by Robyn Young
Just recently, Baybars seemed to have become obsessed with the repairs. Kalawun thought he understood why. Rebuilding the mosque was simple. Up it went, brick by brick, until it became a complete structure. Building territory wasn’t so tangible. It was all points on a map, boundaries that moved and changed. The mosque just became. It was something Baybars could look at every morning and know he had helped create. His frequent visits had, however, attracted unwelcome attention. Only last week, he was attacked by a Shia Muslim: the opponents of the Sunni majority. The man flung stones at him, shouting the name of Ali, before running off into the crowds. Baybars wasn’t hurt and the Shia was caught shortly afterward and crucified. But the assault had unsettled the sultan. He had tried to conceal it, but Kalawun had known him for too long not to see it. It was one of many attacks on his person and position over the past months, and it was unlikely to be the last.
Kalawun was about to move off toward the officials’ quarters, when a gray shape came flying down the corridor. He gave a grunt of surprise as Aisha barreled into his arms. She was shaking, her whole body wracked with sobs. His surprise turned instantly to concern. Gripping her shoulders, he pushed her away from him so that he could look at her. Her eyes were red and swollen. Strands of hair had twisted free of her hijab and clung to her face, sticky with tears. Kalawun frowned and pushed them aside, seeing a scarlet mark on her cheek.
“What is this?” he asked her. “Aisha? Talk to me. What has happened?” The firmness of his tone seemed to settle her.
“I’ve lost him, F-father,” she stammered.
“Lost who?”
“My monkey. He ran away.”
“Does Nizam know that you are out of the harem?”
Aisha couldn’t meet his gaze.
Kalawun sighed sharply. “You must not leave it without her permission, Aisha. How many times must I tell you?” He escorted her through a door that led into a deserted chamber. Kalawun turned to face her, but his expression softened as he saw another tear slide down her cheek. He touched the red mark imprinted there. “What happened?”
“Baraka,” she said fiercely. “He hit me!”
“He did what?” said Kalawun, feeling something shoot through him, a cold, iron something that made his whole body rigid.
“He was in one of the passages at the northern enclosure’s walls. The ones near the broken tower.”
“You were together?”
Aisha shook her head. “He was there with Khadir, I think. There was a commander there too. I thought it was deserted.” She looked up at him miserably. “I only went there to play.”
Kalawun didn’t answer. He trolled quickly through the reasons Khadir and Baraka might be together. As far as he was aware, they rarely spoke. Khadir’s threats and insinuations from the other week came back to him, and he worried. “This commander? Do you know who it was?”
“He was wearing a yellow cloak. I saw him talking with you at the wedding, before I came to speak with you.”
“Mahmud,” said Kalawun at once, his frown deepening. “Come. I’ll escort you back to the harem, where you will apologize to Nizam.” Kalawun spoke on before Aisha could protest. “And then I am going to have some of my men find Fakir for you.”
Her eyes registered watery gratitude. “Thank you, Father,” she said, not bothering to remind him that Fakir wasn’t the monkey’s name anymore.
But there was no need for any search party, for when Aisha and Kalawun arrived at the harem palace they found the monkey sitting on Aisha’s bed, much to Nizam’s annoyance.
Leaving his daughter, Kalawun headed back toward the main buildings, his mind clouded with the image of that handprint on Aisha’s cheek. Forcing himself to focus, he raked over the reasons Baraka, Khadir and Mahmud might have for being in a deserted part of the palace, together or alone. He found no answers and didn’t like the uneasy feeling it gave him.
“Amir Kalawun.”
Kalawun saw Baybars crossing the courtyard, followed by two Bahri. For a moment, he wondered about mentioning it to the sultan, but a little voice stopped him. There was really nothing to talk to him about yet. “My Lord Sultan, I was looking for you. I’ve received reports from Cilicia that we should go over.”
Baybars nodded. “We can do that now.” He slipped off his kid riding gloves. “There is one thing first, Kalawun. I meant to speak of it to you yesterday, but the earthquake distracted me. I was talking with Khadir and he suggested that I send someone to interrogate the Assassins, now that they are under my control, in order to discover who it was that contracted them to kill me.”
