by Oden, Scott
“Come, Great One,” the vizier murmured. “Let us put things right—”
Faster than Jalal would have thought possible, the Caliph rounded on him. With a violent shove he forced the vizier back against the bedside table; Rashid snagged his khalat, catching him before he could stumble and fall. “Do you take me for a fool, Jalal? Do you think I’m weak? Your man’s death was no tragic accident! He died for the crime of murder, and I condemn his body to a criminal’s fate!” Sweat beaded the Caliph’s forehead and his limbs quaked with the first signs of opium sickness; even still, his eyes burned with a resolute fire. “Things have changed, Jalal. From this day hence, you and those who follow you serve at my pleasure. I will choose from among them those whom I wish to stay at my side. The rest I will dismiss. There will be no exceptions. I alone will choose my chief eunuch, my physician, the captain of my guard.” Rashid raised the knife, holding its razored edge against the side of the vizier’s neck. “Do we understand one another?”
Jalal did not flinch. “Of course, Most Excellent One.”
“Good.” The Caliph nodded. He lowered the blade and methodically wiped it clean on the shoulder of Jalal’s pristine khalat. “It is a new day, Jalal. For now, you may remain as my vizier, as I value your experience. But heed this, and heed it well: let even the slenderest rumor reach me that you’ve renewed whatever schemes you may have had against me and I swear before Allah that I will have you gutted and your carcass hung from Zuwayla Gate.”
Both men looked up from the stain of transferred blood spreading across the snowy linen; their eyes met—ice versus fire, immutable opposites. “I would expect nothing less,” Jalal replied, sketching a slight bow.
Rashid released him. The Caliph turned away and staggered toward the open doors leading to his garden. “See Harun’s body receives a proper funeral and that his daughters are justly compensated for their loss. Throw the other one to the dogs,” he said. “This is Friday, is it not? I will attend noon prayer at the Gray Mosque, Jalal.”
“Yes, Most Excellent One. I will have a bath drawn, and a light meal, should you desire it.” The vizier clapped his hands, sending the servants scurrying. He motioned for Mustapha to follow him, and for the guards to bring the bodies.
Alone, the Prince of the Faithful stepped out into the too bright sunlight of his courtyard.
8
“How?” Jalal hissed to Mustapha as the pair of them returned to the antechamber. The vizier stripped off his stained khalat and flung it aside. “How did that meddlesome old fool get to him?”
“Not through us, as Allah is my witness!”
“Well, he did not simply sprout wings and fly over the courtyard wall!”
Mustapha was emphatic. “Nor did he come through that door, Excellency! There are a dozen Jandariyah on station in the hallway leading to it; two more guard the door itself! It is impossible, Excellency, to think an old man could slip past so many eyes without being seen!”
“Then how did he do it?”
“Are you certain the Jandariyah are loyal? Could not someone have convinced them to turn against you?”
Jalal’s slitted eyes glared at nothing as he weighed the old eunuch’s concerns. That betrayal might come from the ranks of those guarding the Caliph was not something he could dismiss lightly. The Jandariyah were mercenaries, after all. Could Harun al-Gid, who lived comfortably on a physician’s stipend, have bribed his way into the apartments? Inevitably, Jalal shook his head. “No. Perhaps he could have bought off one of them, but not all of them. Their captain, Turanshah, understands I’ve tied his fate—and the fate of his Syrians—to my own. Harun must have found another way in.” The vizier turned. “Retrace his steps through the palace. Find out where he was, who he talked to, why he was here. Others must have seen him.”
“As you wish, Excellency.” The old eunuch sidled closer. “What about…” He opened his hand, revealing a small glass phial. Jalal knew the purplish liquid inside was not opium.
“Did you not hear our noble prince?” Jalal looked back down the hallway to the Caliph’s chambers, where servants bustled in with pails of steaming water and out with wads of blood-soaked linen. Contempt twisted his features. “It is a new day. Al-Hasan is on guard against subtlety. He expects craft and guile; thus, we must be brazen and forthright. How could such a strong young man fall victim to fever? No, his demise will no doubt come at the end of a sword.” A burst of murderous inspiration brought a cold smile to his lips. “Perhaps the sword of a newfound ally…”
9
Parysatis sagged against the hidden door, sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut and her fists pressed to her ears in a vain attempt to block out the memory of al-Gid’s screams. Why? Why didn’t I help him? All I had to do was shout a warning! Instead, she had frozen. The shock of seeing a knife-wielding man creeping up on the old physician had left her bereft of voice. By the time she regained her wits, all she could do was look on in horror as her ally—her savior—took a dagger in the back. Why didn’t I help him? Sick with guilt, Parysatis let her body slide to the ground.
