‘Thank you for showing it to me,’ I said.
‘The vizier thought you would find it interesting. It is a shame your master Nikephoros did not see it. You should tell him about it.’
‘I will give him a full account.’
We rejoined the others and walked down towards the boat, while a too-hot October sun stained the clouds with a mess of bloody colour.
14
I told Nikephoros everything as soon we returned. His impatience soon turned to interest, particularly the account of the Nile measure, though he rolled his eyes when I repeated Bilal’s warnings of danger.
‘That is just part of their tactics. Like the men in Constantinople who convince you your house is on fire so they can rob it when you flee.’
‘He seemed serious enough.’
‘Of course he did — there would be little point in the lie if he did not.’ Nikephoros took a piece from the tray of sweetmeats before him. ‘I am surprised the ape had the wit for it.’
He flashed a sly glance as he said it, quick as a razor, but I did not rise to the provocation. Not that I let him see, anyway.
‘But why show us that their harvest is failing?’ I said. ‘Surely that weakens their position?’
Nikephoros gave me a withering look. ‘Is that all you saw? If you had looked out of the boat two months ago you would have seen as much.’
Even after so much experience of it, his vitriol could still sting me. I waited, wondering if he would explain himself or grow bored.
‘Al-Afdal will negotiate.’
‘How do you know?’
Nikephoros took the last two sweetmeats off the tray and crammed them in his mouth. ‘Because he has finally shown us what he wants. And because he sent word while you were away. He will see me tomorrow.’
Whatever Nikephoros had to say to al-Afdal, he did not need me to hear it. He went alone, and when he returned a couple of hours later he said nothing except to call for wine and retreat to his own room. The meeting must have pleased him, though, for when he came out for supper he was in a better humour than I had seen him for weeks. The setting sun filled the room with a bright copper glow, moulded into intricate shadows on the wall by the carved window screens. The caliph’s slaves kept us well supplied with wine, and the feeling in the room was of an army on the last night of its campaign. Even I found myself caught up in the false and easy camaraderie. I looked around at the laughing faces and thought that if this was to be our last night in Egypt, it was at least a happy ending.
Afterwards, like the others, I regretted drinking so much wine, but it was the wine that made me bold enough to question Nikephoros directly.
‘What came of your meeting with the vizier?’
If the wine had made me incautious, it had evidently mellowed Nikephoros’ humour. Or perhaps he did not want to cut into the good feeling. He waved an arm expansively and said, ‘Good things.’
‘Will he take our grain in exchange for Jerusalem?’
Even with the mist of alcohol in his mind, Nikephoros was alert enough to give me a keen look. I could see he was minded not to answer my guess, but eventually he acknowledged it with a shrug. ‘He will take the emperor’s grain to relieve the famine here.’
‘And surrender Jerusalem in return?’ I pressed.
‘Al-Afdal has been called to Alexandria for a few days. When he returns here he will give me his answer.’
Aelfric, sitting in the corner, raised his cup. ‘And then we can go home.’
I drank to that.
I woke craving water. Lifting myself from my mattress, I fumbled my way across the room and felt around until I found the alcove where the palace slaves had left a jug and a pair of cups. I splashed some water into the cup, spilling it in the dark, and drank gratefully. Between the privations we had suffered at Antioch, and the recent hospitality of the Fatimids who seemed to drink alcohol rarely if at all, it had been an age since I drank so much wine. I shook my head to clear it, and immediately wished I had not.
I was about to return to my bed when a noise outside the door drove all thoughts of sleep from my head. I heard a rush of footsteps, and the ominous clattering of spearshafts on stone. The guard in the passage issued a challenge, and was instantly answered by a sharp torrent of unintelligible words.
I did not know what was happening — I barely knew if I was dreaming or not — but I knew that I wanted to be armed. I let the cup drop from my hand and ran to my bedside, rummaging under the mattress where I had hidden Bilal’s dagger. Around me, the others were stirring uncertainly, their dreams interrupted by the shattering cup and the noises in the passageway, but it was not until the double doors flew open in a blaze of shouts and torchlight that they realised what was happening. By then, I had managed to pull on one boot and slip the knife inside it.
A couple of our Patzinak guards managed to leap to their feet, but they were quickly pinned back against the walls by the incoming horde. They wore long hauberks of quilted leather and carried short stabbing spears with leafshaped heads. The caliph’s personal bodyguard — not al-Afdal’s men, but Berbers from the deserts of Africa.
Two of the guards tore open the curtain to Nikephoros’ private quarters. I thought they would find him in bed, but either he had heard the intrusion and acted quickly, or he had expected it. He stood there dressed in a plain tunic, his arms by his side and anger burning across his face. He might be a bully, I realised then, but he was not a coward.
‘What in Christ’s name are you doing?’
The words were lost on the Berber guards. Their hard faces never flinched as they stepped forward and seized him between them. Nikephoros shrank instinctively from their grasp; then he mastered himself, and let them lead him with silent dignity. Two more guards took hold of me, while others rounded up Aefric and the Patzinaks and herded them after us with spears. It was too soon to feel shock: the whole business had taken barely a minute, and I saw men still rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they left the room. In the corridor, the guard who had been assigned to watch us — one of Bilal’s men — stood back and watched in disbelief, his wide eyes like moons in the dark. He had not expected this any more than we had.
‘Fetch Bilal,’ I called to him as we passed.
The eyes blinked, but otherwise there was no acknowledgement.
The Berbers brought us quickly to the hall where the caliph had first received us. Circles of torchlight overlapped to form a bright arena in the open space before the dais, while the myriad columns stretched away like a forest at midnight around us. From above, the caliph looked down from his low throne, flanked by a chamberlain. His face was drowned in darkness.
‘This is an unexpected honour, Your Highness.’ Nikephoros could not disguise the fear in his words. ‘With a little more warning, we might have prepared ourselves more as your dignity demands. As it is-’ He broke off, as he saw the chamberlain had not bothered to translate his words. An ominous silence overtook the dark room. The caliph let it grow until even Nikephoros began to fidget. Then he spoke.
‘The vizier, my loyal servant’ — he sneered as he said it — ‘has told me your proposal.’
Nikephoros licked his lips and glanced nervously around. ‘The illustrious vizier had me understand you looked kindly on our offer, Your Highness.’
‘Al-Afdal does not speak for me,’ barked the caliph, and even before I heard his words transmitted into Greek, I heard the aggrieved petulance in his voice, and remembered how young he had seemed at our first audience.
Nikephoros offered a too-humble bow. ‘Forgive me, Your Highness, I-’
‘You are a snake, Greek — a snake and a liar. You glide into my court and offer sweet promises of friendship and aid, but you are lying, waiting to strike when I am vulnerable. Jerusalem belongs to
