‘But the attempt is not to be put off to “some unspecified time in the future”. No! I say unto you, O Majestic Holiness, O Anointed Successor of the Prophet himself – I say unto you: hear not Meekal, humble servant of the Caliph, but hear the words of Abdullah, son of Amir, last survivor of those who heard the Prophet speak.’ Meekal stopped and held up his arms for continued silence. He turned left and nodded. I tried to see past him, but he was in the way, and I was unable to see the cause of the shuffling and scraping towards us across the sand.
‘Behold the venerable and heroic Abdullah,’ Meekal bellowed triumphantly. As he spoke, the chair came in sight. Carried by just four slaves, here was Abdullah himself. I’d never seen the man before. Then again, perhaps I had seen him – but he hadn’t then been the drooling, paralytic wreck who sat gibbering and twitching in the sunshine. I leaned forward for a good look at the man. Rather as young women look at each other to see who might be fairest, so the very old look at each other to see who is more broken down and ready for the grave. No contest here, I can tell you! I counted back. The Prophet had been dead for fifty-five years. Assume this sad creature had been in his twenties back then: it made him much younger than me. He’d need to have been in his middle forties to match my age. Of course, at that age, he’d qualify now as a Companion of the Prophet, whether or not they’d ever exchanged a word. And he hadn’t been called that. I tried not to give myself a complacent hug and sat back in my chair, waiting to hear whatever words of wisdom he might recall – or that might since have been spooned into his addled brain.
‘While I was at meat with the Prophet,’ he slurred after several false starts. He stopped for the hushed roar of the ‘Peace be upon Him’ from every quarter, and for a long coughing fit that couldn’t have left him with much of his lungs by the time he stopped. I saw Meekal stiffen slightly. Was there another whispered prayer? But old Abdullah was now looking forward with a little more appearance of having recalled who and where he was. ‘When I sat with the Prophet,’ he said in a firmer but still weak voice, ‘it was asked of him which of the two great cities would be opened first by the Faithful. Would it be Rome or Constantinople? Be it known that the Prophet answered: “The City of Heraclius shall be opened first.” ’
There was a sudden commotion among the audience. I saw definite looks of concern on the faces about the Caliph. Meekal held up his arms again for silence. He gestured at Abdullah to continue, even managing a respectful bow.
‘The Prophet told me that the highest duty of the Faithful was to strive for the great city of Constantinople,’ he said in a voice that was half drone, half whispered croak. ‘ “When the palace of the Caesars and the Great Church of the wondrous dome shall sound to the prayers of the Faithful,” he said, “the Pope of the Romans shall not prevail another year. Then shall the arms of the Faithful be dipped in all the waters that flow about the disc of the earth, and the work of the Faithful shall be done.” Such be the words of the Prophet – may Peace be upon Him!’
Well, that got everyone to their feet. They cheered and stamped. Men rushed towards the platform and called out at the Caliph for the right to be the first martyr in the renewed assault on the walls of Constantinople. There was a general chanting of ‘Holy War! Holy War!’ A polite smile on his face, Eusebius was listening carefully to the whispered interpretation of all this. If Meekal ever let him go, he’d have a fine report to make to young Justinian.
But old Abdullah had done his job. Now, shaking like a monkey against the bars of its cage, he was carried back under the shade, and Meekal was strutting about in readiness to get to his main point. And he was getting there – even if it was taking longer than I’d anticipated.
‘Your Majestic Holiness,’ he crowed, ‘my greatest gift yet to the Faith of Mohammed – may Peace be ever upon Him – is the fire of the Greeks. Eight years have I laboured. Eight long years have I laboured in the face of doubt and plain opposition from those whose duty told them otherwise.’ More nervous bobbing of heads beside the Caliph. ‘But my efforts now have been crowned. Be it known that the horrid fire that the Greeks poured on the heads of the Faithful shall now be returned threefold. When next the armies of the Faithful shall beset the walls of Constantinople, there will be no second defeat.
‘Yes! Yes, O Great and Mighty Commander of the Faithful – I have given victory to the Faith. And if anyone doubts, then let his tongue be stilled. We shall now proceed the quarter of a mile that separates this place of audience from the place of demonstration. Then shall the whole world know the power that I bring to the Faithful.’ He darted a look at Eusebius, who was still looking polite. ‘The world shall know the power that I bring, and the world shall tremble!’
There was another roar of enthusiasm. More men rushed forward and threw themselves down before the still figure of the Caliph. All about him, other faces were looking openly scared. Meekal bathed in the applause. He held up his arms and turned round and round. He pointed at me, and spread his arms wide. He put his head up and laughed – though the sound of his laughter was drowned out in the tide of shouted war cries that poured over us. He darted round and looked briefly at me. He raised his eyebrows as if for my own applause. He even smiled. Then he nodded me towards the waiting chair.
I looked up at the sun. I looked at the quarter-mile distance to be covered – it looked closer to half a mile. Meekal had gone on far longer than I’d thought to take into account. Plan A was off the agenda. There was nothing else for it but to go for Plan B. I sighed and got to my feet. Instead of dragging myself over to the chair, I turned to face the Caliph and raised my own arms for silence.
‘Abd al-Malik,’ I cried in my best approximation of a younger man’s voice, ‘Caliph of the Saracens, hear the words of Alaric, Senator of the Greeks and occasional correspondent with your Prophet.’ There was complete silence from the crowd, though much looking and whispering between the men around the Caliph.
‘Shut up, you old fool!’ Meekal whispered loudly in Greek. He made to grab at my arm. I avoided him and, though making sure not to pass outside the collecting zone of the sound board, stepped towards where the Caliph sat.
‘Abd al-Malik,’ I cried again, ‘have I your permission to speak?’ I looked closely at his face. He stared blankly back. Then he nodded. Safe now from Meekal, I took up what I guessed to be the most effective point for the reflection of sound. ‘You will be aware that, whatever Meekal boasts, I am the one who has produced the Greek fire. I was brought here under duress from my place of refuge, and set to work to achieve what none of you had been able to manage for yourselves. I will not ask you to condemn this abuse of an old man. Besides, it has been done. But I do inform you that, if its final purpose is use against the Empire, the first use of what I have given Meekal is to destroy you and all your ministers – rather, to destroy you and all those ministers he has not yet falsely accused of treason.’
There was a confused murmuring from all around. Meekal made another attempt to catch me. I gave him a hard poke with my stick and raised my free arm towards the Caliph. With a sudden lapse of all into silence, the Commander of the Faithful stood and pointed straight at me. I smiled at Meekal and watched as he shrank back from me. I looked into his angry, scared face and coughed politely in place of laughter.
‘I accuse Meekal – formerly known among the Greeks as Michael, Commander of the Emperor’s Personal Guard – of treason against you. I declare that his intention is to take you within that walled compound and to spray you with a jet of fire that can turn flesh and bone to ash in the blinking of one eye. I will show you the mechanism he caused to be placed there for this purpose.’ There was another rising murmur. The Caliph remained on his feet. Eusebius was now asking urgent questions of his interpreter. All the time, Meekal stared at me, on his face a mixture of shock and plain confusion.