The king considered this and said, “One hundred slaves will not be enough. Give our Prince Baybars two hundred men.”
“One hundred and fifty.”
“Done,” said the king. “One hundred and fifty. Prince Baybars and his slave army will liberate Aleppo and report back to us.”
Othman’s wife kept repeating, “Are you sure?” Othman kept nodding his head. “The king wants to send one hundred and fifty men to fight an army?” she asked. “Has he gone mad?”
“Who can tell?” Othman replied. “When Prince Baybars asked for more men, the king said they were not needed. The prince thinks we will do just fine. I am calling on my old gang, and so is Harhash. We should be able to raise seventy more men or so.”
“I will call on the doves,” Layla said.
“Absolutely not. I will have enough trouble when I tell the men that my insane wife wants to experience the adventure of war. We do not need more women.”
Baybars, the Uzbeks, and the three African warriors rode to inspect the slave troops on the day they were set to march. Harhash stood with his men, and Othman with his. The ex-brigands were well armed but looked less like an army than a ragtag group of dangerous lunatics. The slaves, on the other hand, were impeccable in manner and appearance. Baybars was pleased.
He decided to divide the leadership of the slaves among the Africans and Uzbeks, but one of the slave warriors interjected, “I beg an audience, my lord,” and Baybars permitted him to speak. “We are two cadres of slaves, my lord,” he said. “Each cadre has trained together for years. Dividing them haphazardly might not be best.”
Prince Baybars stared at the regal slave warrior and said, “We meet again, friend.”
“Yes, my lord,” Aydmur replied. “Our destinies cross once more. This is the cadre I have trained with. We are twenty-five Circassians, twenty-five Georgians, and twenty-five Azeris. We were brought here to be the king’s guard, but we have been forgotten.”
“I, my dear Aydmur, have never forgotten you or your kindness at the baths in Bursa. Without your help, I might still be the Persian’s slave. At one point, I was meant to be a member of your group.”
“In our hearts, my lord, you will always be one of us.”
“Are you fit to lead both cadres?”
“I would be honored, my lord,” replied Aydmur the Azeri.
“This is a most fortunate sign,” the prince announced. “Aydmur, my brother, I ask you to lead the slave army. Let us ride.”
“Who is this man?” Othman whispered to Harhash. “He seems arrogant and pompous.”
“Ask your wife,” said Harhash, trying to stifle a laugh. “She knows everyone.”
Othman attacked Harhash. Layla could not help smiling.
Behold. The reign of the slave kings approaches.
On the day of his second birthday, naked Shams walked up to Fatima, extended his hand, and said, “Look, Mama.” The imps exploded in laughter at the sight. Layl joined in. Proud and beaming, Shams held a turd in his hand.
“Ah,” said Fatima. “I am happy that you are able to do that on your own. However, we do not hold such things on our birthday. The world is here to celebrate. We must be as clean as we can be.” And, as swiftly as a hummingbird’s wing fluttering, Fatima extended her finger, her fingernail elongated into a sharp sword, and she cut her son’s hand off. She bade his arm to replace the hand with a new one. “Now, that is better. Let us get you ready for the feast.”
“I will do their hair,” cried Elijah.
“I do the shoes,” said Ishmael.
Noah conjured a fountain of warm water in the middle of the chamber, and the imps bathed the twins of light and dark. Adam garlanded them with scents. Jacob and Job dressed them in silk and satins. Ezra studded their outfits with jewels, and Isaac crowned them with gold.
Fatima led the glorious twins into the grand hall. The royalty of the land oohed at Shams’s exquisite beauty and aahed at the sight of the colorful parrots circling above him. The emir’s wife snatched Shams and carried him to the center of the room. She held him up for admiration. “Behold my son.” The notables lined up to pay their respects. One by one, they bowed before the baby emir and kissed his hand. And on this day of his second birthday, Shams performed his first miracle. The turban of the seventh person in the receiving line, a prince from a far-off land, intrigued Shams. As the man bowed, Shams removed his turban. Embarrassed, the prince tried to cover his bald head, but Shams was even more intrigued with the scalp. The boy touched it, and the prince jumped back in pain. The emir’s wife began to apologize, though suddenly the prince was no longer listening. He brought his hands before his eyes. Surely he had felt something tickling them. He felt his head, and there it was. The entire room saw a full head of hair growing on the once-bald prince.
