Pillars of Light (50 page)

What?
The gasp was universal. What did he mean?

Nathanael turned to Zohra, saw her look of consternation, squeezed her hand. One out of every two … Nima looked up at her, frowning. One out of every two … Sara and Baltasar … Voices began to mutter; then the mutter became a rumble, and the rumble a roar.

Christian hands fell to the hilts of their swords. Karakush waved his arms, but it was the grand emir’s bellow that rose above the tide of noise.

“Hear us out. As God is my witness, the deal is done and we must accept what has been written. By the rough estimate of the tallymen there are almost six thousand souls left in the city, and so just under three thousand of you must be held as hostages. The Christian kings have demanded that able-bodied men of less than forty years of age be kept as hostages, and that the elderly, women and children be free to leave, so long as the rest stand surety.”

People began to protest at this stricture. A woman began to wail, “Not my son! Not my beautiful Hassan!”

Nathanael felt a hand grasp his arm and turned to find Zohra gazing at him with her golden eyes blazing, but he could not tell if it was with fear or fury.

The emir held up his hand for silence and at last the crowd quieted.

“I know from looking out upon you that there are not three thousand men of fighting age left in the city, so we will need to seek volunteers from those of you who are entitled to leave. It is a great deal to ask of you, but ask it I must. Those who remain will be well treated, kept in quarters that are being prepared for this eventuality. All will be well fed and looked after, and any wounds or sickness from which they suffer shall be attended to with the skill of the best Christian and Muslim doctors available. I myself, Saïf al-Mashtub, appointed grand emir by the Commander of the Faithful himself, give you my word on this. And if that is not enough …”—he gestured to a boy, who handed him up a parcel wrapped in green silk—“I swear it on the Holy Qur’an.” Reverently, he took the book from its wrappings and held it aloft. “Place your trust in the honour of these kings and the greatness of God, and all shall be well.”

Now Karakush took up the discourse. “I would ask all of you to consider this carefully. The qadis and their scribes will take your names and details, and those who wish to volunteer as hostages should come to the steps of the Friday Mosque.”

At this, a surprising number of people surged forward.

“Well fed and cared for,” said a man standing in front of Nathanael, nudging his neighbour. “Quickly, let’s go to the qadi and pledge ourselves!” For a moment the neighbour, who looked older than the designated age, dithered, then the pair of them pushed through the throng.

“We must complete the roster by midday tomorrow,” the governor continued, “so you will have tonight to discuss the matter with your families. But before you go, please form orderly lines and give your names, ages and addresses to the qadis.”

Orderly lines were not a normal part of life in Akka, where
no one had ever willingly queued for anything. Already there was anger and incomprehension; before long, there was hubbub and chaos.

That night the occupants of the Najib house cooked up a strange casserole of everything they could scrape together. Nathanael bartered some honey for a quantity of couscous from Fatima, the imam’s daughter, and Zohra made bread from flour bartered for a salve. Despite the gravity of the situation, the atmosphere was curiously festive. For the first time in ages there were six gathered around the table in the guest salon. Not the same six as there used to be, Zohra thought, struck suddenly by their losses. No Ummi, no Aisa, and who knew whether Kamal was alive or dead?

Malek at least was well, that much she had ascertained from the swimmer who had carried the surrender terms to the sultan. He had also reported that Malek had broken down in tears of relief to hear that his sister still lived. “It would kill me to lose her, or any more of my family,” he had told the man. And he had also sent a personal message to Zohra in the code that he had devised for the pigeon missives, which Aisa had taught her. “Get out,” it read. “Leave the city as soon as you are able and bring Baba and Sorgan with you.” She had said nothing to anyone else, not even Nathanael, about this. Its implications distressed her too much.

The meal finished, talk soon turned to the decisions they had to make.

“I will stay as a hostage,” Baltasar declared. “I am too old to leave the city now, too old and too tired.”

“No, Baba, you must take Sorgan. He cannot look after himself.”

