The Lion of Cairo (36 page)

… and beheld a scene wrought of confusion. His servants and his guards, Syrians in white turbans and gold-edged mail, were down, blood from their hacked limbs and severed necks pouring over the polished tile of the corridor. Their slayers were men likewise armored, though in mail more functional than decorative; Hugh had the impression of swarthy faces and bristling beards beneath iron caps fringed in gray fur.
Turks!

The one nearest him, crouching over the body of his Arab steward, howled like a wolf and leaped, his gory saber whistling for the Frank’s throat. Easily, Hugh caught the blow on the edge of his uplifted broadsword. His riposte smashed through the Turk’s helmet and split the skull beneath. Kicking his blade free of the corpse, he wheeled to face half a dozen others.

“Godfrey!” he bellowed. De Vézelay’s room lay across from his, the door yet closed. “By God, man! Rouse yourself! We’re betrayed!” Together, fighting side by side, the pair of Templars could hold the hallway against a horde of would-be slayers. But Hugh could spare no more concern for his companion. Fired with bloodlust, the Turks came on in a ragged wave of steel and fury.

The blond lord of Caesarea met them breast to breast.
“Sanctum sepulcrum!”
he roared, his broadsword licking out to shear through a Turkish neck. The heathen’s head rode a geyser of blood as his body tumbled to the ground, tangling the feet of those in his wake.

The Frank did not pause; it was not his nature to fight on the defensive. He hurled himself into their midst, his sword aflicker in the dim lamplight, its blade slithering on mail and crashing down upon hastily raised sabers. Blood spattered the walls. Men bellowed in pain and rage as the battle cry of the Order of the Temple drifted over the melee.

“God wills it!”

The end, though, was inevitable. Turkish mail and Turkish shields bore the brunt of the Frank’s blows; with no such advantage of his own, Hugh’s limbs soon grew bloody from the slash and bite of sabers. A spear darted through the press and gored a furrow in his thigh even as a dying Turk at his feet raised himself on one elbow and plunged a dagger into the Frankish knight’s groin. Hugh staggered and fell to one knee.

“Godfrey!” he cried out, coughing on blood. He batted aside another saber thrust and gutted the man with a backhand swipe. The hot, metallic stench of spilled gore filled his nostrils. “God damn you, Godfrey!”

Hugh looked up as a heathen Turk ran at him, his saber held in both hands like a spear. The knight tried to stand, to meet the onslaught on his feet, but the Turk was on him before he could get his legs under him. His sword clattered from his weakened grip. Hugh of Caesarea, soldier of the Holy Sepulcher, bared his teeth in defiance. “God damn you!”

“Allahu akbar!”
the Turk exulted, driving the point of his saber in under the Templar’s left eye and up into his skull …

13

Down brick-lined tunnels lit by slashes of distant torchlight, Parysatis guided Massoud and his grim-faced Circassians to the secret door in the women’s quarters. She was breathing hard, a combination of fear and exertion, by the time she stepped out into the cluttered storeroom. The amir was hard on her heels; one by one, a dozen of Massoud’s soldiers followed, filling the air in the small space with the rank odors of sweat and perfume, wood smoke and sour wine, oiled iron and old leather. The remaining men waited in the tunnel. In the distance, Parysatis heard cries of alarm, terrified weeping, and Lu’lu’s high-pitched voice calling for calm.

“Damn Gokbori’s heathen zeal!” Massoud said. “He goes too swiftly through the palace. We must make haste, too, before the vizier decides simply to knife the Caliph and blame it on the White Slaves of the River.” He sidled to the door and risked a quick glance. Parysatis knew what he would see: a long fountain courtyard tiled in colored marble and sparsely lit with lamps of enameled glass and gold filigree. Likely no women milled about—the threat of strife would drive them nearer to the Chief Eunuch’s quarters, to that portion of the harem complex reserved for the Caliph’s family and favored concubines, in the vain hope that such proximity would mean safety. Massoud spat; he gestured for her to come closer and pointed away to the left. “Look, but carefully.”

Parysatis nodded and leaned across the threshold, just far enough out to see in the direction Massoud had indicated. Near the end of the courtyard, she spotted one of the vizier’s silk-clad chamberlains waiting with a detachment of Jandariyah; the soldiers stood with hands on sword hilt and spear shaft, all eyes focused on an ornate set of double doors as though expecting something ferocious to emerge. Gold flashed as the eunuch chamberlain twiddled his fingers.
Is he nervous or impatient?

