Pillars of Light (55 page)

“Oh. That was very trusting of him.”

He bellowed out a laugh. “It was, wasn’t it? A trickster, a foreigner, a … heathen. I could have taken the money and run. I can’t deny it crossed my mind.”

“And yet here you are. Faking relics for the enemy.”

“God rarely chooses a straight path for us. I was on my way from Beirut to visit the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus when the ship I was on was taken by the Franj.”

“So it was you I saw in the prisoner exchange!” I turned to look at him. His face was so close I could feel his breath on me. A wild upsurge of joy welled deep inside me …

A babble of noise made him straighten up abruptly. I turned to see who was chattering, and found a young lad of twelve or thirteen, tricked out in the garb of the sultan’s servants: dark green with yellow-gold braid, curly slippers on his feet.

The Moor nodded.
“Na’am,”
he said.
“Wachha
.
”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on, John, there’s another envoy from the English king. They want me as interpreter. I may need you.”

I trailed him to the sultan’s tent, shedding cut hair as I went.

A squire bearing a lance from which flew the white flag of truce stood awkwardly outside the war tent. Behind him, two big mounted soldiers. I stared at the second one, his face in profile as he looked out over the valley to the city of Acre. It was the big
routier
, Florian. My heart hammered.. “I know him,” I said. “He mustn’t see me.”

“Stay a pace behind me,” the Moor said, “and keep your head down. You’re swarthy enough to pass as one of us now.” He shot me a grin, enjoying my discomfort.

The guard on the door was Rosamund’s Malek, who, when the Moor explained I was helping translate the envoy’s words, waved me through. Inside, there was a fug of incense, wisps of fragrant smoke spiralling up towards the ceiling. Through them I saw for the first time Sultan Saladin. He was not what I had expected, for he looked neither warlike nor fearsome. Instead he was rather a slight, studious man, his gaunt face set in weary lines, silver threading his neat beard, eyes as dark as spent embers. His attention was trained on his guest—the envoy, I supposed.

The smoke curled and twisted, and then the guest turned to say something to the sultan—a polite acceptance of the glass of sherbet he held in his hands, maybe—and I saw his face full on. It was Savaric de Bohun.

The Moor was ahead of me. All he did was gesture with his right hand. I slipped gratefully into the shadows behind one of the tall censers where the smoke was thickest and watched as the Moor prostrated himself gracefully to the sultan, then straightened up.

Savaric’s eyes went round with shock. “You!”

“The world is smaller than we think it sometimes,” the Moor said smoothly. “It is a pleasure to see you again, and looking so well,
effendi
.” He put his hand to his heart and bowed in the oriental fashion.

“Well, I suppose this makes my task easier in some ways,” Savaric mused, “and harder in others.” He paused. “Your sultan will not like what I have been sent to tell him.”

The Moor inclined his head, then translated this. The sultan said something quietly and the Moor relayed it. “He says the messenger’s job is never easy, especially when he carries the burden of heavy words. It is best to empty out your sack of rocks and to lighten your load. Nothing you say will be held against you.”

Savaric nodded, his moon-face pensive. Then he said, “King Richard asks, well, actually demands, that all of the agreed monies be paid over right away, the rest of the prisoners released, and the True Cross given up to him at once. Or he will kill all the hostages.”

I felt ice form in my stomach. The Moor’s face became very still. Then he relayed this quietly to the sultan. I watched anger flare in those sunken, dark eyes. Then the sultan composed himself, turned to Savaric and said something smilingly.

The Moor said, “First our prisoners must be released to us, and then King Richard shall have his gold and his cross. The weight of souls is heavier than the weight of gold, and the sultan has a duty of care for our people.”

Savaric shook his head. “The king said the sultan would say that, but I fear he has already discounted this option. Once the prisoners, the money and the True Cross are in his possession, then and only then will the Muslims be released.”

Again the Moor repeated these words in Arabic; again the sultan smothered his anger. Then he spoke at length in a quiet and measured tone.

“Our kingdom is vast and far-flung, and not all of our resources are at hand. The sultan fears that he has had to send to Baghdad and to Cairo for the ransom monies, for his own coffers are empty or already in the hands of the Christian kings.”

