The Lion of Cairo

by Oden, Scott

  Zaynab sank back into the cushions of her chair, a satisfied smile curving the corners of her mouth. “Patience may be a fine thing,” she muttered. “But I much prefer decisive action. Let our enemies be on the defensive for a change.”

  6

  Parysatis shortened her stride; she glanced back, and then paused to give the old man time to catch up. Pushing her sweat-heavy hair out of her eyes, she hissed: “It’s not far, now! Hurry, Grandfather!”

  Al-Gid gestured her on, wheezing through the dust. The air in the passage was chalky and hot, ripe with the stench of neglect. The walls around them were a jagged patchwork of dun-colored clay peppered with bits of ancient stone—shoddy and unfinished, but for the immaculate masonry in those places pierced by spy holes. Their path wound serpentine, following the palace’s ancient foundations. In places direct sunlight seeped in through slender apertures; al-Gid felt the touch of cooler air, heard the sounds of gurgling water and of birdsong. He reckoned they were skirting the marble-paved plazas that lined the route to the Caliph’s chambers. Beyond, the passage twisted again, narrowed, and plunged into thick shadow.

  “It’s up ahead,” he heard Parysatis whisper, and as they rounded a corner al-Gid saw the end of the passage, diffuse light spilling through a pair of slitted holes. The door was a panel of featureless stone; near its right edge, some long-dead mason had driven in an iron staple, flecked with rust, to serve as a handle. Parysatis reached it first. She stretched up onto the tips of her toes, palms against the stone, and pressed her eye to one of the holes. “He’s still abed,” she said, breathless. “He seems alone.” Her fingers reached for the iron handle.

  Al-Gid caught her hand. “Wait. Let me look.”

  She glanced back, her dark eyes flaring with impatience, but stepped aside to give the physician space. “Hurry. We may not have much time.”

  The old man said nothing. He mimicked her movements to peer out the narrow hole. Though partially obstructed by the trunk of an ornamental tree, the vista that stretched before him was one of casual familiarity—he recognized the greensward, the ivy-cloaked arbor, the fountain pool. How often in years past had he sat on its stone lip to dabble his fingers in the cool water? How often had the old viziers, Shawar and Dirgham, summoned him in the middle of the night to investigate an errant cough, an innocent sniffle? They each had used the boy in their own way, as a tool to leverage power, but they at least understood the need to keep the Prince of the Faithful healthy and alive. Not so that fool Jalal! Al-Gid gritted his teeth against the rage that threatened to consume him. Allah’s curse upon that grasping swine!

  Through latticed doors, the physician could just see the too pale form of the Caliph sprawled in his bed. Asleep or dead, the old man could not say. Am I too late?

  “Please, Grandfather!” Parysatis’s voice trembled. “We must hurry!”

  Al-Gid drew back from the door and nodded. “Open it.”

  Hinges grated as Parysatis tugged the secret portal open, revealing the slender trunk of a potted poplar that partially blocked the way. A breath of air stirred the dust at al-Gid’s feet. Before she could rush out, however, the physician caught her by the shoulder.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  “I should come with you in case—”

  “Do as I say, child. Stay here. Close the door. I will rouse him and gauge his lucidity. When it’s safe, I will motion for you to come out. Do you understand?”

  Parysatis did not respond. She stared plaintively across the courtyard, tears gleaming at the corners of her eyes.

  He shook her. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Parysatis blinked, closed her eyes. “Hurry, Grandfather. He has need of you.”

  His manner softened. “Give me but a moment, child. But a moment and I will call for you. Do not weep. You have done us all a tremendous service. I swear by the Prophet, our Prince is going to want to thank you himself.” The old man smiled kindly in hopes of allaying her frustrations. “Be strong.”

  “Be careful,” she replied, wiping her eyes.

  Al-Gid redoubled his grip on his bag, winked at her, and squeezed out the door. He waited beside the poplar for it to snick shut. As it closed, however, it occurred to him that he had no idea how to trigger it from without, no clue which carving to press or which stone to manipulate. He could not even locate the spy holes in the deep niche with any confidence; still, he knew Parysatis watched him. He sensed the weight—and the impatience—of her gaze. With a nod, the old man turned and hobbled across the sward. He emerged from the truncated shadows of the courtyard’s eastern wall, the cruel heat of the Egyptian sun heavy on his neck and shoulders, and quickly crossed around the fountain and under the arbor.

