The Saracen: Land of the Infidel

by Robert Shea

  VII

  In the Name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful. All praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds. Master of the Day of Judgment.

  Daoud stood perfectly still, looking into the violet sky, reciting inhis mind the salat, the prayer required of a Muslim five times daily.This was Mughrab, the moment when the last light of sunset had drainedaway. An evening breeze cooled his face, welcome after a day oftraveling under the summer sky of Italy. Oriented by a bright crescentmoon just rising, he faced southeast, toward Mecca. His back was to thestone wall of the inn called the Capo di Bue, the Ox's Head, where heand Sophia and Celino had decided to spend the night. On the other sideof the wall, loud voices contended for attention, the sound of travelersin the common room settling down to supper.

  Praying in the dusk reminded Daoud that he was alone. What would it belike now in El Kahira, the Guarded One? He would be praying withhundreds of fellow Muslimin, standing shoulder to shoulder, all equalbefore God, in the Gray Mosque, all listening to the call of the blindmuezzins from the minarets--"Come to the house of praise. God isAlmighty. There is no god but God."--all facing the Prophet's birthplacetogether in holy submission. Daoud's prayer might be the only one goingup to God tonight from anywhere near Rome.

  All around him towered ruins. The silhouettes of broken columns roseagainst the darkening sky, and across the Appian Way the ragged shape ofwhat had once been a wall. Pines stood tall and black where, accordingto Lorenzo, some wealthy woman of ancient Rome had her tomb.

  He tried to forget his surroundings and to think only of the salat. Itwas hard to concentrate when he could not assume the proper positionsfor prayer--raise his hands, kneel, strike his forehead on the ground.He fixed his mind on the infinity of God.

  "Do not try to see Him," Abu Hamid al-Din Saadi had told him. "If yousee Him in your mind, you are looking at an idol."

  Daoud did not try to see God, but as he prayed, a Muslim all alone inthe heart of Christendom, he could not help but see Sheikh Saadi, theSufi master who had brought him to Islam.

  * * * * *

  The face was very dark, the rich black of a cup of kaviyeh. Out of theblackness peered eyes that _saw_--saw into the very souls of hisstudents.

  Often as he sat listening to Sheikh Saadi read from the Koran, the Bookto be Read, and explain its meaning, voices from the past reproachedhim. The voice of Father Adrian, the chaplain of their castle, rang inhis mind. The quiet voice of his mother, teaching him the Lord's Prayerand the Hail Mary, whispered to him. Like thunder his father spoke ofwar and of what it was to be a knight.

  He could escape the torment of these voices only by listening closely tothe Sufi sheikh. Saadi was trying to teach him how to be good, and thatwas the same thing his mother and father had wanted for him. So theywould not mind if he learned from Saadi.

  Sheikh Saadi, wearing the white woolen robe of a Sufi, sat on amany-colored carpet of Mosul, an open copy of the Koran resting on anornately carved lectern before him. His hand, as dark as the mahogany ofthe stand, caressed the page as he read aloud.

  "'Such as persevere in seeking their Lord's countenance and are regularin prayer and spend of that which We bestow upon them secretly andopenly, and overcome evil with good: Theirs will be the Heavenly Home.'"

  _Mohammedan dogs!_ Daoud remembered Father Adrian in his black and whiterobes shouting in the chapel at Chateau Langmuir. _Satan is the authorof that vile book they call the Koran._

  By the age of eleven Daoud had already known cruelty and evil at thehands of the Turks who had captured him, kindness with Baibars, andgoodness with Sheikh Saadi. The Sufi sheikh had never made any claim,but Daoud had no doubt that he often walked and talked with God.

  "Secretly and openly are we to give," the old man was saying. "God hasbeen generous to us, and we must be generous in turn. When you are kindto a bird or a donkey, or even to an unclean animal like a pig or a dog,He loves you for it. He loves you more when you are kind to a slave orto a woman or to one of the unfortunate, like a cripple or anunbeliever."

  "Daoud is both a slave and unbeliever," said Gamal ibn Nasir with afaint sneer. "Must I be kind to him?" Daoud stared at Gamal, burningwith hatred, all the more because what he said was true.

  Gamal was a slender, olive-skinned boy whom no one dared cross, becausehe was a grandson of the reigning Sultan of Egypt, Al Salih Ayub. Mostof Saadi's students were boys of noble family, and Daoud knew that hewas permitted to enter this circle only because all men feared andrespected Baibars. And even though he studied Islam with them because itwas Baibars's wish, Daoud remained fil-kharij, an outsider, because hewas an unbeliever.

