Authors: Unknown
Baraka had been in her mind more than usual since she had seen him in the passage. Her father’s reaction, when she revealed that he, Mahmud and Khadir had been in the deserted part of the palace together, intrigued her. He had been concerned: more so than perhaps was normal for such an ambiguous incident, and that was without the obvious fear Baraka had shown on finding her there. She had sent several messages to her husband, telling him she needed to talk. Nizam was initially pleased at the effort she was making, but the lack of any reply from Baraka simply drew more venom from the woman, as if his unresponsiveness was Aisha’s fault.
The next few weeks in the harem had been truly miserable. Then, almost a month later, she had spied Baraka again. Intrigued by his presence in the forbidden place, she wanted to know what he was doing, especially when she realized he had returned on the same day at the same time, just before prayers. During the next week she kept watch from the bathhouse, and sure enough, seven days later as the sun was slipping beyond the Citadel’s walls, Baraka had come slinking through the gardens.
Now she was ready for him.
Her fingers working quickly, ears strained for any creak of the bathhouse door, Aisha drew the long nails from their holes at the bottom of the grille. Carefully, she inched out the top two, but didn’t remove them, allowing the grille to be swung inward. Now for the tricky part. A larger woman wouldn’t be able to do it, but Aisha was slim and supple, and pulling herself onto the ledge until she was sitting sideways, knees against her chest, she pulled the grille toward her. The bars were heavy and the muscles in her thin arms tightened with the weight as she slid her legs round through the gap. The bottom of the grille was now resting on her thighs, her bare feet dangling above a hibiscus bush below the window. Inching forward, she carefully turned onto her front and slithered the rest of the way through, until her head was out and she could drop down into the bushes, leaving the grille to clang shut above her. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead and upper lip as she squatted in the undergrowth. The mud was cool beneath her feet, the scent of flowers heady.
She was just in time. The gardens were enclosed on one side by a high wall covered with creeping green plants and on the other by the bathhouse buildings. The only access to them was through the kitchen gardens or a door in the main harem building which was always guarded. Aisha realized how Baraka was getting inside, when, minutes later, she caught him shinning down the wall by an overgrown palm tree. She watched through the bushes as he moved past. Then, keeping low, she hastened down one of the walkways on the opposite side. When she came to the fruit trees that bordered the kitchen garden, Aisha dropped down. Baraka was heading for the door that led into the kitchens. Aisha ducked lower as he glanced around. He knocked, two short raps. The door opened and a eunuch appeared, his skin blacker than the shadows. Baraka said something that Aisha couldn’t hear, then reached into his silk tunic. Something was exchanged and the eunuch disappeared, pushing the door to. Baraka turned and looked out over the gardens. Through the green web of leaves, Aisha thought he looked nervous, yet still defiant. The moments crawled by, until the door opened again. This time, there was a girl with the eunuch. Aisha recognized her as one of the harem slaves, a skinny girl of about nineteen, who had been captured in a raid on a Christian village. She was white as blossom, with pale yellow hair and a subdued expression. As the kitchen door was shut, Baraka gestured sharply and the girl trudged in front of him, away through the gardens.
Her heart thumping hollowly in her chest, Aisha followed them at a discreet distance, until they reached the fruit store at the back of the gardens. Baraka opened the door, but the girl hung back. He took her arm and led her inside, closing the door behind them. Pulled by a sickening impulse, Aisha crept to the store, both dreading and needing to see inside. There were tiny square apertures set in the walls. They were too high for her to look through, but slipping around the back, she found a wooden pail. Setting it upside down, she stepped onto it and peered in. The space was draped with cobwebs, the interior deep in shadow. She heard Baraka’s voice. Rising onto her toes, her eyes following the sound, Aisha made out his form. The girl was standing before him. She heard Baraka’s voice again.
“Do it.”
There was a faint sniffing sound and Aisha realized that the girl was crying.
“Do it!” repeated Baraka fiercely. “Or you’ll be punished.” His voice sounded shaky, with nerves, or excitement—Aisha couldn’t tell.
Slowly, the girl knelt in front of him, her shoulders making little jerking movements, as if she was trying to quell her sobs. Baraka placed his palms on a shelf behind him as the girl reached out and lifted his tunic. Her head and shoulders were blocking Aisha’s view, but it was obvious what she was doing as she leaned in close. Baraka closed his eyes, his face strained.
