Inside the pleasure house, a girl gave a long voluptuous scream. Ali’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and he moved off to the far edge of the terrace. He glanced around, toward the lemon grove, wondering where the Templar captain had gone; by now he should be under the wall, taking the bait.
From the pleasure house came a crash, like glass breaking, and the music suddenly picked up again. Somebody whooped. The Kurdish guards were peering in the door; one went to the next window, and looked in over the sill.
Stephen came out the door, moving fast, as if he were escaping. He wore the long white djellabah, sashed in red silk; he walked with a long-legged, leonine saunter. It was this in him that had first drawn Ali to him, this animal grace, and now Ali grew keen at the sight of him, excited. Stephen crossed the terrace, coming toward him, and as he walked, he lifted his head, and their eyes met, and Stephen smiled. Ali moved toward him, his hands out.
“Let’s get away from here,” Stephen said.
“Certainly. Would you like to see the rest of the palace?”
“You shouldn’t trust me,” Stephen said. “What if I’m a spy?”
Ali laughed. They started off together, climbing the path of white stones toward the gate in the next wall. Ali held Stephen by the hand. “You are too noble, my dear. I know you’re not a spy. But don’t you want to know who I am?”
“No,” Stephen said, and looked away.
Ali laughed again, not understanding. “Well, then, I won’t tell you. But I insist on the pleasure of showing you one of the most beautiful places on earth.”
He thought, when Stephen had seen the palace, he would come to know without having to be told who Ali was.
They strode away across the grassy slope, studded with gardens of half-blown roses. Stephen looked avidly all around him, his eyes wide. Ali held his hand, as if tethering him down. He wanted to talk, but he could see that Stephen shied from talking. As if that gave Ali too much.
When Stephen had seen all the palace, when he knew who Ali was, he would be halfway won.
They were coming to the wall, rising through a tangle of vines; a row of cypress screened part of it, where a path lay beaten through the high seeding grass. Ali led Stephen in through the grass, behind the cypress trees. There was a little door in the wall, unguarded. While Ali opened it, Stephen turned, looking out through the green fence of the cypress.
“What is it?” Ali asked.
“I thought I saw somebody following us,” Stephen said.
Ali grunted, amused. “What are you afraid of? This is my place. Here I go wherever I please, and you too, if you are with me.” He pushed the door open, and let Stephen go through ahead of him.
They came out at the bottom of another long upslope; at the top of it was a large building, the upper-story windows shaped in pointed arches, the ground story rimmed by an arcade, its roof of red tile, its open side of pointed arches. The slope between was terraced into gardens.
Ali said, “This is the kitchen garden, when of course it is planted, and up there are the factories and kitchens and storerooms.” He looked at Stephen, expecting to see him impressed, but Stephen was looking back through the half-open doorway again.
“Where is Rannulf?” he said.
His temper nudged, Ali frowned at him. “I assure you, your captain is being very adequately dealt with.” By now the surly Templar would be over the wall, would be in the hands of Turanshah’s men, suffering as he deserved. “Come along, Stephen, let’s enjoy this together. Forget about your companions for a while.” He reached out and took hold of Stephen’s hand, and Stephen came willingly after him.
Rannulf slipped through the half-open door and stood at the foot of a climbing slope, neatly layered into broad ledges, on which grew rows of vegetables, now all gone to weeds. Stars of mullein covered the ground between the stalky bolted cabbages; the flowering carrots stood waist-high to him. He went up from ledge to ledge, wondering where all the food for this great palace was coming from, because it certainly was not coming from this garden.
He had waited a long while before he came through the hidden door, to let Ali and Stephen get well ahead of him. Now this whole slope seemed deserted. Coming on a path he found an old hoe, and picked it up and carried it along, as if he were a workman. A little way on, he acquired a lantern also, and a rake. He saw no one, not until he had climbed up through the garden, and come to a terrace, bordered in thick green hedges. On the far side of the terrace rose a two-story building, its windows cut gracefully in loops, like hands meeting at the fingertips. In the shade of the porches, two Kurdish guards stood with their lances cocked out to the side.