“There was not a great deal in the Acre treasury,” Savaric said. “Richard was highly displeased.” He shot a look at the sultan, then said softly to the Moor, “This is not for you to translate, but I want to know how it is that the True Cross that was supposed to be in the treasury is now here in the sultan’s hands.”

The Moor regarded him dispassionately. He translated something to the sultan and then said, “So if King Richard has already assessed the poor state of our treasury he must know that what we say is true: we do not have the resources here to pay the ransom and must wait until the caliph in Baghdad and the vizier in Cairo send the requisite monies. As to the cross—” He smiled, showing his teeth, an expression I knew well. It was the grin he gave another when lying to his face. “Well, it never was in Acre.”

Savaric’s face fell. “I cannot go back empty-handed. He is not a man to make empty threats, Richard. He is both determined and ruthless.”

I saw the Moor hesitate for a moment. Was “ruthless” a word he knew? But he could not consult me without giving me away.

Again the exchange of words, again the Moor’s smooth voice. “The sultan maintains he has kept his side of the bargain by paying over the first instalment of the ransom money and a goodly quantity of prisoners, but we have been given nothing in exchange, which was not what was agreed. You must go back to your king and remind him of the terms of the accord.”

Savaric looked desperate. “At least let me take the cross. That might mollify him for a while.”

The Moor translated this, and the sultan shook his head. “Tell your king he must show patience, that most kingly of qualities, and he shall be fully rewarded in due course.”

Savaric became very red in the face. Sweat beaded his brow. “None of you know Richard as I do. You have no idea what he is capable of.”

“The sultan has spoken,” the Moor said softly. “There is nothing more I can do.”

“At least let me see the True Cross,” Savaric begged. “For myself.”

The Moor relayed this, and a curious expression crossed the sultan’s face. He turned and spoke to a man behind him who walked quickly from the tent.

There followed several minutes of tense silence during which sugared pastries were offered and refused. Then the man returned, and behind him Ahmad al-Rammah and one of the alchemists bearing a heavy object smothered in silk. They came to a halt between the door and Savaric so that much of the natural light was blotted out. Then they uncovered their burden.

Savaric’s dark eyes welled; tears spilled. His mouth gaped open. He got unsteadily to his feet and staggered a pace towards the cross. Alarmed, Ahmad took a pace back. “It’s all right,” the Moor said. “
Messhi moushki
. Let him approach.”

The tears were streaming so fast down Savaric’s face now that I doubted he could see anything clearly. From where I crouched I could see that the back of the relic had darkened already in the day since it was last polished with lemon and alum salt. But judging by the citrus smell that permeated the air, maybe Ahmad had swiftly removed the patina from the front of the artifact.

Savaric reached a trembling hand to the relic, touched it briefly and closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer. He turned back to the Moor. “Let me take it,” he begged again. “If I go back with nothing … He has a terrible temper, this king. He is a man
obsessed with getting his own way. There is no flexibility in him. I fear for the hostages. There is not enough food for all as it is, and there are so many of them …” His voice trailed off.

The chill ran down my back and legs. This was a king whose subjects had massacred Jews in his own city and who had done nothing to stop them. “You have no idea what he is capable of,” Savaric had said. But I did.

I stood up from my hiding place.

“King Richard has neither patience nor honour,” I said. “Savaric, you must do whatever you can to save these people. Tell him he must wait for his payment.”

Savaric stared at me as if he were seeing a ghost. The Moor said something quickly to the sultan, who again shook his head and replied quietly.

Meanwhile, my erstwhile master looked me up and down. “John, have you turned coat?”

“I never had a coat to turn,” I said bitterly.

The Moor interrupted us. “Remind your king that princes must honour their words,” he translated. “The sultan will hold the cross as surety against the welfare of our people.”

At a motion from the sultan, the men hooded the relic again and carried it away. Light flooded into the tent in their wake.

Savaric watched them go, shaking his head sadly. “I have no influence, none at all. I am just a messenger.” He bowed to the sultan and walked away. When he came to me, he extended his hand. “Good luck, John.”