  The boys sat in a semicircle, their rectangles of carpet spread over theblue and white tiles of the inner courtyard of the Gray Mosque, whereSaadi had been teaching since long before these students were born. Theold black man sat with his back to the gray stones of the western wall,the stones that gave the mosque its name. He taught in the lateafternoon, when he and the boys could sit in the shade.

  "God is compassion itself, Gamal," Sheikh Saadi said with a smile, "buteven He may find it hard to love a mean spirit." The sultan's grandsonblushed angrily, and his eyes fell.

  Thinking about the compassion of God, Daoud opened his eyes wide as astartling idea occurred to him. But after the insult from Gamal histongue felt thick in his throat and the palms of his hands went cold atthe thought of speaking. He still stumbled over the Arabic tongue inwhich Sheikh Saadi conducted his lessons.

  Saadi looked warmly upon him. "Daoud has a question?"

  Daoud stared down at his hands, which seemed very large as they lay inhis lap. "Yes, master." Those kindly velvet-black eyes seemed to drawspeech out of him. "If God loves the compassionate, how can he look withfavor upon the warrior, who wounds and kills?"

  Saadi's turbaned head lifted. His grizzled beard thrust forward, and hiseyes grew round and serious. He looked, Daoud thought, like athoroughbred steed pricking up his ears to a trumpet call.

  "I say to you, Daoud, and to Gamal and to all of you--the work of awarrior is a holy calling. When the Prophet Muhammad, may God bless andsalute him, began to teach, he did not want the believers to be men ofthe sword. But the pagans beat those who went to hear him, and theywould not let him teach. And so he learned that a true man of God mustgo forth with the Book in one hand and the sword in the other."

  Daoud felt a warm pride in his chest. He was not a despicable slave. Hewould one day be a warrior, in a way a holy man, like Saadi, who helpedspread the teachings of God.

  _But I am an unbeliever._

  He listened for the Frankish voices in his mind crying out against theSaracens, against the devilish religion of the one they called Mahound.But the voices were silent.

  A pale boy with a grave face asked, "If God made man, how can He loveone who butchers His creatures?"

  Sheikh Saadi raised an admonishing finger. "The Warrior of God is nobutcher. He strikes with sorrow and compassion. He hates evil, but heloves his fellow men, even the one he fights against. The Warrior of Godis known, not by his willingness to kill, but by his willingness to die.He is a man who would give his life for his friends."

  Saadi went on to speak of other things, but Daoud's mind remained fixedon the words "Warrior of God."

  Ever since the day the Saracens carried him off, he had lived without ahome. He had drunk from gold cups in the palace of Baibars, had seenthat a Mameluke might rise to earthly glory. But such rewards fell toonly one in a thousand. For the rank and file, the life of a Mamelukewas a hard one, often ending in early death.

  Lately Baibars had sent him to live with the other Mameluke boys intraining on the island of Raudha in the Bhar al-Nil, the river Nile.Every morning, when he woke to the rapping of the drill master's stickon the wooden wall of his sleeping shed, his first feeling was anguish.Sometimes he prayed before sleeping that he might not wake up again.Only when he journeyed twice a week, by boat and on foot, to sit at thefeet of Saadi, did he feel an
y peace.

  But what if God had chosen him to be a Mameluke? Then it was a blessedlife, a holy calling, as Saadi had said. There was a world beyond thisone, a place the Koran called a "Heavenly Home." All men, Christian andMuslim, believed that. As a warrior he could hope that his hardshipwould be turned to joy in that Heavenly Home. In that world, not one inten thousand, but every good man, would dwell in a palace.

  Absorbed in his own thoughts, he heard the soft, deep voice of Saadi asone hears the constant murmur of the windblown sand in the desert. Theboys around him and the men who came and went in the Gray Mosque--allwere believers. As a warrior of God he could be part of that, and notthe least part. He would no longer be fil-kharij, a stranger in thisworld. He would be fil-dakhil, at home.

  The lesson was over. The boys stood with Saadi and bowed their heads inprayer. After the prayers they bowed again to their teacher and, aloneor in pairs, pattered out of the courtyard of the Gray Mosque.

  When they were all gone, Daoud stood alone facing Saadi.

  "What does Daoud have to say to me?"

  In a rush of love for his master, Daoud threw himself to his knees andstruck his forehead on Saadi's red carpet, bumping his head hard enoughto be slightly stunned.

  "What is it, Daoud?" Saadi's voice was a comforting rumble.

