The Lion of Cairo (40 page)

“And so? I should throttle you right here!”

Mustapha’s bruised lips writhed. “M-mercy!”

The crack of boot heels on marble caused Jalal to cut short his threat of bodily harm. He flung the old eunuch to the ground and turned as the Syrian captain, Turanshah, approached. The grim lord of the Jandariyah seemed the personification of War, clad as he was in a full hauberk of black mail edged in gold, mail leggings, and an etched-steel helmet inlaid with gold and onyx. One scarred hand rested lightly on his saber, its hilt jutting from a silken girdle the color of blood. “Excellency.” Turanshah inclined his head. Hard black eyes flicked down to the eunuch then back again, his lip curling in obvious distaste.

“What news?”

“The White Slaves of the River have seized control of the palace gates, Excellency. The outer courts have fallen to them, and even now they are forcing their way inward, driving my Jandariyah ever closer to the doors of this hall.”

“How did they get in?”

“It does not matter how, vizier,” Turanshah replied. “All that matters is they are in, and they are wreaking havoc. I do not know how much longer my men can hold them at bay. You should entertain the possibility of surrender, Excellency, before our position erodes any further.”

“Should I?” Jalal resumed his pacing. “What of the Sudanese mercenaries? Can we not get word to Wahshi and his dogs, order them to break through the
mamelukes
and make their way into the palace?”

“How?” Turanshah replied, anger flashing through his normally reserved manner. “Did I not speak clearly, vizier? The slaves control the gates, and they will defend them to the last—against the Jandariyah or against the Sudanese, it makes little difference! And why should they not? Your foolish threats against their families have forged them into a brigade of martyrs!”

“Hold your tongue, Syrian, lest I have it torn out!” The vizier rounded on his mailed captain. “What has become of the Jandariyah’s famed loyalty? Have you lost your nerve, man?”

“The Jandariyah are as loyal as they are courageous, and none more so than I, but only a fool throws his life away for a hopeless cause! Gokbori has us surrounded! This”—Turanshah raised his hand, indicating the soaring dome of alabaster and gold—“will likely be where we make our final stand! The Sudanese may seize the initiative and drive off the
mamelukes
, true, but it will only be long after we are dead. Your bid for power has failed, vizier. However, we are not without options.” The Syrian turned and motioned for one of his men—an officer, by the gold inlay adorning his helmet—to come closer. The man stopped at a respectful distance and saluted. “Ghuri, tell the vizier the words of the Caliph.”

Jalal started forward. “You saw the Caliph? Where?”

“The harem, Excellency.” The officer, Ghuri, bowed. “We were sent to apprehend him but our task was interrupted by a strong force of Circassian
mamelukes
, led by their amir, Massoud. They took charge of the Caliph.”

“But al-Hasan spoke to you?”

Ghuri nodded. “He said he hoped to pardon the Jandariyah, Excellency. He said it would grieve him beyond words to see my brothers and me annihilated by his Turks, and that in the days to come Cairo would have a grave need for soldiers.”

“A fine offer for you, Turanshah, but where does that leave me?” Jalal gave a short bark of laughter. “Alone with my eunuchs and my dreams?”

The Syrian dismissed Ghuri, returning his salute; he watched the captain rejoin his men, and then turned to face the vizier. “You are a cunning man, Excellency. Feign remorse, prey upon the young Caliph’s need to show mercy, and live to fight another day.”

Jalal exhaled, a drawn-out suspiration that came as much from the depths of his soul as it did from his lungs. His plans—his meticulous and carefully laid plans—were spooling off into the ether like string unrolling from a spindle. Where had he gone wrong? Whom had he misjudged? More importantly, what could he do to stop this reversal?

Scowling, the vizier met Turanshah’s expectant gaze and waved him away. “Allah! Let me weigh your counsel in peace!”

“Time is of the essence, Excellency,” the Syrian said, sketching a brief bow. “For each moment you tarry means more casualties—and I can ill afford to lose more men.”

Jalal turned to face the dais, the Seat of Divine Reason gleaming like a prize beyond his grasp. He felt Mustapha’s presence at his side. “I will never be Sultan of Cairo now,” Jalal said, his voice a mingling of anguish and anger. “Nor will I remain its vizier if, indeed, al-Hasan permits me to live. What is left to me, my old darling? Humiliation and a lingering death at the hands of my enemies?”

