Siege of Heaven (13 page)

‘A defeated soldier,’ said Nikephoros, who had shown every sign of ignoring us until then. Somehow, his attention now cast a chill on the conversation, and we lapsed into silence.

After lunch, I excused myself from the party and wandered across the desert to the northernmost of the pyramids. The Turkish guards watched me go but did not follow. There was nowhere I could have escaped to.

The pyramid was so vast that long before you entered its shadow you ceased to see it for what it was. Its geometric perfection, so obvious from afar, distorted until it became nothing more than a huge wall lifting out of the sand. Only as I reached its foot did it change again, resolving itself into a giant staircase, which seemed to rise to the heavens. Captivated, I began to climb without even thinking. The stripped courses were pitted and irregular, and I had to scramble to haul myself over each tier. Before I was even halfway up, my tunic was filthy with dust and sweat. Too late, I remembered I was supposed to be a representative of the emperor and probably above such things.

I paused in my ascent and looked down, shading my eyes with my hand. The green-brown smear of the Nile valley trailed away to the north, a thin vein of life between two apparently endless deserts. I could see the towers of
al-Qahira, and the sprawling ruins of Fustat, the ghost city, beside it. Ahead and to my right, the blows of the masons’ chisels rung in the still air.

It was too hot to sit there long, but I did not want to go back to Nikephoros and Bilal so soon. I rose, and edged my way around the pyramid along the uneven course. As I came around to the western face I looked down, and saw two horses tethered to a fallen rock at the pyramid’s base. Even in this alien place, it seemed the Turkish guards would not allow me too long a leash, though I could not see the riders.

Sweating profusely, I reached the next corner and turned onto the northern side. I paused. A few tiers below me, and not quite in the centre of the face, a large gap broke the regular lines of stone. At first I thought it must just be where the caliph’s workmen had cut away a deeper layer, but as I scrambled closer I saw that it was actually a hole, the mouth of a sloping tunnel leading down into the unseen depths of the pyramid. The stones about it were jagged and raw, as if the pyramid had been smashed open, while the walls of the tunnel within were impeccably smooth, inviting and sinister. I shivered, despite the heat. I had pried into pagan temples once before and found nothing but blood and wickedness. On the other hand, confronted with a dark cave, who does not long to know what lies within?

It was then that I heard the scream. It shrilled out of the tunnel as if squeezed from the ancient stones themselves, as if the ghosts of the pharaohs had stirred in their
coffins. I stepped back, almost over the edge of the ledge, and flailed my arms furiously to keep my balance. The effort seemed to right my senses. I believed there were demons in the world, of course, and I believed that evil lurked in the pagan inheritance of our ancestors. Sometimes I had felt it. But along with the scream, just after it, I had heard something else: a voice raised in anger. And as I peered at the sand that had drifted into the entrance, I could see two sets of fresh footprints – and two snaking lines as if something, or someone, had been dragged between them. Ghosts and spirits might dwell in the pyramid, but the sounds I had heard were the sounds of men. Crossing myself twice, I stepped into the darkness.

I had expected that the monumental scale of the building would be matched within: I had imagined cavernous chambers, high galleries and vast columns rising into darkness. Instead, almost immediately, the passage tapered into a shaft so small that I had to first crouch, then crawl – though it was so steep that I was grateful to be able to brace myself against the low ceiling for fear of losing my grip entirely and sliding forwards . . . how far down? My misgivings mounted as the light from outside vanished behind me, but almost immediately my eyes seemed to adjust to the gloom. No – something was illuminating the passage before me. A flickering orange glow, a torch or a fire, licked up the tunnel walls from below. Blood rushed into my head, paining and dizzying me. I suddenly saw what a lunatic mistake this
had been; I wanted to turn back, but the tunnel was so thin I did not have the space. Would it ever release me, or would I have to crawl on my belly all the way into the depths of hell? All I could do was hasten my pace.

