Conn Iggulden - Conqueror (2011)

As he lay there, a cluster of laughing children ran into the room and he looked fondly at them. They brought noise and life, enough to pierce the despair that weighed him down.

‘The qamara!’ his son demanded, looking up at him beseechingly. The other children waited in hope to see the marvel and al-Mustasim’s face softened.

‘Very well, just for a little while before you return to your studies,’ he said.

He waved his arm and they scattered before it, whooping in excitement. The device had been built to the specifications of the great Moslem scientist, Ibn al-Haitham. ‘Qamara’ was merely the word for ‘dark room’, but the name had stuck. Only a few servants went with him as he walked along a corridor to the room where it had been constructed. The children ran ahead in their excitement, telling those who had not already seen it everything they could remember.

It was a room in itself, a large structure of black cloth that was as dark as night inside. Al-Mustasim gazed on the black cube fondly, as proud as if he had invented it himself.

‘Which one of you will be first?’ he asked.

They leapt and shouted their names and he picked one of his daughters, a little girl named Suri. She stood shivering with delight as he placed her in the right spot. As the curtain fell, plunging them all into darkness, the children shouted nervously. His servants brought a flame and soon little Suri was lit brightly by shuttered lamps. She preened in the attention and he chuckled to see her.

‘The rest of you go through that partition now. Close your eyes and do not open them until I say.’

They obeyed him, feeling their way through the layer of black cloth by touch.

‘Are you all ready?’ he asked.

The light from the lamps on Suri would pass through a tiny hole in the cloth. He did not fully understand how light could carry her inverted image, but there she would be, inside the room with them in light and shadow. It was a marvel and he smiled as he told them to open their eyes.

He heard them gasp in wonder calling to each other to see.

Before al-Mustasim could organise another to take Suri’s place, he heard the voice of his vizier Ahriman speaking to the servants outside. Al-Mustasim frowned, the moment of simple joy spoiled. The man would not leave him in peace. Al-Mustasim sighed as Ahriman cleared his throat outside the qamara, summoning his attention.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, caliph. I have news you must hear.’

Al-Mustasim left the children to their games, already growing raucous in the dark tent. He blinked as he came back into the sunlit rooms and took a moment to send a couple of his servants inside to make sure the boys did not break anything.

‘Well? Has anything changed since yesterday, or the day before? Are we still surrounded by infidels, by armies?’

‘We are, caliph. At dawn, they sent another flight of arrows over the walls.’

He held one in his hand with the scroll still tight around it. He had already unwrapped another and held it out to be read. Al-Mustasim waved it away as if its touch would corrupt him.

‘Another demand to surrender, I am certain. How many of these have I seen now? He threatens and promises, offers peace and then annihilation. It changes nothing, Ahriman.’

‘In this message he says he will accept tribute, caliph. We cannot continue to ignore him. This Hulegu is already famous for his greed. In every town that he destroys, his men are there, asking: “Where is the gold? Where are the jewels?” He does not care that Baghdad is a sacred city, only that it has treasure rooms filled with metals.’

‘You would have me give the wealth of my line to him?’

‘Or see the city burn? Yes, caliph, I would. He will not leave. He has the scent of blood in his nostrils and the people are afraid. There are rumours everywhere that the Arabs are already dealing with him, telling him about the secret ways into the city.’

‘There are no secret ways,’ al-Mustasim snapped. His voice was high and sounded petulant, even to his own ears. ‘I would know if there were.’

‘Nonetheless, it is what they discuss in the markets. They expect Mongol warriors to come creeping into Baghdad every night we delay. This man wants only gold, they say. Why does the caliph not give the wealth of the world to him, that we may live?’

‘I am waiting, Ahriman. Have I no allies? No friends? Where are they now?’

The vizier shook his head. ‘They remember Genghis, caliph. They will not come to save Baghdad.’

‘I cannot surrender. I am the light of Islam! The libraries alone … My life is not worth a single text. The Mongols will destroy them all if they set foot in my city.’

He felt anger grow at the frown on Ahriman’s face and stepped further away from the qamara so that the children would not hear their discussion. It was infuriating. Ahriman was meant to support his caliph, to plan and defeat his enemies. Yet the vizier could suggest nothing but throwing gold at the wolves.

Ahriman watched his master in frustration. They had known each other for a long time and he understood the man’s fears. They were justified, but it was not a choice between survival and destruction. It was a choice between surrendering and keeping some dignity, or risking the wrath of the most destructive race Ahriman had ever known. There were too many examples in their history to ignore.

‘The Shah of Khwarezm resisted them to the end,’ Ahriman said softly. ‘He was a man among men, a warrior. Where is he now? His cities are black stones, his people are broken: slaves or the dead. You told me always to speak the truth to you. Will you hear it now when I tell you to open the gates and save as many as you can? Each day we make him wait in the heat, his anger grows.’

‘Someone will come to relieve the city. We will show them then,’ Al-Mustasim said plaintively. He did not even believe it himself and Ahriman merely snorted in derision.

Al-Mustasim rose from his couch and walked to the window. He could smell the scented soaps in the market, blocks by the thousand made in workshops in the western quarter. It was a city of towers, of science and wonders, and yet it was threatened by lengths of sharp iron and black powder, by men who would not even understand the things they saw as they smashed them apart. Beyond the walls, he could see the Mongol armies, shifting like black insects. Al-Mustasim could barely speak for grief and tears filled his eyes. He thought of the children, so blissfully unaware of the threat all around them. Despair pressed him down.

‘I will wait another month. If no one comes to aid my home, I will go out to my enemies.’ His throat was thick, choking him as he spoke. ‘I will go out to them and negotiate our surrender.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hulegu watched the gates creak open, pushed by teams of men under the lash. He was sweating already, aware of the sun on his skin even as it grew in intensity. Naturally dark, he had never known sunburn before the endless weeks of siege around Baghdad. Now the first kiss of warmth each day felt like a branding iron held to his flesh. His own sweat stung him, dribbling over his eyebrows and lashes to irritate his eyes and make him blink. He had done his best to keep the tumans fit and alert, but the sheer boredom of a siege was like one of the rashes that spread slowly across the flesh of otherwise healthy men. He scratched his groin at the thought, feeling the cysts there. It was dangerous to allow his shaman to cut them, as infection often followed, but in the privacy of his own ger, Hulegu squeezed the worst of them each night, reducing the hard lumps each time until pain made him stop. The oily white substance remained on his fingers. He could smell its pungency even as he stood there and waited for the caliph.