The Sword of Damascus

by Richard Blake

Genres: Historical Fiction; Ancient World Romance

Synopsis

The fourth book of the DEATH OF ROME SAGA is a must-read for those who loved the heroism of Gladiator and Spartacus. 687 AD. Expansive and triumphant, the Caliphate has stripped Egypt and Syria from the Byzantine Empire. Farther and farther back, the formerly hegemonic Empire has been pushed - once to the very walls of its capital, Constantinople. But what is all this to old Aelric, now in his nineties, and a refugee from the Empire he's spent his life holding together? No longer the Lord Senator Alaric, Brother Aelric is writing his memoirs in the remote wastes of northern England, and waiting patiently for death. Then a band of northern barbarians turn up outside the monastery - and then another. Before he can draw another breath, Aelric is a prisoner of unknown forces, and headed straight back into the snake pit of Mediterranean hatreds. What awaits him at the end of his long and dangerous journey is a confrontation that decides the fate of all mankind.

Release date: June 9, 2011

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 432

Sample

Chapter 1

Jarrow, Thursday, 27 December 686

 

‘Is that wank on your sleeve?’ I croaked accusingly. The boy opened his mouth and stepped backwards through the doorway. I gave him a bleary look and carried on with pulling myself together. If I’d supposed I could hide that I’d been dozing, this was – all else aside – the wrong boy. Out of habit, I’d spoken Greek. Edward was barely competent in Latin. I leaned forward in the chair. My neck was hurting where my head had fallen sideways. The beer jug I’d brought with me into my cell was empty, and I was feeling cold again.

‘My Lord Abbot presents his compliments,’ Edward opened in obviously rehearsed Latin, ‘and begs your presence in the bell tower.’ His face took on a faint look of relief before lapsing into its usual blankness.

‘The bell tower, indeed!’ I grunted. ‘And Benedict imagines I can skip up and down his twelve-foot ladder as if I were one of Jacob’s angels. One day, if he’s lucky, he might have eight years of his own to every foot of that ladder.’ But I stopped. It was plain I’d lost the boy. I groaned and reached for my stick. As I finally got to my feet, he tied the threadbare shawl about me. I ignored the offer of his arm for support, and made my own way into the corridor.

As I came back to what passes with me for life, I noticed that the banging had stopped yet again. I looked round. My cell was only a few yards along from the side gate of the monastery. It was still barred. However, the buckets of water I’d suggested were filled and ready for use.

‘Do be a love, Edward,’ I said, now in English, ‘and have some more charcoal put in that brazier. It’s perishing in here. If I’m to live long enough to have my throat cut, you’ll need to keep me warmer than you do.’ I looked again at him. Wanking would have been pardonable in the circumstances. But it was most likely snot.

 

I gripped at the rail and looked down at the rain-sodden waste that is Northumbria. On better days, you can see from here all the way down to the Tyne. This wasn’t one of the better days. In the mist that had come up again, a few hundred yards was about the limit. There was a fire burning now close by the limit of visibility, and some of the northern beasts were dancing about it. I supposed they’d looted more beer from somewhere. Lucky beasts! I thought.

‘So, what is it that’s got all these old women in another panic?’ I wheezed. I spoke once more in Greek. This time, I got an answer.

‘It’s over here,’ said Brother Joseph in his flat Syrian accent. He guided me across the floor of the little tower and pointed down to a spot about fifty feet from the main gate. ‘The Lord Alaric will see that we do indeed have a new development.’

‘The Lord Alaric died when he left Constantinople,’ I said, now softly. ‘I must tell you again I’m plain Brother Aelric – born in Richborough, to die in Jarrow.’

‘It is as Your Magnificence wishes,’ he said, with one of his maddening bows.

No point arguing here and now, I thought. I looked out again into the mist. My heart skipped a beat and my hands tightened on the rail. Focusing isn’t what it used to be. But I could see from his hair that they’d got hold of young Tatfrid. He was one of the boys who hadn’t been able to make it through the gates before they’d swung shut. Now, he’d been dragged from whatever hiding place he’d found. They’d nailed him to a door and slit his belly open. His guts they’d arranged about him in the shape of an eagle’s wings and nailed them in place. How they’d kept him alive was beyond me. But if he was no longer up to screaming, he was still twisting. The door was propped up at the angle of a pitched roof, and more of the beasts were dancing in front of it. One of them was pulling at the boy’s trousers, and another was waving a knife up at us. It wasn’t hard to see what they had in mind. It was all noiseless, and, with the progress of the afternoon, white mist swirled thicker on the ground like insubstantial snow, hiding the lower halves of the cavorting bodies.

