As the pathway widened, I saw with sickening dread what it was that so engrossed the watching warriors: the bloody execution of the prisoners. Not all of the crusaders had been slaughtered in the valley; two hundred or so remained alive and had surrendered themselves. These men had been herded together onto the plain, and were now undergoing summary execution by the victors.
This was bad enough; what made it infinitely worse was the way in which the executions were being carried out. Even as I watched, one poor wretch of a foot soldier was pulled screaming from among his companions and hauled to the centre of the plain where he was released. The instant he was freed, two Seljuq riders sped out from the near end of the field-one with a spear and the other brandishing a sword. The two closed rapidly on the fleeing crusader.
Leaning from the saddle, the foremost Arab waved his sword high. There was a glinting flash of steel in the air, and the victim's head flew from his shoulders, spinning bright ribbons of blood into the air. The decapitated corpse stumbled on a step or two and collapsed, jerking and quivering until it lay still. The disembodied head struck the barren ground to roll like a lumpy ball in the dust.
The whole hideous spectacle was greatly and warmly cheered by the ecstatic onlookers, many of whom had struck wagers on the rider's ability. That they should do this appalled me, and rage bubbled up like molten rock inside me. Instantly, I was overcome by a towering fury; my vision darkened and my blood flared like liquid fire in my veins.
Burning with impotent rage, I raised my fist to Heaven and called down fiery judgement to consume the heartless infidel. But the sky remained clear and no flaming thunderbolts descended to scorch the brutal victors' heads. When God withdraws his protective hand, the powers of hell are swift to claim the spoils.
THIRTY-TWO
Cait, my light, I cannot contain myself. For the first time in my captivity, a great fear and uncertainty has descended upon me and I do not know what to do. I pace and pray the night away besieged by a hopeless dread the like of which I have never known.
This very night, two members of the caliph's bodyguard burst into my cell. Although it was late and all the palace was silent, I was hastened directly to the throne room where the exalted caliph had previously received me, as you will remember. The great room was in darkness, save for two torches burning in sconces either side of a door at the far end of the room.
I was led across the empty expanse of floor to that door. It was opened, and one of the soldiers indicated that I was to enter. I did so, the door closed behind me, and I found myself in a small chamber, alone. In the light of a single candletree, I saw a small three-legged stool with a leather seat and a large blue satin cushion of the kind favoured by the caliph. There was a table with a bowl of dates and figs, and a brass bell.
As I stood looking at these things and wondering why I had been brought here in the dead of night, I heard a curious grinding sound – very like that of a mill wheel when it turns; it seemed to come from across the room and, even as I looked, a small seam opened in the corner of the wall. This seam became a low door, which swung outward. A belch of cool air washed over me and I smelled the stale scent of damp, musty earth, and it came to me that the many scattered rooms and buildings of the palace compound were no doubt connected by an elaborate system of passages and tunnels. I heard the slap of a footstep and, an instant later, who should emerge from the hidden passage but Caliph al-Hafiz himself with torch in hand.
He wore no turban, and was dressed only in his nightclothes. His white hair streamed from his head as if he had been tearing at it, and his beard was wild and uncombed. Indeed, he looked like a man driven from his bed by the force of a nightmare that yet bedevilled him.
He started when the door closed behind him and looked around at me. His eyes were baleful, dark, and staring. The grimace with which he beheld me did not bode well, I thought, for the outcome of our meeting.
Nevertheless, I bowed respectfully, and waited for him to begin. He placed the torch in a sconce beside the door and pointed to the stool, indicating that I was to sit. I did so, and he sat, too, cross-legged on the blue cushion facing me. A strange meeting this, I thought -no advisors, counsellors, servants or minions; no impressive array of guards to lend him stature; no lavish and costly appointments of gold and silk and sandalwood-just the two of us, man to man.
He looked at me hard, and I returned his gaze. I saw that he trembled slightly, as old men do when palsy claims them-a quiver of the head, a minute shaking of the hands. Then he began nodding, and intoning a chant in Arabic. After a moment he sighed and then leapt up again, and began striding around the room.
I watched him, mystified by his behaviour, yet moved to pity by the severity of the agitation which gripped him so tightly.
'So!' he cried at last. Then, as if frightened by the violence of his outburst, he repeated it again, but more softly. 'So! It comes to this.'
'My lord,' I replied.
'I am khalifa! Ruler and Protector of Egypt. Armies march at my command! I say what will be and it is. I am the law and the hope of my people, and I answer to Allah alone.' He stared at me as if daring me to defy him.
'Indeed, my lord,' I said.
'Yet,' he thrust a finger into the air, 'it comes to this!'
He seemed content with this statement, and took up his pacing again, legs stumping, arms jerking stiffly. I still could not understand his meaning, and the suspicion that he might be mad was rapidly hardening to certainty. 'You wished to see me, my lord,' I reminded him gently.
'Do not presume!' he shouted, instantly angry. 'I have but to speak a word and your life is forfeit to your impertinence.'
'Forgive me, Most Excellent Khalifa. Your servant awaits your pleasure.'
This seemed to calm him somewhat. He sat down again.
'You are a father,' he said, almost accusingly so it seemed.
'That I am, my lord.'
'You know the love of a father for his children,' he declared, speaking as if it were a celebrated and widely proclaimed fact of my existence.
'I do, yes. God knows.'
He nodded. 'Then you know also the anguish of a father who must chastise his rebellious child.'
'It is a torment that tears at the very soul,' I sympathized.
'Ya'allah! It is true!' he cried. Closing his eyes, he began slowly rocking back and forth, his wrinkled face an image of the pain that was torturing him.
He sat that way for a long time, and I did not intrude on his misery. After awhile, he drew a long breath, and opened his eyes. 'I am the law and the protection of my people,' he said, his voice calm and steady. 'Justice is my decree. It is written: a man who knows the will of Allah and fails to do it shall not escape the everlasting flames of damnation. And again: A believer who departs from the path of righteousness is no better than an infidel; he shall find his reward among the damned.' He regarded me sharply, defiant once more. 'Is this not so?'
'It is so, my lord,' I agreed.
'Yes,' he sighed, his voice soft, almost broken. 'It comes to this: my son is rebellious and unbelieving. He has done great wickedness and the blood of the murdered demands justice. You are a father. You love your child. You know what I am saying.'
Until that moment, I had struggled to understand his anguish, but as he spoke these last few words, the awful import of his summons awakened in me. I knew exactly what he was talking about.