“I can! I am a smith now. I don’t need anyone to take care of me. Mohammed Azri feeds me and Saddiq helps me with fire!”

Zohra placed a hand on his arm. “I know, Sorgan, I know. You’ve worked so hard. But there may not be much use for smiths any more now that the city has been surrendered to the Franj.”

Sorgan glowered. “The Franj. I hate the Franj! I’d like to put them all in the fire and hammer them to bits!” His fists flexed.

Zohra sighed. “You see, we can’t leave him here. He’ll be in danger.”

Her brother folded his arms obstinately. “I want to go with the smiths. I don’t want to be part of this family if you won’t let me.” There was no use arguing with him.

“They are sure to keep the Azris as hostages,” Nat said quietly. “They want to keep all the able-bodied men where they can control them. They’re the ones the Franj want.”

“As slaves!” cried Baltasar.

“More likely to prevent them taking up arms against our enemy,” said Sara quietly, clutching the stump of her arm. She did not believe in deferring to the views of men, especially if they were wrong. “Of course they would. But we cannot let our enemies dictate who stays and who goes.”

“Everyone will go eventually, won’t they?” Zohra said, seeking reassurance. “When the ransom is paid?”

Nathanael said nothing, remembering Jerusalem. He turned to his mother. “You and Baltasar should leave with Zohra and Nima,” he said gently. “No one can make you stay.”

“Nima?” said Baltasar. He looked up with sudden expectant hope, but then his eyes filled slowly with tears. “Oh, yes …” There were moments when he looked up when someone entered the room as if he thought his wife were still alive and was just coming back from the souq. Seeing the expression on his face when he remembered the truth broke Zohra’s heart each time.

Her father rolled his thin shoulders. “I will stay,” he announced. “Akka is my home.”

Zohra felt a familiar frustration rise. “But, Baba, you can leave—”

He rounded on her. “I may not be under forty, but I am as able-bodied as the next man.” He looked as if he might hit anyone who contradicted him.

Sara placed her hand over his and squeezed it gently. “I am not leaving either. What would I do with just one arm out there in the world? No. I will go with Baltasar and Sorgan to the quarters they are preparing, where there is good food and treatment for all our ills.”

“Cousin Jamilla does very well with just one arm,” Zohra said, just as Nathanael said, “I am a doctor! You know you won’t get better care elsewhere.”

Sara smiled at both of them, and in that smile Nat saw a benediction. She knew all, and accepted all—even blessed them for it. “Nathaniel, you must leave. Anyone can see you are not able-bodied right now. The governor will surely sign your papers. You must take Nima and Zohra and leave as soon as they let you go. I’ll hear no more arguments.”

“Good, then,” said Baltasar. “That’s decided. Now, what do we have for dessert?”

All over the city the same discussions were taking place.

The next morning Nat went with Baltasar and Sorgan to their usual tea house: there were rumours of real tea being served, and Baltasar was determined to carry on as if nothing else of importance had happened.

The place was full: neither a cushion nor a stool to be had. But as soon as people saw Baltasar a seat was given up to him; even in the hardest times, the oldest and frailest must be respected. Younes shifted on his cushion to make room for Nathanael, who bent with some pain and took the offered space. Sorgan stood sniffing the air as if scenting something he had not smelled in a very long time.

“Look, Sorgan,” Hamsa Nasri said, waving his hand with a flourish as if announcing a magic trick, “proper bread!”

Sorgan gazed at the reed basket on the table, his eyes round with amazement. Younes tore a flat, round loaf in half and quickly handed it up to him before he could make off with the entire basket.

“I’m staying,” he mumbled a few seconds later, his mouth stuffed full of bread.

“I want to stay,” Younes said morosely. “But Iskander, he wants to go. He says he’ll wear women’s robes and a veil if he has to. No one’s likely to stop him—he’s prettier than most women.” He gave a mirthless smile. “He’s had enough of Akka, he says. I think that means he’s had enough of me.”

