by Robyn Young
“No threat?” voiced a haughty youth, a close comrade of Mahmud’s. “Until they launch another of their Crusades that is. Every day we give them peace allows them to get stronger, allows their rulers in the West to build ships and gather forces to attack us. We cannot give them that chance!”
“Our economy is flourishing through our trade with the Franks,” responded Kalawun. “And there is no evidence to suggest that there will be a Crusade in the near future. Indeed, our reports indicate a lack of enthusiasm for the continuation of the war.”
“The traders will still come, even if we destroy the Franks’ bases. They rely on us. We do not need them to occupy our lands to make money from them. Why leave ourselves open to attack, whether it comes next week or in another ten years?” The young governor looked for support around the company. Some nodded at his words. “Every day the Franks spend on these shores is an insult.”
“It is a foolish man who goes to war on an insult,” answered Kalawun calmly.
The governor gave a curt laugh, piqued by the comment. “You might appear Muslim on the outside, Amir Kalawun, but I think inside you’re starting to look more like a Christian!”
There was an eruption of angry voices in the chamber.
“Silence!” barked Baybars. His eyes glittered with anger. “You will apologize to Amir Kalawun,” he ordered the governor. “He is an honorable general and as devout a Muslim as I. Insult him and you insult me.”
“Forgive me, Amir,” the governor murmured to Kalawun. “My tongue ran away with me.”
“Any effective commitment to war must be concentrated on one enemy at a time,” said an older Mamluk, coming to Kalawun’s defense. “The Mongols are actively aggressive toward us. Therefore, I agree with Amir Kalawun. Our next move is apparent.”
“We are dealing with the situation in al-Bira,” voiced Mahmud, unable to help himself. “It is not the first time the Mongols have attacked one of our holdings and I doubt it will be the last.” He became emboldened when Baybars said nothing. “Let our forces in Syria concentrate on keeping the Mongols behind the Euphrates, whilst our forces here focus on the Franks. Then, once we have taken Palestine and erased the infidels’ last vestiges of power, we can march as one army, vast and mighty, into Anatolia. We can defeat the Mongols if we are united, without fear of invasion or attack from the rear by the Franks. We cannot defeat them if we are divided.” He spoke passionately, and Kalawun noted sourly that the young governor could be an inspiring orator. “Let us turn our full attention to the Mongols when we have it to spare. First let us drive out the Franks and set Palestine back in the hands of the righteous. The Mongols are a distraction we must not allow ourselves to be diverted by.”
“A distraction?” questioned Kalawun. “Is that what you would call a force that has destroyed nations and erased whole tribes? Who now has half the world in its possession and who controls the supply roads in and out of the East?” A few of the other governors murmured their agreement, but more were frowning. Kalawun’s face hardened as he saw their contention. “I did not lead my regiment into Cilicia ten years ago, see them haul themselves over miles of desert and mountain passes to fall on Armenian swords just so we could now leave the territories we secured in that struggle open to the Mongols. We took Cilicia so that we could take Anatolia. We cannot give way now. Today, it might be a city they are attacking, but if we give them one inch of territory, the Mongols will sweep down on us with all the force they can muster and everything we have done, everything we have built since Ayn Jalut will have been for nothing.”
Baybars stirred at the mention of that battle.
It had been the first defeat of a Mongol force the world had ever known. And it had been his doing. That day had been sweet with triumph. Retribution for the Mongols’ attack on his tribe, which had seen his delivery into slavery, it heralded the end of an old life, begun in chains, and the beginnings of his rise to power. The memory made him feel young again. He felt anticipation bubble up inside him, felt his assurance grow. For too long, the Franks had been a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t have the stomach to swallow the dregs of them yet, not when a force that made his heart sing with that youthful, strident battle song was out there. The Franks were locked away in impregnable cities. The Mongols waited on the edges of his empire, daring him to meet them. He wanted the feel of a sword in his hands, the dry breath of the desert on his face again.