“And to you.”

“I fear I will need it more than you.”

Some days later, Zohra and Nathanael walked away from the camp, to a pretty spot on the hills above the road to Nazareth, having left
Nima in the care of Cousin Jamilla. They took with them dates and water, and a loaf that was still warm from the oven. It was the first time they had been out of the eyes of others for a long while, for the men’s and women’s areas were on opposite sides of the encampment: even husbands and wives slept separate from one another. To be alone together was like a huge weight being lifted.

It was afternoon before the conversation turned to the future: they had both been sidestepping the subject.

“Where will we go, beloved?”

Zohra turned her head and smiled up at Nathanael, the blue sky reflecting in her wide eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t care, as long as it’s with you.”

A stray curl of hair had slipped from her confining headscarf. Nat pulled at it playfully, winding it around and around his finger till it came free. “Damascus is where you have family,” he started.

Zohra rolled up onto her elbows. “You are my family now. You and little Nima. We shall just wait for Baba and Sorgan and your mother to be released and get them to the cousins in Damascus, and then we can go wherever you want.”

“Wherever?”

“Wherever.”

Nat grinned up at her. “The moon?”

“I will come to the moon with you,” said Zohra, deadly serious.

He tugged on the strand of hair to bring her closer. Zohra resisted playfully, then leaned in for a long, final kiss. Then she sat up and dusted the bits of earth and dried grass from her skirts. “We’d better be getting back to camp …”

The sun was westering now, casting a brazen light across the sea.

“There are people coming out of the city,” Nathanael said suddenly.

Zohra shaded her eyes. “A lot of people.” She turned to her lover, suddenly glowing with hope. “You don’t think … the ransom has been paid, do you?”

Nat said nothing, but a vertical line formed between his brows.

More and yet more figures emerged from the city gates, tiny as ants at that distance.

“Let’s go back down to the camp,” Zohra said excitedly. “We can see better from there.”

Nat put a hand on her arm. “I think we should stay where we are. There will be a lot of fuss and bother around the camp if the hostages have been released.”

“But they will need our help—”

“I don’t think the pair of us will make a whit of difference,” he said grimly. “Let us wait and see what’s going on before we move.” His voice held a note of foreboding that made Zohra turn to him questioningly. Nathanael shook his head. “All will soon be clear,” he said, trying to sound reassuring.

A column of soldiers and a great crowd of people on foot came out and began to move slowly uphill. “I don’t know what’s going on,” Nat admitted after a while. “It does look as if they are bringing all the hostages out.”

They sat in silence as the procession filed through the Christian camp and continued to toil up towards the Tell Ayyadieh and the Muslim camp. “It looks as if they’re delivering them to the sultan,” Zohra said happily. “I do hope so. I’ve been so worried about Baba. I know he says he’s too old to leave Akka and start anew, but he has family in Damascus.”

Still they came on, and soon they could see that the prisoners were roped together, their hands bound with thick cords, men and women, even children.

“You’d think they’d allow them a bit more dignity,” Zohra said bitterly. “It’s not as if they’re going to run if they’re being freed, is it?”

She started down the hillside towards them. Biting off a curse, Nat went after her fast, grabbed her by the arms and spun her around, but Zohra tore herself free and continued at a run. “Look, look! I can see Aunt Asha in her best red robe, and look, there’s Mohammed Azri and Sorgan!”

The sight of people she knew stopped her in her tracks. Nathanael stared at the swarm of hostages in anguish, making out, almost against his will, a face here and there, searching for his mother, Sara. Instead he saw one of the women who had been in the baker’s queue on the day Nima’s mother had been killed, and Sayedi Efraim, the old herb-seller, supporting as best he could the weight of an elderly, grey-haired woman, who must surely have been his wife. Saïd, the doctor from the hospital; the crabber, and his daughter, Rana …

Then he saw the men behind them draw their swords.

“Come with me, my lioness,” he said, bundling Zohra backwards. “This is not a sight for those amber eyes.”

Zohra fought him. “What are you doing? I’m sure if we look hard enough we’ll be able to see Sara and my father, too. Oh—”