by Oden, Scott
“Are you certain it was al-Hajj?”
Musa tilted his head, showing Assad the burned-out socket of his eye. “Though I have but one of these left, I can still tell a man I’ve broken bread with from one I haven’t.”
“Who killed him?”
“Only Allah, in His magnificent wisdom, can answer that.”
Assad said nothing, his face a mask carved of cold stone. He dipped two fingers into the sash at his waist and brought forth a small linen bag; coins chinked as it struck the ground in front of Musa. “My thanks.” With that, Assad turned and retraced his steps from the ruined mosque.
7
Musa watched the stranger leave; he reached down and picked up the bag, holding it for a moment, weighing it in the palm of his hand. His good eye narrowed to a slit. With a sharp gesture, he summoned a pair of his men closer. “Follow him. Find out who he is and what his business was with al-Hajj.”
Silently, the children of the Mad Caliph drifted out after the stranger.
8
Three quarters of an hour later, Jalal left the palace courtyard—and left Mustapha shaking his head, grumbling at how the vizier had beaten him in six moves. “Predictable, as I said,” Jalal said, smiling at the old eunuch who had been his tutor and mentor as a child. That smile faded now, as he padded down a dim tapestry-hung hallway, bracing for his audience with the Templars.
Templars! A foul taste filled Jalal’s mouth at the thought of those infidels breathing the rarefied air of thrice-blessed Cairo. What was that Nazarene, Amalric, playing at? Of course, the King of Jerusalem had sent messages to Cairo in the past—from offers of friendship and alliance to outright threats and blandishments—for the pig made no secret of his desire to add Egypt to his demesne, by war or by wiles. But grave news delivered on Amalric’s behalf by the most devout enemies of Islam? To Jalal, that smacked of a less than subtle deception.
The vizier passed through doors of polished teakwood bound in straps of arabesqued gold, guarded by Syrian mercenaries in spired helmets and coats of gilded mail, naked swords gleaming; chamberlains, servants, and eunuchs scurried clear of his path, bowing low. The East Palace was no single structure; rather, it was an aggregation of palaces and mosques, a labyrinth of courtyards and galleries, vaulted corridors and ivy-shaded arcades. At its heart—and indeed at the spiritual heart of all Fatimid Egypt—lay the Golden Hall of al-Mu’izz li-Din Allah.
Built for the first Fatimid Caliph whose name it bore, the Golden Hall stood as a testament to the wealth and power of the Princes of the Faithful and true Successors of the Prophet Mohammad, a bastion of Shiite glory amid a sea of Sunni heresy. Jalal gained entry through a small side door that opened on the curtained alcove housing the Seat of Divine Reason, the throne of the Caliph. This rested beneath a canopy of golden Mosul silk sewn with pearls and precious stones, on a stepped dais of pale white marble—a chair of gilded teak and ivory cushioned in white velvet. Jalal gazed upon it with a lust that transcended the flesh, his face growing hot with desire. Give me a month! A month and my position will be unassailable! I will be Sultan! The vizier’s covetous eyes lingered over his master’s throne a moment longer before he pushed past the silken curtain and entered the hall proper.
Domed in gold-filigreed alabaster and paved in the same snowy marble as the dais, the cavernous Golden Hall was deserted save for the Abyssinian eunuch and a score of the mercenary Jandariyah, all of whom scowled with open contempt at the two awestruck Templars—the first of their accursed kind to gain admittance to this holy sanctuary. Nor was the grandeur of their surroundings lost on them. The pair described slow circles, whispering to one another in coarse Norman French, their blunt faces tilted heavenward as they tried in vain to calculate the wealth on display around them. Empty scabbards clanked against their mailed thighs, the sounds amplified by the hall’s perfect acoustics.
“Hearken!” the eunuch barked in Arabic, a tongue the two Templars evidently understood. “His Excellency, Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman, vizier of Egypt!” He prostrated himself, and the soldiers followed suit; only the Templars remained standing, though they paid Jalal his due respect after the fashion of their people, with a curt bow. The Abyssinian, his dark face a mask of scorn, arose and gestured to the Franks. “Excellency, I present you the amir Hugh, who styles himself a prince of Caesarea, and his companion, Godfrey de Vézelay.”