  Daoud sat back and looked up. The figure of the Sufi towered over him.But Saadi bent his head, and looking into the dark face, Daoud felt asif someone huge and powerful had taken him into his arms.

  "Master, I want to embrace Islam."

  * * * * *

  Daoud was mentally repeating the salat for the third time when he heardfootsteps and the click of hooves coming up the road. He shut his eyesto resist the distraction.

  A voice interrupted the fourth repetition. "Peace be unto you, Signore.Can you tell me if there is room at the sign of the Capo di Bue for myson and me and our donkey?"

  Daoud was annoyed at having to stop his prayers, but he had to reply orcall unwanted attention to himself. He opened his eyes and saw in theshadows before him a short man with a full white beard holding the reinsof a donkey that breathed heavily and shifted its feet nervously on thegreat black paving stones of the Appian Way. A second figure, obscure inthe darkness, sat on the donkey. The two seemed heavily dressed forsummer. The bearded man wore a round black hat with a narrow brim, of atype Daoud had never seen before.

  "It is not overly full," he said impatiently.

  But the man with the black hat still stood before him. "Are you surethat we will be welcome, Signore?"

  "You can pay for a place in the common bed, can you not?" said Daoud,eager to finish the prayer.

  "Oh, we do not require a bed, Signore," said the old man. "We will sleepin the stable, or sit up"--he chuckled--"or even sleep standing up, asour donkey does. It is just that we cannot go farther tonight. Rome hasmore robbers than a dog has fleas."

  Why in the name of God was the man so hesitant? Daoud, seeing no need tocontinue the conversation, remained silent.

  The old man sighed. "Peace be to you, Signore," he said again. "Come, myson."

  The man's son climbed down, and the two travelers pulled the donkeythrough the inn's gate. Leather packs hung from either side of thedonkey, and Daoud wondered what was in them. Probably nothing of value,but robbers would attack anyone who looked vulnerable, and the old man'sfear was doubtless justified.

  Daoud thought of the precious stones he and Celino carried betweenthem. He felt the cold breath of danger on the back of his neck.

  _Here in this inn they may all be honest men, but if they knew whatwealth we had, even honest men would try to cut our throats._

  He turned his mind again to his prayers. By the time he finished andturned to go through the gate leading to the courtyard, he sensed achange in the noises from within. Shrill, angry voices had replaced thecheerful murmur of general conversation.

  The donkey and the boy who had ridden it huddled in the corner where thestables met the main building.

  Daoud stood listening in the center of the inn yard, his hand restinglightly on the dagger at his belt. He faced the two-story main building,the dining hall at ground level, the beds that slept six or moreupstairs. Access to the sleeping room was by way of a flight of outsidewooden stairs leading to a platform and an upper door. The doors and thewindow shutters on both levels were open to let in the cool night air.Stables secured with half doors on his left, a storage shed on hisright.

  As Daoud strode past the old man's son, he caught a glimpse of brightblack eyes reflecting the light from oil lanterns hung on wooden pegsset high on either side of the inn door.

  Daoud moved to the doorway, and as he looked into the smoky, candlelithall, his heart sank.

  The crowd of men and women in the room were turned toward LorenzoCelino. He stood against the far wall, the long blade of his swordgleaming in the candlelight, facing six naked daggers.

  Beside Celino, the hound Scipio stood stiff-legged, tail whipping fromside to side, fangs bared, growling softly. Fear of that dog was keepingCelino's opponents back as much as fear of his sword, thought Daoud.

  The bearded old man who had spoken to Daoud was standing to Celino'sleft and a little behind him. Celino's eyes flicked toward Daoud for aninstant, and then quickly away before anyone might notice that he hadlooked toward the doorway.

  Daoud scanned the room for Sophia. She was standing in the shadows,almost invisible in a long, hooded cloak. No one was threatening her.

  One of the men facing Celino, Daoud recognized, was the innkeeperhimself. He was a huge man with broad, rounded shoulders and a shock ofthick black hair cut off at the same length all the way around, so itlooked like a bowl. The dagger he held was a long, murderous blade, buthis big hand made it look like a toy.

  "Give us the Jew," the innkeeper said to Celino. "We have no quarrelwith you."

  The old man was a Jew? How was it, Daoud demanded of himself, that thesepeople had known that and he had not?

  "You do have a quarrel with me," said Celino, "because I do not care tosee you torment and rob this old man."

  Daoud swore to himself. Was this the kind of madman Manfred had yokedhim with? Sworn to the utmost secrecy, carrying a fortune in jewels, andnow he brings a whole inn down around his ears by defending some dustyold man?

