Assassination in Al Qahira

by James Boschert

  “As usual, Bahir bungled the attack on Abbas—although in the end it worked, as the whole place nearly burned to the ground. There is no sign of the eunuch I paid to do the killing, so I hope that he died in the flames. It must have been a lamp or something that fell over.”

  “How can you be so flippant about this ghastly thing?” Umarah said plaintively.

  “I find it just as frightening as you do. I heard there were two girls in the bed with him and the assassin left his headless body on the bed; imagine waking up to that. Not many men loses their head quite so literally over a woman.” Al Muntaqim grinned wolfishly at the agitated poet. That was too much for Umarah.

  “I am leaving the city for my estates tomorrow. Perhaps I shall go abroad!” he wailed. “I am not a warrior and this is more than I can take. Will one of us be next?”

  “You will stay in the city, and only go when I give you leave to do so, poet.” Al Muntaqim said icily. “I will have the brigade from Alexandria here in three days and then the city is truly mine. Think of the irony. The sultan has built the citadel to prevent the Franks from retaking the city, but I shall be there instead. On the inside.” He chuckled.

  “The sultan does not have the army to take it off me when he comes back. He will find the men from Alexandria already in here. There is also a large contingent of Nubians, and you know how they feel about him.”

  “What if he hears of Bahir and decides to come back before then?” Umarah was in need of comfort food and began nibbling a sweet honey-coated cake.

  “He will not come back because I have sent messengers to tell him that the Hashishini struck Bahir down for some quarrel he had with them. You know what they are like. If they decide to demand money after you owe them a favor and you do not pay in time? Your life is forfeit.

  “I have also made sure that no more pigeons fly in that direction to warn him of the events here in Cairo.”

  The poet gulped. “That Sinan of the Mountains is a terrifying man. He was, or is still, a teacher, but they say he can do all manner of magical things, and I know he holds a deep hatred for the sultan. Perhaps we should ask him to take care of Salah Ed Din?” The poet shuddered elaborately.

  Al Muntaqim smiled coldly. “I have anticipated you.”

  Umarah stared at him, his mouth dropping open, and some saliva began to dribble down his chin. He closed his mouth just in time and wiped his plump lips on a fine linen cloth.

  “You have hired Rashid Ed Din’s assassins?” His voice was incredulous.

  “Remember those Ismaili hate Salah Ed Din because he and his uncle conquered this country and made it all Sunni under the caliphate of Baghdad. We are all in accord; you and I, and many like us detest the Ayyubi for having invaded this country and dispossessing many of the royal families. In effect, we are allies. Don’t you see?” He raised both eyebrows and continued.

  “I sent a messenger asking if he would send some of his men to kill the sultan using their skill and stealth, but as yet I do not know if Sinan Rashid has done anything. It is a long journey from the Jabal Bahra Mountains, well north of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He has not sent a reply and I do not even know what he will want in payment, if he accepts the offer.”

  “I think you are playing a very dangerous game, Al Muntaqim. Sinan is more deadly than a cobra. If he agrees, then he will want a lot of gold for it,” the poet said, regaining some confidence. “Do you know that the Frankish Templars, God damn them, extract a tithe from him every year? Oh yes. He will want a lot of gold.”

  “Impossible.” Al Muntaqim was less cocky now.

  “No, possible. Somehow those dreadful warriors have him within their sway, but I would not want to bring it up in any conversation.”

  “No indeed.”

  “You don’t think, Oh Allah protect us, but do you think this was a warning not to cross him—in case we change our minds, for instance?” The poet reached for another sweet cake, he was so nervous.

  Al Muntaqim was thoughtful.

  “It is entirely possible that Bahir crossed someone and they dealt with him this way. But it comes so closely upon the destruction of Abbas and his home that I am puzzled.”

  In fact, despite his casual attitude, Al Muntaqim was deeply concerned. Something did not quite fit and his mind was worrying at the issue even as he put on a confident face before the poet.

  “In any case, the woman Khalidah and the boy Kazim, his only heir, still live. I want those estates for myself and now that Bahir is out of the way, I will have them. I am sure the family has not escaped as yet, as none of my men who are watching the estate has sent any messages to tell me they have made their way back. I would know if they were on the road for sure, and the harbor is watched night and day. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “You are without feeling, Al Muntaqim. Bahir’s body is barely cold and you are taking the spoils.”

  Al Muntaqim smiled. “You could say that,” he chuckled. “He tried to be in two places at once, and look where that got him… his head here and his body there?” He laughed.

  Umarah looked as though he were going to be sick.

  * * * * *

  Deep in the poorer section of the city, but still quite close to the grand mosque of Al-Azhar, two men sat drinking tea.

  They were slim, youthful men, but to the keen observer they were wiry and honed—every move or gesture denoted feline strength. They were relaxed at this time, their weapons placed still close to hand, and the dark clothes they wore loose and comfortable. They were waiting for another to join them.

  It was not long before they heard the light tap on the door, but cautious men that they were, one glided towards the door to wait next to the wall near the door opening with his sword held high, while the other spoke in a whisper through the dried up wood. It was a code, and hearing the correct answer, he glanced at the other, then he opened the door to admit another man similar to both in dress and physique.

