Alamut (19 page)

She submitted with poor grace to prinking and preening and painting. There was a new wardrobe for her, from drawers to cloak, even finer than the one she had been wearing. This had gold thread all about its edges; the overgown and the cloak were the same cloudy blue as her eyes. Alia insisted that Joanna — Jahana, they said here — borrow her lapis necklace, and of course the eardrops must go with them, and the fillet to hold the veil. When all of them were done, she was hung with jewels like a sultana, and her mood was, in spite of itself, beginning to lighten.

If he could see her now...

Tonight.

Umm Jafar was waiting. There was the ordeal of the litter to face, the rocking and swaying in stifling confinement, each of them doing her best not to fall into the other's lap. Umm Jafar, even at her age, had a dancer's balance. She never lost it, not once.

Joanna was learning to treat it like a horse or a camel. Ride with it, yes. Distract herself with chatter. Resist strenuously the urge to rip the curtains aside and leap out into the street.

“Where are we going today?” she asked when they were well on their way, the porters settled into their jouncing stride, the eunuch clearing a path with a voice like a war trumpet.

Umm Jafar was a stout comfortable woman, her figure long since gone in bearing her brood of sons, but there was spirit in her yet. It made her black eyes sparkle. “To the palace,” she answered.

Joanna gave that the pause it deserved. “You have friends there?”

“Kin,” said Umm Jafar without excessive smugness. “You wouldn't know my cousin Rashida who married an emir from Baalbek. Her daughter married an emir from Damascus, who happened to be related to Muin al-Din, who was ruler of the city before the old sultan seized it. Muin al-Din, of course, is father to the Emir Masud, and to Ismat al-Din Khatun.”

Joanna had been keeping track of the spate of names. It was easier than it might have been a week ago: she was learning rapidly. “Ismat al-Din? The old sultan's widow?”

“And the new sultan's wife. They were married just before you came.”

Joanna sat back among the cushions. Here, indeed, was a coup.

Umm Jafar smiled at her expression. “The men might wait a year for a private audience with the sultan. We — why, we make a social call on connections of the family, share our gossip, tell a tale or two, while away an afternoon. What could be simpler?”

Joanna laughed and applauded her. “As simple as sunrise. You should have been an empress.”

“What, and leave Mustafa to manage by himself? He'd be selling gold at barley prices, and then where would the House be?”

oOo

It was possible, with practice, to see the city with one's ears, and with one's rump on the litter's cushions. Joanna knew enough not to peer out. She would likely see nothing but the sweating shoulders of the porter in front. She was aware that the crush of the city had changed, muted, cleared somewhat. That would be the gate of the citadel after the knot of the market about it. Somewhere a camel roared. Hoofs clattered: a horse; a donkey would never make that swift arrogant sound. They did not pass any of the inner gates open to the men. There was another for them, smaller, and more secret, and its guards called the challenge in eunuchs' voices.

Here, abruptly, was quiet. The litter lowered to the ground. Joanna blinked in the dazzle of a courtyard, sneezing in surprise at the scent of sun and dancing water and, heavy and sweet, roses. A servant was waiting, a black eunuch of impeccable dignity, who greeted them and offered them the ritual basin to wash their hands and faces. Umm Jafar, Joanna could see, was pleased. He was a servant of some standing; that implied that the guests were reckoned worthy of him.

Joanna moved carefully, with an eye on Umm Jafar. A sultan's harem was different even from that of a great emir. Richer, immeasurably, and larger, though this one seemed to boast more space than occupants. Saladin was new still to his place; he had been sultan of Egypt before he took Syria. The bulk of his family would be in Cairo; here was only what was necessary for the dignity of his Syrian wife.

From that lady's perspective, such might not be an ill bargain. She was spoils of war, but she had been a queen. She had value; she had her husband to herself, without the interference of her fellow wives.

Joanna shivered lightly in the cool of the passage. When she was feeling sorry for herself, she needed but reflect that she could have been born in Islam.

The austerity for which the Sultan Nur al-Din had been famous, and which Saladin was said to imitate, was hardly apparent here. Muslim places always seemed bare to Frankish eyes, because they were so sparsely furnished — a cushion or two, a table, sometimes a divan — but that bareness was made luminous by the adornment of walls and floor. Carpets that widened her trade-wise eyes; tiles of gold and green and white and the pure, piercing blue of Isfahan; and everywhere, the words of the Koran transmuted into flowing art.