  Inside, the physician felt the heat slough away. Above his head, the back-and-forth motion of silken punkahs—each one drawn by the hand of an unseen slave—sent cool jasmine-scented air swirling through the chamber. Greenery whispered in this artificial breeze. Amid the stalks and fronds, al-Gid caught sight of a familiar feline face: black as night with eyes of delicate topaz. He heard the cat’s inquisitive chirrup. The physician crinkled his eyes. “Greetings, Roshanak,” he muttered. “I’m here to check on your master.” In response, the cat darted from among the plants and vanished under Rashid’s bed.

  The young Caliph had not moved. That he breathed brought a prayer of relief to al-Gid’s lips, but the physician found the Prince of the Faithful’s condition appalling—his skin stuck to his bones like that of a pitiful beggar. “Bismillah!” He shook his head; al-Gid unslung his bag and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Great One,” he said, touching Rashid’s shoulder. Despite the cool air, the Caliph’s face and body glistened beneath a veneer of sweat. “Great One. You must wake.”

  The Caliph stirred. His muscles twitched, a spasm caused him to stiffen. Ropes of sinew stood out in his neck as he clenched and unclenched his jaw.

  “Please, Great One. Open your eyes.”

  Slowly, he did as al-Gid asked. His eyes fluttered open—then suddenly widened. The Caliph’s body went rigid. Trembling fingers clutched at his bedding, at the hand that lay on his arm. “A-Allah!” he croaked.

  “A thousand apologies, Great One,” the old physician said. He kept his voice low, a soothing monotone. “It is only me, it is only Harun. Old Harun.” Al-Gid used his given name. He repeated it over and again, smiling, trying to reach the Caliph through the fog of confusion that clouded his eyes. The physician had seen such looks before—in the faces of men too long dependent on opium. They must be keeping him drugged as a prelude to poisoning him. “Come, Great One. Have you forgotten old Harun so soon?”

  The Caliph blinked. “H-Harun?”

  “Yes, Great One. Forgive my intrusion but I heard you might be unwell.”

  “Harun.” By increments, the young Caliph’s body relaxed; he licked his cracked lips. “My old friend. I have missed you.”

  “And I you, Great One.”

  Rashid coughed and struggled to sit upright, his dark hair tangled about his shoulders. “H-have you anything to drink?”

  Harun al-Gid cast about until his eyes lit upon the goblet at the Caliph’s bedside. If Parysatis spoke true it should be safe. Still, he took no chances. Al-Gid picked it up, dipped his smallest finger into it, and touched it to his tongue. Pure water—neither sweet nor cool, but potable. He nodded to the Caliph. “Here, Great One. Let me help you.”

  With the physician’s aid, Rashid sipped from the goblet. The young Caliph drank a few swallows and then sank back down, his lips twisting into a grimace. “A change from the wine I usually have in the morning.”

  “Yes, Great One. We must discuss that. How do you feel?”

  “My sleep is troubled,” Rashid replied. The cat, Roshanak, leaped onto his side of the bed, stretching and purring in greeting. Seeing her, the Caliph managed a thin smile; he raised his hand so she might brush up against it. “I wake weary and cannot find respite from the dreams that plague me. Most days, t
hat is my sole companion.” With a tilt of his chin, he indicated the water pipe sitting on the bedside table.

  “Opium, still?”

  The younger man shrugged, waving the physician’s concerns away. “But it doesn’t matter. You must return to court, my old friend. You must resume your place—”

  “I never left court, Great One,” al-Gid said. “I was barred from seeing you by your vizier. No doubt so I would not raise alarm at how poorly they are treating you. Look at yourself, my young lord. Those who profess to serve you have allowed you to waste away, or worse, they themselves are the architects of your sickness.”

  The Caliph frowned; he said nothing for a moment, his downcast eyes blazing with a measure of their old fire as he stared at his thin hand, knobby and fleshless. He clenched it into a fist. “Perhaps you are right, Harun, but what of it? I have been a pawn of men like that since I was but a boy. Men cut from the same bolt of shabby cloth, with their hollow promises and claims of concern, but what of it?”

  “You mean you know your vizier intrigues against you?”

