Kingdom by Jack Hight

people,’ Al-Fadil explained. ‘We will enter directly into the palace.’
    Al-Fadil led them to a narrow strip of land that ran between a canal and the city’s western wall. Hugh whistled in appreciation as he gazed up at the battlements. ‘How tall do you think those walls are?’
    ‘Thirty feet, maybe,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘Of solid workmanship.’
    A gate framed by burning torches appeared in the darkness ahead. ‘Bab al-Kantara,’ Al-Fadil declared. The enchanted gate. The Egyptian led the way up a ramp and across a short drawbridge to a wooden double door some ten paces wide. It swung inward and they rode into a low-ceilinged room, the walls of which were lined with guards. As John dismounted he noticed that a few of them were making the sign of the evil eye – forming a circle with the thumb and forefinger of their right hand and shaking it at the Franks. Shawar entered at the far end of the room, and the soldiers stopped gesturing.
    ‘As-salaamu ’alaykum, friends,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘The Caliph is eager to see you, but first, I must ask that you leave your weapons here.’
    When John translated, Hugh frowned, but he removed his sword belt nonetheless and handed it to one of the guards. Geoffrey did the same.
    ‘They will be returned to you when you leave,’ Shawar reassured them. ‘My men will polish and sharpen them, so that they are better than new. Now come, the Caliph awaits.’
    The vizier led them through a second room and out into a colonnaded courtyard in which dozens of rose bushes bloomed, releasing their sweet scent into the evening air. As John entered the next courtyard, a caged panther hissed and roared at him. There were other animals that looked like something out of a dream: a horse covered in white and black stripes; a strange, deerlike creature with spindly legs and an impossibly long neck; and a huge lion with golden eyes.
    From the menagerie, they passed through a series of luxurious rooms before arriving in a larger chamber, divided in the middle by a curtain of golden silk. ‘You should kneel,’ Shawar told them.
    John dropped to one knee, but neither Geoffrey nor Hugh moved. ‘It will help our cause,’ John told them. ‘It would be impolitic to refuse.’
    Geoffrey reluctantly knelt, but Hugh remained standing. ‘I kneel before my king and before God,’ he grumbled, ‘not this infidel.’
    ‘It means nothing,’ John assured him. Hugh looked doubtful.
    ‘Please,’ Shawar said. ‘You must kneel if you are to see the Caliph.’
    ‘Then I will not see him.’
    John chose not to translate that. ‘My lord,’ he said to Hugh, ‘as a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I tell you that God knows the difference between a knee taken to honour and a knee taken under duress. Kneeling means nothing.’
    ‘You are sure, priest?’
    John nodded. Hugh hesitated for a moment longer and then knelt. Shawar placed his jewelled sword on the ground and prostrated himself so that his forehead touched the floor. After his third bow the curtain was raised. John’s first impression of the caliph was that he was a statue or carving. He was covered from head to toe in jewelled silks and where his face should have been was a mesh veil that created the impression that his features had been erased. He reminded John of one of the statues of the saints that adorned the great portal of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The illusion was spoiled when the caliph’s hand moved in a gesture for them to rise.
    Shawar addressed the caliph. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, God’s deputy, defender of the faithful, may I present the Frankish envoys.’ John translated quietly for Geoffrey and Hugh.
    ‘As-salaamu ’alaykum,’ the caliph said, his voice high at the beginning before breaking at the end. ‘Welcome to my court.’
    Geoffrey took a step forward. ‘Great Caliph, I am Geoffrey Fulcher, Preceptor of the Temple in Jerusalem. God bless you and grant you joy, health