I swallowed and looked steadily down. Oh, I’ve seen suffering and death enough to fill many more years than I’ve been in the world. One way or another, I’ve caused enough of it myself. But it isn’t every day you see one of your best students butchered. Only five days before – no, it must have been just three – and he’d been construing Virgil downstairs. Now, the poor boy was – I forced myself to look away and turned back to Joseph.

‘Can you get an arrow into the right spot?’ I asked.

He looked and pursed his lips. He nodded and reached for his bow.

‘In the name of God – no!’ It was Benedict. He hadn’t followed the words, but the meaning was plain enough. He snatched at the bow and threw it down. ‘Has there not been enough killing?’ he cried indignantly in Latin. ‘If these benighted children have brought perdition on their heads, must we now do likewise?’

I bent slowly down and took up the bow. I gave it back to Joseph.

‘Take careful aim,’ I said. ‘We can settle things with the Bishop as and when.’ I stared at the Abbot until he looked away.

As Joseph fitted an arrow, there was a sudden commotion over on our right. It was the Chieftain and his retainers. They stood in a tight group, their cloaks pasted heavily about them by the fine rain. While I strained to see them properly, the herald stood forward and began another shouted message. The work of gelding laid aside for the moment, everyone nearby gathered round him to wave spears and shout fiercely at every pause.

‘What’s he saying now?’ I asked. Benedict had assured me their language was close to English. I’ve known many Germanic tongues, and most of them have been pretty close to English if you can hear past the different inflections. This one was beyond me. It might have been a dog down there barking away.

‘He says, Master,’ someone whispered from behind, ‘that they will all go away tomorrow morning if we but open the gate and let them take what they have come across the wide northern seas to obtain. They also ask for food.’

I looked round as far as my neck would turn. It was Edward. His words had come out in a strangled gasp, and I’d not recognised the voice. His face carried a look of alarm – which was natural enough, but also of confusion, and just a little of fascinated curiosity.

‘They want food, eh?’ I snarled. ‘Well, they can go fuck themselves!’ I looked back to Joseph. ‘Any chance of getting an arrow in the big man?’ I asked. He shook his head. I’d guessed already the wet leather was as good at this distance as plate armour. But it had been worth asking. ‘Then see to poor Tatfrid,’ I said. Before he could protest further, I took Benedict by the arm and moved with him until we were looking again at the distant fire.

‘Where is King Aldfrith?’ he wailed, pulling on the few strands of hair his tonsure had left. ‘Why has he not sent men to protect us?’

It was a stupid question. Even if word had reached the royal court, they were all probably still too hung over from Christmas to set out to the rescue. And according to the villagers who’d made it through the gate, the attack party had come ashore at Yellow Tooth Creek. It was one of those darting attacks from across the northern sea that are over before anyone outside the immediate area even notices. We were on our own. If I’d believed a word of what I now daily recited, it was for us to huddle within the thick walls of the monastery and pray for a miracle.

‘If we’d just done as they asked,’ Benedict struck up again, ‘if we’d but listened to their plea for food, they might even now be back on their ship.’

‘Might?’ I sneered. ‘Might?’ I paused at the twang of Joseph’s bow and the soft thud a moment later. I listened to the low, terrified murmur of the other monks and boys behind us. I didn’t bother turning. I’d already seen Joseph in action. He didn’t miss. ‘My dear Benedict,’ I said with a change of tone, ‘you never open a gate to these animals. You’ve seen what they did to the other villagers they caught. My age and your vows may have made them a superfluous treasure. But I rather fancy dying with my testicles still attached.’

I looked again at the fire. The mist was blotting out most of the sound. But if I listened hard, I could hear those dancers barking like a whole pack of rabid dogs.

