The Lion of Cairo (19 page)

Gritting his teeth, the old man turned his gaze on those who clustered in the doorway. Condemnation blazed in his eyes. Condemnation and disgust. “N-not … trust … t-them!” he gasped.

“I won’t, my old friend,” Rashid replied. He glanced up at the throng of murmuring functionaries, his own antipathy mirroring that of the dying physician. “I won’t. I will remember all that you’ve said.” Very slowly, Harun al-Gid raised a gnarled hand. The Caliph clasped it, heedless of the smeared blood. The contact sent a racking sigh through the old man’s body; the muscles of his face grew slack as the life went out of him. Rashid al-Hasan bent over and kissed his forehead. “I will do what is right for Egypt.”

After a few moments, the Caliph straightened; he rose to his feet, bloody and disheveled, and turned to face the men who milled in the doorway, his wrath like a living thing between them. The servants and lesser eunuchs dared not meet his gaze—they stared at their dead comrade, at the floor, at their feet—while Mustapha looked askance at the young Caliph, gauging all possible responses to questions he had yet to ask. The soldiers, whose turban-wrapped helmets sported thick nasals and inlays of gold, and whose gilded mail gleamed beneath white
khalats,
watched him warily, though with grudging respect.

“Will you kill me now?” Rashid sneered. He staggered over the physician’s body and scooped up the Moor’s fallen knife, fixing his eye on Mustapha; for the first time in a long while, the old eunuch appeared at a loss for words. “Come, you gutless conniver. Kill me. Do it!” The young man threw his arms wide. “You’re my jailers, are you not? Why not end your tedium and put me down like the dog you believe me to be?” None of them moved. “No?” The Caliph spat. “By Allah, I should have the lot of you hanged!”

Rashid’s tirade against them might have continued had the vizier’s voice not cracked above their heads like a whip: “What the devil is going on?” Visibly relieved, the eunuchs and guards gave ground, splitting ranks to allow him entry. Jalal stormed into the Caliph’s chamber in a swirl of fine white linen. Gold glittered on his fingers and crusted his turban. “Are you deaf? I said what—”

“Yes, join us, Jalal,” the Caliph said. “Perhaps you can provide your minions with enough spleen to see their assassination through! Or is it only my friends and my visitors that you’re plotting to kill?”

The vizier’s narrowed eyes flicked from the Moor’s body to the discarded pipe to the corpse of Harun al-Gid, and finally came to rest on the knife in the Prince of the Faithful’s hand; the pieces fell into place like the tiles of a violent mosaic. Jalal stepped closer to the young man, his lips thinned to a hard line. “The physician paid you an unanticipated visit and Khadim mistook him for someone who meant you harm? Allah’s mercies upon them! This was assuredly a tragic accident, Most Excellent One. Had we known you were expecting him—”

“I wasn’t expecting him, Jalal, but you already know that! Harun told me you forbade him from seeing me!” The Caliph paced back and forth like a caged lion, his gait unsteady despite the fury surging in his veins. “Why, Jalal? So you could keep me in a drugged stupor with no one the wiser? What foul schemes have you hatched in my name, I wonder?”

“Great One, please.” The vizier held his hands palms up in a pleading gesture as he drifted close. “We are loyal to you and zealous—perhaps overly so—of your safety, but we are not the evil men you imagine us to be. Have you forgotten it was Harun himself who first suggested the opium? He administered it to quiet your mind so you might rest, not to keep you docile and pliant. If you wish it no more, then there will be no more.

“And what of poor Harun—may Allah’s mercy rest upon his soul! Through their husbands, it was his own daughters who begged me to release him from service, as he had grown too old in their estimation to be at your beck and call. I thought I’d done the proper thing in returning him to his family so he might pass his final years in their company. But he must have misunderstood my intent if he told you I
forbade
him from seeing you, even as Khadim misunderstood Harun’s intent. Herein lay the true tragedy, Most Excellent One: both men saw danger where none existed, and both men died because of it.”

Rashid stood still as the vizier came up beside him; the young man said nothing, his brow furrowed as he stared at the body of the slain physician. Jalal’s reasoning made extraordinary sense, and on any other day the young Caliph would have bought into it with little conscious thought. On this day, however, his yet raw and festering anger—coupled with Harun’s dying admonition to trust no one—stripped away the veil of complacency. Stripped it away and trampled it underfoot.

