by Robyn Young
“Why their Babylon?” asked Will.
“The Sunni’s control Cairo. Kaysan is a Shia, which probably means his brother is also. Kaysan speaks of the month of Muharram, a significant time for Shias.” Everard frowned thoughtfully. “I would have to do the proper lunar calculations, but I believe Muharram will fall in April next year.”
“So the grand master is working with someone in Cairo to do this?”
Everard inhaled deeply. “We cannot be certain of anything; we have too little information. But one thing we can be sure of is that any chance of peace between ourselves and the Muslims would be shattered irrevocably if such an abhorrent act were to happen. The truce would be utterly destroyed and most likely all that remains of a Christian presence in the Holy Land. Acre would burn and with it the dreams of us all. It cannot happen, William,” he said, his voice changing, becoming stone. “It cannot.”
18
The Citadel, Cairo 26 MAY A.D. 1276
Mahmud’s expression was rigid as he was marched through the palace by four silent Bahri warriors. His turban was damp and slightly lop-sided where he had wound it hastily over his hair, still wet from his afternoon bath. The grim-faced Bahri had refused to answer his questions or tell him where they were taking him. But deep down, he thought he knew. Deep down, a worm of fear uncoiled in his gut.
As he passed into the unforgiving glare of the afternoon, Mahmud saw Baybars standing in the center of the northern enclosure’s courtyard. On his hips, hanging from his ornate black and silver sword belt, were two sabers. With him were two Bahri and fifteen Mamluk governors, all commanders of regiments. Ishandiyar was there, as were Yusuf and Kalawun, and several of Mahmud’s comrades. Only a few of them met his gaze, Kalawun among them. Baybars’s face was a mask. The only emotion showed in his blue eyes. There, the intensity of the anger emanating from his stare was terrifying, the white star in his left pupil seeming to focus all that rage into a single point of fierce brightness.
Mahmud’s eyes flicked to a granite stone that rose like a tombstone out of the dust beside the sultan. He knew that up close the stone would be stained brown, from all the heads that had been severed upon it. And fear squirmed in his insides and rose into his throat, constricting him. He wanted to speak, to cover his fear with indignation and feigned confusion. For a moment, he couldn’t. But then, as the warriors beside him melted away, leaving him standing alone before Baybars and the hushed company of governors, he found his voice. “My Lord Sultan?”
“Do not call me that.” Baybars’s voice was whip-sharp. “I am not he.”
Mahmud faltered. “My lord?”
“I cannot be he. The man you pledged your allegiance to in the sight of God. To you I am not lord, or sultan. To you I am ... what? A simple fool? A child? Someone you think to beguile, someone witless, artless?”
“No, my lord, I ...”
“Why have you betrayed me, Mahmud? I have heard it from my son’s mouth. Now I want to hear it from yours. Why did you send the order to attack Kabul in my name? Why did you corrupt my son?”
“I do not understand,” Mahmud repeated, hesitant.
Immediately, Baybars gestured at two of the Bahri. “Bring him,” he barked.
Mahmud cried out as the warriors grabbed hold of his arms and marched him toward the stone. As he was forced to his knees and his head was pushed roughly onto the cold granite, he cried out again. “I am not the only one of your people who wants to see your eye turned first to the Christians! There have been others who have spoken against you, who to your face have smiled and agreed with your plans for the Mongols, but who in private have questioned your judgment.”
The governors shifted uncomfortably, their eyes lowering as Baybars turned his violent gaze on them.
“But I have never hidden my mind from you!” Mahmud continued in a rush. “You have always known what I thought.” He swiveled his eyes upward to look at Baybars, the palm of one of the Bahri still pressed firmly to his head, holding him down on the stone. “Surely that is worth some scrap of mercy, my lord?”
“I see a serpent,” murmured Baybars, “a serpent who has slithered its way into my house, wrapping its coils around those close to me, those less cunning than itself.”
“That was not the way of it!”
Baybars continued as if Mahmud hadn’t spoken. “I see a creature whose poison has infected my family, whose flicking tongue whispers untruths. I see my betrayer. And like the serpent you are, Mahmud, you will crawl on your belly from this day forth.” Baybars issued a command to the Bahri warrior holding Mahmud’s head, who now released him and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. The other warrior took his arm and forced Mahmud’s hand, palm down, on the stone.