  _But does not God love the compassionate?_

  _Give us the Jew_, the innkeeper had said. Daoud knew that Christianstook delight in mistreating Jews.

  _And I told the old man to go in there. But I did not know he was a Jew.Or that these people would harm him._

  Whether Celino was a madman or not, Daoud would have to get him out ofthis, because he was carrying half of their supply of precious stones.When they left Lucera, Daoud and Celino had divided the twenty-fourjewels Manfred had traded for the great emerald. Each carried half ofthe precious stones in a pouch hidden under his tunic.

  Daoud studied the room. There must be a good thirty people there, mostof them men. Aside from the six surrounding Celino, few of them seemedmenacing. But if someone jumped in to help Celino, more might join theother side.

  _What do I have to help me? That boy who came with the old man. Sophia.And Celino and the dog._

  If only, he thought, he had the Scorpion. But that was in the dininghall there, with all their other baggage, which Celino--the fool!--wassupposed to be guarding.

  He backed out into the small courtyard and bumped into the boy, who hadfollowed him to the door. "You. Your father is in danger in there. Andmy friend has gotten into trouble trying to help him. We must get themout, you and I."

  "Why should Christians help us?" The bitter voice was high. The boy mustbe very young. He was wrapped up like a Bedouin. His head and face wereswathed in a dark cloth, his body cloaked. Only those sparkling eyesshowed.

  "I must help my friend," Daoud said. "If he lives, you can ask him whyhe chose to defend your father. Are you just going to cower here?"

  "What should I do?"r />
  What would make those men leave Celino alone long enough to give him achance to escape? Standing outside the doorway with the boy, Daoud'seyes searched the courtyard again as his mind tried to fit what he sawinto a plan.

  Daoud looked up at the lanterns again. Fire was sure to take men's mindsoff a fight.

  "Take the lanterns and run up those stairs. Throw them into the beddingand get a good fire going. Make sure the floor is burning. Then comeback down to me."

  Daoud took the two lanterns down from their pegs and handed them to theboy, who raced up the stairs that clung to the outer wall of the inn.Daoud went to the stable and opened the doors of the stalls that heldtheir four horses. He dragged out the saddles and bridles and threw themover the horses' backs. Trained with horses since boyhood, he workedwith practiced speed. By the time the boy was beside him again, he hadtwo of the horses saddled.

  He looked up and saw bright yellow flames flickering in the upperwindows.

  "You did that well," he said. "You know how to saddle horses?"

  "Yes, Messere."

  "Get these two ready, then. Do it right; you will be riding one. Andhold them here with your donkey."

  Daoud turned and shouted, "Fire!"

  He ran to the doorway, looked in long enough to see the darkened spotwith its glowing center in the wooden ceiling of the dining hall, andgestured toward it as he again shouted, "Fire!" Then he stepped back tolet the crowd tumble out past him.

  The burly innkeeper was among the first to exit, jamming his dagger backinto its scabbard and shouting for help. "Take water from the horsetrough. Get buckets, pots, anything!" Waving his long arms, he toweredover the men milling around him like a giant commanding an army ofdwarves.

  When the first rush had pushed through the doorway, Daoud ran into thedining hall. He could see the blackening circle spreading in the ceilingand flames licking around its edges.

  Celino and the old Jew were still standing together by the far wall.Only three men faced them now.

  "Come on!" Daoud shouted. He strode to the table where they had beensitting and grabbed up their packs.

  "Stay where you are!" a woman's voice cried. It was the innkeeper'swife, a gaunt woman nearly as tall as her husband, with bulging eyes anda face as sharp as the carving knife she brandished.

  An earthenware jug crashed down on her head. Her eyes rolled up tillonly the whites showed. As she slumped to the floor, Daoud saw Sophiabehind her.

  _Well done, Byzantine woman._

  "Scipio! Spegni!" Celino shouted. With a roar like a lion's, Scipioleapt at the central figure among the three men confronting his master.Scipio's prey screamed, then stumbled over a bench and fell to the flooron his back. The hound sprang onto his chest, snarls of rage all butdrowning out his victim's shrieks. The other two men, their mouthsgaping, their eyes fixed on nothing, ran past Daoud without seeing him.

  "Stop your dog," Daoud called to Celino. "I want no killing." Smokespreading from above was searing his nostrils.

  Daoud, Celino, and Sophia, followed by the old man and the dog, madetheir way to the door.