The queen entertained guests in a chamber like a pavilion, open on the garden and another of the dancing fountains that were peculiar to Damascus. Today there were but one or two other callers, and those known to Umm Jafar, who was met with every expression of delight. She made obeisance, with Joanna a breath behind; Ismat al-Din accepted it as her due, but dismissed further servility with the flick of a tiny hennaed hand.

She was small, even for a Syrian: hardly larger than a child. Joanna could not decide if she was beautiful. Supremely artful, yes, in her dress and in her enhancement of what Allah had given her, and she had the shape so beloved of the poets: full breasts, tiny waist, extravagant swell of hips and haunches, full round thighs tapering to dainty feet. A Frank might have found her grotesque. A Muslim would have lusted after her body, but wondered if her chin were perhaps a bit too pointed, her mouth too wide, her eyes large and dark enough but never the great languid calf-eyes of perfect beauty. Her gaze was bold and direct and most disconcertingly intelligent, with a light in it that bespoke anything but meek docility.

She seemed not too taken aback by her hulking Frankish guest. “Here,” she commanded. Her voice was clear and rather sharp. “Sit by me. It's ages since I saw a new face.”

“Not even your husband's?”

Joanna would happily have bitten her tongue in half. Ismat laughed, full and free. “Except his! Not that he was new. His sister married my brother years ago. He used to come and visit when his wars would allow.”

There were sighs around the circle. Ah yes, the glances said. A long romance, a love tragically sundered by her marriage of state to the old sultan.

“He was,” said Ismat, “a remarkably callow boy.”

“I hope he grew up,” Joanna said.

The queen smiled. She had excellent teeth: not an easy accomplishment in the sugared idleness of the harem. “He grew,” she said, “indeed.” For an instant her eyes softened. “A maiden has no choice. A widow does. Even a widow who is spoils of war. I accepted him for my family's sake. I remain for my own.”

That was remarkable candor before a stranger, but it seemed to be her way: no one was unduly shocked. Joanna had to remind herself that she was not talking to a Frank. “My mother's second marriage was like that. The first husband for the family, she says. The second for herself.”

“And she is content.”

Joanna's throat tightened. “She was.”

Umm Jafar was making troubled noises. One of the others bent toward Ismat al-Din. Joanna forestalled them both. “He's dead. He was killed. By an Assassin.”

Suddenly the pavilion was very still. Even here, that name was not uttered lightly. Muslims did not cross themselves. They murmured words of prayer and guard.

“Tell me,” said Ismat al-Din.

If she had been a man, she would have been a formidable warrior. Joanna, in answering, could be surprised at how swiftly they had come to the point. It was far more like the easterners to talk in circles round it for days on end, then to edge toward it by excruciating degrees.

Ismat al-Din had decided to be direct. Like a Frank. Perhaps it amused her, so to indulge the barbarian.

No, Joanna thought, watching her face as the tale unfolded. It was nothing so petty. It was courtesy; courtliness as a westerner would perceive it. And — yes — some small degree of pleasure in playing at foreign ways. To a Syrian, it would be like galloping headlong down a mountainside, and Allah alone knew what was at the bottom.

The others, even Umm Jafar, seemed giddy with the speed of it. Ismat was intent. When she asked questions, they were to the point.

It was not as hard to tell as Joanna had expected. She could set herself apart from it; tell it like a story, like something long ago and far away. She had to put in Aidan, and Ranulf, and because of Ranulf, Aimery.

“That is barbaric,” said one of the women. Later, Joanna promised herself, she would trouble to remember her name. “They take our darlings away, yes, it is written that they must. But not from the breast. Ya Allah! The man is mad.”

Ismat silenced her with a long level look. To Joanna she said, “It was bold of you to leave him. Is it true, Christians have no divorce?”

“None for a woman. A man can put his wife aside, if she gives him no sons, if he can afford to buy a dispensation. If she's borne him sons, there's no recourse in law. Though maybe, if he's strong enough to get a bishop in his pocket, and then cozen Rome...”

