I dreamed that I was back in Jarrow on the day the northerners got into the monastery. This time, instead of lifting me, they’d killed all the monks and set fire to the place. I didn’t see the killing. I only knew that it had already happened. I stood about a hundred yards outside the main gate, and was watching as the flames licked and flickered about every upper opening. Still wearing the clothes in which he’d died, Wilfred floated just before me, about three yards above the ground. Though his lips moved frantically, I couldn’t hear a word he was trying to say. At last, he gave up on words and was reduced to pointing – now at the burning monastery, now towards the sun that was still low in the south-eastern sky. There was no solidity about his body. It was more like a mass of shaped and coloured smoke. In places, I could see straight through him to where smoke from the monastery was rising into the blue sky.
‘Go away,’ I cried at him. ‘You’re dead.’ I waved my stick at him, and, without feeling it strike on anything solid, saw it vanish into his chest before re-emerging. The boy twisted about in the air so he could look fully at me. There was the hurt look on his face that I recalled so well from whenever he thought me less enthusiastic than himself about the lunatic doctrines it had been my duty to expound to him.
As I drifted back into wakefulness, the smell of burning travelled back with me. I knew at once I was far from Jarrow. There was the soft kiss of the silk on my body where slaves had put me into my bed, and the still, warm air of a Syrian afternoon in spring. I was plainly Alaric, rich-as-Croesus, resting in the house of Zakariya. Jarrow was far off, and the monastery there could take a running jump. But there was still an omnipresent though faint smell of burning. Was the house on fire? I opened my eyes. The slave who’d sat beside me while I nodded off was gone. I sat up and cleared my throat loudly. I was alone. No point shouting for assistance. No point struggling out of bed just to pull the bell cord. I waited while my legs came back to life, and I drained the cup of fruit squash that had been placed on the table beside my bed.
My rooms were all on the first floor, and my bedroom window looked directly down into the central garden. As I got it open and looked out, I breathed in a stray gust of smoke that had drifted up from the garden. I fought to control the coughing fit and squeezed my eyes shut. I was about to push the window closed again, when I heard the voice of Zakariya from somewhere below.
‘You stupid black fucker!’ he screamed. ‘If I weren’t so bleeding soft, I’d have you strung up on the flesh hooks and branded.’ I heard the repeated sound of a stick on bare flesh and a slave’s moans of despair. I pushed the window shut and pressed the catch into place. I needed to see Zakariya. I’d evaded his obvious questions the previous evening. The sooner I got hold of him now, the better it would be. I looked about for some clothes. There was a robe of white linen laid out for me on one of the chairs. It was one of those garments with many ties that call out for assistance. But I didn’t need to impress anyone. For what I had in mind, respectability would be enough. With some groaning and wheezing, I pulled the robe over my head and tied it on me as well as I could. I stepped into a pair of slippers and made for the door.
The stairs led down to a corridor of humbler single rooms. At the end of this was a door that led into the main hall. From here, I turned left and made my way out into the garden. I bumped almost at once into Zakariya. His face had turned the colour of roof tiles, and he leaned heavily on his stick. He straightened up the moment he saw me, and pulled his face into the semblance of a welcoming smile.
‘We have some business to discuss,’ I said shortly. Trying not to look as curious as I felt, I ignored the black smoke that was coming from behind some bushes.
Now in his little office, Zakariya restrained himself just in time from biting one of the coins. Instead, he gave me a repeat of his welcoming oily smile. I let him refill my cup. I leaned back into my chair and looked a while at the closed window.
‘What is that smell of burning?’ I asked, not caring if it meant any loss of face.
‘After his long decline, my father has finally died,’ came the answer.
I thought of the vicious dotard who’d presided over things during my earlier stays in the house, and marvelled at the triumph of a good constitution over a bad heart and clouded mind. If he’d only just died, he must have made it almost to my age. I made a vague expression of sympathy and told myself not to ask if cremation had suddenly come back into fashion. I sniffed again. No, that wasn’t quite human flesh. Besides, when had cremation ever been the fashion in Syria? Zakariya mistook my silence for something else, and smothered a giggle and bowed.
‘My father was to the end an obstinate Cross Worshipper,’ he explained. ‘I have now ordered his collection of books to be destroyed. Where they contradict the true Word of God, they are blasphemous. Where they support it, they are superfluous. In either case, let them be consumed.’ He bowed again, then looked up, obviously pleased at his attempted witticism. I acknowledged it with a wave of my cup.
‘But, surely,’ I said mildly – not that I imagined the world would lose much from the burning of a few dozen ranting supports of the Monophysite heresy – ‘that is not a Saracen position. Did not the Caliph Omar himself order the preservation of all Christian and Jewish writings that came into the hands of the Faithful?’ I might have looked into the eyes of a dead fish.
But Zakariya stared again at the three coins I’d set out on the table. He gave me another of his smiles. ‘With all respect, My Lord. ..’ Without asking leave, he sat down opposite me. I looked into my cup and said nothing. ‘With all respect, My Lord, this is the beginning of times. God sent Jesus – peace be upon Him – to be His Prophet. His teachings were immediately corrupted by the Greeks. Now, God has sent Mohammed – peace be upon Him – as His last and greatest Prophet. His teachings cannot be corrupted. And they have wiped the slate of history. Those who accept them are no longer Syrians or Egyptians or Saracens – or even Greeks. They are the Faithful. All that went before is of no value. My sons shall learn the Holy Book by heart, and blend into the Community of the Faithful. I am the last of my blood whose first language must be Syriac, the last who was ever deceived by the muddy reason of the Greeks and of those who argued against the Greeks from within Greek premises. There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is His Prophet,’ he ended in a Saracen more piously than correctly voiced.
‘Then the boy and I must change lodgings,’ I said with mock earnestness, ‘if we are to continue going to church.’ Of course, I had no intention of visiting any place of worship. I’d wasted enough time already in these places, and had reached an age that gave me the perfect excuse for not wasting any more. But I’d hit just the right tone to get the man’s face working.
‘“Let there be no compulsion in matters of faith,”’ he said hurriedly with another glance at the coins. ‘Those are the words of the Prophet.’
And so they are. If he’d said nothing beyond that, I’d have thought better of the Saracen Prophet. However, you don’t push someone too far when he’s taken up a new religion. Those born in the Faith could take a relaxed view of its harder precepts. That didn’t include Zakariya. If he’d gone out and spat on his father’s grave, it wouldn’t be much worse than he was now doing. And you don’t argue with a man in that position – even when you are paying wildly over the going rate for his hospitality.
‘Would it offend My Lord if I asked how long these miserable rooms should be reserved?’ he asked. He now gave way to compulsion and picked up one of the coins. He rubbed it hard between forefinger and thumb, and his face took on its first genuinely peaceful look since I’d caught him finishing the holocaust of his father’s library.
‘Until further notice,’ I said. I thought of adding some rider to this, but instead repeated myself: ‘Until further notice. I will let you know of any change of plan. In the meantime, please attend on me every Tuesday morning to receive another advance payment of your rent.’
His mouth nearly fell open. He was on his feet again, bowing and bringing his right hand again and again against his forehead. It would be all as I asked, he assured me. Within that house, I might as well be the King of Beirut.
As the promises and boasts poured from his lips like water through a clock, I looked up at the ceiling and thought once more of the golden mass locked within the cupboard beside my bed. When Zakariya did finally shut up, I might think it worth ordering tuna fish baked in honey for dinner.