Siege of Heaven (21 page)

Angels hovered over me in a golden sky, their faces still and solemn as they circled the bearded man in their midst. In his left hand he clutched a thick book, bound with many seals, while his right was raised as if in blessing or judgement. There was a seriousness about him, which I had expected, but also a sadness, which I had not: his mouth seemed to droop away from his gaunt cheeks, and dark bags ringed his sunken eyes. In the distance, and seemingly all around me, I could hear the quiet chanting of prayers.

‘Christ?’ I asked uncertainly. I had thought I would recognise him immediately, but now I was not sure.

‘You are in the presence of Christ.’

His lips did not move, nor did the voice even seem to
emanate from him. Instead, I heard it whispering in my ear.

A bolt of terror sparked through me. I tried to bow, or kneel, but at once an invisible force pushed me back. I did not resist.

‘Will you judge me, Lord?’

He chuckled, though his drooping mouth did not move. ‘It is not for me to judge you. And your time has not yet come.’

‘Not yet . . . ?’

‘Wake up,’ said the voice. ‘Wake up, Demetrios Askiates.’

Christ seemed to recede away into the sky as a larger, gentler face leaned close over me. There was no ethereal stillness in this man’s features: his head swayed from side to side, and his blue eyes darted about as if searching for something within me.

‘Are you Saint Peter?’ I guessed.

He chuckled – the same laugh as I had heard before, but this time his cheeks creased and his mouth opened wide with mirth. His breath smelled of onions.

‘I am Brother Luke. The infirmarian.’

I tried to rub my eyes, though only one hand obeyed. The other seemed to be tied down to something. I turned my head to look.

The golden sky disappeared. Instead, I saw a row of stern-faced prophets lining a long wall, and afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows above their heads. In front of them, at my bedside, an elderly monk in a black habit was pouring something from a jug into a plain cup.

‘Where am I?’

The monk set the cup down on a wooden table and turned back to me. ‘At the monastery of Mount Abraham.’

‘I thought I saw—’ I broke off, uncertain if it was blasphemy. The monk, however, showed no offence.

‘Perhaps you did. You were half dead when they brought you here.’

‘Who brought me?’

‘The
Nizariyya
.’

I did not understand, but before I could ask anything else he had crooked an arm around the back of my head, lifted it forward and was tipping the contents of the cup into my mouth. I tasted honey and rosemary, and something bitter I did not know. It was only as the cool liquid touched my throat that I realised I was no longer thirsty – or hungry.

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Three days.’

Unbidden, I suddenly pictured a dark chasm filled with screams and the hiss of stinging arrows. ‘And my companions?’

The monk dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. ‘They both survived – better than you. You will see them tomorrow. Now, rest.’

There was much more I needed to find out, so much that all the questions seemed to choke in my mouth and I could not say one of them. A heavy hand drew a veil over my eyes, and sleep claimed me.

* * *

The angels were flying above me again but now the sky was dark, illuminated only by a dim orange haze like sunset after a storm. I twisted in my bed, testing my invisible bonds. If I went to my right I could turn quite easily; if I tried my left, I could barely move without igniting a horrible pain in my shoulder. I looked to my right. Iron lamps hung from a high ceiling, and by their light I could see the columns and vaults of a spacious room, and the shadowy throng of prophets and disciples painted on the surrounding walls. I rolled up my eyes – there were the angels again, inlaid on a half-dome above my head, and the Christ in their midst. His hand was still poised in unmoving judgement, and his face still told unspeakable sadness.

‘When will he be healed?’

The voice came from my left, where I could not see. I twisted my neck cautiously, trying not to disturb my shoulder, but all I could make out were two dark figures in shapeless robes, silhouetted in front of a brazier. One was short and round; the other, taller and leaner, towered over his companion and leaned forward with authority.

‘It will take weeks for him to heal – if the wound does not fester,’ said the shorter man. I recognised the kindly fastidiousness in his tone – Brother Luke, the infirmarian.

‘He must be ready to leave tomorrow.’

This distressed the infirmarian a great deal. His head bobbed back and forth, and he twisted his hands together. ‘He cannot leave. If his wound opens before the flesh has rebound itself, he will die.’