“Those are the doors to the old hammam, are they not?”

Parysatis caught his unspoken implication; she managed a nod, her tongue suddenly too dry and thick for speech.
Who are they waiting for?
She clutched the cold hilt of her knife all the more tightly to her breast.
Are we too late?

The amir’s naked saber flashed in the gloom. He relayed orders back through his men. “Twenty of you with me. The rest will secure the courtyard. If the Syrians resist, kill them.” To Parysatis, he said: “Stay back until we’ve dealt with them.” And with that, Massoud plunged from the storeroom, his men fanning out at his back. Parysatis slipped out among them and took shelter in the colonnade ringing the courtyard.

The Circassians made no pretense at silence. Mail
jazerants
and hauberks clashed; with each step boots scraped and harness clattered—and overlaying it all, the sinister rasp of swords sweeping from their sheaths. The Jandariyah heard it and wheeled about, cursing as they bared their own blades.

Massoud strode to the fore, his saber leveled at the Syrians. “If you be loyal to the Caliph,” he roared, “then lay down your weapons and stand aside!”

The officer of the Jandariyah, his gold-chased helmet twinkling in the lamplight, displayed preternatural calm as he inclined his head, making a show of deferring to the vizier’s eunuch. Parysatis stood on the tips of her toes, her view partially blocked by a forest of mailed shoulders and turban-wrapped heads. She saw as best she could the chamberlain backing away, milk-faced, his eyes bulging at the sight of so many green-girdled Circassians, each one burning with a desperate desire to regain the Caliph’s favor. He came up against the ornate doors of the old hammam; then, yelping like a whipped dog, the eunuch hurriedly stumbled through and slammed them shut in his wake.

The Syrian officer shook his head; steel rasped as he drew his sword and turned back to face Massoud. “Brother, we are loyal to Turanshah. We stand down by his order, and by his order alone.”

“A pity, then, to throw your lives away over nothing.”

The Jandariyah shrugged. “It’s all one in the eyes of Allah.”

“I’ve heard no truer words spoken. Your master will know you died well.” The twenty set to follow Massoud into the disused bath massed at his back; the others looked poised to trample the Syrians under heel, swords glittering and ready. Massoud saluted the Jandariyah officer as an equal. “Peace be upon you.”

“And upon you be peace.” The Syrian drew a knife with his free hand; resigned to their fates, his dozen fighters set their spears and kissed the rims of their shields, the iron etched with sayings of the Prophet.

Icy worms crawled down Parysatis’s spine. The young woman edged around the column, her eyes never leaving the back of Massoud’s head as she steeled herself to make for the doors as soon as the first blow fell.
And what will I do about the eunuch?
Her gaze dropped to the knife clutched in her fists. She could do this. She
had
to do this. The Caliph—

A piercing shriek from inside the old hammam sent Parysatis’s heart leaping into her throat. Nor was she alone. That terrible disembodied cry caught Circassian and Syrian alike off guard; veteran soldiers glanced about, uneasy now, their bloody resolve scuttled by a sudden burst of superstitious dread. What was the eerie screech, a harbinger of victory or an omen of doom? Massoud and his Syrian nemesis eyed one another over bared blades, unwilling to look away in case this was but the other’s ruse. But both men wheeled and cursed in unison as something heavy crunched against the ancient cedar doors, shattering hinges and panels and dislodging inlaid gold and silver arabesques.

“Allah!”

Impact flung the doors wide; from her vantage, Parysatis caught a brief flash of gold, a swirl of torn silk amid the dust and splintered wood. She stared in disbelief as the vizier’s eunuch cartwheeled through the air and landed in a heap, his head twisted at an impossible angle.

Silence gripped the courtyard as a man stalked through the wreck of the hammam doors, a long, straight blade in his fist. Clad in a blood-spattered gray kaftan, this tall newcomer paused at the threshold and raked the soldiers of both factions with a glare that promised death to those who crossed him. A short beard did nothing to hide the sinister scar running from his left eye to his jaw. With a slow nod, the man stepped aside and allowed another to pass—a pale figure, dark of hair and dressed in stained white linen.

Parysatis’s breath caught in her throat; around the courtyard, others cried out in recognition.

Caliph Rashid al-Hasan had come.