Between them and Rannulf at the terrace’s edge was a throng of people, wiry sun-blackened men in loincloths, and women swathed to the eyes, balancing great heaps of white laundry on their heads. Along the front of the terrace, big cauldrons boiled, and the women were washing linens and drawing them out again, and then spreading them to dry on the hedges. The men were clustered in the shade, doing nothing but talking.
Rannulf wanted talk. Carrying his tools, his servile head bowed, he went in among them, and sat down at the side of the terrace, where there was a stone wall. The men were eating lentils and onions out of a common bowl; one of them was bragging about bringing in a load of fruit all the way from the Jezireh.
“I knew I would get a very fine price, and I have, but it has put some fear into me. In Allah’s name, I have not seen this city so empty, not in all my life.”
“You should have been here when they brought the Franks in. We all had to go out and yell and wave our arms, so that it looked as if there were people in the streets. We got a penny apiece, and sore throats.”
“Is there plague along the Tigris?” someone asked.
“None in my village, let praises rise to Allah. Where has everybody gone from here? They cannot all be dead.”
Several voices rose at once, lamenting. Rannulf crept in among these men, following the aroma of the lentils. No one heeded him. They were used to strangers coming in from the country to make their fortunes feeding the palace, and here his black hair and eyes were a help to him. He kept a careful watch on the Kurdish guards in the arcade.
“Ay, ay,” said the man directly in front of him. “The Sultan himself will flee Damascus, when he has dealt with the Franks. Spit on them! The plague is our punishment for not driving them into the sea.”
Rannulf had come within reach of the bowl. He murmured under his breath, not the Arabic blessing, but close, and dipped his fingers into the brown mess of the lentils, and began to eat. He sat on his heels, as they did. He ate as they did, with the first two fingers of his right hand only. Their voices fed his ears.
“Have you seen the Franks?”
“Have we seen them. Have we seen them. They are ugly as ogres, with their long teeth and blue skin, and their watery eyes. I believe those who say they are hatched from eggs laid in dunghills.”
“The Sultan will get the best of them.”
“Ay, ay, would I had such faith.”
“I have heard some among them are Templars.”
“Templars!” Across the bowl a hand rose in the sign against evil.
“Yes! And that one is no less than Ithiel himself.”
The talk hushed, a little. One man gave a loud laugh. “Faugh. There is no Ithiel.”
“My cousin who carries a lance for Taqi ad-Din has seen him with his own eyes. The tip of his spear sends forth lightning, and wherever his black horse treads the land is sown with corpses.”
“There is no Ithiel.” One loud voice, another laugh. For a while no one spoke. Rannulf licked his fingers, his belly full, and his ears full.
“Soft, now, here comes dear Ahmed.”
Rannulf looked up, and swiftly lowered his eyes again. His muscles tightened. A lancer in a tasseled helmet was strutting across the terrace toward them.
The men around him sent up a chorus of greetings. “Ahmed!” “Allah’s blessings on you, valiant soldier
!” Their heads bobbed in brisk little bows. The Kurd stopped in front of them.
“I see you’re all keeping busy, as usual. What a pack of sluggards!”
“No, no, Ahmed, it’s just so hot, that’s all.”
“Blessings on you, Ahmed!”
“Valiant soldier!”
Rannulf bowed his head up and down like a fool, with the rest of them; if they caught him spying, they would chain him to a wall, like Odo, and he did not think he could bear that as well as Odo did. He wondered if he had long teeth, and watery eyes.
The Kurd moved on. Behind his back, the talk changed. “Look at him strut!”
“Yes, if only he fought so well against the Franks.”
“The lazy sack of shit.”
Rannulf drew back toward the wall again, keeping his eyes down, and his ears open.
“What would he do, if he came face to face with Ithiel?”
Ali said, “What do you think?” He beckoned to the servants, who came and moved away the remains of their dinner.
“It’s magnificent,” Stephen said.
