The Lion of Cairo

by Oden, Scott

Shouting voices and the creak of wheels marked the departure of scores of wagons, doubtless bound for the battlefield to recover the wounded and the dead. The Assassin glanced out from beneath the wagon’s bed and saw the return of smaller donkey carts that had accompanied the army. At one time they carried casks of water, sheaves of arrows, and lances; now, they were laden with groaning bodies. Torches blazed, casting murky light over the pale and hollow-eyed faces of the injured. Weary horsemen clopped alongside, barely acknowledging the throng of camp followers who barked questions and pressed clay cups of water into their hands.

  Unnoticed in the confusion, Assad rolled beneath the wagon and came smoothly to his feet. He blended into the mob of camp followers, who spoke a mixture of Frankish and Arabic, until he found himself walking alongside one of the donkey carts.

  A young foot soldier clung to the side of the cart, forced into a sitting position by the sprawled bodies behind him. Mail hung in tatters from his narrow shoulders; he winced at each bump and jostle, cursing in Arabic, one bloody hand clawing at the broken shaft of an arrow jutting from his side. He would have ripped it out had Assad not caught him by the arm.

  “Don’t,” the Assassin murmured. “You’ll only make it worse.”

  The soldier sighed and nodded.

  “Tell me, brother: are we victorious?”

  The soldier raised his head. A glancing blow from a mace had splintered his left cheek and brow, blinding that eye. He tilted his pale face to look at Assad; blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He blinked, spat. “I … I d-don’t know…”

  10

  The sounds of slaughter faded with the sun’s light. Cries for succor replaced the crash of steel as a temporary truce was called; Moslem and Nazarene put aside their differences and set about caring for the wounded—and tending to the dead.

  Yusuf ibn Ayyub regarded the harrowed ground through eyes brimming with weariness and pain. The young Kurd’s helmet was gone, ripped from his head by an axe-wielding Nazarene. His khalat and mail hung in tatters. Gore clotted his arms, his hands. It stiffened his beard and gave his countenance a ghoulish cast in the guttering torchlight. Yusuf walked with the aid of a splintered spear shaft; the same lance thrust that pierced the meat of his thigh had slain the horse beneath him. His second horse had gone down with a cleft skull.

  Initially, the battle unfolded as Shirkuh had predicted, but the Nazarenes proved themselves no less resourceful in a pinch. Their lines held; the men of Cairo failed to draw Amalric’s center away while a reserve of light cavalry kept Shirkuh’s own horsemen from flanking the enemy infantry. What should have been a lightning rout turned instead into a hard-fought draw.

  Heaps of corpses marked the Turkoman line—bodies entangled in death, hacked mail reflecting daggers of light, beards jutting heavenward, hands clutching broken sword hilts. Spears and lances, some trailing scraps of colorful cloth, erupted like grotesque saplings from the bloody ground; a harvest of spent arrows grew from the flesh of the slain. Exhausted Turkoman soldiers saw to their injured brethren, helping stand those who could and carrying those too wounded to move. Yusuf witnessed reunions and tragedies in the eerie twilight: fathers and sons embracing; brothers kneeling around the body of their slain elder; old friends lending one another a shoulder as they wept for dead saddle mates.

  “Yusuf.”

  The young Kurd turned. Shirkuh stood behind him, drawn and haggard. He, too, bore the bloody stigmata of battle.

  “What happened, Uncle?” Yusuf said. “Why did Amalric’s lines not break as you foretold?”

  “Perhaps he and I have crossed paths once too often, and now he knows better than to underestimate me. Perhaps his skill has improved. Or, perhaps we simply did not fight with the full measure of our hearts. Only Allah knows for certain. Come, Yusuf. Let the surgeons see to that leg.”

  Yusuf waved away Shirkuh’s concern. “There are others worse than I.”

  “True, but let them bind it properly so you may still be of use to me. We have much yet to do. Our victory—”

  “Victory, Uncle? What victory? Amalric yet lives; he yet has an army at his fingertips, and he yet bedevils Egypt. Calling this a victory is premature, at best. At worst, it reeks of hubris.”

