Pillars of Light (2 page)

She slipped between a pair of women bent almost double under the weight of overfilled baskets, the carry-straps biting into their
foreheads, and almost cannoned into two big Templar knights patrolling the crowds. Her second oldest brother, Malek, an officer in the Syrian army, had warned her about the Christian warrior-monks. “They take vows of chastity, but they do not always stick to them,” he’d said, his handsome face stern. “Be sure to keep out of their way.”

But the knights were not interested in her: their wolf-like gazes roamed the crowds.

At the perfume-seller’s stall Zohra let her eyes run hungrily over the wares. Some of the incense—frankincense, white benzoin, myrrh—was beyond her purse, but there were other, less expensive options. She loved spending time here, rubbing the patchouli leaves till they gave up their scent, sniffing the crystals and resins, rolling the shards of aromatic wood and dried rose petals between her palms, losing herself for a while in a world of gorgeous possibility before the dullness of her life swallowed her once more.

Sayedi Efraim, the stallholder, was a tiny man in a crumpled brown robe and a crocheted skullcap. He had one good eye and one closed and withered socket, but that single eye was beady and astute: it was often said it could see money wherever it was hidden. He beamed at his customer, radiating back at her the joy he felt at the presence of her silver. “Take your time, little bird. Take all the time you need.”

Zohra knew it was good for business for him to have a pretty girl at the stall: it attracted other clients. She smiled back at him. “Show me something less expensive,
sayedi
.”

He spread his hands. “How to place a price on a house that smells like a palace, or a girl who smells like a princess? Expense is all in the mind, little bird.”

She fixed him with what her mother would have called “a straight look.” “Expense is in the pocket,
sayedi
. I have a single dinar and a great deal more than perfume to buy.” She opened her palm and the silver coin glinted seductively in the sunlight.

The coin had a cross impressed into its centre: it had been minted in the Latin Kingdom, as the Franj called their embattled realm. Not that it mattered: Zohra knew the trader was happy to take any coin—Christian bezants from Cyprus and Tripoli; silver dirhams from Aleppo, Sinjar and Baghdad; deniers minted in Antioch and Jerusalem … Akka was a city that had always prided itself on its cosmopolitan nature. Situated as it was on the edge of the Middle Sea, it was a trade crossroads: merchants came here to sell gold and spices, silk and saffron, fish eggs and resin, glass and songbirds. From north and east and west they came, from Venice and Marseille, India and China, Trebizond and Sarai.

The Bay of Haifa offered respite during the notorious winter storms, and its deep, safe anchorage gave shelter to a fleet of ships. To the north lay the fortified city of Tyre; to the east the road to Nazareth and Jerusalem and the rich lands between. Akka was a strategic gem, and so the city changed hands often, but business went on much the same as usual, no matter who was in charge. Goods were traded, money circulated—everyone was happy. Well, maybe “happy” was an exaggeration, she thought, remembering the Franj knights pushing through the markets with their swords at the ready and their surcoats emblazoned with huge crosses, an affront to every good Muslim. If you listened, you could hear the squeal of pigs in the livestock market, and every day the bells that the Christians had sacrilegiously hung in the minaret of the Friday Mosque rang their hideous summons to Shaitan. Every day she prayed that Salah ad-Din would one day retake the city and melt down those wretched bells.

The stallholder selected a piece of frankincense—an opalescent, crystalline bulb—and held it beneath Zohra’s nose. The initial strong, musky scent was followed by the much prized balsamic undertone. She inhaled in a sort of daze.

“This is my best
hojari
,” Sayedi Efraim said. “The first cut of the resin, all the way from the sacred trees of Dhofar, brought
through the Empty Quarter and then the Great Desert by caravan. Just think of the dangers those brave cameleers endured to bring this frankincense all that way so that an old man could make a pretty girl very happy. Is their courage and enterprise not worth the small price I ask?”

“Stop your song and dance, Efraim! Can’t you see she doesn’t want to buy your expensive frankincense?”

Zohra turned and found a young man standing there. He was tall and lanky, with a long, mobile face and a mass of black hair that his small, precarious skullcap did nothing to confine. He had a determined set to his chin, eyes of a deep, mysterious brown, and his grin was lopsided and mocking. “Wait till some fat merchant’s wife comes by with her husband’s purse. Besides, frankincense is too heavy for such a beauty—maybe orris root or cassia?”

Zohra opened her mouth to speak, but the man leaned forward and placed a finger on her lips. Greatly affronted, she took a step back.

The man caught Zohra by the arm. “No need to run away, pigeon. Here, this is what you need. Amber, like your eyes.” He chose a square of amber-musk from Efraim’s bins and rubbed it between his fingers. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, warming the wax in his hands to release the essential oils. “Blow all your breath out and then, when I tell you to, breathe in.”

Zohra did as she was told, though she was not usually so biddable. At once, the sweet perfume flooded her senses. She put a hand out to steady herself, opened her eyes wide, found that she had clutched his arm. What was she doing, touching a man in public? She snatched her hand back. But the man smiled, a smile that lit his whole being; and at that moment the sun struck him full on, turning his pale skin almost as opalescent as the frankincense. The scent of amber enveloped them like a cloud: they might at that moment have been the only two people left on the face of the earth.