“My lord,” said Kalawun, furious that Khadir had gone over his head with this, “is this wise? Surely we have more than enough to concentrate on, without wasting men or resources on what could prove to be a fruitless search?”
“Khadir thought Nasir would be good for this task,” said Baybars, and Kalawun heard the finality of his decision in his tone. “I take it you can spare him?”
“My lord,” said Kalawun in a low voice, nodding.
Baybars studied him for a moment. “I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I did not believe it necessary.” He faltered and looked away. “Omar’s death was always too raw for me to want to look. I served vengeance by assuming control of the Assassins and taking their territory. I thought that would be enough.” His gaze flicked back to Kalawun, his blue eyes as flat and uncompromising as the desert sky. “But Khadir’s words awakened in me a desire that I have harbored for some time. I want to know who is responsible, Kalawun. I want to know who killed Omar. Tell Nasir to find me their names.” He smiled coolly. “Now, let us discuss these reports.”
Kalawun walked in silence at Baybars’s side, his thoughts racing, sharpened by anger. Khadir was more of a viper than he had thought. He had never trusted the soothsayer. But the old man was becoming more and more meddlesome. And what, Kalawun wondered, was his interest in Baraka?
Later that evening, Kalawun left the citadel and returned to al-Rawda, the island in the Nile where he lived with his family and regiment. During the meeting with Baybars, his mind had been too preoccupied with details of the campaign to think of anything else. But on the journey to the island, his thoughts had once again become plagued with images of his daughter’s bruised cheek and Khadir’s sly smile.
He crossed the bridge over the river, the water flowing slow and black beneath him. Reaching the banks, he spurred the beast along the tree-lined path that sloped up to the palace. The huge structure rose dark against the purple sky, the towers, where the men of the Mansuriyya were barracked, rising like two horns from the head of stone. The guards at the gates stood straighter as they saw him approach. In the courtyard, Kalawun slipped down from the saddle. An attendant was there immediately to lead the beast to the stables.
Kalawun could hear the chime of iron before he reached the inner courtyard, the sound carrying through the vaulted passageway toward him. Out in the yard, two youths were fighting. Around them other boys, ranged between nine and sixteen, had formed a circle. All of them wore leather jerkins over short woolen tunics, with tahfifas: neat, round turbans, covering their heads. Their faces were a mix of colors, but most were ruddy-skinned Turks. In their midst stood the tall, slender form of Nasir. He was wearing the blue silk cloak of the Mansuriyya, the bands of material on his upper arms displaying his name and rank. The younger boys around him were the newest slaves he had bought for the regiment, although even they were already two years into their training. Following the destruction of so many Christian strongholds, the Mamluks had found themselves with a surplus of slaves, and the subsequent peace had continued to keep these soldiers alive. The younger they were when taken, the better. Boys were easier to train than a broken man wrenched from his family after a siege. They were impressionable, quicker at submitting to the strict military regime and to full conversion to Islam, easier to mold into steel.
The courtyard was chilly in the shadow of the walls that surrounded it, the windows and entranceway
s like a hundred dark eyes looking down on the boys as the two at their center battled. There was a harsh crack as one of the youths hacked into the other’s polished wooden shield, which was large and round, the shield of the infantry.
“Halt.” The two youths fell apart, panting, as Nasir stepped forward. “That was a good block, Shiban,” he said to the youth, whose shield had a new score across the center. Nasir glanced around as Kalawun approached. He bowed to the commander and barked an order at the youths, who all did the same, heads dipping in unison. Nasir pointed at two. “Begin your stretches.” He went to Kalawun, who had stopped a short distance away. “Amir.”
Kalawun made himself smile at the officer. “Their training is going well? They seem stronger.”
Nasir looked at the boys. “The younger ones are coming on.” He lowered his voice. “But some of the older boys are restless. One here is almost seventeen. I think it might be good to place him in the regiment. I feel he is ready.”
