by Robyn Young
Kalawun was silent.
“I do not want Baraka Khan to take my place when I am gone. I have decided that Salamish will be my heir.” Baybars shook his head sourly. “Nizam will hate me for an eternity, but that bed has been cold for years if the truth be told.”
Kalawun found his voice. “My lord, you should think carefully about—”
“He is not fit to rule, Kalawun,” said Baybars flatly. “I’ve known it for a while now, but I think I was still hoping that he would change. He will not. I see that now. There is weakness inside him that I fear will only grow worse with time. If I had been a better father, then maybe . . .” He wiped his forehead, where a sheen of sweat had appeared, and shook his head. “But I wasn’t.”
Kalawun’s mind was whirling. He knew Baybars was right. He had known for a long time that his efforts to influence Baraka weren’t working. It felt as if he had been trying to bail water from a boat that had gone beyond the point of buoyancy and would, inevitably, sink. But Salamish? He was only seven years old, and Kalawun hardly knew him at all. As he was staring at the floor, his thoughts racing, he heard a clanging sound. Baybars had dropped the goblet of kumiz. The goblet tumbled down the steps, splashing droplets of milk and ringing hollowing as it went. Baybars’s hand was stretched out, his face a mask of confusion. Suddenly, he lurched forward, as if pushed by an invisible hand.
“My lord!” Kalawun raced toward the throne. He sprinted up the steps as Baybars collapsed. “Physicians!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Physicians!”
The throne room doors burst open and two Bahri guards appeared. One of them ran into the room; the other left instantly on seeing the sultan on the floor. Kalawun heard his footsteps echoing in the passage.
“What’s wrong with him, Amir?” said the other soldier, running up to crouch beside the sultan.
“I don’t know,” said Kalawun, holding Baybars’s head. The sultan looked as if he were trying desperately to breathe, as if someone or something had wrapped its hands around his throat and were squeezing the air from him. His eyes were wild, panicked in the last of the dim moonlight bleeding through the windows.
Minutes later, a physician arrived, panting and disheveled. He was followed by servants bearing warm water, knives, cloths, drugs. Right away, the physician ordered lanterns to be lit and the throne room flared into light. Kalawun was pushed aside. The sultan was gasping vainly for breath now, a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing uselessly.
“Did he swallow anything?” the physician called to Kalawun.
“Only kumiz,” said Kalawun. “What can I do?”
“Let me work” was all the physician said.
Kalawun moved away and stood by the window, helpless. Outside, the city was bathed in a strange half-light. He felt someone beside him and turned to see Baraka. The prince’s face was horribly bruised and puffy from the beating Baybars had given him. His eyes were locked on the choking, convulsing form of his father.
“Baraka,” said Kalawun, grasping the youth’s arm. “What are you doing here?”
“Is he dead yet?” said Baraka. His voice was distorted from the swelling in his face, but other than that it was eerily calm. Kalawun started at the question. He stared blankly at Baraka, who seemed to realize that he had said something odd. He shook his head. “What happened?”
“Your father collapsed,” said Kalawun, after a long pause.
“Oh,” said Baraka, in that same placid, emotionless tone.
As Baybars writhed beneath the throne, Kalawun’s gaze fixed in dawning, appalled understanding on Baraka Khan.
35
The Temple, Acre 10 JULY A.D. 1277
The streets of Acre rang with laughter and music. Children, dressed in their feast-day clothes, skipped and played, chasing one another be- tween the legs of the adults who stood in groups outside churches talking animatedly, gathered in market squares to sip spiced tea and share gossip, or sang songs of dead emperors inside packed taverns. Strung on hemp lines between buildings, triangles of sun-faded silk flapped and twisted in the oven-hot wind. Masons’ lodges stood empty, shops were shuttered, fires burned low in the forges of smiths. Only in the Muslim quarter did people go about their normal business. For everyone else in the city, it was a holiday. But not a normal feast day, celebrating the life of a saint, or a festival from the Bible. No. Today, the people of Acre were celebrating death.
