The Lion of Cairo (47 page)

“Make sure your men know better than to bathe in those canals,” Shirkuh said to one of his
atabegs.
“A crocodile can drag a man under quick as that.” The commander snapped his fingers; at the edges of the pavilion, several other Turkoman officers—older men who had accompanied Shirkuh to Egypt in years past—nodded sagaciously.

A grin split Shirkuh’s craggy face as he caught sight of Yusuf. The Kurd’s voice boomed. “What say you, nephew? Does this place where we are to parley meet with your approval?”

“It is adequate, uncle, though I would not have chosen it. It rests too near the river and a veil of greenery obscures it from casual view. I would have offered to meet the Caliph in a more open spot.” Yusuf frowned. “This is why the task of speaking on your behalf should have fallen to me.”

Shirkuh raised an eyebrow. “And run the risk of them recognizing you and taking you hostage? No, Yusuf, your counsel is too valuable to me. There will be other ways by which you might yet earn glory.”

“There are people for whom glory is no more important than sand, uncle.”

“Indeed. In that you are too much like your father, my staid and pious brother, Ayyub.” Shirkuh poured a measure of
khamr
into the bowl, raised it in salute, and drained it in one gulp. He smacked his lips in relish. “Tell me, Yusuf: is the accumulation of glory not pleasing to Allah?”

“It is, if it serves to exalt His name,” Yusuf said. Nods of assent rippled through the Turkoman officers. “But a man who seeks to adorn himself with glory for no reason other than his own foolish vanity is no better than a whore who paints her face and proudly displays the golden rewards of her sin.”

Shirkuh’s good eye shimmered with unaffected delight. “And that, my nephew, is why I did not send you forth into the lion’s den—to lose you would be to lose my very conscience.”

“And what of your backbone?” A harsh voice lashed out from behind the wall of Turkoman officers. Men parted, allowing Dirgham entry to the pavilion. “Have you lost that, Shirkuh ibn Shahdi?” Clad in a blue
khalat
and gold embroidered undervests, the former vizier of Egypt was a head taller than Yusuf. His salt-and-pepper hair and untamed beard lent him the aspect of a fierce desert prophet; he spoke as much with gestures as with words, as though the wild contortions of his hands helped his tongue retain its silvery edge. “Why do we not attack? Have we not traveled across the desert, endured thirst and horrible privation, for this very moment? And yet, here we stand, admiring the city from afar like pilgrims! Fulfill your obligation to your lord in Damascus, Shirkuh, and lead us into battle!”

Shirkuh refilled his bowl. “I would parley first.”

“Parley? By most holy Allah! You would speak with the Serpent in the Garden of Unimaginable Delights? For that is what Jalal al-Aziz is: a serpent! His words will beguile a simple soldier like you, my lord! His voice sows confusion even among the mighty!”

“I accept the risk,” Shirkuh replied coldly. “Simple soldier or no, I would speak with our brother Moslems ere we come to blows.”

“Then you are a fool!”

At this, one of the
atabegs
—a grizzled officer sporting a forked beard shot through with gray—took a menacing step toward Dirgham; his lips peeled back, teeth bared, as with one sinewy hand he drew his curved yataghan from its sheath. The sword’s razored edge caught the bright sunlight. Dirgham recoiled with a gasp, startled by the naked hatred that gleamed in the man’s eyes.

But a gesture from Shirkuh brought the
atabeg
up short. “Put that away, Uzbek. Has being driven into exile with naught but the clothes on your back taught you nothing, Dirgham? It behooves a beggar to be humble, and not to answer generosity with insults.”

Anger suffused Dirgham’s features. To the lords of Damascus, he was ever the Beggar of Cairo; it was an appellation he was powerless to squelch, for it was one born of truth. He had nothing—not a horse, not a dagger, not a single stitch of clothing upon his person—that wasn’t the product of Sultan Nur ad-Din’s generosity. Shirkuh wanted him to remember that.

With difficulty, Dirgham bent his neck in a stiff approximation of a bow. “Perhaps my words were ill chosen,” he said through gritted teeth. “But that does not change matters. Your master sent you to crush Jalal al-Aziz, not to parley with him! Do your duty or step aside!” Dirgham whirled and stormed from the pavilion.