  Daoud threw saddlebags to Celino and Sophia. Men were dragging theirpanic-stricken, rearing horses out of the stables and through the gate.The giant innkeeper and other men were racing up and down the outsidestairs, which had also begun to burn, dumping buckets of water on thefire. Men were fighting their way through smoke and flame into thebedroom, trying to rescue belongings they had left there.

  The boy stood by their horses, exactly where Daoud had left him. Bravelydone, Daoud thought. Hastily tying his packs down, Daoud unlaced one.There were two weapons inside--a Scorpion, the miniature crossbow of theHashishiyya, and a full-size crossbow. Daoud chose the bigger one, aGenoese arbalest drawn by crank, a present from King Manfred. Thequarrels were loaded by spring from a chamber within the stock thatcould hold six at a time, so that the bowman could fire it as quickly ashe could draw it.

  Holding the arbalest with one hand, Daoud vaulted into the saddle.Celino and Sophia were already up. The old man had clambered onto theirspare horse, and his son was on the donkey.

  _I should leave that old man behind_, Daoud thought angrily. _Were itnot for him, I would be sleeping comfortably right now._

  "_They_ started the fire!" It was the innkeeper's wife in the doorway,her tall body and long arms silhouetted by leaping flames. She pointedan accusing hand at Daoud's party. "Stop them!"

  The men who had been trying to put out the fire were giving up, and theyturned and started for Daoud and his companions.

  "Throw them into the fire!" shrieked the woman in the doorway.

  Motioning the others toward the gate, Daoud turned his horse sidewaysand swung the crossbow in an arc to cover the attackers. The men stoppedtheir rush, but the tall woman pushed her way through them, screamingcurses.

  Her hulking husband joined her, his long arms reaching for Daoud. Helooked able to knock a horse to the ground.

  Daoud used both hands to aim the crossbow at him, gripping the horsewith his knees. He hoped the threat would be enough to stop the man. Hedid not want to shoot the innkeeper. If anyone were killed, the deedcould follow them to Orvieto.

  As he hesitated, the huge man drew back his arm and threw the daggerwith the force of a catapult. Daoud heard a thump and a groan behindhim. Daoud's thumb pressed the crossbow's release, and the stringsnapped forward with a reverberating bang. The innkeeper bellowed withpain, the cry dying away as he collapsed. The bolt probably went rightthrough him, thought Daoud.

  As the man's dying groan faded, his wife's scream rose. She fell on herknees beside him, and the other men crowded around them.

  "Blood of Jesus! Pandolfo!" the innkeeper's wife wailed.

  Jerking the reins with his left hand, Daoud wheeled the horse out thegate.

  _God help us, now they will be after us._

  Which one of his people had been hurt?

  He found himself, in his anger, hoping it was Celino.

  The three other horses and the donkey were bunched together outside thegate, on the dirt path that led through trees to the Appian Way. Some ofthe men from the inn were out there, too, but when Daoud swung thecrossbow in their direction, they backed into the inn yard.

  "Leave me here," the old man gasped. "I am dying." So it was he thedagger had hit. They would have to leave him, Daoud thought, and his sonwould insist on staying with him. And the vengeful crowd from the innwould tear the two of them to pieces. All this fighting would have beenfor nothing.

  Celino spurred his horse over to where the old man swayed in the saddleclutching his stomach. "Sorry to hurt you, but we are not leaving you,"he said. He pulled the groaning wounded man across to his own horse andswung one of his legs over so that he was riding astride.

  Daoud saw blood, black in the faint light of the crescent moon, runningout of the old man's mouth, staining his white beard.

  "Can you ride a horse?" Celino barked at the son.

  "Yes," the boy sobbed.

  "Get up on this one." Celino indicated the horse from which he had justdragged the old man. "Take your packs off the donkey and put them onthis horse if you want them. Quickly, quickly. Leave the donkey."

  Daoud fingered the crossbow as the boy hastily transferred himself andhis goods to the horse.

  _Still Celino risks our lives with his care for these strangers. Damnedinfidel. I am the leader of this party._

  "Here they come!" cried Sophia. Waving swords and long-handledhalberds--God knew where they had gotten them--and sticks andpitchforks, the crowd from the inn tumbled through the gate. Some ofthem were on horses.

  "Ride!" shouted Daoud in the voice he used to command his Mameluketroop.

  He kicked his spurs into his horse's side and sent it galloping down theroad.

  He and Celino had not talked about which way to flee, but there wasreally only one direction they could go--north, toward theirdestination. That, he knew, would take them straight into the heart ofRome.

  There would
be a price to pay for the blood they had shed this night.

  The great Salah ad-Din had said it:

  _Blood never sleeps._