Bladesong Read online

  He was bigger than the other boys but a second look showed that he was merely older than they were, well into puberty to judge by his ravaged skin. Dragonetz instinctively stroked his own jawline, which still showed the pits of adolescence. This particular ugly duckling did not hold promise for the future however. Dumpy and flat-faced, his looks promised a short, fat man as outcome. And yet there was something about him, about the way he carried himself. Around him was just enough space to show that the other boys kept their distance - or he kept them at a distance.

  Curious as to why such a boy would be among these ornaments of the true faith, Dragonetz studied him longer, realising that not only was the boy completely at ease in his own body - unusual enough in a youth - but he was looking steadily back at Dragonetz himself. It was a shock to meet those eyes, measuring him from the safety of the shadows, and to know for sure that this was not an invisible one, whoever he might be.

  Bar Philipos clapped his hands and the pack-horses’ burdens were unrolled before the Muslim leader, carpets and silks, a velvet pouch of jewels ‘for your wives, may they be fruitful.’

  The finest produce from Damascus’ markets lay at Nur ad-Din’s feet. All had been unrolled for his inspection, except two box-shaped packages, wrapped in brocade, which Bar Philipos signalled his servants to leave for the Muslim leader’s personal attention.

  Saying, ‘I thank you for these riches on behalf of my people, for whom I am but their treasurer,’ Nur ad-Din kept the basket of ripe fruit and the two unopened packages beside him. Dragonetz could guess what was in one of them but not the other. His curiosity was not to be satisfied until after their ‘feast’.

  Nur ad-Din signed to one of his men, who promptly stood and declaimed some verses of poetry. ‘Sanai,’ Dragonetz thought aloud, identifying the Persian author of the poetry, and earning a nod of approval from Nur ad-Din.

  ‘Belief and doubt spring from the same source,

  Your double-thinking heart.

  Of course the way is long when

  You hesitate over the first step.

  Just one single step towards Him

  Who offers you a kingdom

  When you bow the knee.’

  This edification continued at intervals throughout the meal, which was surprisingly frugal. Breaking bread meant just that, a wholesome meal of unleavened rounds and a meat stew, lamb or goat most probably, tasty but simple. The wineskin was not only a surprise but a disappointment. Dragonetz hid his reaction to the plain taste of water on his tongue. A glance at Bar Philipos showed that he’d expected no more, despite his own penchant for fruity, red, Syrian wines.

  Dragonetz felt a strange longing. Even the black honeyed drink would have been more enjoyable than this nothingness swirling round his mouth. He was a blade that needed blunting this night, and a little alcohol or Bar Philipos’ herbs would have relaxed him. As it was, he was endlessly holding on to Sadeek, rearing before a black bull, twisting away from death, his heart pounded to dust.

  ‘... I was born here you know,’ he heard Nur ad-Din saying.

  Dragonetz forced himself to concentrate. ‘Damascus,’ he stated.

  ‘It is my birthplace and - ‘Nur ad-Din’s shrug expressed whatever an informed man might want to read into it. Affection, desire, responsibility, understanding. A shrug could be rendered even more eloquent by the words that followed. ‘I have never camped outside the city walls to threaten my people. I came because I heard the cries of fellow Muslims when their homes and livelihoods were taken by the Franks. I will always come when they have no-one to defend them.’

  Although Nur ad-Din was looking at Dragonetz when he spoke, the words were clearly meant to touch Bar Philipos, who had made it clear often enough to his Christian prisoner that the Damascan ruler was no Unur. When Unur was alive, Damascus had not needed, nor wanted Nur ad-Din. But now they had no-one to defend them? Mixing the past with the present was clever because things had changed and reading the past through the present justified all Nur ad-Din’s past actions. Wasn’t that exactly what Dragonetz himself had been doing?

  ‘Allah has given me the power to protect all my people and when the citizens of Damascus beg me to make their walls strong again, I will hear their prayers. I am no Infidel to force my own people.’

  Dragonetz could sense only approval from Bar Philipos beside him. Was he confident that Nur ad-Din would respect the Christians of Damascus if he became overlord? Despite his declaration of Jihad? Or was the Syrian trying to curry enough favour to protect himself from any persecution in the future. Probably both, Dragonetz suspected as he mopped gravy with a hunk of sour, brown bread.

