The Black Rood (40 page)

A
MIR GHAZI'S ARRIVAL
in Damascus was hailed as the triumphal entry of a conquering hero. He massed his army on the wide plain outside the city walls and then proceeded to lead his victorious troops and their wretched captives into the city. The wily amir spared no pomp in making his entrance as impressive as possible. Drummers went before the amir and his bodyguard, pounding out dull thunder; children ran beside the amir's horse, scattering flower petals; trumpeters blew shrill blasts to part the crowds who stood and gaped at the passing spectacle.

We marched through the streets to the citadel where Atabeg Buri and all the officials and dignitaries met the grand cavalcade in the courtyard of the Rose Pavillion. Proud Ghazi made a great show of displaying his prize captives; the prisoners were paraded before a double rank of noble Arabs, some on small cushioned stools and some on thrones, and made to bow before them in a show of subservient humiliation. I, who had carried Bohemond's head on my back, was forced to display the ghastly prize to the Arabs.

Summoned from the fore-ranks of the captives, I was marched before the Seljuqs and Saracens as they sat in festal splendor, enjoying the subjugation of their hated foe. Two guards led me to the foot of the low rise of steps leading up to the perfumed pavilion and, at Ghazi's direction, I was
commanded to open the box. The Arab noblemen laughed to see the mighty prince, and bane of their people, disgraced in death.

One of the Arabs, however, did not laugh with the others. Dressed in opulent robes that glowed with the iridescent blues and greens of peacock feathers, and wearing a huge blue turban, he observed the Christian prince's shame with a rapt and thoughtful expression. At the height of the mirth, he beckoned Atabeg Buri nearer and spoke privately to him for some time. Meanwhile, I stood and held the open box for the delight and delectation of the others, hating the display and my part in it.

When the two finished their conversation, Buri invited Amir Ghazi to join them. The amir advanced and was presented to the stranger in the blue turban, whereupon he immediately fell to his knees and pressed the nobleman's hand to his forehead. The Arab potentate endured the fawning servility of the amir with cool aplomb and, to my great chagrin, raised his hand and pointed directly at me.

Ghazi jumped up and, with an ostentatious flourish of his arm, waved me forward. Accompanied by the guards, I was led to the pavilion steps and there made to kneel, holding the box while the strutting amir presented the resplendent onlooker with the gift of Bohemond's head.

Why he should want the grotesque thing, I could not say. But the bestowing of it filled old flat-faced Ghazi with a rare elation. His rough and weathered visage cracked wide in a grin of exaltation and, in a fit of largesse, he lavished the whole of his trove upon his obviously superior overlord: the objects of gold and silver, the saddles, weapons, and armor, the horses, and all the rest he had accumulated—including the prisoners. Yes, and myself as well.

Although I guessed what was happening at the time, I did not learn until much later that day the identity of the glittering luminary who was to be my new master. It was Sahak, the Armenian scribe and advisor, who told me, and took great delight in the telling. “You belong to the Caliph of Baghdad now,” he said, unable to suppress a wicked smile at what he imagined would be distressing news to me.

“But that is impossible!” I cried. My reaction gave him great satisfaction, and his hairless jowls jiggled with mirth.

In truth, I was not dismayed in the least. As I say, I had already worked out what had happened, and concluded that it did not greatly matter who held the end of my chain, so to speak, just so long as I remained close to the Black Rood. Still, I had wit enough to adopt a woeful demeanor in order to find out all I could of my new master. For I knew if Sahak thought the information would benefit me in some way, he would doubtless have withheld it out of sheer meanness.

So, making a pretense of consternation, I seized his sleeve and clung to him in desperation. “What will happen to me?”

“Who can say?” Delighting in his power over me, he said, “But since you ask, I expect you will be killed.”

“No!” I gasped. “I have done nothing. My friends,” I said, gripping him harder, “they will ransom me.”

“So you say.” He shook my hand from his arm. “But they have not come for you, have they? If I were you, I would forget about being ransomed. Your friends have forgotten you.”

“They would never do that!” I shouted, my agitation increasing his merriment.

