Freshly robed, the swathes of fine linen around his head now second nature to him, Dragonetz was as ready to meet Nur ad-Din as he would ever be. Instead of guards, he now had servants, who could be distinguished from the former only by the fact that their faces were new to him and maintained the respectful blank expression common to servants of all races. What kept him in his chamber now, when the door was open, and he had a sword at his side? His oath to Bar Philipos? The missing book and another oath? Or just the desire to see how the game would play out?
As he waited, cross-legged on the cushions, spooning lemon sherbet and waiting for a summons, he mulled over what he knew of the man called ‘light for the true faith’ and ‘fire for the infidels’. Clearly Nur ad-Din had a reputation for piety, amongst those who held ‘the true faith’. In the name of Allah and all Muslims, this Turkish Atabeg preached a dangerous new idea, Jihad, a holy war. He also spoke of Jerusalem as the Holy City in the Holy Land. Such thoughts had never come from his father Zengi’s mouth. Nur ad-Din had his warrior-father’s spirit but religion was ever his first word. Perhaps the Crusaders had imprinted some aspects of their Christianity on their enemies after all.
A Sunni Muslim like the majority, Nur ad-Din was more at odds with the minority Shiites than with his theoretical enemies, the Christians. There were no circumstances in which Nur ad-Din would form an alliance with Shiites but even during the Crusades he had joined forces with Raymond of Tripoli against cousin Bertrand of Toulouse, now a guest of Aleppo’s dungeons. Nur ad-Din’s prisons were sometimes convenient for the Christians not actually incarcerated there. At least Bernard kept his eyes, unlike Joscelyn of Edessa, in that same impregnable prison.
Dragonetz had little respect for Comte Joscelyn, who had deserted his city, and - some said - betrayed his own father, but the story of his capture still had the power to shock. It was also likely to make a dinner guest think very carefully about what he might, or might not, say during the evening. When brigands captured Joscelyn, ruler of Edessa, on the road, and sold him to Nur ad-Din, the Muslim leader’s response was unequivocal. With due ceremony, in Aleppo, Joscelyn was publicly blinded before being confined to a dungeon, in perpetuity. Nur ad-Din had made it clear that he had no respect for Joscelyn either.
A reputation for piety and justice, in hands that wielded more power than any Muslim had previously known. The sort of power that won battles, sent a man’s head as a present to an ally, and bathed in the Mediterranean to show sovereignty of all the lands the water touched. In the name of piety and justice, such power could only be hungry for more, and the most glittering prize was Damascus. Just as the city had enticed the Crusaders three years earlier, so it shimmered its silks now, before the very man who’d helped keep it from them.
Would Damascan troops fight against Nur ad-Din if he made a move to take the city or would they see him as the answer to their problems? How independent would Damascus remain, under Mujir ad-Din as leader, with the Christian Franks and Nur ad-Din always vying for the city? Mujir ad-Din had already faced one rebellion from a rival inside the city and uncertainty was bad for trade. If Nur ad-Din was strong enough to unite the different factions in the city and protect it against the Franks, then his rule would end the uncertainty.
And what would happen to Bar Philipos and his ilk if Nur ad-Din took Damascus? How welcome would the Syrian Christians be within its walls?
A boy interrupted Dragonetz’ thoughts, bowed and spoke softly. ‘My master bids you join him.’
What any of this had to do with Dragonetz, he was about to find out. He followed the boy to where Bar Philipos awaited him. Accompanied by a small corps of guards, no-one Dragonetz recognized, the torchlight procession made its way to the city wall. The Watch accepted the password, and the men continued, on foot through the orchards, to the very river bank where Dragonetz had planned the taking of Damascus, three years earlier. The hoof-clop of their laden pack-horses rang warning of their coming over the criss-crossed irrigation channels to where fires flickered in the dusk and Nur ad-Din’s camp came into view. As in Dragonetz’ memories, there were grand pavilions pegged in the grey soil but this time their striped silks and alien pennants proclaimed a quite different provenance.
The austerity inside the tent was unexpected. Where Louis of France had transported on campaign all the luxuries his Commanders could strap to camels and pack-horses, his enemy travelled like any soldier, with blanket and wine-skin. Seated cross-legged on his blanket, the wine-skin beside him, was Dragonetz’ host for the evening, the most powerful leader in the Muslim world, in embroidered slippers and a simple robe, tied loosely at the waist. His face was dark tan, firm-mouthed and strong-boned above the shaped black vee of his oiled beard, Turkish Seljuq origins showing clearly in his face. In his early thirties, with five years of command under his woven belt since his father Zengi’s murder, Nur ad-Din wore leadership as his birthright.
After a pause that marked his choice to show respect by standing up, he uncoiled gracefully, rising to his feet in the courtesies of greeting. The fluidity of his movement suggested the tone of the muscle beneath the concealing robe. Even as he bowed and murmured the expected formulae, Dragonetz couldn’t help wondering what the outcome would be of wrestling this man. It was a thought to be quickly dismissed before his imagination distracted him. A half-smile at an inappropriate moment in this Court would not earn him approval from a lady but rather the slice of a scimitar, severing head and neck.
‘Not what you expected,’ Nur ad-Din observed, gesturing at the plain interior, and confirming the need for Dragonetz to be on his guard.
‘I knew not what to expect, my Lord,’ he hedged.
‘I have heard of your King Conrad’s excesses, his need of jewelled clothing and cushioned beds.’ His lip curled in disdain.
Dragonetz couldn’t help himself, despite the shocked gasp of disapproval from Bar Philipos beside him at anyone contradicting Nur ad-Din. ‘I owe allegiance to King Louis of France, not King Conrad,’ he pointed out politely.
