Sophia felt cooler here, in the atrium of the Palazzo Monaldeschi, than she had in the sala maggiore. A breeze blew through the archway that led to the rear courtyard of the palace, but it did not blow hard enough to keep the mosquitoes away. Nor did the essence of lemon in the wax candles in lanterns that lit theatrium repel the whining little pests, though it scented the air pleasantly, mingling with the sachet of dried orange cuttings she wore under her gown, between her breasts.
To protect herself from the insects, Sophia wrapped her shawl around her bare shoulders and drew her gauze veil over her face. She thought it made her look more mysteriously attractive as well. Perhaps that was the real reason Muslim women were willing to wear veils. She wondered whether Daoud had a lover or a wife back in Cairo.
Probably half a dozen of each.
She glanced over at the young French count, walking solemnly beside her with his hands clasped behind his back. The mosquitoes did not seem to bother him, or at least he did not slap at them. Well, he was a tall, thin man with sharp features, dark hair, and pale skin. She imagined the blood of such a man might taste sour and not draw mosquitoes. He was good to look at, surely, but there was a bitterness about him. She saw at once that he was not a happy man.
"Perhaps I should not walk alone with you like this, Madonna," he said. Actually, his Italian was not difficult for her to understand; she had criticized it only to throw him off balance when she first met him. Probably her French was no better than his Italian, but he had been too gallant to say so.
"Do you fear for your virtue, Your Signory?" she asked lightly.
He smiled, and even in the dim lantern light his face took on a sweetness that was quite at odds with his previous solemn appearance. "My virtue, such as it is, is yours to dispose, Madonna." She felt warmed within by his words and the beauty of his smile.
They paused by a square pool in the center of the atrium. He bent and dipped his cupped hands, then held them out to her filled with water.
"The contessa has told me that the pool is fed by an underground spring," he said. "The water is the purest I have ever tasted. Try it."
"Do the Monaldeschi keep fish in it?" She hesitated, thinking of Cardinal Ugolini's vivarium.
"No. This is their drinking water. Taste it." She lifted her veil and lowered her mouth into his hands. The water was pure and sweet, just as he had said. As a lover, she thought, Simon would be like this water—sweet, not bitter.
The water was gone and her lips touched his palm. Deliberately she paused a moment before drawing back.
He moved toward her, holding out both hands, but she turned as if she had not noticed and took a step away from him on the gravel, dropping the gauze veil before her face.
"You have not explained to me why you think you should not be walking alone with me, Your Signory."
"Ah—well—" He had to gather his thoughts, she saw. Such aboy. She'd had a middle-aged emperor and a splendid young king as lovers. She now felt herself in love with a strange Saracen warrior, a Mameluke, who was subtle, ruthless, kindly, mysterious, daring—so many things, it dizzied her to think about him.
But Simon's simplicity brought back memories of Alexis, the boy she had loved when she herself was as innocent as Simon now appeared to be.
Simon said, "Because your uncle leads the faction here in Orvieto that opposes the Tartars. And because the chief witness against them has been the merchant David, who dwells, as you do, in the cardinal's house."
He hates David.She heard it in his voice.
"What has that to do with you and me, Simon?" This was the right moment, she thought, to call him by his name. "I care nothing for affairs of state. In Siracusa we have better things to do with our time than worry about alliances and wars."
"Everyone will be affected by what happens here concerning the Tartars," he said. "Even the people of Siracusa."
She tried to look impressed. "Ifyouthink it would be so good for Christians and Tartars to fight together against the Saracens, I cannot imagine why my uncle is against it."
"I do not understand that either," said Simon. "Or why he brought this man David to Orvieto to cause so much trouble."
She shrugged. "I hardly ever see the man from Trebizond. My uncle's mansion is so big, people can come and go without ever meeting." She hoped the suggestion would take root. It was vital for him to think there was no connection between David and herself.
"This is a God-given opportunity for us to rescue the Holy Land," he said.
"Perhaps I can help you," she said.
"Would you?" His face brightened.
"I could try to find out why my uncle opposes your cause. If youwill tell me why we Christiansshouldally ourselves with the Tartars, I will repeat your reasons to him. I will not say they came from you. Hearing the arguments in private, coming from a loved niece, he might open his mind to them."
Simon's eyes opened wide in amazement. "You would do all that? But why are you so willing to help me, Madonna, when your uncle is so opposed to my cause?"
"Because I would like"—she hesitated just for a breath, then put her hand on his arm—"I would like to see more of you."
She was on dangerous ground. The tradition of courtly love, in which he had doubtless been reared, called for the woman to be aloof and for the man to beg for meetings. But Daoud had told her she did not have the time to allow this inexperienced young man to proceed at his own pace.
He appeared overwhelmed with happiness. Her answer had just the effect she had hoped for.
"But you must helpme," she said with the satisfied feeling that she was now closing the trap. "You must teach me what to say to my uncle. As I said, it would be easy for you to come to me without anyone knowing. Will you visit me when I send for you?"
"Oh, Madonna! Command me." His eyes were huge now, and his smile was like a full moon shining into the atrium.
"I command you to come over here with me," she said.
She took him by the hand, and, as a light rain began to fall, led him into a shadowy corner of the open gallery that surrounded the garden. He pressed her back against a column. She lifted her veil and let him kiss her fiercely as the rain pattered down on the lemon trees.
She became entirely Sophia Orfali and tasted his kisses hungrily, dizzy with joy at having won the love of a splendid young nobleman.
"Of course I fought in Russia and Poland," Ana said, speaking for John Chagan, while the old Tartar threw out his arms in a sweeping gesture. "Everyone went."
Daoud smiled and nodded, leaning back in the chair someone had brought for him, his right leg crossed over the left. He tried to look relaxed, though his heart was beating fast. He felt like a man climbing a cliff, whose slightest misstep might bring a disastrous fall.
He was feeling the effects of the al-koahl—a hissing sound in hisears, a numbness in his face, a difficulty focusing his eyes, an urge, difficult to suppress, to splash the contents of his wine cup in John's ugly face. But his mind was untouched, he knew, and that meant he was under better control than these two savages whom he had drawn into telling stories of their wars.
"Was that your first campaign?" he asked.