Chapter 10

Even in early February, the sun hadn’t been kind to Hrothgar. His gibbet swung gently in the breeze, flies crawling in and out of the open mouth. I shrugged and looked down again at Edward, who’d taken the hint and was now kissing my slippered feet. There were some nasty bruises on his arms. His tunic was ripped, showing on his back the cuts and bruises that come from being dragged across a rough surface. What wasn’t ripped was still soaked in the foul-smelling mud that I’ve only ever come across in prisons. What I’d caught of his face as he emerged from the gloom was puffy with repeated crying. If you can imagine anything beyond their normal appearance, the two oarsmen looked probably worse. Covered in bruises where they’d been clubbed into submission, wrists chafed from endless struggle with the manacles that had kept them in submission, they’d emerged blinking into the bright sunshine. Credit where due, though, they’d taken the hint even sooner than Edward. Cowed and respectful, they knelt in silence beside him.

‘Their weapons will be returned on your departure,’ the secretary explained in answer to my unvoiced question. ‘As His Excellency said, this is a peaceful place.’ He gave me an openly hostile look, and then bowed ironically. Plainly, he thought the prison traffic he’d been ordered to oversee should have been in the other direction.

I smiled at him and raised my arms. The slaves stood obediently forward and lifted me back into the carrying chair.

‘The Lord Perfect will surely not object if I continue the boy’s education with a tour of your beautiful city,’ I announced. ‘I, for one, shall be grateful of the exercise before dinner.’

The secretary pulled a face that might have curdled milk and muttered something about supervising the gathering of stores. I watched as he went back over to the gaoler and rapped a few quiet instructions. Holding himself steady against the gatepost, eyes bleary from his ‘devotions’, the gaoler bowed at every pause. As the slaves got my chair aloft, and I leaned forward to poke my cane into the back of their leader, I saw the gaoler produce a sheet of what may have been folded parchment – hard to say with my wretched eyes. Without looking at it, the secretary stuffed it into a satchel before disappearing back in the direction of the Prefecture Building.

‘Come, Edward,’ I announced grandly – and sounding grand in any language with most of your teeth missing is quite an achievement. ‘We must inspect the Church of Saint Varicella.’ I leaned forward again and, this time, tapped all the carrying slaves with my cane. The boy and the oarsmen keeping up beside me, we began our slow progress towards the larger of the two semi-ruinous churches.

‘Behold,’ I said after about fifty yards. ‘You see here the most ancient of the monuments of the city.’ We stopped beside a battered arch. ‘Cartenna is a place of measureless antiquity. Its name is derived from the Carthaginian words for “City on the River Tennus”. It is said to have been the birthplace of the mother of the Hannibal who so beset Rome in ancient times. In its present form, however, it is a foundation of the First Augustus, who, after the close of the civil wars, designated it as a colony for soldiers of the Second Legion.’ I pointed up at the pompous inscription. Over time, many of the bronze letters had come away from the stone. But it was still possible to read the words from their context and from the pattern left by the holes.

Edward played along with a question about the roofless temple beside the triumphal arch. While I went into much elaboration about the deification and worship of emperors before the establishment of the Faith, I pushed the blond wig back and mopped at my freshly shaven scalp. Cosmetic paint was beginning to run down my cheeks, but was best left untouched. I looked back at one of the oarsmen, who was picking his nose, and checked to see if we were being followed. Sure enough, there was that bloody secretary. He was lurking behind the pediment of what had been a statue of Septimius Severus. He was stooping forward to get as much as he could of the cover. But if he lacked the colossal obesity of the third sex, it would have taken a larger pediment than this entirely to conceal him.

We continued our slow progress through the silent, abandoned streets of what had once been a substantial grain port. Here had been the public library. Here had been the baths, a gift of the Great Constantine, that could accommodate five thousand. Here was the shrine where Saint Augustine had witnessed the miracle of the stroke suffered by an heretical preacher. My throat was feeling raw from the continual raising of my voice. While Edward passed me up a cup of water drawn from a fountain, I lapsed into quiet English.

‘We’re approaching the harbour from the western side,’ I said. I’d noticed the stepped incline on my way up to the Prefecture. ‘The moment I take off this ridiculous wig and put it back on the wrong way, I want the oarsman with the broken nose to lift me out of this chair and run with me straight to the docks. It will mean jumping down half a dozen steps each with a four- or five-foot drop. The ship’s boat is still moored where you left it, and may still be unguarded. I must rely on the three of you to use your own initiative as required. But the idea is to get us back to the ship before anyone thinks to ignore the Prefect’s orders and tries to arrest us.

‘Do you understand?’ Edward’s mouth had fallen open. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ I whispered with another look round. ‘Stop looking so gormless. If you don’t want to end up like Hrothgar, you’ll do exactly as you’re told. Do you understand?’