Mustapha said nothing for a long while. Jalal glanced sidelong at him; the old eunuch seemed lost in thought, his brows drawn, and one wrinkled hand massaging the loose flesh of his neck. The weight of years bore down upon his shoulders like a porter’s burden. When he spoke, however, his words carried silken promise. “You said before that all of this is naught but a
shatranj
match, Excellency. If that is true, do we not now stand upon the brink of
Shah Mat
?”

Jalal frowned. “How? The board does not lie. I have lost my pawns, my elephants, my
rukhs;
my horsemen are too distant to be of use, and all I have by my side is a single
wazir
. My
shah
stands bare before my enemy.”

“And still,
Shah Mat
is possible,” Mustapha said. “If a man possesses a sultan’s audacity. It is said Nur ad-Din won his first match against his father, the
atabeg
Zangi, by employing a maneuver known as
al-Jambiya,
the Curved Dagger. He lured his opponent close and—”

“And took him unawares,” Jalal whispered. The Curved Dagger was a thorny
mansuba,
one predicated upon recklessness and a flagrant disregard for the safety of one’s own
shah
. It was a move of last resort. “If I do as you suggest I won’t live to enjoy my triumph.”

“Neither will al-Hasan. This way, at least, you control your own fate.”

“What of you?”

Mustapha sighed. His eyes, too, flicked to the throne of the Fatimid Caliphs. “I am old, Excellency. I have lived a full life, and one that has earned me the trust of men far greater than I. Beginning anew holds no attraction for me. Let me be the
wazir
at your side, my
shah,
as I have ever been. Let me be the lure.”

Slowly, Jalal nodded. “As you wish, my old friend. Gather what we need while I prepare the way forward.” He glanced at the captain of the Jandariyah and caught the Syrian’s eye for a significant moment. “
Inshallah,
our enemies will be caught off guard.”

“And God willing,” Mustapha said, more to himself than to Jalal, “our end will be quick.”

19

Assad trailed Rashid al-Hasan and the woman, Parysatis, through endless narrow passages, each one as featureless as the last: nondescript brick, yellow and crumbling with age, inlaid with spy holes at regular intervals, and lit by slashes of lamplight from the world beyond; ramps and rough-hewn steps followed the track of the palace’s ancient foundations. Despite a maddening similarity, Parysatis navigated every twist and turn with confidence, pausing at junctures only briefly to get her bearings. Always, she led them in the direction of Turkish voices. At his back, Assad heard the scrape of boots and the clank of mail and harness as Massoud and threescore Circassians followed in his wake.

They found Gokbori a quarter of an hour later, in the vaulted corridor that ran between the doors of the Golden Hall and the Gate of al-Mansuriyya—the main entrance to the Great East Palace—trumpeting orders in the harsh tongue of the steppe. Massoud emerged first; a grim smile touched his visage as he hailed his brother commander.

“Have you left any for my Circassians, Turk?”

“Mayhap they can handle any stragglers!”

Gokbori stood at the center of an eerie battlefield, one lit by the buttery glow of gold-filigreed lamps. He grinned at the logjam of corpses that marked the site of the fiercest fighting. The Turkish assault had been a whirlwind of steel and fury—though Moslem, Gokbori and his kin remained sons of the distant steppe, barbarians who hungered for the glory of battle. The Syrians, it seemed, had obliged them.

The broad corridor stank of slaughter. Delicate tapestries hung awry, splashes of crimson marring the lustrous marble walls. Underfoot, the carpets of far Samarkand were awash in the ghastly fluids that leaked from riven flesh. Assad stepped over the rack of war, over discarded shields and splintered spears, over corpses hacked asunder. Arrows jutted from mailed breasts. A headless body sat upright against the far wall, as though the man had simply had enough and decided to rest for a while. All around, the wounded twitched and moaned and called out for succor.

For all its savagery, the sight of the Turks’ handiwork paled beside Assad’s memory of Ascalon. Not so for the Caliph. The Assassin saw horror reflected in the eyes of the young Prince of the Faithful; Parysatis clung to his arm, blinking back tears at the terrible vista of the corridor.

“Merciful Allah!” the Caliph said. “This was done in my name?”

Assad nodded. “For the good of Cairo.”

“Good? What good? These men—”

“These men were soldiers, my lord. Honor them for their sacrifice, but do not pity them their fate.”

“Yes,” Rashid al-Hasan replied, swallowing hard. “Yes. You are right. But we must help the wounded. Parysatis…?”

