Nicæa

Nilufar's Nightmare

 Each night since the siege had begun, Nilufar's dream was the same. Oh, not the little things in the dream – those changed each night – but the great sweeping arc of the dream, that was the same. Somehow, the dream always found a path from dream into nightmare.

 The dream always started with some innocuous, everyday scene, Nilufar at home, alone, her mother nowhere to be seen. Sometimes Nilufar was mending clothing, strong cloaks worn out from travel. Sometimes, she was sweeping the house as if in preparation for guests. Once, she dreamed she was plucking a pigeon, planning to cook it as a surprise for her father. In the dream Nilufar's father was due home at any moment, even though in real life he had gone East with the Sultan to fight the Danishmends. The Sultan and his army had tried to return after the siege had begun; they had been driven back, and Nilufar did not know where her father might be now, or if he would ever return. At any rate, none of that mattered in the dream. What mattered in the dream was that, whatever ordinary activity Nilufar might be engaged in, she would be interrupted.

Suddenly, there would be a terrible noise - the sound of a section of the wall crashing down as it was undermined and fell – and the barbarians would be upon them. The invaders never came across the lake that lay to the West of the city; always the wall was breached with a sound like an earthquake combined with a thunderclap. She had heard the sound, once, early on in the siege. One of the two hundred towers along the wall that ringed the city had been heavily damaged, but the defenders had managed to hold the breach and repair the wall. In her nightmare, the men manning the wall were killed, and the invaders spilled into the city. Nilufar would run to the window, the one that looked out over the square, and she always saw the same terrible sight.

There, right below the drying laundry, she would find two men fighting, a battle to the death. One was always dressed as if he were one of the invaders, a red cross emblazoned on a white surcoat. The other man, Nilufar supposed, represented one of the Sultan's hidden assassins, whom everyone had heard rumours about but nobody had ever seen. He was not dressed in the Seljuk fashion, and he was nobody she recognized – so far as she could tell, at least; the man in her dream had his face covered. But whoever he was, he was fighting the invader, skilfully attacking as Nilufar watched in horrified fascination from the window.

Finally, the end would come. The fight did not always end the same way. Sometimes, the invader plunged his sword into the chest of the strange defender. More often, the defender slit the throat of the invader. No matter which man won, there was blood. Blood poured from one man's throat or the other man's chest, more blood than a human body could possibly hold. She could smell the blood, feel its stickiness when a few small spatters hit her, practically taste it. And the blood continued to pour out of the dead man, until the square was awash with the thick red liquid. Then, and only then, the man left standing would turn, his expression exultant, towards the window. His gaze, steely and cruel, would meet Nilufar's, and his gaze held all the evil in the world.

Nilufar would be shocked awake just before dawn, bathed in a cold sweat. Each time, she told herself that she was not a little child, but fifteen, a young woman, too old for nightmares; and each time she sure that she would never be calm enough to sleep again.