The Lion of Cairo (46 page)

Derna’s narrow eyes crinkled in confusion. “Of course I will take it away, effendi, but I did not bring breakfast to you. That must have been brought in last night.”

“What?”

“It was here already, as Allah is my witness.”

Abu’l-Qasim’s beard bristled with suspicion. His gaze slid from Derna to the tray; carefully, he reached out and raised the wicker dome. Its contents gave off the metallic aroma of spilled blood. Behind him, he heard his spymaster gasp. “Allah preserve us!”

Abu’l-Qasim grunted in equal parts surprise and perturbation.

A severed head lay on the tray—its angular, Frankish features clean-shaven, its close-cropped hair the color of heavy gold. Eyes a pale shade of blue stared through half-closed lids. From between its lips protruded a roll of papyrus. This Abu’l-Qasim took; gingerly, he smoothed the papyrus out and held it so he could read the two words written in a firm hand upon its surface:

As promised.

Below this, daubed in blood, was the sigil of an eagle, its wings outstretched. He had seen such a symbol before, among Zaynab’s things. It was the mark of Alamut.

Derna wrung his hands. “What means this, effendi? Is it a threat? A warning?”

Abu’l-Qasim crumpled the papyrus in his fist; turning, he walked to the window and nudged open the shutters. A Nile breeze carried away the smell of blood. Outside, the rising sun turned the dusty sky above Cairo into a canopy of orange and gold. Pigeons rose like a smoky cloud and wheeled over the domes of the distant palace. Brazen-throated horns continued their clamor, calling soldiers to their posts; fear rustled through the streets as self-appointed heralds spread news of the advancing army like bearers of a plague. Yet, for all the promise of chaos the day held, Abu’l-Qasim’s heart felt suddenly light, unshackled. “He kept his word.”

“Effendi?” Derna said.

“The Emir of the Knife kept his word. He brought me the head of my daughter’s killer. Take it down into the courtyard, Derna. Spike it to a lance and put it where everyone can see.”

Derna bowed. “It will be as you wish, effendi.”

And breathing deeply of the morning’s breeze, Ali abu’l-Qasim—whom the folk of Cairo called the King of Thieves—smiled.

The Sixth Surah

LION OF CAIRO

1

The surgeon hunched over Assad’s lacerated shoulder was a smooth-faced eunuch, slender and severe in a
khalat
of green silk and a turban-wrapped fez; he approached the stitching of flesh with the single-minded intensity of a master tailor. Assad clenched his jaw as the eunuch sluiced cool brine over the wound, inspecting its edges with a critical eye. Salt water tinted with blood spattered the golden travertine underfoot.

Stripped to the waist, Assad lay on his stomach on a stone bench, on a keel-arched portico of a pleasure kiosk standing alone at the heart of a jewel-green garden. Early morning sunlight slashed through a haze of dust; heavy serpentine columns upheld the graceful arches, striping the flagstones with alternating bands of light and shadow. Assad heard the eunuch mutter to himself about the dust as he readied a curved golden needle attached to a length of catgut thread.

From the corner of his eye Assad caught the Caliph pacing. The young man wore the rich white robes of his office, his undervest and silken girdle sewn with gold and silver thread; his bulbous turban sported a brooch of electrum inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a snowy egret feather bobbing above it. He turned suddenly, hands clasped at his back and his brow furrowed. “You will not tell me what happened?”

“It was a personal matter, my lord. A thing of no importance. It is done, regardless.” Assad winced as the surgeon began knitting the two sides of the wound together. “Is it true you’ve received an emissary from Shirkuh?”

“It is.” The Caliph crossed the portico to stand by one of the columns. The garden around them was unnaturally quiet—no insects trilled in the rising heat, no birds sang; the grit kicked up by the army of Damascus drifted south on the light breeze. It settled over Cairo like a shroud, obscuring distant domes and minarets and adding a touch of jaundice to every leaf, bough, and blade of grass.

“And?”

Rashid al-Hasan looked askance at the Assassin, a petulant curl to the young man’s lip. “Oh, it was a personal matter. A thing of no importance. It is done, regardless.”

The eunuch surgeon chuckled. Assad shot a frosty glance over his shoulder. “Leave us.”

“I have not yet finished—”

“Leave!” Perturbed, the fellow tied off the ends of his half-drawn sutures and stood. He bowed to the Caliph before withdrawing from the kiosk. Assad sat up on the stone bench; he winced as he flexed his shoulder. “My master has a saying. ‘Where goes Alamut, so goes Massaif.’ I got this rooting out a nest of those God-cursed infidels who thought to set themselves up in the Foreign Quarter.”

