Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (36 page)

“Elwen?” murmured the priest, rising shakily. “Where is she?”

Will was slightly taken aback by the urgency in Everard’s voice, but he pressed on. “She told me what you made her do. That you went to her and asked her to steal a book from this troubadour everyone’s talking about.”

“Did she say she had taken it? Or anything of Hasan?”

“Hasan’s dead.” Will instantly regretted the unfeeling way with which he had said the words and the subsequent pain that filled the priest’s face.

“What?”

“Hasan’s dead,” Will repeated quietly. “Or so she thinks. The royal guards found an Arab murdered last night in the city.”

Everard stood stock-still for a long moment, then staggered over to his pallet and collapsed heavily onto it, his breathing labored. “No,” he whispered. “God, no.”

Will felt his rage drain from him as he saw the horror in Everard’s face. He crossed to the table where Everard kept a jar of wine and poured out a goblet.

Everard curled his two good fingers around the stem when Will handed it to him. After taking several sips, he leaned his head on the wall and inhaled slowly, each breath accompanied by a high whistling sound. He gestured weakly to a stool by the window. “Sit.”

“I’d rather stand.”

Silence descended, broken only by the wind surging in through the window, lifting the tapestry, then falling back like a wave.

Everard looked at Will. “And the book?” he said finally. “Did she pass it to Hasan?”

“What is this book anyway?” said Will, some of his anger returning at the subject. “What in Hell made you go behind my back and order the woman I…” Will caught himself. “…order Elwen to take it for you?”

“I had no other choice.”

“Yes, you did. You could have asked me. I would have done it gladly rather than put her in danger. All for the sake of one of your precious texts?”

“You wouldn’t have been able to take it,” responded Everard, his exhausted, lined face showing signs of irritation. “She was the only one who could get close enough to de Pont-Evêque without arousing anyone’s suspicions. I need to hear the rest, sergeant. Tell me everything she told you.”

“I should go to the Visitor and report you. You had no right to ask her to do this.”

Everard’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll remember that I’m not moved by idle threats.”

“It isn’t an idle threat.”

“You have no idea what is at stake!” shouted the priest, his voice strained and rasping.

Will went to speak, then shook his head. “What am I even doing here? It’s not as if you’re going to apologize, or explain anything to me, is it?” He crossed to the door.

“William.”

Will halted, his hand on the latch. Everard’s face was shadowed, his brow a craggy ridge over his pale eyes, his upper lip curled in its usual scowl where the scar began. Will searched that face, but found no clue as to why Everard, for the first time in all his years of service, had just called him by his Christian name.

“Stay,” said Everard. “Please. I’ll tell you everything.”

B
aybars stood before the wide, arched window, the desert wind warm on his bare skin. His hair, wet from his bath, clung in dark strands to his scalp. The breeze carried the smells of smoke, spices and the faint odor of dung from the horse market. Below him, stretching out from the massive walls that surrounded the citadel, lay the city of Aleppo, the jewel in his Syrian crown. The evening sun had turned the white domes of mosques and madrasahs gold, and the jeweled pinnacles of the minarets shone like beacons. In a dusty square within the citadel a game of polo was underway. The figures on horseback were tiny at this distance. Baybars loved the game: its swiftness and ferocity. He was one of the best on the field.

He watched the game for a little while, before moving into the pleasant cool of his private chambers. The spacious rooms held little in the way of furniture; their grandeur manifest in their construction rather than their contents. Red and black marble columns rose from mosaic floor to gilded ceiling and wood paneling lined the walls, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Each archway was patterned with stucco carvings and rugs covered the tiles.

Baybars went to a marble stand on which stood a gem-encrusted goblet and jug. He poured some kumiz and sat down on his cushioned couch, but as soon as he had drained the goblet he was on his feet again.

Since his victory at Safed, Baybars had felt his campaign against the Franks to be moving frustratingly slowly. The Christians, Kalawun had pointed out, would doubtless disagree. Following Safed, Baybars had taken a second Templar fortress, which had fallen in a matter of days. A week later, he had destroyed a village where, he had learned, some of the native Christians had been reporting his army’s movements to the Franks in Acre. After that, he had marched his troops down the coast in a massive show of strength. They had killed every Christian they found. And this was nothing when compared to what had been achieved in Cilicia. While Baybars had been attacking the Templars at Safed, Kalawun, whom he had made commander of the Syrian troops, had led half the army north against the Armenian Christians. Kalawun had gone over the mountains, coming in behind the enemy, and had stormed their kingdom. Leaving its cities smoking ruins, he had returned to Aleppo a month ago, with wagons of gold and forty thousand slaves.

But since then, nothing.

Baybars’s impatience gnawed at him. While his officers and soldiers rested, he held talks with the governors of the regiments, meetings with his allies and spent hours drawing up plans for his next campaign against the Franks. But his governors had stuffed themselves so full of victory over the summer they didn’t have the appetite for more. Baybars was entirely unsatisfied. And had called a council that evening to tell them so.