John made a lengthy speech in answer to Daoud's question, striking his chest many times and reaching for more wine. Finally Ana translated. She seemed made of iron, this Bulgarian woman. She did not drink, she did not get tired, she did not even sit down, and she did not seem to care what anyone said.
John assured David that as a young man he had participated in the destruction of the Khwarezmian empire. Khwarezmia, Daoud remembered, a Turkish nation, was the first Muslim land to fall to the Tartars.
He glanced around and saw that Ugolini and a number of other cardinals, both French and Italian, had gathered to listen. The contessa was there, too. And even as Daoud looked, the circle parted for Pope Urban. Two servants hurried over, carrying a chair for him, and he sat down heavily.
The Tartars had turned Khwarezmia into a desert, but this audience would not care overmuch about that. Daoud wondered if he could turn the conversation back to what they had done in Christian lands.
"What about Moscow?" he said. His voice sounded to him as if his ears were stuffed with cotton. He worried that John might realize that he was being led to talk about what he had done against Christians.
"Moscow?" said John. "That was much later." Strange, how John's voice seemed to be coming from Ana's lips. "I was in command of my own tuman there, ten thousand men, under our great commander Subotai Baghadur. Ah, yes, we killed off all the people of Moscow."
Daoud felt like leaping from his chair. Just what he had hoped to hear. He made himself slump down still more and look sleepier.
"I never could understand how it is possible to kill off the population of a whole city," he said, affecting a tone of cool curiosity. "It must take days and be very tiring."
Philip Uzbek laughed when this was translated. Clearly he thought it a foolish remark. His round, flat face reminded Daoudof Kassar, and with the thought a red mist of rage passed before Daoud's eyes.
John responded to Daoud's remark. "Not at all tiring. We had five tumans at Moscow. There were about fifty thousand people living in the city, and many had died in the siege. Subotai gave the honor of the killing to the most valorous tuman, which happened to be mine. We just divided them up. Each of us took about five of them. You can kill five people in no time. It is not like fighting. Some we shot with arrows. Others we cut their heads off. The women are especially easy. You just pull their hair to stretch their necks so the sword will go through easier, and chop!" Ana, imperturbable even now, repeated the slicing gesture John made with his hand.
"The children run away sometimes, and you have to chase them," John chuckled. "It is best to use arrows on them. But the adults are so terrified, they just stand there."
Daoud looked again at the circle around them. Several people looked a bit sick. The mouth of the elderly contessa hung open, revealing the absence of two or three lower front teeth. Pope Urban leaned forward in his chair, his face expressionless.
Driven by his growing hatred for the Tartars, he pressed them to reveal more of themselves. He should be pleased, he thought, at this much success, but he wanted to destroy them utterly.
"You do not mind killing children?" he asked.
John seemed puzzled by the question. "What else could we do with them? With their parents dead they would only starve to death. Or if they lived, they would grow up hating us, and we would have to fight them."
You could make slaves of them, said a voice inside Daoud, and the red mist swelled into a cloud of fury billowing up inside him. He had to sit motionless, his fist clenched on the stem of his silver goblet, waiting for the feeling to pass. Thank God for Saadi's teaching. It was painful to look directly with the inner eye at the disorientation of his senses and at the anger surging through his body, but it saved him from any fatal mistake.
Philip said, "At Baghdad I found a whole house full of babies, maybe thirty or forty. I slit all of their throats. Their mothers were dead already. I suppose they left the babies behind when they went out of the city to be executed, hoping they would survive. But with no one to suckle them, the babies would have starved to death. Killing them was an act of mercy."
Remembering what he had seen of Baghdad, Daoud felt his rage grow cold and towering as the mountains of the Roof of the World. Those were his Muslim people. He wanted to draw the dagger at his belt and slash the throats of the two gloating, drunken savages before him. He bit down hard on his lower lip to keep himself under control.
"When we shot people with arrows," said John, "we went around and pulled the arrows out of the bodies afterward so we could use them again. We do not waste anything."
He is trying to show how admirable they are.
Daoud watched the stout Bulgarian woman Ana speak John's words in Italian, still expressionless, still standing motionless. But to his surprise he saw rivulets of tears on her round cheeks.
She had been in Bulgaria when the Tartars came, he thought. She had seen what Christians called "the fury of the Tartars." She must have been among the survivors who submitted to their rule, but she had not forgotten. Perhaps translating John's and Philip's words exactly as they spoke them was her way of taking revenge.
John held out his goblet, and Ana refilled it. He laughed softly at nothing in particular and drank more.
"But why do this to city after city?" Daoud asked.
"When we invade a kingdom, the rulers and people are determined to resist us," said John. "To fight them might cost us the lives of thousands of our warriors. But when we wipe out one or two whole cities, they become terrified. They lose their will to fight and surrender quickly. It saves many lives on both sides."
Philip grinned broadly. "It shows that we have power like no other people on earth." He shook both fists. "We can level whole cities. This teaches all men that Eternal Heaven has given us dominion over the whole earth."
Daoud heard whispers from the people around him, and Pope Urban coughed softly.
Daoud could hardly believe his luck. Not luck, he thought. God had delivered the Tartars into his hands.
"The whole earth?" said Daoud. "Even Europe? Even the Christian lands?"
Philip threw out his arms expansively. "The whole earth. All there is. Every corner."
Daoud's earlier rage had subsided. Instead, he felt wild triumph, and he had to grip the seat of his chair to hold himself down.
Daoud heard Cardinal Ugolini declare, "You see? Exactly what we have been saying."
"You say Eternal Heaven gives you the right to rule the world?" Daoud asked. "Do you mean God?"
John shrugged. "Eternal Heaven is what our ancestors called Him. Now that we are Christians we call Him God."
Fra Tomasso suddenly cut in. "But surely you realize that the sky, or whatever you worshiped before you became Christians, is not the true God."
After Ana translated this, John questioned her, squinting at the Dominican as he did so, apparently wanting to make sure of Fra Tomasso's meaning.
"Would God have neglected us before Christian priests found their way to our land?" John said through Ana. "Of course He has spoken to us. Has He not made us the most powerful people on earth?"
"Perhaps He has done so in order that you mightnowhear His word," said Fra Tomasso.
