“It is,” Yngvar said, smiling with genuine surprise. “And all the men could use something to celebrate.”
So the commander left. He allowed Valgerd to linger, and she hurriedly whispered the details of the deal with Staurakius to Alasdair. Yngvar heard snippets of the summary. When she got to Yngvar’s oath to serve, Alasdair’s pale face turned whiter. He faced Yngvar, brows furrowed.
“Lord, the others will never agree to this. You must know.”
Yngvar closed his eyes.
“I know.”
4
Prince Kalim sat upon his throne, closed his eyes, and drew a deep, heavy breath. The sweet scent of violet starflowers filled his nose, mixed with the notes of incense that slaves had burned this morning. The two aromas combined in perfect harmony. His servants had learned to burn the incense first, letting the smoke dissipate to leave only subtle notes hanging in the air. Then they filled the audience chamber with flowers that brought out the aromas the prince delighted in experiencing. He found this soothing. It cleared his mind and his heart of worries and fears. Uncertainty vanished. The scent was a delicate mix. To time the decay of the incense with the right type and amount of flowers had to be done with precision. He had squandered dozens of slaves in the learning of this technique. Their broken bodies were cleared away and the blood cleaned before he had to see them. But what good were slaves that could not satisfy his needs?
He opened his eyes.
Unfortunately all that had assembled before him were still present. If only they might vanish like the scent of incense. That he could simply sniff and be relieved of all these dull people.
The women in gauzy clothes and seated on pillows at his feet shrank demurely from his gaze. He was bored with these women, beautiful as they were. But what could he do? He did love his women, and so he feigned interest. They would learn eventually their time with him had ended and step aside. Or else more eager women would shove them aside. Perhaps even killing their competitors somehow. He was not clear on how that all transpired.
To either side of him stood his four guards. They frightened him. These men were said to be able to crush a skull between their palms. He believed it. Where did such men come from? How did they grow to such size? Truly, God was wondrous in his many creations. The guards never spoke, for they had no tongues. No one needed to hear what they thought. What could their thoughts matter? Indeed, were they even burdened with thoughts as he was?
To the left side of the chamber was the emissary from his father. More like a spy and nursemaid. The emissary had one servant clinging to his blue-gray robe. A boy barely a teen. Kalim ignored them, letting both remain smudges in the shadows awaiting their audience. Those were two heads he would not mind seeing crushed between the palms of his guards. Such entertainment that would be!
Then before him was the one matter that would not leave him no matter how many fine scents cleared his mind.
Saleet knelt on the polished stone floor, his head touching its smoothness. The white of his head cover was brilliant. His gray robes had no blemishes. He had dressed in his finest. But of course he would, Kalim thought. Much had to be decided today. He had let his cousin remain prostrate long enough. Saleet’s fear-bright eyes were plain in the reflection cast on the floor.
Kalim smiled. It is well that he be terrified. A ruler must be feared by all.
“Arise, Saleet. It is far past time we had this audience.”
“Thank you, my prince.”
Saleet was a wiry, mousy man. He was dark-skinned and dark-eyed, an accurate reflection of his dark soul. So Kalim thought. While he claimed Saleet as kin, he might be a third cousin at best. Yet kin was kin, and it mattered greatly in this faraway palace in Licata. He had so few to call family here. And fewer family still that did not wish him dead. Saleet, at least for now, was harmless to him.
His cousin remained with eyes downcast. Kalim shifted on his pillow. The women at his feet stirred in response. Would that he could spend his whole days with these women. But Saleet remained before him.
“I have waited to call you before me for weeks,” he said. “I was so angered with you that I could not speak without losing my temper. I might have acted rashly in such a state. Such is my thoughtfulness, Saleet.”
“Your generosity is famous, my prince. Your kindness is a gift worth more than all the riches of the world.”
“Truly,” Kalim said. He shifted again, moving his bare feet so that the women beneath him had to adjust once more. “This wait has given me time to calm myself and time for you to reflect upon your misdeeds.”