A man ran to the front of the line, pointing to his bald spot. “Touch me,” he called. “Touch me.” Another bald man joined him, and then there were three and four. The line was no more. A woman shoved through. “Can you do moles?” she yelled. Another held her infant son and shouted, “Cleft lip.”
The emir’s wife tried to retreat, but she had no place to go. The mob of notables surrounded her on all sides. Shams began to wail.
“Everyone will have his turn,” pleaded the emir’s wife.
“No, they will not.” Fatima held her hand up, and the green parrot, Job, flew above the melee. She raised her hand again, to stop the violet parrot, Adam, from joining his brother. Suddenly, the royalty of the land were frantically scratching their skins. Fleas gorged themselves on noble blood. Elijah descended from above and lifted Shams. As soon as Shams joined Layl in Fatima’s arms, the fleas disappeared.
“Be not afraid,” the emir’s wife said, still scratching her arms. “Please stay. The fleas are gone, and we will burn sage to make sure they remain away.” Her arms turned redder and redder. “Do not leave. My son will heal you all. He will perform the great miracles. He is the chosen one. I am his mother.”
“I think we have had enough excitement for the day.” Fatima led her sons and her parrots out of the hall.
Al-Awwar whinnied, pranced, and quickened his trot. “Yes,” Baybars told his horse. “We approach home.”
When Commander Issa, the ruler of Damascus, heard the news of the approaching slave army, he was forced to march his troops out of the city to greet the new leader of the king’s army, his nemesis, Prince Baybars. Issa paid his respects, but his heart was engulfed by flames of hatred and envy. “And when will the rest of the troops arrive?” the commander asked, and Baybars replied that none were forthcoming. Joy cleared a place for itself in the commander’s heart. “I am much impressed. The king must consider you a great hero, Prince Baybars, to assign you so few warriors to battle Halawoon’s thousands of men.”
Prince Baybars said, “Perchance, my commander, you will be so generous as to lend us troops to help us defeat the fire-worshippers.” Commander Issa said he would be more than happy to oblige the prince, but his men were needed to police his city.
Sitt Latifah waited at the gates of the city for her much-loved son to arrive. As her eyes alit on the prince astride his warhorse, she ran to him. Baybars jumped off his horse, knelt before his mother, and kissed her hand, which had two tiny age spots that had not been there when he last kissed it. She kissed his hair. “Look,” she announced to the city’s denizens. “See my glorious son, the great warrior Baybars. My child returns home leading an army, just as my dream foretold. Bask in his brilliance.” Sitt Latifah held a banquet that night for Baybars’s army. “My son,” she said, “in my dream you led a powerful army and vanquished God’s enemy, Halawoon. It is bound to happen. I do not doubt the courage and valor of your fighters, but I expected a larger number of men to be under your command.” Prince Baybars explained that the king felt more troops were unnecessary. “I do not wish to disagree with kings,” Sitt Latifah said, “but I refuse to send my son into battle lacking. I will call the archers. From far and wide they
will come to pay their debts to our family. A thousand of the finest bowmen you will have.”
Othman and Harhash excused themselves from the feast. They kissed Sitt Latifah’s hand and said, “Pardon our rudeness, but the moon is high. It is our time.”
The following day, Othman and Harhash returned accompanied by one hundred disreputable-looking men. Othman told Baybars, “These men will fight for you, my lord.” Baybars asked if they had repented. “Surely, one and all,” Othman replied. “They agreed to repent if I performed a miracle. Yesterday I showed them the way into Issa’s secret coffers. They were duly impressed, and all have repented this morning.”
All one hundred said, “God be praised,” and patted the bags of gold on their belts.
“And so our army grows,” said Baybars.
