The Lion of Cairo (41 page)

On his knees, Turanshah bent his neck. “Such is your right, O Prince.”

The Caliph raised his voice. “And so it is. But it is also my right to pardon any who have wronged me. This, then, is my decree: the Jandariyah are no more. I order your standards and battle flags to be desecrated and burned, so, too, your symbols and insignia. Rise, Captain. I will spare you and your men, for Cairo has need of skilled troops and skilled commanders; thanks to Jalal’s treachery we will soon face not one army but two. If it is Allah’s will, you will redeem your honor on the battlefield. Now, where is my vizier?”

“He awaits you inside, Glorious One.”

“Does he?” Despite a veneer of exhaustion, resolve flared in Rashid al-Hasan’s dark eyes. “Well, let us not keep him waiting.”

Preceded by Turkish archers and surrounded by a bodyguard of mailed
mamelukes
, Caliph Rashid al-Hasan entered the Golden Hall of his ancestors with little pomp or ceremony. The remaining Jandariyah, who had already divested themselves of their weapons, stood quietly by, tending to their wounded and awaiting their captain. Knots of eunuchs and courtiers milled about—supplicants who had sided with the vizier and had sought safety in his presence when the uprising began now tried to distance themselves from him. They cried out when they saw the young Caliph enter, wishing Allah’s blessings upon him or begging that he remember a kindness once paid, a compliment once given. For his part, Rashid al-Hasan ignored them.

He fixed his attention solely upon Jalal.

In gleaming white raiment, the vizier waited in his customary place of honor to the right of the dais. He nodded in greeting, his face a blank mask that betrayed nothing. His creature, Mustapha, stood near with his hands folded—his manner that of an intermediary who waited patiently to reconcile two warring factions. The old eunuch bowed low as the Caliph approached.

“Great One, we—”

“Be silent, wretch,” the Caliph said, his voice brimming with venom. He stepped closer to Jalal, the
mamelukes
shifting to envelop all three men. “There is no explanation you can give, no lie you can spool, that will gull me into thinking you any less guilty of treason.”

“Then let us tell the truth,” Jalal replied. “I am guilty, as you say. But not of treason. My crime is one of caring too much for the welfare of Cairo.”

Rashid raised an eyebrow. “Your hypocrisy is staggering, matched only by your arrogance! You care so much for Cairo’s welfare, and for the welfare of its people, that you would enter into a blasphemous alliance with the Nazarenes? That you would provoke violence in order to advance your own fortunes?”

“If it meant a chance for stability in the future, then yes on both counts! The Caliphate—
your
Caliphate—has become a laughingstock! Cairo needs and deserves a strong sultan … not a boy who would play at being a ruler!”

The Caliph’s nostrils flared. “I swore today what would happen if you further tested my patience, and so it will be! I condemn you to death, Jalal al-Aziz! And, once my executioners have wrung every last ounce of agony from you, you will be gutted and your miserable carcass hung from Zuwayla Gate!”

At this, Jalal only laughed. “You fool! Amalric is coming, no matter what you do to me! And the Infidel will be here sooner than you think! What will you do without me to bargain on your behalf? What will you do when the hosts of Jerusalem appear at your gates?”

“Look to our steel and place our faith in Allah!”

“Faugh!” Jalal swaggered toward where Massoud and Gokbori stood, giving Assad an evil look as he passed. “Without me, Amalric will crush your paltry army and Cairo will become a city of Nazarenes! Is that what you want, Turk? And you, you Circassian dog … do you want to see your families on the slave block or worse?” Jalal gestured to the captain of the Jandariyah, who stood with his officers. “And what of you, my feckless Turanshah … do you want to see the streets flow ankle-deep in blood? Such is what will come to pass if you follow this misguided boy! I bid you seize him, throw him in the deepest dungeon, and perhaps I can be persuaded to intervene on your behalf … before you are compelled to kiss the rings of your new Nazarene masters!”

“Silence!” Rashid al-Hasan strode toward his deposed vizier, balled fists rigid at his sides. “Now you will listen to me, swine! I—”

A bloodcurdling cry split the air; Mustapha, forgotten in the exchange between Caliph and vizier, sprang forward, intent on driving the dagger in his aged fist into Rashid al-Hasan’s back. But, too slow did the old eunuch move; startled, the Prince of the Faithful whirled even as Amir Massoud stepped into the dagger’s path. The slender blade ripped through the black linen covering his
jazerant
before snapping on his mailed breast. He flung the eunuch back with a shout, and a trio of Circassian sabers licked and darted, accompanied by the slaughterhouse sound of cloven flesh. A heartbeat later, Mustapha’s headless corpse crashed to the ground, bright blood washing over the pristine white tiles.

