not a comfortable place to be. Unlike the open expanse of the emperor’s throne room, the caliph’s hall was supported by a forest of pillars, which stretched away in every direction and cast a maze of long shadows. The spaces in between were crammed with a throng of courtiers who lined both sides of the long aisle that led to the back of the room. There, raised on a stone platform beneath a domed recess, seated cross-legged on a low, bench- like throne, sat the caliph.
Bilal led us forward. It took all my courage, and the sound of the guards advancing behind me, to follow him along the corridor of onlookers, under the weight of their strange and foreign gazes, to the open space below the caliph. Gilded lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a pool of light into which we stepped, but that was a dim hole compared to the radiance that shone from the dais above. It seemed to be bathed in sunlight, though I could not see any windows, so bright that I could hardly look directly at the caliph but had to keep my eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. It was covered in rich carpets, which in turn were strewn with the pale-yellow petals of narcissus flowers. Their ripe scent filled the air.
Whether Nikephoros was cowed by the surroundings, or whether he had mastered his pride in the cause of diplomacy, he showed nothing but deference to the caliph. Without prompting, he dropped to his knees and kissed the ground three times. Clumsily, I and the rest of his retinue, the ten Patzinaks, did likewise. Above us, I could hear someone — Bilal? — speaking solemn words in Arabic. When he had finished, I risked a quick glance upwards. The caliph had stood. A disembodied voice drifted down from the podium, echoed imperfectly in Greek by Bilal.
‘Praise be to God, the Lord of the universe. In the name of God, the lord and giver of mercy, and Mohammed His prophet, peace be upon him, the caliph al-Mustali welcomes the emissaries of the emperor of the Christians. Peace be on you.’
Still on his knees, Nikephoros responded with a recitation of titles and credentials. When he finished, I saw him darting sideways glances to Bilal, waiting for some signal that we could rise. None was given.
‘The emperor Alexios honours us with this embassy,’ said the caliph. His voice sounded surprisingly young for one so exalted, though the foreign language made it hard to be sure.
‘The emperor Alexios has always esteemed your friendship. Now he seeks an alliance.’
The mood in the room tensed as Bilal rephrased this in Arabic. The pillars stretched away all around us, and I began to feel like a lamb caught by wolves in a forest. The caliph leaned forward on his throne, blocking out the light like a cloud covering the sun.
‘Who does he wish to make this alliance against?’
Bilal’s voice was louder than the caliph’s, and the vaulted roof spun his words about so that they seemed to come from all around us.
‘Against the Turks of Palestine.’
A great agitation spread through the crowd of courtiers, as though the surrounding forest had come alive in a breeze. The caliph let it build unchecked for a few moments, then hushed it with an unseen gesture.
‘I have heard rumours of a mighty Christian army,’ he announced. ‘Not Greeks or
‘They have come from the west to liberate the holy city of Jerusalem.’
‘They are the emperor’s mercenaries?’
Nikephoros hesitated. ‘His allies.’
The caliph sat down, and let the full radiance of the invisible sun bathe his face. If I squinted, I could just make out his face beneath a white turban. His features were soft, though held fast by a furious effort of concentration. As I had thought, he seemed very young — not much past twenty.
‘If the emperor Alexios has so many allies, why does he seek our help?’
‘Because we have a common enemy.’ Nikephoros rocked forward on his knees, and I wondered if they were beginning to ache as much as mine. Perhaps that was why diplomats wore such thick robes. ‘Because the Turks have stolen their land equally from both of us. Our army is poised at Antioch to strike south; if the Fatimids could come up from Egypt, we would crush them between us.’
This time there was no murmuring from the crowd. All waited to see what the caliph would say.
‘It is easy to speak of crushing the Turks — and far harder to achieve it. They have the full power of the court of Baghdad behind them.’
‘And we have broken it,’ said Nikephoros urgently. ‘You have heard of Kerbogha the Terrible? Two months ago the Franks routed him in battle at Antioch. Palestine is open for the taking.’
The caliph’s face remained impassive — too impassive, I felt, for someone hearing this news for the first time.
‘If Palestine is laid open, why not take it yourself? Does the emperor always seek allies in victory?’
‘All Christians should abhor war and unnecessary killing — as indeed do faithful Muslims.’
‘
‘The stronger our army, the less we will have to use it.’
‘But how, then, will you reward your allies?’
There was an undisguised sharpness in the question. Nikephoros considered his answer carefully.
‘The emperor has no claim on Palestine. The Frankish army want only Jerusalem, and enough land about it to sustain themselves. For the rest, as much as we conquer can be yours.’
The caliph clasped his hands together and pressed them against his chin. He looked down on us from his height, while the crowded nobles around us craned forward. I could not look at the caliph: my eyes ached from the nimbus of light that surrounded him, and the heavy robes pressed down on me like lead.
‘The emperor’s friendship is a prize for any man,’ he declared. ‘But an alliance for war cannot be entered into lightly or in haste. I will think on your proposal, and give you my answer as soon as it is decided. In the meantime, you will stay in the palace. As. .’ There was a pause in the translation as Bilal — unusually — struggled to find a word.
‘As my guests.’
‘How was the audience?’ asked Aelfric.
I unpeeled my borrowed robe and threw it over a wooden stool. In the adjacent room, I could see Nikephoros’ slaves pulling off his opulent lorum and dalmatica, leaving only a loose white smock beneath. I was desperate to release some of the tension of the audience, but it was not easy with a company of Bilal’s African guards stationed outside our door. And my head still ached.
I shrugged. ‘The caliph saw us in person — he didn’t defer us with some string of lesser officials. I suppose that was good.’
‘Are you so dazzled by royalty, Demetrios?’
I looked up wearily. Nikephoros had left his attendants folding his garments and had come through into our room. He was sipping a cup of sherbet, though it did nothing to sweeten the look on his face.
‘The king is not always the most powerful man at court,’ he said, and I remembered that in Constantinople he had been of that faction that sought to make emperors the tools of their officials. ‘The caliph has barely come of age.’
‘He seemed well enough in command of his court to me.’
‘Because his court wanted you to think so. There is only one man who commands the court, and it is not the caliph.’
‘Who, then?’
‘His vizier, al-Afdal. Nothing happens except by his authority.’ There was genuine respect in Nikephoros’ words.
‘Was he there at the audience?’
‘No. But I do not doubt he will have been watching and listening. He flatters us by granting an audience with the caliph, but it is only the first move of a long game. Knowledge is the root of all diplomacy, no less than war. At the moment, our positions are almost equal — we know as much as he does, perhaps more on some matters. But now he will lock us away — with silk cords and golden keys, of course — and starve us of information, while he learns everything he can and watches how matters develop. He will wait until the situation has swung to his advantage before he seriously negotiates with us.’
‘And how are we to know what is in the emperor’s interest then?’
Nikephoros gave a savage grin, perhaps the first time I had seen him happy. ‘That is the game.’
