Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “How about your life?” responded Angelo.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We worked together well enough for years, when my family supplied you boys for the Mansuriyya regiment. I do not want to have to threaten you, Nasir. But I shall if you force me to.”

  “Threaten me how?” murmured Nasir, his hand moving to his sword.

  “I wouldn’t need to lift a finger,” said Angelo, his one dark eye, not covered by the cloth, following the movement. “Kalawun would do the deed for me were he to discover your betrayal.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “How you worked with me to ensure the theft of the Black Stone, betraying your own faith. How you wrote to Kaysan and persuaded him to take the knights into Mecca.”

  “You forced me to do this! You told me you would kill my brother if I did not do as you asked!”

  “I found Kaysan for you, Nasir. You owed me. One year it took me, after you begged me to search for him, not knowing if he was alive or dead.”

  Nasir was nodding furiously. “And in return I agreed to only buy slaves for the Mamluk Army from your family. We both got something we wanted. It was a deal.”

  “Sometimes, in business, deals change,” said Angelo carelessly.

  “Not in my business,” said Nasir coldly, drawing his sword and rising. Behind him he heard the scraping of chairs, as a couple of the men in the tavern stood. Nasir glanced around to see that the man who had served them had taken up from somewhere a large club bristling with vicious-looking spikes.

  “Sit, Nasir,” said Angelo, not taking his eyes off the Syrian. “You won’t leave here alive if you strike me. I still have friends in this city.”

  Nasir, breathing fast with pent-up rage, seated himself, but placed his sword on the table between them. The man set down the club.

  Angelo leaned back against the wall. “If everything had gone as planned, my father would still be alive, this peace between our nations would be ended, and my household would dominate the Eastern slave trade. You would have been given your money, would have deserted with supplies and a new identity and gone to live with your brother as you planned. Fate dealt us both a heavy blow. But why should we surrender to its whim? I’m offering you another chance. It isn’t too late, Nasir. And if you have done what I asked in my letter, you will believe this too.” He paused. “Did you do it?”

  Nasir paused, recalling that fragile feeling of hope, a feeling he had thought long since dead, when he read Angelo’s letter. He had done what the Venetian had asked, despite his anger and misgivings. He had done it because even now, after so many years in slavery, after the loss of his brother and his faith, freedom remained a possibility, however distant, a possibility that the man in front of him could still perhaps deliver. He met Angelo’s hard gaze. “Yes,” he murmured. “I created the reports and made sure Kalawun received them.”

  The good half of Angelo’s mouth lifted in a smile. “So,” said Angelo, sitting forward, “Kalawun now believes the Franks in Tripoli, led by the Genoese, are working against him? Good. I will go to the citadel tomorrow and request an audience with the sultan. I am going to need you to help me persuade him.”

  “Persuade him to do what? Your letter wasn’t clear.”

  “Together, Nasir, we are going to make certain that when Sultan Kalawun is finished with Tripoli and its citizens, there won’t be enough left to fill this bowl.” Picking up his wine, Angelo drained it in one go. “And then, perhaps, we will both get what we want.”

  THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 13 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

  Garin jolted awake, feeling disorientated. The day had faded into a pale twilight. He struggled to sit up as he saw a girl standing in front of him. She had a small, serious face and searching eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she had been running, and a wisp of gold hair floated across her cheek, escaped from her coif. She tugged it impatiently behind her ear, not taking her eyes off him, and said something in a language he didn’t know. Italian?

  Garin looked around dazedly. He was propped up against a wall in a dusty street, with no idea of how he had come to be there. “I’m sorry, I ...” His voice was rough and he had to clear his throat.

  “You speak English,” said the girl.

  This time he understood. Garin nodded. “Who are you?”

  “I live here,” replied the girl tautly, pointing.

  Following her finger, Garin saw a blue door set into the wall of the house beside him, and all at once his memory came back to him, and he knew why he had come.

  “Who are you?” she asked him.

  “Rose!”

