sat very still for a moment, so that only his eyes moved, darting about the tent like a snake sizing up its prey.

‘If you will swear peace with the Fatimid caliphate, al- Afdal will give safe conduct and protection to any man who wishes to see Jerusalem. All he asks is that you leave all weapons, except what is prudent for a traveller to carry, at the borders of his lands; and that you come in small numbers, no more than twelve at a time.’

He pressed his fingers together and leaned forward earnestly. ‘You have won many victories, but you have also suffered many losses. How many men have died already so that you can see Jerusalem? How many more will die if you insist on fighting your way to the end?’ All trace of impatience was gone from his voice; his eyes pleaded with us to accept his offer. ‘You call the prophet Jesus Christ the Prince of Peace. What better way to honour him, and yourselves, than if you come to Jerusalem in peace?’

‘Christ may have been the Prince of Peace, but he also said, “I bring not peace but the sword.”’

The Fatimid ambassador had been sent out while the princes considered his proposal. But instead of the princes it was a humble priest who had spoken first — Arnulf, the red-headed priest who had challenged Peter Bartholomew’s claims to divine authority. He had never spoken in a council before; I wondered who had given him permission to do so now.

Worry creased the Duke of Normandy’s brow. ‘We swore an oath to pray at the Holy Sepulchre. How will God judge us if we choose to fight, and lose, when the Egyptian offered us a way to fulfil our oath.’

‘You cannot honour an oath by dishonouring yourself,’ Tancred jeered. ‘Do you remember what this signifies?’ He tapped the cross sewn on his tabard. ‘We swore to liberate the holy city from the vile race who possessed it — not to go and gawp as sightseers.’

‘The question is: do we have the strength to fight our way to Jerusalem, and then into the city itself?’ said Godfrey.

‘And even if we do, how many will be left when we have finished?’ asked Raymond.

The red-haired priest, who showed not the least awe at being in such exalted company, sniffed. ‘We should count each of the fallen as nothing less than a blessing from God. You know Pope Urban’s promise: all who die in battle against the Ishmaelites shall have remission of sins, and will feast on the fruits of the kingdom of heaven.’

‘Even if we did want to accept the Egyptians’ offer,’ said Godfrey, ‘how are we to know it is honest? “Come to Jerusalem unarmed, in small groups,” he says. But what if when we step into the holy city we find a host of Ishmaelites waiting to cut us down?’

There were murmurs of agreement around the tent.

‘What do we know of the way the Fatimids honour their oaths? A year ago we sent four of our most trusted knights to negotiate with them. Only three have returned. Why not ask them if the caliph’s offer is sincere?’

The others nodded. Achard pushed through to the front and stood before the princes, his bulbous eyes staring at them. He had not washed or changed since his journey: he stood before them in the same dusty tunic, the same dirty bandage tied over the stump of his arm, his face still unshaven. Every man watched him, yet none would meet his gaze.

‘I will tell you how much you can trust the king of the Egyptians.’ He twitched his stump. ‘He is the enemy: he was born in Babylon and he has come to Jerusalem to take his seat in the temple of God. I have seen it.’

For a moment a stunned silence overtook the crowded tent; then it erupted in an incredulous clamour.

‘You have seen Jerusalem?’ Godfrey asked, when the noise had subsided.

The scars on Achard’s face were set hard with pride. ‘I have. We passed through it on our way here.’

‘Praise be to God,’ the Duke of Normandy murmured, touching the cross he wore. ‘Then you have walked the holy way, and knelt by the tomb of Christ.’

Achard lifted his head with disdain. ‘I have not. I refused to set foot in the city while it lay captive to the pagans. When I enter it, I will come as a conqueror fulfilling the destiny of Christ — not as a hostage.’

‘Then you would reject the Egyptians’ offer?’ Godfrey asked gently.

Achard answered with a horrible, sneering laugh. ‘Their presence in the city is an abomination before God: and the city will not be cleaned or made new until it has been washed in their blood.’

The chamber erupted in approval. Men stamped their feet on the ground and clapped their hands together; they shouted amens and cried to the Lord to bring them swiftly to Jerusalem.

‘You should go at once,’ Achard agreed, when he could be heard again. ‘God has opened the way.’

‘Has He?’ asked Raymond. Through all the cheering he had barely made a sound, tapping one hand half-heartedly on the arm of his chair.

‘Yes.’ The tumult seemed to have fired Achard’s soul: he stood straighter, his shoulders stiff and his face burnished with colour. ‘Do you think the Egyptians would have allowed us to return, or sent you this offer now, if they were as strong as they pretend? I did not set foot inside Jerusalem, but I saw the garrison there. The walls are fearsome, yes, but not impregnable. The Ishmaelites took the city after a siege of only forty days. Surely God would deliver it to us even faster.’

‘And the road from here to Jerusalem?’ pressed Raymond. ‘What of that?’

Achard shrugged. ‘The Fatimids say they have mastered all of Palestine. But when we came here from Jerusalem, we travelled by night and camped in hidden places. I do not think the coastal cities are loyal to Egypt. If we arrived at their gates and said we had come to overthrow the Egyptian invaders, I think they would welcome us with food and speed us on our way.’