by Robyn Young
“We may not even need your men if this keeps up,” murmured Kalawun.
Angelo’s smile widened, the cloth that covered half his face stretching to reveal the riddle of scars beneath. “I may not be a general, my lord, but even I can see that it would take weeks to bring down those walls. With my help, you will take Tripoli in a day.” He cocked his head. “I presume our deal still holds true?” Kalawun said nothing and Angelo’s smile dropped away. “My lord? We had a contract.” He flung a gloved hand east toward a line of scrubby hills. “I have forty wagons waiting to take slaves into Mongolia. I have arranged a buyer for them. Will you now renege on your promise?”
“No,” said Kalawun. He had to force the words out. “Our deal is done.” His gaze swept to Dawud. “I have a meeting with two of my governors, Amir. I will be in my tent. Have one of your men alert me when the signal comes.” He headed for the red and gold pavilion, which rose majestically above the rest of the camp.
Khalil followed him. “My lord.”
Kalawun didn’t look at him. “What is it?”
“Father, wait.” Khalil put his hand on Kalawun’s arm as he entered the pavilion. “Please.”
Kalawun stopped.
“I wanted to say,” began Khalil. He looked away, then back at Kalawun. “I am proud of you,” he finished. When Kalawun said nothing, he bowed. “I will take my place and await the signal.”
“Be careful, Khalil,” said Kalawun suddenly, planting a hand on his son’s shoulder. He was about to say something further when he caught sight of three Mamluks standing at the foot of the royal dais. A fourth man was pinned between two of them, held by the upper arms. His nose was bloodied. Kalawun drew in a sharp breath.
“What is it, Father?” said Khalil, frowning at the prisoner.
Kalawun found his voice. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Go to your place.” Leaving his son, he moved to the soldiers and their captive. “What is this?” he asked, forcing his gaze from the prisoner.
“My Lord Sultan,” said the third Mamluk with a deep bow. He held a pack and a belt, from which hung a short sword. “We are here to see Amir Kamal. We were told that he would be meeting with you shortly.” He looked at the captive. “We were patrolling the perimeter when we caught this man trying to enter our camp. He pretended to be one of us, but when asked he could not give the name of his superior. We think he is a spy, perhaps from the city. We have brought him to Amir Kamal for interrogation.”
Kalawun paused, then strode toward the entrance to his private quarters. “Bring him.”
The soldiers looked at one another uncertainly, but not daring to question the sultan, they hauled the prisoner after him.
Kalawun passed through an opening in the thick cloth. Several eunuchs were busy arranging the interior for his afternoon meal. He pointed to a couch. “Put him there.”
The soldiers pushed the captive roughly down. “Shall we restrain him, my lord?” asked one.
“There is no need.” Kalawun didn’t take his eyes off the man. “Leave me. I will question him myself.”
The soldiers bowed tentatively and backed away.
“And you,” said Kalawun to the eunuchs and the third soldier, still carrying the prisoner’s sword and pack. “Leave his things and go.” He waited until they had left, then his face, which until now had been an expressionless mask, hardened. “Why did you come here?”
Will rose from the couch. “To stop you from making a terrible mistake. You have to call off this siege, my lord. Now.”
Kalawun gave a bark of cold laughter. “Call off the siege?” His eyes narrowed. “And why should I when your people plot against me!” He raised his fist at Will. “Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you tell me the Genoese were planning to attack Alexandria?”
“Because they weren’t, my lord,” replied Will roughly, wiping his bloodied nose. “Whatever Angelo told you was a lie.”
“I know of no Angelo.”
“Benito di Ottavio. That’s what he is calling himself now. His real name is Angelo Vitturi. We thought he was dead, killed years ago on the grand master’s orders. My lord,” said Will, thrusting a hand toward the city beyond the tent, where the muffled thuds of the stones could be heard. “The man whose lies have brought you here is the very same man who was responsible for the attempted theft of the Black Stone.”
“No,” said Kalawun adamantly, “that isn’t possible. No,” he repeated loudly, holding up his hand as Will went to speak. “It wasn’t just his word. I would not have come here on that alone. What do you take me for? I had reports! Reports that the Genoese were building a fleet, reports that suggested Tripoli was planning a war. My generals did not doubt it!” He walked away, shaking his head.