Apparently as unmoved by such presumption as by the very existence of Louis, Nur ad-Din swept the Frankish King into a tent-corner with one gesture of his arm and another sardonic curl of the lip. ‘Louis, Guy, I don’t remember all these Frankish names. Conrad brought an army to take our lands and then he took the army away again. Enough! We have no need to talk of the distant past but rather to celebrate a man’s courage today and break bread together. Sit.’
A little disconcerted at this dismissal of events which seemed all too recent to Dragonetz, he nevertheless curbed his response and sat. Nur ad-Din’s entourage was introduced to him as each sat down on the coarse weave blankets.
‘My uncle, Chirkouh,’ announced Nur ad-Din. Who killed the Prince of Antioch in full combat, and presented the body to his nephew, Dragonetz mentally added while his mouth spoke the words of greeting.
When the full complement of Dragonetz’ enemies had joined him for dinner, he took a moment to look into the shadows, at the invisible ones, the guards and servants. Eyes cast down, the shadow people formed three times the number of men eating. Those waiting to serve food were all young boys, as in Christian halls, where it was a stage in their progression to manhood.
Pre-pubescent, the boys were pretty as girls, long-lashed and dark eyed, smooth and gold-skinned, dark curls covered only by woven caps, slim arms shooting out from their robes like frightened rabbits and then hiding again in the folds. Even a man such as Dragonetz could appreciate such innocent beauty aesthetically but he could sense the less objective response in Bar Philipos, who was also appraising the boys. All so beautiful, all but one.
He was bigger than the other boys but a second look showed that he was merely older than they were, well into puberty to judge by his ravaged skin. Dragonetz instinctively stroked his own jawline, which still showed the pits of adolescence. This particular ugly duckling did not hold promise for the future however. Dumpy and flat-faced, his looks promised a short, fat man as outcome. And yet there was something about him, about the way he carried himself. Around him was just enough space to show that the other boys kept their distance - or he kept them at a distance.
Curious as to why such a boy would be among these ornaments of the true faith, Dragonetz studied him longer, realising that not only was the boy completely at ease in his own body - unusual enough in a youth - but he was looking steadily back at Dragonetz himself. It was a shock to meet those eyes, measuring him from the safety of the shadows, and to know for sure that this was not an invisible one, whoever he might be.
Bar Philipos clapped his hands and the pack-horses’ burdens were unrolled before the Muslim leader, carpets and silks, a velvet pouch of jewels ‘for your wives, may they be fruitful.’
The finest produce from Damascus’ markets lay at Nur ad-Din’s feet. All had been unrolled for his inspection, except two box-shaped packages, wrapped in brocade, which Bar Philipos signalled his servants to leave for the Muslim leader’s personal attention.
Saying, ‘I thank you for these riches on behalf of my people, for whom I am but their treasurer,’ Nur ad-Din kept the basket of ripe fruit and the two unopened packages beside him. Dragonetz could guess what was in one of them but not the other. His curiosity was not to be satisfied until after their ‘feast’.
Nur ad-Din signed to one of his men, who promptly stood and declaimed some verses of poetry. ‘Sanai,’ Dragonetz thought aloud, identifying the Persian author of the poetry, and earning a nod of approval from Nur ad-Din.
‘Belief and doubt spring from the same source,
Your double-thinking heart.
Of course the way is long when
You hesitate over the first step.
Just one single step towards Him
Who offers you a kingdom
When you bow the knee.’
This edification continued at intervals throughout the meal, which was surprisingly frugal. Breaking bread meant just that, a wholesome meal of unleavened rounds and a meat stew, lamb or goat most probably, tasty but simple. The wineskin was not only a surprise but a disappointment. Dragonetz hid his reaction to the plain taste of water on his tongue. A glance at Bar Philipos showed that he’d expected no more, despite his own penchant for fruity, red, Syrian wines.
Dragonetz felt a strange longing. Even the black honeyed drink would have been more enjoyable than this nothingness swirling round his mouth. He was a blade that needed blunting this night, and a little alcohol or Bar Philipos’ herbs would have relaxed him. As it was, he was endlessly holding on to Sadeek, rearing before a black bull, twisting away from death, his heart pounded to dust.
‘... I was born here you know,’ he heard Nur ad-Din saying.
Dragonetz forced himself to concentrate. ‘Damascus,’ he stated.
‘It is my birthplace and - ‘Nur ad-Din’s shrug expressed whatever an informed man might want to read into it. Affection, desire, responsibility, understanding. A shrug could be rendered even more eloquent by the words that followed. ‘I have never camped outside the city walls to threaten my people. I came because I heard the cries of fellow Muslims when their homes and livelihoods were taken by the Franks. I will always come when they have no-one to defend them.’
Although Nur ad-Din was looking at Dragonetz when he spoke, the words were clearly meant to touch Bar Philipos, who had made it clear often enough to his Christian prisoner that the Damascan ruler was no Unur. When Unur was alive, Damascus had not needed, nor wanted Nur ad-Din. But now they had no-one to defend them? Mixing the past with the present was clever because things had changed and reading the past through the present justified all Nur ad-Din’s past actions. Wasn’t that exactly what Dragonetz himself had been doing?
‘Allah has given me the power to protect all my people and when the citizens of Damascus beg me to make their walls strong again, I will hear their prayers. I am no Infidel to force my own people.’
Dragonetz could sense only approval from Bar Philipos beside him. Was he confident that Nur ad-Din would respect the Christians of Damascus if he became overlord? Despite his declaration of Jihad? Or was the Syrian trying to curry enough favour to protect himself from any persecution in the future. Probably both, Dragonetz suspected as he mopped gravy with a hunk of sour, brown bread.