Baybars Bundukdari, the man who had herded them like sheep to this little strip of coastline, ravaging their numbers, diminishing their power in the Holy Land, was gone.
Rumor had it that he had been poisoned, some said by his own soothsayer, but no one much cared how it had happened. All that mattered was that the greatest threat the Franks had faced since the days of Saladin had died, and his heir, a mere youth of sixteen, was known to be weak-willed and directionless. And so they rejoiced and laughed, told stories and jokes, and, in one square, someone had made an unflattering effigy of the sultan which was thrown onto a hastily constructed pyre to exuberant cheering.
The news of Baybars’s passing had come almost a week ago and was announced by the bailli, Count Roger de San Severino, at an emergency meeting of Acre’s High Court, after which the count had cemented his favorable position in public opinion by declaring a holiday to celebrate the event. The people liked Roger. As did Acre’s oligarchic government. Not for his rule, but for the lack of it.
Following the upheaval of the previous year, Acre had finally settled into its old routines. Business was back to normal, the uneasy peace between the divided quarters had returned, and worry over whether Charles d’Anjou would arrive to upset the balance was starting to dissipate. It was well known that the monarch was too busy struggling to create yet another empire for himself in Byzantium to bother about taking his now established seat in Acre. Some joked that the ambitious king simply had too many thrones and not enough asses to fill them. The people here liked their kings at one remove; the absence of visible rule was what maintained the Crusader capital’s delicate equilibrium. It left the Commune of Burghers, Italian merchant states, masters of the military orders, the patriarch and others all free to rule their little pieces of the city’s pie without too much interference from above, which in turn left Count Roger free to organize jousts and feasts for his noble friends, meaning that, in general, everyone was happy.
Will, standing at the window, looking out over the preceptory, could hear the drunken merrymaking of a group of revelers beyond the Temple’s walls.
“Close the curtains.”
He looked round to see Everard blinking painfully at him. He let go of the drape, which swished back into place with a swirl of glittery dust motes, shutting out the afternoon and throwing the chamber into a depressing dusk. He crossed to the priest, who was lying huddled on his narrow bed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“For some time now,” said Everard with a drawn-out sigh, laying his head back on his pillow as Will sat on a stool beside him. “The singing woke me.” His bloodshot eyes fixed on Will. “Is it for him?” He sighed again at Will’s nod, this time with sadness in his face. “Like scavengers, picking at the bones of a fallen lion. Crowing as if they killed him indeed!” Everard broke from his indignation as a coughing fit took hold.
Will slid a practiced hand under his head as the priest hacked relentlessly, then, with an enormous effort, finally brought up a glob of discolored, bloody phlegm, which he spat into the cloth Will held in front of his mouth.
“You cannot blame them for their joy, Everard,” murmured Will, handing the priest a cup of water, which was brushed away disdainfully. “During Baybars’s campaign against us, many of them lost loved ones, homes, businesses. This is their justice.”
“Justice?” scoffed Everard. “Were the Muslims offered justice when we came here and invaded their lands? Slaughtered their families?”
“I’m only saying ...”
“I know,” murmured the priest, closing his eyes, “I
know.”
“At least now, we have a better chance for peace, sustainable peace. Baraka Khan will take the throne and Kalawun will be able to work more freely with us to renegotiate the treaty and to continue building relations between our people. Baybars’s dying is for the best.”
Everard opened one eye a crack and studied him intently.
“And I’m not saying that for me, or out of any sense of vengeance,” said Will, seeing the look.
“In truth, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. He ordered the execution of your father and kidnapped your beloved. You have your own cause to wish him dead.”
“Maybe once. But now he is gone, I find no pleasure in it.” Will frowned. “I’m not sure why. Perhaps because he kept Elwen alive when he could have killed her? I don’t know. I just feel ...” He shrugged. “I feel nothing.”
“I know why,” said Everard sagely.