Kalawun nodded. “Certainly. I will arrange it.” He paused, the silence broken by the sound of the youths limbering up for the fight. “There is something I need you to do, Nasir.” He explained what Baybars had commanded.
Nasir remained silent for some moments after Kalawun had finished. “Can I ask why I have been chosen for this task, Amir?” He shook his head, frowning. “Why not one of the Bahri?”
“Baybars requested you specifically. You know the area where the Assassins live.”
Nasir looked away. There was a hardness in his gaze that Kalawun hadn’t seen for a long time. “What about them, Amir?” Nasir asked, gesturing at the boys. “I bought and trained them. They are accustomed to me and to my methods.”
“Another officer will continue your work whilst you are gone.” Kalawun was quiet for a moment. “I am sorry, Nasir. If I could, I would send someone else. I know it will be difficult for you to return to that place.”
Nasir’s gaze swung back to Kalawun. “That is in the past, Amir.” He gave a small smile, but the flint in his eyes remained. “I will do my duty.”
Kalawun put a hand on the officer’s shoulder. “I know you will, my friend.”
10
The Genoese Quarter, Acre 12 MARCH A.D. 1276
The sun was starting to dip in the west as Will steered his horse through the busy streets of the Genoese quarter. Above several palazzos, warehouses and shops the flags of San Marco, the patron saint of Venice, still fluttered. The Genoese might be trickling back into their vanquished quarter, but Venice, it appeared, would be slow to relinquish her hold. Beside Will rode Robert and bringing up the rear were four more Templars. It was Will’s first assignment in charge of other knights, and he’d felt a little self-conscious summoning them to follow him into the city.
“I suppose you’ll expect me to call you sir,” Robert had complained, grinning as Will muttered something in reply. “Maybe you’ll get another promotion if this Sclavo turns out to be the one who ordered the attack? You’ll be grand master by next year if you keep this up.”
The others, seasoned knights whom Will had trained with for several years, accepted his authority without question, and by the time they entered the old quarter he was feeling surer.
“How are we going to find the tavern? This place is a warren.”
Will glanced at Robert. “The boy said it was behind the soap maker’s.”
“The Saracen,” said Robert thoughtfully. “Is it supposed to be a joke?”
Will didn’t answer. He was frowning at the streets ahead, trying to get his bearings. He had rarely passed through this quarter, and the winding alleys were confusing. Fixing on the spire of the Church of San Lorenzo, which thrust loftily above the disorder of rooftops, he pointed at a narrow street leading off the main thoroughfare between a tangle of shops. “I think this will take us to the church. We should be able to find the market square from there. The soap maker’s is just beyond that.”
The way became tighter the farther in they went. For much of the route, Will had heard the Venetian dialect being spoken by the crowds, but as they moved past a large factory that had once been the prosperous Genoese soap maker’s, since abandoned, the accents began to change. In the old part of the quarter, a rundown and derelict district, the Genoese who hadn’t been able to afford to leave with their kinsmen in the exodus to Tyre remained. Here, children went about barefoot and half-naked. Alleys, coated with night slops thrown from windows, teemed with rats and overflowed with piles of stinking rubbish, alive with flies. Mistrustful faces looked out from doorways as the knights passed, whole families living together in rooms meant for two. It was a desperate place, and Will was glad when, after a few wrong turns, they finally came upon the tavern.
The Saracen formed the dead end of a wider road near the walls, a broad stone building straddling the street that looked more like a warehouse than an inn. There was no sign on or above the door, and it was only by asking a passer- by that they found it at all.
Will led the knights back to an alley farther up the street. “We shouldn’t make ourselves too obvious,” he said, handing the reins of his mount to one of the men. “Wait for me here.” He pulled the black cloak he had worn to Elwen’s from his saddlebag and drew it over his mantle. The cloak was long and covered his uniform and falchion, but even so he still looked conspicuously out of place in comparison to the shabby, underfed citizens.
“You’re going alone?” murmured Robert, catching his arm.