It was hard not to compare this frugal meal with the banquets of Louis and Aliénor, even on campaign. Not only did they insist on silverware, platters and knives, their courses were as complicated as if they were still in Paris and their cooks were more essential in their eyes than their commanders. After their stay in Byzantium, they’d added forks to their sophistication, and if their coffers had allowed, they’d have swopped silverware for gold plate, notwithstanding the weight and toll on the horses.
Nur ad-Din was right. Wagonloads of bric-a-brac had weighed down the Crusaders. But that’s what made a king different. He had to look like a king and be treated like a king, to be a king. If he dressed as an ordinary man, would anyone respect him? Would their armies have fought as well for a mere man? The Lord’s anointed must surely be treated as such?
At Louis’ banquets there would have been a real feast, even in a tent. He would have sat in a wooden chair, a makeshift throne but a throne nevertheless. And there would have been singing. Dragonetz heard the songs in his head, the lyrics he’d have chosen to hearten the weary, fire the cowardly, inspire the plodders. Whether he’d sung himself, or another of Aliénor’s troubadours had offered entertainment, there had been no shortage of music. And if he should sing for Nur ad-Din? What would he choose? Marcabru’s call to arms in the Holy Land? A crude ditty? A love song? There was no sign of woman or girl in the tent, any more than there had been during the show.
‘I’ve heard that your court includes many poets,’ Dragonetz opened cautiously. ‘Do they set their words to music.’
That curl of the lips again. ‘I know of your reputation with the oud, my Lord Dragonetz, but you waste your talents on such trivia. I need no string-plucking from my poets, to distract them from the words they interpret from Allah’s truth, which is beyond words.’
The silence also spoke beyond words and it was Nur ad-Din who broke it. ‘You can’t be expected to understand,’ he declared graciously. ‘But it seems to me you know something of horses. Why do you ride a stallion? And what is his lineage.’
The mood lightened all round and the talk turned to horse breeding and training, and the techniques by which Dragonetz had carried out the manoeuvres in the day’s show. Nur ad-Din spoke of his plans to build a hippodrome in Aleppo to rival that in Byzantium, which supposedly held thirty-five thousand spectators and a four-chariot track. Dragonetz confirmed this and responded politely to an invitation to display his own skills in the new hippodrome when it opened. At every opportunity he praised Shunnar and Aakif but somehow their names went unheard, conversation flowing round them as if they were turds in a river, known to be there but politely ignored. For Dragonetz’ own skills and exploits, no praise was too high.
The boys came and went, offering more stew, more flatbreads, each server to his designated place. The one serving Bar Philipos suffered the man’s breath too near his face as the lad bent over, a hairy hand steadying the smooth arm as the boy served, chunky fingers testing the unblemished skin like a roll of brocade in the market. The boy’s minute, instinctive jerk away was punished with those fingers clamping in a pinch. The boy froze and the fingers released him but the fine skin showed the pressure-marks. No-one noticed. Conversation flowed as before. One of Nur ad-Din’s men had progressed further with his waiter. If anything, the other boy accentuated his availability in response, flirting his lithe body as he bent more than was necessary. Was this expected behaviour? At one gesture more explicit than another, Dragonetz caught the same sardonic curl of Nur ad-Din’s mouth as he’d shown when speaking of the Franks, or of music. Disapproval then. But tolerance of other men’s base needs. His stomach churning, Dragonetz looked anywhere he could bear to, at Nur ad-Din, who was ordering the fruit to be served, calm and distant. At the stocky, older youth who served the Muslim leader.
Nur ad-Din caught the youth’s arm to stop him. For a terrible moment Dragonetz thought he would be privy to some act of perversion, even from the light of the true faith, but though there was affection in the gesture and the voice, Nur ad-Din’s words rescued Dragonetz from his worst imaginings. ‘You may speak to Lord Dragonetz, my boy. Yesterday he was my enemy, today we break bread in his honour, tomorrow only Allah knows. Maybe you will face him across a table one day - or across a battlefield. Lord Dragonetz, I present my nephew, Salah ad-Din.’
‘May our paths cross in honour.’ The youth’s voice had broken and its gravelly timbre already held an authority greater than his years. Suddenly his face seemed the least of him and Dragonetz suspected that no-one would be talking of his lack of beauty in the future. Salah ad-Din bowed in courtesy to Dragonetz, finely judged to show respect but not humility and Dragonetz returned the compliment, exactly.
‘My brother’s son is newly with me, to learn all I can teach. And first, he must learn that we all serve one greater than us.’
Salah ad-Din bowed, deeply this time, with every sign of genuine respect, and he returned to his duties, smooth but never invisible.
The formalities of the meal were completed, the debris cleared and the servants returned to their shadows, responding instantly to a finger-snap if need be. Nur ad-Din showed no sign of postprandial sleepiness and Dragonetz’ experience with royal banquets had left him immune to the after-effects of a full stomach.
He was keeping an eye on the two unopened gifts, hatching futile plans to snatch them, un-noticed by the grim, unblinking guards, run for the door-flap, steal a ready-saddled horse, duck the volley of bolts and arrows to gallop through the darkness towards - towards what? - breaking both the horse’s neck and his own in the first cursed irrigation channel they hit. Luckily he didn’t have to tax his brain with devising a slightly more practical plan as it was too late. The packages were now on the blanket, between him and Nur ad-Din. The Muslim looked at Bar Philipos, received some kind of confirmation, and dismissed the Syrian and his own men to take their ease in the recesses of the tent. From the corner of his eye, Dragonetz was aware of Bar Philipos finger-clicking a boy towards him as he lounged on a blanket.