He looked around this room again, still absorbing the details of its beauty. They had walked all over the palace, seeing everything, before they came here, to Ali’s own apartment. This was the best place of all, a warm quiet room, so simply furnished it seemed almost severe, the long straight lines of the low wooden tables, the fluid shapes of the lamps, the geometric red clay tiles of the floor; in one corner there stood a leafy little tree in a pot, confronting all this order with its welcome, anarchistic profusion. Stephen admired this room with all his heart.
“Rannulf says Damascus isn’t as fine as Constantinople, but I don’t believe it.”
“Is it much like Paris?”
“Paris is a dump,” Stephen said, and Ali burst out laughing.
“You’re wonderful, Stephen. I’m having a wonderful time with you.”
Stephen lay back on his side on the couch. “Yes, I’m very happy.”
They spoke French; Stephen had attempted a little Arabic, once or twice, but Ali had laughed at him. He did not want Ali to laugh at him. They had been together almost the whole day, and he had seen splendid halls and fountains, gardens, a library, a blue-tiled bathhouse, the Sultan’s own little mosque like a jewel made of white stone. They had made love on the grass. The food had been delicious, apricots and lamb, little onions stuffed with pine nuts, fruit poached in spiced syrup, and even the wine was fair enough. In a few moments, he intended to make love again.
“How long have you been a Templar?” Ali asked.
“I came out here last year.”
“Did you fight at Ramleh?”
Stephen shook his head. He wanted to stay off this line of talk; he had to keep this separate from that other life. But Ali was intent, his eyes sharp, his body tilted forward under the elegant drapery of his robe.
“What about the battle last autumn ? We call it the Gift of the River, you probably have some other name for it.”
“The Litani River,” Stephen said. He reached for the wine cup; he was slightly drunk. “God punished us for our sins, whatever they happened to be at the time.” He looked into the cup, swirling the wine around the inside. “You know, I had an old aunt who said she could tell the future from the patterns the wine makes on the inside of the cup.”
“Did she. How curious.” Ali with his fingertip circled the bone of Stephen’s ankle. He was much less interested in the future than in the past. “Fortunate that you escaped that battle, where we made a harvest of your kind.”
Stephen watched the wine slick the surface of the cup. “God willed it.” He moved his bare foot away from Ali.
The Saracen reached out and gripped his ankle. “Very true. God wills that we—whose cause is righteous—shall triumph over you.”
Stephen said, “I don’t want to talk about this, Ali.”
“Why not? Because you will have to admit to yourself that I’m right?” Ali’s eyes burned. He let go of Stephen’s ankle and stretched out his hand, palm up. “Please, Stephen. I like you very much. I don’t want to see you destroyed, as surely we will destroy you and all your sort in the end.”
“You’re no better than Rannulf,” Stephen said, angry.
Ali’s face settled. “I assure you. I am in another category utterly from your oafish brigand of a commander.” He drew back, his head high, putting on a cast of arrogance and power. “I can save you, Stephen, if you’ll let me.”
Stephen reached for the wine cup and drained it. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m getting out of here.” He stood up, swaying, his stomach doing a hurtle up into his throat.
“Where are you going?” Ali said. There was a knock on the door; he glanced around, and a servant came quickly through the room to answer.
Stephen said, “I’m a Templar, Ali. Maybe I don’t keep my vow very well, but I’m still a Templar, and you made the mistake of reminding me.” He started toward the door, and then the servant stepped back, and two guards came in.
Ali reached out, and gripped Stephen’s arm, and held him. “What’s going on?” He had switched to Arabic, which Stephen understood far better than he spoke.
“My lord, we can’t find him,” the first guard said.
“What?”
“The Jerusalem knight. Al-Wali. We can’t find him. Dawud waited for him by the wall but he never came. We’ve searched all the streets around the palace wall—”
Stephen gave a shout of laughter. Ali flung him a nasty glare and turned back to the guards. “Go find him. Get everybody in the palace out there, go through every house, but find him.”
The first guard said, “Yes, my lord.” He saluted, and they both hurried out the door. Ali wheeled toward Stephen.
