Authors: Unknown
“What is it?” murmured Baraka, frowning.
Khadir delved in and withdrew the tiny phial. His eyes fixed on Baraka’s. “How quickly the cub becomes a lion,” he whispered.
“What does that mean?” asked Baraka sharply, suspecting some offense.
As Khadir passed it across the oil lamp, Baraka saw that the phial was filled with liquid. “It means you are right,” said the soothsayer.
It was late afternoon, just before salat, when one of the eunuchs from the harem kitchen came to Aisha’s room with a tray of food and a goblet of warm, black tea. She turned over on her bed to face the wall as the eunuch entered and set the tray on the floor; she guessed that Fatima had ordered it to be sent. Earlier on, she’d excused herself, complaining that she was feeling unwell. Fatima, who was Baybar’s second wife, wanted the physicians to check her, but Aisha convinced her it wasn’t serious. She just wanted to sleep and be left alone.
Since confronting Baraka, she had wrestled with what to do. Part of her had wanted to rush into Nizam’s room and tell her what she had witnessed with the slave girl, but Nizam would protect her son. She guessed the best person to tell would be her father, but she was mortified by the thought of repeating to him what she had seen. Now she just wanted the whole sordid thing forgotten. At least if Baraka was seeing slave girls, she wouldn’t have to be the one to go to his bed. She despised him so much that even Nizam’s wrath seemed bearable when faced with the alternative. No. She would leave it be.
As the eunuch’s footsteps faded and the door closed, Aisha rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed. Her monkey crawled out from under the cover, where he had been curled asleep. The food smelled good. Slipping off the bed, she sat cross-legged and took a handful of yellow, spiced rice, mixed up with raisins and apricots. Her stomach growled appreciatively. She smiled as the monkey climbed onto her shoulder, his tail brushing her cheek, and she handed him a few grains of rice, which he chewed thoughtfully. Aisha ate a little more herself, then reached for the goblet. The rice was salty and made her thirsty. She took a sip, then another. The tea was dark and heavily-spiced. It tasted a little pungent, but she finished it all the same.
After a minute or so, Aisha set the goblet down and leaned against the bed, idly stroking her monkey’s back and feeling sleepy. Her eyes began to feel heavy after a time, as, she realized, did her arm. She could hardly move her fingers. She flexed them, but found them stiff and immovable, like blocks of wood. She dropped her arm to her side. Her limbs were leaden and her throat felt tight, restricted. The room looked odd, or rather her eyesight felt wrong. As she tried to stand, she found that her legs and arms weren’t working properly. She stumbled onto her knees, knocking over the goblet, which clanged on the tiles. She felt suddenly scared. Her monkey had grabbed a handful of rice and was perched on the bed watching her with his tiny amber eyes. Her throat closed even further, muffling her cry as she collapsed forward onto her rigid hands. Aisha was gasping for breath now, from fear and from the feeling of suffocation that was growing in her throat. There was a cold numbness spreading through her. The door seemed a hundred miles away.
19
Assassins’ Stronghold, Northern Syria 26 MAY A.D. 1276
Nasir hunkered down, his back to the rock. He unhooked his waterskin from his belt and slapped at a mosquito that landed on his neck. The air in the mountains was blessedly cool in comparison to the savage heat of the desert plains, but the slopes were hazy with insects. Behind the rock, a track twisted around the mountainside, heading right, down the mountainside, and left up to the fortress above, the walls of which were scarred and cracked.
Nasir took a drink from the skin. Through the spindly trees that covered the slopes, he could see the plains stretched out below, the endless rise and fall of yellow emptiness a dead place where nothing grew, yet beautiful for all its deadness, a land pinned under vast skies where the shadows of clouds raced for miles. This place was timeless. It looked the same as it had when he was a boy, living in one of the villages scattered around the foothills. The closer he had come to the Jabal Bahra mountains, hunting for the Assassins who had been involved in the attempted murder of Baybars, the clearer old memories became, until now they clung thickly around him, visible in every scrubby slope, palpable in every gust of wind that smelled of wildflowers and heat. He had passed through this region many times since he had left it, but always on campaign, the pounding of soldiers’ feet dulling his thoughts. But now, surrounded by silence, he only had to close his eyes and he would hear the ring of swords and smell the smoke as into the darkness of his mind came men with wild eyes and lunatic grins, faces red in the swirling light of the torches they held. Women screamed and his village burned.