One thousand archers on horseback arrived to join the slave army. Sitt Latifah greeted them. “You are men of honor. This is my son. Follow him and I will continue to provide your sons with the finest bows for generations to come. We are grateful.”
Baybars bade Sitt Latifah farewell, and the slave army marched out of the city. They were scarcely a league away when they noticed dust rising behind them. A Damascene troop of a thousand men was trying to catch up. Their leader rode a glorious roan. “I will follow you, my prince,” said Sergeant Lou’ai. “My men and I will fight the infidels.”
Baybars said, “Your honor knows no limits, my sergeant. By saving my life once before, you paid your debt to me a thousand times.”
“We are almost twenty-five hundred men,” Othman said to Harhash. “I am now an honest man, but the blood of greed still runs through my veins. The more we have, the more I want.”
Harhash replied, “Greed for a just cause is justified. I ride with you.”
“Greed?” exclaimed Layla. “Wanting more men is a sign of sanity. The women in Damascus are knitting mourning shawls. Halawoon’s army is thought to be at least thirty thousand strong.”
The slave army stopped in Hamah for a rest. Layla told Othman, “I do not wish to spend the night here. It is much too hot and the accommodations are lacking. Take me to the shore. We can spend the night in the Fort of Marqab near Latakia.”
“Fort of Marqab?” cried Othman. “That is out of our way. We are heading to war.”
“Accommodations?” scoffed Harhash.
“I am glad you approve, dear Harhash,” Layla said. “Tell our master we will rejoin you in two days, before you reach Aleppo, after I have had a good rest and breathed gentle sea breezes.”
Aleppo rose before the slave army. Baybars saw Halawoon’s troops laying siege to the great city, one division on each side, east, west, north, and south.
“That is a large army,” said Baybars.
“Too large,” added Othman.
“It behooves us not to fight them in the plains,” said Aydmur. “We must enter the city. Attack the southern division ahead of us, break their ranks, and clear a path to the gates. The other divisions will not have time to come to their rescue. Once inside, we choose when and whom to fight, and our archers will have more luck from the towers.”
“We do not need luck, sire,” one of the archers said. “God guides the flight of our arrows.”
“Pardon me for interrupting,” said a refreshed Layla, “but this one division is approximately eight thousand men. By what means do you plan to defeat them?”
“The slaves will create a wedge,” said Aydmur.
“And this slave will be the wedge’s foremost point,” said Baybars.
“And these slaves will be with you,” said the Africans.
“I will ride the second wave,” said Layla. “I prefer my death less certain.”
“And I must protect my wife,” said Othman.
And when the historians sat down to write the story of the great reign of the Mamlukes, the slave kings, before they could elaborate on the rule of two hundred and fifty years, before they could talk about the first defeat of the Mongol hordes, before they could tell how the slave kings crushed the Crusaders, they had to record the first battle, what became known in the books as the Battle of al-Awwar, the greatest warhorse that ever was.
The tales of Shams’s healing powers spread across the land, from east to west, from deserts to mountains, and hopeful believers trekked for leagues and leagues to witness and partake of the miracles. After his second birthday, he began to heal many complaints of his supplicants, but his specialty remained primarily hair-related. His ability to seduce bald heads into growing hair became legendary. There were some logistical restrictions to his powers, though. His constant companion, Layl, and at least one of the parrots had to be present. Best results—soft, smooth, and untangled—were achieved when the two red ones were around. Timing was essential as well; Shams could only cure for an hour before naptime.
The emir’s wife wished her baby were more pliant. If only she could make him comprehend the magnitude and importance of his talents. If only she could separate him from his dark attendant. The time limitations were hard on the attendees as well. The waiting line to be touched by the One was interminable—and constantly changing as titled devotees went ahead of commoners. After an hour of touching, Shams would close his eyes to nap, and the parrots would instantly fly him out of the hall.