Aisha’s legs gave way and she half-jumped, half-stumbled from the pail onto the warm stones. Her whole body shaking with disgust and rage, she turned and fled.
THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 26 MAY A.D. 1276
Blood dribbled thickly from the lion’s mouth as it swung to and fro from the pole, legs trussed together over the beam, great head lolling. Flies, drawn to the bloody puncture in its side, buzzed in an agitated cloud. The servants swatted them away every so often, but the flies kept returning in lazy, ever decreasing circles.
Kalawun relaxed in his saddle, holding the reins with one hand, feeling the horse’s muscles shift and slide beneath him as the beast moved slowly up the sandy path toward the citadel. Behind him came a company of courtiers, including his sons, Ali and Khalil, and bringing up the rear were squires and the servants with the lion.
“You’ve been quiet since we left the plain,” said Kalawun, glancing at Baraka, who rode beside him on a jet-colored gelding. “Is there something wrong?”
“No,” murmured Baraka, staring straight ahead.
“It was a fine kill.”
Baraka’s eyes narrowed. “No, it wasn’t. You were there first. The kill was yours to take. Instead, you let me have it. I don’t need your help. I can do things for myself.”
Kalawun was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, my prince. You are right, of course.”
Silence descended, punctuated by the conversation of the courtiers behind them and a burst of laughter from Ali as his younger brother, Khalil, said something that amused him. Kalawun’s smile faded, the brief pleasure he had found in the hunt gone. In trying to please Baraka, he had only succeeded in alienating him further. Things were not going as planned.
For the past two months, he had been kept busy with the organization of the forthcoming Anatolian campaign, especially so since Baybars had been absent for several weeks, having marched on Karak, a stronghold in the Sinai Desert where the Mamluk garrison were reported to have rebelled against him. Baybars returned several days ago, the horses of his Bahri officers dragging the mutilated corpses of the ringleaders behind them, the rest of the dissenters having been banished from the kingdom and a new company installed. Baybars was in a foul rage. The only good news that had come in over the past month was in Ishandiyar’s victorious return from al-Bira. Baybars had declared an evening of feasting and a polo tournament to celebrate their victory over the Ilkhan and the Mongols. Kalawun, listening to Ishandiyar speak of his Syrian venture, had wondered how Nasir was faring in his hunt for the Assassins. He was used to having the officer around and missed his solid company.
Since Aisha had told him Baraka may have been meeting with Khadir and Mahmud, Kalawun had been locked between his private concern over the youth, who seemed to be becoming increasingly withdrawn and volatile, and an inability to do anything about it. The hunt that morning had been the first real opportunity he’d had to speak with the youth, but Baraka had been sullen and pensive and all of Kalawun’s efforts to draw him from his mood had been in vain.
Up ahead, a black snake emerged from the bushes, its thick body glistening as it waved back and forth across the path, making a twisting pattern through the sand. Kalawun’s horse snorted uneasily, and he slowed the beast with a squeeze of his knees, waiting until the snake disappeared. “Have you seen Aisha of late?” he asked Baraka, with feigned lightness, as they continued on up the hill, joining the main path to the citadel, which Kalawun noticed was marked with many hoofprints and lines drawn by wagon wheels.
Baraka glanced at him. “I do not wish to speak of her.”
“Does my daughter not please you, Baraka?”
Baraka mumbled something that Kalawun didn’t catch.
“We all have duties to our wives,” Kalawun went on gently. “To our positions. When you are sultan, you will need an heir. I know your mother is concerned about this. Is there anything you wish to discuss?”
“I said no.”
“Very well. I just want you to know that I am here. I would like to think you would come to me if you needed me. Although you have your friends, of course, and your father and Khadir.”
Baraka’s head jerked up. His eyes flashed with suspicion. “Khadir? He is my father’s companion. Why would you think I would talk to him?”
“I know he is fond of you,” responded Kalawun carefully.
Baraka continued to stare at him, then turned back to the road, his face troubled. The walls of the citadel loomed ahead, white against the turquoise sky. A group of ragged children, playing on the verge, ran alongside the stately procession, calling out to the company. Baraka ignored them, but Kalawun reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of silver coins, which he tossed to the children, who dove on them, shouting delightedly.