Parysatis could not pry her eyes off the Prince of the Faithful as he looked from soldier to soldier, from man to man. Few met his gaze. “What goes on here?” he said. “Why do you make ready to fight? Are these men not your brother Moslems, your allies? Why this base animosity when we are all threatened by foreign armies? What goes?”

“They are traitors, O Caliph!” Massoud said suddenly. Parysatis heard the clatter of steel as the Circassian amir fell to his knees. “Followers of that dog, Jalal!”

“Liar!” The officer of the Jandariyah stepped forward and knelt, as well. “We serve our captain, Turanshah, who serves you, my lord. We take our orders from him, not from the vizier.”

Parysatis saw the Caliph arch an eyebrow at his silent companion; the taller man merely shrugged. Rashid returned his attention to the Syrian. “And what are your orders?”

“To … to apprehend any who come through those doors.”

“Will you apprehend me, then? I came through those doors. Will you take me prisoner in my own palace?” The officer fidgeted, looking uncomfortable. He made to answer, but the Caliph stopped him with a raised hand. “No. You need not dissemble. Whether you were privy to it or not, this eunuch brought you here to kill me at the behest of my wayward vizier.” Rashid raised his voice so the Circassians might hear. “But, I hold you men blameless! You, too, are victims of Jalal’s unchecked ambitions!” A rustle of disbelief went through the soldiers.

The officer prostrated himself. “My lord, I—”

“No,” the Caliph said. “Do not speak yet, for I would ask a boon of you.”

“Anything, my lord!”

“Return to your captain and tell him what I have said. Tell him I hold him blameless, and that I extend my hand in pardon to the Jandariyah. Tell him it would grieve me beyond words to see you and your brothers annihilated by my loyal
mamelukes
, especially since in days to come Cairo will have grave need of men such as you. He has only to leave the vizier’s side. Tell Turanshah this. Leave no word of it out.”

“I hearken and obey, O Caliph.”

Rashid nodded. “Then go, and may Allah grant your captain wisdom.”

The officer of the Jandariyah salaamed; as one, he and his men backed out of the Caliph’s presence, wary eyes cast on the Circassians in case this proved merely an elaborate ruse. Yet, no one raised a hand against them as they hurried from the courtyard, their retreat through the heart of the harem provoking fresh cries of terror from the women and barks of outrage from their eunuch custodians.

Once the Jandariyah were out of sight, the Prince of the Faithful turned his attention to the waiting soldiers and their kneeling amir.

“How are you called, my friend?”

“Massoud, O Glorious One. Amir of the Circassian regiment of the White Slaves of the River.”

“A bit less than glorious now, I think.” Rashid smiled, plucking at his dusty and sweat-stained robes. “Rise, Massoud. Tell me, how did you come to be here?”

Coming smoothly to his feet, he sheathed his saber and maintained a respectful distance from the Prince of the Faithful, eyes downcast. Still, despite his submissive stance, Parysatis could see satisfaction flicker across Massoud’s visage—it bolstered his esteem to have his name spoken by a blood descendent of Fatimah, favored daughter of the Prophet. “We heard you were in peril, Exalted One.”

The Caliph grunted in surprise. “Did you?” The younger man glanced at his silent companion, a knowing look passing between them. “From whom? Was it a woman of my harem?”

Massoud turned slightly, lines of confusion etched into his brow; his eyes raked the colonnade until he came to where Parysatis stood, half in the shadow of a fluted marble column. Knowledge of what surely must come next left a cold knot in her belly and set her limbs to trembling. “Indeed, my lord,” she heard the Circassian amir say, gesturing in her direction. “Lady Parysatis came and fetched us to your side.”

Parysatis quailed as every eye in the courtyard fixed upon her, Rashid al-Hasan’s among them. The Caliph’s visage reflected an odd sense of curiosity. He nodded and motioned for her to come forward.

“Lady Parysatis?”

Reluctantly, the Persian woman left the comparative shelter of the colonnade. The soldiers split their ranks to let her through. She kept her eyes averted, suddenly conscious of her lack of a proper veil. How inappropriate she must seem—a Caliph’s concubine flouncing about in a young man’s trousers and consorting with slave-soldiers like some two-copper whore in the shadow of the Bab al-Askar. Her cheeks prickled with color at the idea of the Caliph seeing her in such a sorry state.

Reaching Massoud’s side, she made to prostrate herself, to show her obeisance to the Prince of the Faithful as custom demanded. But as she started to kneel, Rashid al-Hasan arrested her movement by reaching out and taking her hand. She gasped at the unexpected contact.