“Your generals didn’t want to doubt it,” answered Will sharply. He followed Kalawun, moving a little stiffly. His injured leg still gave him pain, particularly when he rode for any length of time. The side of his knee was twisted where the bone had fractured, and scars made knobbly patterns across it. “Those reports? Could they have been faked?”
“What are you saying?” Kalawun faced him.
“You always knew there was a traitor in your midst. The man who wrote the coded letter to Kaysan? You never found out who he was.”
“It was Khadir,” snapped Kalawun, “I’m certain of it. He was once an Assassin, a Shia. He wanted the Christians gone from these lands. It was him.”
“There was never any proof. You told me that yourself. You said—”
“Why didn’t you come sooner?” Kalawun cut across him. “Why didn’t you warn me that this Benito, or whoever he is, was lying? Why did his own people send him to me?”
“They didn’t know he would do this. The Venetian consul agreed he should approach you last autumn to ask you to intervene in the conflict over Tripoli. Not with military action, but as an impartial negotiator. I was sent in this party, but I never made it to Cairo. Angelo tried to kill me. My life was saved, but I was wounded and it was weeks before I was able to follow.” Kalawun was quiet, listening. “When I arrived in Cairo,” continued Will, “I found that you had led your army into Palestine. I discovered through one of the citadel’s servants that you were headed for Tripoli, and I sold what little I had on me in return for passage in a trade caravan traveling to Damascus. When I made it back to Acre, the grand master sent an envoy to Tripoli to warn them of your approach and sent a delegation to you in the hope of entering into negotiations. But the rulers of Tripoli wouldn’t believe him and you wouldn’t agree to see his man.” Will watched Kalawun turn away. “We tried to stop this, my lord, believe me. But it seemed that ...” He frowned. “It seemed you wanted this.”
“I didn’t want it,” replied Kalawun, looking back at him. “My men ...” He lifted a hand, then let it fall. “They needed this. I have held their reins too tightly for too long. Sooner or later, they would have turned on me. Sometimes, Campbell, I think we were born in the wrong time. I am no longer sure that peace between our faiths can ever work. You and I, we have given up so much for this cause and yet it seems we have hardly changed a thing. My own son ...” Kalawun exhaled wearily. “My own son wants the Franks gone.”
“It has to work,” answered Will. “Or this conflict will go on, and a thousand years from now both our peoples will still be dying. Stop the assault, my lord. Call your forces back. This battle threatens to destroy what we have given up so much for.”
“I cannot. They are committed. I have lost men to this battle. If I call them back now, I might lose my position.”
“And the people inside?” demanded Will. “What will they lose?”
Kalawun looked up as a blare of horns rose. “The signal.” Snatching up Will’s sword belt, he handed it to him. “Put this on,” he added, passing him a helmet.
Strapping his falchion around his waist and pushing the helmet down over his head, Will followed Kalawun out of the royal pavilion and into the camp, where soldiers were hastening to mount horses.
�
��The arrow went up a moment ago, my Lord Sultan,” called a Mamluk officer, hurrying toward Kalawun. “Officer Nasir’s troops are on the move.” He pointed north.
Will and Kalawun saw a company of fifty or so men, riding swiftly across the plain toward a gate in the northeastern walls.
“Dear God,” murmured Will, stepping forward. Even at this distance, he could see that the gate was open. The mandjaniks’ stones were still flying up against the southeastern walls. All of the focus of the city was fixed there. By the time anyone noticed the danger, the Mamluks would be inside. “You have to stop them,” he urged Kalawun, as the officer turned away to help direct the men sprinting to their horses.
Kalawun didn’t answer. His gaze had moved from the riders to a figure waiting nearby, watching the company approach the gate. Kalawun strode toward him. “Angelo Vitturi,” he called out, his voice cutting across the shouts of the men and the blare of horns.
The figure turned, his one visible eye widening. But he recovered quickly. “Look, my lord. Your men will soon be inside.”
“Why did you lie to me about the Genoese, Vitturi? Was it just for your slaves?”
“I’m sorry, my lord?” responded the Venetian, looking confused. “Why do you call me this name?” His eye flicked to the tall man beside the sultan, whose face was covered with a helmet. “What is this about?”
