He wore no turban, and was dressed only in his nightclothes. His white hair streamed from his head as if he had been tearing at it, and his beard was wild and uncombed. Indeed, he looked like a man driven from his bed by the force of a nightmare that yet bedevilled him.

He started when the door closed behind him and looked around at me. His eyes were baleful, dark, and staring. The grimace with which he beheld me did not bode well, I thought, for the outcome of our meeting.

Nevertheless, I bowed respectfully, and waited for him to begin. He placed the torch in a sconce beside the door and pointed to the stool, indicating that I was to sit. I did so, and he sat, too, cross-legged on the blue cushion facing me. A strange meeting this, I thought -no advisors, counsellors, servants or minions; no impressive array of guards to lend him stature; no lavish and costly appointments of gold and silk and sandalwood-just the two of us, man to man.

He looked at me hard, and I returned his gaze. I saw that he trembled slightly, as old men do when palsy claims them-a quiver of the head, a minute shaking of the hands. Then he began nodding, and intoning a chant in Arabic. After a moment he sighed and then leapt up again, and began striding around the room.

I watched him, mystified by his behaviour, yet moved to pity by the severity of the agitation which gripped him so tightly.

'So!' he cried at last. Then, as if frightened by the violence of his outburst, he repeated it again, but more softly. 'So! It comes to this.'

'My lord,' I replied.

'I am khalifa! Ruler and Protector of Egypt. Armies march at my command! I say what will be and it is. I am the law and the hope of my people, and I answer to Allah alone.' He stared at me as if daring me to defy him.

'Indeed, my lord,' I said.

'Yet,' he thrust a finger into the air, 'it comes to this!'

He seemed content with this statement, and took up his pacing again, legs stumping, arms jerking stiffly. I still could not understand his meaning, and the suspicion that he might be mad was rapidly hardening to certainty. 'You wished to see me, my lord,' I reminded him gently.

'Do not presume!' he shouted, instantly angry. 'I have but to speak a word and your life is forfeit to your impertinence.'

'Forgive me, Most Excellent Khalifa. Your servant awaits your pleasure.'

This seemed to calm him somewhat. He sat down again.

'You are a father,' he said, almost accusingly so it seemed.

'That I am, my lord.'

'You know the love of a father for his children,' he declared, speaking as if it were a celebrated and widely proclaimed fact of my existence.

'I do, yes. God knows.'

He nodded. 'Then you know also the anguish of a father who must chastise his rebellious child.'

'It is a torment that tears at the very soul,' I sympathized.

'Ya'allah! It is true!' he cried. Closing his eyes, he began slowly rocking back and forth, his wrinkled face an image of the pain that was torturing him.

He sat that way for a long time, and I did not intrude on his misery. After awhile, he drew a long breath, and opened his eyes. 'I am the law and the protection of my people,' he said, his voice calm and steady. 'Justice is my decree. It is written: a man who knows the will of Allah and fails to do it shall not escape the everlasting flames of damnation. And again: A believer who departs from the path of righteousness is no better than an infidel; he shall find his reward among the damned.' He regarded me sharply, defiant once more. 'Is this not so?'

'It is so, my lord,' I agreed.

'Yes,' he sighed, his voice soft, almost broken. 'It comes to this: my son is rebellious and unbelieving. He has done great wickedness and the blood of the murdered demands justice. You are a father. You love your child. You know what I am saying.'

Until that moment, I had struggled to understand his anguish, but as he spoke these last few words, the awful import of his summons awakened in me. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

'Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and life for life. That,' he said, 'is the cold heart of the law.'

I felt my own heart grow cold.

'My son must answer to Allah for his wickedness,' he continued.

'Justice must be satisfied and righteousness upheld. As I am khalifa, it must be.' He looked at me meaningfully, willing me to understand.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled as his purpose broke upon me: I was to be that instrument of justice. That was why he had summoned me.

'You are a nobleman and a father,' he said again. 'You understand these things.'

'I understand your predicament, my lord,' I admitted woodenly, wishing with all my heart that I did not.

'I am khalifa!' he snapped suddenly. 'Do not presume!'

'Forgive me, Most Excellent Khalifa. I am unworthy of your regard.'

He stood again quickly. He shouted for the guards, and the door opened at once. Pointing to me, he spoke a rapid command in Arabic, whereupon, they seized me and pulled me away. As I was dragged from the room, al-Hafiz shouted, 'Pray to your God, Christian! Pray as a father that you might live to see your beloved child once more!'

Thus, I was returned to my cell and left to think about what had taken place. The more I pondered the implications of the strange audience, the more extraordinary it became. In his great despair, the Caliph of Egypt had turned to me; he had sought my aid with his wretched son. In some way I had become confessor to the caliph.

Why? I asked myself. Why had he chosen me?

He commanded armies, as he had needlessly reminded me. The word of the caliph is law… justice is my decree… Why confide these things to me, a mere prisoner in his keep?

The old man's reasons remained as dark and inscrutable as the beclouded night itself.

Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, and life for life.

The reasons for the caliph's confidence may have eluded me, but his purpose I suspected-and feared. He was asking me to be the instrument of his justice… he was asking me to kill his son.

Great King and Saviour, I prayed, inwardly quaking, may this cup pass from me.

At the command of the atabeg, I was taken out onto the plain to join the other prisoners awaiting execution. Too exhausted and dispirited to lift their heads, they sat slumped on the ground with eyes downcast, their faces ashen with fatigue, their hearts numb with terror.

Those with presence of mind enough to know their peril were praying fervently; their voices formed a continual low gabble over which the moans and cries of the wounded among them drifted like a mournful dirge.

My Turkish captors untied me and pushed me down with the others. The man next to me raised his head as I settled in beside him. He regarded me dully, his battered face rapidly blackening beneath livid bruises to his cheek, and jaw, and neck; his chin was split to the bone and oozing big drops of blood. 'Are you a priest?' he asked in a ragged voice.

'No,' I replied. He made no reply, but his head sank lower. And then it came to me what he was asking. No man, feeling the cold hand of death on his shoulder, wishes to die unshriven. 'But I will pray with you, if you like,' I offered.

He nodded and, clasping his hands beneath his chin, struggled to his knees before me and began to pray. It was a simple prayer, yet well composed, and at the end of it, he begged the Heavenly Father's forgiveness for his many sins, and asked the Good Lord to remember his mother and his wife, and not to let them sink into beggary now that he was gone.

When he finished, I prayed that Christ the Blessed Redeemer of Men would carry the prayer before the Heavenly Throne, and -'What is your name?' The man opened his eyes and glanced at me. 'Your name, friend, what is it?'

'Girardus.'