by Oden, Scott
Three quarters of an hour later, after two turns around the wide square dividing the East and West Palaces, Yasmina slipped through the Emerald Gate of the East Palace amid a gaggle of servants returning from the markets. Her lank hair and grimy feet were unremarkable among her newfound companions and aroused not the slightest suspicion in the mailed and brooding guards. She passed unnoticed. Beyond the gate, a lush fountain court—its flagstones washed by silvery sprays of water and shaded by the spreading boughs of a plane tree—provided a place of respite. Swallows darted in and out, chasing insects through the late afternoon sky. Yasmina paused here for a drink and to sluice the dust from her feet and legs before continuing into the heart of the palace. The halls and corridors were oppressively silent.
At the gold-chased doors to the harem, the ebony-skinned eunuchs who stood their posts with bared steel knew her by sight; one gave her a kind smile and levered the heavy door open. Inside, the silence continued unabated—the parrots in their silvered cages, the sleek cats, the tiny dogs on their golden leashes all kept quiet, not daring to shatter the pregnant calm for fear of never regaining it. A few of the women were out. Some played shatranj in the colonnaded court, under the bored gazes of eunuchs; others lounged around the lotus pool, dabbling their fingers and toes in the cool water. They spoke in soft voices. The business with the slain physician was already old news, and Yasmina could only guess what obsessions occupied their evening hours, what vicious rumors they were spinning and at whose expense.
Neither eunuchs nor women bothered to look her way as she twitched aside the curtain and entered Parysatis’s alcove. The room’s morning brightness had long since fled, leaving the air heavy with gloom and despair. Parysatis was still abed; someone had changed her linens and fetched a fresh gown. A pitcher of water stood at her elbow.
The Egyptian crept to her bedside. “Mistress?”
“I’m not asleep, Yasmina.” Parysatis stirred; her face was ghostly in the dim light.
“I have news! We—”
“No, Yasmina,” the Persian woman said, shaking her head. She fought back a flood of tears. “I … I want nothing more to do with the intrigues of the palace. What men do to one another, whom they choose to betray or whom they choose to promote, is none of my affair. Women have no place meddling in such business.”
“But mistress—”
“I said no, Yasmina! No!”
“No?” The young woman’s eyes flared. “You would abandon your Caliph; leave him at the mercy of his enemies? I thought his suffering moved you to tears?”
“I cannot help him!” the Persian sobbed.
“Cannot, or will not? Don’t tell me a little spilled blood has washed away your resolve?”
Parysatis rolled away, her voice thin and cold. “I thank you for your service, Yasmina, but I … I no longer require it. Return to your Gazelle. I do not doubt she will have a place for you in her household … or that you will be all the happier for it.”
“Damn you!” Yasmina stared, blinking back hot tears. “She doesn’t have a household anymore! Her enemies have taken it from her even as they seek to deprive her of her life! Yet, she risks everything to send you aid! To help you, because yours is the cause of truth!”
“Truth?” Parysatis said bitterly. “What truth? Mine is the cause of death!”
“Stop being naïve!” Yasmina snapped. “Do you hold yourself above Allah?”
“It was not Allah who sent al-Gid to his doom, it was me! My meddling! And soon, Lu’lu will drag me before the vizier where I’ll be made to answer their questions! Do you understand, now?”
“And of this you’re certain? Does not Allah write our fates at birth? I’ve heard men say all the good and evil in life is preordained. If that’s true, then the physician died because such was the will of Allah, not because of anything you did.” The young Egyptian’s voice softened. “Come, mistress, do you truly want al-Gid’s death to have been in vain? What of the Gazelle? Do you want her sacrifices on your behalf to mean nothing? Is it your wish for the vizier’s treachery to go unpunished?”
Parysatis sat up; she cradled her face between trembling hands. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t be party to this, not after this morning! Allah may have written al-Gid’s doom long ago, but He made me the instrument of that doom, and I cannot bear it! Nor can I bear the carnage that must come to pass if we go forward! Men will die—innocent men—and I don’t have the courage to be a catalyst for that!”
