Chapter LXV
As summer came and the heat became oppressive there was no further news of the Sultan, may God give him wisdom. There were daily tales of skirmishing and of troop movements along the caravan routes, but nothing more than usual, for in those days all caravans between Damascus and Egypt were escorted by troops to protect them from Reynauld de Chatillon.
"I suppose the Sultan, God rest him, is busy making Aleppo secure," Babrak said one day as we sat in our room getting ready to go down to the place of fighting.
"Don't complain," Hamed said, laying down his pen. "I have no desire to spend another summer at Banias."
I said nothing; I was busy pulling on my shoes, for that day I was matched with Karl and I had learned from painful experience that he always fought to win - as, indeed, he did, but not before a hard struggle in which we both gave and received many blows with the blunt weapons of the place of fighting. When at last I was beaten to the ground Karl flopped down beside me, sweating profusely and breathing heavily.
"You're improving, Fuad. You nearly had me a couple of times."
I grinned happily. "When I can beat you, then I will be content," I said.
"Come, let's give these back to old Konrad," Karl said, rising and picking up his practice sword. "I'm thirsty."
I laughed again, for of late we who came to the place of fighting had adopted the custom that the loser bought a drink for his opponent and there was a seller of dibbis waiting at the edge of the field with his ornate dispenser over his shoulder, as well as those who sold wine and beer.
"I must remember to bring some money next time," Konrad said as we sipped at our glasses of the brown liquid.
"Why?" I asked.
"In case you beat me," he explained. "The day is not far off."
We drained our glasses and handed them back to the seller, then set off up the slope to the Jaffa Gate.
"What are you doing now?" Karl asked.
I shrugged. "I have nothing to do."
"Come with me," he suggested. "I have a vow to pay at the Holy Sepulchre and then we can go to the hammam."
"Why not?" I answered.
We went in through the gate and a minute later turned left and made our way through the narrow streets to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. From this direction the nearest door was the southern one so we entered next to the stone on which the Nasranis say that the body of Jesus, peace be upon him, was laid while the women who followed him prepared it for burial.
Karl left me there while he went in search of a priest and I looked about me curiously, for es-Sid always sent one of the Franks to guide pilgrims to this place, saying that only a Christian could explain it properly. At my right hand there was a narrow staircase down which a group of pilgrims was coming and I wondered what was up there and whether it would be proper for me to go up and explore.
The pilgrims came and gathered around the stone, so I stepped back out of the way and stood by the stairs. A moment later another group of pilgrims came in through the south door led by a man called Mark Keshishian, an Armenian guide whom I had encountered once or twice before. They queued to climb the narrow stairs and Mark stood back to let them go first - and in doing so found himself next to me. At first he did not recognise me, for though we had met, we didn't really know one another, but suddenly his eyebrows rose and he spoke to me.
"Salaam, Fuad."
"Salaam, Mark," I replied, relieved that I could remember his name.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Karl, my companion, has a vow to pay, so I have come with him. He is there" - I pointed with my chin - "speaking to that priest."
Mark shrugged. "Tayib - good. I thought perhaps you were lost. I've not seen you in here before."
"I've only been here once, when I went into the tomb. What is up there?" I asked, jerking my chin towards the stairs.
Mark grinned. "You don't know? Come, you can listen to what I tell these pilgrims and save me saying it twice."
I followed Mark up the stairs but when he went to the front of the group I stayed at the back. In front of me there were two stone tables that the Nasranis call "altars", much ornamented with silver lamps and crosses and pictures.
"Now this is Calvary," Mark raised his voice a little so that everyone could hear. "As you all know, after Jesus was condemned by Pilate, he was brought to the hill Calvary and crucified. A cross made of wood was placed on the ground and he was stretched out on it with his arms like this." Mark raised his arms and extended them out from his shoulders.
"Then the soldiers took nails and hammered them through his hands and his feet so that the prophecy written by King David might be fulfilled: 'They pierced my hands and my feet.' This was done right here, on the very spot where you are standing."
At once the pilgrims began to press backwards so that they might stare at the floor and two of the women fell on their knees and bent down to kiss the stones. I stared in astonishment, for though I had often seen idols of the prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, with his arms extended on a cross, I had not realised that he had been nailed in that position.
