The Sword of Damascus (31 page)

‘As for you, Edward,’ I continued, ‘I have not forgotten your own bodily needs. At dusk, a deputy of the eunuch we met yesterday will attend on you in your bedchamber. As in Beirut, I advise you to be honest about your tastes. You have arrived at an age where the physical pleasures can be enjoyed at their fullest. Do not waste this time.’

I got up and went over to the glass cutter to suggest a refinement that had just come to mind. Suddenly, I remembered the messenger. Squatting on his haunches, he’d been waiting politely beside one of the larger cutting wheels. His master deserved nothing at all – from me or anyone else. The messenger, though, deserved an answer.

Chapter 36

And Yazid wrote unto his father Muawiya, saying: The Greeks take fright and starve behind the walls of their great city on the two waters. With all the new might you have sent me, I will storm their walls. By the grace of God, O Father, before you read these words, the capital of the world will be yours. As it was prophesied, so you will sit upon the Throne of the Caesars, and the Message of God shall be spread through all the nations of the world.

But the Old One al-Arik readied himself once more to snatch victory from the Faithful. To the generals of Caesar he said: Degenerate, unworthy seed of the Greeks, bearded women who never speak but to counsel rendering up our city to the Men of the Desert; yea, let me take this war into mine own hands. Old as I am, yet shall I deliver us.

And al-Arik sought out one al-Inkus, a man of Syria, and gave him money, saying: Give as thou hast promised, and I will reward thee an hundredfold more. And al-Inkus gave as his father had found among the learning of the Egyptians.

And the day of battle dawned, and three score and ten thousand of the Faithful prepared themselves, and the sound of their battle cry reached unto the Infidels of the North, whose own numbers were as the grains of the desert sand, and who stood on the far shore to wait the command of Yazid; and the Infidel King said: The Men of the Desert shall know victory this day; let us prepare ourselves to take the Greeks from behind, and ours too shall be the mountains of gold and precious jewels and the fair virgins that are sheltered by the walls of the City.

But al-Arik stood on the walls of the City on the Two Waters, and gave orders that the great chain of defence be lifted; and from behind this there came five ships, and these five ships were as al-Inkus had been commanded to fit them.

And among the numberless ships of the Faithful the five ships of al-Arik sailed; and—

I looked up. I’d come across a Saracen word I didn’t recognise. And, even with my two lenses to sharpen that elaborate, flowing script, the wavering lamplight wasn’t enough for my old eyes to continue drinking in the narrative. But I’d read enough. Back in Beirut, I’d been assured that this was the standard history of the late war. It had little analysis, and the collapsing of two vast, opposed enterprises into a series of personal exchanges was a sure sign of barbarism. Even so, the writer had got his facts more or less as I’d myself let them seep out into the world. I thought back to that night meeting of the Imperial Council, where I alone had faced down those useless generals. The walls of Constantinople – ‘incapable of holding’? I’d never heard such nonsense! They’d looked down once too often over that double sea of campfires, and their hearts had died within them. Constantine himself had attended the meeting got up by his eunuchs as a common fisherman, bag of gold tied to his waist.

The Saracen chronicler was right enough that it had all been down to me. But for me, Constantinople would now be the seat of the caliphs. Scrubbed and whitewashed, the Great Church would echo to the mournful wail of the
muezzin
. The Danube and Rhine would already have been crossed, and, one by one, the Germanic kingdoms would be going down before that terrible cry of
God is Great
. Instead of all that, we controlled the seas. Instead of that, the Greek provinces of the Empire had been made impregnable. Instead of that, the Saracens had been forced into the second best alternative of expansion towards the rivers of India.

I smiled and rubbed my eyes. I’d rather have been famous as the man who’d cut taxes and controls, and humanised justice, and given land to the ordinary people and let them keep and bear arms. Perhaps I might be that after another hundred years, when my reforms had fully renewed the Empire. For the moment, there was worse than being called ‘the Old One al-Arik’.