“I have made my decision,” he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the men.
The governors fell silent. Kalawun’s face was a placid mask, but inside his heart was thudding painfully fast.
“We will march on Anatolia.”
Mahmud and several of his young companions looked furious, but were careful to keep their emotions unspoken. Kalawun felt a surge of relief, but immediately afterward felt hollow. The outcome was still war. Before he died and gave up his realm to his son, Baybars was going to create another storm. There was nothing Kalawun could do about it, and even if there was, he wouldn’t. He wanted peace, but the Mongols didn’t. He would protect his people.
“I will use the truce I have with the Franks to concentrate on the Mongols,” said Baybars. “I do not believe they will break it. They are too fearful of losing their last territories to enter into a fight they cannot hope to win. When we have taken Anatolia and the Mongols are driven out, I will deal with the Franks.” He rose. “When I receive word on what has happened at al-Bira, I will summon you to discuss our strategy.”
As the governors filed out of the throne room conversing in low tones, Kalawun slipped past them, not wanting to be cornered. He’d had enough debates for one day. He moved down a vaulted passage, where the breeze coming through the windows tousled the leaves of ornamental plants and whispered of summer. He had almost reached the end when a gray figure slunk into his path. Kalawun’s brow knotted in dislike as Khadir grinned at him.
“Amir Kalawun,” greeted the soothsayer, giving an exaggerated bow.
“What do you want?”
“The outcome of the war council,” said Khadir, “what was it?”
“Ask your master,” replied Kalawun. He continued down the passage.
Khadir’s white eyes narrowed, but he followed, scurrying to keep up with Kalawun’s long-legged stride. “Where is it, Kalawun, that you steer my master?”
“Steer him?”
Khadir stepped into his path. As Kalawun went to go around, the soothsayer darted in to block him. He giggled. “See how we dance?” He did a graceful twirl. “Like you danced in the council? Danced around my master until he was so dizzy with your voice he did not know his direction.”
“You were spying again?” As Khadir smiled, Kalawun reminded himself to have the wall passage that ran alongside the throne room blocked up. He had seen Khadir crawling into it before. “If you know the outcome of the meeting, then you have no need to ask me.”
Khadir hopped nimbly out of his way as he moved off. “I want to understand why you turn his eye from the Christians, Amir.”
“It is our sultan’s decision to attack the Mongols.”
“No!” snapped Khadir, looking suddenly furious. “Not his. You’ve been whispering in his ear for months. Don’t fight the Franks! Don’t fight the Franks!”
“I don’t have to explain my reasons to you.”
“Truces can be broken, Amir. There are those in the West who threaten us: the king of Sicily and Edward of England. The Templars have a new master, a strong one. If any of these men rise against us, legions will follow. We both know how our master changed after Omar’s death.” He snatched at the air with his fist. “Gone! Just like that. And with him, our master’s destiny. I have seen, Kalawun. I have seen how we will lose this land.”
Kalawun came to a stop. The old man’s eyes were wild and wide.
“Yes,” murmured Khadir, as Kalawun’s expression shifted slightly. “We must save it, you and I.”
“I will not change my mind, Khadir,” said Kal
awun, starting to shake his head. “I will not persuade Baybars to attack the Franks when I do not believe in that course of action.”
“Not that,” snapped Khadir irritably, “not that.”
“Then what are you asking me to do?”
“For our master to return to his former glory, he must exact blood vengeance on those who turned him from his path.” Khadir’s face contorted in anger. “The Hashishim have paid.” He nodded vigorously. “They have. But not those who hired them.” He absently began to finger the gold-handled dagger that hung from his belt as he spoke of the Assassins, the order he had been exiled from. “Our sources believed Franks organized the killing.” He hissed like a snake at Kalawun’s nonplussed expression. “We must find the Franks who wanted our master dead! Only when vengeance is served, will he be able to return to his true path and defeat the Christians.”
