by Robyn Young
Ishandiyar moved over to speak with the sharif, leaving the mullahs to finish their investigations and the servants to wash the rest of the blood from the stones.
After a while, the bodies were taken for burial and the last sign that anything at all had happened disappeared. An hour later, as the chanting calls of the muezzins lifted from the city’s minarets, the gates of the Haram Mosque rolled open and pilgrims, waiting patiently outside, filed in, their faces filled with wonder.
29
Damascus, Syria 9 JUNE A.D. 1277
The growing tremor of the kettledrums could be heard in Damascus sometime before the Mamluks reached it, a thudding wave of sound rolling across the boiling desert to lap against the city walls.
At the head of the army rode Baybars, the Bahri shouting his title in fierce celebration.
“Al-Malik al-Zahir!” Victorious King.
The blood-red banner with its yellow lion sailed boldly above the vanguard.
Kalawun, riding beside the sultan, felt the soldiers’ roars pounding in his ears. They, at least, were pleased.
A few days after the victory at Albistan, the Mamluks had entered Kayseri, the capital of the Seljuks’ realm, as liberators of the Seljuks’ lands and vanquishers of the Mongol garrison placed over them against their will. In Kayseri, the Muslim Seljuks praised Baybars, minted a new coin in his name and made him heir to the throne of their kingdom. The Mamluks lounged in luxury for several weeks, before Baybars decided to return to Syria. To the soldiers, this was fortunate news. They had fought the Mongols and had beaten them once again, with comparably little loss of life. Their task done, they could return to the comfort of Damascus, where the sultan would no doubt reward them, in plunder and slaves taken from the battlefield. Some of the generals and advisors, however, had taken a different view.
Why, they demanded, as strongly as they dared in the face of the stony-eyed sultan, were they leaving, having only just captured the territory? They should remain behind, strengthen their position, bring in more forces. Hadn’t this been what he wanted? To expand the Mamluk frontier and defeat the Mongols? Baybars countered their arguments staunchly. Scouts had informed him that Abaga, roused by the defeat of his garrison, was leading an army of more than thirty thousand Mongols from Persia into the Seljuk realm to avenge their loss and reclaim the country. Baybars did not have men enough to meet this challenge, nor time to summon more forces, and he told the generals that they were at risk of being cut off from the rest of the army, still in Aleppo, if they remained.
Kalawun, who agreed with the decision, had noticed that Baybars had been growing increasingly weary since they had entered the Seljuk capital. The victory over the Mongols at Albistan appeared to deliver him no real satisfaction; indeed, Kalawun might have said, if it hadn’t sounded so unlikely, that the sultan almost seemed to regret it. It was as if something inside him, which had been withering for some time, had finally died. All the way back from Kayseri to Aleppo, the sultan had hardly uttered a word.
Kalawun glanced at Baybars, whose stare was fixed on the walls of Damascus, getting larger ahead, beyond a fringe of lush orchards. Looking past the sultan, he met the gaze of Khadir. The soothsayer had somehow managed to maneuver himself so that he was riding at Baybars’s left hand, even though he had been specifically positioned several rows behind with Baraka Khan. Khadir had, over the past few weeks, wormed his way back into Baybars’s inner circle, through his persistent forewarnings of a coming lunar eclipse, a bad omen said to herald the death of a great ruler. This prediction had caused the soothsayer to fret and fawn over Baybars, pleading with him to take extra precautions when the time came, warnings Baybars had listened to carefully, though not with undue concern. As Kalawun locked eyes with Khadir, he saw that his ancient face was contorted with hatred and suspicion. The commander had felt that vicious gaze upon him for most of the journey. He was tired of it and, in truth, a little unnerved. It was as if the soothsayer were trying to work some black spell upon him with that constant, hooded glare. Kalawun, his mind on other things, had tried to push his personal feud with Khadir aside during the campaign. But it was almost impossible to forget about him, for he was always there, a malevolent presence on the edge of his vision.