Nur ad-Din unwrapped the first package. As soon as Dragonetz saw the board divided into eight squares by eight, he knew what would be in the wooden box, but he could not have imagined the craftsmanship of the shatranj pieces that emerged. Nur ad-Din held each one for a moment’s appreciation before placing it on the appropriate square. Abstract forms and size distinguished between rukh and baidak, faras and shah, but the artist had worked his heart into the exquisite, carved, ivory balls on which each character was balanced. As if the ivory had been spun sugar, fine strands linked repeated patterns of leaf, star and shell in an infinite honeycomb. Nur ad-Din held the shah a long time, just looking at it, and his eyes glistened as he offered the piece to Dragonetz so he could have a closer view.
The size of the shah allowed the artist room for not only stylised motifs but also a quotation, the curves of the Arabic as beautiful as the interlaced leaves. Dragonetz turned the piece to follow the miniature script. He read aloud,
‘Who hath created seven heavens, one above the other;
Thou wilt find no flaw in the creation of the Merciful One;
Look again; seest thou a single flaw?’
The Koran, surely, but what splendid, justified arrogance, for the artist to liken his own creation to God’s.
Once again, Nur ad-Din read his mind. ‘No, not arrogance. A man’s talents come from Allah and to marvel at them is to worship the great creator. Look deeper.’
From the impatient gesture, Dragonetz realised that the order was literal, and he looked again at the ivory ball. Impossibly, another carved ball was inside that, and another, and another, ‘unto the seventh heaven,’ Dragonetz said softly. Ivory carved into seven balls, each one turning inside the other. He had seen enough in Damascus’ markets to know this must be Chinese craft, to Muslim commission and design, travelling the silk road to reach this man who declared himself both mere vassal and ruler of the eastern world. He gently set the shah down, the last piece on the board. The game was about to begin.
Nur ad-Din unwrapped the second package. Within the brocade was oiled sailcloth, which revealed a book that Dragonetz could describe with his eyes shut. As Nur ad-Din reverentially turned the pages, of which Dragonetz knew there were four hundred and ninety-one, the three columns of script, the aged colour of the parchment, all was visible in the torchlight. ‘The Keter Aram Sola,’ breathed Nur ad-Din.’
‘But surely it is a Torah, of special value to those of Jewish faith?’ Dragonetz queried.
‘It is a rare and precious form of the word, a priceless book. Did you, a mere Infidel, not gasp at the beauty of the shah and the perfection of the words from the Koran? How could I not see the perfection of this book?’ He picked up the shah with his right hand, the book open in front of him. ‘Bar Philipos tells me that the book is not within his gift but that it is within yours. I will treasure it as it should be treasured. Your mission is to deliver this book safely and there is no safer keeping than mine. You have found me, the one the book is seeking through you.’ His eyes and tone mesmerised Dragonetz, speaking only truth. But not the only truth. Candle-light flickered over the open pages and picked out the annotations in the margins, the work of Aaron Ben Ascher to enable the music of the Torah to be heard, to turn words into heavenly harmonies for the faithful.
Reluctantly, Dragonetz shook his head, accepting his burden. ‘Just as you are treasurer for your people’s riches, so the book is in my charge but not mine to dispose of, except to the chosen one of Jewish faith. To the Jews it is not just priceless, it is sacred.’
Nur ad-Din’s face darkened. He held the shah towards Dragonetz, the light playing on the carving, worth ten-fold ransom for a knight in the one piece. ‘Then let there be an exchange of equal value, this unique and sacred shatranj set for the book.’
‘I have given my answer.’
There was a dangerous silence. ‘It is your way when there is a dispute to use trial by combat? To let God decide?’
‘It is,’ assented Dragonetz cautiously, wondering whether he would get his foolish wish to measure up to Nur ad-Din in only oil and loincloths, and hoping that God would feel in the mood for miracles. His experience suggested that solid muscle and years of training helped enormously in God’s decisions.
‘Then we will play shatranj for the book, and let God decide. If you win, the book is yours and you will travel to Jerusalem unhindered. If I win, you give the book to me, freely.’ Nur ad-Din’s tone brooked no disagreement and Dragonetz was already desperately studying the pieces, to make their forms so familiar to him that he would waste no time mistaking the stylised elephant for the horseman. The odds would probably have been better in a wrestling match! Coldly, he weighed up his own strengths and weaknesses, placed all known strategies in mental formations, to be called on as needed, like his detachments in a land battle. At least the pieces were as unfamiliar to Nur ad-Din as they were to him. A deliberate ploy on the part of Bar Philipos, to even the game? How much of this had been planned from the start? Was Bar Philipos expecting Dragonetz to win or to lose? There was no time to consider the subtleties of the Syrian’s mind.
‘We will play the ten-move start,’ Nur ad-Din told him, moving a baidak. Dragonetz would have preferred a slow start and time to judge his opponent’s style but he accepted the rule and swiftly made his ten moves, none over the half-way line, so that both sides had formed their battle lines. Then the match began. The two men knelt over the gameboard, neither succumbing to the other’s rhythm, but each taking whatever time he chose to respond.
Ten moves into the mid-game Dragonetz knew his advantage and had already lost it. Whereas he had assumed Nur ad-Din to be outstanding, and had played no risky moves, his opponent had underestimated him and wasted moves to test him. This had gained Dragonetz the tiniest edge in control of the board but the tightening of Nur ad-Din’s lips told him there would be no more leeway. The time for sacrifices was coming and Dragonetz knew his choices off by heart; horsemen more valuable in opening and mid-game, governor-fers more valuable in the endgame but one of each more desirable than losing two of either.
