The Lion of Cairo

by Oden, Scott

  “How will you counter, Excellency?” Mustapha asked.

  “Give them no place to rest,” Jalal said. He turned sharply. “Bar the gates of Atfih. Deny Shirkuh its granaries and markets. Deny Dirgham his easy audience.” The vizier smiled, thin and predatory. “And, to slay a second bird with the same arrow, I’ll relegate this task to the White Slaves of the River, to the mamelukes. If they fail, it will save me from having to oversee their destruction; if they succeed, they will feel obliged toward me for having chosen them for such a grand task.”

  Mustapha nodded. “And if they switch their allegiance to Shirkuh and join his army?”

  “Then their wives and children will pay for their perfidy,” Jalal said, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. He had no compunction about lining the road between Cairo and Atfih with the crucified bodies of the mamelukes’ loved ones—after first handing them over to the Sudanese for sport; he would make sure they knew it, as well. “Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll convene a council in the afternoon to brief the amirs of the army. Summon the commander of the Turkish regiment, that heathen Gokbori. It is to him we will give this task. We—”

  Mustapha bolted to his feet, motioning the vizier to silence. A brusque nod of the old eunuch’s head revealed the reason: Jalal turned to see the Prince of the Faithful stagger through the arch leading from the heart of his apartments. Mustapha prostrated himself; the vizier salaamed.

  The Fatimid Caliph Rashid al-Hasan li-Din Allah was still a young man, not yet twenty-five, but his features bore the stamp of premature age, the veneer of dissolution. Beneath loose trousers and an open robe of white silk, the Caliph had the broad shoulders and narrow waist of a swordsman. His frame, though, displayed a gauntness that bordered upon emaciation. Knobs of bone, gristle, and sinew protruded from his jaundiced skin. Threads of gray wove through his wiry goatee, through his unkempt hair; bloodshot eyes stared out from hollow sockets. “I heard voices, Jalal,” he said, his own voice thick with sleep and opium. “What goes?”

  “A thousand apologies, master,” the vizier said smoothly. “We were debating the merits of a land dispute at Atfih, and my zeal must have gotten the better of me. The hour is late. Come; let me see you back to bed.”

  Rashid shrugged off his solicitous hand. “No. I am glad you came, Jalal. I would put a question to you.”

  “Ask anything of me, master, and I will answer to the best of my abilities.”

  “Who rules Cairo?”

  The vizier blinked. “Pardon, master?”

  “You heard me. Who rules here? Am I not Cairo’s lord and master? Am I not the Prince of the Faithful and the True Successor of the Prophet?” Rashid’s face was feverish, glazed with sweat; he swayed and caught the carved arch for support.

  “Indeed you are, master.” Jalal bowed again, more to hide the sneer that came unbidden to his lips than from any sense of respect. “You are all this and much more. You are the Light of Islam and the Lion of the Faith. You—”

  “Then why do my own eunuchs refuse to heed my commands? Why do I not recognize those men who guard me?”

  “Your eunuchs are like grandmothers, Most Excellent One.” The vizier shot a perturbed look at Mustapha as the old eunuch drew back to a sideboard. There, he set about preparing a fresh draught of khamr; taking a crystal vial from the sleeve of his robe, he upended its contents into a silver cup. Jalal cleared his throat. “And you do not recognize your guards because I frequently rotate them, to keep plots from hatching out among the army factions. Though charged with your defense, the soldiers who guard you also constitute your greatest enemy, master. Have you forgotten the Circassian?”

  “Aye, Othman!” Rashid said, striking the stonework with a white-knuckled fist for emphasis. “I thought he was my friend!”

  “A friend is not one who desires your doom, master. Othman wanted you dead. He was there to put a dagger in your heart, and it is only by the grace of Allah that he told his plans to the whore he was with the night before, and she to one of my men.” Indeed, the vizier had spoken that lie so often he almost believed it himself. Othman, chosen to be Rashid al-Hasan’s companion and bodyguard because they were near the same age, had proven too headstrong, too inquisitive; in all, he was a terrible influence on the man the vizier planned to supplant. Yet, replacing the Circassian had only served to inflame his wayward sense of honor. When Othman gained entry to the palace the morning of his death, he was on a mission to visit ruin upon the vizier. Fortunately, the fool had blabbed his plan to his mistress the night before. And the Circassian’s mistress was in Jalal’s employ. A close call, that. “I swear before God he was no friend of yours, master.”