“My lord! I beg you!” shouted Mahmud, as a third Bahri came into view. The gold-cloaked warrior held an axe.
“Wait,” snapped Baybars as the warrior walked toward the stone.
Mahmud looked imploringly up at the sultan. Then, all hope faded as Baybars took the weapon and turned his pitiless blue eyes on him.
“I will do it.”
Mahmud screamed as Baybars raised the axe and brought it down in a furious arc. The blade cut through the wrist, through flesh and bone, to ring like a harsh bell on the stone beneath. Mahmud screamed again, this time a strangled shriek. He arched back against the soldiers holding him, blood spurting over his yellow cloak and the dust around him. His severed hand lay on the stone, pale and obscene like a bloated spider.
But Mahmud’s ordeal was only just beginning.
He was almost delirious by the time Baybars hacked his other hand from his body.
“Now his feet,” said Baybars grimly. His blood-spattered hands were white-knuckled, gripping the axe’s shaft. As the two Bahri let Mahmud slump to the floor and placed one of his legs awkwardly on the stone, holding the ankle joint flat, Baybars looked at the governors. Most of them were looking elsewhere, at the ground, the sky, anywhere but at the squirming, bloodied thing over by the stone that had once been a man, a comrade. “You will watch this,” Baybars commanded them. “Too long have my own people whispered in secret against me, against my rule and my decisions. You will see with your own eyes the price of such betrayal.” Baybars waited until their gazes were turned to him, then raised the blade. He was breathing hard and sweat had broken out across his brow. “This mutiny stops now, or by Allah this will be the fate of you all!”
The axe fell again.
Baraka was sitting slumped against his chamber’s door when he heard the screams. They were faint, yet so piercing that they jolted him from his torpor. He struggled to his feet and went to the window. They sounded as if they had come from somewhere near the northern enclosure. He wondered at their source and trembled as he thought of his father’s murderous rage. His face was throbbing, the skin taut over his eye, sticky with blood. His reflection in the mirror on his table stared up at him, distorted. He hardly looked like himself. His father’s fists had reshaped his face. You’re not his son anymore.
Baraka reached numbly for the basin of water that stood beside the mirror, then stopped. There was something gratifying about keeping the injuries unwashed and undressed, something defiant, accusatory. But the pain in his face was hot and intense. It galvanized him. After listening at the door, he opened it. There was no sign of Aisha. Her words blasted into his mind again. Gingerly, he touched his lip, where her nails had torn his skin. As the cuts stung, he felt the liquid fear that swirled in his belly harden into anger, like wax when the air hits it. How dare she spy on him? Threaten him! She was his wife! She should obey him. Instead, she had informed on him to her father, telling Kalawun she had seen him with Mahmud and Khadir that day; for how else would Kalawun have known of the soothsayer’s involvement? It didn’t matter to him: he had admitted the deed to his father, as had been the plan, and either way he would have been beaten. What Aisha had told her father only mattered to Khadir and Mahmud. But it was the fact that she had betrayed him that galled him. That a
nd her threats about the slave girl. How he hated that she had watched him in his most private moment. How he now burned with the shame of that secret, opened like a wound.
For months, his mother had begged him to see Aisha, imploring him to overlook whatever flaws he saw in the girl for the sake of his position. He needed an heir, she told him. But he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. Aisha scared him. She always had. The night of their marriage simply compounded those fears. She made him feel like a failure. But yet he was left curious after the event. Aisha’s body, smooth and scented, revealed to him that one night had plagued his mind, even as the girl herself repelled him. He had known some of the eunuchs in the harem palace since he was an infant, and it wasn’t hard to bribe one of them. With the slave girl, he was the one in control, the one who held the power, and his impotence had vanished in the face of her terror. But now that control had gone. Aisha knew what he had been doing. And if his father found out that he had defiled his harem? Well, these bruises would feel like kisses in comparison.
Shutting the door behind him, Baraka moved along the marble corridors, making his way down into the lower levels, where the air was warm from the kitchens and the rooms, mostly servants’ quarters and stores, became smaller and darker. No one stopped him or asked him where he was going. No one dared. He was heir to the throne of Egypt and Syria, above them all in rank and status. Too often he had forgotten that, cowed by his father’s harsh words and strict discipline. Too long now, had he let himself be broken down.