“You weren’t the only one given a second chance at life,” responded Will, staring at the Venetian through the slits in his visor. “The next time you push someone in a well, you might want to check it has water in it first.”
Angelo let out a hiss of breath. He stumbled backward, away from Kalawun, who was advancing on him. In the distance, the riders, led by Nasir, reached the gate and funneled inside.
“Guards!” bellowed Kalawun. Despite the turmoil, four Mansuriyya warriors heard his call and came running. “Seize him!”
“Listen, my lord,” shouted Angelo, as the Royal Guards took hold of his arms, pinning him. “I have done you a great service today, and tonight this camp will ring with praises for your name. Your position will be strengthened because of me.” He was interrupted by a shout from a nearby officer.
Will and Kalawun looked up to see four flaming arrows shooting into the sky over the northeastern walls. The Mamluks were in. They had the gate. There was another cry of horns, and now lines of Mamluk cavalry, led by Amirs Dawud and Ahmed, swept out of the Mamluk encampment and across the plain.
“See!” shouted Angelo. “Your men have taken the city!”
“My lord,” said Will urgently, “you have to stop this. Now!”
But Kalawun wasn’t listening. “Who was it? Who were you working with? Which man betrayed me?”
Angelo fixed him with a belligerent stare. “Let me go and I will tell you.”
Kalawun gestured to the Mansuriyya guards holding the Venetian. “Bring him here,” he commanded, heading to one of the siege engines.
Will followed as Angelo was dragged, struggling and protesting, after the sultan. The first waves of cavalry were now halfway across the plain. A clanging of alarm bells rose from inside the city.
“Hold him down,” said Kalawun, pointing to one of the stones in the pile beside the siege engine.
“My lord?” queried one of the Mansuriyya.
“Here,” snapped Kalawun. “I want his neck on the block.”
“No!” shouted Angelo, as the guards forced him down, pressing his chest onto the stone.
Kalawun held his saber in front of him. “Who was it?”
“Give me your word that you’ll spare me,” gasped Angelo.
Kalawun paused, then lowered the blade.
“It was Officer Nasir.”
Kalawun’s face seemed to sag at these words. All color went out of his cheeks. He took another step back and turned away. Then, all at once, his face twisted with fury. He spun round, raising the sword, and swung it down at Angelo’s neck.
Angelo screamed as he saw the blade coming and tried to rise. As he lifted his head, the saber’s edge sliced down into the bald and blistered half of his skull with a blunt crack. There was a burst of blood and Kalawun wrenched his sword free. Unbelievably, Angelo was still alive. A high, hideous scream was issuing from his open mouth and blood was pouring from the gaping wound in his head. Kalawun struck again, gasping with the effort. This time, he found the neck. But it took two more strokes before Angelo’s head was completely severed and his gurgling scream was cut off.
The Mansuriyya had stepped away. Will stood there unable to take his eyes off Angelo’s mangled skull. Kalawun’s blue robe was blood-splattered and the blade of his saber was scarlet. Without saying a word, he pushed past Will and crossed to where several squires were waiting with horses, readied for battle. “What are you doing?” asked Will, following.
Still Kalawun didn’t answer. Sheathing his sword without cleaning it, he took the reins of one of the horses.
“My Lord Sultan,” said one of the squires, surprised. “Your horse is by the ...”
But Kalawun was pulling himself into the saddle. Will cursed and went to another of the beasts. The squire, seeing he was with the sultan, moved away uncertainly. As Kalawun galloped off, Will mounted. Jamming his heels into the flanks of the horse, he followed the sultan and the last waves of the cavalry, heading for the city gates.
By the time Will reached the city, most of the cavalry had disappeared inside. A bell was clanging frantically from the walls somewhere above, and he could see men running along the ramparts, shouting. A few arrows sailed down, not too far from him, and he ducked and urged the beast on faster, in through the gates, passing between the thick walls. Will’s horse was jostled as he entered, a mass of mounted men before and around him. Then there was movement and space as the crush of men pressed on, fanning into the streets beyond the gatehouse, leaving fifty of their comrades to hold the gates. A few corpses littered the ground: bodies of Frankish soldiers. Already, Will could hear the sounds of fighting between the buildings ahead, as men around the city heeded the alarm. Word had gone up; the north gate had been breached, and the Franks were racing to meet their enemy.
