by Oden, Scott
“It was a personal matter, my lord. A thing of no importance. It is done, regardless.” Assad winced as the surgeon began knitting the two sides of the wound together. “Is it true you’ve received an emissary from Shirkuh?”
“It is.” The Caliph crossed the portico to stand by one of the columns. The garden around them was unnaturally quiet—no insects trilled in the rising heat, no birds sang; the grit kicked up by the army of Damascus drifted south on the light breeze. It settled over Cairo like a shroud, obscuring distant domes and minarets and adding a touch of jaundice to every leaf, bough, and blade of grass.
“And?”
Rashid al-Hasan looked askance at the Assassin, a petulant curl to the young man’s lip. “Oh, it was a personal matter. A thing of no importance. It is done, regardless.”
The eunuch surgeon chuckled. Assad shot a frosty glance over his shoulder. “Leave us.”
“I have not yet finished—”
“Leave!” Perturbed, the fellow tied off the ends of his half-drawn sutures and stood. He bowed to the Caliph before withdrawing from the kiosk. Assad sat up on the stone bench; he winced as he flexed his shoulder. “My master has a saying. ‘Where goes Alamut, so goes Massaif.’ I got this rooting out a nest of those God-cursed infidels who thought to set themselves up in the Foreign Quarter.”
“I do not understand,” the Caliph said. “Is this Massaif a rival of al-Hashishiyya?”
“They are al-Hashishiyya, or they were. Massaif is a mountaintop fortress in Syria, my lord.” Quickly, Assad sketched out what he knew of this decades-long war between the two Assassin sects. He told the Caliph of how, in the time of Hasan ibn al-Sabbah, Alamut had established a mission in Syria to combat the rising influence of the Turks, and how a schism erupted after Ibn al-Sabbah’s death—a schism fueled by the Syrians’ thirst for wealth and power. “Massaif has become a den of traitors and renegades. They seek to supplant the Hidden Master’s dominion with that of their own chief, the so-called Old Man of the Mountain, even as Alamut seeks to crush them under heel.”
The Caliph looked sharply at Assad. “Allah! Could these Syrians—these Assassins of Massaif—could they have been allied with Damascus? It cannot be a coincidence that they were here in Cairo even as an army from Syria stands upon our doorstep.”
Assad recalled their eerie lair, with its scattering of ancient corpses and the stink of necromancy, and shuddered. It’s as though they were looking for something. “Though I cannot say for certain, my lord, I don’t think their presence here had anything to do with Shirkuh—or with Amalric, for that matter.”
“Perhaps you are right.” Rashid al-Hasan said nothing else for a long moment. He stared out over the silent garden, his eyes haunted by things he had seen over the past days, over things perpetrated in his name. Lines of concern etched his youthful brow as the weight of his office pressed down upon him. Finally, he stirred. “The Book of Allah tells us: ‘If the enemy incline toward peace, do thou also incline toward peace and trust in Allah.’ Shirkuh has requested a parley tomorrow, an hour before the noon prayer.”
“Where?”
“The Pearl Pavilion, on the Nile’s banks beyond the Qantara Gate, away from his army and out of bowshot from the walls. We will each bring twoscore men—advisors and officers, slaves and stewards. I’d like you to be there, of course.” The Caliph trailed off, chewing his lip; suddenly, he said: “Do you think it was foolish of me to accept Shirkuh’s offer? As I see it, what harm is there in listening to the man? He’s made no violent overtures. His men have shown restraint in dealing with people and property beyond the walls…”
Assad stood—a simple act that wrenched a groan from his lips. His muscles ached from sole to crown; the gash along his ribs throbbed, and his shoulder felt as if his surgeon had threaded it with sutures of white-hot wire. He craved a cool goblet of wine, a good meal, and a few crumbs of opium. But more than that, he craved sleep. “I would not call it foolish,” Assad said, “but don’t be gulled by this show of peace, my lord. Shirkuh wants Cairo; his master, Nur ad-Din, wants Cairo. But, in order for the Sultan of Damascus to appear to his followers as the savior of Islam, the Mother of the World must remain whole and unspoiled. And while Shirkuh cannot afford to have Cairo become a second Ascalon, Amalric of Jerusalem is under no such constraint. He will gladly pull Cairo down brick by brick if it means putting an end to the Moslem threat on his southern border. I imagine the prospect of wholesale slaughter appeals to Amalric—and Frankistan will surely echo with paeans of glory for he who razes Cairo.”