At a shift in the undergrowth, Nasir’s eyes opened. He reached for his sword, but relaxed when he saw a familiar face. It was one of the four soldiers of the Mansuriyya regiment Kalawun had sent with him from Cairo. The soldier was staying low behind the line of rocks and bushes that bordered the track.
“There’s riders coming down, sir,” he murmured, as he reached Nasir. “Three of them.”
Nasir frowned. “Show me.”
The soldier led him a short distance down the track where the slopes above dipped into a crescent, offering a clearer view of the scarred fortress. After a moment, Nasir caught sight of three horsemen on a high ridge, riding in single file.
“Do you think it’s him?” asked the soldier.
“We’ve no way of knowing,” replied Nasir. “Are the others in place?”
“Yes. But what do we do? There are three of them.”
“If I verify the identity of our man, I will give the signal and we will proceed as planned.”
“And the other two?”
“We will have to kill them,” said Nasir grimly. “We cannot hold all three.” The soldier looked worried. For centuries, the Syrian Assassins had struck terror into the hearts of men, be they Christian, Sunni or Mongol. Fanatical followers of the Ismaili branch of the Shia faith, they were silent killers whose feats of cunning and daring were legendary. Many a leader who had opposed them or their beliefs had felt an Assassin’s dagger slip between his ribs. Until five years ago, they had controlled the region from a network of strongholds, established in Saladin’s time by their most famous leader, Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountain. Even now, although most of the brothers, or
fidais
as they were called, had been reduced to little more than hired killers under the control of Baybars, their name still held a vestige of that dread.
“We have the advantage of surprise,” said Nasir, seeing the soldier’s concern.
“I’ve heard it said they can’t be killed by normal means,” muttered the soldier.
“If they are made of flesh and blood, they can be. Let the others know. Await my signal.” With that, Nasir moved back through the undergrowth to his position by the rock, where he waited, eyes on the track. The riders had gone from view, but as he heard the harsh warning cry of an eagle and the sound of loose rocks skittering down the slopes somewhere above him, he guessed they weren’t far. He gripped the hilt of his sword. He wanted to draw it, but resisted the urge. It had to look as though he came in peace.
This fortress was the last stronghold in the Assassins’ control. It, like all of the others, had been subsumed into Baybars’s territories five years ago, after the sultan was attacked by two of their order. Mamluk officers and garrisons were installed, with the fidais kept firmly under their yoke. But the Assassins here had rebelled the previous winter and killed their new overlords, regaining possession of the fortress. At Qadamus, the last Assassin stronghold he had visited, Nasir was told that the Mamluks had attempted to retake it several times and were now awaiting fresh troops from Baybars’s garrison at the nearby city of Aleppo before they tried again. It was at Qadamus that Nasir found a name. Idris al-Rashid. He had interrogated several fidais in his search for those who had been involved in Baybars’s attack, but they had refused to inform on their brothers and were subsequently executed by their Mamluk masters: disloyalty to the new regime wasn’t to be tolerated. One fidai, however, was more forthcoming and offered up the name and Idris’s likely location at the rebel fortress.
Nasir crouched lower, hearing the hoofbeats grow louder. He looked at the trees on the other side of the track. A slight movement in the brush told him his men were in place. A few moments later, the three riders appeared around a bend in the hillside. They looked watchful as they came; two held bows in their hands. The man in front was olive-skinned like his comrades, but stockier in build and older. After they had passed by, Nasir stepped out from behind his hiding place. “Idris,” he called.
Instantly, the three men wheeled their horses around. The nearest to Nasir dropped his reins, snatched an arrow from the quiver on his back and fitted it to his bow in a matter of seconds.
Nasir held up his hands as the weapon was pointed at him. “I am here to see Idris. I mean you no harm.”
The older man jumped lightly down from his horse and approached Nasir. “I am Idris,” he said calmly.
“I sent the message to you,” replied Nasir. “I have information on the forthcoming attack the Mamluks at Qadamus are planning against you.”
“You are the deserter?”
Nasir glanced at the younger men, who both had bows trained on him. “I asked you to come alone.”
“And you said you wished to meet me in the village,” responded Idris, still in that calm tone. “So we have both broken our word.”
