Authors: Unknown
In the end, he had both men moved to the citadel’s infirmary, telling the governor of Damascus, who had heard word of the disturbance, that an unknown man had forced entry into the citadel and attacked his men. Whilst his arm was stitched by the citadel’s physician, Kalawun explained to the governor that he had been in pursuit of the trespasser, but that before he could intercept him the man reached the guards and assaulted them, then fled with a prisoner. He tried to stop the man leaving, but was injured when the assailant pulled a blade on him. Kalawun thought he had managed to convince the governor, but was left to wait anxiously for the two guards to come round. Both men, in awe of the Mamluk commander, and listening groggily to his version of events, appeared convinced that he had in fact been chasing their attacker. But Kalawun guessed uneasily that only time would tell if they started to remember something different. Having sent his men to the mosque, he was then left to mediate between the governor, who wanted to send soldiers after the attacker, and a silent Baybars, who had at first refused to see him at all, then eventually told him to halt any search for the woman and her rescuer. That it no longer mattered.
Kalawun dropped the cloth into the pail and stood, wincing as his muscles stretched. His arm was throbbing, and beads of fresh blood had welled up between the neat stitches the physician had made. He was beyond the point of exhaustion, his body moving almost of its own will, as if his mind were already asleep and his body had forgotten to do the same. He walked in a daze to the shrouded corpse and was dragging it along the wet floor toward his bedchamber, when there was a knock at his door. Shock went through him, firing his deadened senses. Kalawun hauled Khadir the rest of the way into his bedchamber before opening the door a crack.
In the passage, one of Baybars’s eunuchs was waiting. He bowed. “Amir Kalawun. The sultan requests your presence in the throne room.”
Kalawun cleared his throat. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
The eunuch waited outside, leaving Kalawun to hurriedly change his soiled cloak and wash Khadir’s blood off his hands. When he was done, he followed the eunuch warily to the throne room. Had the soothsayer been missed already?
The sultan was standing in front of the windows, bathed in the moon’s fainted red light. The throne room was surprisingly empty, the servants suddenly noticeable by their absence. The mess had been cleaned away, and only the splinters around the door bolt revealed any sign of the violence that had taken place.
Baybars looked around as Kalawun entered. “Amir. I need you to do something for me.”
“My lord?”
“I want you to call a meeting with my chief of staff. Do it quietly. I do not want anyone else to hear of this yet.”
“Hear of what, my lord?”
The sultan moved from the window and climbed the dais. He took a gem-encrusted goblet of kumiz from the table by his throne.
Kalawun glanced around the shadowy chamber as Baybars’s drank pensively. “It is dark in here, my lord. Shall I have the servants light some lanterns?”
“No,” said Baybars, sitting. “I want to watch the eclipse.” He smiled dryly. “I would have thought Khadir would be here to witness it. Or at least to tell me I do not have enough guards. Have you seen him?”
“No,” said Kalawun, a little too quickly.
Baybars didn’t seem to notice. He took several more sips of the fermented mare’s milk. “Things have changed, Kalawun. And I feel better for it. I know, now, what I must do. Too long have I surrounded myself with men who fear, rather than respect, me. I would prefer to have a few loyal advisors than many who secretly despise me.”
“Your men do not despise you,” countered Kalawun.
Baybars held up his hand. “Their dissatisfaction is plain. I dealt with Mahmud, but I didn’t realize how far the infection had spread. It is time to cut out the rest of the corruption.” He paused. “Starting with my son.”
Kalawun was silent.
“I do not want Baraka Khan to take my place when I am gone. I have decided that Salamish will be my heir.” Baybars shook his head sourly. “Nizam will hate me for an eternity, but that bed has been cold for years if the truth be told.”
Kalawun found his voice. “My lord, you should think carefully about—”
“He is not fit to rule, Kalawun,” said Baybars flatly. “I’ve known it for a while now, but I think I was still hoping that he would change. He will not. I see that now. There is weakness inside him that I fear will only grow worse with time. If I had been a better father, then maybe . . .” He wiped his forehead, where a sheen of sweat had appeared, and shook his head. “But I wasn’t.”