Rashid al-Hasan shivered. “Our choices, it seems, are little different from those of a plump summer hare: do we let ourselves be spitted on the huntsman’s shaft, or crushed in the jaws of his hounds?”
Assad walked to the portico’s edge, one hand braced against the fluted marble shaft of a column. “We’re not hares, my lord,” he said after a moment. “And we have a third choice. After the sun sets, with your blessing I will slip from Cairo and go out among the Damascenes. I will strike Shirkuh down where he sleeps. Once they are leaderless, it will be easy to sway his men into fighting for you when the Nazarenes arrive. A common enemy creates a common cause.” Rashid al-Hasan folded his arms over his chest; unconsciously, he started to gnaw at the pad of his thumb. Assad sensed his hesitation. “Does this trouble you, my lord? If you’re worried about the stain such an act would bring to your honor—”
“No,” the Caliph said quickly. “No. My honor is secondary to Cairo’s survival. I worry that perhaps our survival hinges upon the good graces of Shirkuh ibn Shahdi, upon keeping him alive. Consider this: I have generals aplenty, but who among them can lay claim to Shirkuh’s experience? His battlefield savvy? Even combined, their skills fall well short of his. Ten thousand more men will not improve our chances if those in command have not the talent to prosecute a war against the Nazarenes.” Rashid al-Hasan shrugged his thin shoulders. “In my heart I agree that the course of action you counsel is wise, but I cannot give it my sanction. Not now. Shirkuh is worth more to me—worth more to Cairo—alive than dead.”
“As you wish,” Assad said, sagging against the column. His vision blurred; he rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stifled a yawn. Exhaustion and his wounds were taking their toll.
Concern wrinkled the Caliph’s brow. “Come, my friend, I have kept you from taking some much-needed rest. I will have my chamberlains prepare you a room.”
Assad shook his head and motioned to the shaded heart of the kiosk, where travertine gave way to thick carpets strewn with cushions and pillows. It was a nest where lovers might meet or where men of rank might sit together in private. “This will serve my needs well enough, my lord.”
“You’re certain?”
Assad staggered to the bench and caught up his salawar, the ivory-hilted Afghan blade wrapped in the bloodstained folds of his tunic. He stared suddenly at the long sword-knife. Despite its leather sheath and the draping of gray cotton, he could feel a renewed sense of hatred radiating from it—stronger, sharper, an insatiable yearning that coiled serpentine through muscle and sinew. You are Death incarnate, the knife said, its harsh voice lancing through Assad’s skull like a blade of jagged ice. You know what it is to thirst for blood, for flesh; you know what it is to desire a death with such singular purpose that nothing else matters—not your life nor the lives of those closest to you. You know revenge … you know … you …
“Assad? You look pale. Shall I recall the surgeon?”
The Assassin glanced up. “No,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “No, my lord. I am all right—or I will be, with a few hours’ sleep. Perhaps then I can offer you some worthwhile counsel.”
“Your counsel is ever worthwhile, my friend,” the Prince of the Faithful said. “Rest for now, but seek me out once you have slept your fill. I would continue our conversation … and perhaps learn something of your master.”
Assad bowed as the Caliph retreated back to the palace. Alone, the Ass
assin retired to the well-carpeted kiosk where he eased himself down onto the thick cushions, his salawar in arm’s reach. He shut out the endless parade of questions that whirled through his brain—from the meaning of the cursed glyphs beneath the Maydan al-Iskander to the nagging uneasiness that he had not heard the last of the Heretic’s master, from the approaching horde of Nazarenes to what fate might befall the Caliph should Shirkuh gain the upper hand. He ignored them all and instead fixed his attention on the dusty green leaves of a willow tree growing near the edge of the portico, visible through the door of the kiosk.
And to the hypnotic sway and rustle of leaves, Assad fell asleep …
2
In the fields northeast of Cairo, a mile and more from its ponderous gates, the army of Damascus squatted like an iron-shod beast. The pawing hooves of ten thousand horses threw thunderheads of dust into the sky, a sickly yellow haze that drifted south on the breeze. Steel flashed like lightning as mailed Turkoman scouts emerged from the dust clouds to survey the city’s walls. Alert, patient, the army settled into the grass like a predator and waited for the right moment to spring.
