Siege of Heaven by Tom Harper Page B

‘The caliph saw us in person – he didn’t defer us with some string of lesser officials. I suppose that was good.’
    ‘Are you so dazzled by royalty, Demetrios?’
    I looked up wearily. Nikephoros had left his attendants folding his garments and had come through into our room. He was sipping a cup of sherbet, though it did nothing to sweeten the look on his face.
    ‘The king is not always the most powerful man at court,’ he said, and I remembered that in Constantinople he had been of that faction that sought to make emperors the tools of their officials. ‘The caliph has barely come of age.’
    ‘He seemed well enough in command of his court to me.’
    ‘Because his court wanted you to think so. There is only one man who commands the court, and it is not the caliph.’
    ‘Who, then?’
    ‘His vizier, al-Afdal. Nothing happens except by his authority.’ There was genuine respect in Nikephoros’ words.
    ‘Was he there at the audience?’
    ‘No. But I do not doubt he will have been watching and listening. He flatters us by granting an audience with the caliph, but it is only the first move of a long game. Knowledge is the root of all diplomacy, no less than war. At the moment, our positions are almost equal – we know as much as he does, perhaps more on some matters. But now he will lock us away – with silk cords and goldenkeys, of course – and starve us of information, while he learns everything he can and watches how matters develop. He will wait until the situation has swung to his advantage before he seriously negotiates with us.’
    ‘And how are we to know what is in the emperor’s interest then?’
    Nikephoros gave a savage grin, perhaps the first time I had seen him happy. ‘That is the game.’

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    It was not a game I wanted to play, but I no longer had any choice – if, indeed, I ever had. We lived almost entirely in the three rooms we had been allocated, and wanted for nothing except freedom. After three days we were all like caged beasts alternately sulking in corners and snarling at each other; after a fortnight we had learned to contain our passions enough to feign peace. Occasionally Nikephoros would have me write a dispatch to the emperor, emphasising the Fatimids’ hospitality and his sincere hopes for an honest alliance with them; for the rest of the time, I sat by the window, trying not to think about Anna and Sigurd, and observed the comings and goings of the palace. At first it was merely something to watch, a small corner of movement in an otherwisestill existence, but gradually I began to notice patterns: the different attires and the deference each man drew, who bowed and made way for whom, which hours were busy and which quiet. Most of all, I noticed the guards. There were a great many of them: Africans like Bilal, Turkish archers, Armenian cavalrymen, and brownskinned desert-dwellers who carried short, stabbing spears. As with the Franks, or even the emperor’s armies, there seemed to be a great rivalry between the different races – and it seemed to be the Africans who suffered worst. Each time a detachment of Turks or Armenians marched through the courtyard, the Africans were forced out of the way, and if they were not quick enough they often suffered kicks and blows. I mentioned it once to Nikephoros, and drew a predictably condescending response.
    ‘Of course they beat the Africans – they are the least of races, savages worse than Franks. Why do you think they appointed them to guard us, if not to demean us? Is that all you’ve noticed?’
    I hesitated, unwilling to risk drawing his scorn again.
    ‘Which race do you see least?’
    ‘The Armenians?’
    ‘Exactly. The vizier, al-Afdal, is an Armenian, and he rests his authority on a private army of his countrymen. What does that tell you?’
    ‘That perhaps al-Afdal is not here?’
    Nikephoros nodded. ‘And that is more disconcerting than any amount of tedium. Al-Afdal would not removehimself from his capital