  “Ever my conscience, eh?” Shirkuh grinned. “Tell me, if you remember, what task did our Sultan—may Allah hold him ever in His favor—saddle us with? Was it the destruction of Amalric of Jerusalem? No, boy! Though Nur ad-Din would not look askance on a gift such as Amalric’s head, that is secondary to why we are here.”

  “I remember,” Yusuf said. “We are here for Cairo.”

  Shirkuh’s smile widened. “For Cairo! And therein we have our victory, for am I not a newly minted vizier of that great city? The Caliph will open his gates and welcome us back with open arms!”

  Yusuf ibn Ayyub limped to his uncle’s side. “What will you do with this newfound goodwill? Will you strike…?”

  “There is no need for haste in these matters,” Shirkuh said. He offered Yusuf his arm to lean upon. “No need at all. We will see first to the Nazarenes; then, we will let Cairo simmer for a few weeks while we regain our strength. Give the people a chance to become accustomed to our presence.”

  “And then…?”

  “There can only be one ruler in Egypt, Yusuf. Only one.” Shirkuh ibn Shahdi’s grim smile widened. “And I intend for it to be me!”

  “Inshallah, Uncle. Inshallah.”

  Arm in arm, the pair faded into the star-flecked night …

  11

  Amalric of Jerusalem returned from the battlefield in a towering rage. He did not seethe against his soldiers, who had acquitted themselves admirably; nor did he rail against his situation, which was a damn sight better than he had any right to expect. No, Amalric reserved his rage for the man who rode at his right hand.

  The blond-bearded king of Jerusalem twisted in the saddle, glaring at the Master of the Temple, Arnaud de Razès, whose black surcoat was stiff with Saracen blood. “What do you mean, we should pull back to Bilbeis?”

  “Bilbeis is a more defensible location,” replied Arnaud, a rawboned giant of a man whose blue eyes gleamed with murderous piety. His face was like a mask of hard leather stretched over a frame of gristle, and it bore a tracery of old scars—some wrought by steel and fire, others by the ravages of time. His graying mustache bristled. “Its walls—”

  “I didn’t come to Egypt to occupy a shit hole like Bilbeis! God’s teeth, man! We have Shirkuh on the defensive and you advocate running away! Merciful Christ! What has become of the storied courage of the Templars?”

  “May God forgive you your blasphemy, milord,” Arnaud said, his voice low and measured. “As for my brothers and I, we endeavor to balance courage with truth … and the truth is we no longer have the manpower to prosecute a proper siege.”

  “The Devil take your ‘proper siege’! All we need is one weakened gate and the courage to take it by force. We’ve flung the dice, de Razès. Now, it’s time we seized our winnings.”

  “Milord, be reasonable! We can no more—”

  “Reasonable? War is no place for reasonable men!” As if to prove his point, King Amalric spurred his horse into the village square. Paved in yellow sandstone and shaded by a fringe of well-kept palms, this place was the center of life for the Saracen peasants—their mosque, appropriated by the Templars to be their barracks, opened on the square, as did the inns and caravanserais the Frankish nobles seized as part of their spoils. Now, iron cressets spilled ruddy light over what had become Jerusalem’s makeshift court. All around, exhausted and bloodied king’s men awaited his pleasure, the barons of the realm who had pledged their flesh to Amalric and their souls to God; with them were retainers and men-at-arms, common soldiers and camp followers. Cheers went up at the sight of their king.

  Amalric raised his hand for silence. “Men of Jerusalem! Blessed soldiers of the Cross! Today, I saw in your hearts the spirit of our forefathers—the prowess of Duke Godfrey, the ferocity of Tan
cred, and the piousness of Adhemar!” The recitation of these names, heroes of the past who had spearheaded the Great Crusade, sent ripples of pride through the listeners; their cries redoubled. The King stroked his beard sagaciously and waited for their voices to subside. After a moment, he continued. “God, in His inscrutable wisdom, did grant us victory over the filthy Saracen! Shirkuh’s back is broken, his ragged host much reduced! Upon the morrow, I will march to the gates of Cairo and demand its surrender! Should they refuse, I will pull those gates down with my bare hands if need be! Will I stand alone in this?”

  “No!” his men, noble and commoner alike, answered with a resounding din. “No!”