Grim amusement tugged at the corner of Shirkuh’s mouth. “That one still thinks his nemesis awaits the full measure of his wrath.” Those of his officers within earshot, Uzbek included, grinned—they had heard the tale of Jalal’s demise already. Shirkuh gestured after the retreating vizier with a jerk of his bearded chin. “Keep an eye on him, Yusuf. Dirgham’s aspirations might drive him to mischief, especially since he deems his plan greater than mine.”

“And what is your plan, uncle?”

Shirkuh pursed his lips. He canted his head and fixed his good eye upon Yusuf. In its dark depths, the younger man saw the familiar gleam of reckless ambition. “We took Atfih without striking a single blow. Why not Cairo, as well?”

3

From the garden just inside the Emerald Gate, from a gilded iron bench in the immense shade of a plane tree, Parysatis watched the day pass. She sat on a mass of silken pillows which the Caliph’s slaves had prepared for her, a small ebony table resting at her elbow; a tray of honey cakes and a linen-shrouded goblet of pomegranate juice, its golden surface beaded with moisture, awaited her pleasure. Parysatis ignored the refreshments. Her attention never wavered from the gate.

The Emerald Gate faced north; on a clear day Parysatis could have seen the crenellated heights of the Bab al-Nasr, the Gate of Victory, rising in the distance, towering over Cairo’s ramparts as easily as the latter towered over the Soldiers’ Quarter. Today, the air thick with strangling dust, she could barely see the far edge of the parade field that lay beyond the open gate.

A score of Massoud’s men stood guard, conical helmets and heavy mail flashing in the hazy sunlight. Scarves muffled their noses and mouths as they scrutinized everyone who passed through the Emerald Gate. Palace eunuchs—lesser chamberlains and functionaries—inquired into the business of each and every person who set foot on palace grounds. Some, like the entourage of the chief
qadi
of al-Azhar Mosque, the chamberlains escorted in with great pomp, and were shown to a place where they might refresh themselves before their audience with the Caliph; others—the merchant princes seeking special tax dispensations in light of the coming war, or the adventurous nobles seeking a warrant of command in the Fatimid army—found themselves shunted aside, forced to wait with a thousand other petitioners desiring but a moment of the Caliph’s time. The remainder of the throng, the commoners and those fellahin dispossessed by the sudden arrival of Shirkuh’s army, made it no further. The eunuchs drove them away with curses and threats.

Parysatis sympathized with this last group most of all. They were simple men caught in the merciless vise of war—tradesmen, laborers, and farmers from Fustat and the southern suburbs, separated from their families by chance and pressed into the Caliph’s service by necessity. Most only sought permission to have their wives and children brought inside the city walls; barring that, they begged for the Caliph’s blessing to leave Cairo, to abandon the city in hopes of ushering their families to safety before Shirkuh struck.

She wondered what the Damascenes would do to them, to those left outside the city, after the truce engendered by tomorrow’s parley came to an end. Would Shirkuh leave the poor unmolested as he had the merchants of Fustat, or would his army circle the city and drive the masses before them, killing the men and damning the women and children to lives of bitter slavery? A palpable sense of desperation hung over Cairo. Desperation and fear. Parysatis tasted both in equal measure—though not for her own welfare. Her deepest fears were for Yasmina, who still had not returned.

“I sent a man to inquire after your girl among the servants of Ali abu’l-Qasim,” Massoud had told her that morning. “They claimed not to have seen her since the day of Zaynab’s murder.”

“If she’s not there, then … then where would she be?”

Massoud tugged at his beaded mustache. “Al-Karafa, perhaps,” he’d said at length. “It is the cemetery on the road to Fustat, not far from the old mosque of Ibn Tulun. Abu’l-Qasim’s son and two of his wives are buried there.” Parysatis wanted to go; she wanted Massoud to provide an escort to al-Karafa, but the Circassian responded with a brusque gesture of denial. “Impossible. We cannot even open the gates to admit the families of those poor wretches.” Massoud raised his chin to indicate the fellahin who clambered at the Emerald Gate. “We are under Shirkuh’s scrutiny, lady. Thus far, he has acted with admirable restraint, but only Allah knows how long his benevolence will last. So, we do nothing to provoke the dog until we know for certain what his true intentions are.”

“I cannot leave Yasmina alone out there!”

“We’re not even certain she is out there, lady. That’s the problem … we do not know
where
the girl has gone. For all we know she might have found a bolt-hole here in the city, a place where she might lie low and grieve.” The Circassian amir pursed his lips. “What I can do is send a few of my men out to scour the streets for her. This, at least, will give them something to do while we await Shirkuh’s pleasure. And, if it be Allah’s will, perhaps they’ll find her.”