Shortly, Baraka came to a cobwebbed storeroom, near to the kitchens, where behind several sacks of corn, stacked one upon the other, he found Khadir. The soothsayer had set up home in a space between the sacks and the wall. There was a pile of soiled blankets, tarnished goblets, a bucket encrusted with some foul matter and, placed along a rotten timber beam, an array of bizarre objects. A pile of dried rushes had been woven into some kind of nest beside a collection of tiny skulls. There were smooth round stones with holes in them; little jars of colored substances—red, brown, black and gold—that looked like spices; several coins—sequins, florins and bezants; a few tattered parchments and the flaky, mottled skin of a snake. An oil lamp smoked in one corner of the den and gave off a pallid glow, casting more shadows than it dispelled, and the whole place stank of mice and sweat.
Khadir was sitting cross-legged on the blankets, his gray robe rucked up over his knees, exposing his scrawny legs, marked with weeping red sores, possibly from insect bites or some disease of the flesh. He was rocking back and forth, his white eyes staring. He looked like a frightened child, not an ancient Assassin.
“Khadir,” said Baraka, when the soothsayer didn’t acknowledge his presence. He squeezed through the tight gap in the sacks. Although Baybars had given Khadir a lavish property of his own years before, he rarely used it and could more often than not be found in this warm recess beneath the throne room. “Khadir?”
The soothsayer’s gaze swiveled to Baraka. He carried on rocking.
Baraka crouched down before him. Seeing the old man like this made him feel oddly grown up. “What is it?”
“Do you hear the screams?” murmured Khadir.
Baraka frowned. “Screams?” He understood the reference after a moment and nodded. “I heard something earlier.”
“Your father takes his revenge personally. Mahmud is no more. He has been sliced up like fruit and thrown into the dungeon. I expect he has bled his last now, down in that darkness.”
Baraka paled as his mind turned the words into pictures. He felt nothing for Mahmud, but he was sickened by the thought that such a fate might have been his if Kalawun hadn’t intervened.
“It is your fault.”
“What?” Baraka rose as Khadir glared at him balefully. “How was it my fault?”
“It was Khadir, Father! Khadir and Mahmud! They made me do it! They made me!”
Baraka cringed at the hideous mimicry of his own voice. “They knew anyway,” he responded quickly, though he was unable to meet Khadir’s accusing stare. “Aisha told my father.”
Khadir’s eyes narrowed. He was on his feet in an instant. “And how did she find out?” he demanded, hooking a bony finger cruelly under Baraka’s chin. “Did you tell her? Did you?”
Baraka pushed Khadir’s hand away. “No,” he said forcefully, taking the soothsayer by surprise with the challenge in his tone. “The day we met in the tower to discuss our plan, she saw us leave. I confronted her, but she must have told her father. That was how Kalawun knew you were involved. If he hadn’t known, I would have kept quiet. I would have taken the beating for you. But it was pointless to deny it. Kalawun knew.”
The soothsayer wheeled away. “Kalawun,” he spat viciously. “How cunningly that spider weaves his webs. I underestimated him and his hold on our master. My plan should have worked!” He dropped to the blankets and drew his knees up to his chest. “All the signs were right,” he murmured. “It should have worked. Now we have nothing but our master’s mistrust.” Putting his filthy hands over his eyes, he breathed words. “I am sorry, my master. Your servant is sorry.”
Disgusted, Baraka grabbed one of Khadir’s arms and wrenched his hand away from his face with a force that caused the soothsayer to shriek. “You forget, Khadir, that my father isn’t the only sultan. I am his heir, and when he dies, I will take his place. I have just as much authority, or I will soon. Then your place will be at my side, as you said before.” Khadir’s wide eyes focused on the youth’s bruised and brazen face. “Soon,” continued Baraka, “he will have forgotten his rage. All we need do is keep out of his way. Then things will go back to how they were.”
Khadir reached out and touched Baraka’s cheek. “You are wounded, my prince.”
“That is why I came. I need you to make me a poultice.”
“I will need cloth and warm water.”
