‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ The penetrating voice of the muezzin woke John. He rolled over on his straw mattress and reached up to pull open the wooden shutter. Only a faint predawn light filtered into his tiny room. As Yusuf’s private slave, John was entitled to a thicker blanket, the straw mattress and his own room – spare and small, but all his. However, he still had to wash with the other slaves. As the muezzin continued his call – ‘Al-salatu khayru min an-nawm’, prayer is better than sleep – John rose and headed for the baths. Taur was already there, and he greeted John with a grin. ‘Look who decided to get up. Did you get your beauty sleep, Saxon?’
‘Obviously, you didn’t get yours,’ John replied as he pulled off his tunic and took a clay jug from the wall. The other slaves stepped respectfully out of John’s way, allowing him access to the water. He filled his jug and dumped it over his head. ‘’Sblood, that’s cold!’ he exclaimed. At least the bathing chamber was heated; a small fire in another chamber ran heat through clay pipes beneath the tile floor.
‘What’s your master got you up to today?’ Taur asked.
‘The usual: more studies, more sword practice. You?’
‘I can’t say.’ John raised his eyebrows, but Taur offered no elaboration. John shrugged. It was none of his business anyway. He tried to avoid Turan as much as possible.
John finished washing and towelled dry. Still, he shivered as he stepped outside. Autumn had come, and a chill mountain air had moved down to blanket the town. He entered the villa and headed along the hallway to Yusuf’s room. The door was open. Inside, Yusuf knelt on a prayer rug, facing a mark on the wall that showed the direction of Mecca. John leaned against the doorframe and watched. Yusuf placed his palms on the ground before him and bent forward until his forehead touched the prayer rug. After a moment, he sat back on his heels. All the time, he quietly murmured the words of the rak’ah, the Muslim prayer ritual. ‘Surely you are the most praiseworthy, the most glorious,’ Yusuf concluded in a louder voice. He turned his head to the right and although he was looking directly at John, he seemed not to notice him. ‘As-salaamu alaykum,’ Yusuf whispered. Peace be with you. He turned to the left and repeated, ‘As-salaamu alaykum.’ Then he began to roll up his prayer rug. ‘Greetings, John,’ he said as he rose and placed the rug in the corner.
‘Morning.’ John pointed to the rug. ‘Do you ever grow tired of that?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of all that bowing and scraping?’
‘Do the Christians not kneel and bow their heads to pray?’
‘We kneel, yes, but we do not grovel before our God.’
‘He is not your God, John,’ Yusuf corrected. ‘There is only one God. And when I prostrate myself before Him, it is not to grovel or beg for favours. It shows my submission to His will. That is my faith.’ Yusuf tilted his head in thought. ‘From what you tell me, your religion requires you to submit to the will of priests of whom you must beg forgiveness. If one must grovel, as you say, is it not better to grovel before God than before other men?’
‘Perhaps,’ John grumbled.
Yusuf grinned triumphantly. ‘I will make a true believer of you yet. Now come. We have much to do today.’
‘And what sort of God do you think was worshipped here?’ Imad ad-Din asked. Yusuf and John had met him on the steps of the temple late that afternoon after practising swordplay. Only twenty-four, Imad ad-Din was already a learned imam – a poet, scholar, legal expert and private secretary to Yusuf’s father, Ayub. Recently, he had also taken over from Ibn Jumay as tutor of Ayub’s children. He was a handsome man with a thick beard, sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose that gave him a hawk-like appearance. The resemblance was heightened when, as now, he fixed his intense brown eyes on his two pupils.
‘The god of war?’ Yusuf hazarded. Imad ad-Din shook his head.
‘The god of love?’ John suggested.
Imad ad-Din smiled. ‘No again. Come, I will show you.’ Their teacher led them to the back wall and pointed to the faint remains of a mosaic, barely visible in the dim light that managed to penetrate the clouds gathering overhead. Yusuf had noticed it before, but had thought little of it. The mosaic of red and gold tiles pictured a man in a short tunic – or perhaps a leopard skin, it was difficult to say – lounging in the shade of a tree. He was crowned with leaves and held a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a goblet in the other.
‘Bacchus,’ Imad ad-Din declared. ‘The god of wine. The lewd rites associated with his cult took place right where we stand. Here his followers would re-enact the life, death and resurrection of Bacchus, before sharing wine in his name.’ He turned to John. ‘Not unlike how you Christians worship Jesus.’
John frowned. ‘Bacchus is a pagan god. It’s not the same.’
‘At first, the Romans considered your Jesus to be a pagan god,’ Imad ad-Din mused. ‘But you are right: the ceremonies are not precisely the same. For it is written that after they had become drunk on wine, the worshippers of Bacchus engaged in wild orgies, where every possible perversion was committed.’
‘The bacchanalia,’ John said. ‘It is a Latin word that remains with us.’
‘Indeed.’ Imad ad-Din shook his head. ‘Is it any wonder that the Roman Empire fell?’ He turned away from the mosaic and led them back towards the front of the temple. ‘What do you take from this, Yusuf?’
‘To beware of the dangers of wine and women. The Prophet was wise in this. He forbids drink to the faithful and sought to tame the lustful hearts of women.’
‘Excess is a dangerous thing,’ Imad ad-Din agreed. ‘But life would be only half as sweet without women and wine. What do you think, John?’
They had reached the front steps, and John gestured back to the temple. ‘We can build nothing so magnificent today. The Romans may have been depraved, but their empire was the greatest the world has ever known.’
‘But they fell,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘Their glory did not last.’
‘No, it did not,’ Imad ad-Din agreed. ‘But what was the cause of their fall? Was it their depravity, or was the Romans’ lack of honour perhaps the reason for their greatness? After all, their empire did last for over four hundred years.’
‘Virtue counts for little amongst men,’ John said. ‘I have seen honest men hanged from the gallows, while liars and scoundrels rule over kingdoms.’ His hand went to his side, where Ernaut had stabbed him long ago at Damascus. ‘I have seen traitors paid in gold, and brave men made slaves.’
‘But no kingdom can last like this,’ Yusuf countered. ‘A king who bases his rule on treachery will find himself betrayed. The righteous ruler will create a kingdom that endures.’
‘Tell me, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din said. ‘Do you believe an empire can be created that lasts forever?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘I do.’
‘And how would you keep this empire together?’
‘When I am king-’
‘When?’ Imad ad-Din chuckled. Yusuf only nodded. ‘You are a Kurd, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din cautioned. ‘You must know your place.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘If I were king, I would rule with justice and moderation, and I would enforce the laws of Islam. This will prevent the perversions that undermined the Romans.’
‘And what if the leader himself becomes perverted? Or if his heirs are unjust?’
‘Only the greatest of men should rule, and he must pick his heirs carefully.’
‘The Greek Plato believed something similar,’ Imad ad-Din noted. ‘You truly believe such a man can exist?’
‘I know it.’
Imad ad-Din stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps. But history shows that one great man rarely follows another. What happens to your empire after the king dies?’
‘Maybe empires are not meant to last,’ John offered. ‘Perhaps greatness in one’s own time is all that can be hoped for.’
‘Indeed,’ Imad ad-Din approved. His words were punctuated by the roar of thunder. As Yusuf looked up to the dark sky, a drop hit him, splashing off his nose. Another hit and then another. Lightning flashed across the sky, and an instant later rain began to pour down. Yusuf and Imad ad-Din hurried to take shelter in a corner of the temple, where a portion of the roof remained. John remained standing in the rain, his face turned towards the heavens.