  The vizier’s words had a pronounced effect on the Caliph. The young man sagged heavily against the wall, his balled fists relaxing, losing their white-knuckle rigidity. Jalal feigned pity as he offered the Caliph his arm to lean on; gratefully, Rashid accepted.

  “How could I have been so wrong about him?”

  “You see the best in all men, Most Excellent One,” Jalal said. “Unfortunately, the soldiers of Cairo are dogs, petty men who scheme and connive behind your back—men like Othman, who would kill you simply to further their own ambitions. May Allah most high scourge them for their insolence!”

  “He haunts my dreams. I see Othman’s face in the shadows, Jalal. He tries to speak, to reveal some terrible secret that has driven him from the grave, but he has no words. Only blood spills past his lips. What does it mean?”

  “I cannot say, master,” Jalal said. Arm in arm, they shuffled down the corridor to the Caliph’s apartments. Mustapha followed, bringing with him the cup of drug-laced khamr.

  Rashid al-Hasan dwelled in sterile splendor, in rooms as cold and as opulent as the tombs of his predecessors. Amid the silks and silver, the heavy gold and jeweled damasks, stood tastefully arranged islands of furniture: armoires of fine cedar beside divans of polished teak, chests of gilded sycamore sitting atop tables inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Glass and crystal twinkled in the yellow lamplight.

  Only in the Caliph’s bedchamber was there the slightest hint of the young man’s personality—a riot of potted ferns lent the room the aspect of a garden; lamps sporting panes of gold-tinted glass gave forth a glow that emulated pale sunlight. Rather than tapestries, frescoes depicting a Nile hunt decorated the walls, while the floor was an elaborate mosaic: hundreds of small carved beetles taken from the ruins across the river were set among colorful tiles and semiprecious stones. Beside the Caliph’s lion-footed bed, sheer linen panels rustling in a faint breeze, sat a small table; on it, a Qur’an with a gold-stitched leather cover rested beside a tall water pipe of brass and silver, its patina dulled from use. Latticed doors standing ajar opened on a small fountain court, high walled and private; jets of water burbled in the marble basin of a lily pond.

  Jalal helped the Caliph to the edge of the bed and motioned Mustapha forward. “Drink this, Most Excellent One. It will help you sleep.”

  Rashid took the cup, tossed back its contents, and grimaced at the sting of raw date wine. He settled back into bed with a weary sigh. “Find me an interpreter of dreams, Jalal,” he said. “An astrologer, a wise man, a Sufi—I care not, so long as he knows what he is about. I leave the details to you, as always, my good vizier.”

  Jalal took the empty cup from the Caliph’s hand and suppressed a smile of triumph. “Master, I—”

  Rashid waved him away, his eyes already closing. “Just … Just see it done, Jalal.”

  The vizier inclined his head. “As you wish, O Prince of the Faithful.” He and Mustapha left together, retracing their steps to the antechamber. Jalal remained dangerously quiet.

  12

  The wait was interminable.

  Parysatis stood on the tips of her toes until her calves ached; she turned her head this way and that, peering through the tiny slit in an effort to see more of the spacious antechamber. He has guards and body servants, said the voice of Doubt in the back of her mind, and they will be near
at hand. What if he calls for them? What if the vizier lingers? What if the eunuch never leaves the Caliph’s side? A thousand scenarios played out in her mind as she waited in that dark passage, and all of them ended in her death. Cold sweat rolled down Parysatis’s ribs.

  Nevertheless, as much as she feared for her own safety, she feared for Rashid al-Hasan’s more, especially after all she’d overheard this night. He’s at their mercy! What’s more, the memory of his gaunt face brought tears to her eyes. What have they done to him? The Caliph was sick, weak in body and confused in mind, likely from the cruel diet of poppy juice and hashish his eunuchs foisted upon him at the vizier’s urging. Were they trying to kill him, or simply control him? Does it matter? For her father’s sake, who had loved the Fatimid Caliph with zealous fervor, Parysatis decided in that moment that she would do all she could to loose the vizier’s hold on him, to strike off his shackles. It occurred to her, too, that if she succeeded, might Rashid al-Hasan not then set her apart from his other concubines? Might freedom be her reward? She dared not dwell too long upon it.

