by J. K. Swift
“Welcome to Cyprus, Brother Foulques,” King Henry said. “Or should I address you as Admiral?”
“However you prefer, Your Grace.”
“You are younger than I had envisioned,” King Henry said.
Foulques gave the King what he hoped was a courtly bow, but truth be told, he had never mastered the art of politicking, and one of the King’s eyebrows arched at his attempt.
Without preamble, Henry said, “I do not want more Hospitallers here.”
“And I did not wish to come,” Foulques heard himself say before he could curb the thought. He cleared his throat. “What I mean to say, is, I would rather be in Acre defending her walls with the rest of my brethren.”
A silence filled the room. Then Henry said, “Good. We understand each other. My brother has allowed too many Templars here already. It is too late for me to throw them out, but I have restricted their land and will not approve any expansions to their temple. I tell you this because I want you to know what a compromise it is for me to allow your Order to bring a hundred soldiers onto my island. Your hospice on Cyprus has served my people well. I will not begrudge you that. But to ask me to supply land and buildings to house soldiers is not something I wish, nor welcome with open arms.”
“Then why, may I ask, did you, Your Grace?”
The two men stared at each other. This open hostility was unexpected, for Grand Master Villiers had assured Foulques all the arrangements had been made for Cyprus to become the home of the future Hospitaller Navy.
“I have the falling sickness. Did you know this?”
Everyone knew it. “I have heard as much, Your Grace.”
“Of course you have. Amalric has made sure of that. My brother is embarrassed by my affliction. His wife even more so. But I cannot blame her. Did you hear how I succumbed to a rather severe set of convulsions at their wedding? That I shit myself there on the travertine floor of the church in front of three hundred guests?”
Foulques paused before answering. “Yes, Your Grace. I had heard that.”
King Henry squinted and cocked his head at the Hospitaller. “You are a direct man, Admiral. That was not the response I expected.”
Foulques shrugged. “If I may say so, nothing of this meeting is as I expected.”
“What do you know of the falling sickness?” Henry asked.
“Very little. Only what I have read.”
“Which is?”
“The Greeks called it the Sacred Disease. They considered the convulsions attacks on the individual from various gods. Different types of convulsions were attributed to different gods. Hippocrates, however, thought this was nonsense. He believed the convulsions were caused in the brain and were treatable.”
“What do you believe?”
“I, of course, do not believe in the existence of pagan gods. And even if such beings did exist, why would they waste their time tormenting humans?”
“My brother and his priest say I am possessed by demons. They have me pray thirty times per day and then question my faith when the convulsions come. Are they right? Is God my answer?”
“Yes. In all things, yes. But I think your brother is wrong in this. Prayer alone will not give you the relief you seek.”
“We have come full circle,” Henry said. “If I allow you to stay here, will you put your Order’s physicians at my disposal?”
“To be blunt, Your Grace, I do not know much about this topic, nor do I know how far the Hospital’s knowledge extends on it.”
Henry waved away Foulques’s comment. “It does not matter. All I ask is that you bring someone with a keen mind to your hospice in Cyprus. Someone who will give me honest answers to my questions.”
Henry reached up one thin hand and pinched the bridge of his nose while he closed his eyes. He was pale and the motion exposed an inner exhaustion that Foulques had failed to notice before.
“I believe Julius Caesar also suffered from the falling sickness,” Foulques said.
Henry looked up between his fingers. “Did he? I did not know that. I suppose I should feel relieved, Brother Foulques? For if he could forge the greatest empire ever seen, surely I should be able to rise to the occasion and stop the remnants of a tiny one from disappearing altogether?”
Foulques stayed quiet. Truthfully, he did not know what he had hoped to achieve by mentioning that obscure fact, but Henry was right. Any way one looked at it, the comment came out as piteous.
“There is a hakim at the Palais des Malades in Acre,” Foulques said, finally. “If there is any worthwhile treatment available, he will know where to look.”
