My own predicament altered, too; although at the time I did not perceive, much less understand, the nature of the change, it was no less remarkable in its own way. Indeed, it would be many weeks before I would fully appreciate just how exceptional my circumstances had become-and how slender the thread by which my life now swung.
THIRTY-EIGHT
I expected them to come for me in the morning, and they did. I did not expect them to send Sahak, yet it was his face I saw when, at the sound of the bolt being drawn and the iron bar raised, I stood and the door opened. 'Fall on your knees and praise God, my friend,' he proclaimed, and I could see it gave him great pleasure to do so. He had never called me his friend before, and I wondered what lay behind his cheerful greeting. 'It is a very miracle. You have been reprieved.'
Before I could ask how this had come about, he said, 'Hurry. You are to come at once. They want to see you.'
'Why?' I asked, already moving through the open door. Two guards were with him, but neither appeared interested in the proceedings.
'Much has happened in the last two days. There is to be a great celebration.'
We started down the corridor, and I was half-way up the steps to the guardroom when I remembered-'My letter!'
'Leave it,' Sahak told me. 'There is no time. They are waiting.'
'Let them wait.'
'Yu'allah!' Sahak sighed.
I ran back to the cell and snatched up the folded parchment, stuffing it in my siarc as I rejoined the scribe waiting at the foot of the steps. 'Now tell me, Sahak, who is waiting for me? Is it my friends? Has Padraig come to pay the ransom?'
'Alas, no,' Sahak admitted; he had not thought of that. 'It is that the Caliph of Cairo has sent his personal emissary to Damascus,' he explained meaningfully. 'The man has arrived; he is here in the palace at this very moment.'
'This emissary-he is the one who wants to see me?'
'In a manner of speaking. You are going to Cairo, my friend. Is that not wonderful news? Everything has been arranged. Praise God.'
Any jubilation I might have felt at a stay of execution was swallowed by a new sense of hopelessness. 'If I go to Cairo,' I suggested, 'my friends will never find me.'
'If they look for you in Damascus, they will find you in a traitor's grave,' he countered. 'Is that what you want?'
In truth, rescue was not uppermost in my mind; I was more concerned about becoming separated from the Holy Rood. Even so, there was not much I could do about that; my execution would have effectively separated me from the prize as surely as a sojourn in Cairo, and far more conclusively. Rather than berating Sahak, I decided to be grateful.
We followed the guards up the stone steps and through the empty guardroom, out the open door and across the inner palace yard. Perhaps it was Sahak's excitement making me imagine things, but I did sense a ferment in the air-as that which marks a change in season. Yet, the sun rising above the bulging white domes of the palace was the same, the air hot and dry as ever.
'I thought of this myself,' the scribe declared proudly. 'It troubled me that you should die for helping my people, and I prayed that God would send a way to save you. And then the emissary arrived.' He smiled as if the rest was perfectly obvious.
I thanked him for his skilful intervention on my behalf, and said, 'But I still do not understand why the Caliph of Cairo's emissary should be interested in helping me.'
'Strictly speaking, he does not know he is helping you. He thinks he is merely receiving a gift for his master. But God works in mysterious ways, no?'
'Yes, and so do you, Sahak.'
By the time we reached the Pavillion of Roses where Atabeg Buri was entertaining his two important guests at an early-morning meal following their prayers, I had extracted from Sahak the gist of what had happened, and knew why I had been summoned. The rest took longer to obtain, yet, by dint of perseverance, I gradually unravelled the tangled tale of the stormy relations between the two most powerful caliphates in all the East.
I should pause here and relate the details of my audience with the atabeg and his illustrious visitors; it was, however, of little account at all. They merely wanted to see that I was still alive and hale enough to make the journey to Cairo – along with the rest of the booty to be delivered as gifts to the caliph. You see, Gait, Arabs of all stripes are forever giving gifts to one another. They do it all the time, for any number of reasons: the wealthy do it to belittle their rivals, strengthen ties between noble houses, or win the fealty of those beneath them; the poor do it to curry favour with those above, to secure preferment in business, to demonstrate honour and obedience.
As part of the spoils of war which Ghazi had given to win patronage from Buri, I was brought forwards to bow and scrape before the enthroned Muslim lords, delivered into the hands of a servant of the envoy, and then led away again. I never saw Sahak, al-Mutarshid, Buri, Ghazi, or any of my fellow prisoners again, nor did I ever learn the name of my new master, the envoy. I became once more a commodity of exchange, a vessel of value to be bartered for favour – in this case, the favour of the Caliph of Cairo.
As I say, over the next days, as my depth of understanding grew, so too did the realization of the awful significance of the events Bohemond had set in motion when he decided to attack the Armenians. I watched my new masters closely and observed them in their dealings, and so gained invaluable insight into the complicated affairs of the Arab race-insight which would serve me well in the days to come. I kept my eyes and ears open, and pieced together any scraps of information that came my way, meditating long over them. This is what I learned:
Ghazi's defeat of Bohemond's army greatly relieved and encouraged the Muhammedans; in a single battle the amir had reduced the Christian might in the region and restored Muslim hopes that the hated Franj might yet be pushed out. Antioch was now vulnerable to siege and capture. The Templars could not protect the city by themselves alone; without a swift and abundant supply of fresh troops, the end was a foregone conclusion. For the first time in many, many years the Turks could entertain notions of recapturing that great city. Once Antioch was under Seljuq rule, Jerusalem could not fail to follow.
Shrewd amir that he was, Ghazi was not slow to recognize the rich potential of his victory. That day when he halted the executions on the battlefield, he was already calculating the cost of his next venture: the siege of Antioch.
Aware that he must strike quickly and decisively, Ghazi rushed to Damascus where he knew the Caliph of Baghdad had lately arrived. On the way, he gathered the support for his scheme from those who would help supply the army he hoped to raise. A siege is a lengthy and expensive business, and Ghazi required the aid of more powerful men to mount and supply a force large enough to capture that great city. He also needed the consent of his betters-not only their approval of his military plan, but their sanction of his larger aims as well. Again, the wily amir showed his acuity, for knowing he did not possess the necessary authority, he sought a bargain that would allow him to rule the city once it had been captured.
To this end, he lavished gifts upon his liege lords and vassals alike, demonstrating that he had the discernment and largesse of spirit to rule wisely and well. As I was learning, gift giving among the Arabs is a meticulous arrangement of balances as perilous as it is precise, for each and every gift carries with it an obligation which binds the recipient to the giver in many and various ways. Ghazi gave gifts to his overlords so they would grant him the authority to proceed with his plans of conquest. Caliph al-Mutarshid, commanding the highest power, was given the greatest gifts.