"I am not a priest," John said with a sudden broad grin. "But we have the highest priests of the Christian faith here tonight. Let them say whether Eternal Heaven and God are the same." He bowed his round head and held out his hand in invitation.
A silence fell. The little band of musicians playing vielles and hautboys in one corner of the room suddenly sounded very loud. Daoud turned to look once again at the audience his dialogue with the Tartars had drawn. The Contessa di Monaldeschi, Fra Tomasso, at least half a dozen cardinals. And Pope Urban himself. Their figures swam before Daoud, and he knew the wine was overcoming him—bodily, at any rate. The faces of the Christian leaders looked very grave, though, and the grimmer they looked, the more pleased he felt.
Fra Tomasso especially, he hoped, had heard enough to sway him.
He turned back to the Tartars. They, too, seemed aware of the uneasy, unhappy silence. The pope appeared not to feel that John's inquiry deserved an answer. The older Tartar's smile faded, and he carefully set down his wine cup. Philip's eyes darted this way and that.
John said something to Philip in a low voice, probably a warning to say no more. John had the look of a water buffalo beset by village curs, his eyes smoldering, his white-wreathed head turning fromside to side. Daoud sensed, because he often felt the same way himself, how alone John must feel, surrounded by enemies.
He does not have ten thousand warriors at his back now.
Daoud heard a stir behind him, and turned to see the crowd parting to let Pope Urban leave, the broad back of Fra Tomasso following close behind him. A priest-attendant in black was coming from a corner of the room with a cloth-of-gold outer mantle for the pope. The contessa rustled after Urban, who turned and offered her his hand to kiss. As the aged hostess knelt unsteadily before Urban, Daoud rejoiced at the troubled, abstracted expression in the pope's aged eyes.
Daoud heaved himself out of his chair and stood, swaying. For a moment his eyes would not focus, and he thought he was going to fall. Then he saw John Chagan giving him a look as piercing as a Tartar lance. Now, Daoud saw, John understood what he had done to him. As for Philip, he sat slumped, only half awake, his empty wine cup held loosely. The stout, dark-haired Ana stood impassive, hands clasped in front of her, as if content to remain there all night. Her cheeks were now dry.
We defeated your army at the Well of Goliath, Tartar, and now I have defeated you at Orvieto.
"Monsters!" It was the voice of the contessa, and Daoud turned to see her, losing his balance and having to put out a foot to catch himself.
He saw de Verceuil as well, coming across the hall almost at a run, just ahead of the contessa, his aquamarine cloak flying. His eyes were wide, his little mouth tight with fury. The contessa, looking just as angry, was hurrying to keep up with him and tell him what she thought.
"You have brought monsters into my house. Everything bad I have heard about them they have now admitted. In a year or two they will be at the gates of Rome. They are the Huns all over again." Her eyes were huge, and her nostrils flared with passion. Daoud suppressed an urge to laugh aloud with delight.
De Verceuil checked his rush to get to his Tartar charges, and turned to the contessa. "Your Signory, I beg you to understand. They have been drinking. They did not know what they were saying. Old soldiers' boasting. Exaggerated tales of their exploits. The Tartars are given to that sort of thing."
"It is not exaggerated," the old lady cried shrilly. "We have heard tales before of their massacres. Now I have heard the samefrom their own lips. These very men whom I have welcomed into my house—their hands drip with the blood of children. One of them told how he slit the throats of forty babies. And they are proud of what they have done. They feel no remorse. Old soldiers' boasting? Old soldiers boast of overcoming strong enemies. These—these bestioni gloat over the slaughter of the helpless. Perhaps they look at my palazzo and think that one day it will be theirs. And you have brought them under my roof."
"Donna Elvira," de Verceuil pleaded, "let me find out the truth about what has been happening here."
Daoud's heartbeat quickened. He should slip away now. Drunk as he was, he would be too vulnerable to de Verceuil.
The French cardinal was shouting at the Bulgarian woman. John the Tartar was smiling as if de Verceuil's appearance were enough in itself to extricate him from the consequences of his too-free speech. Philip's fleshy chin rested on his chest and his eyes were fast shut.
Something white moved in the corner of Daoud's eye, and he looked toward the doorway leading to the inner galleria, where the gaming had been going on. Lorenzo was just sauntering out. He was all the way across the room, and Daoud's vision was too blurred to see his expression, but he was probably smiling. He walked closer, seeming to be looking at Daoud for a signal, but Daoud could think of none to send.
Well done, Lorenzo. How badly, I wonder, did you have to play at backgammon to keep de Verceuil occupied all this time?
"How could I stop them from speaking, Your Eminence?" Ana was protesting. "I am here only to translate what they say. This man came up to talk to them, and I simply repeated what they said to him and what he said back to them."
"What man?" de Verceuil asked the question almost in a whisper, and Ana's eyes turned toward Daoud.
Too late. Now I must face him.
"You," de Verceuil said in the same low voice.
Daoud swayed, and it came to him at once how best to respond. He would pretend to be too drunk to understand what was happening.
"You provoked these indiscretions," the cardinal ground out. The jeweled cross hanging on his chest winked and glittered as it rose and fell with his deep breathing.
Daoud put out a hand to grasp the back of his chair. Smiling atthe cardinal, he leaned heavily on the chair and circled it methodically. He sat down heavily on the arm, almost tipping the chair over. Then he slid into the seat with a thump.
He looked up at de Verceuil and said, "What?"
The cardinal's hands—they were very large, Daoud saw—clenched and unclenched.
He wishes he could strangle me.
"Why have you tried to embarrass these ambassadors?" de Verceuil demanded. His voice was a good deal louder now.
Daoud let his head loll. He caught sight of Lorenzo again. The Sicilian was much closer. Daoud shook his head ever so slightly and jerked his chin.
Go away.
He let his head fall forward.
De Verceuil moved closer. Raising his eyes while keeping his head lowered, Daoud found himself staring at the cardinal's belt buckle, a gold medallion displaying an angel's head with wings growing out of its curly hair.
"I have embarrassed no one," Daoud mumbled thickly. "I know John and Philip's people. They are our neighbors." He laughed, and let the laugh go on too long. "We talked about things everybody knows."