“I do not understand,” the Caliph said. “Is this Massaif a rival of
al-Hashishiyya
?”

“They are
al-Hashishiyya,
or they were. Massaif is a mountaintop fortress in Syria, my lord.” Quickly, Assad sketched out what he knew of this decades-long war between the two Assassin sects. He told the Caliph of how, in the time of Hasan ibn al-Sabbah, Alamut had established a mission in Syria to combat the rising influence of the Turks, and how a schism erupted after Ibn al-Sabbah’s death—a schism fueled by the Syrians’ thirst for wealth and power. “Massaif has become a den of traitors and renegades. They seek to supplant the Hidden Master’s dominion with that of their own chief, the so-called Old Man of the Mountain, even as Alamut seeks to crush them under heel.”

The Caliph looked sharply at Assad. “Allah! Could these Syrians—these Assassins of Massaif—could they have been allied with Damascus? It cannot be a coincidence that they were here in Cairo even as an army from Syria stands upon our doorstep.”

Assad recalled their eerie lair, with its scattering of ancient corpses and the stink of necromancy, and shuddered.
It’s as though they were looking for something.
“Though I cannot say for certain, my lord, I don’t think their presence here had anything to do with Shirkuh—or with Amalric, for that matter.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Rashid al-Hasan said nothing else for a long moment. He stared out over the silent garden, his eyes haunted by things he had seen over the past days, over things perpetrated in his name. Lines of concern etched his youthful brow as the weight of his office pressed down upon him. Finally, he stirred. “The Book of Allah tells us: ‘If the enemy incline toward peace, do thou also incline toward peace and trust in Allah.’ Shirkuh has requested a parley tomorrow, an hour before the noon prayer.”

“Where?”

“The Pearl Pavilion, on the Nile’s banks beyond the Qantara Gate, away from his army and out of bowshot from the walls. We will each bring twoscore men—advisors and officers, slaves and stewards. I’d like you to be there, of course.” The Caliph trailed off, chewing his lip; suddenly, he said: “Do you think it was foolish of me to accept Shirkuh’s offer? As I see it, what harm is there in listening to the man? He’s made no violent overtures. His men have shown restraint in dealing with people and property beyond the walls…”

Assad stood—a simple act that wrenched a groan from his lips. His muscles ached from sole to crown; the gash along his ribs throbbed, and his shoulder felt as if his surgeon had threaded it with sutures of white-hot wire. He craved a cool goblet of wine, a good meal, and a few crumbs of opium. But more than that, he craved sleep. “I would not call it foolish,” Assad said, “but don’t be gulled by this show of peace, my lord. Shirkuh wants Cairo; his master, Nur ad-Din, wants Cairo. But, in order for the Sultan of Damascus to appear to his followers as the savior of Islam, the Mother of the World must remain whole and unspoiled. And while Shirkuh cannot afford to have Cairo become a second Ascalon, Amalric of Jerusalem is under no such constraint. He will gladly pull Cairo down brick by brick if it means putting an end to the Moslem threat on his southern border. I imagine the prospect of wholesale slaughter appeals to Amalric—and Frankistan will surely echo with paeans of glory for he who razes Cairo.”

Rashid al-Hasan shivered. “Our choices, it seems, are little different from those of a plump summer hare: do we let ourselves be spitted on the huntsman’s shaft, or crushed in the jaws of his hounds?”

Assad walked to the portico’s edge, one hand braced against the fluted marble shaft of a column. “We’re not hares, my lord,” he said after a moment. “And we have a third choice. After the sun sets, with your blessing I will slip from Cairo and go out among the Damascenes. I will strike Shirkuh down where he sleeps. Once they are leaderless, it will be easy to sway his men into fighting for you when the Nazarenes arrive. A common enemy creates a common cause.” Rashid al-Hasan folded his arms over his chest; unconsciously, he started to gnaw at the pad of his thumb. Assad sensed his hesitation. “Does this trouble you, my lord? If you’re worried about the stain such an act would bring to your honor—”

“No,” the Caliph said quickly. “No. My honor is secondary to Cairo’s survival. I worry that perhaps our survival hinges upon the good graces of Shirkuh ibn Shahdi, upon keeping him alive. Consider this: I have generals aplenty, but who among them can lay claim to Shirkuh’s experience? His battlefield savvy? Even combined, their skills fall well short of his. Ten thousand more men will not improve our chances if those in command have not the talent to prosecute a war against the Nazarenes.” Rashid al-Hasan shrugged his thin shoulders. “In my heart I agree that the course of action you counsel is wise, but I cannot give it my sanction. Not now. Shirkuh is worth more to me—worth more to Cairo—alive than dead.”