Kalawun shook his head. “The past is dead, Khadir. Let it stay that way. It is a fool’s errand you suggest. It could take months to discover who contracted the Assassins. Indeed, it may never be discovered.”
“Our governors control the Assassins’ strongholds now,” responded Khadir. “It will be easy to question the Hashishim. Send Nasir. He is a Syrian. He knows the regions they reside in.”
“No,” said Kalawun, heading off.
“I see what you are doing with Baraka,” Khadir called at his back.
Kalawun turned, careful to disguise the worry the words had caused. “What do you mean?”
“Your influence over the boy grows stronger every day. You married your own daughter to him! Only a blind man or a trusting fool wouldn’t see that you are trying to gain his trust for something.” Khadir moved toward Kalawun. “You dislike the child, I know you do. And yet you spend your days teaching and training him. He has tutors for such things.”
“Is it wrong to take an interest in my own son-in-law?”
The soothsayer’s face contorted with contempt. “Bah! You persevere beyond the duties of father or friend. You want power over the throne, Kalawun. I see that too.”
Kalawun laughed. “But of course I do.”
Khadir’s eyes squinted in suspicion and puzzlement.
“Any man close to a throne seeks to be bathed in its light,” said Kalawun. “I do not dismiss your claim, but neither would any governor, wife or advisor if they answered truthfully. I do not seek the throne for myself; I seek a secure position for my masters from which they, in turn, may favor me.” Kalawun’s face hardened. “Before you play games with me, Khadir, I suggest you look into your own future, for it will be neither long nor happy if you test my patience.” He strode off, feeling the soothsayer’s stare like a dagger in his back.
It was approaching evening in Cairo. Darkness crept across buildings colored orange by the setting sun as Angelo made his way to the meeting place. The trees in the orchard below the citadel’s wall swayed hypnotically in a breeze that bore the smells of smoke, dung and food from the city that was tumbled down the hill below him. Beyond the walls, the Nile was jet black against the soft shadows of the desert. Angelo, who had left his horse at his lodgings, wrapped his cloak tighter about him.
Over the years, he had been to Cairo on a number of occasions to do business with the Mamluks, bringing them cages of boys for their army in return for bags of bright Saracen gold. But his business today was more delicate, and he had been careful to remain hidden in his lodgings until it was time. When he had sought out his contact on his arrival, paying a street child to deliver a message to the citadel, he had been told to meet him here.
Angelo paused. At the far end of the orchard was an old cistern with a crumbled ledge. There, in the shadows of the tangled trees, a figure was waiting. “You have it?” said Angelo in Arabic as he approached.
The figure wore a long black cloak and a kaffiyeh covering his head and face. Only his eyes were visible as he rose from where he had been sitting on the cistern. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a silver scroll case, ornately filigreed with patterns of lotus flowers.
Angelo took it. Opening the top, he pulled a scroll from the case, which he unfurled. He glanced at the page, then at the man who had given it to him. “It says exactly what I asked for?”
“Yes.”
“I presume only Kaysan will be able to read it?” asked Angelo, stowing the case in the pouch that hung from his belt. “If it fell into the wrong hands, it would be bad for us all.”
“Can you read it?” said the man curtly.
Angelo ignored his tone. “And your brother will do as you ask? He will take our men into Mecca when the time comes?”
“Yes.”
Angelo stared hard at him. “Remember what is at stake. If you betray me, if there is anything in that letter that damages my plans at all, I will see that you and your brother suffer for it. You owe me. Do not forget that.”
“How could I?” murmured the man. As Angelo went to leave, he called out. “You will give me what I asked for?”
Angelo looked back. “When the Stone is taken, you will have everything you wanted.”
The man watched him walk away. “It has been a long time coming,” he whispered.