He felt those big hands seize the front of his tunic and jerk him to his feet. De Verceuil's flushed face was less than a hand's width from his own. The cardinal's eyes were huge and dark.
Daoud felt his muscles bunch, and he forced them to relax. He felt fear. Not fear of de Verceuil, whom he could easily kill, but fear of losing control of himself, of letting the Face of Steel show through the Mask of Clay. Such a revelation could put an end to his mission.
"Who the devil are you? What are you doing in Orvieto? Answer me!" De Verceuil shook Daoud violently. Daoud's head rocked back and forth, and he saw two faces of de Verceuil.
Had there been no wine in his blood, it would have been easier for Daoud to control his fear and his anger. He knew he must play at being a merchant who would be terrified at having provoked the wrath of a prince of the Church. But, as it was, he felt himself caught up in a whirlwind of rage, and his hands came up, going for the cardinal's throat. Just in time he changed the move into a cringing, self-protective gesture.
"I could have you killed!" de Verceuil shouted. "And I will if you do not answer me."
"Stop!" The small body of Cardinal Ugolini was beside them, almost between them. "David of Trebizond is my guest." Daoud glanced down at Ugolini and saw that he was trembling violently.
He thinks I might do something that would expose us all.
"Trebizond!" De Verceuil spat the word. "This man is a damned schismatic Greek who has come here to betray Christianity!"
"On the contrary," said Ugolini, "he may yet save Christendom from a terrible error. De Verceuil, I demand that you take your hands off him."
Daoud let his body go suddenly limp, so that de Verceuil was holding up all of his weight by his tunic. At the jerk on his arms, de Verceuil gave a snort of disgust and let go, pushing Daoud away from him. Daoud collapsed into his chair.
"I am only a trader," he said plaintively to the room in general. "I am sorry I ever said a word to the damned Tartars. It has meant nothing but trouble for me. Why did I not remain silent?" Adding a strong flavoring of drunkenness, he imitated the gestures of Greek merchants he had seen in the bazaars of El Kahira. He turned his head from side to side, surveying the onlookers. He could not see Sophia, which was good. He wanted her, like Lorenzo, far away. Perhaps she was still in the garden with de Gobignon.
No. Daoud saw the young French count's head. He was pushing his way through the audience.
The Contessa di Monaldeschi, her hands nervously smoothing down the front of her blue velvet gown, confronted de Verceuil.
"Eminence, leave this man alone. He is a guest in this house. As you are, which is a thing I begin to regret."
"Contessa, this is all a mistake," said de Verceuil pleadingly. Daoud suspected he feared the ignominy of finding the ambassadors and himself out in the street.
"It is not a mistake." Ugolini seemed to have plucked up his courage now. "My esteemed colleague of the Sacred College is trying to punish David because the Tartars spoke frankly to him. David made no accusations. The Tartars accused themselves."
The contessa seized Ugolini's arm. "Oh, Your Eminence, will God be angry with me for harboring these demons?"
Ugolini patted her hands. "You cannot be blamed, dear Contessa. You acted in good faith at the request of His Holiness himself.He, having heard what the Tartars said tonight, may also regret this affair."
Ugolini looked accusingly at de Verceuil, who, purple-faced, looked as if he wished he could tear his little colleague of the Sacred College limb from limb.
Now Simon de Gobignon, having broken through the circle of onlookers, declared, "This would not have happened if Friar Mathieu had been here interpreting for the Tartars, guarding them against indiscretions. Instead, you found this woman who is altogether ignorant of what is at stake here. You had her translate for the Tartars because you begrudge Friar Mathieu his share of the honor of this diplomatic accomplishment. Except that there will be no accomplishment, because of your bungling."
Tall as de Verceuil was, de Gobignon was taller. Righteous anger made the French boy's blue eyes flash.
Daoud wanted to laugh aloud at the count's fury and de Verceuil's utter embarrassment. But he decided he should be too stupidly drunk to understand what was going on.
"You have no right to criticize me!" de Verceuil shouted.
"Be sure that the Count d'Anjou will hear of this," Simon answered.
De Verceuil offending Fra Tomasso would be even better than de Verceuil shouting at de Gobignon. If there were a way I could make that happen. Sophia, working through de Gobignon?
Even though his Sufi training helped him keep his mind clear, puzzling out this new idea was beyond his present powers after all the wine he had drunk.
Daoud let his head fall forward, and his eyes met the penetrating black gaze of John Chagan. John was drunk, and he did not speak the language of these people. But Daoud saw understanding in the crinkled brown face. John could not know Daoud was a Mameluke, but he knew him for an enemy. He looked at Daoud with the same icy determination to annihilate all enemies as Daoud had seen staring at him from under the fur-and-iron helmets of the Tartars at the Well of Goliath.
And Daoud, slumped in his chair, felt the same implacable resolution he had felt that day, to fight back until the last invader was driven from the Dar al-Islam, the Abode of Islam.
The Tartar army appeared as a darkness across the eastern horizon, deepening as it spread. Curry-colored clouds towered above the gray-black line like mile-high djinns.
The distant thunder of hooves reached the Mameluke commanders as they halted in the plain between the hills of Galilee and the mountains of Gilboa near a village called Ain Jalut, the Well of Goliath. A fierce sun beat down on yellow grass and dusty tamarisks.
El Malik al-Mudhaffar Qutuz was mounted on a milk-white stallion from Hedjaz in the midst of his emirs. Baibars al-Bunduqdari rode a fawn-colored half-blood mare, part Arabian and part steppe pony. Daoud, in his early twenties and risen through the ranks of Baibars's personal guard to be second in command of the orta, fifteen thousand strong, sat on his sturdy Yemenite stallion before the other emirs. His red turban shaded his face and shielded his steel helmet from the sun. His chest was encased in the breastplate of an emir, steel inlaid with gold.