"Then the soldiers lifted up the cross and carried it over here and put it in the hole in the rock prepared for it - and like all soldiers, they were not gentle. They dropped the foot of the cross into the hole and though it is only a few inches deep, imagine what it was like for Jesus, hanging there helplessly, to have his whole weight dropped down on those nails through his hands and feet."
There was a gasp from the pilgrims and I winced. The thought of my weight tearing at the flesh of my hands made me shudder.
"Please think," Mark continued. "Jesus' hands were often extended to bring healing to the sick, sight to the blind, hearing to the deaf and cleanness to the leper. Now they were extended again, nailed wide open by wicked men who thought they were being cruel to him and never knew that once more those hands were extended in mercy - mercy to you and to me. They nailed his hands so that even if he wished, he could not bring them together to shut out anyone who desires to come and receive his mercy. No one is excluded; Jew, Greek, Frank, Arab, all are welcome."
By now most of the pilgrims were weeping openly and an old man next to me, a great lump of a man with gnarled and calloused hands, fell on his knees, the tears streaming down his face. He crossed himself repeatedly and then suddenly snatched out a great knife from his bosom, shook it threateningly and cried out, "Ah Dominus! If I had been there, they would not have taken you except over my body."
I grinned to myself, for even I could have disarmed a peasant such as he. Mark stood aside and one by one the pilgrims crept forward on their knees and felt under the left-hand altar for the hole in which the cross had been placed, kissing the stone and wetting it with their tears. Mark quietly made his way to where I was standing and I was so deep in my thoughts that I jumped when his voice rang out from beside me.
"Jesus hung on the cross for three hours while his mother and the disciple John stood near here and watched him die. When at last he died there was a great earthquake that split the rock and the captain of the soldiers exclaimed, 'Truly, this was the Son of God!'"
"Was there?" I asked Mark quietly.
"Was there what?" He bent his head towards me so that he could hear better.
"Was there an earthquake?"
"Indeed," Mark nodded. "After they have finished here I take them down to a room that has been cut in the rock beneath us and where you can see the way in which the rock is cracked."
I shook my head slowly in astonishment. I remembered Brother Hildebrandt explaining that "Son of God" meant that there was a very close relationship between Allah and the prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, and truly it must be so, for the deaths of ordinary men are not marked by earthquakes.
When all the pilgrims had finished praying Mark touched my arm. "Coming?" he asked.
"No," I jerked my head. It occurred to me that it was partly for this Calvary that Amalric had died and I wanted to stay longer in this place of prayers and quiet devotion. This was how I had imagined feeling when I performed the Haj, the religious duty which had been ruined for me by the death of Amalric and the tumultuous hatred of the mob. "I - er - I want to feel under there myself."
"God go with you, brother," Mark said and turned away.
I stared after him in surprise, for Nasranis did not call Muslims "brother". He did not look back and after a moment I went forward and looked under the altar, but in the dim light I could not see clearly and so I had to kneel and, like the pilgrims, reach in under and feel with my hand. There was indeed a hole in the rock and I stayed there for a short while, my hand in the hole, thinking of how the prophet Isa, peace be upon him, had died.
A quiet cough behind me brought me to myself and I stood up hurriedly.
"There you are," Karl said. "I've been looking for you everywhere. Ready for the baths?"
"Come!" I beckoned urgently and pointed to one of the crosses on which was a figure of the Prophet Isa, peace be upon him. "Did you know that the Prophet Isa was nailed to that thing, that cross?"
Karl looked at me in astonishment. "Why, yes," he admitted. "We all know that."
I stared at the cross, remembering that the Prophet Isa, peace and blessings of God be upon him, truly died - and that meant that he truly suffered.
"How could Allah permit such a thing?" I wondered. "You believe that he is god; how could Allah allow himself to be treated like that?"
Karl shrugged. "The priests tell us that it was the only way for our salvation. Are you coming to the baths?"
Truly if Brother Hildebrandt had been there I would have refused so that I might talk more about this thing of wonder and astonishment, but only black-robed priests with high hats were near and I remembered how one such had treated me with contempt at the place of baptism. I had no desire to be snubbed again.
"Come on," I said. "Let's go."