‘They cannot stay. Even as much as we have done already threatens our community if the caliph hears of it.’

‘But where will he go? Will you cast them out into the desert?’

‘A caravan passes by here tomorrow afternoon. Bind him tight, and make sure he is ready.’

‘And if he dies on his journey?’ The infirmarian’s voice tightened with anger.

‘Then he will not lie on my conscience. He should have chosen a safer path.’

Brilliant sunshine beamed through the high windows; outside, I could hear a bell tolling the office of the day. I sat up in bed, supported by two novices, while Brother Luke unwound the bandages from my shoulder. I peered down, digging my chin into my collarbone. As the cloths came away I saw what they had bound: a round hole, so wide you could poke a thumb into it, about halfway between my nipple and the crook of my arm. I flinched even to look at it – a few inches closer in, and it would have passed clean through my heart. The cherry-red surface was waxy and cracked, but I saw none of the black rot that would have doomed me. Brother Luke examined the bandage, looking pleased enough, then took green ointment from a jar and smeared it over the wound. His fingers were merciless, pushing hard and pressing the medicine into every corner, and I had to bite my lip not to yelp. I wished it were Anna tending to me. When he had finished with my chest, he reached around, and I felt
his fingers repeating the procedure on my back.

‘Did the arrow go clean through me?’ I asked, gasping out the words before the pain became too much.

Brother Luke pursed his lips. ‘If you mean to ask whether it went
straight
through you, then almost: we had to push it through to get the tip out where we could remove it. As to whether it went
cleanly
through,’ he shrugged, ‘only God knows, and time will reveal. But I pray, and I am hopeful.’

I did not ask whether his hopes rested on his prayers or his skill.

When the ointment was applied to his satisfaction, he brought fresh bandages and wound them about me: first around my shoulder, then across my back, then around my upper arm to bind it to my side. By the time he had finished I was swaddled like a baby – and almost as feeble.

‘Now . . .’ Under his supervision, the two novices helped pull me around so that I could swing my legs out of bed. They tugged on my boots, then lifted me as I tottered to my feet. My vision darkened again and I swayed, as if my legs had forgotten how to stand during their three days in bed – I tried to thrust out my arms for balance, but only one was free to obey.

Trying to hide his smirk, one of the novices reached out and steadied me while the other fetched some clothes. I watched them – they must have been about thirteen, the same age as I had been when I had worn those robes. Now, more than twenty years on, it was as if time’s edifice had collapsed, so that my past and present selves found
themselves face to face inside those monastery walls.

And in the same clothes – for when the second novice returned he brought another grey habit like his own, which the two of them wrestled over my head. I managed to poke my right arm through the sleeve, though my left remained bound up inside the robe.

Brother Luke looked at me enquiringly. ‘Does it fit?’

‘A little tight.’ I had been smaller twenty years ago.

He nodded. ‘That will help support your shoulder.’ He squinted at me, tilting his head right and left as though judging my balance. Then he picked up a wooden staff that leaned against the wall and placed it in my hand.

‘There. Now you look a proper pilgrim.’

‘But where am I going?’

Brother Luke pointed to a door under the windows. ‘You can begin by getting some fresh air.’

I shuffled uncertainly to the door, onto a shaded balcony which ran along the front of a wide building. Behind me, regular doors studded the whitewashed wall, no doubt leading to the monks’ cells and offices; over the balustrade, the rest of the monastery sloped away down a gentle incline, a jumble of squat buildings, domes and faded tile roofs. It was a true fortress of God, bounded by a massive mud brick rampart whose single gate might have been ripped from the walls of Constantinople herself. Beyond it, a few miles distant, I could see the solitary hump of the rock where we had fought our desperate battle. Otherwise, the monastery stood alone in the desert.

I heard the quick slap of sandals and turned, expecting
the infirmarian had come to examine me. Instead, I saw a monk I did not recognise, a tall man in a black habit, with a heavy gold cross swinging around his neck and a ruby ring on his finger. He walked with a brisk, confident stride, though his close-trimmed beard masked a face no older than my own. He came level with me and extended a rigid arm, holding his hand just low enough that I had to stoop to kiss the ring. It was an awkward movement with one arm tied to my side, and I almost overbalanced attempting it. He snatched his hand away with an affronted tut.