The old veteran, Driss, leaned across the table and patted his hand. “I’m sure he doesn’t mean that. Iskander loves you, it’s plain to anyone. You should go with him. You’re both young enough to start your lives somewhere new.”

Younes gave a rueful smile. “Hardly!” He brushed a hand over his bald head. What had remained of his hair had fallen out in the past weeks as if it no longer had the strength to hold on.

“Well, younger than me.”

“Everyone’s younger than you!”

They laughed.

“We old folk must stick together,” Baltasar said grimly. “The young ones should try to get out if they can.”

“I shall stay,” Driss said. “I can’t leave Habiba here on her own.”

They all knew what he meant. They had buried his wife beside Driss’s two daughters and grandson. It had been a harsh summer.

“There’s nothing away from Akka for me,” said Baltasar.

“But you’ve family in Damascus!” said Driss.

Baltasar shrugged. “I haven’t seen them in years. Besides, who wants an old wolf like me moving in with them? I’ll just make the children cry.”

It was clear, Nat thought, that he said this to make Driss feel better, and he experienced a surge of proud sorrow that set a hard lump in his throat. “I will stay, too,” he said, mastering himself. “I’ll be classed as able-bodied soon enough, and people here need doctors.”

Baltasar Najib gave him a hard look. “Driss and I have seen too much of the world to have any illusions left, lad. We’ve got no lives ahead of us—we’ve lived well and made families, and it’s your turn to do that now. You get out while you can, and take my daughter with you. You promise me now: you’ll take Zohra and the child and you’ll leave with them.”

Nat stared back at him unhappily. “I don’t think my conscience can let me.”

“Shit on your conscience, boy!” Baltasar roared, and the tea house went quiet. Even Sorgan stopped chewing.

Driss put a hand Baltasar’s arm. “Hush now, old friend, you’re upsetting poor Sorgan here. Here, son, have some olives with that bread.” He pushed a little bowl of gleaming fresh olives in the big man’s direction.

Sorgan stared at the bowl as if it were full of eyeballs. “I hate olives,” he said firmly. “I want cake.”

Younes laughed. “Steady on, son. You’ll be asking for roast lamb next!”

Sorgan went very still. “I remember the taste of lamb. My mouth remembers.” Spittle gleamed on his lip. He looked around with sudden intent. “I don’t smell lamb. Where is it?”

“You’ll have mutton soon enough,” Baltasar told him, and when Sorgan started to wail like a child they all tried to calm him down with whatever tidbits they could find.

In the chaos, Hamsa Nasri leaned across the table and said quietly to Nat, “You have to leave, you know. You’ve got to get out. Take this chance to save your own life, and Baltasar’s daughter, too. It’s the best you can do for this city: survive, and keep it
going elsewhere. Keep the memory of how it was, raise your children to remember.”

Nathanael stared at him. His wound started to throb painfully. “What do you mean? You don’t trust the Franj to honour the terms?”

The grocer looked grim. “I don’t trust anyone, son. I’m a grocer and the son of a grocer. You’ve seen the sign in my shop. I give no credit.”

“J
ohn …”

For a second time my eyelids parted to let in the tiniest sliver of light. I did not want to be woken from my dream. Something hugely significant was taking place in it, something I could not quite comprehend. Elements of it tumbled through my head, just as I had been tumbled by the waves. I closed my eyes tight and quested after the trailing threads of the dream. But it was gone now, and anyway it had made no sense.

“John!” More forceful now, a voice I recalled from long ago, from another world: one lost and barred to me now.

A hand shook my shoulder, not ungently.

“John, come back from wherever you are. Come to me. Open your eyes.”

That voice. I knew it better than my own. Obediently I opened my eyes. Light flooded in. I blinked and blinked, pinned by the merciless illumination. Then a blissful shadow gave me respite. When my eyes adjusted my heart turned over.

Half-moon eyes. That fine, straight nose. For a long moment I simply lay there and looked at him, and for a long time he lay there without a word and looked at me. Nose to nose, dark and pale, like
opposing chess pieces, or a statue and its shadow.