At last, the passage opened out. The air inside was cool and stale, smeared with the oily smoke of a lamp set in a niche in the wall. By its billowing light I could see I had entered a chamber tall enough that I could stand. At the far end, a black granite boulder blocked the passage beyond, though a heap of rubble suggested someone had once tried to burrow around it. For myself, I no longer had any desire to penetrate deeper into the depths of the pyramid: I would have turned around and counted myself lucky just to see the sky again. But I could not. The smoky lamplight cast three shadows over the polished granite: two were Turkish guards, their swords and belts unbuckled from their waists and their robes hanging open; the third was the black-skinned boy who had led my camel, now lying cowering on the floor. He was completely naked, and I saw a balled-up cloth in a corner where his thin tunic had been ripped from his body.

I spoke without thinking if I would be understood, or what my words would provoke. ‘Stop!’

The two guards turned. The boy, who had seen me first, lifted himself on his hands like a dog scenting his master, though there was little hope on his face.

‘Stop,’ I said again. The sudden act of standing up had left me dizzy, and there was less conviction in my voice this time. The guard to my left scowled, then stepped
towards me and spat out a stream of angry words. I shook my head dumbly, understanding nothing but terribly fearful for what I had begun. I glanced back at the boy: he had crawled over to his discarded tunic and reached out for it, but as he did so the second guard stamped a heavy boot on his hand. The gruesome crack of bone echoed around the chamber; the boy howled, and flung himself back into the far corner where he lay, whimpering, not even bothering to cover himself. How old could he be – ten? Twelve?

‘I demand you stop.’

The guards could not understand my words, but the meaning must have been clear enough. An ugly look spread across the nearer man’s face. He stepped forward again, reaching for the sword he had unbuckled. He pulled it from its scabbard and whipped the blade towards me; I retreated, but almost immediately felt the cold stone of the wall against my back. I had no chance of escape. The only way out was the narrow passage, and even if I had managed to squeeze into it my opponents could easily have hauled me back out. And that would have meant leaving the unfortunate boy to his fate. Even as I watched, I saw the second guard lift him off the floor and spin him hard against the wall. Would they make me watch?

The nearer guard was still holding the sword, its point angled towards my heart. A part of my mind refused to believe it: I was an ambassador, after all. Surely they could not afford to sacrifice me so carelessly. But I was alone, deep in a dangerous, crumbling monument. They could
kill me, bury me under the rubble and pretend I had suffered an unfortunate accident. Or drag me into the desert and let the sands bury me for ever.

I brushed away those thoughts. This was not the first time I had seen a blade held to my heart, and by more desperate men than these. I tried to swallow the pulsing fear which my heart pumped through me.

‘Let me go,’ I said. ‘I am the emperor’s ambassador. You cannot—’ I broke off as I saw the bored incomprehension on the Turk’s face. He inched closer, and raised the sword a fraction higher. I could hardly look beyond the silver spark of the hovering point, but beyond it I saw the blurry shadow of the second guard approaching the boy with outstretched hands. The muscles in my back tensed, and I had to fight back the urge to hurl myself forward. I would only have impaled myself.

Neither of us moved. The only sound in the chamber was a grunting, fumbling noise by the far wall. I closed my eyes. Then, suddenly, I heard a scraping by my feet, a trickle of cascading pebbles and a half-checked cry of surprise. My eyes flashed open, and before I could even look at what had caused the noise I saw that my opponent’s gaze had been distracted. It was all I needed. I braced myself against the wall and lashed out with my right boot, hammering it straight into his groin. He squealed with pain, though he was too well trained to let go his sword. He bent double, which only served to present his face to my upswinging fist. His nose cracked under the impact.

The guard reeled away, clutching his face with his left
hand, and I turned belatedly to see what it was that had distracted him. Even with the blood of battle scorching my veins, I recoiled. A black demon had crawled out of the tunnel, the ghost of some long-dead denizen of this tomb. He stood almost as high as the ceiling; his yellow cloak swirled around him like fire, and his round head was black and featureless as shadow. The sword in his hands smouldered in the lamplight as he advanced into the room.

He turned to glance at me, and I saw with grateful relief that he was no demon. There were white eyes and a mouth in the black face, and the yellow cloak was real enough to have been smeared and stained by his passage through the tunnel. It was Bilal. He strode towards the second guard, spun him around and hurled him against the wall with such force that I almost expected to see the granite crack. He shouted in the man’s face, a furious tirade that needed no translation, and I sagged against the wall in relief.