“Why did you do that?” asked Baraka moodily, after they had left the children behind.
“They are poor, and I am not. Would you not do the same for your citizens?”
“They aren’t my citizens.”
“One day they will be. Those same children might be grown when you come to power. Would it not be good for them to remember your benevolence, your charity?”
“My father doesn’t throw coins to peasants, yet they admire and fear him. People respect strength, not pity.”
“You are not your father, Baraka.”
“No,” said the prince in a low voice. “I am not.”
“Besides,” said Kalawun, keen to keep the conversation going, “Sultan Baybars helps his people in other ways. He builds them schools and hospitals, great places of worship, cisterns for fresh . . .” He stopped, hearing shouting ahead. As they rounded a bend in the path al-Mudarraj, the citadel’s gate, rose before them. The portcullis was raised and a train of wagons, horses and people were filing in. As Kalawun and Baraka approached, they realized that the train had halted halfway, the back of the procession stalled outside the gates. The shouting was joined by children wailing. Kalawun’s brow furrowed as he saw lines of women and girls between the wagons. They were a bedraggled company, their faces drawn with exhaustion and shock. Guarding them were Mamluk soldiers on horseback and on foot. The shouting was coming from deeper within the citadel.
“What is it, Father?”
Kalawun glanced around to see Ali and Khalil craning their heads to look. He raised his palm, signaling for his sons to hang back with the rest of the hunting party.
“Wait here, my prince,” he told Baraka.
The Mamluks guarding the women and children moved aside as Kalawun passed through the gate. Riding into the courtyard, he saw Baybars. The sultan was looming over a Mamluk soldier clad in jade-colored robes, who was holding a mail helmet under one arm. Baybars’s face was thunderous. He turned as he saw Kalawun and strode toward him, leaving the beleaguered soldier behind him, whom Kalawun now recognized as an amir named Usamah.
“Do you know anything of this?” Baybars demanded.
Kalawun swung a leg over his saddle and jumped down. “Anything of what, my Lord Sultan?”
Baybars was pacing like a cornered lion, watchful, wrathful.
Kalawun looked to Usamah, who came forward cautiously when Baybars didn’t answer. “Amir Kalawun, we have returned from Palestine, following our assault on Kabul, to deliver the captives we took in the raid.”
“An assault?” demanded Kalawun. “On whose orders was this executed?”
Baybars turned on Usamah. “If you say once more that the order came from me, Amir, I will gut you where you stand.”
Usamah was pale beneath his tan, but he continued speaking. “It seems the order we received did not come from Lord Baybars,” he explained to Kalawun. “It was, however, marked with his seal.” He reached into his robe and drew out a scroll.
Kalawun inspected it. “He is right,” he said, looking at Baybars.
“I sent no such order, Kalawun,” responded Baybars in a voice like steel.
Kalawun glanced at the terrified women and children. He expected very few of them, if any, could understand what was being said. For all they knew, Baybars and Usamah might be arguing over the best way to kill them. “Then it would appear that someone has been using your name to do their own work, my lord.”
“It was me.”
Kalawun, Baybars and Usamah turned.
Baraka had entered the courtyard. He had dismounted his horse.
“What did you say?” murmured Baybars.
Baraka tried to speak again, but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, then pulled himself up straighter and looked his father in the eye. “I wanted to help you, Father. I heard reports of spies in this village and I knew you were too busy planning the campaign to deal with them and so I took it upon myself to act. I sent the order in your name.”
Usamah was looking stunned. Kalawun’s face was stony, yet thoughtful. Baybars moved away from his son.
“I thought you would be pleased,” continued Baraka, taking a tentative step toward him. “I wanted to help.” His voice was growing weaker, becoming more beseeching. “I did it for you, Father.”
Baybars whirled on him. Striding to the youth, he took a fistful of his tunic, which tore as he hauled Baraka up. Raising his hand, Baybars cuffed him brutally across the face with the back of his closed fist. Still holding onto him, he struck him again. Baraka cried out, trying to fend off the blows, struggling in his father’s grip. But Baybars refused to relinquish his hold. Blood started to pour from Baraka’s nose with a third blow, and a crimson gash opened above his eye as one of Baybars’s rings snagged on the soft skin and tore it.