Authors: Scott Oden
“I’ve seen the world,” Assad replied. He stared up at the fading red-gold sky. “Cairo pales beside it. When I was a boy, I remember the Cairenes had a custom of barring the gates of the city from sunset to sunrise. Is this still so?”
Farouk nodded. “It is, but the city’s wardens have grown lax. A small coin will buy entry after dark, with no questions asked.”
“Their negligence will be to our benefit, then.” The Assassin nudged his mare forward. “Have you a safe house in the city?”
“Not quite…”
4
Stars flared in the firmament as Farouk guided them to their destination, a caravanserai squatting in sight of Cairo’s torch-lit northern gates. Called Bab al-Futuh and Bab al-Nasr—the Gate of Conquests and the Gate of Victory—they were the traditional beginning and ending of any Fatimid general’s campaign. He marched out through the former to do his Caliph’s bidding and returned through the latter, or he returned not at all.
“I remember none of this,” Assad said, a toss of his head encompassing the tall stone buildings—caravanserais and commercial warehouses—with their sculpted lintels and narrow windows that lined the right-hand side of the wide Street of the Caravans, interspersed with lesser houses of brick and painted stucco; some boasted small, manicured gardens. “Twenty-two years ago all of this was a parade field.”
“Time is a most diligent soldier,” Farouk replied. “It marches on without respite and without care. Who can say? In another twenty-two years this might be a parade field yet again. Only Allah in His infinite wisdom knows these things.”
As far as Assad could tell, nightfall brought no appreciable lull to the business along the Street of the Caravans. Torchbearers and armed guards accompanied men in fine robes as they went about arranging the division and distribution of goods, their slaves darting from warehouse to warehouse with messages and bills of lading and contracts for ratification. The Caliph’s market inspectors were never far behind, assuring that weights and measures were accurate and that they paid in full the taxes the Prince of the Faithful levied on imported goods. Lesser merchants met their peers in the shadow of the great mercantile houses, sitting together on cushions to share news along with bowls of date wine and pipes of hashish. Some of these men greeted Farouk by name.
“
As-salaam alaikum,
brothers!” the Persian said. “Seek me out later in the week, my friends! I have a shipment of incense coming, the finest in all of Arabia! I will give you good prices, no? You, boy!” Farouk called out to a young slave. He fished a small coin from a pouch at his belt and flipped it off his thumb. “If your master allows, run ahead to the inn of Abu Hamza and tell that honorable fellow to expect company this evening! Tell him Farouk of Palmyra sends his compliments!”
The boy caught the coin in midair and sprinted off without waiting for his master’s approval. Farouk dismounted; Assad followed suit, trusting that the Persian had good reason for it. He stood by silently, holding the reins of both their horses as Farouk ambled over to a knot of men who sat near the entrance to one of the more affluent caravanserais, arrayed on carpets and cushions beneath an arched window. Sweet smoke coiled from their water pipes as they watched the evening market unfold, ever curious. Farouk greeted them warmly.
“My friends! Khaled, you’re looking well! How is your son, Umar? What goes, brothers? I heard rumors in Palmyra—tales of riots and ill omens and of flames devouring the city! I hurried ahead of my caravan to see for myself, to salvage what I could. Yet, here I stand, looking upon a pleasant gathering of learned men. Allah smite those who would speak such lies in my ear!” The men jostled and moved aside, making room for Farouk to join their circle. The Persian crouched beside Umar. He was the eldest among them, a gray-bearded man, thin and elegant in his white galabiya and turban-wrapped tarboush.
“ ’Twas not wholly lies, Farouk,” he said. “For a time we thought the End of All Things had indeed come.”
“Aye,” the others echoed. “Hearken, by the blessed Prophet, Umar speaks true.”
“You must tell me this tale, Umar!”
Assad shifted, watching the street as he eavesdropped on their conversation. He assumed the role of Farouk’s bored bodyguard, adjusting his stance and manner so that passersby who noticed him would see precisely that—a freebooter marking time until his master no longer needed him.
Water burbled as old Umar took a draw from his pipe, held it, and then exhaled, the cloud of smoke wreathing his head. “Do you know, Farouk, that among the warlike
mamelukes
, the White Slaves of the River who guard the Caliph’s person and make his slightest wish a reality, there are two great companies: one whose ranks are filled with Turks, and another whose members are Circassians from the distant Caucasus? They are slaves, aye, but they are renowned as much for their loyalty as for their prowess at arms. Still, nigh upon two months ago the unthinkable happened—one of the Caliph’s Circassian
mamelukes,
a young man full of vigor and pride whose name escapes me, fell from favor and was dismissed from his post at the Caliph’s side. What his original infraction was, I know not, but—”
Khaled, a sallow-faced man with a bristling black beard and suspicious eyes, interrupted. “He was a Circassian! That sort needs no reason to flaunt God and the Prophet.” The other listeners hissed Khaled to silence.