The young woman gathered herself together. “I will … I will fetch water, bandages … I will do what I can, Exalted One.”

“Massoud, detail men to help her.”

Gokbori heard Rashid al-Hasan’s voice and hurried over; as the White Slaves of the River fanned out, the Turkish amir knelt in the broth of carnage and made his obeisance to the Caliph. “Rejoice, Great One! Through Allah’s good graces, we now control all nine of the palace gates, and we have driven the vizier’s dogs back to the Golden Hall! We will put an end to them once we find something heavy enough to smash through those doors—”

“No,” al-Hasan said. He was pale and trying his best not to focus for too long on any particular detail of the slaughter. “No. Rise, Gokbori, and call off your men.”

Gokbori clambered to his feet, a scowl darkening his features as he acknowledged his master’s order with a bow. “Have we offended you, O Caliph?”

“No, amir. On the contrary, you and your men have done me an immeasurable service, but I have offered to pardon the remaining Jandariyah, and I cannot have you slaughtering them out of hand. See to the wounded … to the wounded of both sides.”

“As you wish, Great One.” Gokbori turned and motioned for his adjutants.

“You have heralds?” Assad said suddenly.

The Turk glanced at the Caliph, noting the sobriety of his expression upon hearing this man speak. Though he did not recognize him Gokbori afforded the man the same respect. “Aye, I have heralds.”

“Send them to the gates. Have them proclaim the vizier’s death at the hands of Caliph Rashid al-Hasan. No doubt word of your uprising has reached the Sudanese by now. This way, they might think twice about attacking the gates if they believe their patron is no more.”

“And if they demand proof?”

“Tell them they will soon see all the proof they need.” Assad turned to the Caliph. “My lord, it would perhaps be prudent if you summoned the captain of the Sudanese mercenaries to the palace, to have him renew his oaths and pledges in your august presence.”

“Is that not premature?”

“No.” Assad gestured; his hand dropped to the hilt of his
salawar,
muscle and sinew twisting in a vise of hatred. Off in the distance, the gold and ivory arabesqued doors of the Golden Hall were trundling open. “Whether in slaughter or surrender, it ends now.”

Silence fell upon the assembled men. Even the wounded ceased their struggles for a span. Bow strings creaked as, with exaggerated slowness, a man of the Jandariyah sidled into view.

“God grant them wisdom,” Rashid al-Hasan muttered, “for I have no stomach for further bloodshed.”

Assad glanced sidelong at the young Caliph. In Palmyra, he had expressed concern to Daoud ar-Rasul, concern that the young Prince of the Faithful was likely a degenerate of the basest sort. Thus far, Rashid al-Hasan had proven him wrong—which would doubtless amuse Daoud to no end. The Caliph must have sensed his scrutiny, though, for he turned slightly and met the Assassin’s stare, his own eyes betraying his hope for a speedy resolution. “My master was right about you, my lord,” Assad said.

Rashid smiled, lines of fatigue etching his face. “You and I must speak in private once all of this is said and done. I would know more of your master, and of his offer of friendship.”

“As you wish, my lord.” At the end of the corridor, the officer—Assad recognized the golden decoration adorning his helmet—edging through the door raised his hands aloft … and in one he clutched a length of white silk. Assad grunted. “It seems wisdom has prevailed.”

Beside him, the Caliph exhaled.

In short order, an embassy of twelve Jandariyah officers marched in two files through the doors of the Golden Hall of al-Mu’izz li-Din Allah, led by the proud figure of their captain, Turanshah. Though battered and bloodstained, they nevertheless walked with their heads held high, their spears inverted, and their sheathed swords held upright before them. The White Slaves of the River watched in silence.

Massoud and Gokbori flanked the Caliph, their hands on their sword hilts; Assad moved to one side, an implacable shadow, his scarred face immobile and unreadable. A spear-length from the Prince of the Faithful, Turanshah stopped. The Syrian bowed three times, then knelt and placed his sheathed saber on the floor at Rashid al-Hasan’s feet. “I began this day with a thousand men under my command,” Turanshah said. “Now, I have fewer than five hundred. Forgive them, O Prince of the Faithful. Forgive them and put the onus of your anger on me.”

Rashid al-Hasan sighed. “But it was not you alone who betrayed me, was it, Captain? It was you and all your men. Before Allah and the Prophet, would I not be well within my rights to have every last man under your command put to death?”