His face took on his impassive look while he thought. Whatever he was thinking, it took longer than I fancied. Then he nodded. He took the cup from my hands. I heard him muttering to the oarsmen as he replaced it above the bowl of the fountain. I brushed a speck of dust from my tunic and wondered how well I could trust these people. If they decided to run off and leave me in the chair, it would be sod-all punishment for any of them. On the other hand, if gratitude is rather much to expect of barbarians, they were all three of them in considerable awe of the Old One. Even if not a wizard, I was the one who’d had the Greeks anoint him and clothe him in raiments of shining white, and who’d also sprung them from a prison from where they must have thought they’d only be taken out to be hung. I reached up and patted my wig back into place. I’d find out soon enough how I stood with these people. In the meantime, there was a charade that still had to be played. I peered at an inscription above a bricked-up doorway that we were gradually approaching, and cleared my throat.

‘Here is the place where Saint Flatularis suffered the first part of his martyrdom.’ I turned and made a loudish aside to Edward: ‘He was a youth of exquisite beauty, yet was also solid in the Faith. When the tyrant Diocletian ordered all to sacrifice to the demons of the Old Faith, Flatularis refused. In order to break his will, he was chained naked in this house on a bed of roses while three beautiful courtesans assaulted him with their sinful lips and fingers. What did our Most Holy Saint do? Why, he quelled the rising temptation by biting off his tongue!’

I wanted to follow this with an account of how the young man was then rolled – still naked – in live coals mixed with broken potsherds, and end with a homily on what an example this should be for the youth of today. Sadly, the look on Edward’s face was too much, and I found myself having to cover my laughing fit with coughs. By the time I was able to breathe again, we were halfway along the terrace I’d seen from the harbour. Before us, I could see a handful of armed men. It wasn’t worth looking to see behind. On our left was the blue of the sky and the deeper blue of the sea, and, against both, the dark blur of our ship where it rode at anchor. It was now or never. I pulled myself back into order. I took a deep breath and lifted my hands up to the wig.

Before I could even turn the thing round, the oarsman had lifted me clean out of the chair. The next few moments are beyond any ordered description. There was a bone-shuddering crunch as the man landed on the first step of the terrace. It was enough to knock all the air out of my lungs, and I fought again for breath. There was another, and then another. I could hear wild shouting above us, but couldn’t even think of trying to look back. Like a frightened child, I clamped my arms tighter about the oarsman’s neck and pressed my face into rancid, prison-soaked clothing.

Our fast, jerking motion came to a sudden end about ten yards from the jetty. With a scream that reminded me of a pig when the knife goes into its belly, the oarsman went down. We hit the granite slabs together with me on top of him. I rolled off and only just saved my face from striking on the stone. I heard the man, still screaming, as he dragged himself to his feet and staggered the remaining distance to the boat. I struggled up and looked back at the crowd that was racing towards me. Suddenly very calm, I relaxed and looked up at the sky. Going like this hadn’t been the end I’d imagined for myself. Then again, it was a sight better than snuffing it in bed, back in the freezing cold of Jarrow.

‘Give me your arms, Master.’ It was Edward! I’d seen him run ahead of us across the docks. Now he’d come back. He took hold of me and heaved me on to his back. He wasn’t yet fully grown, and I was – as I like to keep saying – still a big man, even if decrepit. But, swaying about like a slave under a grain sack, he ran with me across what now seemed the impossibly long distance to the boat. But we got there, and fell together into its deep centre.

‘Stop that boat!’ I heard someone shout. As I gripped the side of the boat and tried to haul myself up, I heard, just overhead, the whizz of an arrow. Another thudded into the planking not six inches from my right leg. I looked up at the blubbering oarsman who’d dropped me. He was nursing a deep gash an earlier arrow had made in his arm. But, as I looked back to the jetty, I could see the Prefect’s secretary frantically pushing the bows down, and shouting madly as he waved everyone towards the boat that had brought me ashore. It was nice to know, I told myself, that, even now, the price on my head was higher alive than dead. I pulled myself up into a sitting position and patted my wig into place. I smiled and blew a kiss at the secretary, who now stood on the extreme edge of the jetty. I couldn’t make out his face. But it wasn’t hard to guess the mixture of disappointment and boiling anger.