8
The Venetian Quarter, Acre 12 MARCH A.D. 1276
he door creaked open, intrusively loud. Will glanced over the gallery to the deserted entrance hall. He could hear faint voices from the kitchen, as Elwen entered the solar and ushered him in.
The solar was yellow with sun, the whitewashed walls and several oval mirrors of beaten silver reflecting the light into every corner. In the main chamber a table and bench stood close to a hearth. The table was scattered with papers, and from a clothes perch behind it hung a blue silk robe and cap. As he saw the robe, Will thought for a second that it was someone standing there, and his stomach, already tight with unease, lurched. A door led through to another room, dominated by a bed. The bedcover was of an extravagant material and design; plum-colored damask with gold threads woven through it. The fabrics in the rest of the solar were no less sumptuous; the drapery at the windows, the cushions on the couch, a hanging fixed above the hearth, all lent a majestic, sensuous air to rooms that would have otherwise been sparse and plain. A delicate smell of flowers came to Will, and he noticed a bowl filled with dried petals on a table by the couch. No doubt put there by Andreas’s wife. Apart from the papers on the desk, the solar had a woman’s tidiness, a delicate order that was far less austere than the military neatness he was used to. Despite his unease, he found it comforting. He had a memory of his mother arranging flowers in the kitchen of his boyhood home in Scotland, his baby sister, Ysenda, perched on her hip.
Elwen crossed to the window seat. She looked back when Will didn’t follow. “What is it?”
“Can we not go to your room?”
“Not unless you want to share it with a sick maid.” Removing the white coif that covered her hair, Elwen shook free a tumbling mass of copper-gold curls. As she sat and leaned over to slip off her felt shoes, her white linen gown dipped into a V at the neck, offering Will a tantalizing view of the pale skin between her breasts. Sun-bronzed and freckled in the summer months, she was white as marble in winter. “Don’t worry,” she assured him with a smile, lifting her long legs up under her.
“Andreas is at the warehouse?”
Elwen rolled her eyes and patted the cushions beside her.
“And Besina and the girls are at the market?”
“You know they are.” Elwen studied him quizzically. “Why are you so worried all of a sudden? Is it the room?” She looked around. “You’ve been in here before.”
“And I was worried then,” replied Will pointedly. Heading over, he unfastened his black cloak, which concealed the white surcoat he wore beneath. Laying it on the seat, he sat beside her, noticing how sheer her dress became in the sunlight. “It’s risky.”
“It’s been risky since we were sixteen, Will.” Elwen frowned. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing. Honestly,” he added,
as she continued to frown at him, her pale green eyes webbing slightly at the corners. He wanted to reach out and smooth away the lines with his thumb. In them, he saw time passing. “It’s just since the grand master arrived, we’ve all been making sure we do everything by the book. Everyone’s keen to impress him.” Will grinned. “You should see some of the suppers the cooks have prepared. Wild boar baked with apples, saffron rice, sweets spun out of sugar and honey.”
“I thought you were looking a little broader,” Elwen answered dryly. But she smiled. “He is keeping you busy then?”
“Very. That’s why I haven’t been by for so long. I haven’t had time.”
“In truth, neither have I,” said Elwen, sleeking down her dress self-consciously. “I’ve been promoted.”
“Promoted?”
“Since the doge in Venice became one of Andreas’s patrons, the demand for his silks has risen and Tusco has to spend most of his time in Venice at the warehouse or organizing transportation. Andreas is training Niccolò to take over the shipping.”
Will hadn’t met Andreas’s sons, or the rest of family he had heard so much about, apart from Catarina, which had been an accident. He did know, however, that Niccolò was interested in Elwen. She once told him, laughingly, that the young Venetian had come to her room in secret, with flowers and a proposal. Will knew why she had done it: to remind him that she was an attractive woman that he hadn’t claimed for his own yet. It had worked. Now, whenever she mentioned Niccolò, he would feel a tiny bee sting of jealousy that occasionally swelled to plague him long after the initial stab.