Heralds had been sent to warn Damascus of the army’s arrival and to make sure rooms in the palace were prepared for Baybars and his amirs. The main streets had been cleared for the approaching troops, and citizens lined the route to the palace, eager to welcome their sultan. Flowers were thrown as Baybars and the Mamluks entered, covering the street in a fluttering carpet of color, and the kettledrums’ thunder made babies cry and dogs howl in houses all across the city. Whilst the bulk of the army set up camp on a plain outside the walls, Baybars and the vanguard made their way to the citadel, where they were met by the governor of Damascus.
Kalawun was handing the reins of his horse to one of his squires when a man dressed in the violet livery of a royal messenger approached him.
“Amir Kalawun?”
Kalawun looked around. “Yes?”
The messenger bowed and handed him a scroll. “This arrived at my post five days ago. When I learned that the army was headed for Damascus, I came straight here.”
Kalawun took the scroll and broke the wax seal. He unfurled it to reveal three words in a hand he recognized.
It is safe.
As he saw Ishandiyar’s message, Kalawun felt relief rise like a spring inside him, washing away the troubles that had been clouding his mind since he had left Cairo. But hardly had his worry for the safety of the Stone faded, when he felt a new twinge of concern, as he wondered whether any of Campbell’s men, or even Campbell himself, had been hurt by his actions. Had he been rash to send Ishandiyar? No, he told himself firmly. Campbell’s letter revealed none of his intentions, and all his assurances counted for little in Kalawun’s mind when faced with the possibility of failure. Not only could he allow no harm to come to the Stone, but the threat of war behind the theft had simply been too great for him not to act. But still he remained discomforted by the feeling of betrayal that darkened his mind and the thought that he might have stained his hands with yet more blood in his pursuit of peace.
THE CITADEL, DAMASCUS, 11 JUNE A.D. 1277
After only two days’ rest, the Mamluks gathered to discuss their plans, following the news that Abaga had entered the Seljuks’ realm with his three toumans and had set about making swift reprisals upon the Muslims in Anatolia who had welcomed Baybars. Some indication of the ilkhan’s wrath and his capacity for vengeance could be gauged by rumors that the Seljuk pervaneh, who fled the battlefield at Albistan after his lackluster involvement, was killed and served up in a stew at a state banquet. Abaga himself was said to have accepted a healthy portion. The ilkhan was now camped out in the realm, glaring at Syria across the Taurus divide. But word was that he had no plans to enter his enemy’s territory, lacking the manpower to attack Baybars on his own ground. The two lions, their prides gathered around them, could only watch each other from afar, both grudgingly accepting of the fact that neither, for the moment, was strong enough to defeat the other.
During the debate, which centered around what the Mamluks’ next move should be, a Bahri warrior entered and crossed to Baybars.
Kalawun glanced over, seeing the sultan lower his head as the soldier moved in close and murmured something.
“Bring him in,” said Baybars, his deep voice cutting across the amirs who were speaking.
“My lord?” questioned Kalawun, as the amirs looked around, wondering who would dare to interrupt their council.
Baybars didn’t respond and, instead, rose to his feet. A few moments later, the Bahri soldier returned, with two others flanking a young man in dirty black robes. The man carried his head high as he entered, his arrogance evident in his bold stance and his keen eyes, which met the sultan’s gaze unflinchingly.
“Sultan Baybars,” he said, not bothering to bow. “I have come to collect the remainder of the
money promised to my order for the ransom of your officer, Nasir. We would have delivered him sooner, only we did not realize you had left Cairo. We have been tracking you for some time.”
Kalawun looked to the side of the chamber, hearing an eager noise come from Khadir, who was seated there, cross-legged in a patch of sunlight. The soothsayer moved into a crablike crouch, his white eyes shimmering as he studied the young Assassin.
The rest of the chamber was hushed.
“Where is he?” demanded Baybars.
“Nearby,” responded the Assassin carefully. “Two of my brothers are with him. When I have received the rest of the ransom, I will go to them immediately and order him to be released.”
“Those terms are unacceptable. I will pay no ransom until I know the officer is safe.”
The young Assassin didn’t falter. “Then you will not see him again. My brothers have been given instructions to kill Nasir if I do not return within the hour.”
