by Robyn Young
Baraka was irritated at being spoken of as if he weren’t there, but he held his tongue, impatient to know what the two men were talking about.
“Amir Mahmud has agreed to assist us,” said Khadir, turning to Baraka. “He too sees our master has lost his way.”
“I will help you,” said Mahmud to Baraka, “but my part in this is to be kept secret. Do you understand?”
“Of course he understands,” hissed Khadir. “He is not a child. He will one day be your sultan!”
Baraka’s cheeks reddened again, this time with pride. Emboldened, he looked Mahmud in the eye. “I think what Khadir is saying is that I am deserving of a little more respect, Amir.”
“My sincere apologies, my prince,” murmured Mahmud, shooting a black look at Khadir.
“Your impudence is forgiven,” said Baraka, the sudden authority giving him a strange thrill of pleasure. He wanted to say more, perhaps make the governor kneel, but Khadir started speaking before he could.
“In Palestine, close to the city of Acre, lies a village, my prince,” said the soothsayer. “There are Frankish spies there. They trail our soldiers and notify the infidel leaders in Acre of their movements.”
Baraka shrugged carelessly. “It happens all the time. We have spies and emissaries in Acre who report the Christians’ doings to us, don’t we?”
“We have,” said Khadir, nodding keenly. “We have indeed.”
“Your father has been given a report of this,” said Mahmud, interrupting Khadir. “But he refuses to deal with the matter, saying he wishes to concentrate on his plans for Anatolia before he makes any move against the Christians. Under the peace agreement, we agreed to let the Franks keep what possessions they still owned. This village is under that agreement. To attack it would be an act of war.” Mahmud’s face twitched with impatience at Baraka’s blank expression. “If their village was sacked, the Franks would be forced to retaliate.”
“Not just sacked,” Khadir corrected Mahmud, “it must be enough to fire the Christians into a holy rage. It must be a massacre.” He said the word tenderly, as if it were the name of a loved one. “Their men must be butchered, their women defiled and their children enslaved. We must provoke them.”
Realization dawned across Baraka’s face, but he shook his head. “The Christians won’t attack us whatever we do to them. They cannot. Their forces are nothing compared to ours. Even if you could get my father to storm the village, it wouldn’t start a war.”
“Clever boy,” said Khadir, grinning at him. “You are right. But we do not expect the Christians to attack us. We expect them to react in kind. An eye for an eye,” he chuckled. “That is what they’ll want.”
“They will most likely turn on our own emissaries in Acre,” Mahmud explained to Baraka, “behind their walls where we cannot go. They will demand some form of compensation from Baybars, probably the release of Christian prisoners, maybe even the return of territory, and will use our people as hostages for their demands. The sultan will refuse and the Christians, in their arrogance and rage, will most likely kill our men.”
“How can you be sure my father will refuse?”
“Rarely has he given way to any of their demands in the past,” answered Mahmud before Khadir could speak. “And he will be even less likely to if the attack on the village was not of his doing. For he will not order the attack himself. He has already made it plain he won’t do this. We have to arrange it for him.”
“But only my father or one of his amirs can ...” Baraka frowned at Mahmud. “You will order the attack?”
“No,” said Mahmud quickly. “As I said, my part is to be kept secret.”
“Our soldiers will think our master has ordered it,” said Khadir. “A message will be sent in Baybars’s name, with his seal stamped upon it.” His white eyes fixed on Mahmud. “You will make sure of it?”
“It will be done tonight.”
Khadir clapped his hands gleefully. “We will make the crossbow fly!” He looked at Baraka. “And you will drive the bolt home.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the sultan hears that an order was sent in his name, using his seal, he will demand an investigation,” said Mahmud calmly. “Neither Khadir nor myself can be found to be involved. In all likelihood we would be imprisoned, or executed.”
“You must tell him you did it,” said Khadir, heading to Baraka.
Baraka was flooded with fear at the mere thought of it. “I couldn’t! He would be so angry!”