“These men you think to save by giving in to your fear will die, mistress, regardless of what choices you make. Such is the way of the world. As for your courage, I say do what you must to find it again, and quickly! You have this one chance to help the Caliph retain the throne of his ancestors—a throne that goes back to the Prophet himself. You have been chosen for this task, mistress! You and no other!”
Parysatis closed her eyes. Merciful Allah, is that true? Am I the Caliph’s only hope? Fear roiled in the forefront of her mind, dark and primordial; it threatened to extinguish the ember of rage that flared beneath. But that rage brightened as she recalled the dismissive look on Jalal’s face. He thinks he can dispose of the Caliph and no one will care. The dog believes himself beyond reproach …
“Say you’re right, Yasmina,” Parysatis said, opening her eyes. “Say Jalal must be made to pay … but how? We are two women against a vizier. How else can this end save with our deaths?”
The young Egyptian gave her a wan smile. “First, we become more than two women. The Gazelle has arranged a meeting with a man of influence, a staunch supporter of the Caliph’s. His name is Massoud and he is the amir of the Circassian mamelukes, the White Slaves of the River. If you speak to him of the vizier’s treachery, I promise you he and his men will do all they can to preserve the Caliph’s life and his throne.”
“But I must speak to him?” Parysatis chewed her lip. “You’re certain?”
“Yes, mistress. The Gazelle has already arranged a time and place. All that remains is for me to guide you to him.”
“How? Especially after this morning, I doubt Lu’lu will be inclined to simply stand aside and let me walk out.” Parysatis shivered. “I’m told he waits for the vizier to return, to oversee my torture…”
“Let how we escape be my concern,” Yasmina said, rising and going to Parysatis’s tall armoire. “First, we must make you presentable. There’s little chance of your escaping at all if you’re wandering about the harem in your nightclothes…”
29
Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman studied the assembled commanders of Cairo’s military—a disparate group of slaves and mercenaries who clustered around their leaders as tribal fighters might cleave to their chieftain. The vizier sat on a divan, beneath delicate lamps of glass and gold filigree, on a portico that overlooked one of the palace’s innumerable gardens. Through the dusty leaves of ancient sycamores, the gilded dome of the Caliph’s residence gleamed in the setting sun.
To his left, the black-turbaned men of the Sudan hovered around their prince, Wahshi, a giant of a man who slouched in an ivory chair and sneered at his brother commanders. Before him, the mailed Syrians of the Jandariyah followed the example of their captain, Turanshah, and stood at rigid attention to await the pleasure of the vizier. And to Jalal’s right, as wary as caged beasts, stood the disgraced White Slaves of the River. Their ranks were a mix of Turks and Circassians, men gaudily dressed in silks and brocades, silver-stitched leather and gilded mail, who deferred to their amir, Gokbori.
Gokbori was a Turk, a barrel-chested man with the heavy arms and shoulders of a brawler. Barely one generation separated him from the barbaric steppe of his homeland, north of the Black Sea, and though he affected touches of civilization—such as keeping his graying beard waxed—the savage ways of his people still endured. Tufts of hair sliced from the scalps of his enemies hung from his golden belt, and he toyed with a string of worry beads carved from human knucklebones. His dark eyes gleamed with mistrust.
Of the
three, only the Jandariyah knew the truth about the approaching armies. Turanshah was solid as bedrock; his Syrians were well led and not given to factional fighting or to dangerous fits of rioting—both hallmarks of Cairo’s other regiments. Thus, to spare the city from potential unrest, Jalal revealed only part of the tale to Cairo’s other commanders: the approach of an army from Damascus. He painted it as merely another of Shirkuh’s footloose escapades, one spurred on by the maunderings of an exiled vizier whose day had long passed. Let them learn of our alliance with the Nazarenes when it’s too late to refuse their aid.
Jalal smiled, a gesture both thin and humorless. “Your orders are simple,” he said to Gokbori. “You and your mamelukes are to defend Atfih from that pig Shirkuh.”