  The girl looked around and Garin saw a slender woman hurrying down the street, a basket in each hand. “I told you not to run ahead,” she called, sounding exasperated. She glanced warily at Garin and handed the girl one of the baskets. “Come inside.”

  “Elwen.”

  Elwen turned back, staring down at the man she had thought was a beggar. At first, she could see nothing familiar about him at all and her name on his lips seemed incomprehensible. His hair and beard were long and matted, his lips yellowed and scabbed. His clothes were stained, and a smell of ale and sea and desperation drifted from him. Then she met his dark blue eyes.

  As Elwen drew a sharp intake of breath, Garin knew she had recognized him. He struggled to his feet.

  “Go inside, Rose,” said Elwen, her voice strained.

  “But, Mother,” began the girl, in protest.

  “Now!” snapped Elwen, turning on her.

  The girl looked startled at her tone, then angrily turned on her heel and pushed open the door.

  “What are you doing here?” murmured Elwen, staring at Garin in shocked disbelief.

  “I’m on an important assignment for the king,” said Garin, trying to draw himself up. He was aware that his voice sounded a little slurred, and he tried to speak clearer. “I’ve come from the pope in Rome. King Edward wishes to launch a new Crusade.”

  Elwen lowered her voice further. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “what are you doing here, outside my home?”

  Garin looked to the door the girl had disappeared through. It was ajar, and he thought he saw movement in the shadows beyond. “She’s your daughter?” he asked, looking back at Elwen. “You’re still with Campbell?”

  “Yes,” replied Elwen sharply, clutching her basket to her.

  Garin stared at the door. “Her name’s Rose, is it then? Hello, Rosie,” he called, seeing the shadows shift again.

  “Leave her alone, Garin,” said Elwen forcefully. She crossed to the door and stood protectively in front of it. “We don’t want you in our life, neither of us.”

  She looked as if she might say something further, then stepped into the house and was gone.

  “Wait,” called Garin, as the door slammed. He stood there in the street, dazed. After a moment, he picked up his pack and moved off. When he was almost out of sight of the building, he stopped and looked back. Elwen’s voice echoed in his mind. We don’t want you in our life, neither of us. There was something odd in what she had said. It jarred in him. Neither of us.

  40

  The Citadel, Cairo 14 NOVEMBER A.D. 1288

  “Lord Sultan,” said Angelo. “Thank you for granting me an audience.”

  His eyes flicked to Nasir, who stood on the lower steps of the dais with several other men. The Syrian didn’t meet his gaze, but stared rigidly ahead.

  “You explained to my advisors that you had come on a matter of urgency.” Kalawun studied Angelo, his expression intent, but not unkind. “What has happened to you?” He gestured to his face.

  “A fire, my lord,” replied Angelo, absently touching the cloth that concealed the worst of his burns. He felt naked without his mask, but only Nasir knew him here. “It happened a long time ago and isn’t why I have come.”

  “Why have you come, sir ... ?” Kalawun glanced inquiringly at the attendant who stood to Angelo’s side.

  “Benito, my lord,” the attendant reminded him, “his
name is Benito di Ottavio.”

  “I was sent here by the Venetian consul in Acre, my lord. We have been experiencing difficulties over the recent shift in power in Tripoli.”

  Kalawun nodded. “The last report I received from my advisors said that the Genoese had become involved.”

  “That is correct, my lord. The Genoese made certain demands in return for their support of the commune. The princess Lucia has just been named ruler and has reaffirmed these privileges. The Genoese now have superior control in the county and over the port. Both my fellow Venetians and myself are obviously aggrieved by this turn of events, but all of us, including Egypt, stand to be affected. If Genoa dominates trade in Tripoli, she will dominate the East. We will all be at her mercy.”

  “This is grave news. But what is Venice is looking for from me?”

  “The consul entreats you to intervene, my lord.” From his bag Angelo withdrew the scroll, marked with the consul’s seal, aware of the armed guards that stood around the throne room, their eyes following his every move. The attendant who had shown Angelo in took the scroll and conveyed it to the sultan. “The consul believes,” Angelo continued, “that your involvement may diffuse the situation before it becomes violent.”