It looked as if Nur ad-Din was willing to sacrifice a horseman. He looked thoughtfully at the piece he’d made vulnerable. ‘Unur was also your opponent once.’ They both knew that Unur could only be considered the winner of that particular battle. ‘They tell a funny story of Unur. Perhaps you’ve heard it? For his entertainment, his guests loosed a lion and a lamb into the courtyard for him to watch their antics. Contrary to all expectation, the lamb ran bleating at the lion, who was terrified at the bold creature making strange sounds, and who fled. The lamb chased the lion round the courtyard and Unur ordered that the lamb’s courage be celebrated and the lamb itself kept alive.’
‘And the lion?’ asked Dragonetz, guessing the answer.
‘Cowardice is punished by death, always. You showed great courage today, my Lord Dragonetz, as well as unexpected skill.’
So he was the lamb. Once more, Dragonetz tried to give credit where it was due. ‘The guards, Aakif and Shunnur, showed no less, and my honour is their honour,’ he started, only to be cut off.
‘They disappointed me.’ Dragonetz was learning to read that mouth. ‘Had they been braver, they would have - and should have - outridden you. Cowardice is punished by death, always.’
Dragonetz was a soldier and this time Nur ad-Din would not read his eyes or his mind. He bent over the board and took his opponent’s horseman, placing him beyond the chequered squares, out of the game forever. ‘Your move,’ he said, while his heart told him, ‘A friend cannot be considered a friend until he is tested on three occasions; in time of need, behind your back, and after your death.’ and the words of another dead friend accused him ‘Why do you always have to win?!’ He knew the answer now, leadership and guilt, intertwined like leaves and stars in ivory. It’s who I am. He postponed the grieving until he’d won this game and focused once more on five moves ahead, when he would know for sure the outcome. Nur ad-Din took his Governor. ‘Check,’ he said. They were into the endgame.
Fewer options, more deadly choices, and Nur ad-Din was taking his time over every move now. Dragonetz was sure he had every option covered and allowed his focus to drift around the tent, the sounds of chit-chat and laughter crossing the barriers of his earlier intensity. A couple of men were analysing the chess game in whispers, close enough to see the board but far enough away to avoid distracting the players. Judging by their faces, the outcome was still uncertain and their bets likewise. Dragonetz’ gaze scanned the small groups, not needing to hear the words to see their moods highlighted in warm light and only half-hid in the shadows.
He shut his eyes and heard the music of the tent, the pool of silence enclosing him and his opponent, the amicable drone of male talk, bees on flowers, gathering news. His ears told him there was another note, soprano and anguished, suppressed tears, not a man. Eyes open, Dragonetz couldn’t hear it, but the plea for help vibrated in him, demanded his attention. The boy who’d served Bar Philipos was standing in front of the Syrian, no longer looking down but fixing Dragonetz with a wide, black stare, empty as the pits of hell, silent as endurance. Half-hidden behind him, Bar Philipos’ hands pursued God knew what exploration, unchecked.
‘Check,’ drew Dragonetz’ attention back to the board but not before his sharp-eyed opponent had noticed the direction of his gaze and drawn his own conclusions.
‘Do you want him?’ Nur ad-Din asked casually.
‘I lack a page boy,’ Dragonetz shrugged, lightly. ‘But no doubt he has a better future as a man in your service.’
‘They tell me he sings like a canary.’ A curl of the lip. ‘I have no interest in him or his singing so they’ll sell him on when they’ve cut his manhood to keep his voice sweet. It’s probably easier than rendering him mute.’ He gestured impatiently. ‘I’ll get another serving-boy, one who keeps his mouth closed.’
‘A fine future.’ Dragonetz’ voice was colourless. ‘But not as a man.’
A thought struck Nur ad-Din. ‘Shall I give him the choice? He may keep his tongue or his manhood and choose where the cut falls.’ Before Dragonetz could reply he added, ‘Or shall we change the bet, my Lord Dragonetz. Would you like this boy, in exchange for the Keter Aram Sola? Whoever wins our game? Come here, boy.’ The boy came. ‘Sing for the Infidel.’ His eyes never leaving Dragonetz’ face, the boy took a ragged breath and sang a couple of cracked notes, wincing at his own output. Nur ad-Din frowned and the boy shut his eyes, drawing the music from inside himself, singing a practice scale in all boyish sweetness, before starting a love song.
‘Enough!’ interrupted Nur ad-Din, slamming his hand on the blanket and the note, cut off in full soar, hung in the air. ‘Well?’ he challenged Dragonetz, who looked at the shatranj board and tried to shut all music out of his head.
‘Nur ad-Din’s reputation for justice has travelled oceans,’ he began slowly, as if a life hung on each word, ‘and we agreed that God would decide the fate of the book, through our combat. Such an agreement cannot be broken.’ Dragonetz felt, rather than saw, a trembling in the frail limbs of the child beside him. He continued in the same measured tone. ‘Should my munificent host decide to honour his unworthy guest with a gift, to complete the most memorable day of this Infidel’s life, I would be happy to relieve you of your inadequate servant, with his irritating voice. Nur ad-Din’s reputation for generosity equals that for justice.’
The frown lines cleared in the Muslim’s forehead. ‘I have men paid to flatter me,’ he observed, and Dragonetz knew he’d failed. ‘Nevertheless it pleases me to give you this nothing of a gift, this boy.’ Dragonetz felt the melody play in his own heartbeat. ‘If, by the grace of Allah, you win, you shall have book and boy. Your move.’
To the onlooker, Dragonetz had lost control. Each quick move was forced by a check to his shah. Yet Bar Philipos was black with anger at his protégé’s moves, and there was no smile on Nur ad-Din’s face as he made slow choices. Both had seen further ahead and no way out but to follow the path of Dragonetz’ making and hope for a mistake. There was no mistake. In the one move that Dragonetz was under respite from check, he retaliated. Now it was Nur ad-Din’s turn to seek shelter but each option was worse than another until Dragonetz moved his horseman, uncovering the concealed check and blocking the shah’s only potential escape.