Yusuf ibn Ayyub cantered back down the road, along ancient dikes and over wooden bridges that spanned reed-choked canals. He squinted through the dust to catch a glimpse of the landscape through which the army had traveled, so different from the pastures and fields of Damascus. Here, everything was dry and brittle. The land itself, pale and sun-bleached, reflected heat like a furnace. Hawks circled overhead, lost in the haze.
Ahead, the road skirted jumbles of mudbrick sprouting between groves of spiky date palms. Stonework jutted from the sandy soil—fallen columns and plinths; crouching lions with the heads of men, their features effaced by time and wind; obelisks of reddish granite cracked and broken like rotten teeth. Amid these bones, these relics of a long-forgotten age, stood Shirkuh’s command tent: a fly-rigged pavilion of striped linen that snapped in the breeze.
The place was a hub of activity. Messengers came and went; grooms and water bearers tended the horses while their riders relayed terse missives to Shirkuh himself. It impressed Yusuf that his uncle did not rely on adjutants to manage his affairs—from scouting reports to where best to dig latrines, Shirkuh personally handled his army down to the least detail.
Yusuf dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to a nearby groom; slapping dust from his trousers, he walked through a cordon of Turkoman guards to where Shirkuh stood beneath his pavilion, leaning over a makeshift table whose surface bore a crudely sketched map of Cairo done in charcoal. A pitcher of khamr and a cracked pottery bowl waited at Shirkuh’s elbow.
“Make sure your men know better than to bathe in those canals,” Shirkuh said to one of his atabegs. “A crocodile can drag a man under quick as that.” The commander snapped his fingers; at the edges of the pavilion, several other Turkoman officers—older men who had accompanied Shirkuh to Egypt in years past—nodded sagaciously.
A grin split Shirkuh’s craggy face as he caught sight of Yusuf. The Kurd’s voice boomed. “What say you, nephew? Does this place where we are to parley meet with your approval?”
“It is adequate, uncle, though I would not have chosen it. It rests too near the river and a veil of greenery obscures it from casual view. I would have offered to meet the Caliph in a more open spot.” Yusuf frowned. “This is why the task of speaking on your behalf should have fallen to me.”
Shirkuh raised an eyebrow. “And run the risk of them recognizing you and taking you hostage? No, Yusuf, your counsel is too valuable to me. There will be other ways by which you might yet earn glory.”
“There are people for whom glory is no more important than sand, uncle.”
“Indeed. In that you are too much like your father, my staid and pious brother, Ayyub.” Shirkuh poured a measure of khamr into the bowl, raised it in salute, and drained it in one gulp. He smacked his lips in relish. “Tell me, Yusuf: is the accumulation of glory not pleasing to Allah?”
“It is, if it serves to exalt His name,” Yusuf said. Nods of assent rippled through the Turkoman officers. “But a man who seeks to adorn himself with glory for no reason other than his own foolish vanity is no better than a whore who paints her face and proudly displays the golden rewards of her sin.”
Shirkuh’s good eye shimmered with unaffected delight. “And that, my nephew, is why I did not send you forth into the lion’s den—to lose you would be to lose my very conscience.”
“And what of your backbone?” A harsh voice lashed out from behind the wall of Turkoman officers. Men parted, allowing Dirgham entry to the pavilion. “Have you lost that, Shirkuh ibn Shahdi?” Clad in a blue khalat and gold embroidered undervests, the former vizier of Egypt was a head taller than Yusuf. His salt-and-pepper hair and untamed beard lent him the aspect of a fierce desert prophet; he spoke as much with gestures as with words, as though the wild contortions of his hands helped his tongue retain its silvery edge. “Why do we not attack? Have we not traveled across the desert, endured thirst and horrible privation, for this very moment? And yet, here we stand, admiring the city from afar like pilgrims! Fulfill your obligation to your lord in Damascus, Shirkuh, and lead us into battle!”
Shirkuh refilled his bowl. “I would parley first.”
“Parley? By most holy Allah! You would speak with the Serpent in the Garden of Unimaginable Delights? For that is what Jalal al-Aziz is: a serpent! His words will beguile a simple soldier like you, my lord! His voice sows confusion even among the mighty!”