Ismat shook her head. The jewels on her fillet glinted, bright as the fountain's fall in the sunlight. “It would be enough to make a woman profess Islam.”

“Or a man,” Joanna said. “One wife at a time is a grievous burden.”

“Even for the wife?”

“At least your husband won't lie and hide when he takes a fancy for someone else. He goes, satisfies himself, and if you've done your work well, comes back to you.”

“And if he does not, why then, God has willed it, and God will judge.” As would Ismat, from the glitter of her eyes. “I grieve for you, Jahana. I marvel at your courage. My husband is no stranger to the death that comes from Masyaf. Twice he has been assaulted in the midst of his armies; this past month and more, he laid siege to the fortress itself. Alas, God willed that he fail. The Old Man of the Mountain is no easy opponent.”

“Nor am I,” said Joanna. “Nor is the prince who rides with me. We have sworn vengeance on Sinan. God will see that we win it.”

She must have looked more deadly than she knew. The women seemed shocked and rather frightened. Ismat regarded her with a degree of respect. “I wish you good fortune,” she said.

“You honor me,” said Joanna.

Again Ismat dismissed the courtesy with a gesture. “We are friends. I give you your due. Come; would you see my garden?”

13.

While Joanna made her way through the harems of Damascus, Aidan had been establishing his presence in the outer chambers. He, like her, was a curiosity; unlike her, on Mustafa's advice he went about without disguise, as Frank and knight and, when it mattered, prince.

He went more than once to the palace. He was not granted audience, but he did not seek it. He wanted to see what this man was who was Sultan of Syria, what kind of men he kept about him, how he went about ruling his domains.

To the eyes of a prince from Rhiyana, Salah al-Din Yusuf ibn Ayyub was an upstart, and adventurer, a hired soldier who had risen out of nothing to seize a throne. He was neither Arab nor royal Seljuk but a Kurd, a mercenary's son, pupil of the irascible old warrior who was his uncle. The old man had gone into Egypt with his nephew unwilling behind him, to win it for the Seljuk sultan; and win it he had, and well. Too well. Nur al-Din did ill to entrust that venture to a hireling while he tarried in Damascus. He who had looked to become lord of Egypt as of Syria, saw the hireling's young kinsman made sultan in Cairo: the servant become, all unlooked for, a master and an equal. Then when the sultan died, Saladin came out of Egypt, to secure Syria, he attested with limpid sincerity, for the old sultan's heir. Now the young heir was mewed up in the walls of Aleppo, and Saladin was sultan in Damascus, lord by force of arms of both Syria and Egypt.

He was still young for such an eminence: two years short of forty. He followed Nur al-Din's example of austerity, in that he affected no richness of dress, nor any ostentation but what his office could not escape. He favored black, knowing perhaps that he looked well in it: a slender man of middle height, with a fair olive skin beneath the weathering of war, his dark beard cut close about his narrow jaw, and a healing scar running into it: swordcut, perhaps, or dagger-slash. When Aidan first saw him sitting on the dais in his diwan, the time of public audience, he had little enough presence, except what people gave him by making him their center. When the discussion wandered, he shrank into obscurity.

Then, it seemed, he had had enough. He did not move, nor for a moment did he speak, but suddenly he loomed in his place. When he spoke, although he hardly raised his voice, he spoke in silence. It mattered little what he said. He had mastered his diwan.

That was kingship. Not inborn, perhaps, and certainly not in the blood, but long studied and most well mastered.

Aidan was discovering that he liked these Saracens. Their art of graceful indirection was not one for which he would ever have much patience, but as a game it was entertaining, and it was conducted in an atmosphere of unfailing civility. That was not to say that they were gentle people. They were as cruel as cats, predators to a man, but graceful predators. Fire of spirit was much admired among them, particularly if it went hand in hand with sweetness of speech; their tongues, like their daggers, were subtle and wickedly sharp.

He, enemy and infidel though he was, was made most welcome. Hospitality was as holy as war, and as long as he did not wage the latter, the former was his for the asking. Among the emirs it was the fashion to vie in generosity; there was always a tale of a man who had beggared himself between the giving of alms and the entertainment of guests. Often he won it all back again, by the simple expedient of accepting alms and being a guest where before he had been the bestower of largesse.