The Sword of Damascus (35 page)

It wasn’t a long story, but the repeated cheers and calls for the wittier passages to be recited over, dragged it out to what seemed a great length. It was made still longer by the flute accompaniments. I listened carefully, trying to keep the detachment of a philosopher and of a spy. The easiest part of spying is to find out how many soldiers the enemy has, and what use is to be made of them. You can’t fault this for the purely military aspects of victory. Far harder is getting inside the enemy’s head – to learn the causes that shape his manners and beliefs. So far as I was any kind of spy tonight, I was depressed in exact proportion to the entertainment. These people might be regarded in Constantinople as a race of barbarians just like my own ancestors. But this was a false assumption, based on recollections of how the Western Provinces had been lost. These people hadn’t come out of their desert with little of their own. It wasn’t a matter of waiting until they had adopted the superior ways of their subjects, and could then be evangelised and absorbed into our own civilisation. There would be no shadowy
imperium
extended here through the Church, aided by the occasional reconquest. If they copied from us, it was only to incorporate into a civilisation that could, in its own way, become equal to our own. Their literature stood on its own and needed nothing from us. Behind this rose their own Desert Faith – silly enough in its details, but without the terrible mess of Persons and Substances the Greeks had immovably fastened on the Christian Faith. We could, with our superiority in the sciences and with grim determination, hold their Empire from rolling forward into the Greek Provinces of our own. But these were not the Goths and Angles and Saxons. They were not even the Persians, as corrupt as they were alien. In time, they might appreciate Aristotle and Apollonius. They’d neither feel nor have any need for Homer and Herodotus. Least of all would they need Christ.

None of this was a new revelation. I’d been putting it forward for years in the councils of an arrogant, if increasingly down-at-heel, Empire. But, sitting here, watching those bearded faces shine with joy at a recitation that had nothing Greek in its substance or content, was a chill reminder that the victories in the East of Alexander and the Caesars were already one with those of the Assyrians and the Persians.

The story finished with a great burst of cheering, and the boy ran about the room, collecting the silver shaken out from some very large purses. There was an encore of flute playing from the boy while he danced about, followed by more silver. At last, he and his master went to the back of the room, where food would be set out for them, and we all settled back for the next round of courses.

‘Is it true that al-Inkus was buried alive after communicating his secret to the Emperor?’ someone asked behind me.

I perked and twisted round to see who was speaking. It was the Admiral Abbas. For the first time, I noticed that his left arm hung lifeless at his side. Another victim in the catastrophic defeat I’d seen from the walls of Constantinople? Perhaps.

‘Callinicus was a man of great abilities,’ I said, trying not to sound guarded. ‘I believe he was an architect from Heliopolis – whether in Egypt or in Syria, the accounts differ. There is also some dispute over the manner of his achievement. Did he learn from an ancient manuscript, as some declare? Or did he make an original discovery? Since the man disappeared immediately after delivering his secret into the hands of the Emperor, no one can say. The manner of his death – if, indeed, he is dead – must ever stay a mystery.’

Abbas might have asked more. Just then, however, Meekal sat upright on his couch and looked straight at the pair of us.

‘Can you smell fire?’ he asked. I dropped my own proposed question whether the fried river fish now being brought round had the bones left in, and sniffed the air.

‘Surely, my dear, it’s the lamps,’ I said, looking vaguely upwards. My sense of smell hadn’t been that good in years. Now he mentioned it, though, there was a faint smell of burning. More to the point, others in the hall had noticed. Several men were off their couches and running over to the door to give instructions to the attendants. Then, far over to the left, there was a panicky shout of ‘Fire!’. There was a mass scraping of couches and a clatter of dishes. Someone came up and whispered in Meekal’s ear. With a roar of anger, he was on his feet.

‘Get up!’ he shouted at me. ‘Keep hold of me while we get out. The fucking Empire’s set fire to us.’

