Authors: Unknown
“Luca,” replied the boy, sniffing and wiping his nose.
“Why were you following me, Luca?”
“I was outside the Temple this morning. I was going to go in, but then I saw you, so I followed. When you went into that house, I waited. I . . .” Luca faltered, then pushed on quickly. “I wanted to tell you something.”
“About the man who tried to kill the grand master?”
Luca looked up. “It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a choice.” His eyes flooded with tears.
“Who?”
“My brother, Marco. He wanted to take care of me and our mother. But now he’s dead and Sclavo hasn’t paid and Mama’s worse than before. I told her he’s gone away to look for work. I cannot tell her he’s dead.”
“Who is Sclavo?” said Will intently.
“He’s a bad man.” Luca gave an angry sob. “I wish he had been killed too, for making him do it.”
“This Sclavo paid your brother to attack the grand master?”
Luca nodded.
“Why did you decide to come to the preceptory to tell us now?” asked Will, already guessing the answer.
“I heard about the reward,” said Luca in a quiet voice. Through his tears his expression was defiant. “I have to buy potions for my mother.”
“I understand.” Will paused, studying the boy. “How do you know Latin?” he asked, still undecided as to what he should do.
“Marco taught me,” muttered Luca. “He said I should learn it so I could find better work than him, maybe become a clerk or someone important.”
Will gave a small smile, then nodded. “I will give you the reward if you can tell me where to find Sclavo.”
“Oh,” said Luca, taken aback. He hadn’t imagined it would be so easy. “He’s in the old part of the Genoese quarter. He runs a tavern there. Everyone calls it the Saracen.”
9
The Citadel, Cairo 12 MARCH A.D. 1276
Baraka climbed over the blocks of fallen masonry and entered the tower’s lowest chamber, his nose itchy with the shifting layers of dust that cloaked the air. An earthquake the day before had caused the upper part of the corner tower, already pronounced unstable by the stonemasons, to topple in on itself. Rubble had tumbled down the stairs from the level above and lay strewn across the floor, blocking an opening on the other side. The quake had caused little other damage in the citadel, although some houses in Fustat Misr had collapsed, killing at least fifty people. The stonemasons would be coming later that day to inspect the damage and begin repairs. Baraka scanned the empty chamber, then glanced back through the partially obstructed archway he had entered through. It led into a narrow passage that cut through the outer walls, scored with arrow slits. The passage stretched into a gloom his eyes couldn’t penetrate. Hearing shouting outside, Baraka went cautiously to the tower’s entrance and peered out, blinking at the sunlight.
Near the tower on the opposite corner of the wall, behind a line of trees, two Mamluk guards were dragging a man across the scrubby ground. He was shrieking, trying to twist away. He was rewarded with a punch in his side from one of the soldiers. After that he slumped in their arms as they hauled him toward a large wooden grate set into the ground. There were two other Mamluk guards here, who bent down and pulled on an iron chain attached to the grate. It opened like a maw, revealing a square of darkness. The man was roused as he saw it and cried fiercely at the guards, his head thrown back. “Innocent! I’m
innocent
!”
The two soldiers holding him tossed him unceremoniously into the hole, where he disappeared, his scream fading like an echo. The Mamluks gripping the chain let go and the grate banged shut.
In the cool shadows of the tower, Baraka shivered. He used to have nightmares about the citadel’s dungeon. The grate opening and his feet, unable to stop, taking him closer and closer, until at last there was no more earth beneath him and he was falling, endlessly. One of his friends, having learned of his fear, had delighted in describing the conditions inside the prison, a cavernous pit cut into the bedrock, which went down thirty feet. It was a place of nightmares, crawling with lunatics and murderers, thieves and rapists. They clotted up the darkness, preying on the young or the weak who were hurled into their dank lair of slime and mud and unimaginable filth, where bats clustered in soft, twitching clumps on the cavern roof. Baraka’s friend spoke of a boy, imprisoned for stealing bread, who had been eaten alive by some of the starving captives.
Baraka was brought sharply out of his private horror as he heard a noise behind him. Khadir was slinking into the chamber, stepping lightly over the broken stones. Baraka crossed his arms, his emerald- and jet-colored surcoat, which matched his turban, tightening across his chest. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“Please forgive me, my prince,” said Khadir fawningly, “my legs do not carry me as fast as yours.”