  Their leader spoke in low tones. “What is going on in the street? We have heard chatter outside, but cannot get the gist of it.”

  “There is word about that our people killed a man called Lord Bahir. They say that his head was cut off and placed on the ledge of a window looking out over his gardens. I listened to people in the bazaar and they are sure that it is an assassination by our people.”

  “Our people? Has Sinan sent others to do some work we know nothing about?” queried the leader.

  “If not our people, who could have done this?” The third man shrugged.

  “Allah alone knows. They are joking that two women were in the bed with him when he was killed and neither was touched; they woke up to find him dead in the bed with them but without his head. The Egyptians seem to find that very funny; they are joking about it everywhere. They are strange people.”

  “What should we do? Is not our mission still to kill the sultan?”

  “Yes. Those are our orders, but we would surely know if any of our brethren were here in Cairo doing something else. Would we not? Should we send a message to Sinan? Could it perhaps be our Persian cousins who did this?”

  The leader nodded reflectively. “They would never tell Sinan if they were involved in something here in Egypt, despite our relationship. The Agha Khan is answerable to no one. We should be very careful. If they are here they might not want us around, and you know what that means. But one way or the other, we must find out who did this. Sinan will want to know.”

  * * * * *

  Late that night Mukhwana summoned Talon. When he came up and joined the beggar leader, Mukhwana was looking tense. “You have your boat, Suleiman, but you must leave at once.”

  They woke the women and Kazim, who whined about being woken in the dead of night, but when told to stop grumbling and to get ready to leave he became quiet and attentive to his mother. She pulled the two nervous children to her and whispered, “Have courage now. Suleiman and Panhsj will protect us, we are going home; Insha’Allah we will be there by tomorrow.”


  Mukhwana lumbered up to them as they were about to leave the cavern. There was a lamp nearby so Talon could see his features, and his one eye gleamed.

  “You have delivered me gold and I have kept my side of the bargain. We are even in God’s eyes, Suleiman. Go with God and go in peace. I think my Lady and her children are in good hands and her enemies have much to fear.”

  Talon looked sharply at the big man, but just nodded and said, “May Allah protect you, my friend. You have risked much on our behalf, and I shall not forget it.”

  Khalidah placed a hand on Mukhwana’s thick arm. “You have provided me and my family with shelter and refuge when you could have done otherwise, Lord of the Beggars. May Allah’s blessings always be upon you. I shall find a way to repay you one day.”

  The man was very touched, it was clear; but he said, a little more gruffly than usual to conceal his emotion, “Go in peace, my Lady, and may your journey be swift and safe. Follow my guides and make no noise; there is still much danger in this city for you.”

  The guides took them by a different route. The system of tunnels often petered out and they would find themselves climbing out into a deserted ruin of a building or having to move swiftly but silently across open ground to follow a narrow street before being led through a dark passage and then back down into the entrails of the sleeping city.

  Talon had been concerned about Khalidah and the children having to negotiate the rat infested passages, but they seemed to have adjusted to the extraordinary circumstances and it was Anyess who shrank at the squeaking creatures that ran across her feet as she stifled her instinctive cries.

  After almost half an hour of slow-but-sure-progress, the guides held up their hands to stop and blew out their clay oil lamps, plunging them into pitch darkness.

  They waited for long moments, standing ankle deep in some trickling water that stank, before one of them stepped out through a small opening and disappeared. The other whispered that they were near the docks and must make no sound. After a while there was a faint shuffling sound and the other man returned.

  He leaned towards where Talon was standing and whispered in his ear.

  “The boat is ready but not at the wharf. It is near to the canal which is a hundred paces away to the left of here. The boat captain is pretending that he has a problem with his hull and has had it pulled up some way onto the bank. You can trust him, he is a relative of our leader, but it would be good to pay him a little more when you get to your destination. We will have to push you off once you are on the boat.”

  Talon did not pass along the message but it was clear that they were to follow the two men very cautiously. Talon looked off to the right to where the main docks were located. They were exiting from a tunnel, more of a drain that emptied out into the river. It was situated at the extreme end of the busy wharf, which was dark and deserted at this time of night, but he did notice armed men at the far end clustered around a fire. Talon had no doubt that if they made much noise they would attract some unwelcome attention from those men.

  They waded through some stinking mud and sludge that forced them to hold their breath, and there in the dim light silhouetted against the expanse of water they saw the dark hull of a boat pulled half way out of the river. The children were carried by the two body guards while Khalidah was assisted by Panhsj.

  At the looming hull of the boat they were challenged quietly, and the guides responded. Then it was time to help Khalidah and the children up and over the side of the boat. Anyess followed, and the crew on board helped them down into the waist of the boat in silence. The men stayed on the ground and Talon gave some coins to the two guides, who were surprised and grateful.

  “I shall pray to Allah to protect you, Oustez, and the great Lady.”

  “Allah protect you. Go in peace.”