  It was hard not to compare this frugal meal with the banquets of Louis and Aliénor, even on campaign. Not only did they insist on silverware, platters and knives, their courses were as complicated as if they were still in Paris and their cooks were more essential in their eyes than their commanders. After their stay in Byzantium, they’d added forks to their sophistication, and if their coffers had allowed, they’d have swopped silverware for gold plate, notwithstanding the weight and toll on the horses.

  Nur ad-Din was right. Wagonloads of bric-a-brac had weighed down the Crusaders. But that’s what made a king different. He had to look like a king and be treated like a king, to be a king. If he dressed as an ordinary man, would anyone respect him? Would their armies have fought as well for a mere man? The Lord’s anointed must surely be treated as such?

  At Louis’ banquets there would have been a real feast, even in a tent. He would have sat in a wooden chair, a makeshift throne but a throne nevertheless. And there would have been singing. Dragonetz heard the songs in his head, the lyrics he’d have chosen to hearten the weary, fire the cowardly, inspire the plodders. Whether he’d sung himself, or another of Aliénor’s troubadours had offered entertainment, there had been no shortage of music. And if he should sing for Nur ad-Din? What would he choose? Marcabru’s call to arms in the Holy Land? A crude ditty? A love song? There was no sign of woman or girl in the tent, any more than there had been during the show.

  ‘I’ve heard that your court includes many poets,’ Dragonetz opened cautiously. ‘Do they set their words to music.’

  That curl of the lips again. ‘I know of your reputation with the oud, my Lord Dragonetz, but you waste your talents on such trivia. I need no string-plucking from my poets, to distract them from the words they interpret from Allah’s truth, which is beyond words.’

  The silence also spoke beyond words and it was Nur ad-Din who broke it. ‘You can’t be expected to understand,’ he declared graciously. ‘But it seems to me you know something of horses. Why do you ride a stallion? And what is his lineage.’

  The mood lightened all round and the talk turned to horse breeding and training, and the techniques by which Dragonetz had carried out the manoeuvres in the day’s show. Nur ad-Din spoke of his plans to build a hippodrome in Aleppo to rival that in Byzantium, which supposedly held thirty-five thousand spectators and a four-chariot track. Dragonetz confirmed this and responded politely to an invitation to display his own skills in the new hippodrome when it opened. At every opportunity he praised Shunnar and Aakif but somehow their names went unheard, conversation flowing round them as if they were turds in a river, known to be there but politely ignored. For Dragonetz’ own skills and exploits, no praise was too high.

  The boys came and went, offering more stew, more flatbreads, each server to his designated place. The one serving Bar Philipos suffered the man’s breath too near his face as the lad bent over, a hairy hand steadying the smooth arm as the boy served, chunky fingers testing the unblemished skin like a roll of brocade in the market. The boy’s minute, instinctive jerk away was punished with those fingers clamping in a pinch. The boy froze and the fingers released him but the fine skin showed the pressure-marks. No-one noticed. Conversation flowed as before. One of Nur ad-Din’s men had progressed further with his waiter. If anything, the other boy accentuated his availability in response, flir
ting his lithe body as he bent more than was necessary. Was this expected behaviour? At one gesture more explicit than another, Dragonetz caught the same sardonic curl of Nur ad-Din’s mouth as he’d shown when speaking of the Franks, or of music. Disapproval then. But tolerance of other men’s base needs. His stomach churning, Dragonetz looked anywhere he could bear to, at Nur ad-Din, who was ordering the fruit to be served, calm and distant. At the stocky, older youth who served the Muslim leader.

  Nur ad-Din caught the youth’s arm to stop him. For a terrible moment Dragonetz thought he would be privy to some act of perversion, even from the light of the true faith, but though there was affection in the gesture and the voice, Nur ad-Din’s words rescued Dragonetz from his worst imaginings. ‘You may speak to Lord Dragonetz, my boy. Yesterday he was my enemy, today we break bread in his honour, tomorrow only Allah knows. Maybe you will face him across a table one day - or across a battlefield. Lord Dragonetz, I present my nephew, Salah ad-Din.’