Baybars’s jaw twitched. For some moments, he didn’t speak, then he gestured to one of the Bahri. “Summon the treasurer,” he said, not taking his eyes off the Assassin.
Once the Assassin had been handed a bag of gold and had left the chamber, Baybars called four of the Bahri to him.
“Follow him,” he told the soldiers. “Don’t lose him. His brothers cannot be far if he is to return to them within the hour. Secure Officer Nasir, if he is with them, then kill the fidais and bring me back my gold.”
The Bahri warriors saluted him.
When they had gone, Baybars turned to Kalawun. “I want the rest of these insurgents destroyed, Amir. Send a battalion of Syrian troops to Qadamus.
They will join forces with my lieutenants and proceed to the rebel fortress from there. I want this business ended.”
“Yes, my lord,” murmured Kalawun. He saw it in the sultan’s eyes, heard it in his harsh voice: that old spark of rage, which had guttered and winked out these past months, had flared again. Khadir, too, seemed to have noticed it, for he was staring at Baybars, a look of triumph in his face. Seeing that look, Kalawun thought of the soothsayer’s desire to set Baybars back on the path to war against the Christians and his plan to start a conflict with the attack on Kabul. He recalled too that it had been Khadir who had wanted someone to be sent to look for the Assassins, and he thought of his own, private suspicion that the former Shia had been somehow involved in the plot to steal the Stone. Kalawun felt unease stir. If Nasir had proof that it had been Franks who had wanted Baybars dead, what then would be the outcome? The Mamluks and Mongols had reached a stalemate, and Baybars’s army, victorious and rested, was stationed in Damascus. Only three days’ march from Acre.
THE DOCKS, ACRE, 11 JUNE A.D. 1277
Garin tossed his bag onto a bench at the stern and planted his hands on the ship’s side, looking down at the green water eddying beneath. The sun needled the back of his neck, irritating the dark red patch it had already burned into his skin. His hair was a bleached, silvery-white against it. Behind him, the crew’s voices were coarse and loud as the ship prepared to leave Acre’s harbor, carrying a cargo of sugar to France. For Garin, their departure could not be swift enough.
He had returned to the city three days ago. Arriving at the royal palace, exhausted and embittered, he and the Cypriots had discovered that they were no longer welcome. Whilst they had been away, Count Roger had ejected the last of Hugh’s staff from the fortress, and they were only admitted briefly to collect their belongings. Bertrand and his men, as defeated as their usurped master, had departed the next day on a ship bound for Cyprus. Garin had been left alone in a tavern on the harbor to brood over his misfortunes. Not only had he failed completely in his plan, but he had also been forced to relinquish every last gold coin he’d had on him to get himself and the Cypriots out of the desert. He had been using part of the money King Hugh had given him for Edward after signing the agreement, now useless since King Charles had eased himself onto the throne. A fair amount had now been eaten away out of the pile. Not only had he wasted a year, using Edward’s money on his qannob and his whores and his stupid, useless idea, but he hadn’t even managed to force out of Everard and the Anima Templi the funds the king had demanded he secure. His only hope was that the members of the sugar vessel’s crew were partial to the dice and he might win back some of the lost profit, or he might as well throw himself overboard now and save Edward the job.
He had nothing. And he was nothing.
The words held a sour echo of his uncle, Jacques, and his mother, and Edward. He tried to push them out, squeezing his eyes shut against their stinging tones, but they just assailed him all the more, telling him he never did anything right, that he was useless and would never be good enough, good as his dead father and brothers, good as Will. That name entered his mind with the force of a knife stab. Almost as frustrating as the failure of the mission was his failure to remove, when he’d had the chance, that one galling thorn that had been stuck in him since childhood. He needn’t have done anything; only let that sword in Bertrand’s hand fall when it wanted to. It would have been over quickly, quietly, with no blood or blame on him. He didn’t understand why he had shouted. Why he had stayed Bertrand’s hand. All the way back through the desert, Garin had recalled that moment, over and over, without ever coming to any conclusion as to why he had saved Will’s life when he could have so easily let it be snuffed out. He had no feelings for Will, other than anger and dislike and envy. Everything the knight had should have been his. The commandership, the place in the Anima Templi, the respect and friendship of his fellows, the family who loved him whatever he had done wrong, the woman who wanted him. Even as she had given herself so freely to him that day in the palace, Elwen hadn’t really wanted him, Garin knew. If she had, she wouldn’t have cried so bitterly afterward. The only pleasure he could now find in that sullied memory was that he, at least, had taken something from Will, if only for a moment. Something precious that could never be returned.