  Kalawun glanced up as he took the scroll, hearing something in the Venetian’s voice. “You do not share his opinion?”

  “I believe the situation will become violent whether you intervene or not, my lord. The Genoese have become increasingly aggressive, ever since they were ejected from Acre by my people following the War of St. Sabas. After their alliance with the Byzantine Empire they took control of the Black Sea shipping routes and now command trade coming out of the Mongol Empire. With this new hold over the County of Tripoli, their power grows even more formidable. But their ambitions do not stop there. In his letter, the consul speaks of the Genoese exerting themselves over Tripoli to the detriment of other nations. What he does not mention is that Genoa has plans beyond those borders, plans that extend to your territory.” Every man in the chamber was watching Angelo closely now.

  “What plans?”

  “The Genoese intend to attack Alexandria, my lord, to seize control of the trade routes in and out of Egypt. To this end they have been building a fleet of warships in secret. This fleet, my sources tell me, is almost complete. The Commune of Tripoli is in full support of this plan and has been conscripting soldiers for some months.”

  The men on the dais began muttering agitatedly. One of them, a tall young man with a solemn face and a flop of brown hair, was frowning intently. Nasir was still looking straight ahead.

  “Silence,” called Kalawun. He stared at the Venetian. “I do not see how the Genoese, even with the help of the commune, could hope to take Alexandria, let alone hold it. Unless the republic plans to send its entire army across the sea, all reports would indicate that the Genoese do not have numbers anywhere near significant enough to mount such an attack.”

  “The Genoese have had strong relations with the Mongols this past decade, my lord, since they took control of the Black Sea trade. The Mongols, as I’m sure you are aware, are looking for an alliance with the Franks. I believe the Genoese will seek to exploit this. Allied with the Mongols, this fleet could take and hold Alexandria. Perhaps,” added Angelo gravely, “even Cairo itself.”

  Kalawun was silent. One of the men behind him went to speak in the pause, but the sultan cut across him. “Why doesn’t the consul tell me this?” he demanded of Angelo, holding up the scroll. “Does he know of these plans?”

  “Undoubtedly, my lord, but I expect he worried that instead of intervening diplomatically, you would attack Tripoli.”

  “He is using me?” murmured Kalawun.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you are not afraid that I will attack Tripoli, Benito di Ottavio?”

  “On the contrary, my lord, I urge you to do so. The Genoese will not listen to reason or diplomacy. I can lose business in Tripoli and survive, but I cannot lose the business I have had with Egypt.”

  “And what business is that?”

  “I am a slave trader. I have had contracts with the Mamluks before. The Genoese threaten to destroy all that I have spent my life working for. Their main base in the East now lies in Tripoli. With that base destroyed, they will no longer pose a danger to our communities. It is a drastic measure, but the people of Tripoli have chosen to harbor the Genoese whilst they build their war fleet. They will have to face the consequences.”

  Kalawun sat back in his throne, looking grim. “If I attack Tripoli, I will break the truce I made with the Christians.”

  “This aggressive action against you countermands that truce, my lord,” responded Angelo swiftly.

  “Do not tell me my business,” growled Kalawun, rising from his throne. “I am well aware of the legalities of my own treaty.”

  “Of course, my Lord Sultan, forgive me,” said Angelo, bowing his head humbly. As he did so, he gave Nasir a sharp glance.

  “It is true, my lord,” said Nasir, after a pause. He looked at Kalawun. “If the Franks are planning an attack against you, then the treaty becomes null and void.”

  “My lord, I must speak up,” said one of the men beside Nasir. He thrust a hand at Angelo. “What this man says is in accordance with recent reports we have received. We knew the Franks were building these ships. Now we know why.”

  “Amir Dawud,” began Kalawun.

  “We were afraid that the Mongols and the Franks might make a new alliance,” said another man, before the sultan could continue. “This is the proof that our fears were not unfounded. We must take action.”