  ‘May our paths cross in honour.’ The youth’s voice had broken and its gravelly timbre already held an authority greater than his years. Suddenly his face seemed the least of him and Dragonetz suspected that no-one would be talking of his lack of beauty in the future. Salah ad-Din bowed in courtesy to Dragonetz, finely judged to show respect but not humility and Dragonetz returned the compliment, exactly.

  ‘My brother’s son is newly with me, to learn all I can teach. And first, he must learn that we all serve one greater than us.’

  Salah ad-Din bowed, deeply this time, with every sign of genuine respect, and he returned to his duties, smooth but never invisible.

  The formalities of the meal were completed, the debris cleared and the servants returned to their shadows, responding instantly to a finger-snap if need be. Nur ad-Din showed no sign of postprandial sleepiness and Dragonetz’ experience with royal banquets had left him immune to the after-effects of a full stomach.

  He was keeping an eye on the two unopened gifts, hatching futile plans to snatch them, un-noticed by the grim, unblinking guards, run for the door-flap, steal a ready-saddled horse, duck the volley of bolts and arrows to gallop through the darkness towards - towards what? - breaking both the horse’s neck and his own in the first cursed irrigation channel they hit. Luckily he didn’t have to tax his brain with devising a slightly more practical plan as it was too late. The packages were now on the blanket, between him and Nur ad-Din. The Muslim looked at Bar Philipos, received some kind of confirmation, and dismissed the Syrian and his own men to take their ease in the recesses of the tent. From the corner of his eye, Dragonetz was aware of Bar Philipos finger-clicking a boy towards him as he lounged on a blanket.

  Nur ad-Din unwrapped the first package. As soon as Dragonetz saw the board divided into eight squares by eight, he knew what would be in the wooden box, but he could not have imagined the craftsmanship of the shatranj pieces that emerged. Nur ad-Din held each one for a moment’s appreciation before placing it on the appropriate square. Abstract forms and size distinguished between rukh and baidak, faras and shah, but the artist had worked his heart into the exquisite, carved, ivory balls on which each character was balanced. As if the ivory had been spun sugar, fine strands linked repeated patterns of leaf, star and shell in an infinite honeycomb. Nur ad-Din held the shah a long time, just looking at it, and his eyes glistened as he offered the piece to Dragonetz so he could have a closer view.

  The size of the shah allowed the artist room for not only stylised motifs but also a quotation, the curves of the Arabic as beautiful as the interlaced leaves. Dragonetz turned the piece to follow the miniature script. He read aloud,

  ‘Who hath created seven heavens, one above the other;

  Thou wilt find no flaw in the creation of the Merciful One;

  Look again; seest thou a single flaw?’

  The Koran, surely, but what splendid, justified arrogance, for the artist to liken his own creation to God’s.

  Once again, Nur ad-Din read his mind. ‘No, not arrogance. A man’s talents come from Allah and to marvel at them is to worship the great creator. Look deeper.’

  From the impatient gesture, Dragonetz realised that the order was literal, and he looked again at the ivory ball. Impossibly, another carved ball was inside that, and another, and another, ‘unto the seventh heaven,’ Dragonetz said softly. Ivory carved into seven balls, each one turning inside the other. He had seen enough in Damascus’ markets to know this must be Chinese craft, to Muslim commission and design, travelling the silk road to reach this man who declared himself both mere vassal and ruler of the eastern world. He gently set the shah down, the last piece on the board. The game was about to begin.

  Nur ad-Din unwrapped the second package. Within the brocade was oiled sailcloth, which revealed a book that Dragonetz could describe with his eyes shut. As Nur ad-Din reverentially turned the pages, of which Dragonetz knew there were four hundred and ninety-one, the three columns of script, the aged colour of the parchment, all was visible in the torchlight. ‘The Keter Aram Sola,’ breathed Nur ad-Din.’

  ‘But surely it is a Torah, of special value to those of Jewish faith?’ Dragonetz queried.