  “All of them have,” the Caliph replied. “Though Dirgham, at least, liked to play as though he had my best interests at heart. I assume Jalal is no different. So long as they do what’s best for Egypt, I find I am content to go along with their charade.”

  Al-Gid shook his head. “Would it not be best for Egypt to be ruled by an incorruptible Prince descended from the Prophet’s own daughter, and not by a gaggle of his scheming eunuchs and lackeys?”

  “It would, but I am a realist, Harun. I may dream of seizing the reins of power and ruling like the Caliphs of old, but I have wisdom enough to apprehend the futility in such grandiose dreams. I would not know where to begin—”

  The old physician leaned closer. “You begin, Great One, by reclaiming your dignity. As Allah is my witness, you are the Prince of the Faithful, not some pipe-smoking derelict from Fustat! Act accordingly and a newfound respect for your person will follow. To be sure, others are aware of your plight, Great One. They work tirelessly on your behalf, but their work will be for naught if you succumb to indolence or despair—or to poison.”

  “Poison?” The Caliph frowned. “They would not dare.”

  “Do not be so certain, Great One. Men desperate for power would dare much to gain it. You must not—”

  The cat warned Harun al-Gid they were no longer alone. He saw Roshanak’s ears flatten against her skull; feline muscles tensed. Something—someone—over his shoulder spooked her. Parysatis? Frowning, the old physician straightened, turned …

  … and cried out as sudden and excruciating pain blossomed in his side, just below his ribs. Al-Gid twisted, his body contorting away from the impaling knife; he stared at the grinning countenance of his attacker: a eunuch, a narrow-faced Moor in the plain robes of a servant.

  Al-Gid heard the Caliph’s voice as if from the bottom of a well: “Khadim! What are you doing?” The Moor, however, did not acknowledge him. Iron fingers knotted in the breast of al-Gid’s galabiya. Fabric ripped, and the old man felt himself lifted clear of the tall bedstead, felt himself floating.

  For the span of a heartbeat, Harun experienced a sensation of peace, of silent calm. He looked back into the young Caliph’s eyes, wide now with equal parts shock and outrage, and wished he had done more to warn him of the danger. And what would become of poor Parysatis, so like his daughters? I should have told you about her. Nearer, he saw the Moor’s lips peel back as he bellowed … what? A curse? A warning? It mattered little. The heartbeat passed, and Harun al-Gid’s world exploded into shards of white-hot agony as the Moor slammed him to the floor with enough force to shatter the bones of his pelvis.

  As pain-laced darkness closed around him, the last thing Harun al-Gid saw with any clarity—beyond the Moor’s upraised knife, wet with his blood—was the young Prince of the Faithful springing from his bed, one hand reaching for his water pipe …

  7

  The crunch of his old friend’s bones, his piercing screams, galvanized Rashid al-Hasan. The Moor had Harun pinned to the floor, the knife in his gory fist raised high to deliver a killing blow. And for what? What trespass had he committed? Was concern for his well-being now a reason for murder? Rashid’s rage boiled over, provoking the young man to action.

  Bare-chested, the Prince of the Faithful rose from the tangled bed linens and snatched up the first thing he saw—his water pipe. Inverted, it resembled an old Egyptian mace: a flaring tube of brass, inlaid silver, and gilded glass replacing a wooden haft; its weight coming not from a stone head, but from a core of lead in its base. Yellowish water sluiced over Rashid’s knuckles.

  “Khadim!” he roared. The Moor glanced back. Before he could react, the Caliph swung the heavy pipe with every scrap of strength locked away in his thin frame. It whistled through the air, catching the Moor in the right temple. His skull cracked—a wet sound not unlike a boot heel crushing an egg. Khadim cartwheeled off the old physician’s body; he landed in a twisted heap by the door just as a handful of eunuchs and soldiers entered, drawn in by the commotion. Mustapha stood at the forefront, his bruised face pale.

  “Most Excellent One!” he said. “What…?”

  “Stay back!” Rashid dropped the bent water pipe and fell to his knees beside Harun al-Gid’s body. The old physician lay in a widening pool of blood, barely clinging to life. His eyes fluttered open at Rashid’s touch. “My dear old friend,” the Caliph whispered, tears rimming his eyes. He smoothed Harun’s brow with a trembling hand. “I am so sorry this happened. May Allah preserve you and keep you. Tell me what I should do.”