Umar continued. “Whatever his sin he compounded it by going forth into Fustat and carousing with a decidedly seditious element, men who hate peace and good order as Allah hates the Infidel.” Umar leaned closer. “They convinced this malcontent to reenter the palace and sheathe his sword in the Prince of the Faithful’s breast! Can you countenance such a thing? And his fellow
mamelukes
who were guarding the doors to the Golden Hall that day, they allowed him to pass! My nephew—you remember him, Farouk … he was the one who bought half your last shipment of incense—he was there to petition the Caliph for a lessening of our taxes and saw the whole sorry episode unfold. What with all the courtiers and eunuchs twittering about the throne, he said this godforsaken Circassian got as close to the blessed Caliph as I am to you before someone took note and raised an alarm.”
“Allah’s mercies upon his keen eye, whoever he is,” Farouk murmured, a sentiment echoed by others. Assad noticed several other men, merchants and caravaneers, had wandered over and now stood at the periphery, listening as Umar told his tale—one they had doubtless heard a thousand times over. Still, the old man relished their attention; he paused for dramatic effect and took a long drag off his water pipe.
“Who stopped him, this godless Circassian?” someone asked. “Was it a great cavalier or a cunning servant?”
Umar shook his head. “It was the vizier himself. The Circassian was so intent upon the Caliph—almost as if he were blind to all else, my nephew said—that he did not see the vizier approaching on his right hand. Without a word, that worthy man snatched the
mameluke
’s own dagger from his girdle and drove it into his heart!” Umar pantomimed the killing, tugging a curved knife from his belt and stabbing the air. “Once! Twice! Thrice! Until the infidel lay dead at his feet.” Feigning exhaustion, the old man dropped the knife into his lap. “Well, it was chaos after that. The Turkish
mamelukes
blamed their Circassian brothers for this lapse in the Caliph’s defense; the Circassians blamed the accursed Jews and Nazarenes lurking in Fustat for corrupting one of their own, and the vizier blamed the lot of them—whence springs your rumors of riots and fires, Farouk. For a month, Fustat ran red with blood as Circassian, Jew, and Nazarene fought one another, looted, and destroyed. Finally, acting on the blessed Caliph’s behalf, the vizier sent Sudanese mercenaries into Fustat to quell the riots, then expelled all the
mamelukes
from the palace! The Turks were ordered to garrison Cairo’s gates, while the vizier reduced the Circassians to a wretched existence as mere foot soldiers in the urban militia.”
“Surely, though, the vizier would not leave the palace undefended?” Farouk said.
“Allah forbid! No, that task has gone to another band of mercenaries called the Jandariyah, Syrian Arabs hired out from under the very nose of the Sultan of Damascus, God curse him…”
Assad turned slightly and stared at the back of Farouk’s head.
But what of the Caliph?
he wanted to ask. The whole story sounded almost too pat, too convenient, as though someone in the palace—indeed, in the Caliph’s own circle—had engineered it as a way of removing the threat of the
mamelukes
. As Umar had said, these slave-soldiers were fiercely loyal to their master and would have presented a major stumbling block to an enemy who sought to remove the Caliph. Handily, someone circumvented them and put mercenaries in their place. But who? The vizier? The commander of the army? Some faceless chamberlain who prefered the anonymity of the shadows? Or could it truly be as simple as a disgraced Circassian seeking to expunge the stain on his honor with blood?
Assad needed more to go on. He—
A commotion behind him, from farther down the street, crushed his ruminations like a mace. He heard the approach of horsemen, their clatter all but drowned out by a rising tide of voices—curses, cries of outrage, and the shrill screams of unseen women:
“Al-Dawiyyah! Allah yil’anak! God curse the wretched Infidels! Al-Dawiyyah!”
Assad spun; harness rattled as his and Farouk’s horses whinnied and tossed their heads, spooked by the sudden cacophony.
“Al-Dawiyyah!”