He looked around, hearing footsteps. Through an archway that bore the inscription,
There is no God but God. Muhammad is His Prophet
, a throng of attendants entered. The eunuchs kept their heads bowed as they moved into the chamber, carrying trays of combs, knives and oils. One of them held Baybars’s yellow-gold cloak and turban.

“My Lord Sultan, we have come to dress you.”

“Your purpose is apparent.”

Baybars stood, closing his eyes, as the attendants fussed over him. After six years, he was still unaccustomed to such close attention. He had always preferred to dress himself, but as sultan it was beneath him to do so. The attendants’ hands were light and quick as butterflies on his body and scalp as they combed his hair, shaped his beard and massaged oil into his skin. After dressing him in a white silk tunic, hose and soft-skin boots they drew on his cloak. Two embroidered bands on the upper arms bore his name and title. A mirror was held up. Baybars studied himself in the polished metal. A tall, powerful man stared back at him; face sun-darkened, its lines hard and deep; eyes that had seen defeat and triumph; hands supple, veined and ridged with calluses. Beneath all the gold and finery, he was still a warrior. The knowledge relaxed him.

“My lord.”

Baybars turned from the mirror as Omar entered, dressed in a gold cloak, his hair and beard oiled. Omar bowed. “The throne room is ready. Shall I summon the governors?”

“No,” said Baybars after a pause. He went to Omar and put a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. “Walk with me a while.”

“Of course,” said Omar, surprised and pleased.

Baybars led them along the wide passages, past the chambers of advisors and officials and through marbled reception halls where governors, soldiers and slaves stopped what they were doing and bowed. Before long, they came to an arcade that opened out onto a courtyard overlooked by shaded balconies. Water flowed through channels in the floor from a fountain at the courtyard’s center. It was a cool, green haven of slender trees, feathery plants and fragrant flowers. Above the splashing of water came the chattering of birds from an aviary. Baybars stopped by the aviary and picked up a handful of grain from a feeder. He tossed it inside. “This citadel is impressive, don’t you think, Omar?” he said, watching the birds fly down from their perches.

“I have always thought so, my Lord Sultan.”

Baybars smiled. “I think I prefer it when you call me friend, at least when we’re alone. My Lord Sultan sounds so formal from one who has known me so long.”

Omar returned the smile. “Yes, sadeek.”

“But,” continued Baybars, “it isn’t nearly as magnificent as the citadel Saladin had built for himself at Cairo. It wasn’t just a seat of his power; it was a symbol of it. I too want to build something powerful.” Baybars’s eyes, Omar noticed, had a faraway look. “Something that will endure until the last age of man.”

“You have already built much. You have fortified Cairo and created hospitals and schools and…”

“Not a thing of stone,” Baybars cut across him. “That isn’t what I mean.” He moved away from the aviary and climbed a set of steps leading up past the balconies to a high walkway that looked out over Aleppo. Omar followed him. When they reached the top, Baybars rested his arms on the parapet. “I went out into the city this morning.”

“Alone? You must be careful.”

“Do you know what I saw there?” Baybars turned to him. “I saw soldiers drunk on Western wine, merchants trading in wool and salt, and books filled with Latin thought. Western women in the alleys were selling themselves to our men. Saladin was a ruler of supreme ability, this I cannot deny. He knew how to win battles and how to unite and lead his people. But Saladin failed. Our lands are still infested.”

“Death brings an end to all men’s plans.”

“Death is not the reason Saladin didn’t rid us of our enemies. He was willing to parley, to accept surrender and to kill only when necessary. It’s because of his mercy that we are not free. Saladin was the sword, Omar, but I am the Crossbow. My reach will be longer. What I want to build is a future free of the West’s influence.”

“Fighting the armies of Christendom is a trial in itself. But their influence? How do you propose to fight something so tenuous?”

“It’s quite simple. Tomorrow, I will give the order to close every tavern in Aleppo. Then, I will banish the whores. Let them be forced out and left to the mercy of the desert. I shall show them none.” Baybars headed back down the steps to the balcony above the courtyard.

“But our men,” said Omar, hurrying to keep up with his long strides, “have grown accustomed to such things.”

“They will grow unaccustomed to them. Allah doesn’t permit us to drink.”

“The women then. The men need such…release as they offer. Better the Westerners as objects of their baser desires than our own women.”

“The laborers should concentrate on their work and their wives, and soldiers and governors have slaves for such purposes.”

“Many of the slaves are Western women. Is it not the same thing?”

Baybars stopped. “Slaves aren’t free to walk our streets and ply their trade among our people. They are under our command, our control. There is a great difference.” Baybars’s tone was unyielding. “And besides, our soldiers will have more important things to turn their attention to after the council tonight.”

“You still plan to tell the governors your next move? I strongly counsel you against this, sadeek. The men have just come from one campaign. They need time to recover, to savor their victory.
You
need time.”