When he reached the age of three, Shams’s powers were still chiefly cosmetic. The emir’s wife preferred to call his new specialty “breast perfection” instead of “breast enhancement,” because “When he touches a pair of unnaturally small breasts, they inflate to an ideal size. The Chosen One does nothing haphazardly, but is guided by the Infallible Wisdom of the Divine.” Later that year, he developed the ability to adjust people’s weight: his touch increased a thin man’s heft and reduced that of a fat man. Tailors were ecstatic, their work made much easier by the miracles, for almost all the residents of the emir’s land soon had the same measurements, and all began to wear no color but ecru following the trend set by Shams’s mother. “My son inspires me to seek simplicity,” the emir’s wife said. “I have no more need for the spices of life.”
By his fourth birthday, Shams was able to cure the common cold and sexual impotence. The last increased his devout following a hundredfold, from thousands to uncountable.
“My son the body-enhancement specialist,” Afreet-Jehanam snorted to his lover as she watched the two boys happily playing with slick, slithering snakes. “His devotees are imbeciles, and the ecru woman is insane.” He squeezed Fatima’s shoulder, his arm around her. “And it is not good for him to be called a prophet.” Layl stood up, covered in asps, and reached for the crows flying playfully above him. “I have always had trouble with prophets. They never understand nuance or subtlety. They cannot grasp irony if it slaps them in the face.”
Shams grabbed a black scorpion with both hands and tried to bite its glistening tail off.
“No, darling,” said Afreet-Jehanam. “You must not do that.” He kissed Fatima’s hair. “I would like to see more of them. I miss the boys, and I miss you even more. Promise me you will bring them below more often.”
At the age of five, Shams cured two of the major illnesses, insanity and leprosy. The names Shams and Guruji—the epithet bestowed upon Shams by a small group that had traveled all the way from Calcutta—blossomed on praying lips throughout the known world, from the backwaters of Ireland to the steppes of Siberia to the swamps of China.
And rivers of ecru rushed toward the prophet.
Al-Awwar surveyed the scene before him, gauging the best point of attack. He raised his head, shook it, and snorted. He neighed loudly, announced his intentions to his surprised enemies, and charged. The infidels rushed to take up defensive positions. A giant melee erupted. And before al-Awwar reached the first disorganized line, a thousand arrows soared above him and landed in the hearts of a thousand infidels. And when al-Awwar trampled the first soldier, another thousand arrows felled another thousand. Steel arrow-tips projected from the throats of Halawoon’s soldiers, and the feather
ed shafts stood quivering in the soldiers’ napes. And the slave army entered the fray, and a great wedge was formed.
“Leave some for us,” cried Lou’ai as he led the second wave through. Othman rode close to his wife in order to protect her, but she shoved him away. From her belt she whisked out a leather whip with multiple strands, each with a sharp metal hook at its end, and unleashed her fury against the enemy. Skin and blood burst forth along her path.
“You frighten me,” exclaimed Othman.
“I would never wish to don your robes,” Harhash bellowed.
When al-Awwar reached the walls, the gates opened to welcome him, but he did not enter. He turned in mid-stride and returned to battle. Like rushing water hitting a wall, the wedge separated at the gate in two directions and rejoined the fray. And in less time than it takes a master archer to shoot an arrow into the sky above him and wait for its return, the slave army had massacred one division of Halawoon’s army and entered Aleppo’s gates as glorious heroes. The city’s populace poured out of their homes, garlanded the warriors with jasmine and roses, and bowed before their rescuer, Prince Baybars.
From the city’s eastern parapet, the mayor of Aleppo showed Baybars and his companions the enemy’s lines and positions.
“See Halawoon there,” Othman said. “He doesn’t seem too happy.”
“The sight of his flag of fire burns my heart,” said Baybars.
One of the archers cocked an arrow and unleashed it; the flag was torn in two. The stunned mayor applauded the archer and asked how he could shoot so much farther than any of the city’s archers. “We have Sitt Latifah’s bows,” the archer said, “and none are better.”
Othman’s wife climbed the stairs to the parapet, carrying a swaddled bundle. “If your arrow can hit the flag,” she said, “should you not aim for a few of the fire-worshippers before they figure it out?”
The Hakawati Page 37
