I had to speak eventually to dislodge that stare. ‘Do you ever wish you’d taken the vizier’s offer and returned home?’
Contrary to what I had intended, my words only seemed to double the force of Achard’s gaze. ‘What offer?’
I paused, wishing I had kept silent. I tried a noncommittal shrug, but Achard’s interest was as fixed as his stare. ‘Did the vizier say you could return to the Army of God?’
‘There seemed little purpose staying here when. .’ In the back of my mind I could almost hear Nikephoros’ jeering laugh as I plunged towards another indiscretion. I wished Bilal would return, but there was no sign of him. I took a deep breath.
‘You know that al-Afdal has conquered Jerusalem?’
‘Of course.’ Achard’s studied indifference could not have been entirely contrived, but I noticed that for the first time he had dropped his gaze.
I shrugged. ‘There seemed little left to negotiate.’
‘But you chose to stay.’
Achard looked surprised. ‘You cannot make peace with Babylon — only destroy her, as was prophesied.’
Now it was my turn to stare at him. Did he mean the abstract, biblical Babylon or the kingdom where we stood at that moment? Either way, it was a foolish thing to say, and I looked around anxiously. I did not know whether to be relieved or alarmed when I saw that Bilal had reappeared.
‘Come.’
He led us across the courtyard to the tower opposite. As we approached, I saw that its walls were not the evenly cut masonry they looked from a distance, but were built from a host of different stones, which seemed to have been plundered from across the ages and hammered, chiselled or cemented into one. Some of the lower stones were carved with shocking pagan images: men with heads like birds and jackals; men bowing prostrate with sheaves of corn; crows and beetles. Others were decorated with scrolls and rosettes, and curved as if they had once framed windows or doors. One of the stones even bore an inscription in Greek, though so old I could not read it. It unsettled me to see it there amid all those relics.
An old man in a white robe awaited us by a doorway. He bowed courteously, though there was anxiety in his eyes as he spoke to Bilal in Arabic. Whatever his concerns, I saw Bilal dismiss them with a shake of his head, and the man reluctantly stepped aside. Just before we entered, Bilal turned to us.
‘This is one of the most important sites in Egypt. Few outside the court are allowed to see it.’
His words seemed at odds with the sight that greeted us as we ducked through the doorway. Inside was a dim, square-sided chamber that seemed to rise the full height of the tower and, more curiously, to drop away almost an equal distance below. Broad windows had been cut into the tower’s walls, and though they seemed to admit less sun than they should it was enough for me to see that the entire tower was one tall shaft, with a staircase winding around its edges until it disappeared into a pool of blackbrown water at the bottom. From its centre, an eight-sided column rose to a stone beam above our heads.
‘Is this a well?’ I asked. Now that we were all inside and the noise of our entry had subsided, I could hear the water lapping against the stones — and a steady gurgling, as if somewhere it was pouring through a spout.
‘This is where we measure the rising and falling of the Nile.’ Bilal pointed to the central column. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the light, I could see it was scored with hundreds of parallel lines, each a finger’s breadth apart from the next. ‘By this, we know how strong the harvest will be even before it is sown. Look.’
I peered down. The measuring marks reached right to the top of the column, though if the river ever reached that high then there would be no hope of reading it, for the entire island would be inundated. That had evidently never happened, for the upper reaches of the column were clean and smooth, gleaming with a sheen of moisture from the damp air. Further down, the high-water marks of the past stained the marble a dirty grey, progressively darker as it descended. Finally, a still-living scum coated the pillar a few feet above the water where the river had only recently subsided. Even at its height, it seemed a great deal lower than the floods of previous years.
Achard coughed, perhaps overcome by the dank and spore-filled air. ‘Is this what you brought us to see?’ He glanced uneasily at the plaques mounted on the wall, filled with inscriptions in the Arabic script, as if they might be written with spells to damn his soul. ‘I have seen villages with more impressive wells.’
‘Perhaps you would like to wait outside. The air is cleaner there.’ Bilal turned to me. ‘But there are some carvings you have not seen. You will like them.’
‘I do not need to see the works of demons and heretics,’ declared Achard. With another fit of coughing, he led his Franks back out through the door. Aelfric looked after them, then back at me; I nodded to him, and he followed them out, leaving me alone with Bilal.
I sighed. ‘I had forgotten how rude the Franks can be.’
Bilal laughed. ‘And these are their diplomats. Come.’
He led me down, skirting the sides of the central well until the stairs vanished into the dark water. He sat down by the water’s edge, a few steps up, and beckoned me to do likewise.
‘I cannot see any carvings,’ I observed.
‘I needed to speak with you.’ Bilal glanced up to make sure that we were not overheard; I could see the priest’s shadow hovering by the doorway, but that did not seem to trouble him.
‘You are not safe. None of you.’
‘What?’ I craned my head around and looked into his face. I saw no trace of deceit.
‘The vizier’s capture of Jerusalem has changed many things. There are voices at the palace who say that we are strong enough now to challenge all our enemies. They are stirring up old grievances to breed hatred — it is not difficult.’
‘Does al-Afdal support this?’
Bilal shook his head. ‘He knows our strength too well. It is those furthest from the armies who are keenest to use them.’
‘But I thought. .’ I paused, unsure how frankly I could speak.
‘You thought al-Afdal controlled the palace? He does. But there are many factions, and al-Afdal cannot always master them all.’ Bilal looked across the water and gave the column an appraising look, as if counting off the exposed notches. ‘And there are other pressures on our kingdom, too.’
A wave of bitter helplessness swept over me. ‘Why have you told me this? Is there anything I can do?’
Bilal glanced up again at the shadow by the door. ‘You can be careful. And take this.’
He reached inside his cloak and pulled out a short knife in a leather sheath. He handed it to me. It was a plain weapon, with no carving or ornament on its bone handle, but the blade looked sharp enough when I slid it out.
‘Is this yours?’
‘I bought it in the bazaar. No one will know where it came from, unless you tell them.’
‘I will not tell them.’
‘It will not be much use if the caliph’s guards come for you, but. . it may be helpful. I hope you do not need it.’
I tucked the knife into my boot, wondering if the bulge was too obvious. ‘Thank you. You did not have to.’
A movement above our heads caught my eye, and I looked up. Nothing stirred, but it seemed that the shadow by the door had moved. Bilal noticed it too.
‘We should go.’
As we climbed the stairs, I looked around the great stone well once more. Even in the time we had been there, the river level seemed to have dropped further down the column.
‘How old is this measure?’
Bilal shrugged. ‘Who knows? But it was here before the Fatimids came. Perhaps the same men who built the pyramids erected it.’
We came out into the courtyard. In the short time we had been inside, the sun had sunk lower and dusk was hastening on. I could see our companions loitering impatiently by the gate.