‘You can take me to bed in a moment,’ I said in Syriac. I’d caught the faint scraping again of sandals on the tiled floor, and felt ashamed of how angry I’d been earlier. It was very late. The last time I’d got up for a piss, I’d looked out of the window. There hadn’t been a single light burning in Damascus. The moon might have shone above a deserted city. So far as I could tell, the palace itself was in complete silence. Edward must have finished with his whores and drunk himself blotto. Only I was still awake, rejoicing in the partial restoration of sight – I and some poor slave who might have been on his feet since the previous dawn. He’d only been doing his duty with those regular coughs and coded offers of boiled fruit juice. I slid a bone marker over the sheet where I’d finished, and rolled the papyrus book shut. I took up a pen and made a note for myself about my lens makers. The glass discs immediately available had all been five inches across. But the results were unmanageably large. We’d see how it went with three or even two inches. I wondered if that would make them harder to work. Unless I’d been given inferior workmen, Syrian glass didn’t seem anywhere near so good as Greek. Perhaps I should order a dig in one of the ruined palaces I’d been hurried past by Karim. If cloudy with age, old glass might not have so many bubbles in it.

‘You can let me sleep until I wake by myself,’ I said as the sandals came closer still and stopped just behind me. ‘I’ve made a list of books on this papyrus sheet. Have the goodness to give it to one of the clerks when they come in. I want—’

I did see the dark cord as it was slipped over my head. But I barely had time to register the fact when I felt the knot against my throat and it being pulled tight. There was a sudden flash of coloured lights in my head as I felt myself pulled up and backwards. I heard the scrape and crash of my chair as it went over. I heard the sharp, excited breathing of the man behind me.

Unless the cord is so thin that it cuts your head off, strangulation is – compared with most other forms of murder – a pretty slow death. But, supposing the noose is properly arranged, you black out almost at once, and there’s not much to be done in the way of self-defence. That doesn’t make you completely helpless, however. I still had the pen in my hand. Almost without thinking, I swung my right arm upwards and behind me. I hit something hard, and the pen glanced off. I struck out again and again, until I got lucky. I felt the sharp reed sink into something soft. With a cry of pain, the man moved left out of my reach, stooping down until I felt his head just behind mine. The knot loosened just long enough for me to take in a ragged lungful of air. Then it was tight again. I threw my whole upper body forward, and swung back. The hardest part of my head smashed like a club into his face. There was a shocked scream, and I dropped loose on to the floor.

You really have just moments in this sort of fighting. I knew that I had to be up on my feet and reaching for any weapon at hand. But I rolled, gasping and shaking, on the floor. I couldn’t see past the white flashes still bursting in front of my eyes. Except for the wild thudding of my own heart, I was effectively deaf. I fought desperately to pull myself together. I got hold of the noose that was still about my neck and tore it free. I threw it behind me. As I heaved myself slowly on to hands and knees, I felt my walking stick where it had fallen. I grabbed it, and, wheezing and shuddering, pulled myself to my feet.

I leaned on my desk for support and looked round. At first, I thought I’d chased the attacker off. But, no – he was on the far side of the room. He wasn’t a big man, but was young and wiry. Leaning with one hand against the wall, he was doubled over. I’d got him hard on the nose, and he was too busy with blood and tears to come after me. I looked round for a weapon. The penknife was useless. Still holding on to the desk with my left hand, I raised the stick in my right. Watching it tremble and shake as I held it before me would have been comical if I hadn’t been in so much danger. I opened my mouth and tried to call for support. But, if my windpipe hadn’t been crushed by that first tug of the noose, nothing came out but a rattled croak.

The killer was now upright again. He had no knife in his hands, and didn’t seem to have come out with any other weapon beside his noose. He too was looking about for a weapon. Like me, he didn’t find much ready to hand.

‘Christ is my Saviour,’ he called in a low, triumphant Syriac. ‘My Saviour is Christ.’ There was no chance of seeing his eyes. Even so, I had the impression that he was high on the usual hashish. He smiled and went into a wrestler’s pose. He moved slowly towards me. I swung round with my stick and began rapping it hard on the desk. I hit out at my cup, and, with a loud noise, it shattered on the floor. I clutched harder at the desk and held the stick out as if it had been a sword.

‘Help!’ I was now able to gasp in the feeble voice of the very old. ‘Help – murder!’ I jabbed uncertainly at him with my stick as the killer came forward again, and pulled it back before he could take hold of it. I used the advantage as he jumped out of my way to snatch up the inkwell. I threw it at his head. I missed, and it smashed on the floor, leaving a pool of blackness under his feet.