He leaned forward on his throne.
“You and your pet, what was his name?”
“Jamil ibn Asim, a Moor.”
“Ah yes, a Moor. Well, you and your pet Moor hid an important secret from me. You kept those Norsemen for your own ends. They desecrated God’s holy temple. It was my decision, after lengthy counsel with many wise advisors, that they should have all been enslaved rather than executed. There was a purpose to this, Saleet. Rather than fall directly to hell, where they are all surely destined, they were to spend time on this earth fearing this eventual end. They were to have been made to suffer and reflect on their damnation. All the while, they would labor ceaselessly for God’s people. They were to spend their sweat, their blood, and eventually their very lives building monuments to God’s glory.”
Kalim paused as Saleet’s round head sunk ever deeper into his shoulders. In truth, Kalim had sold the Norsemen for gold he needed to raise more warriors against Pozzallo and the Byzantines. But this story he weaved on the spot entertained him more.
“When God chose to claim their lives, along with the innocent lives of twenty times twenty of the holiest and most faithful of His warriors, I accepted this judgement. For who are we, Saleet, to defy God in His wisdom?”
“We are mere flies before God’s glory, my prince.” Saleet’s voice broke and he fell to his knees. He knocked his forehead against the stone floor with each word he spoke. “I beg forgiveness! I was rash and selfish. I have sinned against God’s will. I have defied my most precious prince. I am a worm! I am a sinner! I am an unfit thing! Do with me as you will.”
“Ah, but there you have said it yourself.” Kalim sat back, waving his hand in the air as if the facts hung there for all to see. “You have defied God. And so it is for God to determine your punishment. Who am I? A humble servant. That is all I can be before the glory of God. So God will judge you as he judged your pet Moor. He found the Moor lacking. But God spared you. Now, would I not be equally guilty of defying His will were I to enact further punishment?”
Saleet raised his head from the floor. His eyes were white with hope. A red mark showed on his forehead. This pleased Kalim and made him smile.
“My prince, such a question is beyond my simple mind to answer.”
“Of course it is,” Kalim said. “You have tested me. Your secrets have brought me hurt and allowed the Norsemen to escape me. Though they cannot escape God’s judgement. My only regret is we will never see the form of that justice. For I would have enjoyed witnessing their suffering.”
Saleet’s eyes darted side to side as if seeking comfort. Yet he was alone here except for the emissary lingering in the shadows. Kalim had been deliberate in this, of course. Saleet had to know he had no one to depend upon but Kalim himself.
“You are forgiven, Saleet. But test me again and even the bonds of kinship cannot help you.”
“My prince!” Saleet flattened himself to the floor.
It was a convincing gesture of contrition. Well acted and satisfying. One day, when Kalim settled difficulties with his brother and father in Palermo, he would punish Saleet for his rashness. But today he needed allies. The emissary from his father that patiently endured this charade from the shadows was a keen reminder of his need for family allies no matter how insignificant.
“But answer me a question,” Kalim said. “These Norsemen, they defiled our mosque in a curious way. And more
interestingly, they had no real cause to do so. I understand you never liked the leader of those Norsemen. You did not have anything to do with their misdeeds? For it would be the same as if you had defiled that mosque yourself.”
Saleet scrambled to his feet, waving his hands in denial. “Never! Jamil had been their slave, and he entreated me to free him. I could not endure seeing those heathens treat one of the faithful so poorly. I was to have purchased his freedom from them, fairly and legally. But I did remove him from their grip before this. He must have used that night to lure them into this plot.”
“Ah, so it was the Moor’s plot,” Kalim said. “And when did you realize this?”
“Not until Jamil was killed. Had I realized earlier, I would have turned him over to you for justice, my prince. I swear this!”
Kalim waved his cousin toward the exit. He was a smooth liar, but the substance of his lies was flimsy. Whatever use Saleet would serve in the future, Kalim would be wise not to employ him for subterfuge.