‘Put your backs into it!’ I croaked at Edward and the able-bodied oarsman. ‘If we don’t get a move on, they’ll try to cut us off.’ But the chaos of shouting and running back on the docks hadn’t yet resolved itself into effective action. By the time their boat was setting out, we were already three-quarters back to the ship. I could see the anchor as it was pulled up and hear the beat of the drum as every man raced to take his place at the oars. Four arms of differing strength lifted me up and pushed me against the side of the ship. Two hands from above took hold of my wrists, As I was jerked into the air, someone else grabbed the waistband of my tunic. In an instant, I was back on deck and pushed into the arms of Wilfred, whose only response was to try carrying me back to the daybed from which I’d been plucked so very long ago – or so it now seemed. Needless to say he failed, and it was Edward who finally disentangled the pair of us and placed me with some show of reverence on the stained cushions.

An atrociously ugly but admiring face snarled down at me as I lay, exhausted, back on to the cushions.

‘Have you managed to drink all the wine yet?’ I asked weakly.

The face looked at me a moment longer, then vanished.

Chapter 11

‘So, apart from this exchange off Kasos,’ I asked again, ‘you have no idea what Hrothgar was about?’

Edward looked across the table with tear-swollen, still terrified eyes. He shook his head.

‘Well,’ I said with a hard smile, ‘you can take that as a lesson to have something in writing.’ There had been nothing. There should and could have been nothing. Most likely, Hrothgar had been illiterate even in the runes our people used before the light of Rome broke in to shine so benevolently upon us all. But I’d watched as Wilfred and Edward went through the man’s cabin. Not a scrap of writing. And I believed Edward when he insisted that he’d been kept throughout on a need-to-know basis.

I pulled my wig off and dumped it on the table. Wilfred’s first act once we were away from Cartenna and he’d recovered from his fainting spell had been to wash the paint off my face and pull my new clothes back into shape. I was vastly tired. I was beginning to hurt all over from the strain and the bruises. But I was enjoying myself far too much to give in to that. Yesterday, I’d been poor old Brother Aelric, schoolmaster and close prisoner. This morning, I’d nearly been food for the larger fish. Tonight, I was again – or as near enough as mattered – His Magnificence the Lord Senator Alaric. Now, the three of us sat in what had been Hrothgar’s cabin, deciding what to do next. Correction – I was deciding.

There was a polite knock at the door. One of the less ferocious northerners sidled in. Had I any orders for dinner?

‘I’ll have some of the pickled lamb,’ I said with a lordly wave. ‘Do make sure to cut it up small and cook it tender. With it, I’ll have bread soaked in whatever milk you have.’ There had been no supplies from Cartenna, and I didn’t feel that hungry. But prestige called for a dinner of sorts. And I could do with some more of that Spanish apology for wine.

‘Oh,’ I added, ‘and do please send in your friend with the green eyes. For want of anyone else, I’ve decided to appoint him pilot of this ship. We need to discuss a change of course for tomorrow.’ I waited for the door to close, then turned back to the boys.

‘I’m not going back,’ Edward said yet again. He squeezed his fists tight. ‘I’m not going back. Any orders you give I’ll countermand. You forget that I’m now in charge of this ship.’

‘I beg to differ, young man,’ I said grimly. ‘The moment Hrothgar choked out his last breath ashore, you lost whatever position you had on board this ship. I am the master now.’ There was a slight exaggeration here. If its crew was treating me with scared reverence, it was plain I was barely more in charge of the ship than a rider was of a bolting horse. Yes, everyone had been awed by my achievements ashore. They appreciated that I actually knew where we were. And they hadn’t refused my offer of twice whatever Hrothgar had been paying them – twice that, and pay­­able in gold the moment we made contact with Theodore in Canterbury. But calling myself their ‘master’ was putting things rather strong. Still, I was as near as mattered in charge. Certainly, Edward would have to adjust to his altered position on board. And I had no intention of making it other than a bitter demotion.

‘Richborough strikes me as by far the most suitable destination,’ I went on, ‘by far the best for all of us.’ Edward opened his mouth to argue again. I glowered at him until he shut it. I thought he’d burst into more tears. But, though his shoulders shook, he fought off the attack. ‘So Richborough it will be,’ I said with a nasty smile. ‘For Wilfred and me, it will be special prayers of thanks for our safe return. For you, it won’t be quite that. But I’ll get you a very gentle penance. I’ll even have you back in my class – this time under your own name, assuming it’s other than Edward. Before then, however, there will have to be some kind of penance. I am mindful of your services earlier today. But it doesn’t make up for your part in getting Wilfred and me on to this lunatic voyage. And killing a monk isn’t something the Church can wholly overlook.’