  Kalawun’s face was hard. His hand curled around the consul’s scroll, crushing it. “Why have you told me this?” he said suddenly, his eyes on Angelo.

  “As I explained, my lord, what the Genoese are planning affects us all, they must be stopped for the good of—”

  “No,” interrupted Kalawun, “what is the real reason you are here? What will this deal do for you? Why are you the only merchant who has come forth to tell me this? You are certainly not the only one affected.”

  “It is true, my lord, I am looking for something in return for this information. As I said, I have worked with the Mamluks before. I would like to negotiate a new slave contract.”

  “If I attack Tripoli, I will have slaves for free.”

  “I realize this, my lord, which is why I am prepared to help your army enter Tripoli. I have associates in the city. They will be able to open the gates for you, countering the need for a lengthy, costly siege. In return, I ask only for ten percent of the citizens you capture.”

  “As far as I’m aware, as a Westerner you are bound by a law that forbids you from selling Christians as slaves. You are asking me for Muslims?” Kalawun asked in an ominous tone.

  “No, my lord, only Westerners. But I do not need to sell them to their own kind. I also seek a contract with the Mongols, many of whom would gladly buy Christians from me.”

  Kalawun said nothing for some time. Finally, he raised his head. “Leave me, all of you. I need to think.”

  Angelo went to say something further, then felt the warning hand of the attendant on his arm. Giving Nasir one last look, he allowed himself to be led from the throne room. The rest of the men headed out, their expressions grim.

  Khalil, who hadn’t spoken throughout the discussion, lingered on the dais. “You must do this, my lord.” Kalawun turned to him. “You must,” repeated Khalil firmly. “Your generals are dissatisfied as it is. You have so far refused to comment on the reports we have received regarding these ships the Genoese are building. But you cannot ignore this. This news will inflame your men. They will demand that we tackle the Franks before they become a danger to us. Remember what happened to your predecessors. They were killed because those around them were unhappy with their decisions.” Khalil crossed to him. “Do not give your men the same excuse.”

  Kalawun’s brow furrowed. “Why does peace take so much work?
Why does war so often seem the natural state?”

  “Because we are not meant to have peace with the Christians,” responded Khalil. “They are the infidel. The Franks invaded our lands, destroyed our mosques and massacred our people. They do not want peace with us. They want our territory, our wealth. Will you let them have it?” When Kalawun hung his head, Khalil’s eyes narrowed. “You embarrass me, Father,” he said frigidly, turning on his heel and striding from the room.

  Kalawun felt as though he had been struck.

  “He does not mean that, my lord.”

  Kalawun glanced around to see Nasir still standing there. “Yes, he does.”

  “He is right about one thing though. This news will inflame your court.”

  “Perhaps if I negotiate with the Franks at Acre I can ...”

  “There may be no time for that, my lord. The reports we received indicate that this fleet is almost complete. Also, there is no telling that the Franks at Acre will listen to our accusations.”

  “Then I do not have a choice,” murmured Kalawun, tossing the crumpled scroll away. “Do I?”

  “No, my lord,” replied Nasir, his eyes on the sultan’s weary face, “I do not think you do.”

  THE SINAI DESERT, EGYPT, 31 DECEMBER A.D. 1288

  Will moaned as the walls pressed in around him. There was a feeling of suffocation, of panic. He tried to cry out, but just the faintest rasp of breath came. There were things crawling over him and pinching, seeking things burrowing into him. A harrowing light was beating down, the stone walls tunneling and intensifying it. Far above, a glowing eye cast its white-hot glare upon him. Soon, he prayed, soon it would go again and then the dark would come, and then the cold. For now, though, all he could do was lie twisted, caught in its merciless sight, his head raging with fever. And wait, and pray. But with every prayer the light became brighter and hotter, until every part of him felt as though it were burning, his face and hands blistering away, blood and fat sizzling and spitting, bones appearing in his fingers, charring, crumbling into ash.