“I accept the risk,” Shirkuh replied coldly. “Simple soldier or no, I would speak with our brother Moslems ere we come to blows.”
“Then you are a fool!”
At this, one of the atabegs—a grizzled officer sporting a forked beard shot through with gray—took a menacing step toward Dirgham; his lips peeled back, teeth bared, as with one sinewy hand he drew his curved yataghan from its sheath. The sword’s razored edge caught the bright sunlight. Dirgham recoiled with a gasp, startled by the naked hatred that gleamed in the man’s eyes.
But a gesture from Shirkuh brought the atabeg up short. “Put that away, Uzbek. Has being driven into exile with naught but the clothes on your back taught you nothing, Dirgham? It behooves a beggar to be humble, and not to answer generosity with insults.”
Anger suffused Dirgham’s features. To the lords of Damascus, he was ever the Beggar of Cairo; it was an appellation he was powerless to squelch, for it was one born of truth. He had nothing—not a horse, not a dagger, not a single stitch of clothing upon his person—that wasn’t the product of Sultan Nur ad-Din’s generosity. Shirkuh wanted him to remember that.
With difficulty, Dirgham bent his neck in a stiff approximation of a bow. “Perhaps my words were ill chosen,” he said through gritted teeth. “But that does not change matters. Your master sent you to crush Jalal al-Aziz, not to parley with him! Do your duty or step aside!” Dirgham whirled and stormed from the pavilion.
Grim amusement tugged at the corner of Shirkuh’s mouth. “That one still thinks his nemesis awaits the full measure of his wrath.” Those of his officers within earshot, Uzbek included, grinned—they had heard the tale of Jalal’s demise already. Shirkuh gestured after the retreating vizier with a jerk of his bearded chin. “Keep an eye on him, Yusuf. Dirgham’s aspirations might drive him to mischief, especially since he deems his plan greater than mine.”
“And what is your plan, uncle?”
Shirkuh pursed his lips. He canted his head and fixed his good eye upon Yusuf. In its dark depths, the younger man saw the familiar gleam of reckless ambition. “We took Atfih without striking a single blow. Why not Cairo, as well?”
3
From the garden just inside the Emerald Gate, from a gilded iron bench in the immense shade of a plane tree, Parysatis watched the day pass. She sat on a mass of silken pillows which the Caliph’s slaves had prepared for her, a small ebony table resting at her elbow; a tray of honey cakes and a linen-shrouded goblet of pomegranate juice, its
golden surface beaded with moisture, awaited her pleasure. Parysatis ignored the refreshments. Her attention never wavered from the gate.
The Emerald Gate faced north; on a clear day Parysatis could have seen the crenellated heights of the Bab al-Nasr, the Gate of Victory, rising in the distance, towering over Cairo’s ramparts as easily as the latter towered over the Soldiers’ Quarter. Today, the air thick with strangling dust, she could barely see the far edge of the parade field that lay beyond the open gate.
A score of Massoud’s men stood guard, conical helmets and heavy mail flashing in the hazy sunlight. Scarves muffled their noses and mouths as they scrutinized everyone who passed through the Emerald Gate. Palace eunuchs—lesser chamberlains and functionaries—inquired into the business of each and every person who set foot on palace grounds. Some, like the entourage of the chief qadi of al-Azhar Mosque, the chamberlains escorted in with great pomp, and were shown to a place where they might refresh themselves before their audience with the Caliph; others—the merchant princes seeking special tax dispensations in light of the coming war, or the adventurous nobles seeking a warrant of command in the Fatimid army—found themselves shunted aside, forced to wait with a thousand other petitioners desiring but a moment of the Caliph’s time. The remainder of the throng, the commoners and those fellahin dispossessed by the sudden arrival of Shirkuh’s army, made it no further. The eunuchs drove them away with curses and threats.
Parysatis sympathized with this last group most of all. They were simple men caught in the merciless vise of war—tradesmen, laborers, and farmers from Fustat and the southern suburbs, separated from their families by chance and pressed into the Caliph’s service by necessity. Most only sought permission to have their wives and children brought inside the city walls; barring that, they begged for the Caliph’s blessing to leave Cairo, to abandon the city in hopes of ushering their families to safety before Shirkuh struck.