Kalawun’s mind was whirling. He knew Baybars was right. He had known for a long time that his efforts to influence Baraka weren’t working. It felt as if he had been trying to bail water from a boat that had gone beyond the point of buoyancy and would, inevitably, sink. But Salamish? He was only seven years old, and Kalawun hardly knew him at all. As he was staring at the floor, his thoughts racing, he heard a clanging sound. Baybars had dropped the goblet of kumiz. The goblet tumbled down the steps, splashing droplets of milk and ringing hollowing as it went. Baybars’s hand was stretched out, his face a mask of confusion. Suddenly, he lurched forward, as if pushed by an invisible hand.
“My lord!” Kalawun raced toward the throne. He sprinted up the steps as Baybars collapsed. “Physicians!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.
“Physicians!”
The throne room doors burst open and two Bahri guards appeared. One of them ran into the room; the other left instantly on seeing the sultan on the floor. Kalawun heard his footsteps echoing in the passage.
“What’s wrong with him, Amir?” said the other soldier, running up to crouch beside the sultan.
“I don’t know,” said Kalawun, holding Baybars’s head. The sultan looked as if he were trying desperately to breathe, as if someone or something had wrapped its hands around his throat and were squeezing the air from him. His eyes were wild, panicked in the last of the dim moonlight bleeding through the windows.
Minutes later, a physician arrived, panting and disheveled. He was followed by servants bearing warm water, knives, cloths, drugs. Right away, the physician ordered lanterns to be lit and the throne room flared into light. Kalawun was pushed aside. The sultan was gasping vainly for breath now, a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing uselessly.
“Did he swallow anything?” the physician called to Kalawun.
“Only kumiz,” said Kalawun. “What can I do?”
“Let me work” was all the physician said.
Kalawun moved away and stood by the window, helpless. Outside, the city was bathed in a strange half-light. He felt someone beside him and turned to see Baraka. The prince’s face was horribly bruised and puffy from the beating Baybars had given him. His eyes were locked on the choking, convulsing form of his father.
“Baraka,” said Kalawun, grasping the youth’s arm. “What are you doing here?”
“Is he dead yet?” said Baraka. His voice was distorted from the swelling in his face, but other than that it was eerily calm. Kalawun started at the question. He stared blankly at Baraka, who seemed to realize that he had said something odd. He shook his head. “What happened?”
“Your father collapsed,” said Kalawun, after a long pause.
“Oh,” said Baraka, in that same placid, emotionless tone.
As Baybars writhed beneath the throne, Kalawun’s gaze fixed in dawning, appalled understanding on Baraka Khan.
35
The Temple, Acre 10 JULY A.D. 1277
The streets of Acre rang with laughter and music. Children, dressed in their feast-day clothes, skipped and played, chasing one another be- tween the legs of the adults who stood in groups outside churches talking animatedly, gathered in market squares to sip spiced tea and share gossip, or sang songs of dead emperors inside packed taverns. Strung on hemp lines between buildings, triangles of sun-faded silk flapped and twisted in the oven-hot wind. Masons’ lodges stood empty, shops were shuttered, fires burned low in the forges of smiths. Only in the Muslim quarter did people go about their normal business. For everyone else in the city, it was a holiday. But not a normal feast day, celebrating the life of a saint, or a festival from the Bible. No. Today, the people of Acre were celebrating death.
Baybars Bundukdari, the man who had herded them like sheep to this little strip of coastline, ravaging their numbers, diminishing their power in the Holy Land, was gone.
Rumor had it that he had been poisoned, some said by his own soothsayer, but no one much cared how it had happened. All that mattered was that the greatest threat the Franks had faced since the days of Saladin had died, and his heir, a mere youth of sixteen, was known to be weak-willed and directionless. And so they rejoiced and laughed, told stories and jokes, and, in one square, someone had made an unflattering effigy of the sultan which was thrown onto a hastily constructed pyre to exuberant cheering.
The news of Baybars’s passing had come almost a week ago and was announced by the bailli, Count Roger de San Severino, at an emergency meeting of Acre’s High Court, after which the count had cemented his favorable position in public opinion by declaring a holiday to celebrate the event. The people liked Roger. As did Acre’s oligarchic government. Not for his rule, but for the lack of it.