So as a handful of men searched the streets and alleys of Cairo, Parysatis kept a resolute vigil over the Emerald Gate—the only entrance to the palace the White Slaves of the River had not shut and barred. Of course, the Gate of al-Mansuriyya remained open; those tall, keel-arched doors of cedar and gilded iron provided a direct route from the Bayn al-Qasrayn to the Golden Hall. Reflecting its importance, that way was off limits to all save the amirs of the army and of the palace, their officers and their messengers. No, if Yasmina returned to her—
when she returned,
Parysatis corrected—it would be through the Emerald Gate.

The day trudged on, flurries of commotion punctuating the long stretches of indolence—the clash and clatter of mail as the guard changed; the song of the muezzin as the sun reached its zenith and again as the shadows lengthened; the ghostly bells of Fustat’s Coptic churches, calling their frightened parishioners to the pulpit. Parysatis watched as the wise men of the city—the imams and
qadis
,
shaykhs
and sharifs—arrived to take counsel with the Caliph then left again, their faces no less grim for the effort. She watched the tide of fellahin rise and ebb, their hope that the Caliph might grant them leave fading with the daylight. Parysatis’s hope faded, too, as dusk settled in with no sign of Yasmina.

“Where are you?” she whispered. Desperate tears welled at the corners of her eyes. “Please, come back. Allah, please—”

“May I sit with you?”

Parysatis jumped as a familiar voice spoke from behind her. She turned, wiping tears away with the heel of her hand. Rashid al-Hasan stepped closer and leaned against the bole of the plane tree. The Caliph was dressed simply in a galabiya of loose white linen, without belt or sash, and a turban-wrapped fez. Slippers of gold-embroidered leather protected the soles of his feet. Parysatis made to rise, but Rashid waved the gesture off.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to startle you. May I sit?” The woman nodded and brushed pillows aside to make a space on the bench for the Caliph. “When I didn’t see you this afternoon, I thought perhaps you had returned to the harem. Then Massoud told me where you were … and why you’re holding vigil here. Is there still no sign of your friend? What is her name?”

“Yasmina.” Parysatis sighed. “And no, nothing yet, my lord. I’ve racked my memory for an answer to where she may have gone, some hint from her past as to where she might find a small measure of comfort, but to no avail. I am at my wits’ end.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Parysatis raised her face, her eyes meeting the Caliph’s; she saw nothing patronizing in his expression. Indeed, the stern set of his jaw convinced her that the Prince of the Faithful would reorder the heavens for her if she but asked. Quickly, Parysatis averted her gaze. “No, my lord. No. I thank you for your kindness, but my troubles are of little consequence compared to the troubles afflicting all of Cairo. You have enough to worry about without my making demands of—”

“And yet,” he said, cutting off her protests, “where would I be if you had chosen simply to look the other way, to go about your own business and not get involved in mine? We both know the answer. Jalal’s intrigues have left us in desperate straits, to be sure. But for the moment I’ve done all I can to soothe what ails Cairo. Give me a chance to do the same for you.” The Caliph raised one hand in a gesture of summons; a chamberlain standing a respectful distance hurried forward and knelt.

“Command me, Most Excellent One.”

“Send a robe of honor to Ali abu’l-Qasim, who dwells near the Nile Gate, and send along with it our condolences on the loss of his daughter, Zaynab. She did us a great service and it is one we shall not forget. Further, tell Abu’l-Qasim we would consider it a personal favor if he were to focus his considerable resources on discovering the whereabouts of the girl Yasmina. She, too, has done us a great service and her safety is of the utmost concern.” Rashid al-Hasan dismissed the chamberlain with a nod and returned his attention to Parysatis. “If Massoud is right this Abu’l-Qasim has more eyes and ears than even my own spymasters. He will find her, I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Parysatis said. Tears glistened in her eyes; on impulse, she clasped the Caliph’s hand to her lips and kissed it. He did not recoil, as she feared he might. Indeed, her body trembled as he caressed her cheek and gently wiped away her tears.

“May … may I ask a kindness of you?” he murmured.

“Ask anything of me, my lord.”

“For tonight, at least, I wish to be known simply as Rashid. Not ‘my lord,’ not ‘O Caliph,’ not ‘Excellent One’ or ‘Prince of the Faithful’… just Rashid. Can you do this small thing for me?”