The boy looked up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he cried.

‘Come now, boy,’ I snarled. He shrank back before a glare that had terrified emperors. ‘Don’t try denying something when the facts speak for themselves. You sucked Cuthbert off till you puked. Then you cut his throat so you’d be the one who opened the gate. I don’t think anyone is missing a man like that. No doubt Benedict has already found a better teacher of logic among the surviving villagers. But since no one probably gives a shit about poor young Tatfrid, you can take the blame for Cuthbert. I’ll ask you some other time about the two groups who turned up outside the monastery. For the moment, you’re an accomplice to what I consider bloody murder, and penance you’ll do for it.’

‘There will be no trip to Constantinople?’ Wilfred broke in. The shock of my coup on board had forced all thought of dying from his mind, and there now seemed a hint of disappointment in his voice.

I shook my head. Being ambushed in Cartenna was neither here nor there. I could put that down to local causes. The real problem was the change of emperor. Justinian might be friendly for old times’ sake, and I could be sure that any Circus execution was right off the agenda. But I didn’t suppose there would be any plans to kill the fatted calf in the event of my return. The new ministers could be trusted to see to that.

‘Your place is in England,’ I said reassuringly.

Wilfred nodded, now obedient.

‘Besides, we don’t really know what was agreed with Hrothgar. Edward is sure there was talk back in Jarrow of an exchange in Kasos, but has no idea where Kasos is, or when the exchange might be. Is that so, Edward?’

He nodded.

‘Well, Kasos is a little speck that lies between Crete and Karpathos. It has a nice harbour, but is also rather close to the seas where the Saracens may again dominate. We aren’t going there.

‘No,’ I said firmly with a little gloat at Edward, ‘we’re going home. For all the wind may be blowing from the west, it’s back west we’re headed.’

The gloat was too much for Edward. He reared up and shouted, ‘I’m not going back to England! I’m never going back. I’ve got this far into the world. I’d rather die than go back to England.’

‘Be that as it may,’ I sneered, ‘you’re going back. You’re going back to do whatever penance I get you. After that, you can study for the Church, or go off and fight for someone, or, failing that, dig in the fields. And if you try anything naughty between here and Richborough, I’ll have you flogged and then clapped in irons.’

 

I overate at dinner. Or perhaps I drank too much. Whatever the case, I had what I suppose I should think the most awful dream. I was back on my diverted ship to Athens. The sun shone bright overhead. The waters sparkled all about. I was naked again. I held my arms up and bathed in the glorious warmth. I thought of my own appearance and felt the usual stiffy coming on. It swelled and swelled into a mighty erection. I looked about me. The sailors were all hard at work with their ropes. No one was looking. I thought of my cabin below. But this was an urgency that wouldn’t wait even the brief drop down the ladder into the cool darkness. Again, I looked about. Even if every eye had been turned in my direction, I was too far gone to care. I flopped down against the mast and gently stroked myself. I almost went off at once, but squeezed my eyes shut and concentrated on delay. When I was ready, I began again with the lightest strokes. My nipples were stiff with excitement. I could feel the sweat running down my back. I groaned and paused again.

‘Let me help you, Master,’ I heard Edward say in English.

I opened my eyes and looked at him, trying to work out who he was, and then how he could be here with me.

‘You haven’t been born yet,’ I said through dry, trembling lips. As he smiled silently back at me, the clothes melted from his body, and he knelt naked beside me. I put a damp hand on his back and pulled him towards me. I kissed him and breathed in the smell of his body. He took hold of me and pressed very hard. I put my hands on to his shoulders and looked into his eyes. He smiled steadily back. I looked at him until a great ball of white fire went off behind my eyes and bleached out all other visual sensations. All sense of time, of space – even of personal identity – followed, as I passed deep into the blaze of annihilation the more insane mystics try and fail to describe.

At last, it was over, and I lay trembling on the deck. Still looking at me, Edward smiled with a calm tenderness. And rested a hand lightly on my chest.

As I finally relaxed and let my eyelids droop, he said, ‘Ya a’khy, anta ygeb a’n takon alkhalifa.’ I opened my eyes and looked at him. With a strange smile, he repeated himself. He was speaking, I realised, in Saracen.