Following the upheaval of the previous year, Acre had finally settled into its old routines. Business was back to normal, the uneasy peace between the divided quarters had returned, and worry over whether Charles d’Anjou would arrive to upset the balance was starting to dissipate. It was well known that the monarch was too busy struggling to create yet another empire for himself in Byzantium to bother about taking his now established seat in Acre. Some joked that the ambitious king simply had too many thrones and not enough asses to fill them. The people here liked their kings at one remove; the absence of visible rule was what maintained the Crusader capital’s delicate equilibrium. It left the Commune of Burghers, Italian merchant states, masters of the military orders, the patriarch and others all free to rule their little pieces of the city’s pie without too much interference from above, which in turn left Count Roger free to organize jousts and feasts for his noble friends, meaning that, in general, everyone was happy.
Will, standing at the window, looking out over the preceptory, could hear the drunken merrymaking of a group of revelers beyond the Temple’s walls.
“Close the curtains.”
He looked round to see Everard blinking painfully at him. He let go of the drape, which swished back into place with a swirl of glittery dust motes, shutting out the afternoon and throwing the chamber into a depressing dusk. He crossed to the priest, who was lying huddled on his narrow bed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were awake.”
“For some time now,” said Everard with a drawn-out sigh, laying his head back on his pillow as Will sat on a stool beside him. “The singing woke me.” His bloodshot eyes fixed on Will. “Is it for him?” He sighed again at Will’s nod, this time with sadness in his face. “Like scavengers, picking at the bones of a fallen lion. Crowing as if they killed him indeed!” Everard broke from his indignation as a coughing fit took hold.
Will slid a practiced hand under his head as the priest hacked relentlessly, then, with an enormous effort, finally brought up a glob of discolored, bloody phlegm, which he spat into the cloth Will held in front of his mouth.
“You cannot blame them for their joy, Everard,” murmured Will, handing the priest a cup of water, which was brushed away disdainfully. “During Baybars’s campaign against us, many of them lost loved ones, homes, businesses. This is their justice.”
“Justice?” scoffed Everard. “Were the Muslims offered justice when we came here and invaded their lands? Slaughtered their families?”
“I’m only saying ...”
“I know,” murmured the priest, closing his eyes, “I know.”
“At least now, we have a better chance for peace,
sustainable
peace. Baraka Khan will take the throne and Kalawun will be able to work more freely with us to renegotiate the treaty and to continue building relations between our people. Baybars’s dying is for the best.”
Everard opened one eye a crack and studied him intently.
“And I’m not saying that for me, or out of any sense of vengeance,” said Will, seeing the look.
“In truth, I wouldn’t blame you if you did. He ordered the execution of your father and kidnapped your beloved. You have your own cause to wish him dead.”
“Maybe once. But now he is gone, I find no pleasure in it.” Will frowned. “I’m not sure why. Perhaps because he kept Elwen alive when he could have killed her? I don’t know. I just feel ...” He shrugged. “I feel nothing.”
“I know why,” said Everard sagely.
Will waited for an answer. For some moments, the priest was silent, his eyes closed, ribs rising and falling erratically beneath the blanket. His skin was almost translucent, and stretched thinly over his face, as if there were not quite enough left to cover him. But he was still holding on with every breath. He had been for over three weeks now, far beyond the point where the Temple’s infirmarer believed any man could live. “He is what?” the infirmarer had said to Will. “Ninety years old? He should have passed long ago. I expect this fever will take him very soon.” But that had been a fortnight ago, and even though the last rites had been said over him three times now, Everard was still clinging grimly to life. Will reached out to lay a hand on his forehead, wondering if the priest had fallen asleep. But then Everard spoke.
“You’ve grown up, William.”
Will smiled a little sardonically. “I’m thirty, Everard. I would hope I had grown up sometime ago.”
“For a knight, yes,” said Everard, nodding, “for a commander in the Temple. But not for one of the Brethren, not fully, or to the extent that I knew you could.” Will started to protest, but Everard spoke over him. “For all the years I have known you, William, you have been ruled by passion. A passion to reacquaint yourself with your father and to atone for sins of the past, passion for a woman, for your friends, for revenge. But a man of the Brethren cannot let himself be ruled by personal desires and battles. He has a greater war to fight, above the petty squabbles and toilings of most other men: a war for the future, beyond the immediacy of a battlefield. It is the hardest war: to change the world for the good, not of himself, of politics or of a nation, but of all. You feel nothing for Baybars’s death because you view it now, not in any personal sense, but as one of the Brethren. Perhaps even more so than I do.”