Chapter 41

Panic abolishes most distinctions of rank, and Meekal had to use his right fist to get us across that shouting mob to the door. As we got there, we were nearly knocked over by a sudden reverse in the tide of escaping humanity. With Meekal to hold me upright, I stood a moment in the doorway and looked out into the darkness of the great garden in the palace. It was only a moment. But that was enough to see a bright ball of fire coming at us through the air. The earthenware jar shattered about three yards from us, sending up splashes of burning liquid to cling to anything it touched. I felt something catch the shoulder of my robe. It spun me round, and I nearly went over. As Meekal caught me and covered me with his own body, I saw a man go down. He landed a foot or so away, writhing and choking, an arrow in his throat.

Out of the darkness came a cheer of triumph and a shouted ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth!’

Back inside the hall, Meekal pushed me into the arms of Karim and bawled an order that I was too busy looking about me to follow. It was a desperate, furious stream of instructions. I caught one look of his face. It had about it the cold ghastliness of the dead. Then he turned to put some kind of order into the dinner guests.

‘Get that gate shut!’ he shouted above the cries of confusion and of fear. ‘Line up, men, line up,’ he now bellowed. ‘Swords at the ready.’ There was a martial sound from the trumpet, and the familiar commands gradually brought order into the hall.

‘I must get you out of here, My Lord,’ Karim shouted into my bad ear. Fighting a sudden fit of the trembles, he clutched at me to stay upright. ‘I am charged on my own life to keep you safe.’ He shivered again, and nearly had me on the floor.

I shook my head. We were in a building of solid stone. It couldn’t be burned down. If Abbas had been anywhere close in that chaotic hall, I’d have tried for a witticism about the use of fire in battle. But, if Meekal was bringing order out of chaos, it was hard to say that chaos didn’t still have the upper hand. Whatever the case, running away with a jittery Karim didn’t sound at all a wise choice. It would be safest to press against the wall to avoid being knocked over by the crush of men. But even as I thought how to explain this, there was a smash of glass, and more of those burning pots came flying through one of the high windows. These weren’t hand-held projectiles. Somehow or other, the Angels of the Lord had not only got within the palace grounds – they’d also brought in some kind of artillery. There was a regular hail of fire into the hall. Men screamed and ran about as the burning oil stuck to clothes and flesh. Already, I could see that a couple of the men who’d taken direct hits would soon be dead if no one thought to put out the fires all over them. One of the tapestries was already on fire. It or the fuel that had carried the fire was giving off clouds of smoke that would finish someone like me off in no time at all.

But Karim was recovered from his fit. He had me up on his back and was carrying me through the increasingly orderly crowds towards the little door at the back of the hall used by the serving men. He rattled the door, then shouted a command at the trembling slave to get it open. We passed through into the sudden chill and silence of the darkness, and I heard the bolts drawn hard shut behind me. I felt the crunch of gravel under Karim’s feet as he ran away from the building, and then the softer pad of his feet on grass as he dodged to avoid the men I could hear shouting and rejoicing somewhere close by. He put me down against a wall, and stood gasping smoke out of his lungs. I looked uselessly around. I knew the Tower of Heavenly Peace was on the far side of the palace. But there must be buildings nearby that would be guarded. If only there was a single light burning in the upper windows to let us see where these were. If only I could see anything other than a dark blur. Even the moon was out of sight.

‘There’s two over here,’ someone shouted in Syriac. The voice wasn’t above six yards away. Karim clutched at me again, and began the effort of pulling me back to my feet.

‘No!’ I said, now calm. ‘You’ll never outrun these men, or those who come to help them. Keep your mouth shut and leave this to me.’ There was a sudden blaze of light from one of the wooden huts outside the hall used for keeping food hot in the winter months. With a tremendous effort, I got up and tried to look active.

‘God be praised,’ I cried in Syriac – and luck be praised I’d kept my teeth in. ‘This is a blow for truth I never thought I’d live to witness.’

‘What are you doing here?’ someone snarled back at me. ‘This is a job for the fit.’

I croaked a variant on ‘Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace according to Thy word,’ and giggled.

‘Get the old fool out of here,’ the voice snarled again, now at Karim. Plainly, he was taken in by my words, if not impressed by my presence. ‘We’re holding the eastern gate.’

That should have been it. We could have sloped off deeper into the palace grounds, and waited for the Palace Guard to get its act together. But as Karim was pulling me back on to his shoulders, we almost fell over about half a dozen other men.