  Parysatis stiffened at the sound of footsteps. Jalal and his eunuch, Mustapha, came into view. The look on the vizier’s face nearly sent Parysatis fleeing from the passage. His eyes were fiery slits; deep lines furrowed his brow. He glanced back the way they had come. “How long before the fever takes hold?”

  It was the eunuch’s turn to frown. He shook his head. “I … I have not administered it yet, Excellency. That was but raw poppy juice. I thought perhaps with the Damascus problem that you would—”

  Jalal spun. Faster than Parysatis could follow, the back of the vizier’s hand cracked across the old eunuch’s mouth—a meaty sound that made Parysatis cringe. Mustapha staggered. Blood trickled from his split lip; he clutched the Caliph’s silver cup to his breast. “You thought? You thought? You do not think, Mustapha! You do as I say! Nothing has changed! By month’s end, I want that worthless son of a whore on his deathbed! Do you understand?”

  Mustapha nodded. “Y-yes, Excellency.”

  “Good.” Parysatis saw the eunuch flinch as Jalal clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Forgive my outburst. It has been a … trying day.”

  “Perhaps you should rest, as well.” Mustapha daubed at the blood with the knuckle of his index finger. “I could give you a draught…?”

  Jalal chuckled, as though something the eunuch said struck him as funny. “No, my old darling. I think not.” He walked beyond Parysatis’s field of vision. She heard the door open, heard harness rattle as the guards outside snapped to attention. “Admit no one. Mustapha, make sure your charge stays quiet for the rest of the night.”

  “As you wish, Excellency.”

  The door thudded shut. Mustapha stood there a moment longer, his face an unreadable mask, and then he turned and shuffled off in the opposite direction. He, too, left Parysatis’s cone of sight. She listened, not daring to breathe, to the sound of his retreating footsteps. Her whole body trembled. Already horrible beyond compare, her situation had just become immeasurably worse. They do mean to kill him!

  Seconds ticked by. Hearing nothing, Parysatis’s hands moved to the latch. “Allah, give me strength,” she whispered as she pulled open the secret door and peered out. She saw no sign of the eunuch; the antechamber was deserted. Quickly, Parysatis left the passage, trusting the door to close of its own accord. Her slippered feet made little sound as she crossed the antechamber and plunged through the arch, her mantle swirling behind her.

  She reached the Caliph’s bedchamber out of breath, her heart thudding in her chest—so loud that surely the echo must reach back to the antechamber. The voices in her mind gibbered and howled in a blind panic. Fingers knotted in her shawl, she stepped over the threshold like a woman going to her doom.

  Rashid sprawled atop the coverlet, pale as death. She saw his chest rise and fall; his muscles twitched as he responded to something in his dreams. Parysatis crept to the Caliph’s bedside, knelt, and clasped his cold hand.

  “M-my lord!” Rashid started at the sound of her voice, his head moving back and forth. “My lord!” She put a hand on his chest and shook him lightly. Groaning, the Caliph writhed away from her touch. “Please, my lord! You must awake, I beg of you!” But the Caliph only sank deeper into the cushions of his bed, as though to hide. He’s not asleep, he’s unconscious. Drugged.

  Parysatis sagged. What was she going to do now? What could she do? How can I help you if I cannot get through to you? Her brow wrinkled in thought; idly, she reached out and stroked the Caliph’s hair, pushing it back off his fevered forehead. In her eyes, he was no longer the cold and remote figure of the Prince of the Faithful; no longer the True Successor of the Prophet. His weakness made him mortal. Rashid al-Hasan was a man in need of aid, in need of a friend. “I will find a way to help you, my lord,” she said, resolve replacing fear. Softly, Parysatis kissed the back of his hand. “As Allah is my witness, I—”

  The young woman froze as sounds drifted down the hall outside the Caliph’s doorway: a muffled cough followed by the scuff of a slippered foot on stone. The eunuch! Parysatis shot to her feet, glancing frantically about for a place to hide. Under the bed? Behind the potted ferns? Then her eyes lit upon the latticework doors that led out to the courtyard. She bolted, barging through the doors then easing them back to where they merely stood ajar. Beneath an ivy-hung arbor, Parysatis pressed herself against the stone wall and waited; she peered through the lattice at the Caliph’s bed and the hallway beyond. Presently, Mustapha padded into the room.

