Just as the baking priest said, thought Joe. He was right as right about Jerusalem and here’s another one off in a different bog. He stepped back and saluted.
Beg pardon sir, could you tell me what campaign the helmet’s from?
The old man was puzzled. He stirred and the decomposing metal released a shower of rust in his eyes. He wiped away his tears and the helmet went awry again.
What’s that?
The helmet. Which campaign might it be?
The First Crusade.
Jaysus and that must have been a hard one.
The old Arab lowered his head as if expecting a blow. He wept quietly.
Ridicule and defeat, abuse and humiliation, I’ve never expected anything else.
Oh no sir, no insult intended.
The eyes drifted in the direction of O’Sullivan Beare, the voice less far away now.
What? You don’t mean you believe me when I say I fought in the Crusades?
No reason not to.
There isn’t? But no one has believed anything I’ve said for a very long time.
Sorry to hear that sir.
Not for over two thousand years.
Dreadfully sorry sir.
And I wasn’t on the Crusaders’ side, I have to tell you that. I was defending my city against the invader.
I know how that is.
So naturally I was on the losing side. When you’re defending Jerusalem you’re always on the losing side.
I know how that is too. Terrible position to be in sir.
The old Arab tried to focus his eyes more closely.
See here, why do you keep calling me sir? No one’s shown me any respect for centuries.
Because you’re nobility and it’s only proper.
The Arab made an effort to stand more erect, which he did for a few moments despite the arthritis crippling his back. His face showed surprise and confusion and a tiny hint of pride.
That was at least as far back as the reign of Ashurnasirpal. How did you guess?
Your eyes sir.
It’s still there?
As clear as the last muezzin.
The Arab looked even more surprised and also embarrassed.
Don’t call me sir, my name’s Haj Harun. Now please tell me why you believe what I say instead of beating me when I say it?
What else would I be doing? Do you recognize this uniform?
No, I’ve never been too good with uniforms.
Well it’s genuine Her Majesty’s Forces, 1854, and I’m only twenty years old but I’m a hero of that war, here you behold the medals. And this special one was given to me by Victoria R herself although I was only a year old when she died. So there we are and that’s Jerusalem for you in 1920, me back from the Crimea and you back from the Crusades, and as one veteran of the wars to another I thought I’d look you up.
The Arab studied the Victoria Cross. He smiled.
You’re Prester John, aren’t you. I was sure you’d get to Jerusalem sooner or later and I’ve been waiting for you. Please come right in so we can talk.
He disappeared through the doorway. For a moment Joe lingered in the alley undecided, but the sun was hot and his uniform heavy, so he followed. The first thing he saw was what appeared to be a bronze sundial set into the wall, a large ornately-cast piece. Attached to it near the ceiling was a set of chimes.
From Baghdad, said Haj Harun, noticing him eyeing the sundial. The fifth Abbasid caliphate. I used to deal in antiquities before I dedicated myself to defending the Holy City and lost everything I owned.
I see.
It was a portable sundial once.
I see.
Monstrously heavy but somehow it didn’t seem to bother him. He wore it on his hip.
Did he now. And who might that have been?
I can’t remember his name. He rented my back room one afternoon to do some writing and gave me that in appreciation.
Rented it for just one afternoon?
I think that’s all it was but he got a good deal done anyway. Then he packed up all his papers and sent them by camel caravan down to Jaffa where there was a ship waiting to transport the caravan to Venice.
And why not, I say. In good weather Venice would be a natural destination for a camel caravan.
Suddenly the chimes began to strike. They pealed twenty-four times, paused, pealed twenty-four times again and once more. Joe fingered his Victoria Cross uneasily.
Jaysus they shouldn’t be doing that now.
Doing what?
Striking off three days just like that.
Why not?
They just shouldn’t that’s all, time’s time.
Time is, said Haj Harun airily. But the sun doesn’t fall on the dial every day, sometimes it’s cloudy and then the dial has to make up.
Haj Harun went over and sat in a decrepit barber’s chair. Near the door was a small press for squeezing fruit with a rotting pomegranate beside it. Next to the barber’s chair was a stand holding a bottle of murky water, a pan for spitting in, an old toothbrush with flattened bristles and an empty tube of Czech toothpaste. He picked at the moldy chair as he gloomily surveyed the room.
I went into the toothbrushing business at exactly the wrong time. Very few people find their way to the end of this alley and anyway, brushing teeth hasn’t been the same since the war. Before the war you might have done well in it, the Turkish soldiers had awful teeth. But since they left and the English soldiers came it’s been hopeless. Their teeth are certainly just as bad but they won’t let an Arab brush them.
Bloody imperialists.
They also won’t have them brushed in public. The Turks never minded but the English aren’t the same.
Bloody hypocrites.
A wail rose down the alley. Haj Harun pulled his helmet down and braced himself. A moment later a crowd of shrieking men and women burst into the shop and raced back and forth clawing at the air. The Arab stared fixedly over their heads trying to maintain his dignity, and in a few seconds the looters had snatched up every movable object in the room and swept out the door. Gone were the pomegranate and press and barber’s chair with its equipment, even the empty tube of Czech toothpaste. Haj Harun moaned softly and shrank back against the wall, yellow and emaciated and half dead from hunger.
Jaysus, who was that mob?
The Arab shuddered. He managed to wave his hand in resignation.
Mercantile elements of the citizenry, it’s better to take no notice of them. They come to raid me sometimes. They want things to sell.
Bloody outrage.
There are worse. Look here.
He opened his mouth. Most of his teeth were gone and those that were left were broken off near the gums.
Rocks. They throw them at me.
Bloody shameful.
And these scars from their fingernails. They have very sharp fingernails.
Bloody terrible.
All true, but I suppose we have to accept certain troubles when going from Ceca to Mecca. All the women I ever married were dreadful.
Do you tell me that. Why did you marry them then?
That’s so, but of course they didn’t have an easy time of it either. You know that don’t you?
O’Sullivan Beare nodded and walked into the back room of the shop. After the assault by the mob of Jerusalem mercantilists only two objects were left there, both far too heavy to move. He gazed at them thoughtfully.
An antique Turkish safe about four feet high, narrow, shaped like a filing cabinet or an impregnable sentry box.
A giant stone scarab about four feet long, a sly smile carved into its flat face.