The Mameluke emirs, bashis and muqaddams wore their fortunes into battle—gold bracelets and belts, jeweled rings, necklaces of coins. Jewels sparkled on their belt buckles and the scabbards and hilts of their scimitars, on their turbans, on the toes of their boots, on their fingers. Over their mail shirts and gold-inlaid breastplates the emirs wore velvet vests and long khalats of crimson or gold satin, lined with white silk, fastened with gold buttons, trimmed with silver thread at the collars and cuffs and hems. Silk turbans were wound around their helmets, red, blue, yellow, pinned with jeweled clasps and adorned with the plumes of rare birds. Tied tight around their waists were wide shawls printed with stars and crescents. Their boots were of soft leather, crimson-dyed, with silver spurs, gold buckles, and pointed toes.
And all that I have, Daoud thought,may be torn from me in an instant today.
From Daoud's neck hung the silver locket given to him by his first, and so far only, wife, Baibars's daughter Blossoming Reed. It was, she had told him, a magical thing.
The Mamelukes were now the last defenders of Islam. The Tartars having conquered Baghdad and Damascus, El Kahira was the only remaining center of Muslim strength. If the Tartars overcame the Mamelukes, all that remained of the Dar al-Islam would lie open to the invaders, even the holiest place of all, Mecca, the house of God.
"We are a hundred thousand and they not a fourth of that," saidQutuz almost petulantly, his eyes fixed on the oncoming Tartars. "How can they dare to turn and fight us?"
"They are Tartars," said Baibars. "They do not fear the numbers of their enemies."
"Being a Tartar yourself, you can tell us how they think," said Qutuz. Daoud heard a faint undertone of contempt in the Kurd's voice. Baibars must have heard it, too; Daoud saw his lord's cheeks darken slightly.
Looking into the sultan's set face, Daoud realized that Qutuz, despite his apparent disdain, had already given up the battle. His lips, almost hidden in his oiled black beard, were pressed tight, in an effort to keep them from trembling.
The Mamelukes might outnumber the Tartars today, but the Tartars had never been defeated anywhere in the world. The sultan must have led the army to what he saw as certain death, for himself and all of them, only because he knew his Mameluke emirs would depose and kill him if he did not.
How can a Mameluke fear death, or even defeat? Qutuz has been sultan too long.
"With the help of God, my brothers," said Qutuz, his voice hollow, "let us ride forth and slay them. I will command the center, Kalawun the left wing, and Baibars the right. When you see my green banner dip, we will advance to surround and destroy them."
He does not believe that God will help him, thought Daoud.And he does not believe he can help himself.
Riding over the dusty field to rejoin the men under his command, Daoud yearned for the fighting to begin. His body felt tight, as if it were being pressed inward from all directions, and his heart seemed to swell in his chest, trying to break out of the pressure.
If I must die today, let me first do a great deed for God!
By the time the oncoming Tartars were clearly visible, Daoud was back with the right wing of the Mameluke army, at the head of his own troop. The Tartars came on at an unhurried trot, spread out in a series of long ranks, one behind the other, and he could see their fur-trimmed helmets, their waving lances, their colored signal flags. He could hear their shrill war cries and the braying of their horns. Above their front rank flew their savage standard, rows of long black tails of animals waving from crossbars mounted on a tall pole.
Drawn up across the plain behind Baibars's yellow banner weredark ranks of Mameluke heavy cavalrymen armed with tall spears and wearing steel chain mail and helmets.
Daoud saw Qutuz's green flag, small and far to the west, dip, heard Baibars's cry, relayed the shout to his men.
In a moment the parched earth of the plain of the Well of Goliath was trembling under the hooves of fifteen thousand Mameluke horses. The kettledrums of Baibars's tablkhana, his camel-mounted band, thundered, and the trumpets blared, sending Daoud's blood racing.
Daoud drew his double-curved bow of horn and sinew out of the case hanging from his saddle and nocked an arrow as the galloping hooves of his horse jolted his body. He let his voice pour out of him in a long scream.
The braying of the Tartars' signal horns floated over the plain. They, too, were galloping, bent over the necks of their ponies. The Tartar horses were short-legged, their barrel-shaped bodies encased in leather armor.
Ugly little horses, Daoud thought.
The ponies of the Tartar unit passing him all appeared to be white with black spots. The Tartars' tunics were brown, their trousers gray, and their fur-trimmed iron helmets painted red.
Ahead of him Daoud saw Baibars's yellow standard fluttering against a sky gray with dust. Baibars's wing and the Tartars were riding past each other. The emir was leading his men eastward. To Daoud's left, across an empty space of grassy plain, the Tartar army was passing them, charging to the west. Arrows flew from the Tartars, but singly, not in volleys. Daoud loosed an arrow of his own at the passing horde. It arced over the bare strip between the two armies and fell in the Tartar mass without result that he could see.
He looked back toward the center of the Mameluke host and saw small figures in white robes striding through the grass. They were holy men, he knew, dervishes dedicated to death. As they marched on foot and unarmed against the Tartars, they were calling on God to avenge the martyrs of Islam. Arrows flew at them from the Tartar lines, and in an instant it seemed the dervishes vanished as they crumpled into the tall grass.
They are showing all of us how to die, thought Daoud. By going joyfully to their deaths, the dervishes reminded the Mamelukes that each warrior who died here today would be a mujahid, one who fell in holy war for Islam. Such a one was destined for paradise.
But he also realized uneasily that he had seen a demonstration of Tartar marksmanship.
Signal flags, yellow, green, and red, fluttered among the Tartar horsemen, and horns bellowed. Daoud heard the pounding of a great battery of drums. From twenty thousand Tartar throats at once there rose a long, terrifying scream. Daoud turned in the saddle to see the entire Tartar army, now in a wedge formation, the beast-tail standard at the point of the triangle rushing upon the green banner of Sultan Qutuz.
A blue flag fluttered beside Baibars's yellow one. The signal to halt. Daoud raised his arm and shouted the order to his troop. The Mameluke right wing rumbled to a stop and turned their horses to face the fighting that had just passed them by. Reining up his horse, Daoud put his bow back in its case.
He blinked as bright bursts of light flashed above the distant ranks in the center of the Mameluke army. Swiftly that part of the field was enveloped in thick clouds of brown smoke. A moment later he heard popping sounds like the cracking of innumerable boards. The dim shapes of horses plunged and reared in the smoke.
He heard his men muttering to one another behind him.
They think it is sorcery.