“They have given you up,” he maintained, “or else they would have come for you. If they wanted to ransom you, they would have done so long since.”

“They will come,” I insisted. “The Caliph of Baghdad, you say? I cannot go with him. You must speak to Amir Ghazi. You must beg him to let me stay in Damascus where my friends can find me. You must tell him, Sahak, you are my only hope.”

“Oh, rest assured, I will do what I can,” he told me, the keen light of treason in his eyes.

“Thank you, Sahak. Thank you,” I said, knowing full well that now I would remain with the caliph and within reach of the Black Rood.

The deceitful katib scuttled away, and I watched him go—a thoroughly detestable fellow, to be sure, but he had his uses. I returned to the corner of my cell and reflected on how even the wicked were not beyond the reach of the Swift Sure
Hand, who employed all things as he would to bring about his purposes.

For, following the triumphal entry and Amir Ghazi's rash fit of generosity, my fellow captives and I were taken to the stinking, vermin-infested prison of Amir Buri, Damascus' preening potentate, to await the pleasure of our master, the caliph.

In all, it was not so bad for us, and now that I could be assured of remaining near the Holy Rood, I was content. The stench I could tolerate; after endless hot days in the scorching sun, the cool, damp darkness of the dungeons was blessed relief itself. But the rats and mice were a very plague and no one dared fall asleep at night for the instant a body drifted off, the rats would be on him, gnawing at any exposed flesh. Several men lost the tips of fingers and toes before learning to sleep in the day, when the vermin were less active.

Besides the three noblemen, there were other Christians imprisoned with me; those crusaders who had survived the battle and ensuing journey from Anazarbus had also been made to walk in the grand procession in order to enhance the golden luster of Ghazi's glory. Girardus was among the survivors, but I could not speak to him, for I was held in a cell by myself apart from the others. The reason, I eventually discovered, was that the Christians blamed
me
for Bohemond's defeat.

Word had spread through the prisoner ranks that I was the spy who had betrayed them to the Seljuqs. The loss of their comrades, and their subsequent imprisonment and slavery was my fault, and more than one of them had vowed to kill me the moment the opportunity presented itself. My friend Girardus might have told them otherwise, and perhaps he tried; but if he did, they paid him no heed. I suppose they needed someone to bear the blame for all the hardship. Bohemond was dead—and his closest advisors and commanders with him, and so the surviving captives fastened on me as the source of their troubles.

I suppose I deserved their condemnation—albeit of all
those who had a hand in the ill-fated enterprise, I was the only one who had in no way intended for anyone to be killed. But what did that matter? If I had not allowed myself to be drawn into the affair, the massacre would not have happened. Bohemond would have taken Anazarbus and that would have been the end of it. The Armenians would probably have been slaughtered in great numbers, true, but—as I was continually and forcibly reminded—life held but slight value in the East. The destinies of entire nations were bought and sold for a moment's fleeting glory, a few pieces of silver, or the low ambitions of a prince.

Too late I began to understand how Murdo felt about the Holy Land, and why.

Over the next few days, I set about trying to find out what manner of man the Caliph of Baghdad might be. Using the pretense of bargaining to remain in Damascus, the slimy Sahak came and went, enjoying his imagined treachery to the full, while I remained supplied with morsels of worthwhile information.

I learned that aside from being the most powerful ruler in the region, the Caliph of Baghdad was regarded as an able and thoughtful ruler, who valued wisdom and studied the elusive art of philosophy at a school of his own creation. A very religious man, he was a devout Muhammedan, who lectured to students from the Arab holy book, the Qur'an. He was renowned as an authority in the application of the abstruse principles of Islamic justice.

Once I got Sahak talking, I could always count on learning something to my favor; for the small price of enduring his vanity and sneers, I soon gained a fair working knowledge of the caliph's character. This stood me in good stead a few days later, when I was called into his presence.

Having received Ghazi's gift, the caliph had decided to determine its value. Accordingly, he ordered the prisoners to be brought before him. As none of them could speak Arabic, the duty of translating between the caliph and the captives fell to Sahak. I was given no warning. Three Seljuq guards appeared at the door to my cell two days after the amir's
grand entry, and I was taken up to the guardroom above the prison cells. There I was given water with which to wash, and a comb for my hair and beard.