A shadow fell across Bilal’s back, though he could not see it. The first guard had risen out of the gloom at the edge of the chamber, and if my assault had left him unable to move freely, he still had a sword in his hands and vicious purpose in his arms. I shouted a warning and sprang forward. Bilal turned. The guard heard me too, but that did not matter: he was committed to his attack and too wounded to change course. I struck him and ploughed him to the ground, desperately trying to pin down his sword arm. I could not reach. He reversed his grip and thumped the pommel into my shoulder, loosening my
hold. Wet blood streamed over his face where I had broken his nose, but he seemed impervious to the pain as he tried to throw me off. He had almost dislodged me: in a second, I would be on the floor, and he would be over me. I could not expect any help from Bilal, for I could dimly hear him struggling with the other guard behind me.

My tumbling charge had taken us near the pile of rubble at the end of the room. In desperation, I let go with my right arm and flung it out, scrabbling on the ground for a loose stone. One was too heavy, another little more than a pebble. Meanwhile, my one-handed grasp was not enough to hold the Turk. He heaved up and rolled me over, just as my free hand closed around a fist-sized stone. I barely felt the weight; I lifted it, and swung it against the side of the guard’s head with every ounce of strength I could muster. It struck him on the temple and I felt his skull shudder; I struck him again, and this time the stone came away stained with blood. Perhaps the sight should have sickened me, but instead it gave a deeper, savage power to my blows as I struck him again and again, until at last he went limp and fell away.

I stood, trembling, and let the stone drop to the floor – suddenly, it felt like the foulest object imaginable. I looked around. Bilal was standing, wiping his sword on a crumpled object by his feet, the unmoving body of the second guard. The boy, no longer in danger, had crawled away and was struggling into his tunic. Bilal stroked his head and murmured a few gentle words, then turned to me.

‘I followed them when I saw them come after the boy,’ he said. ‘I did not know you were in here too.’

‘I heard the boy’s cry and came to look.’

Bilal crossed to my side and stared down at the guard, though I could hardly bear to look at the matted stew of hair, blood and bone I had pounded out of his skull.

‘Is he dead?’ I asked.

Bilal gave no answer. Instead, he turned his back on me and knelt beside the wounded guard. He lifted the man’s bloody head and cradled it on his knee, staring down into the slack face. He shook his head, then reached across and stroked his hand gently across the man’s neck. It was only as he suddenly leapt back, and as blood and air began bubbling out of a broad cut he had left, that I saw the gleam of a small knife in Bilal’s hand.

‘You – you killed him.’

‘Only to finish what you had begun.’ Bilal removed his cloak and his outer tunic, folded them, and placed them in one of the stone niches in the wall.

‘But what he did is a crime – surely, even here? Better that he should have been punished in public.’

Bilal glanced at me with contempt. ‘Do you think we are barbarians? Of course it is a crime. But it is more . . . complicated.’ He turned away and crouched by the fallen masonry. ‘Help me.’

The air in that deep chamber had become a heady potion of smoke and oil, blood and dust. Together, Bilal and I pulled away some of the stones, laid the two corpses by the foot of the wall, and heaped the rubble back over
them. There was not nearly enough to hide them.

‘If they are found, it will look as if they were killed in a rock fall,’ said Bilal.

‘It must have been sharp rocks, to stab one and slit the other’s throat.’

Bilal grunted. ‘The desert is full of scavengers. In two days, all trace of their wounds will have vanished with their flesh.’

‘And their companions, the rest of the guards? What will you tell them?’

‘That the two men deserted.’

Slowly, my wits began to return. ‘But they were criminals. They would have raped the boy and murdered me – and you, when you found us. Why should we have to hide them?’

Bilal was hastily pulling on his tunic. ‘Do you remember Fustat? The ruined city you saw from the boat?’

‘You said it was destroyed in a civil war.’

Bilal wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and clasped it at the neck. ‘That was a war between the black legions and the Turkish legions in the caliph’s army. It raged for years and desolated the country. Eventually the vizier, al-Afdal’s father, stopped it by bringing in his Armenian troops who hated Turks and Africans equally. But the wounds are not forgotten. That is why no one must know that a black man has killed two Turkish guards.’