Will waited for an answer. For some moments, the priest was silent, his eyes closed, ribs rising and falling erratically beneath the blanket. His skin was almost translucent, and stretched thinly over his face, as if there were not quite enough left to cover him. But he was still holding on with every breath. He had been for over three weeks now, far beyond the point where the Temple’s infirmarer believed any man could live. “He is what?” the infirmarer had said to Will. “Ninety years old? He should have passed long ago. I expect this fever will take him very soon.” But that had been a fortnight ago, and even though the last rites had been said over him three times now, Everard was still clinging grimly to life. Will reached out to lay a hand on his forehead, wondering if the priest had fallen asleep. But then Everard spoke.
“You’ve grown up, William.”
Will smiled a little sardonically. “I’m thirty, Everard. I would hope I had grown up sometime ago.”
“For a knight, yes,” said Everard, nodding, “for a commander in the Temple. But not for one of the Brethren, not fully, or to the extent that I knew you could.” Will started to protest, but Everard spoke over him. “For all the years I have known you, William, you have been ruled by passion. A passion to reacquaint yourself with your father and to atone for sins of the past, passion for a woman, for your friends, for revenge. But a man of the Brethren cannot let himself be ruled by personal desires and battles. He has a greater war to fight, above the petty squabbles and toilings of most other men: a war for the future, beyond the immediacy of a battlefield. It is the hardest war: to change the world for the good, not of himself, of politics or of a nation, but of all. You feel nothing for Baybars’s death because you view it now, not in any personal sense, but as one of the Brethren. Perhaps even more so than I do.”
“I wish I could take your praise, Everard. It’s not exactly often that you offer it. But I cannot.”
“Why?”
Will slipped a hand inside the collar of his white mantle and lifted free a long silver chain. Dangling beside the St. George pendant was a delicate gold ring. “I’m still ruled by passion.”
Everard smiled and shook his head. “No, William. You have passion. And that is very different to being ruled by it.” He shifted in the blanket, coughed a little, then settled. “How is she?”
“You don’t have to ask. I know you don’t approve.”
“Nonsense,” retorted Everard abruptly. “She sent me pomegranates.”
Will laughed despite himself. Returning from Damascus to find Everard ill, he had kept an almost ceaseless vigil at the priest’s bedside, leaving the preceptory only once, to marry Elwen. Andreas had arranged it in secret for them. It had been a brief, simple ceremony, just the two of them and a priest. Afterward, Will had returned to Everard. Since then, he and Elwen had communicated in messages, passed through Simon, and along with her words, Elwen had sent a basket of fruit for Everard. “She is fine. Better than.”
“And she is eating again? She will need to keep up her strength.”
Will leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and put his head in his hands, grinning in amused disbelief.
“What?” demanded Everard.
“I just never imagined that I would one day be sitting with you discussing the eating habits of my wife and our unborn child.”
“Well, in my experience, William,” said Everard with a long, wheezy breath, “nothing in life is ever quite what you expect.” He closed his eyes again. They remained closed this time, and soon his breaths leveled out, growing slower and fainter, until Will was sitting poised on his stool, straining to hear the next one.
An hour later, Will was drifting into sleep, his chin resting in his cupped hand, when Everard’s eyes lids flickered and his desiccated lips cracked apart. “I think Rabbi Elias still has that book I lent him. Would you ask him for it the next time you see him?”
Will stirred. “Of course,” he said groggily.
Everard’s papery brow furrowed questioningly. “I wonder if Hasan will know.”
“Know what?” Will was awake now. “Everard? Know what?”
But although Everard’s mouth hung open, as if to say something else, there were no more words. Will touched the side of his neck and felt the last faint flutters of the vein. Then nothing. Slowly, Will drew his hand away and sat back, staring at Everard’s lifeless form. He was fragile, almost childlike, under the folds of the blanket. Will knew he should get a priest and the infirmarer. But instead he rose and walked over to the window. For a moment, he hesitated to draw back the drapes. Then he pulled them apart, flooding the solar with golden light. When he turned back to Everard, he saw that the old man was bathed in it, his transparent skin seeming to glow from within.