“Very well. All is satisfied. I will call on your help one day, cousin. I will expect you to remember my leniency today.”
“Forever, my prince! I will remember forever!” Saleet bowed as he backed up to the exit. He paused to bow again in the archway, then fled.
Kalim rolled his neck. It crunched with every rotation. He closed his eyes and drew in the last of the sweet scents still in the air. Somehow the exchange with Saleet had soured the aroma. Or perhaps the slaves had failed once more to perfect this simple task. He would have them beaten, in case this was their error.
“My apologies for keeping you waiting,” Kalim said, opening his eyes. He looked directly across the audience chamber, not facing the emissary lingering in the shadows. He outstretched his arm to beckon the man forward. He felt the presence of his guards on both sides. He was glad for their stony, imposing silence. The women at his feet stirred at the arrival of the new face before the throne.
The emissary wore plain robes and a gray head cover with a leather band. His face was regal and his beard white and trimmed to a point. He wore the face of a kind uncle or a wise old friend who openly shared his table with you. Lines marked the passing of his frequent smiles. A happy light shined in his honey-colored eyes.
This would likely be the man to kill him, Kamil thought. The smiling and pleasant ones were always murderers. Where better to hide the poisoned dagger, after all?
“Your Highness, I am Rashaad el-Bashar, emissary from His Highness Emir Al-Hasan ibn Ali ibn Abi al-Huysan al-Kahbi.”
Rashaad bowed low. Though he was a servant, he represented Kalim’s father, the emir.
Kalim rose from his throne, the women at his feet parting for him, and stepped from the small dais to greet the emissary. As Rashaad straightened, Kalim drew close enough that his nose brushed Rashaad’s cheek. He took the emissary’s right hand in his. It was warm and dry—a man not worried for his safety. Kalim refused to flinch no matter how this angered him. Instead, he mustered as much warmth as he could when he spoke.
“You and your servant are most welcomed here. Your visit brings joy to me. Please, be at peace.”
They clasped hands long enough to fulfill Kalim’s obligation to hospitality. Each shared their ritualized greetings and blessing. Finally, he withdrew to his throne. He made an elaborate display of seating himself, shifting his pillow around the seat and fluffing it. Anything to make Rashaad’s dry hands sweatier. When he sat, he held the emissary’s eyes in overlong silence before initiating discussion.
“What word do you have from my beloved father?”
Kalim cut to the heart of the visit. He wanted to finish this so he could move on to his real business of the day. He had enemies to defeat, after all, and every moment spent listening to dull commands from his father’s puppet loosened the bonds of his enemies.
“Words that must be relayed in private, Your Highness.”
Kalim blinked, not understanding. Yet when the women at his feet shifted again, he realized Rashaad’s concerns. They were easy to forget. He clapped his hands and the women understood. Their bare feet swept across the shining stone floor and they silently filed out the side door. Kalim smiled after them and imagined joining them later.
Rashaad cleared his throat. Kalim looked around but found only his guards.
“Ah, you’ve no worries for these men. They will not speak of what we discuss. I hardly believe they will understand any sentence more complex than ‘kill.’ Have no worry.”
Rashaad had banished his servant while the women had left. His stern expression said he would not yield. Kalim could only smile, but he cursed his father in his heart. The old man would have insisted on this privacy. Maybe now Rashaad will strike at him. What better time?
“Wait beyond the door,” Kalim said to his four guards. “And if I even raise my voice you return here immediately.”
The giant guards followed orders while Kalim and Rashaad watched them leave.
“Those were instructions more complex than a single word,” Rashaad observed. “Now, Your Highness, I may speak my master’s messages to you freely.”
Kalim twirled his hand in the air as if in mock celebration. He slumped against his throne. Without anyone to see, he could behave as he wished with Rashaad. In some ways, it was freeing to be alone with this old snake. He could kick him a few times and not seem petty before others.
Rashaad smiled without a hint of warmth or kindness. He held Kalim’s eyes as he spoke.