I dragged him into this! I dragged him into this and sent him to his death! And for what? Does the Caliph know any more now than he did before? Did al-Gid have a chance to warn him? Parysatis wanted to believe al-Gid had triumphed in death, and yet she had seen nothing on which to hang her belief. True, the Caliph was furious and he had acted more decisively than she could have imagined, but since he neither killed his vizier outright nor summoned troops to drag him away, what else could Parysatis conclude but the obvious: al-Gid had died in vain. Why didn’t I help him?
Wiping her eyes, Parysatis raised her head and stared at the door’s handle. She could help him, now. She could still make this right. This stone portal was the only barrier between her and the Prince of the Faithful. If she rushed out and confessed everything, if she flung herself on the Caliph’s mercy, it would bring meaning to al-Gid’s sacrifice. Of course, she would likely vanish in the upheaval, but what of it? Her life was of little consequence. Parysatis clambered to her feet. Her lips quivered with nervous resolve. She would do this, as much to honor al-Gid as to protect the Caliph. Closing her eyes, she reached for the rusted iron handle of the door …
A sound behind her—the soft crunch of a slipper on loose scree—spun Parysatis around. She shrank back against the stone, trembling fists knotted as her imagination filled the passage with the vizier’s murderous followers. She held her breath, waiting, her heart hammering in her chest … and then her body slumped with relief as Yasmina’s slender face drifted into the light.
“Mistress,” the young Egyptian hissed. “Why do you tarry?”
Tears rimmed Parysatis’s eyes. “They killed him, Yasmina.”
The girl stiffened. “Who?”
“Al-Gid.” Parysatis hid her face in her hands. “I l-let him die.”
“Mother of bitches!” Yasmina pushed past her mistress and strained to peer through the spy holes. The courtyard was empty, now; she saw but a lone slave inside, on his knees and scrubbing blood off the floor. She cursed again. “Was he killed outright, mistress?”
“W-what?” Parysatis looked up.
“Did they kill him outright or did they question him first? Quickly, mistress!”
“None questioned him that I saw.”
The girl nodded and took Parysatis by the hand. “Thank Allah for small blessings. Come—”
“Blessings?” Parysatis snapped, wrenching free of her grasp. “I should have you whipped for saying such a thing! How is his murder a blessing?”
Yasmina’s dark eyes grew hard. “Don’t be a fool, mistress. A quick death meant al-Gid didn’t have an opportunity to be tortured, to betray you to the vizier.”
“He would never betray me!”
“No?” The girl arched her fine eyebrows. “Have you ever seen a man tortured, mistress? He would betray his own mother if it meant an end to the pain. I am not as well schooled as some, but this I know: right now, the vizier is burning
to know how al-Gid got past his guards. I would wager my life that he has already dispersed his people into the palace with orders to learn all they can of the physician’s comings and goings. How long, you think, before they find out he was last in the harem?”
Blood drained from Parysatis’s face. “Merciful Allah!”
“Let us pray so,” Yasmina replied, extending her hand. “Come, we must hurry. The longer we dawdle, the more likely it is someone will poke their head inside the hammam to check on you. What would you rather they find: an empty bed or a woman who is delirious with fever?”
Shaken, Parysatis nodded and took the younger woman’s hand. “No, you’re right. I … I’m sorry for getting you caught up in all this.”
Yasmina’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Don’t be sorry, mistress, be swift. Come.” Hand in hand, the two women sprinted the distance from the courtyard door to the hammam, heedless of stealth. Parysatis clutched at her aching side as they neared the end, gasping for breath while the young Egyptian appeared barely winded.