Jalal arched an eyebrow. “Templars? Your order is well known in Cairo, and not for its good works. You risk much by coming here. What is this grave news you claim to carry?”
Hugh of Caesarea stepped forward. The Frankish knight was a bull of a man, short by Jalal’s standards but thickly muscled; great blond mustaches drooped from the corners of his mouth. “My lord,” he said in crudely accented Arabic, his voice echoing off the walls with their scalloped niches and frost-white columns. “We come to you in peace and in the hour of your need!”
“And what need is that?”
Hugh glanced at his companion, Godfrey de Vézelay—a saturnine, black-haired Frank with pox-scarred features and eyes as flat and lusterless as those of a crocodile. A ghost of a sneer curled his thin lips. “God’s teeth, man! Are you so busy plotting amongst yourselves that you have no spies in Damascus? An army from that accursed city marches on Cairo as we speak!”
From all about came sharp intakes of breath, followed by curses and deprecations and offers from the soldiers to remove the Frank’s lying tongue. The vizier stilled them with a gesture. “I warn you, infidel,” he said, a dangerous purr in his voice, “truce or no, you play a game that can only end with your death. My patience has its limits…”
Hugh’s face darkened. “We play no games with you, Saracen. Upon our oaths to God, we speak the truth! A Damascene army blessed by Sultan Nur ad-Din himself is bound for Cairo. What’s more, that Kurdish devil Shirkuh—the Sultan’s own lapdog!—commands it, and with him comes a man you know all too well: your predecessor, Dirgham.”
For an instant, the vizier forgot the rules of decorum. His arm shot out; his fingers knotted in the coarse fabric of the Templar’s surcoat. “Dirgham? Are you certain?”
“He marches with Shirkuh, by God! Doubtless he is the instigator of all this, as well. A dozen times since seeking asylum in Syria has Dirgham petitioned King Amalric for an army, one he could use to recover what you stole from him … control of Egypt. And a dozen times, King Amalric refused him. Shirkuh, it seems, is more easily swayed.”
“Shirkuh easily swayed? Not likely. If what you say is true, then no doubt the dog-Kurd has his own reasons for aiding Dirgham.” Jalal loosed the Frankish knight and stared at nothing, his eyes as cold and hard as the stone underfoot. Dirgham! The name was anathema in Jalal’s presence, expunged from the tongues of courtiers by the promise of violence and blackened in popular memory by the spreading of horrific tales. Dirgham! That fatherless son of local Arabs had been a relic of Rashid al-Hasan’s father’s reign, a minor chamberlain who finagled himself into the young Caliph’s confidence. He played the role of teacher, declaiming to the world that he only had Rashid’s best interests at heart even as he plotted to strip the boy of his power, if not his life. Three years past, in the opening gambit of his drive to become Sultan of Egypt, Jalal’s mercenaries dismantled Dirgham’s network of support, killing or discrediting all his allies until the man had no choice but to flee Cairo in the night—a step ahead of the executioner’s sword. “And now he’s back, may the jackals gnaw his liver!” the vizier muttered. He glanced suddenly between the two Templars. “What does Amalric seek to gain from this? Why would he send you to warn us?”
“He seeks peace,” Hugh said, “and an alliance against Nur ad-Din. The Sultan of Damascus grows too strong for Amalric to resist on his own, even with the power of the Temple behind him, and our fellow Christians are too busy scheming against one another to recognize the threat he represents. Thus, King Amalric offers his hand to you in friendship. Should you wish it, Jerusalem will come with all due haste to Cairo’s
defense.”
“And you, Templar? What do you and your brothers hope to gain?”
“Our master, Arnaud de Razès, is charged by the Pope himself with protecting Jerusalem and the Holy Temple. Sometimes, that protection needs must be bought or bartered for. In truth, aiding you and your filthy Saracens betrays our oath to God, but harsh times often require harsh measures. If our master commands it, we Templars will fight for Cairo as we fight for Jerusalem.”