Daoud, having seen the Tartar army in action when he visited Baghdad disguised as a Christian trader, recognized the fiery noisemakers.
He turned and shouted, "It is not magic. I've seen this before. It is like Greek Fire, but it does not hurt. It just makes noise and smoke."
He saw smiles of relief among those who had heard him. They would pass the word to the others farther back, and the troops would settle down.
He peered anxiously into the chaos of smoke and dust and horses and men, trying to see the Tartar standard, with its long black tails, and Qutuz's green banner. They had been close together when he last saw them. Now he could not find them.
A movement near the western horizon caught his eye. He saw a bit of green waving just below the blue Galilee hills that separated this plain of Esdraelon from the coast. Qutuz's banner, smaller, farther away.
Despair clutched at Daoud. But Qutuz could be feigning a retreat to lure the Tartars into spreading themselves too thin. Then he saw the black Tartar standard, much closer, in the midst of a furiousmelee of fighting men and falling horses half obscured by dust. Qutuz would not leave part of the center behind to fight the Tartars unless he were running away. Daoud remembered the tightness he had seen in Qutuz's face before the battle, the hopelessness in the sultan's voice.
He is fleeing in terror. We are all dead men. Islam is lost.
Daoud looked to the east and saw that Baibars was still sitting motionless, a small figure at this distance on his fawn half-blood, the bearer with the yellow standard sitting behind him.
Daoud turned in the saddle and swept his gaze over the long line of his own troop. Their red turbans bobbed up and down as their horses danced. The wind was from the north, and their scarlet cloaks fluttered behind them. The bearded faces in the front rank were grave, but there was no fear. There was no murmuring now, no questioning. Their mounts, brown, white, and black, the finest steeds in al-Islam, stood with necks stretched and ears laid back, eager for the charge.
An orange pennant beside Baibars's standard summoned the commanders to confer with their leader.
"I go to the emir for orders," Daoud said loudly, so they would not think he was fleeing the field.
By the time he reached Baibars, a half circle of five emirs and ten bashis had formed around their commander. Daoud could hear Baibars muttering to himself in his boyhood Kipchaq tongue. Curses, no doubt.
Far to the north Daoud saw horsemen riding westward, away from the battlefield. The left wing, under Kalawun. The Tartars had come nowhere near them. They must have given way to fear when they saw the center fall back.
Daoud saw no fear in Baibars's brown face. His wide mouth with its thin lips was formed in a half smile. The expression around his eyes, the blue one that saw so deeply and the opaque white, was calm and confident. He pulled on his reins to turn his half-blood so that his back was to the field of battle.
"Most of our army has fled." His voice was deep and so full of confidence Daoud almost thought he heard laughter in it. "The Tartars think they have won. Now, therefore, let us ride against them."
The commanders looked at one another in wonderment.
Buoyed up by Baibars's calm strength, Daoud felt himself despising the officers under his and Baibars's command.
They think Baibars is mad. To the devil with them. Even if he is mad, I will follow him and die with him.
The thought occurred to him that if Baibars should fall—God forbid!—then he would have to lead these fifteen thousand men. For a moment he was seized by fear, whether of his lord's death or of having to lead alone, he was not sure.
Baibars saw the disbelief of his officers. "You do not deserve to ride with me," he said, and now there was scorn in his tone. "Have you not always risked death in battle? Can the Tartars do more to you than kill you? I tell you, if we are defeated, better to die here than live as fugitives. Now go to your troops. In a moment you will see my standard move against them. Do as you will, follow or run away as you choose, and God will reward you accordingly. If I must, I will ride alone."
Daoud felt the blood rush to his head in dizzy excitement.
"You will not ride alone, Lord," said Daoud fiercely.
"No, Bunduqdari, no," said another emir, Bektout, a Kipchaq like Baibars. "Let us offer our lives to God and ride out with light hearts."
The other officers shouted their eagerness to die for Islam. Daoud felt full of gratitude. Baibars had put the spirit of war back into them. He had done what Qutuz could never do.
After the other emirs had ridden back to their troops, Baibars said quietly to Daoud, "I truly believe I will win. Until the instant that they kill me, I will know that I am winning."
Back at the head of his own troop, Daoud watched Baibars and waited. For a moment a silence fell over this part of the field. The drumming of hooves, the clash of steel, and the screams of men carried clearly from far to the west.
Baibars on horseback sat a short distance in front of the long dark ranks of Mamelukes. He turned and beckoned to his standard bearer, who trotted forward bearing the yellow silk banner inscribed with the words of the Koran in black letters, "For the safety of the faith, slay the enemies of Islam."
Baibars took the banner in his right hand and held it high, then lowered it till its end rested in a leather socket beside his foot. In his left hand, his sword hand, his long, curved saif, inlaid with gold, flashed in the sunlight. His fawn half-blood pawed the air with her front hooves.
"Oh, God, give us victory!" he shouted. "Yah l'Allah!"
An echoing roar came back from the ranks of the right wing.Half standing in his copper stirrups, guiding his mare with the pressure of his legs, Baibars sent her into a headlong gallop. Daoud struck his spurs into his own horse's flanks and raced after him. He squinted into the wind that blew his beard back against his neck.
The dark blur of struggling Tartars and Mamelukes grew rapidly larger. Qutuz's banner was nowhere to be seen, but the beast-tail Tartar standard rose up in the west, and Kalawun's black banner was waving far to the north.
They were coming on the Tartar horsemen from the flank and rear. Daoud was close enough to see faces turn and Tartars wheel their ponies to meet the attack.
Daoud drew his bow out again, picked a big Tartar with a drooping black mustache, and loosed an arrow at him. The Tartar fell back over his gray pony's rump, and the pony slowed, trotted out of the Tartar formation, and stood nibbling on the tall dead grass while its dead master lay nearby.
Three Tartars peeled off from their formation and charged at Daoud. His arrows took two of them, and an arrow from one of his men struck down the third.
Elated, he whispered a prayer of thanks to God. Baibars's yellow standard changed direction. Following it, Daoud pulled his horse around and raced away from the Tartars. He stood in the stirrups, bow and an arrow in hand with a steel-tipped armor-piercing arrow nocked. Resting his right knee against his heavy wood and leather saddle, he turned until he was looking over his horse's rear and took careful aim. To steady his aim, he fired the arrow just after his horse's four feet struck the ground. He saw a Tartar thrown off his pony by the force of the arrow, and he laughed aloud.