In that same instant, from the corner of his eye, Assad caught a flicker of steel as Jalal drew a blade from inside the sleeve of his
khalat
. No one else noticed this small movement—not the Caliph, whose back was to him; not Massoud, who staggered and clutched his bruised chest; not the Turk, Gokbori, who turned to issue orders to the White Slaves of the River. The old eunuch’s death had been nothing more than a diversion, a sacrifice …

And Assad alone saw the gleam of triumph in the vizier’s eyes.

Too long had he held himself in check; now, with the mission entrusted to him by the Hidden Master a hairsbreadth away from ruin, the Emir of the Knife did his lord’s bidding. Assad leaped sideways. Ancient steel sang. Driven by an ancient rage, it cleft the golden air of the hall; the triumph in Jalal’s eyes turned first to disbelief, then to fear as the edge of the Assassin’s
salawar
took his hand off at the wrist.

Limb and blade clattered to the floor in a rain of blood.

Assad did not hesitate. Faster than the vizier could react, he plunged the tip of his
salawar
into Jalal’s chest, impaling him with such ferocity that the reddened blade stood out a handspan from between his shoulder blades.

Jalal looked down, confused, and then raised his head to meet Assad’s scarred visage. A familiar grimace twisted the vizier’s face, the sudden realization that
something
had entered him, something dark and implacable—something that filled his skull with a thousand cries of agony and rage. His mouth opened in a silent scream and, like a marionette unstrung, Jalal’s legs buckled. Assad bore him to the ground amid shouts of alarm. “Allah!” The Caliph spun back around, wide-eyed, his
mamelukes
pressing close to him.

The fingers of Jalal’s remaining hand knotted desperately in the breast of Assad’s
khalat
. “Wh-who … wh-who are … you?”

“My master is a young
shaykh
of storied lineage,” Assad growled, “who dwells on a mountaintop by the shores of the Caspian Sea…”

Jalal’s eyes widened in recognition.
“Al-Hashi—”

But as he tried to gasp out the name, Assad wrenched his
salawar
free with a savage twist. And Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman—the man who would be Sultan—died in a choking rush of blood.

Assad wiped his blade clean on the leg of Jalal’s trousers and stood, turning to face the Caliph. The young man stared at the body of the one who had been his vizier—and his sworn enemy—as though unable to grasp the reality of his death. “Cairo is yours, my lord.”

The Caliph blinked. “We … we must prepare,” he said. “Spread the word to my people, to the people of Cairo. Tell them we must prepare for the city’s defense, for the defense of Egypt.”

“Allahu akbar!”
Assad said, raising his voice for all to hear. “Long live the Prince of the Faithful!” Instantly, the cry was taken up by the White Slaves of the River, by Turk and Circassian. The suspect courtiers responded with thunderous acclaim; even the defeated Jandariyah spoke up, adding their voices to the din. “Allahu akbar!
Long live the Prince of the Faithful! Long live Rashid al-Hasan!”

The Fifth Surah

SON OF
WICKEDNESS

1

In the gray half-light that presaged the dawn, the gardens of the Great East Palace were cool green oases, the very air alive with birdsong. The Emir of the Knife sprawled on a divan, on a portico overlooking one such garden—the slain vizier’s favorite, he had learned. The Assassin studied a delicate
shatranj
board and its myriad pieces: one side in ebony, the other in ivory. A faint breeze set the portico’s linen sheers to billowing, spicing the air with the scent of oranges and flowering jasmine.

Assad had forsaken his bloody kaftan and sandals; now, he wore a tunic and belted trousers of gray linen beneath a rich black
khalat,
its sleeves adorned with bands of Kufic script embroidered in gold. Boots of soft leather cased his feet, while a black silk sash and a turban sat neatly folded upon a settee. His sheathed
salawar
lay across his knees.