Yasmina stepped out into the bath first. Her eyes sought the main entrance. Parysatis followed her gaze. The resourceful girl had propped a shard of pottery against the bottom of the door and there it remained, undisturbed. “Good,” the Egyptian said. “Hurry, mistress!”
As she crossed the hammam, movement caught Parysatis’s attention. She spotted the African eunuch, awake now and sitting upright. He glared at the women, cursing through his gag; his hands twisted at their silken bindings. “What are we going to do with him, Yasmina? We can’t drag him off…”
“No,” Yasmina replied. The tone of her voice was abrupt and vicious. “We can’t.” Without breaking stride, she hiked up the hem of her gown to reveal a makeshift sheath strapped to one long brown thigh; from it, Yasmina drew a thin-bladed dagger.
Parysatis’s eyes bulged. “What … what are you doing?”
The Egyptian girl did not answer, and before Parysatis could intervene she had reached the struggling eunuch, planted a petite foot on his chest—and in one quick motion laid open his throat. Bright blood spurted over the turquoise tiles.
Parysatis turned away, eyes squeezed shut and a hand clamped to her mouth as she fought the urge to be sick. She listened, horrified, to the African’s final throes: the wet gurgle as he tried to draw breath; the muffled grunting; the drumming of his heels. Mercifully, he did not linger, and in a dozen heartbeats the sounds ceased altogether.
The coppery stench of blood filled the dusty air of the hammam.
Parysatis opened her eyes to find Yasmina standing in front of her. The girl rested a consoling hand on her forearm. “I did what was necessary, mistress,” she said, her gaze frank and utterly without remorse. “Alive, he was a witness. Dead, he affords you deniability.”
“Merciful Allah!” Parysatis whispered. Her guilt outweighed her horror and both left her dizzy, her face pale and red eyes swollen. “Where did you learn such things?”
Yasmina’s answer came tinged with macabre pride: “I had an extraordinary teacher.” Gently, the girl bound Parysatis’s wrists with the dead eunuch’s sash. “When they come, you must appear distraught. You remember very little. You heard the struggle, and when you tried to rise the physician tied you up. The last thing you saw was al-Gid pressing a leaf and vanishing into the far wall. You’ve lain here in a stupor ever since. Do you understand?”
Parysatis nodded. She felt numb as Yasmina guided her into bed, an empty vessel drained of emotion. “What of you?”
“Don’t worry about me, mistress. If this hammam is like the others it will have a slave’s entrance. I’ll be gone before the hounds arrive.”
“Gone where?”
Yasmina swiped her hair off her forehead. “With or without your permission, I go to find the Gazelle. This is beyond us, now, mistress. She is the only person I can think of who will know what we can do, who we can trust.”
“I should just confess my part in this and beg for mercy,” Parysatis replied, her voice thick with despair.
“That would solve nothing, mistress.” Yasmina frowned. “And I would rather kill you myself—though it would break my heart to do so—than see you suffer at the hands of the vizier’s torturers. No, mistress. Now is not the time to act the martyr. Lie back and remember the part you’re playing. When I return, inshallah, it will be with good news.”
“Do not place too much faith in your Gazelle, Yasmina. She is only a woman, after all.”
“So was Scheherazade, mistress, and she wrapped a sultan around her finger. I’ll be back soon. Be strong.” Yasmina planted a quick kiss on Parysatis’s forehead before darting away. In a moment, all traces of the Egyptian’s passing had faded.
Shivering, Parysatis shrank down into her pillows and stared at the domed ceiling far above, its white patina awash in golden sunlight. The stink of blood filled her nostrils, and the young woman soon discovered the illness she meant to feign had become real …
10
The mosque of al-Aqmar stood at the head of the Bayn al-Qasrayn—that broad marble-paved plaza separating the East and West Palaces. Dubbed the Gray Mosque for the color of its stonework, it had a façade which displayed an array of elaborate decoration, from soaring keel arches and ribbed niches to stone rosettes and bands of Qur’anic verse chiseled deep into pale stucco. A single minaret rose from the heart of the mosque, adding its own slender bulk to a jagged skyline of domes and spires that caught the hazy midmorning sun and reflected it down into the crowded streets.