He saw files of Tartars pulling away from the main formation, which was pursuing Qutuz and Kalawun. Baibars's attack was pulling the Tartars apart.
Love for Baibars surged within him. The Tartars were said to be masters of warfare, but Baibars could out-general even them.
Following the yellow standard, Daoud rode back and forth over the field. He lost all sense of the progress of the battle. For brief moments he took his eyes off the enemy warriors to glance up at the sun, a pale disk visible through a haze of smoke and dust, to see in which direction he was riding.
Many times he shot his last arrow, got down from his horse and, standing in the grass with horsemen galloping all around him, refilledhis quiver from those of fallen Mamelukes and from the bodies of Tartars.
Mounted or on foot, he felt as if no arrow or sword could touch him. He seemed, when he had ridden out to battle, to have left fear somewhere behind.
He recognized Mamelukes from other ortas riding beside him, and his hopes leapt at the sight of them. They must have come back to join the battle from the shattered left wing and center.
Following the yellow standard, he saw that the Tartars were now always on his left. For the most part, he kept his eyes on them and stayed close to the other Mamelukes. The plain was almost featureless, but glancing to his right from time to time, he noticed certain twisted trees and black boulders he was sure he had passed before.
The sun was halfway between the zenith and the western horizon when the yellow standard halted. The Mamelukes turned to face the Tartars, whose standard rose from their midst. Looking to either side, Daoud saw curving lines of mounted Mamelukes stretching until they disappeared around the edges of the packed Tartar mass.
What had happened? Baibars's refusal to abandon the field and the greater numbers of the Mamelukes must have tipped the scales. Daoud's heart pounded with joy as he realized that they had ground down the numbers of the Tartars and surrounded the survivors.
Baibars, down the Mameluke line, called out, "Finish them. One by one. Hand to hand."
He still held high the banner of the orta. He raised his curved saif and pointed it at the Tartars.
He turned toward Daoud for a moment, and Daoud saw the exaltation in his face. Baibars's face was coated with gray dust. His gold khalat was streaked with blood, and none of it, Daoud was sure, was his. An angel must be riding on his shoulder.
With another wave of his saif Baibars charged into the mass of Tartars. Howling in an ecstasy of fury, the rest of the Mamelukes rushed after him.
Daoud reached over his shoulder and pulled his curving, double-edged saif from its leather-covered scabbard. He tried to ride near Baibars, but a wall of Tartars rose up between them. While he fought for his own life, Daoud could only pray that God would protect Baibars.
And then he was no longer fighting many Tartars, but just one.They had chosen each other out of the struggling multitudes, like partners in a dance.
Daoud saw his man as vividly as if he had been staring at him for hours. Red ribbons fluttered from the sides of his fur-trimmed iron helmet. The ends of his black mustache hung down on either side of his mouth like whiplashes. His cheeks and chin bore the ridges of thick scars he seemed to have cut into his flesh. His nose had been crushed in some past battle, and it was a shapeless lump between his jutting cheekbones. His eyes were hard and expressionless.
Daoud rode at the Tartar eagerly, rejoicing that for now the battle was between himself and this one man. For him now this Tartar was all Tartars.
The scarred brown face was utterly concentrated on a single purpose, to kill Daoud. The Tartar reminded Daoud of a tale told by a storyteller in a bazaar at El Kahira of invincible bronze warriors, statues brought to life by a magician.
Daoud's Yemenite stallion leapt at the Tartar as Daoud brought his saif down.
The Tartar raised his round leather-covered shield and easily caught the blow of Daoud's sword while swinging his own scimitar around at Daoud's chest. The blade struck Daoud's ribs on the left side. The cunningly woven rings of Damascene steel under Daoud's tunic stopped the edge of the blade, but the blow sent a shock of pain through his body.
Daoud struck downward again with his saif and chopped a deep gash in the Tartar's shield. The force of the blow hurt Daoud's arm. His tall Yemenite and the Tartar's piebald pony pranced in a cloud of dust as their riders slashed at each other. The Tartar's brown tunic hung in ribbons.
Daoud saw a spot of sunlight reflected from his silver locket flash in the Tartar's eyes. The Tartar glanced at Daoud's chest, his eyes caught by the light. In that instant Daoud thrust straight at his enemy's throat.
He thought he had no chance of hitting the right spot, but the point of his saif went in just below the Tartar's chin and above his high leather collar. Blood poured after the sword's point as Daoud jerked it out.
Praise God!Daoud thought with delight as he saw that he had won. And he thought with thankfulness of Blossoming Reed, for her gift of the locket.
For the first time, an instant away from death, an expression of feeling crossed the Tartar's face. His lips parted and the corners of his mouth pulled down in a grimace of pain and disgust.
Daoud had to parry one more blow of the scimitar before the Tartar slumped over in the saddle and slid to the ground, disappearing in the dust kicked up by the hooves of a dozen milling horses. In his last moment the Tartar had still been trying to kill him.
"We have destroyed them!" a voice cried near him. It was Mahmoud, naqeeb of Daoud's old training troop. He now wore the plain gold belt buckle of an emir of drums, in command of forty mounted warriors. His beard was whiter now, but he rode easily and held his scimitar with a young man's strength.
Mamelukes rode forward on all sides of Daoud, their saifs stabbing the air.
The victory whoops of his fellow Mamelukes were, for Daoud, a draft of elixir from paradise filling him with new strength.
"Great Baibars, honor to his name, has defeated those who never knew defeat!" Mahmoud exulted.
As the last word left his lips, a Tartar arrow, long as a javelin, thudded into his chest. He gasped, and his pain-filled eyes met Daoud's. He dropped his scimitar and his hand reached out to grasp Daoud's arm.
"A good moment," he grated. "Praise God!" He slumped in the saddle, the flowing white beard fluttering in the east wind.
Grief shot through Daoud like the Tartar arrow that had pierced his old naqeeb.
Daoud knew what Mahmoud's last words meant. It was the best of moments to die. A moment of triumph.