Perhaps the penknife might be some use after all, I thought. Unlike with the oarsman, I had no advantage of surprise, and this wasn’t the murderous little instrument that Joseph had given me. But I might be able to get in a lucky cut before those strong outstretched arms got to me and closed too tight round me. The killer saw what I had in mind. He put his arms into a semblance of the praying position.

‘Christ is my Saviour!’ he cried, now exultant. ‘My Saviour is Christ!’ He stepped towards me across the office. In just that one step, he’d covered half the distance that separated us. He stopped and giggled, and spun round and round, his arms trailing outward beside him. ‘Christ is my Saviour! My Saviour is Christ! Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. Christ is my Saviour! My Saviour is Christ!’

His little sermon over, he took another step towards me. I tested the weight of my stick and held it up before me. I held it as if it had been half sword, half truncheon. It was neither, and neither would have been much good in these trembling hands. I told myself not to whimper, and stood up straight.

As I looked, now steady, into his eyes, and thought I could see only death reflected back at me, the door of the office flew open. Standing in the doorway, stark naked, was Edward.

Chapter 37

Edward was silently taking in what he’d seen. His hair was untied, and it floated about him in the lamplight like a golden haze. The killer turned to face him. He laughed again and moved towards the door.

‘An old man,’ he grated, still in Syriac, ‘and a boy to guard him!’

Edward’s response was a mouthful of obscenities in English, and then a lunge forward into the room. He set about the killer with the sort of cane you use for beating uppity slaves. Surprised, the man retreated at first, protecting his face with outstretched arms. He kicked another chair over, and it looked for a moment as if he might pull an entire book rack down on himself. But, if not very big, he was twice Edward’s size and weight. Surprise is everything when dealing with a superior opponent, and Edward had worn his out too fast to make it count.

The killer reached out and snatched the cane. He took it clean out of Edward’s hands, almost as if he’d been taking a rattle from an annoying child. He held it in both hands and put his head back for a low, chilling laugh.

‘I am sent to kill an old man,’ he called, speaking a sort of Greek, ‘and now a boy as well!’ He laughed again, and went on the attack. He slashed out at Edward and caught him about the shoulders. He beat out again and again. It was a cruel and thoroughly experienced beating. I heard the continual hiss of thin wood and its impact on bare flesh. Edward dodged behind the fallen chair and tried to push it towards the killer. It was too heavy. He succeeded only in exposing himself to more of those terrible blows. Once more, the killer laughed. He looked at me. I was still propped, useless, against the desk. He shouted loud in a burst of wild, drug-inspired pleasure, and turned his full attention on the boy.

Not once, under that beating, did Edward cry out. He held up his arms for protection. He did his best to shield his face. But, all the time, he lunged at the killer, trying to land a blow – hoping perhaps to regain possession of the cane. I watched until the killer turned and began driving Edward towards the office door. It was now that I went into action. I stepped forward and got him from behind with a blow of my own, much heavier stick. I missed his head, but got him a hard blow on the collarbone. There was a howl of pain, and he wheeled round to face me. I stabbed at his throat, and got him on the cheek. I raised the stick and swung hard. I felt the impact as I hit his left wrist. He howled again and made a grab for the stick.

Edward was on his feet again. He jumped on to the man’s back and tried to pull him down to the floor. He was too light. But the man was clutching with his good hand at the hold on his neck. He pitched forward and back, and from side to side. I heard the thud of the boy’s thigh against one of the book racks. But there was no breaking his grip. Edward tried to get his fingers up the man’s nose and to pull. He scratched at the eyes. He ignored the still punishing backward slashes of the cane. I moved in closer with a hard jab into the genitals, and then another poke in the face. Using the stick in place of a stabbing sword, I went at every soft part of the body I could reach, concentrating on face and stomach. All the time, Edward stayed clamped on his back, pulling and shoving. I cursed my weakness and the hard thumping in my chest that almost seemed to knock me off what little balance I had. But I got the genitals again. This time, I must have got one of his balls. With a loud shriek of pain, he lunged backwards. Edward managed to swing himself sideways just in time to avoid being caught under the killer as he hit the floor. I took my stick in both hands and threw myself forward, landing with my stick across the lower part of his throat. I pushed hard.