As the mooring ropes were loosed and the crew dug the oars into the water, Garin put his head in his hands and, with numb detachment, felt wetness pressing against his fingers. He didn’t look back as the vessel pulled out of the harbor and Acre slid slowly away behind him, the empty sea swelling ahead.
THE CITADEL, DAMASCUS, 11 JUNE A.D. 1277
The minutes dragged into hours as Baybars sat, rigid and pensive. The council had been brought to an abrupt close with the arrival of the Assassin, and only Khadir and Kalawun remained in the chamber, Kalawun having been asked to stay and Khadir having been forgotten, huddled in the corner.
Finally, after three tense hours, there came a knock at the doors and four figures entered. Three of them were the Bahri soldiers Baybars had set in pursuit of the Assassins. The fourth was Nasir. Kalawun rose as he saw the officer. Nasir was thin to the point of emaciation, his hair and beard filthy and matted, his olive skin pale and bruised. He was a husk of the man he had been. Guilt took a stab at Kalawun for being the one who had ordered his officer and friend into such danger and degradation, and struck him hard in the center of his chest. He took a step toward Nasir.
Baybars stopped him with a raised hand. “Is it done?” he asked the Bahri.
One of the soldiers came forward and handed him the leather bag the Assassin had been given, filled with gold. The bag was splattered with some dark matter. Blood, Kalawun thought. There was more of it on the uniforms of the Bahri, and one of them appeared to be wounded.
“It is, my lord. But we lost one man.”
Baybars nodded whilst he weighed the bag in his hands, as if the loss was acceptable, then turned his attention on the wasted figure of Nasir, who hardly seemed able to support himself. “Do you have what you were sent to find?”
Nasir nodded wearily and opened his mouth to speak. His voice came out as insubstantial as a breeze, just the faintest breath of sound. He coughed weakly and tried again.
Baybars reached for one of the goblets of cordial left on the tabl
e. He strode to Nasir and put it into his hand. “Drink.”
Nasir took the goblet and put it to his cracked, yellowed lips. After a moment, he handed the goblet back to Baybars. “Yes, my lord,” he murmured roughly. “I have it.”
Baybars’s voice shook a little as he spoke. “Who was it? Who hired the Assassins to murder me?”
“A Frank, my lord, as you thought. A Templar, called William Campbell.”
Baybars looked around as Kalawun let out a shocked noise. “What is it, Kalawun?”
Kalawun felt words gluing up in his throat. He didn’t know what to say to cover the exclamation. He was saved, unexpectedly, by Khadir, who leapt to his feet.
“You know him, my lord!” the soothsayer gurgled. “You know him!”
Baybars started to shake his head.
“That was the name of the man who bore the treaty!” Khadir’s voice climbed to a feverish pitch. “He bore the Franks’ peace treaty five years ago!”
Baybars saw himself amidst the ruins of Caesarea, sitting on his throne in the center of the broken cathedral. He recalled the young Christian knight, a Templar, who had handed him the truce signed by Edward of England. He remembered that he had dark hair and spoke Arabic and remembered the knight asking to be allowed to go to Safed. Then, at the last, Baybars recalled his name and knew Khadir was right.
“You let him bury his father,” said Khadir, almost crowing now.
“Be quiet,” murmured Baybars, his hand tightening around the goblet, fingers pressing into the soft metal.
“You let him cross your lands with an escort of your own men!”
“I said be quiet!” roared Baybars, flinging the goblet against the wall, where it rang like a bell and sprayed scarlet across the whitewash.