immediately drowned by the quick-fire rattle of iron on stone. Not only stone — several hit flesh, and a mortal screaming joined the cacophony that filled the air. A shadow fell from the sky as the arrows plucked one of my companions from the wall above. I did not see who it was; he fell into the sand at the foot of the cliff, and in its soft embrace I did not even hear his neck break.
Pebbles rained down on me as my companions climbed on. To my right, the spearmen were only a few yards down the path, though something seemed to have delayed them. They crouched behind their shields, looking up and across the ravine. Following their gaze I saw the dark shapes of more archers silhouetted against the sky on the opposite summit. Now they could rain arrows on us from above and below. There would be no escape.
Yet even where there is no hope of escape, men will try beyond reason. I could not get past the spearmen; the only other path was up. I scooped a handful of pebbles and threw them down on the archers in the ravine, a vain gesture of defiance, then turned and began hauling myself up the cliff.
It was easier than I had thought it would be. Whoever had cut the footholds had placed them well, so that my feet found grooves and fissures exactly where they expected. I pulled myself up, hand over hand, deaf now to the sounds of battle, to the arrows around me, to the voice in my heart that pleaded this was madness. The discipline of climbing brought a rare order to my body, and I embraced it eagerly. Perhaps I might even reach the summit, I thought, though I did not know what I would do when I reached it.
An arrow tore into my shoulder, and as I screamed my hand let go of the rock. I tried to cling on with my other hand, but I did not have the strength. I fell, felt a rush of air and then a life-emptying thud.
I lay back, and let the desert take me at last.
16
Angels hovered over me in a golden sky, their faces still and solemn as they circled the bearded man in their midst. In his left hand he clutched a thick book, bound with many seals, while his right was raised as if in blessing or judgement. There was a seriousness about him, which I had expected, but also a sadness, which I had not: his mouth seemed to droop away from his gaunt cheeks, and dark bags ringed his sunken eyes. In the distance, and seemingly all around me, I could hear the quiet chanting of prayers.
‘Christ?’ I asked uncertainly. I had thought I would recognise him immediately, but now I was not sure.
‘You are in the presence of Christ.’
His lips did not move, nor did the voice even seem to emanate from him. Instead, I heard it whispering in my ear.
A bolt of terror sparked through me. I tried to bow, or kneel, but at once an invisible force pushed me back. I did not resist.
‘Will you judge me, Lord?’
He chuckled, though his drooping mouth did not move. ‘It is not for me to judge you. And your time has not yet come.’
‘Not yet. .?’
‘Wake up,’ said the voice. ‘Wake up, Demetrios Askiates.’
Christ seemed to recede away into the sky as a larger, gentler face leaned close over me. There was no ethereal stillness in this man’s features: his head swayed from side to side, and his blue eyes darted about as if searching for something within me.
‘Are you Saint Peter?’ I guessed.
He chuckled — the same laugh as I had heard before, but this time his cheeks creased and his mouth opened wide with mirth. His breath smelled of onions.
‘I am Brother Luke. The infirmarian.’
I tried to rub my eyes, though only one hand obeyed. The other seemed to be tied down to something. I turned my head to look.
The golden sky disappeared. Instead, I saw a row of stern-faced prophets lining a long wall, and afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows above their heads. In front of them, at my bedside, an elderly monk in a black habit was pouring something from a jug into a plain cup.
‘Where am I?’
The monk set the cup down on a wooden table and turned back to me. ‘At the monastery of Mount Abraham.’
‘I thought I saw-’ I broke off, uncertain if it was blasphemy. The monk, however, showed no offence.
‘Perhaps you did. You were half dead when they brought you here.’
‘Who brought me?’
‘The
I did not understand, but before I could ask anything else he had crooked an arm around the back of my head, lifted it forward and was tipping the contents of the cup into my mouth. I tasted honey and rosemary, and something bitter I did not know. It was only as the cool liquid touched my throat that I realised I was no longer thirsty — or hungry.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Three days.’
Unbidden, I suddenly pictured a dark chasm filled with screams and the hiss of stinging arrows. ‘And my companions?’
The monk dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. ‘They both survived — better than you. You will see them tomorrow. Now, rest.’
There was much more I needed to find out, so much that all the questions seemed to choke in my mouth and I could not say one of them. A heavy hand drew a veil over my eyes, and sleep claimed me.
The angels were flying above me again but now the sky was dark, illuminated only by a dim orange haze like sunset after a storm. I twisted in my bed, testing my invisible bonds. If I went to my right I could turn quite easily; if I tried my left, I could barely move without igniting a horrible pain in my shoulder. I looked to my right. Iron lamps hung from a high ceiling, and by their light I could see the columns and vaults of a spacious room, and the shadowy throng of prophets and disciples painted on the surrounding walls. I rolled up my eyes — there were the angels again, inlaid on a half-dome above my head, and the Christ in their midst. His hand was still poised in unmoving judgement, and his face still told unspeakable sadness.
‘When will he be healed?’
The voice came from my left, where I could not see. I twisted my neck cautiously, trying not to disturb my shoulder, but all I could make out were two dark figures in shapeless robes, silhouetted in front of a brazier. One was short and round; the other, taller and leaner, towered over his companion and leaned forward with authority.
‘It will take weeks for him to heal — if the wound does not fester,’ said the shorter man. I recognised the kindly fastidiousness in his tone — Brother Luke, the infirmarian.
‘He must be ready to leave tomorrow.’
This distressed the infirmarian a great deal. His head bobbed back and forth, and he twisted his hands together. ‘He cannot leave. If his wound opens before the flesh has rebound itself, he will die.’
‘They cannot stay. Even as much as we have done already threatens our community if the caliph hears of it.’
‘But where will he go? Will you cast them out into the desert?’
‘A caravan passes by here tomorrow afternoon. Bind him tight, and make sure he is ready.’
‘And if he dies on his journey?’ The infirmarian’s voice tightened with anger.
‘Then he will not lie on my conscience. He should have chosen a safer path.’
Brilliant sunshine beamed through the high windows; outside, I could hear a bell tolling the office of the day. I sat up in bed, supported by two novices, while Brother Luke unwound the bandages from my shoulder. I peered down, digging my chin into my collarbone. As the cloths came away I saw what they had bound: a round hole, so wide you could poke a thumb into it, about halfway between my nipple and the crook of my arm. I flinched even to