‘Get these wankers out of here!’ the voice now commanded. ‘We can’t lose another Elder.’

And that was it. Pulled and shoved to keep on course, Karim was hurried off to the eastern gate. I thought of pretending a heart attack to slow him down enough to be left alone. But I could feel that Karim was in no state to play along with me. With the panting sobs of a man terrified out of his wits, he had his head down and was keeping pace. Swaying about over his back, I could see the bright mass of torches coming closer as we approached the eastern gate. I could pass as anything I cared to be. What to do, though, about that brown face and his Saracen clothes?

‘Let us through,’ I cried as we came level with the gate. I noted the fallen bodies of the guards. ‘Let us through. My servant is wounded.’ The torches parted. No one could see Karim’s face. No one paid attention to his clothes. We hurried through into streets alive with people and more torches.

‘Is the palace burned?’ someone asked. ‘Is the tyrant dead?’ There was a ragged cheer at the very thought – though whether Caliph or Governor was in mind no one bothered to make clear. I clapped Karim on the back to keep going. Now staggering under my weight, he carried me into a side street and dropped me hard on the packed earth that served here in place of paving.

‘How many Saracens are there in Damascus?’ I asked. He leaned against a wall, wheezing and coughing. There was a blast of trumpets in the main road and the unmistakable tread of military boots. ‘We can’t stay here,’ I added. ‘Soldiers don’t know friend from foe in the dark.’ I repeated myself: ‘Is there a Saracen district nearby where we can get shelter?’

He shook his head despairingly. Even now, Damascus was overwhelmingly Christian. The Faithful lived in encampments outside the walls or inside the palace. The only converts were local trash – persons of very low degree, he emphasised.

‘Then let’s just get away and hide somewhere quiet till morning,’ I said.

Karim tried to protest. But I wasn’t going back anywhere close to that palace while there was a riot in progress. Whatever his father had been, Karim wasn’t a military Saracen. But if I wasn’t much of a soldier either, I’d seen dozens of riots in Constantinople, and I knew exactly what to expect. Not waiting for him to pick me up again, I started off away from the noise. A sword would have been useful. These fine clothes made us walking targets. But the first rule of street fighting is to get away from it, regardless of what further trouble may lurk round the corner.

‘So, where are we?’ I asked after half a mile. ‘You were happy enough the day before yesterday to show me the sights of Damascus. Shall we take this opportunity to see a few of them now?’

Karim stopped and took my arm off his shoulder. The clouds had parted, showing the nearly full moon. In its light, he guided me towards a bench. There was a heap of rubbish behind it and on both sides. If even I could smell it, there must have been quite a large dead animal rotting somewhere close by. The bench looked clean enough in the moonlight, however. Karim sat down and looked ahead in silence.

‘We’re lost,’ he said at last without turning.

No shock there, I thought. My reply was a sniff. I looked at the high, blank walls of the houses that, here and there, pressed almost together overhead.

‘At all times of the day and night,’ he went on, ‘these streets around the palace are crowded with Cross Worshippers of the lowest and most desperate kind. Once order is restored, we shall be lost among them. They will surely tear us apart. I have failed His Highness the Governor in allowing you to sit here, waiting for death. I have failed you, My Lord – and failed so ignobly. May my family curse the day that I was born!’ His voice shook. It was as if I heard the tears rolling down into his beard. The Saracens were maturing fast into their exalted position: some of them weren’t only non-military; they also weren’t particularly brave.

‘Then I suggest we get up and keep moving,’ I said firmly. The last thing you want in a coward is a fit of the shakes. We’d never move anywhere with that. I looked along the street in the direction we’d been going. After a dozen yards, it twisted sharp right. Left or right, all the streets had been doing that since we left the palace. According to the moon, we were going west. Just a while earlier, it had been east. I sniffed again. No hint of a nosebleed was my first good news since I’d seen Meekal projected through my lenses. ‘If only you lot might listen,’ I said, ‘you’d learn a lot from the Greeks about town planning. A grid arrangement of at least the central districts of a city can bring so many benefits. So, while we’re on the subject, can a touch of street lighting. We can only hope that continued progress along this dried-up riverbed of a street will bring us somewhere safer than we are now.’