The Assassin spotted a squadron of cavalry cantering toward the Gate of Victory; most of the horsemen were Sudanese, lightly armored lancers wearing the black cloaks and turbans of Fatimid soldiery. The two men they escorted, however, were neither Arab nor Moslem. They were Franks—mailed Knights astride great prancing stallions, their white surcoats sporting the bloodred cross of the Order of the Temple.
Al-Dawiyyah.
Templars.
The sight of that hated symbol of Nazarene arrogance brought a curse to Assad’s lips. A dream-image flashed through his mind:
a design in blood caking the chest of the figure’s surcoat: a cross, red on white. The stench of death clung to it …
The Assassin’s fingers curled around the hilt of his
salawar;
the hate radiating from that blade paled against the naked fury already coursing through his body. Assad’s eyes blazed. His jaw clenched and unclenched. He wanted to rip into their bellies and tear out their entrails, hack them apart as they had hacked apart defenseless captives at Ascalon. Assad wanted to drink Templar blood.
It took every scrap of resolve he possessed to simply stand still and watch them pass—
let
them pass—when in his soul the spirits of long-dead friends cried out for vengeance.
Soon, brothers. Soon.
Slowly, finger by finger, he let loose of his
salawar
as the cortege vanished into Cairo.
The Gate of Victory trundled shut, hinges squealing.
With a promise to break bread with them tomorrow, Farouk left his clutch of friends and went to stand beside Assad. “A curious thing,” the Persian muttered. The tumult of the Templars’ passage faded as men returned to their business, drifting back inside their caravanserais and warehouses, their moods darker. “Come, let’s be off.”
“No. I want to know what deviltry is afoot! Why is the Caliph consorting with the dogs of Jerusalem? In the name of God, who rules Cairo? Is that too difficult a question?”
Farouk shrugged, clapping Assad on the shoulder. “We are tired. Perhaps we cannot see the truth of it? Come, let us repair to the house of Abu Hamza. A bath and a meal will no doubt foster much-needed clarity—”
“I have all the clarity I need. What I don’t have are answers.” Assad passed him the reins of both horses. “You go on ahead and ply your contacts. Find out what you can.”
“What of you? Where will you be?”
The tall Arab pushed past Farouk and headed for the Gate of Conquests, his mind already on the names Daoud had given him. When he looked back, his eyes were like slits of cold fire. “Plying contacts of my own.”
5
Behind Cairo’s walls, in the sumptuous East Palace of the Fatimid Caliphs, the most powerful man in all of Egypt contemplated his next move. He studied his adversary closely, recalling the adage that a weakness of the body did not necessarily translate to a weakness of the mind. His adversary, perched on a divan across from him, was a wizened old eunuch, sharp-featured and pale, his bulging belly and pendulous breasts hidden beneath a loose galabiya of finely woven black linen. He watched as the eunuch’s palsied hand hovered over the game pieces arrayed between them.
Weak in body, not weak in mind
.
Lamplight gleamed from the edges of the elegant
shatranj
board, its squares fashioned of milky alabaster and deep green tourmaline. Pawns of ivory and silver confronted those of ebony and gold, while tall horsemen, crenellated
rukhs,
stately elephants, and bearded
wazirs
defended their jewel-encrusted
shahs.
With excruciating slowness, the eunuch selected an ivory elephant and used it to capture one of the man’s ebony pawns, adding it to the four he already possessed. “It is not always flash and glitter that wins a battle, vizier,” the eunuch said. “Sometimes, victory can be achieved through the simple act of attrition.”
“You are as predictable as the Nile, my old darling,” the vizier, Jalal, said. He moved one of his
rukhs
into position to threaten the eunuch’s
shah.
“And you know nothing of battle.”
The eunuch smiled, his teeth yellowed kernels. “Ah, the blessed river may be predictable,” he said, “but does that make it any less dangerous?” Deftly, he drew a horseman back to protect his
shah.
“Tread with care, my friend.”
Jalal sat back, studied the board. He was a tall man, lean and dark, with heavy-lidded eyes and a sensuous mouth that lent his predatory features an aspect of wanton cruelty; traces of gray flecked his goatee. Clad in a silken robe girdled with satin brocade and a pearl-sewn turban, he reclined easily on his cushioned divan and reached behind him, past the remnants of his evening meal, for a goblet of wine. Slave and master sat beneath a colonnade, on a marble portico overlooking one of the palace’s many small gardens. Delicate lamps of gilded glass hung from the branches of willows and sycamores, casting bands of light and shadow over a cobbled path that wound past the burbling fountain. A chorus of crickets drowned out the sounds of Cairo settling in for the night.