Will hung back. “Let me scout first. I’ll probably have more luck finding Sclavo myself than if we all go in swords drawn. I’ll come back if I find him and we’ll go in together to make the arrest.” He set off down the street, leaving the knights to crowd into the alley with their horses. Dusk had fallen, shrouding the city in a pallid half-light. He had almost reached the tavern when he heard a loud cheer rise from somewhere behind the building. Will glanced up, but the blank facade of stone stared back impassively, offering no clue as to what the noise might mean.
The door had warped in its frame and he had to force it with his shoulder. It opened halfway then stuck on the floor. A curtain of warm, moldy air blew against him as he entered. The interior was hot and dark, clouded with smoke from a dying fire. Something large brushed against Will’s leg and he saw a shaggy hound lope off toward the back of the room. The chamber was long and low, with crooked beams protruding from the ceiling like ribs. Benches and boards were arranged in two lines down the center, and as he walked the aisle between them, Will could see figures slumped around the murky glow of oil lanterns. The floor was sticky underfoot and the smell of old ale filled his nostrils. Through a set of doors at the back of the chamber came a muffled din. As Will reached the doors, they opened, throwing light and noise across him. Two men reeled past, clutching tankards, and stepping forward, Will found himself on the edge of a wall of men.
The tavern backed onto a wide courtyard, surrounded by dilapidated buildings, a cavernous barn and the wall that separated the Genoese quarter from the grand enclosure of the Knights of St. John. Torches had been lit around the quadrant, spilling brightness across stacked barrels and crates and the faces of the crowd who formed a ring, leaving a wide space at their center. A few men glanced at Will as he closed the tavern doors and slipped in alongside them, holding his cloak shut, but most of the mob’s attention was on the empty space before them, which after a moment, Will saw wasn’t empty at all.
In the center were two men. Both, by their appearance, were Arabs, although neither wore the robes or turbans donned by most of their people, but rather the short, coarse tunics and hose of any Western peasant, their heads bare, hair unkempt. One was taller and stockier than the other, his face grim in the torchlight, which pushed back the deepening blue of evening. He held a battered-looking saber in his left hand, while his right hung limp at his side. As the man paced the ring, Will saw a horrific scar running from his elbow down his forearm to his hand. The flesh was knotted pink and white where it had healed, the arm deformed
and useless. His wary pacing was measured, however, and he gripped the weapon comfortably in his left hand. The smaller man was far less composed, the sword in his hand held rigidly in front of him, his body locked, awkward with tension. As the scarred man advanced, he backed away, sweat glistening wetly on his face in the flame light. Will, who had heard of men fighting for sport, was wondering why the terrified-looking Arab was in the ring at all, when suddenly, the man darted toward the wall of onlookers. They fell back in a wave, but two powerfully built men wielding clubs and swords stepped out to face the Arab and, with weapons raised, forced him back into the ring to a chorus of jeers from the restless crowd. Immediately it became clear to Will what he was witnessing and the name of the tavern made horrible sense.
The small man shouted something in Arabic, a prayer Will thought, then flung himself at his waiting opponent, the sword thrust before him like a lance. Will, appalled, saw what was coming. The stocky Arab sidestepped the clumsy charge, bringing his saber around in a mighty arc. The blade sailed into the back of the man’s head with a sickening crunch. The blade was yanked free, and there was a halfhearted cheer from the spectators as the small Arab folded.
Revolted by the display, Will watched as three armed men, Italians by the looks of them, walked out, one gesturing for the scarred Arab to put down his weapon. He did as he was told with the all resigned compliance of a slave, and they escorted him toward the barn as two other men dragged the dead man away, leaving a wide smear of blood in the dust. Around the yard, money changed hands. Will took the opportunity to move farther in, squeezing through the press. There were four more armed men by the barn where the Arab had been taken. Will saw, in what would have once been stalls for horses—now covered with heavy wooden gates—a straggling bunch of what could only be described as prisoners. There were Arabs, a few Mongols and others, Circassians perhaps. The guards opened one of the gates and dragged out a thin youth who must have been no more than sixteen. Will had seen enough.