past few months. I hope to enjoy rather more of it in the coming months. I’m told Damascus can be delightful in the autumn.’
He grunted and took a slip of papyrus from an attendant who’d just come over beside him. He stared at it and frowned.
‘You’ll be interested to know,’ he sneered in Latin, ‘that Karim was spotted this morning in Damascus. He was buying bread.’ I raised an eyebrow and gave him an artless smile. ‘I said I wouldn’t chase either of them. But if they now throw themselves into my hands, who am I to refuse any gift that God may send? You can watch the boy die in one of my dungeons. Karim I’ll have punished as befits an enemy of God. Unless you appear set to outlive me, however, I’ll allow you to live out your natural term. I think you’ll find it interesting.’
‘You really are too good to me, Michael,’ I replied. With a scrape of boots on sand, he turned and was away. He took his place among a group of bowing secretaries and put his mind to dealing with official duties. I thought I could make out the word ‘burning’ a few times. To be sure, I heard one mention of beheading. There’s nothing like clearing your accounts when out of sorts with the world. I leaned back and rested against the firm chest of a slave who knelt behind me.
It had been a busy morning, and the one stimulant draught Meekal had allowed me was wearing off. I looked up at the network of polished bone that kept the fabric of the shade in place. Where bone and fabric were joined with fine threads, little beads of sunshine gleamed like the lamps at a palace banquet. I listened idly to the droning voices of the secretaries a few yards away. I listened to the grating but quiet responses with which Meekal punctuated the droning. I didn’t recognise any of the names I managed to catch. But it was obvious he’d been busy all night with foiling the Khadija conspiracy. Now, unless I’d lost track of the time, he was pronouncing an unusual number of death sentences. Did even persons of quality not get a trial nowadays in Syria? I hadn’t bothered attending it, of course. But I’d at least been given one in Constantinople.
The best thing to do with tiredness in this heat is give way to it. The Caliph wasn’t due for ages yet. Why Meekal had got everyone out so absurdly early, to swelter away in this sun, and without adequate shade, was anyone’s guess. I pulled my visor properly down – less to see clearly than to block out some of that dazzling light – and leaned harder against the slave. I felt the blackness sweep over me now in earnest. Soon, I was deep into another dream. I had now arrived in the Athens of my youth. I was walking briskly past the roofless shell of Hadrian’s Library, while Martin prattled on about nothing in particular. I think I’d made some money down in Piraeus or at dice, and I was looking for some way to get rid of Martin, so I could go about my proper business of celebrating in a brothel.
I woke with a sore neck and spent some while trying to work out where I was, and why I was beginning to feel my innards twitch with nervous strain.
‘Who are those children?’ I managed to ask eventually.
‘They are from the Saracen school in Damascus, My Lord,’ came the answer from just behind me. ‘They are here to sing for His Majestic Holiness.’
‘Well, I hope they won’t be dragged in as well for the demonstration,’ I muttered. The slave took hold of my head, which would otherwise have flopped completely to the side, and I let him sit me forward. Someone else poured me a cup of warmed fruit squash. As I drank it, I came properly back into this world. A larger crowd had assembled while I slept, and workmen were fitting a curved wooden screen together about twenty yards from the raised platform where the Caliph would be taking his seat. They ran about, calling softly to each other and arguing over how each part should be tied together. Arranged in a semicircle on each side of the platform, the lesser quality of Damascus were taking their places as if for some theatrical performance.
I got my stick and stood up. I moved my neck about to get out some of the stiffness and looked properly round. There must have been five thousand people here. The platform was still empty except for some slaves, who darted about with pans and brushes, or to pull on the cords that held the awning taut. Beyond the crowd, more soldiers had been placed. These were more of the big fighting men who’d come back from the war. To make any kind of successful attack on this event, it would need a regular army. You could forget the usual drugged-up suicide mission.
There was a cry from over on my left. I reached down to where my ear trumpet dangled at my chest and put it in to hear what was being said. It was a carrying chair that had fallen over. One of the slaves had tripped on a rope that was stretched tight at knee level, and the whole chair had gone down. Slaves bawled at each other as they fished within the disorganised heap of curtains for whatever grand personage would eventually emerge shaking and spluttering.