“The Byzantines are sending a fleet to Messina. Our spies have reported the fleet’s movements, and we have learned their intention. They are expecting to surprise us. But the emir is well prepared for such an attack. He has anticipated it for some time.”
Kalim sat up straighter. “A Byzantine fleet? Why Messina? They already occupy it.”
“We tolerate their occupation,” Rashaad said. His smile twisted to a sneer. “They believe they can launch an attack on Palermo from there. But Messina will become a graveyard for their fleet. We will destroy them on the water. It is time that we sweep the Byzantines from Sicily. They have been rats in the granary long enough.”
“This is—quite unexpected news.”
Kalim’s eyes slipped away to visions of a Sicily without the Byzantines. Where would he fit into this new order? If there were no Byzantines to fight, then how would he demonstrate his abilities to his father? How could he show him that he was better than his brother, Ahmad? If the Byzantines were defeated at Messina, then any victory he would have at Pozzallo would be wasted. His heart began to throb as Rashaad continued.
“News of the Byzantine fleet must remain a secret, Your Highness. Not even your most trusted advisors should know we have advanced knowledge of the Byzantine’s plans. We must lull them into sailing into the trap, so we might have final and complete victory over our most hated foes.”
“Then why tell me?”
Rashaad smiled patiently. “Your Highness, your father needs men for the sieges. For Messina to be a truly great victory, one that forces the Byzantines from Sicily forever, we must break their defensive lines. The string of forts that ends in Pozzallo must be snapped. So we have besieged the center of that line to isolate Messina. Without hope of reinforcement, their resolve to hold on will weaken and ultimately fold at the first push. Messina is the head of a long snake that runs the length of the east coast. Cut off the head and the body dies.”
Rashaad mimicked snapping a snake’s head from its body. Kalim merely stared at the gesture. This could not be happening. His chance at glory, at earning the succession to the emir’s throne, all of it was vanishing before he even had the chance to begin.
“Therefore, Your Highness, I come with word from your father. He requires men to reinforce the sieges. You have naval forces here that will suffice to defend Licata. Pozzallo is broken. It just needs a strong wind to fall, and that wind will sweep down from the north when Messina is captured.”
“Pozzallo is not broken,” Kalim said, standing
from his throne. “It is still strong. Do not say it will be nothing when I destroy it stone by stone.”
Rashaad smiled again, bowing slightly.
“Your Highness, you are to remain in place and let Pozzallo die a slow death. There is no need to provoke them nor any need to take the fortress stone by stone, as you say.”
“But if it fell today, then it would only benefit the attack on Messina.” Kalim punched his fist into his open palm. “I will pluck Pozzallo as a jewel for my father’s treasury.”
“Your Highness, there is an entire military strategy already laid in place. Your role in it is to remain in Licata and occupy the attention of the small Byzantine garrison at Pozzallo. If the situation changes, then new strategies will be made. But do not disturb the emir’s carefully arranged plans with your own designs.”
Kalim’s hands itched for a neck to wring. Had his women been here, he might have vented his rage on them. He might yet do so. Yet the one neck he truly wanted to crush was Rashaad’s. He wanted to grab the old man by his finely trimmed beard and carve open his throat.
Instead he fell back in his chair and looked away at the side door. He flicked his hands to dismiss Rashaad.
“I will obey my father’s will in all things,” he said, knowing he lied. “My servants will show you to your quarters. How long can I expect the pleasure of your company?”
“Until Messina has fallen, Your Highness. I am to ensure the required men are sent to the border as requested by the emir himself.”
Kalim closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He remained still and silent until Rashaad had left. Once he opened his eyes, he was alone in the audience chamber.
He wanted to scream, to overturn his throne and smash it to bits. His brother Ahmad would horde the glory for himself and leave nothing for any other. Pozzallo had been allowed to exist for too long, and now had to fall while its destruction was still meaningful. He had to demonstrate martial power equal to his brother’s.
The Red Oath Page 4