“Atfih? Let him have it, Excellency,” Gokbori said, frowning. “We could seal Cairo against Shirkuh in the two days and more it would take to reach Atfih.” The Turk’s silver boot heels clacked against the green marble flagstones of the portico as he paced back and forth. “If we divide our forces like this, we risk defeat twice over…”
“I want Atfih defended,” Jalal said coldly.
Gokbori bristled. “And what does the Caliph want? Is it his wish or yours that we waste our lives in vain?”
“You dare question me?” Jalal shot to his feet, white robes rustling like an ifrit’s wings. He towered over the squat Turk. “The White Slaves of the River will muster tonight, outside the Soldiers’ Gate! You will leave quietly or your families will pay the price! That is the will of the Caliph!”
Gokbori glanced sideways in hopes of gleaning support from his brother commanders. But neither man rose to the mamelukes’ defense. Turanshah’s face remained an unreadable mask; Wahshi, however, reveled in his rival’s misfortune. He winked, lips peeling back over yellowed teeth.
Jalal took a step closer. “Do you understand your task, or must I explain it again to your successor?”
Gokbori sniffed in disdain, though he knew the vizier’s threat was not a hollow one, nor could he ignore his orders—slaves, even precious mamelukes, fell beneath the executioner’s blade for less. “Aye, by Allah!” he said finally. “Aye. We leave tonight for Atfih.”
The vizier nodded. “Wahshi, double your patrols in the city. I am placing the urban militia under your command, as well. Use them to seal the gates after evening prayer. Shirkuh will likely try and send infiltrators in to spread rumors and lies. Have your men watch for agitators and the like. Turanshah, do what you must to make the palace secure.” From the corner of his eye, Jalal saw Mustapha signal to him. The vizier ended the audience with a sharp nod. “To your posts. I have other business to attend.”
Gokbori salaamed with a stiff formality that bordered upon mockery and, with his retinue in tow, ambled for the door, moving with the wide, rolling gait of a born horseman; Wahshi stood, bowed, and motioned for a slave to gather up his chair. The men of the Sudan laughed and chatted as they followed their Turkish comrades. The Jandariyah officers were the last to leave, silently filing out after their captain.
Jalal, his forehead creased in thought, turned to Mustapha; the old eunuch nodded.
“Your guest is here.”
“Did anyone see him arrive?”
Mustapha shook his head. “I had a pair of my most trusted eunuchs escort him here by way of the Daylam Garden, through the House of Memory. It is little used these days.”
“You are ever the soul of discretion, my old darling.”
“Are you certain this is the proper path, Excellency?” Mustapha said. Concern furrowed the old eunuch’s brow. “There is little delicacy in the course of action you are proposing.”
Jalal clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out over the garden, watching as a flock of pigeons alighted at the apex of the distant dome—smudges of gray against a fiery gold background. A warm breeze rustled sycamore leaves. “The time for delicacy has passed, Mustapha. It is decisive action or nothing.”
“This is certainly decisive.” The eunuch turned and clapped his hands; the vizier’s door wardens levered open the gold-arabesqued portals to allow a single man entry. Mustapha salaamed. “Sir Godfrey de Vézelay, Excellency.”
“Peace be upon you, Templar,” Jalal said.
“Lord Saracen,” Godfrey replied, offering his host a slight bow. The Templar had put aside the trappings of war for the evening. Under the white mantle of his order, emblazoned with a red cross, he wore a belted tunic of unbleached linen and trousers; a silver crucifix hung from a chain about his neck. “I was surprised to receive your invitation, though I am curious why it did not include my lord brother, Hugh. Are you hatching some heathen plot to divide us?” Godfrey looked around him, obviously smitten by the sight of so much easy wealth. No doubt his blunt mind was already designing schemes for getting hold of it.
“I will not dissemble with you, my friend,” Jalal said. He gestured for the Templar to take a seat on the divan as Mustapha served them wine. “A problem has arisen that threatens to undermine our alliance.”
Godfrey’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of problem?”
“The most delicate sort.” Jalal selected a goblet at random from Mustapha’s tray, sipped it, then put it back and took the other. “It concerns the Caliph. It seems he is no longer amenable to your lord’s offer. Indeed, he is pressuring me to seize you and your companion and have both of you executed.”