  ‘It is a rare and precious form of the word, a priceless book. Did you, a mere Infidel, not gasp at the beauty of the shah and the perfection of the words from the Koran? How could I not see the perfection of this book?’ He picked up the shah with his right hand, the book open in front of him. ‘Bar Philipos tells me that the book is not within his gift but that it is within yours. I will treasure it as it should be treasured. Your mission is to deliver this book safely and there is no safer keeping than mine. You have found me, the one the book is seeking through you.’ His eyes and tone mesmerised Dragonetz, speaking only truth. But not the only truth. Candle-light flickered over the open pages and picked out the annotations in the margins, the work of Aaron Ben Ascher to enable the music of the Torah to be heard, to turn words into heavenly harmonies for the faithful.

  Reluctantly, Dragonetz shook his head, accepting his burden. ‘Just as you are treasurer for your people’s riches, so the book is in my charge but not mine to dispose of, except to the chosen one of Jewish faith. To the Jews it is not just priceless, it is sacred.’

  Nur ad-Din’s face darkened. He held the shah towards Dragonetz, the light playing on the carving, worth ten-fold ransom for a knight in the one piece. ‘Then let there be an exchange of equal value, this unique and sacred shatranj set for the book.’

  ‘I have given my answer.’

  There was a dangerous silence. ‘It is your way when there is a dispute to use trial by combat? To let God decide?’

  ‘It is,’ assented Dragonetz cautiously, wondering whether he would get his foolish wish to measure up to Nur ad-Din in only oil and loincloths, and hoping that God would feel in the mood for miracles. His experience suggested that solid muscle and years of training helped enormously in God’s decisions.

  ‘Then we will play shatranj for the book, and let God decide. If you win, the book is yours and you will travel to Jerusalem unhindered. If I win, you give the book to me, freely.’ Nur ad-Din’s tone brooked no disagreement and Dragonetz was already desperately studying the pieces, to make their forms so familiar to him that he would waste no time mistaking the stylised elephant for the horseman. The odds would probably have been better in a wrestling match! Coldly, he weighed up his own strengths and weaknesses, placed all known strategies in mental formations, to be called on as needed, like his detachments in a land battle. At least the pieces were as unfamiliar to Nur ad-Din as they were to him. A deliberate ploy on the part of Bar Philipos, to even the game? How much of this had been planned from the start? Was Bar Philipos expecting Dragonetz to win or to lose? There was no time to consider the subtleties of the Syrian’s mind.

  ‘We will play the ten-move start,’ Nur ad-Din told him, moving a baidak. Dragonetz would have preferred a slow start and time to judge his opponent’s style but he accepted the rule and swiftly made his ten moves,
none over the half-way line, so that both sides had formed their battle lines. Then the match began. The two men knelt over the gameboard, neither succumbing to the other’s rhythm, but each taking whatever time he chose to respond.

  Ten moves into the mid-game Dragonetz knew his advantage and had already lost it. Whereas he had assumed Nur ad-Din to be outstanding, and had played no risky moves, his opponent had underestimated him and wasted moves to test him. This had gained Dragonetz the tiniest edge in control of the board but the tightening of Nur ad-Din’s lips told him there would be no more leeway. The time for sacrifices was coming and Dragonetz knew his choices off by heart; horsemen more valuable in opening and mid-game, governor-fers more valuable in the endgame but one of each more desirable than losing two of either.

  It looked as if Nur ad-Din was willing to sacrifice a horseman. He looked thoughtfully at the piece he’d made vulnerable. ‘Unur was also your opponent once.’ They both knew that Unur could only be considered the winner of that particular battle. ‘They tell a funny story of Unur. Perhaps you’ve heard it? For his entertainment, his guests loosed a lion and a lamb into the courtyard for him to watch their antics. Contrary to all expectation, the lamb ran bleating at the lion, who was terrified at the bold creature making strange sounds, and who fled. The lamb chased the lion round the courtyard and Unur ordered that the lamb’s courage be celebrated and the lamb itself kept alive.’

  ‘And the lion?’ asked Dragonetz, guessing the answer.

  ‘Cowardice is punished by death, always. You showed great courage today, my Lord Dragonetz, as well as unexpected skill.’

  So he was the lamb. Once more, Dragonetz tried to give credit where it was due. ‘The guards, Aakif and Shunnur, showed no less, and my honour is their honour,’ he started, only to be cut off.

  ‘They disappointed me.’ Dragonetz was learning to read that mouth. ‘Had they been braver, they would have - and should have - outridden you. Cowardice is punished by death, always.’