“As you wish,” Assad said, sagging against the column. His vision blurred; he rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he stifled a yawn. Exhaustion and his wounds were taking their toll.

Concern wrinkled the Caliph’s brow. “Come, my friend, I have kept you from taking some much-needed rest. I will have my chamberlains prepare you a room.”

Assad shook his head and motioned to the shaded heart of the kiosk, where travertine gave way to thick carpets strewn with cushions and pillows. It was a nest where lovers might meet or where men of rank might sit together in private. “This will serve my needs well enough, my lord.”

“You’re certain?”

Assad staggered to the bench and caught up his
salawar,
the ivory-hilted Afghan blade wrapped in the bloodstained folds of his tunic. He stared suddenly at the long sword-knife. Despite its leather sheath and the draping of gray cotton, he could feel a renewed sense of hatred radiating from it—stronger, sharper, an insatiable yearning that coiled serpentine through muscle and sinew.
You are Death incarnate,
the knife said, its harsh voice lancing through Assad’s skull like a blade of jagged ice.
You know what it is to thirst for blood, for flesh; you know what it is to desire a death with such singular purpose that nothing else matters—not your life nor the lives of those closest to you. You know revenge … you know … you …

“Assad? You look pale. Shall I recall the surgeon?”

The Assassin glanced up. “No,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “No, my lord. I am all right—or I will be, with a few hours’ sleep. Perhaps then I can offer you some worthwhile counsel.”

“Your counsel is ever worthwhile, my friend,” the Prince of the Faithful said. “Rest for now, but seek me out once you have slept your fill. I would continue our conversation … and perhaps learn something of your master.”

Assad bowed as the Caliph retreated back to the palace. Alone, the Assassin retired to the well-carpeted kiosk where he eased himself down onto the thick cushions, his
salawar
in arm’s reach. He shut out the endless parade of questions that whirled through his brain—from the meaning of the cursed glyphs beneath the Maydan al-Iskander to the nagging uneasiness that he had not heard the last of the Heretic’s master, from the approaching horde of Nazarenes to what fate might befall the Caliph should Shirkuh gain the upper hand. He ignored them all and instead fixed his attention on the dusty green leaves of a willow tree growing near the edge of the portico, visible through the door of the kiosk.

And to the hypnotic sway and rustle of leaves, Assad fell asleep …

2

In the fields northeast of Cairo, a mile and more from its ponderous gates, the army of Damascus squatted like an iron-shod beast. The pawing hooves of ten thousand horses threw thunderheads of dust into the sky, a sickly yellow haze that drifted south on the breeze. Steel flashed like lightning as mailed Turkoman scouts emerged from the dust clouds to survey the city’s walls. Alert, patient, the army settled into the grass like a predator and waited for the right moment to spring.

Yusuf ibn Ayyub cantered back down the road, along ancient dikes and over wooden bridges that spanned reed-choked canals. He squinted through the dust to catch a glimpse of the landscape through which the army had traveled, so different from the pastures and fields of Damascus. Here, everything was dry and brittle. The land itself, pale and sun-bleached, reflected heat like a furnace. Hawks circled overhead, lost in the haze.

Ahead, the road skirted jumbles of mudbrick sprouting between groves of spiky date palms. Stonework jutted from the sandy soil—fallen columns and plinths; crouching lions with the heads of men, their features effaced by time and wind; obelisks of reddish granite cracked and broken like rotten teeth. Amid these bones, these relics of a long-forgotten age, stood Shirkuh’s command tent: a fly-rigged pavilion of striped linen that snapped in the breeze.

The place was a hub of activity. Messengers came and went; grooms and water bearers tended the horses while their riders relayed terse missives to Shirkuh himself. It impressed Yusuf that his uncle did not rely on adjutants to manage his affairs—from scouting reports to where best to dig latrines, Shirkuh personally handled his army down to the least detail.

Yusuf dismounted and handed his horse’s reins to a nearby groom; slapping dust from his trousers, he walked through a cordon of Turkoman guards to where Shirkuh stood beneath his pavilion, leaning over a makeshift table whose surface bore a crudely sketched map of Cairo done in charcoal. A pitcher of
khamr
and a cracked pottery bowl waited at Shirkuh’s elbow.