In the cool shadow of the mosque’s entry arch, Assad paused to remove his sandals. He glanced back into the Bayn al-Qasrayn. Hundreds jammed the broad plaza, a colorful sea of turbans and veils, tarboushes and headscarves. Native Cairenes and provincial Egyptians eager for a glimpse of their beloved Caliph mixed with foreigners of every stripe; Moslems mingled with Nazarenes who mingled with Jews. Slaves darted through the throng; porters staggered past under heavy loads. Merchants hurried to conclude their business before the markets closed for the morning, while courtiers and men of influence held forth beneath parasols of striped linen. Soldiers peppered the crowd: grim Turks, hawkish Circassians, and Sudanese mercenaries—all of them bristling with swagger and steel.
Though he trusted his disguise, Assad was in no mood to take chances. Slowly, he swept his back trail for signs of suspicious interest, of pursuit. He found neither. Indeed, in the press and shuffle of market day—with all its myriad sights, smells, and sounds—who would think to glance twice at a crippled holy man leaning on his ivory-headed walking stick? Satisfied, Assad nodded to himself.
“As-salaam alaikum, brother,” said a man’s voice from deeper inside the mosque.
The Assassin turned, falling effortlessly into character. “Alaikum as-salaam.”
“Are you lost, my friend?”
“Lost? Not if this is the mosque of al-Aqmar, praise be to Allah.” Assad hobbled closer, dragging one foot as he leaned on his “walking stick”—his salawar in a makeshift sheath constructed from elongated laths of old, black-daubed teak bound in leather and copper wire; only the pommel of the blade protruded, a knob of sculpted ivory hidden by his hand. Faint tremors of hatred whitened his knuckles. At his back, a crescendo of sound caused him to glance once more into the plaza. “Where I am from, we conduct our Friday market with much less … fanfare.”
The clean-shaven man who faced Assad smiled, though the gesture did not extend to his eyes; these were deep set and agleam with innate distrust. Though plainly dressed in a linen khalat and a tulip-shaped turban, Assad reckoned him a palace chamberlain—one of the vizier’s eunuchs sent ahead to keep an eye on the mosque prior to the Caliph’s arrival. Obviously, part of his task was to keep the undesirables at bay. He made no move to step out of Assad’s path. “And where do you hail from, my friend?”
“Teyma, in the Hejaz.”
“A harsh land, the Hejaz. What brings you to Cairo?”
Though the eunuch’s tone was pleasant and his mann
er one of affable curiosity, Assad recognized a subtle interrogation taking place. The Assassin played along; to do otherwise would have raised alarm in the eunuch’s mind. “A pilgrimage,” he said, patting the cool stone wall beside him. “My mentor, ere he passed on, always sang the praises of the Gray Mosque. He was here as a boy, when Caliph al-Amir first laid its foundations, and was one of the first congregants through this very arch. I have come in honor of his memory to make my submission to God. Allahu akbar.”
“Allahu akbar,” the eunuch echoed. He looked Assad up and down, seeing exactly what he was supposed to see: a backwater mystic from the heart of Arabia—scarred, crippled, and perfectly harmless. Slowly, the eunuch’s eyes lost their suspicious gleam; he stepped aside. “I suggest a spot under yonder colonnade, my friend. You’ll find it is coolest in its shade.”
“My thanks,” Assad replied, shuffling past.
Arches dominated the open courtyard of the Gray Mosque: keel arches held aloft by ancient columns of smooth marble, the whole braced and interconnected by timber tie beams. Lamps of smoky glass and bronze hung from these, unlit during the day. The scent of perfumed oils drifted in the air. The mosque was far from deserted. Already, men sought refuge from the heat, sitting alone or in pairs; some engaged in quiet conversation, while others simply closed their eyes and dozed. In one corner, beneath a narrow window, a wiry old man sat cross-legged in a patch of light, his gray-bearded lips moving as he read from his Qur’an.
Assad chose a spot opposite the niche in the eastern wall indicating the direction of Mecca; his position also kept the main entrance in his field of vision. With exaggerated care, he laid his disguised salawar on the ground and spread out his prayer rug. Assad exhaled and knelt. He cleared his mind as he performed the first of many prostrations. Whispering the Shahada, he rocked his body back and forth, and appeared to lose himself in a fog of religious ecstasy. He became a holy man.