“I’ve been waiting ages.”
“It is but minutes since we spoke and arranged to meet here.”
“Not since we spoke,” snapped Baraka. “I’ve been waiting ages for you to tell me about your plan. It’s been almost two months. You said you would make my father take notice of me. That I was going to start a war.”
“Ahh, yes,” said Khadir, nodding sagely. “But we must wait for another first.”
Baraka scowled as Khadir grinned secretively. He began to pace and cursed as he stumbled on a loose rock. Moments later, a man appeared in the archway. Baraka stared at him in alarm, guilt rising red in his cheeks, his mind struggling to think of some explanation as to what he was doing in the deserted tower with the soothsayer. “Amir Mahmud,” he stammered, as the young governor strode in.
“Now we can begin,” came Khadir’s voice, and Baraka realized that Mahmud was whom the soothsayer had been waiting for.
“I cannot stay for long,” said Mahmud, glancing outside to check the courtyard.
“What’s happening?” asked Baraka, nervous in the presence of the forceful military governor.
Mahmud looked to Khadir. “You haven’t told him?”
Khadir was about two feet shorter than the governor, but Mahmud took a step back as the old man came toward him. “I wanted to be certain I had your support before I spoke to the boy.”
Baraka was irritated at being spoken of as if he weren’t there, but he held his tongue, impatient to know what the two men were talking about.
“Amir Mahmud has agreed to assist us,” said Khadir, turning to Baraka. “He too sees our master has lost his way.”
“I will help you,” said Mahmud to Baraka, “but my part in this is to be kept secret. Do you understand?”
“Of course he understands,” hissed Khadir. “He is not a child. He will one day be your sultan!”
Baraka’s cheeks reddened again, this time with pride. Emboldened, he looked Mahmud in the eye. “I think what Khadir is saying is that I am deserving of a little more respect, Amir.”
“My sincere apologies, my prince,” murmured Mahmud, shooting a black look at Khadir.
“Your impudence is forgiven,” said Baraka, the sudden authority giving him a strange thrill of pleasure. He wanted to say more, perhaps make the governor kneel, but Khadir started speaking before he could.
“In Palestine, close to the city of Acre, lies a village, my prince,” said the soothsayer. “There are Frankish spies there. They trail our soldiers and notify the infidel leaders in Acre of their movements.”
Baraka shrugged carelessly. “It happens all the time. We have spies and emissaries in Acre who report the Christians’ doings to us, don’t we?”
“We have,” said Khadir, nodding keenly. “We have indeed.”
“Your father has been given a report of this,” said Mahmud, interrupting Khadir. “But he refuses to deal with the matter, saying he wishes to concentrate on his plans for Anatolia before he makes any move against the Christians. Under the peace agreement, we agreed to let the Franks keep what possessions they still owned. This village is under that agreement. To attack it would be an act of war.” Mahmud’s face twitched with impatience at Baraka’s blank expression. “If their village was sacked, the Franks would be forced to retaliate.”
“Not just sacked,” Khadir corrected Mahmud, “it must be enough to fire the Christians into a holy rage. It must be a
massacre
.” He said the word tenderly, as if it were the name of a loved one. “Their men must be butchered, their women defiled and their children enslaved. We must
provoke
them.”
Realization dawned across Baraka’s face, but he shook his head. “The Christians won’t attack us whatever we do to them. They cannot. Their forces are nothing compared to ours. Even if you could get my father to storm the village, it wouldn’t start a war.”
“Clever boy,” said Khadir, grinning at him. “You are right. But we do not expect the Christians to attack us. We expect them to react in kind. An eye for an eye,” he chuckled. “That is what they’ll want.”
“They will most likely turn on our own emissaries in Acre,” Mahmud explained to Baraka, “behind their walls where we cannot go. They will demand some form of compensation from Baybars, probably the release of Christian prisoners, maybe even the return of territory, and will use our people as hostages for their demands. The sultan will refuse and the Christians, in their arrogance and rage, will most likely kill our men.”
“How can you be sure my father will refuse?”