“I’ll buy four pieces,” the man told the stallholder, and then he haggled furiously till he’d paid less for four than Zohra would have paid for two. “Wrap them separately,” he instructed, and when this was done, he took Zohra’s hands in his own and closed his fingers over two of the bits of amber. She stared down at their interlocking flesh, feeling the blood beating through his skin, pulsing against her own. Suddenly, it seemed impossible to breathe.

Then, just as suddenly, he released her, and when she looked up, blinking, it was to see that his attention was no longer on her, for he was craning his neck, staring out across the crowd. She experienced a moment of disappointment before her ears registered the shouting. Angry voices, loud and insistent.

Oh no
, was her first thought.
What has Sorgan done?

But it was nothing to do with her brother. Words became distinct: “Hattin,” “defeat” and then “Saladin,” spoken the Franj way, a curt mangling of their sultan’s name. Her heart clenched. Had the Muslim army been defeated? The idea of her brother Malek hacked by enemy swords was for a moment so distressing she lost her breath again.

“What are they shouting?” she asked at last.

By way of response, the stranger picked up her basket and took her by the arm. “We must get you out of here. Right now.”

“My brother is in the bazaar.”

“Your brother can look after himself.”

“No, you don’t understand!” She began to pull away. “I have to fetch him, I must …”

But he didn’t let go. His eyes were shining, but she could not tell whether it was with anger, or fear or some other emotion. He hustled her on.

Around the corner, out of sight, someone screamed and an angry buzz rose like bees. The stranger hauled her so hard it was as if her feet barely touched the ground. At last they were on the fringe of the market where the press of folk was less intense. He let her go.

“I had to get you out of there quickly.”

Zohra, angry at being manhandled, snapped, “I can take care of myself!”

“It’s not some market brawl. There’s been a huge battle. The Christians have been routed. The Bishop of Akka is dead and the True Cross has been captured by Salah ad-Din.”

Zohra stared at him. “Our sultan beat the Franj?”

“At Hattin, yes, a great victory: twenty thousand dead and their king taken captive. There will be reprisals, bloodshed. It’s not safe. Where do you live? I will take you home.”

“I can’t go without Sorgan.” Zohra willed her brother to come lumbering out of the bazaar. But there was no sign of him.

“Your brother can find his own way home.”

“Sorgan may look like a giant, but he’s barely got the wits of a child.”

His air of control wavered. “I’m sorry, I did not realize. Look, stay here, keep out of sight and I’ll fetch him.” He ushered her into a doorway. Zohra described her brother, told him how he had gone to buy sugared almonds, then watched as the stranger in his dark robe became a shadow among shadows within the eaves of the covered market.

Sorgan would never come away with a stranger: there would be a scene. He could spend hours at the sweets stall, devouring it with his eyes, before making his immense decision. He was as stubborn as a mule, and just as immovable once he had an idea in his head. Surely, it would be quicker if she went back in to fetch him …

But now a stream of people was running out of the market, women clutching purchases and pulling small children, youths with bloodied clothing and wild eyes. From the street behind her a detachment of Franj militia appeared, swords glinting in the late-afternoon sun. Turning back, Zohra saw Sorgan emerging from the bazaar, looming over the stranger, who had him by the arm.
Her big, simple brother was grinning and grinning, hugging an enormous bundle to his chest.

Zohra’s relief turned at once to consternation. “What have you done? What have you taken?”

Sorgan’s eyes darted. He said nothing.

“He wouldn’t come away easily,” the stranger said, his eyes on the retreating militia. “So we bought half the stall, didn’t we, Sorgan?”

Her brother gave his throaty, infectious laugh, but Zohra glared at him, appalled. Sorgan dug into the parcel. “Would you like one?” Between his giant fingers gleamed a single sugared almond, proffered not to his own sister but to the nice stranger. Zohra had never before seen him share his treats with anyone. This in itself was oddly disturbing; more so was that in the crevice of his palm she glimpsed the silver coin she had given him.

The young man took the almond solemnly and popped it into his mouth. “Thank you, Sorgan. You’re a gentleman. But we must get you home now.”

“You’re coming too, aren’t you?” Sorgan asked, alarmed.

“I am.”

“You are?” Zohra was even more alarmed by this prospect than her brother had been by the young man’s likely disappearance. What would the neighbours say to see her accompanied by a strange man, and a Jewish man at that? What would her father say? But they were walking so quickly that there was no time to address the matter in any polite way.

She waited until they reached the top of the hill, two streets away from the family house, and there she stopped. “We can get home safely from here. Thank you,” she said, sounding ridiculously formal. To make it worse she dug in her coin-purse, picked out two large pieces of silver and held them out to him. “For your trouble. And for the amber and almonds. We really can’t accept gifts from a stranger.”

The young man gave her a sardonic look. Then he picked the coins out of her fingers and returned them to her purse. In the guise of an extravagant bow (which dislodged his precarious skullcap), he bent over her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. Straightening, he jammed the cap back on his head.

“My name is Nathanael bin Yacub, known all over town as ‘the doctor’s son.’ You’ll find my house at the end of the Street of Tailors. Knock at the door with the hand on it. And if you don’t, I will send my djinns out to look for you.”

He gave her his lopsided grin, told Sorgan to be sure to look after his sister, and then walked quickly away, leaving Zohra staring after him, the burning impression of his wicked mouth against her skin.