Henry sat up. “Can you bring him here?”
“I will speak to my superiors, but I believe it can be arranged. Whether the hakim will come, or not, is another matter, but I suspect he will rise to the challenge.”
Henry leaned forward and laced his fingers together on the simple table in front of him. “Do it then. Once he arrives you can begin building barracks for your men. Until then, they will have to sleep in tents. But I hear they were all born in caves in Germania, so they should be used to living in the elements, no?”
“Alps,” Foulques said, quietly.
“What?”
“I said they have come a long way to fight for God’s Kingdom.”
“Have not we all?” the King said, letting out a deep breath. “At any rate, it looks like no one will be fighting any time soon.” He cocked his head when he saw the blank expression on Foulques’s face. “Have you not heard? The sultan is dead. The Mamluk army is in disarray. My advisers tell me they must now return to Cairo and choose a new sultan. The Kingdom of Jerusalem lives on. For a time.”
Foulques could not believe what he had just heard. “Your Grace. Are you sure? Is Sultan Qalawun truly dead?”
“Of course I am sure. Now the waiting begins. In time, I will be forced to send emissaries to sue for a new peace treaty. But not until I know who I will be dealing with.”
Foulques’s heart was pounding. The air he breathed suddenly tasted a little sweeter. Who knew what the new sultan would decide regarding Acre. Perhaps he would even be able to return there some day.
Henry steepled his fingers in front of his chest. He looked like a man who was trying to pray, but could not quite bring himself to clasp his hands together. “I would like to know your opinion, as a military man. If the Mamluks come at us again, which I feel is inevitable, what are the odds of Acre falling?”
Foulques was surprised at the question. “Acre will never fall, Your Grace. Her walls are too high and too strong. A hundred men could keep a thousand at bay. Her only weakness is her port, but the Mamluks have no navy.”
“Neither do the Hospitallers,” Henry said. “Yet.”
In those words, the wisdom of his superiors came into focus. Acre was not going to be his battle to fight. He and those ‘cave-dwelling’ children of his were the future of the Order. They were in a race for control of the seas, and in such a race, there was no better place to prepare than an island.
He remembered his long voyage to the Alps to recruit the Schwyzer children. It seemed a world away now, in both time and distance. They were so young. Did they even remember the snow-covered mountains and lush, green valleys they came from? And what would they think of this new home of theirs? Well, he supposed, it looked like they would find out together.
Cyprus. A place neither Foulques, nor the Schwyzers, had ever asked to come.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the high ground, overlooking the Mamluk encampment, stood a solitary red tent, the Dihliz of the sultan. Although it was in the middle of the camp, it was set up with a good deal of open space between it and all the other neighboring shelters. The Dihliz was ringed with torches and guards, with a single walkway leading to its entrance. Anyone who set foot within the ring of fire, and not on the walkway, would be killed by the guards, no questions asked.
This was a new law set out by a new sultan. The sultan no doubt thought it would make him appe
ar strong, unapproachable by the unworthy. But Badru Hashim, as he strode along the walkway with a guard at each side, thought the new law made the sultan look cautious, perhaps even afraid.
Two more guards stood at the entrance. “Emir Badru Hashim,” one of Badru’s escorts said. “He has been summoned.”
The older guard at the entrance said nothing, but abruptly turned and disappeared inside.
Badru and the three remaining guards stood outside, waiting. They waited for twenty minutes and no one said a single word. Badru liked that. These were disciplined Mamluks who knew their place in the world. Badru and Yusuf had already been detained in the camp for two days. What was another hour to him?
But it was not an hour. The first guard reappeared moments later and motioned for Badru to enter. He kept his head down after he entered, for he was aware of someone sitting in the sultan’s chair. Badru strode to the center of the carpeted floor and went down on one knee. He bowed his head and waited for the new sultan to speak.
“Rise, Emir Hashim,” Sultan Khalil said.