“You will explain your reasons,” said Khadir softly, insistently. “You will tell him how you have been studying well, learning all that you can about his victories over the Franks. You will tell him how you heard reports of the spies and wanted to help. You will say you knew he was burdened by other matters and that you wanted to aid him, that you wanted to show him you are no longer a little boy.”
“I couldn’t,” repeated Baraka. His eyes drifted toward the tower’s entrance, beyond the line of trees to the grate that led down into the dungeon. “I couldn’t.”
“Then he’ll never take notice of you!” snapped Khadir, making Baraka start. His tone softened. “I have seen it. If you do not do this, he will never take you into his trust, and when you become sultan, not a man here will respect or follow you.”
Baraka swallowed dryly at these words, so similar to words his own mind had mocked and troubled him with. “I ...”
“You are his heir,” said Mahmud firmly. “Only you would be able to bear his anger without retribution. It is the only way. When the Christians retaliate for the attack, after Baybars refuses their demands, the sultan will be forced to move against them. I and other governors here will make certain of that. Whilst the Franks cause us no trouble, the sultan can forget them, but when that balance shifts, he and others of his government will no longer be able to use the excuse that the Franks pose no threat to placate the rest of us. Surely you must see this is the best way?” Mahmud’s tone was incisive. “Khadir told me you understood the need to remove the infidel from our lands.”
Baraka stared at the two men, two sets of eyes, one white, one dark, boring into him. He felt himself grow small beneath their adult gaze, felt his newfound power slipping. We knew you didn’t have the courage to do this, their faces said. You are just a child after all. “I do understand,” he told them in a rush, desperate to cling to that vanishing authority, frantic for their favor. “I’ll do it.”
Mahmud studied him, then nodded, satisfied. He turned to Khadir. “I will prepare the order to attack.”
As Mahmud left through the archway, Khadir smiled at Baraka. “You have made an ally today. A powerful ally. But you must faithfully keep your silence, until the time is right.”
“When will I know the time is right?”
“When we are at war with the Christians,” answered Khadir with a chuckle. He grew solemn. “I will guide you. For now, we shall wait and see what fruits all our little trees bear for us.” He smiled as Baraka frowned in incomprehension, and put a finger to his lips. “All in good, good time.”
Aisha flitted like a shadow through the corridors, bowing her head until her chin almost touched her drab robe as she passed Mamluk guards in their bright cloaks, officials, governors and slaves. She clutched a wooden pail, surreptitiously placing her palm over it whenever the bundle of cloth inside began to squirm. Some of the guards’ eyes followed her, but no one called out, demanding to know what she was doing, and she made it to the quieter areas of the citadel unhindered.
Here, the solitude was a balm after the constant noise of the harem. Heading through passages cut through the outer walls, intersected by towers, Aisha came to a small recess, a guard post or a disused food store she had thought when she first found it. Crouching in the cool gloom, she set the pail down and gently unfolded the bundle. A tiny, wrinkled brown face looked up at her accusingly as the cloth fell away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, letting the monkey climb her arm to her shoulder, where it perched a
nd shrieked softly until she gave it a fig.
Sitting with her back to the wall, Aisha felt herself relax as she watched the monkey eat. She still hadn’t given him a name. It had bothered her for a time, as if it might mean that he didn’t belong with her or that she didn’t really know him. But now she liked his namelessness. It gave him autonomy. He was his own free self and didn’t need a mark of ownership. The monkey made a warbling noise and she stroked his head. The earthquake had made him anxious. To her mother-in-law Nizam’s deep disgust, Aisha had kept him in her bed last night.
“You share a bed with my son,” Nizam had snapped, when she had seen the monkey crawling out from under the covers that morning, “not vermin!”