Jalal turned his back on Hugh and walked a short distance away, his arms folded across his chest. Slender fingers plucked at his goatee. He believed the Templar spoke true, that an army from Damascus marched on Cairo; that Shirkuh commanded it and Dirgham traveled in its train. And he was certain, too, that a Nazarene army stood upon his doorstep, snuffling like a jackal after the lion’s scraps. Of course he believed the Templar. What fool would craft such an elaborate lie? But, a tremendous chasm existed between belief and trust. Amalric had other motives besides peace, of that Jalal had no doubt. And yet, he and Amalric did share a common enemy in Shirkuh ibn Shadhi—a devout Sunni who lumped Fatimid and Frank in the same pile of offal. Jalal, though, preferred to look at it in terms of his nascent bid for the sultanate: whose friendship would prove most advantageous in the coming months? Damascus or Jerusalem?
“What exactly would Amalric bring to this union?” Jalal said, turning.
“Eleven hundred knights,” Hugh replied, “and eight thousand men-at-arms. We would require from you supplies and forage, and a secure base from which to operate should Shirkuh decide to prolong his campaign beyond a single engagement.”
Jalal nodded, lapsing back into thoughtful silence. His own forces were weak and divisive. Besides the Jandariyah, a thousand strong, he knew Wahshi, prince of the Sudanese mercenaries, would answer his call with five thousand savage fighters; he could reconstitute the White Slaves of the River from the two thousand Circassians he had exiled to the ranks of the urban militia and the three thousand Turks who now defended Cairo’s gates. And, if Allah smiled upon him, perhaps he could assemble a draft of levies from Fustat to serve under the Sudanese …
And perhaps the waters of the Nile will turn to wine! In a moment of sickening clarity, Jalal realized he had no hope of defeating either army with only the forces at his disposal. He needed an ally. But who? Not Shirkuh. So long as Dirgham remains alive, he and his master in Damascus are a threat to my plans. It must be the Franks, then. The vizier hid his disgust at this decision with a smile.
“We are beset by a common foe, it seems,” he said at length. “One that would see us both driven to extinction. Thus, I see great benefit in an alliance between Cairo and Jerusalem, a pact of friendship and mutual defense against Damascus. If Amalric can offer his hand freely and without expectation, then surely I can accept it with graciousness.” Jalal extended his hand to Hugh of Caesarea. “We welcome your lord’s aid.”
The Templar clasped his hand and matched the vizier’s smile tooth for tooth, a gesture Jalal presumed as hollow as his own. “We must move quickly, then,” Hugh said. “Shirkuh’s strength is in his speed. For all we know, he has crossed Sinai already and is lurking in the desert east of here. Among my possessions is a dovecote of pigeons. If it pleases you, have your man fetch it while I prepare a message for King Amalric.” The Templar’s smile widened. “He awaits your answer at Bilbeis.”
Thirty miles north of Cairo, Bilbeis stood at the head of the ancient caravan road that connected Egypt with southern Palestine. But if Hugh of Caesarea meant to startle Jalal with that revelation he was surely disappointed. The vizier hid his consternation behind a bland smile. Already his thoughts were elsewhere, focused on weaving knots of deception around this newfound alliance. Once the game had played out, once victory over the Damascenes was assured, these knots would become useful in strangling Frankish ambitions. Cairo’s body is its weakness, not its mind. Not its mind. The vizier motioned to the Abyssinian eunuch. “This one will see to your needs. Please, my friends, I pray you accept the Caliph’s hospitality, at least until your lord arrives.”
Hugh started to speak, but Godfrey de Vézelay cut him off. The taciturn Frank stared at the vizier as though trying through an act of will to crack open his ribs and peer into his heart. “Are we to be privy to the Caliph’s counsel, Lord Saracen, or is it his intent to simply fob us off on his underlings?”
Jalal’s smile never faltered, though his eyes betrayed no trace of humor. “The Caliph’s counsel is none of your concern, Templar, and in matters of war it is customary for the amirs of the land to meet in congress. When I convene them on this matter, if you are in attendance it will be by the grace of Allah and by my own good humor. See they are well cared for!” he ordered the eunuch, who bowed low. Then, with a curt nod to his guests, Jalal spun and retraced his steps from the Golden Hall.
Neither he nor the Templars noticed the kohl-dark eyes glaring at them from the depths of a shadowed niche.
9
The vizier’s departure signaled a general exodus from the Golden Hall. The Abyssinian eunuch gestured for the scowling Templars to accompany him; he escorted them through a pair of mammoth gilded doors, each as tall as ten men. The soldiers followed in their wake. The rustle of cloth and leather and the clash of harness all abruptly ceased as those vast portals clanged shut, the reverberations fading until silence once again ruled the Golden Hall of al-Mu’izz li-Din Allah.