  Amalric raised himself up in his stirrups. In his battle-scarred mail and blood-spattered surcoat, with his sandy hair and beard and fierce-eyed stare, he looked every inch a warrior-king of legend. He swept his notched sword from its sheath and thrust it at the star-flecked heavens. “For God and for Jerusalem!”

  “For God!” The square erupted, a thunderous roar of approbation matched only by the rattle of wood and steel. Torchlight flashed from spearheads, from shield bosses, from helmets as the soldiers mimicked their King’s gesture, stabbing their fists to the sky. “For Jerusalem! For Amalric!”

  “Let us look to our wounded and make ready for the dawn!” Amalric turned and made his way back to where de Razès waited. The Templar’s face remained impassive. “This,” the King spat. “This, by God, is why we are here! I’ll hear no more talk of retreat! Have your machines and your Templars ready to move at first light! Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Arnaud de Razès replied through gritted teeth. “Forgive my impertinence, milord.”

  “Tear the gates of Cairo off their hinges for me and all will be forgotten.”

  “It will be as you wish.” Bowing at the waist, the Master of the Temple took his leave. Amalric spared him a final, withering glance before succumbing to the half-drunk and clamorous demands of his barons.

  And no one—neither king nor baron nor common soldier—paid even the slightest heed to a scar-faced man in faded green and gold brocade who drifted into the shadows alongside the mosque …

  12

  Assad studied his quarry through hate-slitted eyes. Though he could make out little of what passed between king and servant—and he understood the Frankish tongue far better than he spoke it—he recognized royal displeasure when he saw it. A grim smile rose unbidden to the Assassin’s lips. Amalric’s disdain for the old man did nothing to sour his usefulness to Assad’s cause … indeed, he rejoiced in the knowledge that the last words spoken between the two would be words of harsh rebuke.

  The Assassin drew deeper into shadow as Arnaud de Razès dismounted in front of the mosque, tossed his reins to a waiting groom, and stalked through the arched entryway; he called for wine in a voice harsh and full of wrath.

  An instant later, Assad was in motion. Turning, he sprinted down the narrow alley to where a two-wheeled cart waited, empty and wedged into place, its poles driven into the ground. Assad darted up the angled bed of the cart; he leaped from its apex, twisted, and caught the crumbling edge of the mosque’s roof. He hung there for a split second, hissing at the sudden pain in his shoulder, and then pulled himself up into a crouch on the rooftop. Abraded fingers touched the hilt of his salawar in silent benediction.

  The mosque itself was a squat cube of whitewashed mudbrick surmounted by a shallow dome of peeling green stucco. Its area doubled, however, with the inclusion of an arcaded courtyard, paved in the same yellowish sandstone as the village square. At the far corner of this courtyard, a curious minaret towered above the village—its staircase spiraled along its exterior, an imperfect replica of the minaret belonging to the mosque of Ibn Tulun, south of Cairo.

  From this vantage, Assad could see the lights of the king’s pavilion away to the north, positioned on the edge of the village where it might receive the benefit of a steady breeze. What’s more, the Assassin had walked the ground between unchallenged; at times his enemies even greeted him, blind to the fact he was not one of them. That was the Nazarenes’ great failing: they were on guard against a force of Saracens, but a single man who knew how to blend in—especially one who looked no different from a native Maronite or Jacobite Christian—could move about at will without raising an alarm.

  The day’s heat still radiated off the brickwork on the mosque’s roof. Carefully, Assad crept forward until he had a clear view of the courtyard below, its stones bathed in soft yellow light from lamps hanging between arches along the arcade. At its center, under an awning of sun-faded blue cloth, a fountain burbled in a circular basin. Easily, Assad caught sight of de Razès. Servants had stripped the Templar Master of his blood-crusted surcoat and were helping him out of his armor; a dozen brother knights stood near at hand.

  “He means to press on,” de Razès was saying. “And we have little choice but to accompany him.”

  One of the knights shook his head. “A fool’s errand!”

  “Do not slander your king!” The chief of the Templars sighed; with a grimy hand he massaged the bridge of his nose. “In my heart I agree with you, but Amalric is no fool. He simply lacks his brother’s patience.” He gestured to the knights. “Go. Prepare the siege train. We move on Cairo at dawn.”