When she had first moved into the royal harem shortly after her marriage to Baraka, leaving her mother and the quiet harem that belonged to her father, Aisha had been grateful to Nizam. Baraka’s mother, an imperiously statuesque woman with sleek black hair and fierce eyes, ruled the harem and had taken Aisha into her care in the palace, where more than one hundred women lived together, some wives and concubines, most of them slaves. It was a place of rumors and vicious intrigue, where cliques and factions reigned and where, Aisha discovered through the gossiping of the younger girls, murders were not uncommon. The sultan’s four wives had personal food tasters to guard against poison. Baybars was not a particularly amorous sultan and many of the girls, gifts from various princes and governors who wanted to impress or please their ruler, had never even seen his bed. Competition for his affections between the wives and those women who wanted to elevate their status, perhaps becoming a favorite lover, even a wife when one of the four died, was brutal.
At first, Aisha, in a high position as wife of the future sultan, who was too young to have his own harem, elicited suspicious resentment from the younger women. She wore the most beautiful gowns made by the slaves, as instructed by Nizam. She was given two black eunuchs who were responsible for her daily needs: escorting her to the communal baths, fetching food and drinks and sweets whenever she desired. She was bathed and massaged daily by female slaves, as ordered by Nizam; her body hair, which had only recently started to appear and had caused her enormous embarrassment, was removed, painfully, with tweezers, and her skin was pumiced until it glowed. The attention made her feel awkward initially. She giggled uncontrollably during massages and protested vocally through the long plucking sessions. But eventually it had just grown tedious, and now it was simply excruciating.
Nizam had taken to overseeing her grooming, telling the slaves to use more soap, which stung her eyes, and to brush her hair until her scalp was raw. Since her wedding day, Aisha had been in Baraka’s bed only once, and she was well aware Nizam thought it her fault her sweet little son hadn’t summoned her again. The only blessing was that since she was no longer Nizam’s favorite, a few of the other girls had warmed to her. Only these blossoming friendships, her monkey and some of the lessons, namely poetry and dancing—she hated embroidery—kept her from despair. That and the private walks she took when Nizam was busy, managing to escape through a loose grille in one of the bath-houses.
Sometimes, she thought she might venture farther: leave the citadel, go down into the city. But she would be in such trouble if she were caught, and would bring such disgrace down upon her father, that she hadn’t dared to. She was also terrified of the chief eunuch, a colossal Nubian with ebony skin responsible for punishing the girls, by the whip or by execution, depending on the severity of the crime. Most of the male slaves were slow and stupid, castration causing their voices to be as high as a girl’s, their chins to be beardless and their bodies to grow flabby and lethargic. Aisha found them utterly intriguing and viscerally repulsive. They were not men, or women. In some ways they weren’t even people, just things that had been made, out of butter or soap, or something else soft and malleable that did what it was told. The chief eunuch was another matter. Perhaps his position gave him greater occasion to exercise his mind, or maybe his castration had been different—Aisha didn’t know. But he was quick and dangerous as a snake, and woebetide any girl who angered or insulted him.
Aisha rested her head against the wall, relishing the sense of freedom the silence gave her. At first she had been grateful when Baraka hadn’t called her back to his chambers, but recently she had found herself wondering why he hadn’t summoned her. Admittedly, the wedding night had been an ordeal that she didn’t think either of them would want to repeat, but she didn’t think that was her fault.
She had gone to him dressed in a gown of the barest silk, her face painted, jewels and gold clustering at her neck and wrists, leaving a trail of perfume behind her. She had been told what to do by Nizam and the women, and although her heart was thumping and her hands were clumsy and trembling, she tried. Baraka sat there for what seemed an age after she entered, not saying a word, pale-faced and sullen. They perched, side by side, on the foot of the bed, which was strewn with petals, in a silence so unbearable that Aisha finally turned to kiss him in desperation. Their teeth banged together as they opened their mouths, and she fought off an urge to giggle. The feel of his tongue in her mouth was strange, like a wet, wiggling fish, slimy and unpleasant. There was a brief moment of inept fumbling on his part, until, frustrated by his awkwardness, she lay back on the bed and pulled him onto her. He had lain torpidly on top of her for several long minutes, before finally rolling off and striding from the room, slamming the door behind him.