Having cleaned myself as well as I could, I was then led by a long and circuitous route through the palace and citadel to the place where the caliph was holding court, and I was instructed by a royal functionary on how to address him, and how to behave in his illustrious presence. Upon receiving my assurance that I understood what was expected of me, I was admitted without ceremony. Sahak was there, ready to speak for me, and for the caliph.

Upon performing the necessary obeisance, I was allowed to stand in his presence and speak freely. A mature man of youthful appearance, he had put off his ceremonial robes and all the glittery trappings of his rank, including the bulbous turban so favored by the Arab race, and wore a simple dark garment like a long tunic with a silver crescent moon on a chain around his neck. He observed me silently for a moment, tapping his fingers gently on the arms of his chair.

“I am told you are a nobleman,” he said. When I offered my affirmation, he asked, “What is the country of your birth?”

“My home is in Caithness, Lord Khalifa.” I could tell he had never heard of this place, so I added, “It is a region in the northern part of the island of Britain.”

The light of understanding came up in his eyes. “That is very far away, I believe. Why have you come here? Was it to seek your fortune in the pillage of the Arab lands—an enterprise which seems to inflame so many of the Franj?”

“By no means, my lord. I was on pilgrimage,” I said and made certain that Sahak said the right word before continuing, “and was captured by mistake.”

“That is indeed unfortunate,” he replied without apparent concern. “Many things happen in war—all of them are unfortunate for someone, you must agree. The amir has set the price of your freedom at ten thousand dinars. That is a large sum of money.” I agreed that it was. “Do you have any hope of ransom?”

“Assuredly, Most Exalted Khalifa,” I declared with confi
dence, ignoring Sahak's smirk. “Even now my friends are hastening to Damascus to purchase my freedom.” As he seemed interested in this, I went on to explain about how we had been staying in Anazarbus when the battle began, and how I had come to be captured.

He listened to all I had to say, and then replied, “Your fellow hostages denounce you as a traitor and a spy.”

He watched me intently to see how I would respond to this accusation. “I am aware of their feelings,” I answered reasonably, without hesitation or emotion. “They are right to feel themselves aggrieved for what has happened to them, but I am not to blame.”

“I see. Yet, this unfortunate indictment persists.”

“As you have said, Wise Khalifa, many unfortunate things happen in war.”

Caliph al-Mutarshid smiled at this. He laced his fingers and looked at me over his fingertips. “Tell me then, who would you hold to blame? Amir Ghazi? Prince Thoros?”

“No, My Lord Khalifa. These men merely acted according to the circumstances forced upon them. If the prisoners seek to apportion blame, I would look to the Count of Antioch, who led them into such a disastrous trap without provocation, and without sufficient forethought.”

“The count is dead, is he not? I believe I have received his head in a box as a memento of the conflict in which he fell. Therefore, he can no longer be held accountable.”

“That is true.”

“Neither can he affirm or deny the charges made against you.”

“Perhaps not,” I allowed, “yet, forgive my presumption, Lord Khalifa, but if I am accused of being a traitor by my fellow Christians, then it follows that I have been in service to the Seljuq cause. If you believe this, why am I still a prisoner?”

The caliph's mouth tightened; his eyes narrowed slightly. “You are not, I think, the innocent you claim to be,” he remarked abruptly. Lifting his hand, he summoned the guards to take me away, saying, “I will ponder this matter, and we will speak of it further.”

He signaled to the guards and I was returned to my cell. Unable to resist rubbing salt in the wounds he imagined me to be feeling, Sahak came to see me later that day. “Not wise,” he said, wagging his finger in my face, “to anger the khalifa. He believes himself a logician and philosopher of great skill and proficiency. It does you no good to better him on the field he has marked as his own.”

“I did not mean to challenge him,” I replied. “I merely hoped that, as a man of wisdom, he might see the sense of what I said, and take that into account when assessing my position.”