Assad lifted the ivory
shah
off the game board and stared at it. Exquisitely carved, its silver trim and pearl and opal inlays sparkled as it caught the rising light. “The Caliph,” Assad muttered. He placed the piece at the center of the board.
I’ve cut his strings; he stands now on his own two feet, free and unfettered. But for how long?
Mercy was Rashid al-Hasan’s weakness; an hour ago, he forbade his
mamelukes
from decimating the ranks of the palace chamberlains and courtiers—Jalal’s cronies who supported him in all things. “Too many have died already,” the Caliph told them, and no argument Assad could make would change his mind. The courtiers praised his mercy and swore their allegiance, true, but how long would it take their praise to turn to scorn?
This mercy, will it be his strength or his downfall? I wonder. And will it matter?

The Assassin caught up the two ebony horsemen, turbaned cavaliers on rearing mounts. Frowning, Assad placed one at each edge of the board, to the left and the right of the gleaming white
shah
. An army at Bilbeis and another at Atfih, with Cairo between them—like an ingot of brittle steel caught between hammer and anvil.
Is the Caliph cunning enough to play one against the other?

There was another threat, too; one the Prince of the Faithful was wholly unaware of: the dogs of Massaif. Assad lifted an ebony pawn from the board and placed it in the shadow of the ivory
shah
.
Are they in league with Shirkuh or Amalric, or do they have their own agenda?
More often than not, the Syrian
al-Hashishiyya
held their knives for sale; they were consummate infiltrators, capable of spreading terror and fading into the night, distracting city leaders from the true threat of an invading army. Hiring them was the kind of stratagem Assad expected of Amalric.
And is it mere coincidence that their
emir, the one called the Heretic, is of Frankish blood?

Assad stared at the board. Daoud ar-Rasul’s admonition to him echoed in his skull: “Use your formidable skills to strengthen the Caliph’s position and dispose of any who would do him harm.”

Dispose of any who would do him harm.
Assad massaged his forehead, stretched, and sank back into the divan. Where should he begin? Should he let Shirkuh and Amalric fight over Cairo, and then put the victor down as he comes to claim his prize? Or should he visit each camp the night before the battle and spike their heads to a tentpole? And what of the Heretic? No doubt he meant the Caliph harm, as well. And then there were the countless lieutenants and underlings in each man’s entourage, all of whom would gladly do what their masters could not.
Dispose of any who would do him harm
, Daoud had said.
Dispose of any
 …

“An easy order to give, my old friend.” Assad murmured, closing his eyes. “But I am only one man…”

2

Dawn spread across the Nile Valley, the sun’s rays lending a tinge of gold to the mist overhanging the stubbled fields around the fortress-city of Atfih. Groves of date palms and dense thickets of sycamore fringed the fields, and hard by stood clusters of drab shanties where geese cackled in wicker cages and chickens scratched the dusty ground. Thin plumes of smoke rose from outdoor ovens as village women ground barley into flour and kneaded out flat loaves of bread; sleepy-eyed children went about their chores. Already, the fellahin were up and about—men burned dark by the sun and clad in dirty white head scarves and galabiyas—field workers and brick makers, carpenters and potters, all bound for field, forge, or kiln.

As the day brightened, villagers paused in their labors and glanced up from the ground, shading their eyes to stare at the crenellated battlements of Atfih. An errant breeze stirred the banners above the citadel. But the cloth that rippled and snapped and caught the morning light was not the familiar gold and yellow of the Fatimid Caliphate. It was black, a square of silky night emblazoned with silver script—the standard of the lord of Damascus. The banner of Shirkuh.

At this, the villagers merely shrugged and returned their attention to the hard soil at their feet. New master or old, in war or in peace, all things were equal in the eyes of Allah …

3

The officer tasked with rousing the new master of Atfih from slumber shared in the fatalism of the common man. He understood that Allah apportioned all things in equal measure, for good or ill, as He saw fit. “And there is no God but He,” the officer, Yusuf ibn Ayyub, said. He was a slender Kurd with a neatly trimmed beard and melancholy eyes. This morning a hint of a smile graced his thin lips, for he had the opportunity to be the bearer of glad tidings. News had come during the night. News from Cairo.

Yusuf’s path carried him away from the citadel of Atfih and into the tangle of streets by the main gate. Shirkuh, who was both his commander and his uncle, refused to claim the citadel for his quarters, as was his right. Instead, he bedded down among his beloved troops, savage Turkomans who were eager to prove themselves not only against the Infidel, but against the Moslem enemies of Nur ad-Din, as well. Yusuf admired them. They were unparalleled horsemen, masters of bow, lance, and sword, and they loved their Kurdish leader as much for his fury in battle as for his raucous nature.