“I can have the servants fetch those,” said Baraka, as Khadir turned to his shelf and began selecting jars from the collection arrayed there. Baraka’s mouth felt dry and there was a churning in the pit of his stomach. He went to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. He licked his swollen lips, tasted blood and tried again. “I also came because I want you to do something else.” He watched Khadir set the jars on the floor.
“What is it, my prince?” muttered the soothsayer distractedly.
“I want you to make a poison for Aisha.”
Khadir’s head snapped round. “What?”
Baraka’s voice was still low, but now it was firmer. It hadn’t been so bad, saying the words. In fact, it had been easy. “It is her fault Kalawun found out about you and Mahmud. Don’t you want her to pay?”
“She is your wife.”
“In name alone. I feel nothing for her.”
“What has she done, Baraka, to deserve such a punishment? Surely you cannot want her to die just because of the trouble she has caused for me, for Mahmud? Her telling Kalawun did not affect you. And besides, it is not the girl who deserves our wrath; it is that interfering wretch of a father.” Khadir clenched his fists. “He is the one who should die!”
“And don’t you think he will, in spirit at least, if his daughter dies?” Baraka shook his head. “You do not need to know my reasons and I do not need to tell you. All I need from you is your help, the kind of help a faithful servant would willingly give his master.”
Khadir sat back on his haunches at Baraka’s words, a strange expression upon his wizened face, almost a smile. After a pause, he reached into the folds of his blankets and drew out the ragged doll he had once shown Baraka, the doll Baybars had given to him at the fall of Antioch. He held it close, stroking its dirty face.
“Didn’t you hear me?” demanded Baraka impatiently. “What is your answer?”
Khadir immediately put a finger to the boy’s lips and made a shushing sound. Baraka drew back, but Khadir moved away and sat. Carefully, he pushed up the doll’s torn and faded dress, exposing her gray, lumpy stomach. Like her back, into whic
h Khadir had once inserted an animal’s heart, her front had been cut open and sewn back together. There was a stench about her; decayed flesh and spices. Laying her lovingly across his knee, Khadir took the ends of her silk stitches and began to untie them, opening her up. With his forefingers he prised apart her insides. In the hole was nestled a black glass phial.
“What is it?” murmured Baraka, frowning.
Khadir delved in and withdrew the tiny phial. His eyes fixed on Baraka’s. “How quickly the cub becomes a lion,” he whispered.
“What does that mean?” asked Baraka sharply, suspecting some offense.
As Khadir passed it across the oil lamp, Baraka saw that the phial was filled with liquid. “It means you are right,” said the soothsayer.
It was late afternoon, just before salat, when one of the eunuchs from the harem kitchen came to Aisha’s room with a tray of food and a goblet of warm, black tea. She turned over on her bed to face the wall as the eunuch entered and set the tray on the floor; she guessed that Fatima had ordered it to be sent. Earlier on, she’d excused herself, complaining that she was feeling unwell. Fatima, who was Baybar’s second wife, wanted the physicians to check her, but Aisha convinced her it wasn’t serious. She just wanted to sleep and be left alone.
Since confronting Baraka, she had wrestled with what to do. Part of her had wanted to rush into Nizam’s room and tell her what she had witnessed with the slave girl, but Nizam would protect her son. She guessed the best person to tell would be her father, but she was mortified by the thought of repeating to him what she had seen. Now she just wanted the whole sordid thing forgotten. At least if Baraka was seeing slave girls, she wouldn’t have to be the one to go to his bed. She despised him so much that even Nizam’s wrath seemed bearable when faced with the alternative. No. She would leave it be.
As the eunuch’s footsteps faded and the door closed, Aisha rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. Her monkey crawled out from under the cover, where he had been curled asleep. The food smelled good. Slipping off the bed, she sat cross-legged and took a handful of yellow, spiced rice, mixed up with raisins and apricots. Her stomach growled appreciatively. She smiled as the monkey climbed onto her shoulder, his tail brushing her cheek, and she handed him a few grains of rice, which he chewed thoughtfully. Aisha ate a little more herself, then reached for the goblet. The rice was salty and made her thirsty. She took a sip, then another. The tea was dark and heavily-spiced. It tasted a little pungent, but she finished it all the same.
