‘I do not follow, Majesty.’

‘What chance have I of keeping this throne if your master believes he can simply throw down his lines before our gates and demand that I hand over the keys to the city?’

Abdal-Battal gave a soft grunt of mirth. ‘Majesty. You have seen our numbers. Today we control most of Anatolia and half of Thrace. The empire is already ours. We could take this city by storm, if we so chose. But in such circumstances, life and property would no longer be assured. Bloodshed, plunder, destruction. These are all your people could expect.’

Leo let his soldier’s gaze sit heavily on the envoy for a few seconds. ‘Muawiya, the first caliph of the House of Umayya, was inflated with this same conceit. He tried and failed to force the walls of this city – his dream died with him. For five years the walls stood. They will stand for another five if I choose. Your master’s shame, on the other hand, will stand for ever.’

Seeing he had riled the emperor, the young envoy had tact enough to recede. He bowed his head. ‘Majesty.’

‘Tell your master, he shall have his keys and our allegiance. But he must be patient. Time, Abdal-Battal, is the necessary ingredient of success. Prince Maslama surely understands the need to save face. There are elements within our walls who would risk all to save Christ’s citadel from falling into the caliph’s hands. Insurrection. Murder. Stiff-necked resistance at every turn. These are what he could then expect.’ Leo smiled suddenly. ‘The people must be lulled. Like a little child, they must be put to sleep. Do you understand?’

The envoy’s brow knitted tighter. ‘I fear not, Majesty.’

‘The siege must go on for now. We, within these walls, must feel its bite. Let us sleep with a little fear and uncertainty for a while. Enough that the appearance of resistance is convincing, so that when I do relinquish control into the caliph’s hands, the taste of submission proves a good deal sweeter than people feared. Then they will look to me with gratitude. Who knows, perhaps they will even see me as their saviour? I dare to hope as much. . . Do you begin to see now?’

Abdal-Battal didn’t answer at once. Katāros noticed his fist tighten, his knuckles straining against the skin. He found he could tell a lot from a man’s knuckles. This man’s were all bone and sinew. Perhaps under all that finery was hidden one of those warrior-ascetics who had so terrorized the borderlands, like the famously fragrant Caliph Umar before him.

‘You cannot hope that nothing will change, Majesty. The city is full of idols. Such blasphemy cannot be allowed to continue. Even here, in this golden hall.’ He glanced up at the dome above where a million gilded tesserae formed the face of the Christ. ‘Idols stare from every wall. They must be torn down.’