“Rarely has he given way to any of their demands in the past,” answered Mahmud before Khadir could speak. “And he will be even less likely to if the attack on the village was not of his doing. For he will not order the attack himself. He has already made it plain he won’t do this. We have to arrange it for him.”
“But only my father or one of his amirs can ...” Baraka frowned at Mahmud. “You will order the attack?”
“No,” said Mahmud quickly. “As I said, my part is to be kept secret.”
“Our soldiers will
think
our master has ordered it,” said Khadir. “A message will be sent in Baybars’s name, with his seal stamped upon it.” His white eyes fixed on Mahmud. “You will make sure of it?”
“It will be done tonight.”
Khadir clapped his hands gleefully. “We will make the crossbow fly!” He looked at Baraka. “And
you
will drive the bolt home.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the sultan hears that an order was sent in his name, using his seal, he will demand an investigation,” said Mahmud calmly. “Neither Khadir nor myself can be found to be involved. In all likelihood we would be imprisoned, or executed.”
“You must tell him you did it,” said Khadir, heading to Baraka.
Baraka was flooded with fear at the mere thought of it. “I couldn’t! He would be so
angry
!”
“You will explain your reasons,” said Khadir softly, insistently. “You will tell him how you have been studying well, learning all that you can about his victories over the Franks. You will tell him how you heard reports of the spies and wanted to help. You will say you knew he was burdened by other matters and that you wanted to aid him, that you wanted to show him you are no longer a little boy.”
“I couldn’t,” repeated Baraka. His eyes drifted toward the tower’s entrance, beyond the line of trees to the grate that led down into the dungeon. “I
couldn’t
.”
“Then he’ll never take notice of you!” snapped Khadir, making Baraka start. His tone softened. “I have
seen
it. If you do not do this, he will never take you into his trust, and when you become sultan, not a man here will respect or follow you.”
Baraka swallowed dryly at these words, so similar to words his own mind had mocked and troubled him with. “I ...”
“You are his heir,” said Mahmud firmly. “Only you would be able to bear his anger without retribution. It is the only way. When the Christians retaliate for the attack, after Baybars refuses their demands, the sultan will be forced to move against them. I and other governors here will make certain of that. Whilst the Franks cause us no trouble, the sultan can forget them, but when that balance shifts, he and others of his government will no longer be able to use the excuse that the Franks pose no threat to placate the rest of us. Surely you must see this is the best way?” Mahmud’s tone was incisive. “Khadir told me you understood the need to remove the infidel from our lands.”
Baraka stared at the two men, two sets of eyes, one white, one dark, boring into him. He felt himself grow small beneath their adult gaze, felt his newfound power slipping. We knew you didn’t have the courage to do this, their faces said. You are just a child after all. “I do understand,” he told them in a rush, desperate to cling to that vanishing authority, frantic for their favor. “I’ll do it.”
Mahmud studied him, then nodded, satisfied. He turned to Khadir. “I will prepare the order to attack.”
As Mahmud left through the archway, Khadir smiled at Baraka. “You have made an ally today. A powerful ally. But you must faithfully keep your silence, until the time is right.”
“When will I know the time is right?”
“When we are at war with the Christians,” answered Khadir with a chuckle. He grew solemn. “I will guide you. For now, we shall wait and see what fruits
all
our little trees bear for us.” He smiled as Baraka frowned in incomprehension, and put a finger to his lips. “All in good, good time.”
Aisha flitted like a shadow through the corridors, bowing her head until her chin almost touched her drab robe as she passed Mamluk guards in their bright cloaks, officials, governors and slaves. She clutched a wooden pail, surreptitiously placing her palm over it whenever the bundle of cloth inside began to squirm. Some of the guards’ eyes followed her, but no one called out, demanding to know what she was doing, and she made it to the quieter areas of the citadel unhindered.
Here, the solitude was a balm after the constant noise of the harem. Heading through passages cut through the outer walls, intersected by towers, Aisha came to a small recess, a guard post or a disused food store she had thought when she first found it. Crouching in the cool gloom, she set the pail down and gently unfolded the bundle. A tiny, wrinkled brown face looked up at her accusingly as the cloth fell away. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, letting the monkey climb her arm to her shoulder, where it perched and shrieked softly until she gave it a fig.