Nur ad-Din toppled his shah onto its side and laughed aloud. ‘The knight has me!’ he declared. ‘May I learn from this lesson and may Allah’s will be done!’
‘Insha’Allah,’ Dragonetz agreed, sensing no change in the trembling boy beside him. If anything, he was hiding even greater fear, as he reached out and tried to stroke his new master’s arm suggestively, letting slip his robe to show a shoulder. Hiding his revulsion at this coquettish behaviour in a child, Dragonetz suddenly realised what the boy had been trained to do, why he might be afraid and yet behave in such a way. Of course! Dragonetz cursed himself for a fool and turned to the boy, speaking coldly. ‘You, wrap up this book. You have new duties to learn before you sing for others and you must give up this catamite behaviour. It is not my habit and it spoils your voice.’ He managed a lip-curl worthy of Nur ad-Din himself and was rewarded by the alacrity with which the boy jumped to work.
Another boy was eyeing Dragonetz, still measuring him, while men stood to organize leaving and farewells, following Nur ad-Din’s clear signal that the evening was over. Bar Philipos made curt farewells, told Dragonetz to find his way back with the two guards waiting for him ‘and the new page boy’, and left, his irritation trailing sour behind him. Dragonetz was about to follow but the boy Salah ad-Din gestured to him to wait. After brief words with his uncle, the youth told Dragonetz he’d escort him, and his precious book, safely from the camp.
Nur ad-Din was already elsewhere in his thoughts, and his final words to Dragonetz were the prayer for close of day. ‘We have reached the evening and at this very time unto Allah belongs all sovereignty and all praise is for Allah. My Lord, I ask for the good of this night and the good of what follows it and I take refuge in You from the evil of this night and the evil of what follows it.’
‘Amen,’ said Dragonetz, and left the light of the true faith, taking with him two guards whose names he didn’t know, one unladen pack-horse, a precious book and a small human being with a tendency to skip every few steps. The youth Salah ad-Din spoke to the boy and the guards, told the knight, ‘They will wait for you at the edge of the camp. There is someone who wishes to meet you.’ Dragonetz no longer cared whether there was a trap or another feast awaiting him, but accepted what came. ‘Insha’Allah,’ he said.
‘What would you have done?’ Salah ad-Din asked him. ‘If my uncle had refused you the boy?’
Dragonetz didn’t have to think. The moves had been in his head. ‘Set fire to the tent,’ he said. ‘Grabbed the boy and the book and run.’
Salah ad-Din nodded. ‘And if you’d had to choose? Between the boy and the book?’
‘I don’t choose between,’ said Dragonetz. ‘Life without honour is no life.’
The youth led him around the perimeter of the camp, expertly skirting guards and campfires, until they reached bushes behind a large tent, where Dragonetz was told to wait. Salah ad-Din melted into darkness and Dragonetz was left alone to consider whether he would prefer knife or garrotte as an ending. He had time to conclude once more that he didn’t want to choose between, when the tent flap beside him was lifted and Salah ad-Din’s voice told him to crawl underneath.
The opulence and femininity came as a shock after Nur ad-Din’s spartan surroundings. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Dragonetz took in cushions and brocades, sweetmeats and fruit, and books left open where their readers had abandoned them. One such reader was inspecting him, veiled from head to toe, with only her dancing eyes to suggest what she might look like. Another veiled woman was keeping watch between her mistress and the closed flap of the tent’s opening, where the shadows of two guards and their scimitars loomed twice life-size.
‘My aunt, Ismat ad-Din Khatun; my Lord Dragonetz,’ Salah ad-Din introduced them.
Ismat ad-Din Khatun, daughter of Unur and Damascus, married to Nur ad-Din as part of their alliance and balancing act. Payment to Nur ad-Din for leaving Damascus independent, promise to Nur ad-Din of his claim for the future. A woman revered in Damascus for her learning, for the university she had founded, for spreading the Sunni faith. Childless, as were all Nur ad-Din’s wives, which made Salah ad-Din his heir. And yet, Dragonetz could sense only friendship between childless wife and her nephew the heir, closer to her in age than her husband. So young, so important.
‘I don’t usually start off on my knees when I meet beautiful women,’ Dragonetz gave her his lop-sided smile, gesturing at his clumsy entry under the tent flap.
Her eyes sparkled. ‘It is not permitted that men visit me and my women but I wanted to see you because of what Salah ad-Din has told me about you. He knows what the other boys suffer. He told me what you did for the little one who is unsuited to this life of brutes. My nephew is my eyes and ears in the world of men.’
‘For now,’ her nephew told her gently. ‘Until my servant days are over. I am a man now.’
Her eyes clouded briefly, then snapped again. ‘All the better for our plans. And for Damascus.’ A pause. ‘I have eyes and ears in the world of women too. Is there a woman has cause to hate you, Dragonetz?’
Love, passion, hatred - so close together, like sisters. ‘At least one, Khatun.’
She nodded. ‘Word has reached me that it was a woman’s orders, if not her hand, that loosed a bull on you this day.’
‘Then she brought me glory and the greater pleasure of meeting you.’
‘I don’t think that was her intention,’ was the dry reply. ‘Be careful, my Lord.’
‘My thanks for the warning.’ As if on cue, Salah ad-Din passed a box to Dragonetz, one of those brought by Bar Philipos as gifts for Nur ad-Din. The knight took the hint gratefully, having already realised what the occasion demanded and what he lacked, hoping that the box didn’t contain an abacus or other masculine object. ‘Khatun, I have brought a small present for you.’ Her childish delight on finding the squares of sugared jelly so popular in Damascus confirmed Salah ad-Din’s good judgement.