  The old eunuch, his lip already beginning to swell, brought a fresh goblet laced no doubt with whatever poisons the vizier had commanded him to administer. Hovering over the Caliph, he tried twice—both times more forcefully than Parysatis—but still had no luck rousing him. She saw him frown and carefully place the goblet on the table by the side of Rashid’s bed where he was sure to see it if he awoke. Then, with a final glance around the room, the eunuch withdrew.

  Parysatis leaned heavily against the wall, closing her eyes as she mouthed a silent prayer of thanks. She waited a few moments before prodding the doors open and returning to Rashid’s bedside. Curious, she picked up the goblet and sniffed its contents. Khamr, as she suspected, but its pungent aroma masked a faintly sour smell. An oily swirl stained its surface. She imagined the Caliph waking in the grip of a dreadful thirst; in her mind’s eye, she saw him reach for the goblet, drink from it, and unknowingly poison himself.

  No, not this time! Parysatis carried the goblet into the courtyard and poured its contents out beneath a flowering shrub. She rinsed it thoroughly in the lily pond, refilled it with cool water jetting from the fountain. As she did this, however, something caught her eye.

  In the courtyard wall across from the latticed doors, moonlight illuminated a now familiar architectural feature: a scalloped niche, replete with geometric carvings, partially hidden by a poplar tree in a heavy terra-cotta pot. Parysatis frowned. Leaving the goblet on the fountain’s edge, she hurried over to the niche. It was identical to the others; with a prayer to Allah, she squeezed around the potted poplar and ran her fingers over the niche’s carvings, searching …

  Her breath caught in her throat as a marble lozenge gave way with a sharp click. She pushed. Grating and groaning, the door swung inward on dry hinges to release a cloud of hot dusty air, the exhalation of a long-slumbering beast. Another one! But, where did this passage lead? The niche was in the east wall; east was the harem. From harem to passage to Caliph’s bed … Parysatis glanced over her shoulder. Had she found the secret way by which al-Hasan’s ancestors smuggled women into their presence without anyone becoming the wiser? Or perhaps was this a way for the Prince of the Faithful to spy upon his many wives? Whatever the reason, the palace’s current resident had long since forgotten its existence.

  To Parysatis, it was as a gift from God.

  She hurried back inside and returned the goblet to the Caliph’s bedside. He would wake, and at least his own terrible
thirst would not be his downfall. I cannot do much, but I can do this. She stroked his forehead. So like a great cavalier. He looked more restful than before—as though he knew someone was watching over him. The idea brought a hint of a smile to her face.

  “I’ll come to you again,” she whispered, “and soon. Together, perhaps we can find a way to help one another.”

  Reluctantly, Parysatis drew away; she closed the courtyard doors behind her and vanished into the newfound passage. No matter where in the harem it came out, it would be far better than having to cross the breadth of the East Palace …

  13

  “Where is it?”

  He could not breathe. The dark-haired boy, barely thirteen, gasped as thick fingers dug into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a thumb across his windpipe, forcing his back up against the unfinished wall of his tiny room; he smelled the reek of wine, the mingling of sweat and rich perfume. The boy writhed and fought against the hand trying to choke the life from him, but his struggles only served to anger his attacker even more.

  “Where is it, you ungrateful little bastard?” the man hissed, foul breath steaming the boy’s cheek. “Your mother confessed you stole my dead brother’s sword, though I had to beat the truth from her! Hand it over and spare yourself her fate! Stop fighting!” An open hand cracked across the boy’s mouth.

  “I didn’t steal it, Uncle!” he replied, blood starting from his lip. “It’s mine! You only want it back so you can sell it!” The boy’s uncle—his dead father’s brother, a qadi who dispensed Islamic justice from the halls of al-Azhar Mosque—was a rotund man, fond of wine and free with his coin. The fool had two wives, sisters hardly older than the boy, and both had a fondness for silks and gold, for perfumes and fine foods. He might deny them their excesses, he recalled Hakim saying, if only his prick and his spine were not one and the same.