“Come, Great One,” the vizier murmured. “Let us put things right—”

Faster than Jalal would have thought possible, the Caliph rounded on him. With a violent shove he forced the vizier back against the bedside table; Rashid snagged his
khalat,
catching him before he could stumble and fall. “Do you take me for a fool, Jalal? Do you think I’m weak? Your man’s death was no tragic accident! He died for the crime of murder, and I condemn his body to a criminal’s fate!” Sweat beaded the Caliph’s forehead and his limbs quaked with the first signs of opium sickness; even still, his eyes burned with a resolute fire. “Things have changed, Jalal. From this day hence, you and those who follow you serve at my pleasure. I will choose from among them those whom I wish to stay at my side. The rest I will dismiss. There will be no exceptions. I alone will choose my chief eunuch, my physician, the captain of my guard.” Rashid raised the knife, holding its razored edge against the side of the vizier’s neck. “Do we understand one another?”

Jalal did not flinch. “Of course, Most Excellent One.”

“Good.” The Caliph nodded. He lowered the blade and methodically wiped it clean on the shoulder of Jalal’s pristine
khalat
. “It is a new day, Jalal. For now, you may remain as my vizier, as I value your experience. But heed this, and heed it well: let even the slenderest rumor reach me that you’ve renewed whatever schemes you may have had against me and I swear before Allah that I will have you gutted and your carcass hung from Zuwayla Gate.”

Both men looked up from the stain of transferred blood spreading across the snowy linen; their eyes met—ice versus fire, immutable opposites. “I would expect nothing less,” Jalal replied, sketching a slight bow.

Rashid released him. The Caliph turned away and staggered toward the open doors leading to his garden. “See Harun’s body receives a proper funeral and that his daughters are justly compensated for their loss. Throw the other one to the dogs,” he said. “This is Friday, is it not? I will attend noon prayer at the Gray Mosque, Jalal.”

“Yes, Most Excellent One. I will have a bath drawn, and a light meal, should you desire it.” The vizier clapped his hands, sending the servants scurrying. He motioned for Mustapha to follow him, and for the guards to bring the bodies.

Alone, the Prince of the Faithful stepped out into the too bright sunlight of his courtyard.

8

“How?” Jalal hissed to Mustapha as the pair of them returned to the antechamber. The vizier stripped off his stained
khalat
and flung it aside. “How did that meddlesome old fool get to him?”

“Not through us, as Allah is my witness!”

“Well, he did not simply sprout wings and fly over the courtyard wall!”

Mustapha was emphatic. “Nor did he come through that door, Excellency! There are a dozen Jandariyah on station in the hallway leading to it; two more guard the door itself! It is impossible, Excellency, to think an old man could slip past so many eyes without being seen!”

“Then how did he do it?”

“Are you certain the Jandariyah are loyal? Could not someone have convinced them to turn against you?”

Jalal’s slitted eyes glared at nothing as he weighed the old eunuch’s concerns. That betrayal might come from the ranks of those guarding the Caliph was not something he could dismiss lightly. The Jandariyah were mercenaries, after all. Could Harun al-Gid, who lived comfortably on a physician’s stipend, have bribed his way into the apartments? Inevitably, Jalal shook his head. “No. Perhaps he could have bought off one of them, but not all of them. Their captain, Turanshah, understands I’ve tied his fate—and the fate of his Syrians—to my own. Harun must have found another way in.” The vizier turned. “Retrace his steps through the palace. Find out where he was, who he talked to, why he was here. Others must have seen him.”

“As you wish, Excellency.” The old eunuch sidled closer. “What about…” He opened his hand, revealing a small glass phial. Jalal knew the purplish liquid inside was not opium.

“Did you not hear our noble prince?” Jalal looked back down the hallway to the Caliph’s chambers, where servants bustled in with pails of steaming water and out with wads of blood-soaked linen. Contempt twisted his features. “It is a new day. Al-Hasan is on guard against subtlety. He expects craft and guile; thus, we must be brazen and forthright. How could such a strong young man fall victim to fever? No, his demise will no doubt come at the end of a sword.” A burst of murderous inspiration brought a cold smile to his lips. “Perhaps the sword of a newfound ally…”

9

Parysatis sagged against the hidden door, sobbing, her eyes squeezed shut and her fists pressed to her ears in a vain attempt to block out the memory of al-Gid’s screams.
Why? Why didn’t I help him? All I had to do was shout a warning!
Instead, she had frozen. The shock of seeing a knife-wielding man creeping up on the old physician had left her bereft of voice. By the time she regained her wits, all she could do was look on in horror as her ally—her savior—took a dagger in the back.
Why didn’t I help him?
Sick with guilt, Parysatis let her body slide to the ground.