The expressive eyes narrowed. Why would a woman ever need to show more of herself to enchant a man? ‘Salah ad-Din told me all about you. Will you make me a promise?’
‘Only if it has honour, and I can keep it, Khatun.’
‘Then stay away from Damascus. You failed to take it but you have grown since then. You know how to win. If you are asked to take it now, refuse. You know it is not yours! You know Damascus! I do not ask you to fight with us, only to not fight against us!’
‘I cannot promise that, Khatun. I owe fealty to my own lord, as you do to yours.’ Her eyes dropped. ‘But I will keep your words in my heart, as I keep this city that I have come to know and love.’
‘Then I will settle for that,’ she told him, ‘and should you want to get word to me, speak to Salah ad-Din. His thoughts are my thoughts. Take this and go now, before my other women return from the pointless errands I sent them on.’ She pressed something into his hand and he caught her small fingers in his, bent his lips in homage, concealed the token in the folds of his robe. He crawled back out under the tent, waited for Salah ad-Din, walked thoughtfully back round the edge of the encampment. At one point he noticed crates upon crates, apparently filled with small livestock. ‘Provisions?’ he asked.
‘No. Pigeons,’ replied Salah ad-Din, and then they reached Bar Philipos’ guards, and a boy whose face gleamed like the moon. ‘Should we meet again...’ Salah ad-Din hesitated.
Dragonetz smiled at him, and repeated the youth’s words when they’d been presented. ‘May our paths meet in honour.’
Salah ad-Din bowed. Dragonetz offered his right hand and it was shyly taken, in the handshake fashionable among knights, then the heir to the Muslim world vanished in the night. Dragonetz shivered. In the past, the divisions between Moorish tribes had enabled Christian victories, especially during the crusade that had won Jerusalem sixty years ago. What if someone strong could unify them? First Nur ad-Din, then Salah ad-Din. Would the victories stop at Damascus? Night thoughts, Dragonetz told himself, born of a tiring day.
‘Walk like a man, not a rabbit,’ he rebuked his new page boy, smiling to himself.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ came the reply, spoken like the words, ‘my wife’ by a man newly wed.
‘My lord Dragonetz says he needs help to sleep after such a full day and has requested some honey drink with herbs,’ the servant reported to his master as instructed, with regard to all of my Lord Dragonetz’ activities.
‘Give it to him,’ replied Bar Philipos between gritted teeth. ‘And if the bastard never wakes up, so be it.’ But of course, he would wake up, and they would travel together to Jerusalem, the next marketplace for a knight and a precious book.
This evening, Dragonetz had bested Nur ad-Din, the man who’d paid Bar Philipos to kill him, and the light of the true faith had not been pleased. If Nur ad-Din hadn’t been assured beforehand that the poppy would remove this troublesome piece from the board, the Syrian would have suffered more than the humiliation of seeing his boy given to Dragonetz. If the bet over the book hadn’t been so public, it was unlikely that either the knight or the Torah would have left the tent. But Nur ad-Din had a reputation to maintain and Dragonetz was too public a figure to dispatch like a pair of cowardly guards. It had, however, been made very clear to Bar Philipos that the poppy had better do its work or Damascus would lose a merchant.
Although he was sweating from the knowledge of Nur ad-Din’s displeasure, Bar Philipos was not resigning from the game. Another buyer remained in the market and might well prove equal to Nur ad-Din. De Rançon’s mistress in Jerusalem had paid well to keep Dragonetz out of play. Now she wanted the knight in Jerusalem, with the book of course. She’d made it clear that the time to choose sides had now come and if Dragonetz chose wrongly, she no longer wanted him kept out of the game. She wanted him dead. If she couldn’t have him, no-one else would.
If the knight was in such a hurry to reach Jerusalem, on his own head be it. The shoots of liking for his remarkable prisoner had withered under Nur ad-Din’s petty revenge and Bar Philipos would always hold the winning piece; honeyed black tea. The servant bowed smoothly and left to fulfil his orders. His master looked at the willing boy on his cushions and some of his tension eased in anticipation. But he’d wanted the other one! To hell with Dragonetz and Nur ad-Din with him!
Through bush and briar, over hill and dale, the black knight had ridden with his Moorish companion for days without end, till their minds were twinned as their mounts. Twice they’d found a wayfarer in the wilderness; twice they’d been told the Lady’s castle lay ahead, further, always further. Ahead, always ahead. Perhaps there had been a time Dragonetz longed for the end of the journey but now he let the road lead him. He had food, water, a friend by his side and a quest. Each day he woke knowing his purpose in life. He loved Estela so he would find her. And then? He would rescue her of course. And then? Stupid questions! He needed to find her. And hold her in his arms. It couldn’t be more straightforward.
‘Dragonetz.’ Malik interrupted his thoughts, drawing his attention to a figure moving towards them on foot, accompanied by the sound of a handbell, hooded and robed, like a monk, but this was no brother. Dragonetz instinctively drew back but his soldier’s discipline controlled the urge for flight. The figure grew closer, ringing the warning bell, giving them the chance to get out of the way. Malik and Dragonetz waited, like statues, their very stillness betraying tension.
The hand shaking the bell was invisible in the long, drooping brown sleeves, the face hidden deep in the hood’s shadows. Not one ounce of flesh showed, thank God, but the nose was never the fool of the other senses. Nothing could hide the smell. Worsened by an overlay of sweet herbs, was the rancid odour of stale meat, rotting flesh, a fly-feast. And a voice from the tomb, crying ‘Unclean.’
They did not move. Dragging its feet, impossible to identify as man or woman, well beyond the distinction mattering, the figure was beside them on the path. A leper. Not just a memento mori but a death-bringer, a death-ringer. The warning bell tolled uselessly and that voice of dust and ashes spoke to them. ‘Your chivalry does you honour, Sirs, but many would call it foolish.’