Will rode in, cursing the helmet that restricted his vision, but not daring to remove it, as he searched for Kalawun, who had disappeared in the press of men. He clattered down a narrow street between a line of stores, glimpsed a child’s face, white and staring, in a doorway, then saw a flash of blue ahead and forced his horse on, faster. He came out in a small square with a cistern at its center and saw Kalawun jumping from the saddle. There was a cluster of men beyond the cistern, one tall, slender figure issuing orders to the others. Leaving his horse, Kalawun marched across the square. The tall man turned. Will saw his face register surprise.
“My Lord Sultan?” he questioned, heading over.
“Do you know a man named Angelo Vitturi?” called Kalawun, his voice hoarse and harsh. He had drawn his saber, still red with Angelo’s blood.
Nasir’s eyes went to the blade, then back to Kalawun. “What has happened?”
Will, swinging himself down from the saddle, could discern the fear in his voice. He heard shouting from one of the streets leading off, followed by the clashing of swords echoing against the walls of the tightly packed buildings. Drawing his falchion, he hastened to Kalawun, who had halted and was facing Nasir. The sultan’s face was filled up with rage and despair, and there was no room for mercy. Will knew then that the sultan wasn’t going to listen until he had done what he had come here to do.
“Before I killed him,” said Kalawun raggedly, staring at Nasir, “the Venetian said you had betrayed me, that you were working with him against me. Tell me this isn’t true.”
Nasir’s lips pressed together. Finally, he spoke. “I cannot.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I cannot tell you that.”
Kalawun started to shake his head. “You wouldn’t do this,” he said firmly. “You wouldn’t.” He laughed. His eyes were bright and wide. “I know you, Nasir. By Allah
, I know you!”
“You don’t,” said Nasir furiously. “Sunnis killed my family. How could I ever be one?” His voice was rising, as were the sounds of fighting in the streets beyond the square. Nasir flung up his hands. “You are deceived, Kalawun, you and all your men! You think you rule the world. But in truth you are slaves and always will be. None of you chose this life. You, me, we all came to it against our will, in chains. Our very name means owned! Freedom is an illusion for us. It is not real.” Nasir’s voice cracked. “I wanted . . . All I wanted was to live with my brother, a life that I chose. The Venetian offered me that chance. I took it.”
“I named my son after you,” murmured Kalawun, his sword falling limp by his side. “I let you into my life!”
“And you killed my brother!” Nasir moved toward him, fists raised. “Kaysan was all I had left in this world. He was my family!”
“I was your family!” roared Kalawun, tossing aside his sword and grasping Nasir by the arms. He shook him violently. “I fed you! Clothed you! You were a brother, a son to me!”
Nasir made no effort to stop him, but hung slack in his grasp.
A group of men came riding into the square. Templars. One held up a bow and grasped an arrow from a quiver on his back. Will yelled a warning, half to Kalawun, half to the Templar. But the arrow was fitted, and fired.
Nasir lurched forward as the arrow thumped into the back of his neck, where there was no armor to protect him. Blood leaked from his mouth and his eyes widened up at Kalawun, who staggered back, still holding him. Nasir tried to form words, but couldn’t.
Will ducked as an arrow came whizzing toward him; then he grabbed Kalawun’s arm and hauled him away, leaving Nasir to sink to the ground. They dove into an alley as a company of Mamluks rode into the square in pursuit of the Templars.
All around the city, men were falling and dying. Within an hour, three more gates were taken and Mamluk soldiers poured in, pressing Tripoli’s defenders back toward the sea. There was no halting this battle now. The conflict was harsh and swift. Any man found on the streets was put to the sword, and even those citizens who had fled to the island of St. Thomas were not spared the massacre. The Mamluk cavalry, having swept through the city in a bloody scythe, soon reached the water, where they drove their horses into the shallows, swimming across to the island, where, the madness of battle upon them, they butchered everyone they found. Princess Lucia and her court had left several hours before, sailing out of the harbor. Only her citizens were there to witness her city’s fall.