“It was too open in the village. I don’t want anyone to see me talking to you. I cannot risk being found by the Mamluks. They crucify deserters. I just want money and then I can disappear. That’s why I came to you.”
“Who gave you my name?”
“A friend.”
“I have no friends.”
Nasir didn’t reply. He raised his hand. Two arrows shot out of the trees on the opposite side of the track and slammed into the mounted men. One was shot in the neck, the other in the back. Both dropped their holds on their weapons, one slipping from his saddle, the other slumping forward. Idris’s horse reared in fright and took off down the track, swiftly followed by the other two, one dragging the fallen Assassin, whose foot had caught in the stirrup, the other still bearing its slumped rider. Within moments of the first arrow being shot, Idris had wrenched a gold-handled dagger from his belt, but Nasir had drawn his sword and two Mamluk soldiers were now darting from the brush to aid him. Idris managed to stab one of the soldiers in the thigh, before a hood was thrown over his head and the three Mamluks grappled him to the ground. He struggled wildly, his bulky body almost throwing them off. Then Nasir slammed the hilt of his sword into the base of his skull and the Assassin slumped in their grasp.
“Are you all right?” Nasir asked the soldier who had been wounded.
The soldier was breathing hard through gritted teeth, and blood had stained his blue robes, but he nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Nasir gestured to the other soldiers who had emerged from the brush, bows in hands. “Find the horses and the bodies, and bring them to the cave. We must dispose of them. Quickly.”
The soldiers headed off, keeping close to the bushes.
“Help me with him,” said Nasir to the others, gripping Idris under the arms.
Together, they carried the unconscious Assassin away from the track, down through a tree-tangled gully. The way was steep, and they had to scramble over rocks and avoid sudden fissures that yawned to either side. Eventually, they reached the cave where they had set up camp four days ago. The two squires who had come with them from Cairo were there, along with their horses. “Get me rope,” gasped Nasir, hauling Idris into the cave. The squires obliged, and soon Idris was propped upright on the damp ground inside, his back against a stout pillar of rock to which he was bound by his stomach and neck. His hands were tied behind him, his feet secured at the ankles. Nasir took the hood from Idris’s head. Blood had stained the material. He checked the wound his sword hilt had made, but it was only superficial. Idris groaned groggily. Taking his skin, Nasir poured water into his palm and splashed it over the Assassin’s face. After a moment, Idris’s gaze focused. Nasir stooped before him. “I have been sent by Sultan Baybars to find those who were contracted to kill him five years ago.”
“Those men are dead. You have wasted your time.”
“Only two were killed that day. From what I have been told, there were others involved in the plot. I have heard that you are the one who ordered the death. I want to know who contracted you. Sultan Baybars believes it was the Franks. He wishes to know the names of those who paid you for your service.”
“You will not get that information from me. Again, I say, you have wasted your time.” Idris met Nasir’s gaze. “You should kill me. I will not betray my oaths to my order or dishonor private agreements.”
“There are worse things than death, Idris,” said Nasir. He rose. “I used to live close by to this place when I was a boy, until my village was attacked and I was forced to flee. Eight years later, I was at Baghdad when the Mongols stormed the city. I escaped the butchery, only to be sold into slavery. I was bought by the Mamluks. The first thing they taught me was how to be a good Muslim.”
Idris spat on the ground. “They taught you to be a Sunni. It is not the same thing.”
“The second thing they taught me was how to kill,” continued Nasir. “And the third thing.” He crouched again before Idris. “The third thing they taught me, when I became an officer, was how to inflict pain. How to keep a man alive for weeks, yet in agony. Which wounds will hurt and which will kill. I am sure you are very strong, Idris, steadfast in your faith. But I will take what I need from you.”
THE CHURCH OF SAN MARCO, THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 26 MAY A.D. 1276
The voices of the congregation joined in song as the priest closed the breviary and the choir led the last hymn of the Vespers service. Besina rocked her baby in her arms, making shushing sounds as the singing woke him with a start and he began to cry. Beside her, Andreas put his arm around Catarina, who yawned widely. Andreas leaned over to Elwen as the rows of people at the back of the church began to file out, the song drifting to an end. “Here,” he said, handing her a small pouch, “for the alms box. I’m going to take the girls outside.”