“Time is one thing we do not have, Omar. The Franks will retaliate for Safed, of that I have no doubt. I propose to strike again before they are able to muster any effective force. I want them worn down and defeated before they even get a chance to fight. I want to stun them.”

“But your proposed target is…” Omar spread his hands. “…considerable.”

Before Baybars could reply, the sound of running footsteps filled the passage. Sprinting toward them was a young woman, her dark hair flying loose around her shoulders. There was a small boy at her side, holding her hand and desperately trying to keep up. Chasing them both were two Bahri warriors. The woman came to a stop before Baybars and Omar. The boy was panting hard and staring fearfully over his shoulder at the warriors, who had halted a respectful distance from Baybars. The boy sniffed and wiped his nose on the wide sleeve of the yellow-gold tunic he wore. Baybars stared at it. It looked suspiciously like the material his own cloak was made of.

“Call off your dogs,” the woman snapped at him. “I wish to speak with you.”

“Apologies, my lord,” puffed one of the guards. “We know you aren’t to be disturbed, but we couldn’t stop her.”

Baybars dismissed them with a nod, then turned on his wife. “What do you want with me, Nizam?”

“I want you to start paying more attention to your son.”

Baybars stepped back as Nizam thrust the boy toward him. Baraka Khan, his six-year-old son, had a red, runny nose and his narrow-set eyes, dark like his mother’s, were watery. His brown, wavy hair was curling in damp rings around his brow and his bottom lip was jutting in a mulish pout. Baybars, shooting his wife a black look, put on a smile and ruffled his son’s hair. Baraka Khan pouted even more and tried to cling to his mother’s leg. Baybars, laughing good-naturedly, snatched the boy up and swung him upside down in the playful way he had seen plenty of his soldiers treating their sons. The children usually screamed with delight and begged for more, but his own child, he was disappointed to see, just started wailing. Baybars set the boy upright and patted his behind. “Go to your mother, then.” He straightened, fixing his gaze on Nizam. “What is he wearing?” he said, gesturing to the yellow-gold tunic, so similar to his own. It made him feel embarrassed, but he wasn’t sure why.

“I had him dressed as you,” Nizam replied, flicking Baybars’s hand aside and picking up the boy. She rocked him in her arms, making shushing noises to quiet him, then glared at Baybars, her sensuously curved lips flattened in a thin line. “As befits the heir to the throne.”

Baybars felt his temper rise. Taking his son from her, he set the boy down, whereupon the child began to cry lustily. Omar was intently studying one of the tapestries on the passage wall. Baybars grasped Nizam’s arm and propelled her to a large window that looked down over the courtyard. As his wife stopped in a patch of sunlight, he noticed that her white gown was almost transparent. He could see the soft contours of her hips, her lithe, brown legs, the outlines of her breasts. He looked away. “When Baraka Khan is old enough he will stand at my side as a warrior and as my heir. But until that day comes, as I’ve told you, he belongs with you.”

“I want another son, Baybars,” murmured Nizam. “You aren’t just a soldier and a sultan, you are a husband and a father. Do not forget your duties to me.”

Baybars looked back at her. “I have given you the time I’ve had to give. I could have a thousand slave girls, but I do not.”

“And would you treat them as you treat me?”

“You have palaces, beautiful gowns, servants. I do not treat you ill, Nizam.”

“Any treatment would be better than none. A sultan should have more than one successor, Baybars. Do your duty to me and I will deliver you another heir.”

Baybars leaned against the passage wall and half closed his eyes. Waging wars was much easier than pleasing a woman: They were cunning as serpents and complex as the stars. He dreaded meetings with his wife for the inevitable exhaustion that such encounters brought him. His first wife, who had died giving birth to a daughter, had been just as demanding, but not quite so shrewd as this one. His third wife, Fatima, hadn’t borne him any children yet and Nizam was well aware of the strength of her own position. But Baybars, while grateful to her for bearing him a son, could not love her, a fact that never troubled him until he was in her presence. “I will come to you soon,” he muttered. “Now, go. Leave me.”

Nizam’s eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth as if to say something further, then paused. Drawing a breath, she nodded. “Soon,” she echoed, turning and moving off down the passage, clutching the hand of their whimpering son.

Baybars, watching them go, realized that it wasn’t Baraka Khan’s garments that made him feel embarrassed. It was the boy himself.

The sons of his governors, even some of the daughters, would race about climbing trees and sword fighting. They would also sit attentively at lessons in the madrasah, and were able to recite whole passages from the Koran. His own son, by contrast, seemed to have no aptitude, or interest in anything athletic; even less in art and schooling. Baybars guessed, ruefully, that it was his own fault. He had left the boy in the harem too long. Nizam was right. What he needed was the company of men, of warriors. But Baybars had no time to teach a child.

“Omar, I want you to arrange a tutor for Baraka.”