‘Are you the abbot?’ I asked.

He nodded, and tried to force a smile. It did not keep the disapproval from his eyes. ‘How is your wound recovering?’

I touched my good hand to my shoulder. ‘With God’s grace the infirmarian thinks it will heal. Though he tells me it will take weeks.’

The abbot avoided my gaze. ‘In a just world, you would of course remain with us until your wounds were whole.’

I thought I had recognised something about him, the way he stooped forward, too eager to cow you with his authority. I had seen him arguing with the infirmarian in the night. ‘You want me to leave.’

‘In a just world . . .’ He twisted his hands together. ‘Your presence here is dangerous. You must know that.’

‘I don’t even know how I came to be here.’

‘The
Nizariyya
brought you.’

It was the second time I had heard that name. ‘Who?’

‘They are rebels . . . brigands. Your friends will explain. But when the caliph’s men do not return, he will send others to search for them. If they come here and find you . . .’ The abbot turned and stared out into the desert, as if he was expecting to see the full might of the caliph’s army thundering across the horizon. But there was only a hawk, circling in the cloudless sky.

‘It is not easy living as Christians in a heathen land.’

‘I’m surprised the caliph allows it,’ I said.

The abbot gave me a sharp look, alive to any insult. ‘We pay our tributes, as he requires, and he leaves us to practise our vocation.’

I looked around at the encompassing wilderness, silent and vast. ‘You found a good place for it.’

‘Yes.’ The abbot nodded eagerly. ‘Yes. Here we can be apart from the world and live as Christ taught.’

‘And did Christ teach you to cast out the wretched and wounded who crawled to your doorstep?’ barked a voice from over my shoulder.

I turned to see Nikephoros and Aelfric walking towards me, and immediately had to stifle a laugh. Both of them were dressed as I was, in novices’ grey habits, but where mine was a little snug across my shoulders, theirs rode high above their knees and elbows, more like labourers’ smocks. Nikephoros, in particular, seemed utterly ridiculous – though his face was as proud as ever.

‘My Lord.’ The abbot bowed low – evidently Nikephoros had already impressed his rank on the man. ‘My Lord, you know we have extended you every kind
ness. But we live here to escape the snares of the world. We cannot allow them to intrude in our community, or they will destroy it.’

‘You will have to run further than this if you want to escape the cares of the world. How much do you pay the caliph to leave you alone?’

The abbot swallowed. He was young, and too used to ruling unchallenged over his little kingdom in the desert, I guessed.

‘We render Caesar his due, as Christ commanded.’

‘And if Caesar demands the three men who escaped his captivity?’

Three men?
I glanced at Aelfric and mouthed Jorol’s name. Aelfric gave a small shake of his head.

The abbot was backing away along the balcony. ‘No. No! I would never betray fellow Christians to the Egyptians. It is for your own safety that you must go, as much as ours.’

Nikephoros stared at him and said nothing.

‘A caravan will come past the monastery this afternoon. They will take you to the coast. There are men there – Christians – with ships.’

‘And what use are ships in winter?’

‘Winter does not trouble these men. They are accustomed to it. They will take you . . .’ He shrugged, perhaps uncertain where three vagabonds who had crawled out of the desert might want to go. ‘Home.’

Despite myself, my hopes leaped to hear it. Nikephoros, meanwhile, took two quick strides and stared close into
the abbot’s face. They were almost the same height, and for a moment their eyes met on a level plane.

‘If you betray us, master abbot, or deal unfairly with us, I will personally march back across this desert with a legion of the emperor’s troops at my back, and tear apart every brick of your monastery.’

The abbot dropped his gaze. ‘I will not betray you. I only want peace, and for my community to be left to their Christian lives.’

Before we left, I sought out Brother Luke the infirmarian to thank him for his care.

‘You saved me from death.’ I wished I had something to give him but I had nothing.

The infirmarian smiled a gentle rebuke. ‘God saved you; I merely dressed the wound. I pray it is enough. I have little call here to practise on the wounds you brought me.’