Had someone remained behind, after a score of heartbeats they would have heard a faint snick, followed by the silky grate of oiled stone as a section of wall inside the shadowed niche—decorated with a frieze of geometric shapes and Arabic script—swung inward. A moment later they would have marveled at the sight of a woman inching forth, young and as slender as a Nile reed, her face pale with dread. She wore a gown of soft gray linen beneath a blue mantle embroidered in silver and a shawl of gold-fringed silk; her slippered feet made hardly a sound as she crept into the open, smoky eyes flickering from the door to the curtained alcove where stood the Caliph’s throne.
The young woman trembled violently, as much from anger as from fear. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—it was mere curiosity and the whim of Allah that put her in that niche in the first place—and yet she could scarce credit what she had heard, what she had seen. The vizier, a man the Caliph entrusted with good governance, treating with the enemies of God? Forging alliances with the Nazarenes against fellow Moslems? And, most blasphemous of all, committing such treachery in the very shadow of the Seat of Divine Reason? “Most Merciful and Compassionate Allah,” the woman, Parysatis, whispered in her native Persian, “why could I not have been born a man?”
A man, she reasoned, could have gone forth and shouted the vizier’s perfidy in the streets, railed against it in the squares and the souks. Yet, as a woman, whom could she tell? Whom did she know in a position of authority, powerful enough to denounce the vizier? Certainly not the eunuchs of the Caliph’s harem, where she was the most minor of concubines, one girl in a hundred, who ostensibly only left its confines when the Prince of the Faithful required a beautiful puppet for the evening. Often, she rejoiced in the fact that her keepers were an incompetent lot; their benevolent neglect allowed her to slip away and explore the warren of ancient and largely forgotten passages hewn into the palace walls—passages she had heard spoken of in tales, but whose existence she discovered quite by accident. Still, those same eunuchs, with their power on the wane, would likely kill to possess her secret: a network of spy holes that even the vizier seemed unaware of.
If she could not tell the eunuchs, then who? The Caliph’s aunts, perhaps? Parysatis almost laughed at that. No, those harridans were too busy plotting against one another to care what went on outside the harem walls. Save for Yasmina, a slave girl gifted to her by one of Cairo’s leading courtesans, Parysatis was alone. Alone, and saddled now with damning information. Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes. Who could help her? Whom could she trust to relieve her of this burden? The soldiers? Their offi
cers? Who?
Why not go the Caliph himself?
The voice in the back of her mind was the voice of her father, a staunch Shiite nobleman of old Persian stock from Shiraz who had bequeathed her, his only child, to the Prince of the Faithful as part of his estate. She remembered him as a straightforward man, almost blunt. Two years in the grave and his memory was no less frank.
Why not go the Caliph?
Parysatis turned and stared at the silken curtain hiding the Caliph’s throne from view, her eyes narrowing in thought. She knew a way to reach him—through a slender door hidden in the scalloped niche behind the Seat of Divine Reason, a passage that led straight to al-Hasan’s apartments—but would he listen? And if he listened, would he act?
Why not?
Tears of frustration dried on Parysatis’s cheek. Though she’d only been in Rashid al-Hasan’s presence a handful of times, never had she sensed undue malice in the young Caliph. She thought him a just ruler, as achingly handsome as the cavaliers in the epic Shah-Nameh, and outspoken in his hatred for the Nazarenes of Jerusalem. “He would not want this,” she murmured, shaking her head. The Caliph deserved to know what evils his vizier perpetrated in his name. And I must tell him, for no one else will. A growing sense of duty bolstered her resolve as Parysatis crossed to the gold-crusted curtain and twitched it aside.
Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the Seat of Divine Reason, a relic of the Fatimid Caliphs, who traced their lineage back to the Prophet Mohammad through his daughter Fatimah. The seat was said to have been the Prophet’s own, the chair he used when he instructed his children and his followers in the ways of Islam—though adorned in later times with ivory and gold. The seat had power; Parysatis felt it, her skin prickling as though the faith of the righteous and the pure emanated from the wood itself. It emboldened her, gave her approbation that she was doing the right thing. With reverence, the young woman ascended the dais, veiling her face with the end of her shawl and keeping her eyes averted.