I turned on my heel to see a gaunt, bald-headed man standing in the doorway behind me. He was tall and slope-shouldered; limp hands hung loosely at his sides. Sharp-featured, with a large, beak-like nose and narrow chin, he put me in mind of a fish-eagle. His dark, sad eyes, and the severe downward bend of his damp mouth, however, gave him the unfortunate appearance of an extremely aggrieved fish-eagle.
At first I imagined his doleful aspect resulted from the misapprehension that he had entered his home to confront a thief in the act of robbery-an error I hastened to correct. 'Pax vobiscum,' I told him. 'Pray have no fear, I am not a thief. Your daughter was good enough to admit me, and I merely await her return.'
He sniffed loudly-as if this explanation, so obviously untrue, was far beneath his lofty regard-and continued to watch me with his sad eyes. He was a taller man than he appeared; he carried himself low and hunched over as if bent inward by weight on his neck.
'In truth,' I said, trying to make him understand, 'I have been instructed to wait here.' He made no reply, but continued staring at me. 'You are Yordanus?' I ventured.
'I was,' he answered gravely. He straightened and lifted his head. 'Yordanus Hippolytus is no more.' The flesh of his neck was loose and hung in shapeless wattles, much, I noticed, like the wrinkled skin of his upper arms. 'Who might you be?'
I gave him my name, and told him that my friends and I had come to Cyprus from Antioch, and that we had been told by the commander of the Templars to seek him out and ask his aid. I hoped this would help him feel easier about my presence. I was mistaken.
'I care nothing for your troubles,' he said, turning away abruptly. 'Take whatever you want and go. Leave me in peace.'
He shuffled slowly away, leaving me to gape after him.
TWENTY-TWO
Dearest Caitriona, something has happened which has me shuddering with a ferment of excitement I have not felt in a very long time. An event of uncertain significance, I realize, yet I cannot bring myself to see it as anything other than a sign of great importance. It would not be the first time a lonely prisoner saw in some minute and arbitrary alteration of his bleak life the false gleam of expectation, I know. Still, my mind races and my hands sweat with anticipation.
Early this morning-the sun had not risen, and the palace was dark – the guards came for me. I was roughly roused from sleep so I had no time to prepare my departure; they would not even allow me to seal my missive to you, dear heart. Fortunately, Wazim, wakened by the noise, came padding down the corridor, and I was able to tell him what to do. Thus, I went to face my fate secure in the knowledge that whatever befell me, my labour of love would find its way to you one day.
Accordingly, I was hauled before Caliph al-Hafiz to receive my judgement. All was exactly as before. Indeed, if I had not been aware of the passage of the last few days, I might have imagined that I had left the room, turned around in the corridor and returned to find everything as I had seen it only moments before. The caliph, splendid in his snow-white turban with the peacock feathers, still sat on his golden throne beneath his palm tree, squinting with undisguised animosity as I was brought in.
I was shoved to my knees before him, and made to kiss the polished stone floor, whereupon I was jerked to my feet once more. The caliph twitched his finger, and the guards released me to stand upright in his presence. He sat for a time, gazing at me in a very hostile way and stroking his long, grey moustache, and I gazed back with as much serenity as I could summon.
'So!' he said after a time. 'They tell me you are very busy these days writing in your book.'
'That is true, Most Excellent Khalifa. I try to occupy my time.'
'What is it that you write?'
'I am making an account of my -'
'Captivity,' he said, supplying the word himself.
'Travels, my lord,' I corrected. 'I am making an account of my travels in Outremer.'
He grunted, and pulled on his moustache as he considered this reply. I realized then that the man before me was discontented and oppressed by worry. The eyes that gazed at me were fatigued, and the day was new. 'Who will read this account of your travels?'
'I am making it for my daughter. Although she is still very young, I hope that one day she will want to know what became of her father and she will read it for herself.'
'Tcha!' he cried, as if he had caught me in a lie. 'How do you imagine she will receive this book of yours? Who will take it to her?'
'I cannot say how it will reach her,' I replied readily. 'That is for his Honourable Potentate the Khalifa to decide.'
The answer caught him off guard. 'For me to decide?'
'Even so, my lord. It was promised in your name that my last request would be granted. My last request is to have my writings reach my daughter.'
The caliph turned his head and demanded of one of his many advisors, 'Is this so?'
The man, a dark-bearded fellow with a basket of rolled-up parchments beside him, consulted the document before him and nodded. 'It is so, Excellent and Exalted Khalifa. The promise was given in recognition of the prisoner's nobility, according to the custom of Baghdad.'
The caliph's small eyes almost disappeared as his squint deepened. He drew a deep breath through his nostrils and blew it out, then said, 'So shall it be done.'
I bowed courteously. 'I thank you, My Lord Khalifa.'
'You love your daughter, I suppose,' he said stiffly.
'Of course, my lord. She is the jewel of my heart and I cherish her beyond all measure.'
'A parent should love his children,' al-Hafiz declared, as if instructing a stubborn pupil. 'So it is written in the Holy Qur'an.'
'And in the Bible,' I pointed out.
'You are not afraid to die,' he observed.
'No, my lord.'
'Are you so pure of heart and soul that you do not tremble to stand before the Throne of Divine Judgement?'
'How should I tremble, my lord, when even now my righteous advocate intercedes before the throne on my behalf?'
This appeared to interest the caliph. 'This advocate-who is he?'
'He is Jesu, called the Messiah.'
'I know of this Messiah,' said al-Hafiz, with an impatient twitch of dismissal. 'Among the faithful, he is considered a very great prophet.' He frowned, as if daring me to answer, and asked, 'Why should this prophet intercede for you?'
'He intercedes for anyone who trusts in him,' I answered.
Caliph al-Hafiz raised his chin, indicating he was finished with me. 'Then we will see if this advocate has the ear of Allah,' he said. 'At the sixth hour your head will fall to the axe and you will stand before the Throne of Judgement. May your advocate's eloquence open the gates of paradise for you.'
Even though I knew it was coming, hearing the words made me weak in the knees. Somehow, I summoned the strength to bow in humble acceptance of his decision.
'Does this not concern you?' he demanded, apparently rankled by my tranquil demeanour.
'My Lord Khalifa,' I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, 'I love my life as much as any man, but it is in your hands. I am your servant. Judge me how you will.'
'You hope I will pity your insignificant faith and pardon you,' he said, his voice taking on a defiant tone, as if daring me to beg him to spare my life.
I already knew what I would say. 'With all respect, my lord, my hope is in Almighty God, the Merciful Redeemer, who alone holds the power of life and death-in this world and the next.'
He stared at me, and I thought I saw doubt creeping into the deeply-creased lines of his face. Suddenly – as if the thought had just occurred to him-he said, 'What do you know of affairs in Cairo?'