Badru started at the mention of his name. It was a strange sound to hear the sultan use the name of one so far beneath his station. But Badru had been away a long time. Perhaps things had changed in the sultanate since he had been gone.
“I am sorry for keeping you waiting for so long. With the death of my father, these last few days have been rather… trying,” Khalil said.
Badru turned his eyes up from the thick carpet at his feet to the young sultan’s face. The sultan met his gaze and held it.
“I believe I owe you another apology on my father’s behalf,” the sultan said.
Was he playing with him? Badru wondered. Of course he was. The sultan looked at Badru, perhaps waiting for a response of some kind. But there was nothing Badru could say. One could not simply accept an apology from the sultan.
“My father treated you poorly the other day. But he was an old man on his deathbed. Who is to say what thoughts capture a man’s mind at such a time. I hope you will not hold it against him.”
“Of course not,” Badru said, finding his voice. “He is—was the sultan. It is not for a man such as myself to understand or question his actions.”
The young sultan nodded in agreement. He stared at Badru for a long moment before he said, “Is it true, Emir? That you are of the Cairo Tabaqa? And if so, why is it that I do not know you?”
“You would have been a small boy when your father released me,” Badru said.
“And why did he do that?”
The brusqueness of the question caught Badru off guard, but it should not have. How many nights did he lie awake on his pallet wondering just that?
“Only he can answer that question,” Badru said.
Sultan Khalil smiled and slid back on his chair. He slouched in it in a way no trained Mamluk ever would. But then, Badru reminded himself, Khalil was not Mamluk like his father had been.
Some time during the years Badru had served Veronique Boulet, he had come up with an acceptable answer to Sultan Khalil’s question. Great lords were always buying and selling Mamluks for their stables, striving to get the perfect mix of men for their house’s goals. No doubt the sultan had simply been offered a price he could not refuse.
“Well, we are both a long ways from Cairo now,” Sultan Khalil said. “Though I hope to be back there soon. And you, Emir. Where is it that you would like to be?”
“I—I have not given the matter much thought, My Sultan.”
“Guards. Clear my tent.”
The guard who had escorted Badru inside said, “My Sultan, is that wise?”
The sultan’s eyes narrowed at the guard and Badru could tell the guard regretted the poor phrasing of his question immediately.
“Of course it is not wise,” Khalil said. “Wisdom is for old men and sorcerers! Do I look like an old man to you? Or a sorcerer?” He waved his hands over his head like he was casting a great spell.
“Of course not, My Sultan,” the guard said.
“This sultanate has been ruled by old men for far too long. If we are to rid ourselves of the Christian pestilence that has been eating at our culture for generations, our actions must be bold, daring. Saladin was wise, my father was wise. And yet the Christians are still here!” He looked at Badru. “Emir Hashim. If my guards leave us alone, do you promise not to kill me?”
“I do, My Sultan,” Badru said, without considering whether, or not it was a rhetorical question.
“There. You see? And I believe him. Now get out. All of you.”
When they were alone, Sultan Khalil stood up and stretched. “I did not think being sultan would require so much sitting.”
Badru said nothing. He was having a hard time making sense of the young sultan.
“Why did you come to see my father?”
“To offer my service. He was about to embark on the greatest undertaking of our age and I wanted to be a part of it.”
“Do you think he refused you because he knew you killed the French whore he sold you to?”
The words caught Badru by complete surprise. Games. He had forgotten just how much his kind liked to play games with people.
“You know of that,” Badru said. At least the sultan had not mentioned it earlier when the tent was full of Mamluk warriors.
“I do. And I know I could turn you over to my guards and have you executed. You have committed the gravest of crimes for a Mamluk.” The sultan began pacing idly around the room.
“I do not deny it. I will accept my punishment.”