“What?” the Templar roared. “God’s teeth! We had your assurances, dog!”
“And you still do,” Jalal said hurriedly. “You still do. The Caliph’s reticence, his hostility, is something we must deal with, which is why I invited you here. I would ask a tremendous boon of you—of you, personally, Sir Godfrey. A boon that if properly executed will no doubt enrich us both.”
That piqued the Templar’s interest. Godfrey cocked his head to one side. “Enrich us both, you say? How so?”
Jalal shook his head. “Not so quickly, my friend. First, swear on your oath to God and the Temple that nothing I say will ever pass your lips, by accident or design, upon pain of damnation.”
Godfrey smoothed his mustache with one scarred knuckle. The vizier could see his mind at work, weighing intangibles and things unseen like a moneylender in the souk weighs copper against gold; of the two Franks, Godfrey possessed the loosest moral fiber—Jalal reckoned him the worst kind of infidel: a warmonger who only paid lip service to the tenets of his order, to the pronouncements of his Nazarene lord, and to his own oath. Still, his eyes betrayed all. Where the acquisition of wealth was paramount, Godfrey de Vézelay’s eyes declaimed the depths of his fidelity. Finally, the Templar nodded. “You have my word, Lord Saracen. Upon my oath to God and Temple.”
After a moment, Jalal nodded in return. “I accept your oath. Our problem, you see, is one of religion—the Caliph is refusing to join with Nazarenes against his fellow Moslems, not considering that these selfsame Moslems condemn his Fatimid ancestry at every opportunity, and they have pledged loyalty to the Caliph of Baghdad. He does not see the folly in that sort of blind faith. An enemy is an enemy, regardless of in what direction they pray.”
“Then put him aside and find a more agreeable Caliph,” Godfrey said, with accustomed bluntness.
Jalal smiled. “Indeed, we see eye to eye on this, you and I. And in the same breath know that this is the boon I would ask of you.”
The Templar’s head snapped around. “Christ and the Saints, man! What are you saying? You want me to—”
“Nay,” Jalal said, raising his hand in a gesture of warning. “Speak it not aloud, my friend. You know precisely what I am saying. We agree there is a delicate task at hand and, in all honesty, who else can I trust? Certainly not another Moslem, for we hold the Caliph inviolate. A Jew, perhaps? Maybe a Maronite beggar from Fustat? No, my friend. I need a man I can rely on—as much for his skill as for his discretion. You, Sir Godfrey.”
“I’m no martyr, Lord Saracen,” Godfrey put in. “Nor am I in the mood to be torn apart by a Cairene mob.”<
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The vizier shook his head. “Nor am I. But, hearken—what if I tell you I have a way to smuggle you into his presence with no one the wiser? That my men will be slow to respond to any sounds of a struggle, giving you time to withdraw unseen? And more to the point: what if I tell you I have a ready scapegoat in mind should word escape prematurely? Your name, your order, will never be associated with this deed.”
The Templar swirled the wine in his goblet, staring into its depths as he grappled with the implications of what the vizier was saying. “I see now why you didn’t include Sir Hugh in this conclave,” Godfrey said, glancing at Jalal through narrowed eyes.
“No doubt he is a very fine man, and worthy of renown, but he lacks your sense of self-preservation. You understand as well as I that it is only the outcome that matters, not the way in which it is achieved.” Jalal leaned back, his legs thrust out before him. In the distance he could hear the first strains of the adhan drifting over the city. The time for evening prayer was at hand.
“You do not rush to your knees like the others,” Godfrey noticed, draining his goblet.
“Allah understands the needs of those who rule and accords us leeway.”
The Templar stroked his beard. Already, the vizier could see the scales of acquiescence tipping in his favor as Godfrey balanced the iron weight of greed against the feather of risk. The Frank’s eyes gleamed. “If I do this thing, what am I to receive in return? You spoke of enrichment…?”
Jalal spread his hands, encompassing the whole of the palace—perhaps the whole of Egypt. “What is your heart’s desire? Gold? Jewels? Horses? Slaves? Name your reward, my friend, and you shall have it. But, this task—it must be done soon.”