I now saw the long train of other chairs that were ferrying in from across the desert what looked to be the heads of the Religious Council and the Caliph’s older ministers. They were arriving fast, and were being led to what I took to be temporary seating in the shade of the main platform.
I could smell food cooking somewhere. My mouth filled with saliva, and I remembered that I hadn’t felt up to breakfast. I was certainly up for lunch! I wondered when this would be served. Perhaps I might get someone to bring me a dish of something a little in advance. After all, I was surely part of the coming entertainment. It wouldn’t do to have me fainting from hunger.
I was thinking to turn and make a polite request of the slave who’d supported me while I slept, when I heard another cry.
‘The Commander of the Faithful comes!’ I heard someone call. The cry was repeated from somewhere out of my sight, and then again, until all distinctness of words was lost in the loud babble of many voices. I looked vaguely about. My slave took me by the shoulders and turned me to face into the sun. I pushed my visor close to my face and squinted. There was a cloud of dust several miles into the distance. I looked and looked, until I thought I could make out dark shapes within the cloud. They came on with the speed and regularity of a cavalry charge. There was a faint sound of galloping hooves, and now the cry of men who had seen where they were heading and were racing to see who would get there first. Behind me, I could hear men shouting their encouragement. I even heard someone lay odds on who would arrive first. There was a disapproving murmur, and he shut up. At least ten thousand eyes focused now in silence on the final charge towards us across the sand.
It was a massive white horse that got to us first – though only by the length of a horse. The rider pushed on with unbroken speed right into the open space before the platform, then came to a sudden halt. As grooms ran forward to take the horse, the rider swung off with an easy motion and stood, looking straight ahead.
The whole assembly got up and bowed. The men of the Religious Council shuffled forward, waving their sticks and calling out a coordinated greeting. A drum started up, and the schoolboys, all dressed now in long robes of white with green bands, began some elaborate, swirling dance.
While the Caliph stood, watching the dance, his companions came forward from where they’d dismounted and joined him. The meaning of the dance was lost on me. But it went on and on until I could feel my legs shaking and I thought I’d need yet again to claim the prerogatives of age. But it finished, and the boys lined up before the Caliph. He walked up and down the line, stopping now and again to smile at one of the boys, or to pinch a cheek. Now the schoolmaster was leading the boys away, and the old men were flocking round. I saw the Caliph stretch his arms and look up. I think I heard the cracking of tired joints. He finished his conversation and made for the steps up to the platform. He was followed by several dozen other men: the Religious Council, of course, and the ministers, and their attendants. Right at the end, and with much respectful bowing from everyone already up there – and even a helping hand from the Caliph – was Eusebius.
‘So nothing has kept the Imperial Ambassador away,’ I said to no one in particular.
‘So it would seem,’ came a displeased and slightly embittered voice from behind me. I turned. Meekal had now changed into the full regalia of the Governor of Syria. Dressed from head to toe in shimmering green satin, he looked like a piece of ship’s timber in a presentation box. I caught a look at his face, and the giggle died on my lips. ‘I did insist he be taken on a tour of the dye factories,’ Meekal spat. ‘He isn’t supposed to be here.’
‘You know Eusebius,’ I said. ‘Where there’s food to be had, or bribes to be taken, or information to be gathered for the Empire – there he will be. But isn’t that what he’s paid for?’
Meekal wiped sweaty hands on a napkin he’d taken from a slave. Without looking down, he dropped it on to the ground and stepped closer to me.
‘You know the drill,’ he said in Greek. ‘You keep close by me while I speak. At the appropriate moment, you get into the chair that will come over and lead the way to the gate. All the inner gates have been left open. You’ll be carried straight into the fourth zone. I’ll order the furnace to be lit. While the kettles heat up, you’ll stand behind me to correct any defect in my explanation. Have chairs been set out for the Caliph and the others?’ I nodded. It