“I said I could have you executed. I could also ask you why you did it, since you clearly do not deny that you did. But I have to tell you something, Emir Hashim.” He stopped in front of a brazier and blew on the glowing coals until wisps of smoke rose up into his face. He stepped back. “I do not care why you killed your French master.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “When I look at you, I see a man who can help me.”
“Help you? How can I possibly do that?”
Khalil let out a long sigh and sat back down in his chair. “I am a new sultan in a court surrounded by my father’s men. I need one of my own. One I can trust with my secrets. In return, as the undisputed messenger of the prophet Mohammed, I can absolve you of the heinous crime you committed against your master.”
Badru looked up and met Khalil’s eyes. He thought the young sultan was going to offer him riches, all the gold he could possibly stuff in his saddlebags. Instead, he offered more. Much more. He was young, but he knew the rules of the game and, it appeared, he played to win.
“What must I do?” Badru asked.
Badru sat on the dirt floor of the large provision tent with the scabbarded, curved blade of his khanjar on the ground in front of him. He wore no armor, no shoes, and no shirt. The only article of clothing he had on were his loose, sand-colored breeches, which were corded tightly around his ankles and at his waist. His bare, massive chest rose and fell to the rhythmic commands of his breath. His gray eyes, though open, could have belonged to a dead man for how little they moved, or even blinked.
The tent was four or five strides across, and until recently, had been filled entirely with lentils and grain. It had been one of many such tents, but now that the army was on the move again, all the stores had been emptied and loaded onto wagons. The braying of donkeys, squealing wagon wheels, and the shouts of thousands of men marching and tearing down camp all around the tent threatened to invade on Badru’s peace, if he let it. He would not. There was only one sound that could shake him from his trance.
Someone fiddled impatiently with the ties on the flaps at the entrance. One flap flew open and extra light flooded the interior. There was a pause before the man spoke.
“Where is Baydara?” Turuntay demanded.
Badru turned his head. The general’s stocky form filled the entrance completely, but dust swirled in the light that managed to push past his bulky silhouette. Beyond him, a frantic world of man and beast rush
ed past.
“You,” Turuntay said.
“Baydara is not here. He never was,” Badru said.
There was a moment of silence while the two men stared at each other: Badru, half-naked, sitting on the ground cross-legged while Turuntay stood in the doorway with one hand holding back the tent flap. Most men would have let that flap go, turned around, and walked away. But Badru knew the old general could not have done that any more than Badru himself could have.
Turuntay stepped inside the tent and the flap slid back into place, choking out the light and once again separating the interior of the tent from the outside world.
Turuntay paced a full, slow circle around Badru. When satisfied with whatever he had seen, or not seen, he unknotted his sword belt and stood it up against one side of the tent. Still wearing his waist sash, with his khanjar tucked within, he walked to stand in front of the still kneeling Badru.
“I assumed you were gone. Has the boy recruited you to him, then? Or, do you act alone?” Turuntay asked.
The question puzzled Badru. “Why would I want you dead? I am here at the bidding of my sultan. Nothing more.”
Badru remembered Turuntay from his youth. He, too, was a product of the Cairo Tabaqa, albeit twenty years before Badru undertook his own training. By the time Badru came along, Turuntay had already risen high in the sultan’s Royal Bodyguard and had very little to do with the military school itself. Still, he had been around enough for Badru to recognize him the moment he saw him again in Qalawun’s tent two days ago.
Turuntay shook his head. “You may be here at the boy’s command, but this,” he cast his eyes around the tent, “is your doing. I have been waiting for Khalil’s assassins to find me in my sleep. He would never give me a chance to fight for my life.”
“I only give you a chance to die in the manner of one who has lived by the code of the Furusiyya. Make no mistake. You will not walk from this tent alive.”
Badru could tell by the way the older man’s eyes caught fire that Turuntay had not been spoken to like this for a very long time. In fact, it brought some youth back into his face, and his body. In a blur of motion, he pulled his khanjar with his right hand and held it at his left hip, with his left hand above it.
