'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and life for life. That,' he said, 'is the cold heart of the law.'
I felt my own heart grow cold.
'My son must answer to Allah for his wickedness,' he continued.
'Justice must be satisfied and righteousness upheld. As I am khalifa, it must be.' He looked at me meaningfully, willing me to understand.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as his purpose broke upon me: I was to be that instrument of justice. That was why he had summoned me.
'You are a nobleman and a father,' he said again. 'You understand these things.'
'I understand your predicament, my lord,' I admitted woodenly, wishing with all my heart that I did not.
'I am khalifa!' he snapped suddenly. 'Do not presume!'
'Forgive me, Most Excellent Khalifa. I am unworthy of your regard.'
He stood again quickly. He shouted for the guards, and the door opened at once. Pointing to me, he spoke a rapid command in Arabic, whereupon, they seized me and pulled me away. As I was dragged from the room, al-Hafiz shouted, 'Pray to your God, Christian! Pray as a father that you might live to see your beloved child once more!'
Thus, I was returned to my cell and left to think about what had taken place. The more I pondered the implications of the strange audience, the more extraordinary it became. In his great despair, the Caliph of Egypt had turned to me; he had sought my aid with his wretched son. In some way I had become confessor to the caliph.
Why? I asked myself. Why had he chosen me?
He commanded armies, as he had needlessly reminded me. The word of the caliph is law… justice is my decree… Why confide these things to me, a mere prisoner in his keep?
The old man's reasons remained as dark and inscrutable as the beclouded night itself.
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and life for life.
The reasons for the caliph's confidence may have eluded me, but his purpose I suspected-and feared. He was asking me to be the instrument of his justice… he was asking me to kill his son.
Great King and Saviour, I prayed, inwardly quaking, may this cup pass from me.
At the command of the atabeg, I was taken out onto the plain to join the other prisoners awaiting execution. Too exhausted and dispirited to lift their heads, they sat slumped on the ground with eyes downcast, their faces ashen with fatigue, their hearts numb with terror.
Those with presence of mind enough to know their peril were praying fervently; their voices formed a continual low gabble over which the moans and cries of the wounded among them drifted like a mournful dirge.
My Turkish captors untied me and pushed me down with the others. The man next to me raised his head as I settled in beside him. He regarded me dully, his battered face rapidly blackening beneath livid bruises to his cheek, and jaw, and neck; his chin was split to the bone and oozing big drops of blood. 'Are you a priest?' he asked in a ragged voice.
'No,' I replied. He made no reply, but his head sank lower. And then it came to me what he was asking. No man, feeling the cold hand of death on his shoulder, wishes to die unshriven. 'But I will pray with you, if you like,' I offered.
He nodded and, clasping his hands beneath his chin, struggled to his knees before me and began to pray. It was a simple prayer, yet well composed, and at the end of it, he begged the Heavenly Father's forgiveness for his many sins, and asked the Good Lord to remember his mother and his wife, and not to let them sink into beggary now that he was gone.
When he finished, I prayed that Christ the Blessed Redeemer of Men would carry the prayer before the Heavenly Throne, and -'What is your name?' The man opened his eyes and glanced at me. 'Your name, friend, what is it?'
'Girardus.'
'- carry the prayer before the High Throne of Heaven and that Girardus' last wish for his family will be granted.' I said the Amen and signed him with the cross, as I had seen Emlyn and Padraig do when shriving sinners.
Rubbing unshed tears from his eyes, the soldier thanked me, and then, having made peace with his Creator, bent his head to prepare himself for death.
All at once there arose a commotion across the field. I glanced in the direction of the sound and saw a rider streaking towards us, followed by at least a dozen more. They reined in before the resplendent Amir Ghazi, on his milk-white stallion, exchanged a few heated hasty words, and the amir called a command to his men, who were at that moment dragging another screaming wretch out from among the beaten crusaders.
Then, one of the newcomers-a small, dark-skinned Turk with a bristly white beard and a face as flat and scuffed as the bottom of a boot-shouted something, turned his mount and rode out to where we were awaiting execution. This Arab carried no weapons, save a curved gold-handled knife, the pommel of which protruded from his dirty cloth belt. He glared at all around him with a dark and angry countenance, as if furious that we should be reclining while he laboured long in the saddle.
The glittering amir advanced and, smiling pleasantly, addressed the angry Arab in, as I thought, placating tones. The two began to converse, and I supposed the agitated newcomer was being informed of the disposition of the captives.
'He is furious as a tarred ferret,' observed Girardus.
'The amir does not appear overly concerned,' I pointed out.
'He is not the amir,' Girardus informed me. Indicating the small dark angry man, he said, 'That is Amir Ghazi.'
I looked again at the man I had taken for a lowly scout. Unlike the other Arab chieftains I had seen, the amir was arrayed no better than the lowest soldier in his war host. Instead of flaunting his superiority, he wore the simple black dress of tunic and trousers of a Seljuq warrior, with black boots of soft leather; the only difference that I could see was that where their turbans were black or brown, his was sand-coloured. If Girardus had told me he was a trinket pedlar, I would have believed him. Certainly, the man I saw glaring down at us from the saddle appeared more disposed to selling brass baubles in the street than commanding the combined armies of the mighty Seljuq tribes.
'That is Amir Ghazi?' I said, staring at the dusty, sweating Turk. 'Are you certain?'
'Yes, and he is enraged.'
'Why?'
'He is angry with his commanders for killing so many captives. Noblemen are worth fortunes in ransom, and the rest can be sold as slaves. Ghazi says their thoughtlessness has cost a great deal of money which could have been used to further the war against the Franj.'
I looked at Girardus in amazement. 'How do you know this?'
'I speak Arabic a little,' he said. I professed this to be a very wonder. 'No.' He shook his head. 'It is six years in Antioch.'
'If that is Ghazi,' I said, 'who is the other one?'
'That is Kaisin Tanzuk, Sultan of Jezirah,' my informer replied. 'They say he is wealthier than the Caliph of Baghdad.'
'What is he say -'
'Shh!' Girardus cut me off as he tried to follow the exchange. After a moment, the crusader turned to me, his bruised features forming an expression of pathetic relief. 'The killing is stopped. We are to be taken to Damascus.'
Satisfied that his command was understood, Amir Ghazi returned to his chieftains and began ordering the withdrawal of the army. While I was mightily grateful to be spared a messy and inglorious death, my relief was tempered somewhat by the realization that my rescue would now take longer. I had allowed myself to hope that once Padraig and the others discovered what had happened to me, they would ride to Anazarbus, alert Roupen, and the Armenians would instantly ride to my aid.
In a little while, a number of Turks approached with coils of rope, and began tying the captives together. It is only for a short while, I told myself as the Seljuq warrior passed the loop of tough leather rope around my neck. They will come for me. When they realize what has happened, they will come for me.