But a moment of grief for me, Mahmoud, because I have seen you die.
Daoud rode forward over dead Tartars to the place where the enemy had planted their standard, on a small hill. Bunched together, the last few Tartars fought on foot.
A fierce joy swept Daoud. Victory! He had believed that God would not allow Islam's last defenders to be defeated, but the wonder of a triumph over the invincible Tartars was so overwhelming that he almost fell from his saddle.
In the midst of the Tartars one man dashed this way and that, shouting orders to the few dozen men as if they were still thousands. He wore a gold tablet stamped with symbols on a chain around hisneck, the badge of a high-ranking Tartar officer. Scouts had reported that this Tartar army was commanded by one called Ket Bogha. This must be he.
Ket Bogha shot arrows into the tightening circle of Mamelukes until he had no more arrows left. He threw javelins. Then he stood with his sword held before him, not the usual Tartar saber, but a two-handed sword that he swung ferociously at anyone who approached.
With a single swipe of his sword Ket Bogha cut off the foreleg of a horse that rode at him. The horse toppled screaming to the ground, and the rider barely managed to jump free and run away as Ket Bogha slashed at him.
The battle ended for Ket Bogha as six naqeebs clubbed the Tartar general to the ground with the butt ends of their lances.
He deserved better than that, Daoud thought sadly.
But the momentary sympathy for his conquered enemy was swept away in the ecstatic floodtide of triumph. Now the battle was truly over! And the Mamelukes had won over the Tartars.
The naqeebs bound Ket Bogha's arms. Baibars himself dismounted and took the Tartar general's great sword and tied it to his own saddle, then lifted the gold tablet from around his neck and dropped it into his saddle pack. Smiling, he spoke to Ket Bogha in the language of the Tartars and tied a rope around his neck. Then he mounted his own fawn-colored mare and led the defeated general past heaps of Tartar and Mameluke dead and clusters of rejoicing Muslim warriors. Daoud, and then Baibars's other emirs and bashis followed.
The standard of Qutuz was back on the field, looking more black than green with the afternoon sun behind it.
"Can it be? Can it be that we have truly won?" Mamelukes cried, running beside Baibars's horse.
"Baibars! Yah, Baibars!" cried the warriors as Baibars rode slowly over the field.
"Tell us, Baibars, that we have won!"
As an answer Baibars gestured grandly to his captive stumbling along behind him.
"Baibars, bringer of victory!"
The sultan's servants were already setting up his gold silk pavilion on the edge of the battlefield. When Baibars rode before Qutuz, pulling Ket Bogha, a deafening roar went up from the emirs, the bashis, the muqaddams, the naqeebs, the troopers.
Daoud glanced at Qutuz and saw that his eyes were wide and his face pale. He must still be dazed by the outcome of this battle.
But the sultan stepped forward to peer at Ket Bogha as the Tartar general was freed from Baibars's rope. Qutuz gestured to his men to untie Ket Bogha. A circle of emirs formed around Qutuz and the Tartar commander, to hear what they would say to each other.
Qutuz had found time at the end of the battle to have his black beard combed and oiled and to robe himself afresh. His black and gold khalat glittered in the hazy sunlight. The Mamelukes had stripped Ket Bogha of his armor, and he stood before the sultan in a dirty, bloodstained tunic that had once been a bright blue. His shaven head was round as a ball, and, like most Tartars Daoud had seen, his short legs were bowed from a lifetime in the saddle.
Once again Daoud felt sorrow for the Tartar leader, who looked like a lonely island in the midst of a sea of joy.
Since Baibars spoke both Tartar and Arabic, he stood between the sultan and the Tartar general to translate.
"You have overthrown kingdoms from the Jordan to the Roof of the World," said Qutuz through Baibars. "How does it feel to be defeated yourself?"
Released from his bonds, Ket Bogha paced furiously back and forth before Qutuz. He started to talk so rapidly the interpreter could not keep up with him.
Daoud was amazed to see that he actually seemed to be laughing at what Qutuz had said.
He still feels the excitement of the battle, Daoud thought.And by walking and talking as he does, he keeps at bay his grief at the loss of his army. His words are as much for himself as for the sultan and the emirs.
"Defeat?" said Baibars, speaking Ket Bogha's words. "Oh, Sultan, do not play the fool by claiming this skirmish as a victory. You rashly chose to overrun this handful of men, but the harm you have done to Hulagu Khan is that which a gnat does to an elephant. You have not hurt him. You have angered him. The men and horses he has lost here, the wives of his soldiers and the mares in his paddocks will make up in a single night."
"You talk like some old storyteller in the marketplace who tries to frighten children," said Qutuz in a shrill voice.
The amazement all of us feel, that we are not only alive but victorious, must be even stronger in Qutuz. Most of my Mamelukecomrades may think that their sultan planned for victory all along. But he himself knows better.
Ket Bogha stopped pacing and pointed a stubby finger at Qutuz. "Soon Hulagu Khan will return from beyond the Oxus and the hooves of his horses will trample your land all the way to the Nile and beyond. He will do to your Cairo what he did to Baghdad."
Qutuz laughed harshly. "Your faith in your master is touching, but I will have your head carried before me on a spear when I ride back to Egypt. He cannot save you from that."
"I would rather die for my khan than be like you, one who rose to power by murdering his rightful lord!" Ket Bogha cried.
Baibars smiled wryly as he repeated the Tartar's words in Arabic.
Qutuz went white with fury. "Take him away and cut his head off," he ordered. "And you, Baibars, how dare you repeat such a slander to me? I never murdered anyone."
Qutuz's command revolted Daoud. After the poor part the sultan had played in the battle, he had no right to take the head of a brave enemy. Daoud heard Baibars give a little snort of disgust, and the emir strode to Qutuz's side.
Baibars spoke in a low voice, but Daoud heard him. "My Lord, this is not worthy of a sultan in his hour of victory. This is a brave commander, and I repeated all that he said because you wished me to."
Qutuz glared wildly at Baibars. "Be still! I will not spare your fellow Tartar."
Qutuz, Daoud thought with smoldering wrath, was not worthy to be sultan.
Baibars turned his back on Qutuz. The brown face was impassive, but in the one blue eye Daoud saw death.