  “For God’s sake, we will do it, milord.” His men bowed and went about their business. Some returned to the arcade, where they mended mail hauberks and sharpened blades, while others hurried from the mosque to rouse the Genoese and Armenian mercenaries of the siege train—the stewards of those devilish machines that had pierced the heart of Ascalon. Assad bared his teeth. If he had more time, he would pay those sons of whores a visit, as well.

  Below, a brown-mantled servant brought de Razès a stool. “Will you eat, milord?”

  “I have no appetite. Pour me another cup of wine and have done.”

  The servant did as ordered, then withdrew to a discreet distance. For some time Arnaud de Razès sat in the shadow of the fountain’s awning, sipping his wine as he brooded over the day’s events. Assad, though, did not have the same luxury. Time was of the essence. So moving with infinite patience, his body low against the roof, he worked his way down to the narrow ledge that ran around the top of the courtyard wall. Decorative crenels, like teeth of broken brick, afforded him slight cover; dripping sweat, he crab-crawled toward the far minaret—the only way down from the roof that offered any hope of concealment.

  Assad was wrestling with how to strike quickly and remain unseen when abruptly Ya-sidi Arnat stood. He slung wine lees from his empty cup and tossed it to the waiting servant. “Fetch the chaplain,” he said. “After I take in the night air, I would have him hear my confession.”

  The servant bowed and scurried off to do his master’s bidding. De Razès turned; with hands clasped behind his back, he walked toward a door in the corner of the courtyard. A door that led to the minaret’s spiral stairs.

  Assad dared not believe his eyes. No servants followed the Master of the Temple; no brother knights offered to join him. For a few moments, at least, Arnaud de Razès would be alone and out of sight of his fellow Templars.

  For a few moments, Ya-sidi Arnat would be vulnerable.

  The Master of the Temple vanished through the doorway; with a renewed sense of purpose, Assad scuttled the last few yards to where the minaret’s foundations rose from the courtyard wall. The Assassin squatted on his haunches with his back pressed against the waist-high balustrade of solid brick and listened to the measured shuffle of the Templar’s feet as he mounted the stairs. De Razès passed him by, oblivious to his presence; a dozen steps later he gained the summit of the minaret.

  Noiselessly, Assad vaulted the low wall and dropped to a crouch on the stairs. From below, he heard the faint snores of sleeping Templars and the soft footfalls of their servants; from above, a resigned sigh from de Razès.

  The Assassin’s hand drifted to the hilt of his salawar, its rage and hatred calling to him. No, his own g
ood sense cut through the din, the others might hear. With titanic effort, he let go of the blade and instead reached up to untie the thong securing his long hair. The tough leather was thin and damp with sweat, but long enough to wrap once around both hands while still leaving a span between—sufficient to whip around a man’s neck. Catlike, Assad padded up the last few steps to the minaret’s balcony …

  … and beheld Arnaud de Razès leaning against the railing. He was staring away north, as though trying to pierce the purple fabric of the king’s pavilion and read his mind. The Templar must have seen something from the corner of his eye—some brief flicker of movement—for he turned his head suddenly and muttered in perturbation: “Yes, what is—”

  Before he could register alarm, the Emir of the Knife was upon him.

  Assad struck first with the heel of his foot, a crushing blow that caught the Templar in the side of his knee. Bone and sinew parted with an audible snap; de Razès gasped, stumbling against Assad as his leg gave way. He opened his mouth to loose a bellow of agony even as the leather thong drew taut around his throat. The two men went to the ground like lovers in an obscene embrace.

  “Allahu akbar, O Master of the Temple,” Assad spat, his voice carrying no farther than his victim’s ear. His back to the Assassin, Arnaud de Razès gurgled and thrashed, eyes distended, the veins standing out on his temples as he clawed at the makeshift garrote. “God wills it.” With a savage wrench, Assad cinched the cord ever deeper into the soft flesh of his enemy’s throat.

  The struggle for life was draining from de Razès’s limbs with every breath denied him. His feet struck the balcony railing; his heels drummed against the brick. Spasms racked his body as only a croaking hiss escaped his crushed larynx. Suddenly, the Templar’s rigid frame relaxed; Assad felt him go limp, tongue lolling from his open mouth. After a few more seconds, the Assassin slackened his grip. He caught his own breath and listened for sounds of commotion coming from the courtyard below.