That evening, after Everard’s body had been dressed for burial and prayers said for him at Vespers, Will was called to the seneschal. He had been numb since the death, numb and dazed. But as he climbed the stairs to the seneschal’s chambers, alertness returned to awaken his mind. For years, he had known this day would come, but even though it had always been certain, he was still filled with an ominous sense of trepidation. Now that Everard had gone, another would have to be chosen as head of the Anima Templi. Will had no doubt in his mind of who that other would be, and although he tried to convince himself otherwise, he felt he also knew what this meeting would be about. It was time, he told himself, to face his final punishment for the attempted murder of Baybars and his betrayal of the Brethren.
The seneschal glared at him over the top of a sheet of paper as he entered. Lit from behind by the evening sunlight, he seemed larger than usual, a hulking silhouette of a man, his iron-dark hair cropped close to his square, brutish head. “Sit down,” he said, not bothering with a formal title or greeting.
Will steeled himself, then crossed determinedly to the stool set in front of the table, where he sat, wryly aware of how much lower the seat was than the seneschal’s own chair. He felt like a naughty schoolboy in front of a master, which, he supposed, was just what the seneschal intended. He sighed quietly to himself, wondering why, when so much had passed, the seneschal could not forgive him. He had risked his life to safeguard the Black Stone, had brought the grand master back from the brink of corruption and had stopped a war. What else could he possibly do to make amends in the eyes of this man?
The seneschal said nothing, but continued reading the sheet of paper he had been studying. The silence dragged on, the seconds turning into minutes. Will fidgeted on his stool. Finally, he could bear it no longer. He stood. “Sir, I should like to spend the evening mourning our master and offering prayers for him in chapel, rather than sitting here waiting for you to expel me. So please have done with it so that we can both go about our business.”
The seneschal’s eyes snapped up. “Sit down!” he bellowed, slamming the paper on the table in front of him.
“Sir, I ...”
“You are not being expelled.”
The seneschal had spoken quietly. Will wasn’t sure he had heard him. “Sir?”
“Sit, Campbell,” repeated the seneschal gruffly. He paused for a long moment
as Will sank onto the stool; then, with a rapid exhalation, he spoke. “When you were in Arabia, Brother Everard called a meeting of the Brethren. He knew that he didn’t have long left in this world. He wanted to be there himself to arrange his replacement. The Brethren voted on his recommendation. They agreed with his choice.”
“And?” said Will, shaking his head in confusion.
“And they chose you,” said the seneschal roughly.
“What ... ?”
“They chose you,” repeated the seneschal. “To be the head of the Anima Templi.”
Will felt something nervous and shivery bubble up through him. He realized it was laughter, and he had to fight it back. It turned into a cough. “The Brethren voted for me?”
“Not all of us,” said the seneschal sourly.
Will placed his hands on his thighs, elbows out, and rocked back on the stool. “Why didn’t he tell me?” he murmured.
The seneschal gave a shrug. “Everard was never one for displays of emotion or gratitude. I expect he was too embarrassed to tell you. As well he should have been,” he added beneath his breath.
Will caught the words, but refrained from saying anything. He watched as the seneschal leaned down behind the table and brought out a large, well-worn book, the edges of the pages, sandwiched between the leather-bound boards, frayed with handling. Will recognized it as Everard’s chronicle.
The seneschal passed it over. “He wanted you to have this. He thought you might continue it. Personally, I think you should destroy it. We had a difficult enough time when the Book of the Grail went missing. We cannot afford any such blunders again. But that is my opinion. You’re the head now. It is up to you to do with as you wish.”
“I’ll look through it, then decide.”
The seneschal nodded. It was as much of a sign of reconciliation that he would get right now, Will realized. He nodded in return and headed for the door. Tomorrow, he could think about what this meant, about what would happen next. For now, he wanted to be alone. After shutting the door, he paused before descending the stairs, hugging the large book to his chest. A pungent, animal smell rose from the yellowed sheaves of parchment, which Everard, ever the traditionalist, still favored over paper. Had still favored over paper, Will corrected himself. Had.