  It was time to push the boat back into the water. The four of them heaved hard, but for a frightening moment it did not move. It seemed as though it was stuck in the glue-like mud, but then, as they applied all their strength, it began to move very slowly. The vessel slid deeper into the open water until it was finally floating free. Talon and Panhsj scrambled over the side, wet and filthy, and then assisted the crew of three men to quickly unfurl the sail, which flapped noisily but suddenly bellied as it caught the light wind coming off the warm shore, and the boat surged forward. The crew moved about their tasks with swift efficiency, silently ensuring that the sail took full advantage of the wind. Mukhwana’s guides had vanished into the darkness of the shoreline without a word.

  Talon realized that he had been holding his breath waiting for an alarm of some kind, but the shore was silent and the wharfs, now several hundred paces away, seemed to be asleep.

  The crew hauled the sail tighter and the boat gained speed rapidly. The helmsman was watching the river intently as though remembering the channels. Before very long they were well out in the middle of the huge river of the Nile, and Talon began to relax. There was a sigh from Panhsj nearby as he too relaxed for the first time since they had embarked upon their escape.

  “Insha’Allah we are now finally on our way home,” he whispered.

  “May He protect us as we sail,” Talon responded.

  Make my king regard me with mercy

  And incline his heart toward favor for me.

  Lord, bring my distress to an end,

  And in your way, judge me gently.

  — Todros Abulafia

  Chapter 21

  A Sultan’s Army

  Far to the east of Al Qahirah but only a few miles from the fortified Christian town of Gaza an army was camped. This was an army that was for the most part of Turkish and Kurdish cavalry; although a sizeable number were also Arabs. There were no tents other than that of the general in command, and that was placed in the middle of the encampment, protected on all sides by men loyal to the Sultan Salah Ed Din. With first light the messenger pigeons were awake and cooing for their handlers to feed them. These much prized birds were the communications link with Al Qahirah and other cities upon which Salah Ed Din relied for messages and intelligence, but no new pigeons had arrived for a full day from Al Qahirah, which was unusual.

  As dawn broke and streaks of light illuminated the eastern sky the army stirred, and in this desolate place of stone and sand someone began to call the soldiers to prayers. As the camp awoke and men knelt facing the southeast murmuring their prayers, the sun peeped over the horizon about to begin its long journey across the sky.

  With the arrival of the dawn a sentry on the southern perimeter of the waking army peered out at the dark western desert and wondered if he had heard a sound. Although most noises were drowned out by the voices of thousands of men murmuring their prayers he was very alert, as they were close to the fortress of Gaza. No one wanted to be caught unprepared by one of those fanatical attacks by the mad Franks who lived inside. He heard the sound again, and this time the unmistakable ‘click’ of a horse’s hoof striking a stone.

  “Who goes there?” he shouted loudly, knowing that others would hear him and come to his aid if there was trouble.

  There was a hoarse cough as though someone had tried to speak and failed. Men who had finished their devotions joined the sentry, armed and ready for anything. The alarm was being sounded and the army began to hurriedly prepare for the possibility of an attack.

  Then, to the surprise of the soldiers peering out into the darkness, a single figure on a horse came slowly towards them. The eastern sky was now well lit and the men could see that the figure on the horse was slumped over its neck and the horse itself, streaked with dried sweat and its head low, was moving very slowly, as though it too was near the end of its strength.

  The group of soldiers chattered to one another, wondering if this was a trap, but as the horse continued to walk slowly towards them the details became clearer. They realized that the rider was truly alone and that no madmen were about to charge out of the west from behind him; however, there was something wrong, for he swayed in
the saddle and was clearly exhausted, to the point where he was about to fall to the ground.

  The sultan was alerted by one of his aides, who told him that a boy tied to a horse had arrived and asked to see the sultan, but the boy was almost dead from thirst and exhaustion. The sultan had only just finished his prayers and was being assisted into his chain mail by two servants. He paused and then commanded that they should bring the boy to him at once.

  His eyes widened with surprise when he saw the ragged, inert form carried into the tent. It was indeed just a boy and he looked as though he might even then be dead.

  “Fetch Jacob immediately,” the alarmed sultan commanded and pointed to where they should place the boy. He stepped closer to the boy, who was now placed on the carpet among the cushions where the sultan normally held his council. Exhaustion was etched into the young lad’s features, and although someone had given him water it seemed he might be near death.

  “My lord, he rode in this dawn on an exhausted but a beautiful horse, while he himself looks like just a syce,” they told him.

  Jacob, the physician, arrived and immediately exclaimed at the boy’s condition and asked for wet cloths to be placed on his forehead. He was burning up. The sultan stood over them.

  “Who is he? Where did he come from and what is he doing here?” he asked no one in particular.

  The boy stirred and opened his eyes, but they could not seem to focus.

  “I must see the sultan; it is a matter of life or death,” he whispered through split and bleeding lips. Salah Ed Din started with surprise and exchanged looks with Jacob.

  “Who are you, and who send you?” the sultan asked.

  “I am Haytham, syce of my lord Abbas, my lord. You must come back to Al Qahirah…there…there is danger,” he whispered.

  The sultan stared down at the boy whose head was now swathed in wet linen bandages and to whom the physician was administering a few drops of water at a time, although he seemed to have trouble swallowing.