  Gritting his teeth, the old man turned his gaze on those who clustered in the doorway. Condemnation blazed in his eyes. Condemnation and disgust. “N-not … trust … t-them!” he gasped.

  “I won’t, my old friend,” Rashid replied. He glanced up at the throng of murmuring functionaries, his own antipathy mirroring that of the dying physician. “I won’t. I will remember all that you’ve said.” Very slowly, Harun al-Gid raised a gnarled hand. The Caliph clasped it, heedless of the smeared blood. The contact sent a racking sigh through the old man’s body; the muscles of his face grew slack as the life went out of him. Rashid al-Hasan bent over and kissed his forehead. “I will do what is right for Egypt.”

  After a few moments, the Caliph straightened; he rose to his feet, bloody and disheveled, and turned to face the men who milled in the doorway, his wrath like a living thing between them. The servants and lesser eunuchs dared not meet his gaze—they stared at their dead comrade, at the floor, at their feet—while Mustapha looked askance at the young Caliph, gauging all possible responses to questions he had yet to ask. The soldiers, whose turban-wrapped helmets sported thick nasals and inlays of gold, and whose gilded mail gleamed beneath white khalats, watched him warily, though with grudging respect.

  “Will you kill me now?” Rashid sneered. He staggered over the physician’s body and scooped up the Moor’s fallen knife, fixing his eye on Mustapha; for the first time in a long while, the old eunuch appeared at a loss for words. “Come, you gutless conniver. Kill me. Do it!” The young man threw his arms wide. “You’re my jailers, are you not? Why not end your tedium and put me down like the dog you believe me to be?” None of them moved. “No?” The Caliph spat. “By Allah, I should have the lot of you hanged!”

  Rashid’s tirade against them might have continued had the vizier’s voice not cracked above their heads like a whip: “What the devil is going on?” Visibly relieved, the eunuchs and guards gave ground, splitting ranks to allow him entry. Jalal stormed into the Caliph’s chamber in a swirl of fine white linen. Gold glittered on his fingers and crusted his turban. “Are you deaf? I said what—”

  “Yes, join us, Jalal,” the Caliph said. “Perhaps you can provide your minions with enough spleen to see their assassination through! Or is it only my friends and my visitors that you’re plotting to kill?”

  The vizier’s narrowed eyes flicked from the Moor’s body to t
he discarded pipe to the corpse of Harun al-Gid, and finally came to rest on the knife in the Prince of the Faithful’s hand; the pieces fell into place like the tiles of a violent mosaic. Jalal stepped closer to the young man, his lips thinned to a hard line. “The physician paid you an unanticipated visit and Khadim mistook him for someone who meant you harm? Allah’s mercies upon them! This was assuredly a tragic accident, Most Excellent One. Had we known you were expecting him—”

  “I wasn’t expecting him, Jalal, but you already know that! Harun told me you forbade him from seeing me!” The Caliph paced back and forth like a caged lion, his gait unsteady despite the fury surging in his veins. “Why, Jalal? So you could keep me in a drugged stupor with no one the wiser? What foul schemes have you hatched in my name, I wonder?”

  “Great One, please.” The vizier held his hands palms up in a pleading gesture as he drifted close. “We are loyal to you and zealous—perhaps overly so—of your safety, but we are not the evil men you imagine us to be. Have you forgotten it was Harun himself who first suggested the opium? He administered it to quiet your mind so you might rest, not to keep you docile and pliant. If you wish it no more, then there will be no more.

  “And what of poor Harun—may Allah’s mercy rest upon his soul! Through their husbands, it was his own daughters who begged me to release him from service, as he had grown too old in their estimation to be at your beck and call. I thought I’d done the proper thing in returning him to his family so he might pass his final years in their company. But he must have misunderstood my intent if he told you I forbade him from seeing you, even as Khadim misunderstood Harun’s intent. Herein lay the true tragedy, Most Excellent One: both men saw danger where none existed, and both men died because of it.”

  Rashid stood still as the vizier came up beside him; the young man said nothing, his brow furrowed as he stared at the body of the slain physician. Jalal’s reasoning made extraordinary sense, and on any other day the young Caliph would have bought into it with little conscious thought. On this day, however, his yet raw and festering anger—coupled with Harun’s dying admonition to trust no one—stripped away the veil of complacency. Stripped it away and trampled it underfoot.