I dragged him into this! I dragged him into this and sent him to his death! And for what? Does the Caliph know any more now than he did before? Did al-Gid have a chance to warn him?
Parysatis wanted to believe al-Gid had triumphed in death, and yet she had seen nothing on which to hang her belief. True, the Caliph was furious and he had acted more decisively than she could have imagined, but since he neither killed his vizier outright nor summoned troops to drag him away, what else could Parysatis conclude but the obvious: al-Gid had died in vain.
Why didn’t I help him?

Wiping her eyes, Parysatis raised her head and stared at the door’s handle. She could help him, now. She could still make this right. This stone portal was the only barrier between her and the Prince of the Faithful. If she rushed out and confessed everything, if she flung herself on the Caliph’s mercy, it would bring meaning to al-Gid’s sacrifice. Of course, she would likely vanish in the upheaval, but what of it? Her life was of little consequence. Parysatis clambered to her feet. Her lips quivered with nervous resolve. She would do this, as much to honor al-Gid as to protect the Caliph. Closing her eyes, she reached for the rusted iron handle of the door …

A sound behind her—the soft crunch of a slipper on loose scree—spun Parysatis around. She shrank back against the stone, trembling fists knotted as her imagination filled the passage with the vizier’s murderous followers. She held her breath, waiting, her heart hammering in her chest … and then her body slumped with relief as Yasmina’s slender face drifted into the light.

“Mistress,” the young Egyptian hissed. “Why do you tarry?”

Tears rimmed Parysatis’s eyes. “They killed him, Yasmina.”

The girl stiffened. “Who?”

“Al-Gid.” Parysatis hid her face in her hands. “I l-let him die.”

“Mother of bitches!” Yasmina pushed past her mistress and strained to peer through the spy holes. The courtyard was empty, now; she saw but a lone slave inside, on his knees and scrubbing blood off the floor. She cursed again. “Was he killed outright, mistress?”

“W-what?” Parysatis looked up.

“Did they kill him outright or did they question him first? Quickly, mistress!”

“None questioned him that I saw.”

The girl nodded and took Parysatis by the hand. “Thank Allah for small blessings. Come—”

“Blessings?” Parysatis snapped, wrenching free of her grasp. “I should have you whipped for saying such a thing! How is his murder a blessing?”

Yasmina’s dark eyes grew hard. “Don’t be a fool, mistress. A quick death meant al-Gid didn’t have an opportunity to be tortured, to betray you to the vizier.”

“He would never betray me!”

“No?” The girl arched her fine eyebrows. “Have you ever seen a man tortured, mistress? He would betray his own mother if it meant an end to the pain. I am not as well schooled as some, but this I know: right now, the vizier is burning to know how al-Gid got past his guards. I would wager my life that he has already dispersed his people into the palace with orders to learn all they can of the physician’s comings and goings. How long, you think, before they find out he was last in the harem?”

Blood drained from Parysatis’s face. “Merciful Allah!”

“Let us pray so,” Yasmina replied, extending her hand. “Come, we must hurry. The longer we dawdle, the more likely it is someone will poke their head inside the hammam to check on you. What would you rather they find: an empty bed or a woman who is delirious with fever?”

Shaken, Parysatis nodded and took the younger woman’s hand. “No, you’re right. I … I’m sorry for getting you caught up in all this.”

Yasmina’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Don’t be sorry, mistress, be swift. Come.” Hand in hand, the two women sprinted the distance from the courtyard door to the hammam, heedless of stealth. Parysatis clutched at her aching side as they neared the end, gasping for breath while the young Egyptian appeared barely winded.

Yasmina stepped out into the bath first. Her eyes sought the main entrance. Parysatis followed her gaze. The resourceful girl had propped a shard of pottery against the bottom of the door and there it remained, undisturbed. “Good,” the Egyptian said. “Hurry, mistress!”

As she crossed the hammam, movement caught Parysatis’s attention. She spotted the African eunuch, awake now and sitting upright. He glared at the women, cursing through his gag; his hands twisted at their silken bindings. “What are we going to do with him, Yasmina? We can’t drag him off…”