Aisha sighed and opened her eyes, wondering if she should send Baraka a message. They could just talk. Nizam wouldn’t know that they were just talking; she would be pleased, would stop crowding her. Maybe Baraka wanted a friend more than he wanted a wife? If it meant she could regularly escape the harem without fear of being caught, she could force herself to like him. She stiffened, hearing footsteps coming out of the gloom toward her. Holding the monkey’s leash tight in her fingers, she slid into the shadows, pulling her knees to her chest. The footsteps grew louder. Aisha froze, willing herself to become one with the darkness, as a tall figure swept past. He wore the uniform of a commander. She recognized him from her wedding day. Aisha loosened her hold on the monkey’s leash as the footsteps faded. She was about to move, when she heard another noise, this one, a soft pad, pad. She’d barely had time to register it before another man passed by. This one she knew by name, and reputation. Her breath caught in her throat as Khadir sloped past the recess, eyes glinting in the blue-gray light slanting through an arrow slit farther down.
Aisha waited a few moments, then rose to her feet and grabbed the pail. The passage had always been deserted, and she didn’t know why the two men had come through it, but she obviously couldn’t risk staying any longer. She was about to slip out, when she heard yet more footfalls, these ones heavy, stamping. Aisha recoiled against the wall of the recess, but, in doing so, she trapped the monkey’s tail. He let out a high-pitched cry. The footfalls stopped. Aisha stood stock-still, holding the leash as firmly as she could as the monkey scrabbled angrily at her shoulder. The footsteps came closer, slowly now. She wanted to run, but was too scared to move. The owner of the footsteps appeared. Aisha, who half-expected the chief eunuch, Baybars or Nizam to emerge, let out a small gasp of relief as she saw Baraka. The prince, for his part, looked more terrified than she did, his dark eyes widening under his thick fringe of curly hair. For a few seconds, they stared at each other.
Then, Aisha managed to summon a smile. “Hello.”
Baraka’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What are you doing here?”
“I went for a walk. Your mother knows I’m here,” she added, then cursed herself for being so stupid; he only had to ask Nizam to find out it wasn’t true. He appeared even more suspicious now. She started to feel annoyance bubbling up inside her just looking at his brooding face. “What are you doing here?” she retorted.
“None of your business.”
Aisha heard a note of fear in his voice. “Were you with Khadir?” she asked, intrigued as to what
had worried him.
“Why? What did you hear?” he demanded, coming toward her.
“What ... ?”
Baraka grabbed hold of Aisha’s arm. “What did you hear?”
“Let go of me!” Aisha struggled to free herself from his painful grip. The monkey screeched and darted from her shoulder, the leash slipping through her fingers into air. “I didn’t hear anything!” she shouted at Baraka, as the monkey raced out of the recess and away down the corridor. “Let me go!”
Baraka held her a few seconds longer, his fingers pinching cruelly into her skin. Then he released her and turned away.
Aisha glared after him, rubbing her arm, which would be bruised tomorrow. “Foolish boy,” she said beneath her breath.
Baraka whipped around and slapped her across the face, putting all his strength behind it.
Aisha stumbled into the wall with the shocking force of it and stayed there, unable to do anything but clutch her cheek and stare, unable even to stop the tears welling and falling. The small smile that curled up the corners of Baraka’s mouth as he saw them hurt her even more than the slap, hurt her deep down inside like a knife turning. Baraka walked out of the recess, leaving her alone.
Kalawun headed through the palace corridors, sifting through the papers he held. He greeted a man he passed by. “Amir Kamal, have you seen the sultan this afternoon?”
“He is visiting the al-Azhar mosque,” replied the governor. “He was worried that yesterday’s earthquake had damaged it.”
“Then I will find him on his return. Thank you.” Kalawun paused in the passage as the amir moved off, looking at the papers. The scouts in Cilicia had sent a fresh report that he was impatient to discuss with Baybars. The reports from the borders were good. It was timely news. The balance of power within the court was still unstable following the fraught war council. The sooner the Anatolian campaign was under way, the sooner the more rebellious governors would be compelled to fall in line. But if Baybars was at the mosque, he might be gone for some time.
