Richard Blake - The Sword of Damascus

‘Do you remember that story told of Tiberius – the Emperor who succeeded Augustus in ancient times, not the one a hundred years back who came before the unfortunate Maurice?’ Still nothing from Meekal. I got slowly up and looked over the rooftops of Damascus. The breeze was coming up again. ‘He was approached one day by a craftsman who said he’d made a new sort of glass cup. As the Emperor reached out to take the cup, the craftsman let it fall from his grasp. Tiberius stood back to avoid the smashing of glass on the floor of his palace. Instead of shattering, though, the cup bounced on the marble. The craftsman took it up and produced a little hammer, so he could knock out the slight dent of the impact. Impressed, Tiberius asked if anyone else knew how to make such glass. “No,” came the answer. It was a secret known only to one man. Was he rewarded with a kiss of joy and a soft loan to build a bigger workshop? No, he had his head cut off. Let the secret of unbreakable glass be common knowledge, said Caesar, and no one would ever commission cups of gold and silver. After a while, no one would even buy new glass cups. The death of one man, he said, was essential, if thousands were not to lose their livelihoods.

‘If you want to see the effects of that mode of reasoning, go and look at the heap of stinking ruins that Rome has since become. There is no limit to the work that can be done and needs to be done by human labour. Improvements that increase the force of human labour simply increase the wealth and power of the human race.’

Still no words from Meekal. But I could now see the look of pained resignation on his face. ‘So I get to keep this lot for the next month,’ I said rather than asked. Still no answer. ‘Do be kind enough, then,’ I said with bright cheer, ‘to remind that foreman when you let him back up here, that this roof has a slight pitch, and that levelling wedges need to be placed under the planks.’ This time, he nodded.

‘Oh,’ I added, ‘if you want everything ready on time, I’ll need to spend several days at the old Saint Theodore Monastery. I’ll need to go into every one of the restricted zones, and pass and repass between them. This isn’t negotiable. I need more than one day to get everything ready. So you can either drag yourself out of Damascus with me, or dispense me from some of your security rules.’ I got a cold look for that. I ignored it. ‘And you can replace those mangy guards you’ve been using for my protection. Now the Caliph is back, I want a brigade of proper fighting men about me every time I set foot outside the palace.’

Another cold look. But Meekal was walking towards the hatch. You may think I’d pushed my luck quite far enough. But I could feel the jolly tiredness of an early siesta coming on. I rapped the lead covering of the roof with my walking stick.

‘And since you’re going that way,’ I croaked, ‘do have some beer sent up for me. Yes – beer and a piss pot. It wouldn’t do for me to piss over the edge of the roof. You never know at the moment who might be passing by underneath.’

Because it kept me in the palace at a time when I had work to do elsewhere, the banquet was as much a nuisance to a busy man as a burden on an old man. But if I’d twisted like an eel to get out of it, Meekal had held me firm. And so, dressed in heavy finery, my head freshly shaven and bewigged, I was led to my dining couch as if to some place of execution.

The banquet was in the same place as before. There was scorching to some of the columns that hadn’t come off with scrubbing, and there was a small army camped all around the hall. This time, of course, there was no attack to cut short the proceedings. This time, also, I wasn’t anything like guest of honour. My own dining couch was at the far end of the hall, and my only dealings with Meekal were a whispered lecture as he came to stand beside me on the use of gold in the transmutation of materials. I gathered that His Majestic Holiness would spend the following day on an auditing of the research budget, and there was some opposition within his Council to the extravagance of the demands I’d made. But this was a brief lecture. How much of it Meekal really took in wasn’t my concern. He’d probably parrot the relevant points well enough. Besides, it had all been agreed long in advance that the Council wasn’t to be told enough to compromise the security of the project.

‘I’ll join you out in the desert before you arrive at the monastery,’ he’d said with one of his unpleasant glares. I had supposed Meekal would be stuck all day with the auditing. But, if I’d caused him further trouble with my demand for the additional gold bars, even that wouldn’t keep him stuck all day in the Council. The several days of freedom I’d pulled out of him, to potter about in the monastery to my heart’s content, would now be brought to an end. ‘Then it must be Karim who has responsibility for my safety on the desert journey,’ I’d replied. ‘The additional men seem to have scared off the Angels of the Lord. Just make sure to send out someone with Karim who knows how to direct a fight if one is needed.’

Meekal had given me a last doubtful nod, before going off to take his place beside the huge, glowering figure of the Caliph. He sat on his throne, as rigid as in the best Imperial ritual. Before him stood the leaders of his Religious Council, together with both Orthodox and Heretical Patriarchs of Jerusalem. Between them – perhaps to give them someone they could both agree on hating – was one of the Jewish leaders. Because all the Saracens were dressed in plain white, it hadn’t the full magnificence of Constantinople. But, if it might be lacking in the externals, this was – no one present could be in the slightest doubt – an event presided over by the richest and most powerful man in the world. The Saracens, of course, were let off with bows and acclamations. For everyone else, it was the full prostration. Even I was led forward at last, and helped on to hands and knees for the adoration of God’s Chosen One.

‘Greetings, O Alaric,’ some eunuch chamberlain whispered in Greek as I finished tapping my forehead on the carpet. ‘Your presence is pleasing to the Commander of the Faithful.’

I gave a quiet sniff. It didn’t do to look up into the face of His Majestic Holiness. All else aside, it would have been a breach of manners for him to behave as other than a block of wood. I listened hard and counted the soft blows on the gong. In Constantinople, five blows during and after the prostration indicated a person of considerable quality. I thought Meekal had got five. I counted seven for myself.

‘If you feel another fainting attack come on,’ I muttered to Edward once I was arranged back in my place, ‘do sit down at once. Your job is to pour the scented water over my hands at the beginning and end of each course. Otherwise, you just need to smile and look pretty. We can get away after the iced fruits have been served. Meekal can’t say when they’ll be served. But it’s all agreed that no one will think the worse of us for leaving. I can then prepare a cup of something soothing. One dip in that of the afflicted member, and you won’t notice the pain.’ I grinned and pushed in my ear trumpet so I could hear more of the herald’s pompous oration. It had been going on an age, and showed no signs of ending. There had been a gigantic slaughter in some place with an unmemorable name. The arms of the Caliph had prevailed after a day of this, and there was a long detailing of the prisoners and property thereby won. I listened hard, but heard no indication that the False Caliph had been killed or taken. Almost certainly, this would mean another campaign in the civil war. Sad, this, for everyone closely involved – but no bad thing for the Empire.