“Where is he?” His voice snapped.
Stephen beamed at him. “I have no idea. I certainly wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Ali growled. “You are inexplicable to me. Come.” He pushed Stephen ahead of him, out the door.
Chapter XIX
The Sultan said, “My dear Count, it is not my own cause I champion here. It is Islam itself that has been wounded, sorely wounded, by the deeds of you faithless barbarians. Now they say you are sending for more Christians from Frankland, to come here and kill my people and drive them from their homes. And to help you do this I am to provide you with a period of truce. This hardly seems good policy to me.”
He put the silver cup down on the table between him and Tripoli. These apartments, where Tripoli was staying, were on the south side of the palace, facing away from the city; tall windows opened in three of the four walls and the untainted breezes blew in from the garden and from the clean and holy desert beyond. The Sultan was glad he had come down here. He needed to get away from his court; the court was too merry, too loud, feverishly loud and merry, a dance among the graves. But he had to entertain them, to keep them here, to make this gambit work.
Now he and Tripoli talked their way along the little winding paths of diplomacy, sure-footed among deceits; they knew each other so well they could even smile as they lied. Tripoli was smiling now. He lounged on a cushioned chair, his small round-fingered hands raised.
“My lord Sultan, you distress me more than I can tell you. For years we have been friends, we have spoken together on many things, I have been your guest, you have been mine, and now suddenly you seem to have discovered we are enemies.” He smiled. “You sadden me very much, my friend.”
“You and I are friends,” said Salah ad-Din Yusuf. “Your faith and mine are deadly enemies.” He nodded to a servant, who came with an iced pitcher, and filled his cup again. “I need money, Count. You need time. I will sell you time for money, but it will not come cheaply for you.”
“Yes,” Tripoli said. “What did you have in mind, my lord?”
“I want five hundred thousand michaels for each year of the truce.” The Sultan leaned forward, tapping the table between them with his forefinger. “And my nephew Tariq is to be released from Margat
, and the other hostages of my people are to be released, and you shall release my people who now pay you tribute from their tribute.”
Tripoli blinked at him. “My dear Sultan. Perhaps a few of the stars as well.”
“If it can be arranged.”
The Count laughed. He wasted no time in anger. He was all but an Arab, Tripoli, who understood every undertone, every quiver of a syllable, every second and third meaning, and would spend days braiding them together and taking them apart again. Instinctively he would compromise, and at this point Salah ad-Din would accept any compromise as a victory.
Tripoli said, “The King has no money to pay such a huge price, my lord Sultan. You cannot ask a stone to bleed.”
“The Templars have money,” the Sultan said. He was perfectly willing to take much less, but he had to start somewhere.
A ripple of annoyance crossed Tripoli’s face. “They certainly do. Money which is not within my reach, or the King’s reach, either, unfortunately.” He leaned forward for an almond cake from the dish on the table. Salah ad-Din had noticed that Tripoli always ate everything set in front of him, and yet he never fattened. He broke the cake in half in his two hands. “Let us talk sensibly here, my friend. You worry too much about the Crusade. There will be no help forthcoming from the Franks beyond the sea; they care nothing for the kingdom of the Cross. But the King will soon die. When he does, help me become King, and then between you and me we can make a good and lasting peace.”
The Sultan did not say that he would have no peace until he held Jerusalem. He said, “Who are the heirs of Baudouin the Leper?”
Tripoli put down one half of the cake and broke the other half into pieces. His nails were bitten down to the quick. “The King’s sister Sibylla is his heir, a mere girl, careless as a butterfly. She has a baby son. And there is a much younger half-sister, Isobel. A council of the barons could be induced to overturn their rights. If I had enough money, I could buy the crown.”
The Sultan said, “With enough money, a fool buys a gold coffin.” He was thinking of his enemy, the boy King of Jerusalem, who fought him with such a heart, and such a will. He admired Baudouin the Leper much more than he wanted to. He thought Tripoli would have been an easier opponent. “I wish I could come face to face one day with your King.”
Jerusalem Page 20