‘I am a knight of the Grail, good sir,’ Dragonetz replied, ‘and if you cross our path in this wilderness, there is a purpose to it. We seek the dwelling of a Lady, known in these parts as the Lady of the Waterfall, although to us she has other names.’
‘A little water, my Lords, please, in charity.’
Both men moved at the same time, each trying to prevent the other from contact with the leper and his contagious death, but Dragonetz was faster. He passed his waterskin to the folded sleeve, carefully doubled over who-knew-what remained of a hand. The leather bottle vanished inside the hood. Glugs and slurps from who-knew-what kind of broken mouth stained the silence. The bottle re-appeared, was offered back to Dragonetz.
‘Keep it,’ he said, seeming courteous, but not being so. There were limits. ‘My brother and I can share.’ Strange brothers, he and this turbaned Muslim, yet so it was. Dragonetz breathed again as the bottle disappeared back into brown serge folds of clothing.
‘You are nigh on the place and person you seek,’ sighed the leper, like the creak of willow roots shifting in a storm. ‘And yet she is not the person you seek. You must win her. And yet you will not want to. The lady will greet you at the castle, as dazzling as you remember her, love laughing at you in her eyes, promising you a night to remember.
You will want nothing more than one night with your lady and she will come to you. And you will have a night to remember, a night such as many have not survived. There is a curse upon this lady, so that in your arms she will change into all manner of monster.
Be you steadfast and hold her, no matter what you perceive in your arms, cock-crow shall find you lying with your own true lady. Should you flinch and let go, it is you who will be lost forever.’
Dragonetz felt the knot of fear in his belly loosen. Was that all?! He laughed. ‘Shape shifting and fantasies! You have repaid me full, good Sir, and tomorrow morning, my Lady will be in my arms.’
‘God be with you, my Lord.’ The leper held out his long brown sleeve and shook the bell. ‘Unclean,’ he called as he lurched onwards. Malik said nothing but kept pace with Dragonetz, who was spurred on by his hopes and the sight of two ethereal turrets suddenly visible above silver birch and ash trees.
As if in a dream, Dragonetz rode through the open portcullis, up to the castle entrance. He walked between two rows of livery-clad servants, lined up as if they were expecting him, and at the top of the steps he threw himself to his knees, unable to meet the eyes of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
She would always be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her hair, more black and silken than Sadeek’s coat, was plaited and coiled in loops that invited him to remove the pins, shake out the tresses. Her slippers peeped out from scalloped hems, all rose-pink, with variegated silk favours. He kissed the hand offered, he raised his eyes to hers. Great golden rings in smooth, honeyed skin, laughter greeting him in her eyes, in the upturned bloom of her mouth and in the voice he remembered. ‘You’ve kept me waiting, Dragonetz,’ she teased him. ‘I’ve been waiting a long time.’
And then there were sweetmeats and banqueting, music and singing, the two of them playing games of reminiscence and anticipation, all the duets imagined and unimaginable, leading to the one his body was starved for. As he lay in bed waiting for her, he thought he would die if she didn’t come to him, so intense was his need. When she was finally there, in only the black of her hair and the gold of her skin, he worshipped her, pulled her close, ripened to bursting as he found the place he belonged, as he whispered her name, kissed the angled bone of her shoulder and found...
... brown serge cloth in his mouth and the foetid smell of rotting flesh in his nostrils, where a second earlier there had been young skin and rose-water. His body convulsed but his mental discipline held. His arms stayed round the creature, who croaked ‘Do you love me, Dragonetz? Really love me?’ He shut his eyes, conjured up Estela in all her beauty and sweetness, told himself all else was illusion and held on. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Even with his eyes squeezed shut, he could feel the changes in the form in his arms. It was dry, scaly, slithery, running many forked tongues along his skin. ‘Do you love me, Dragonetz?’ the creature hissed. All desire turned to disgust, his ripeness withered, but he held his arms steady round his bedfellow. ‘Yes,’ he said. He felt the flicker of tongue inside his head, stirring his memories, gathering ammunition for further assault and he repeated the leper’s words to himself, over and over, reminding himself that all was illusion.
Illusion, he protected his mind from his senses, while his arms held his mother, a fire-ball, a horned goat, an icy river that stopped his breath, took him to the brink of drowning, only to change once more into human flesh. Sheer exuberance in his triumph flicked his eyes open and his laughter died in his throat. ‘I’m going to hurt you a little bit,’ said Bar Philipos, spittle lodging in his beard, ‘but you enjoy that, don’t you, my pretty boy,’ and he rubbed his naked, unmistakeably eager male body against Dragonetz. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’ he asked, with the same mocking irony he’d used in their games of chess.
‘No!’ Dragonetz screamed, fending the man off with his hands, leaping out of bed, retching, looking with horror at the man in the bed, who was still laughing as he shifted shape. Then the smile turned to white-faced horror and a woman’s tears. His own Estela stared at him, doomed, betrayed, and the cock crowed dawn. Even as he rushed back to her, his Lady shimmered, as did the bed and the chamber, crumbling around him with no noise, no dust and not a vestige remaining. He was in a clearing, holding Sadeek’s reins, Malik at his side, looking at him with infinite pity, waiting for him to speak.
‘She changed too much for me.’ The confession was a thousand swordblades through Dragonetz’ heart. He couldn’t look at the other man.
The judgement wasn’t one. ‘We must pray you have a second chance. Allah is merciful.’
Dragonetz would rather not depend on Allah. He remembered the leper’s words. ‘I am lost,’ he said but he mounted anyway and rode onwards, no longer knowing what he sought.