The Saracen: Land of the Infidel by Robert Shea (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

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 his[277] neck, 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.[278]

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 Mameluke[279] comrades 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.

XXIII

The rats scavenged in the garbage and the cats hunted the rats. And cats and rats scurried out of the way of the two men[280] who staggered beneath a waning moon through the streets of Orvieto.

"I was truly drunk," said Daoud. "But only my body was drunk. It is still drunk." He walked with one arm thrown over Lorenzo's shoulder to steady his steps. It must have rained during the evening. The streets were slippery, and the clean, vaporous scent of drying rain was stronger than the usual odor of rotting rubbish piled between the houses in the spaces the Orvietans called quintane.

"You feign the extremity of drunkenness quite well," said Lorenzo. They had met by prearrangement on the street outside the Monaldeschi palace. Sophia and Cardinal Ugolini left earlier and separately, carried in sedan chairs and escorted by the cardinal's guards.

"What hour is it?" Daoud asked.

"Past the third nocturn. Do you know what that means?"

"It was explained to me once, but now my memory seems to be drunk."

"Simply, dawn is not far off," said Celino. "The third nocturn is between midnight and dawn. The contessa's reception began at the first nocturn, between sunset and midnight. Tell me, did you never experience wine in Egypt?"

Daoud decided that, much as he liked Lorenzo, he did not want to confide any of Saadi's most secret teachings to an atheist.

"Many times we stayed up all night, drinking kaviyeh, talking and watching the dancers. But we do not drink wine."

"Really?" said Lorenzo, glancing at him. "Permit me to be skeptical. I know many Muslims who drink wine."

Daoud shook his head. "Most Mamelukes do not drink wine. When Baibars became sultan, he closed all the wine shops in El Kahira." He also decided not to tell Lorenzo that in private Baibars enjoyed the Tartar drink kumiss, made from the fermented milk of mares.

Lorenzo grunted. "Then you Mamelukes are stricter in your observance than many others who were born to Islam."

They passed the cathedral of San Giovenale. It was lit within, and the narrow stained glass windows glowed red, yellow, blue, and white.

You go into a Christian church during the day, and the windows are all alight with colors. At night the windows are black if you are inside the church but brightly lit if you are outside. As if the church is calling to those outside in the darkness.[281]

"So beautiful," Daoud said, "even if the images were idolatrous."

"You should see some of the new cathedrals up near Paris. The windows are much bigger, and the figures are more lifelike."

"Do you admire the Christian churches?" Daoud asked.

"I admire beauty wherever I find it. On Sicily, there are beautiful stained glass windows in many synagogues."

"We are building a mosque in El Kahira that will be the wonder of the world. But when were you in Paris?"

"Four years ago, on a mission for King Manfred."

Four years ago I was battling Tartars in Palestine.

As they passed the open front doors of the cathedral, Daoud looked up the steps. He saw the bright yellow light of massed candles and heard a chorus of male voices raised in song. The voices seemed thin and high, as if reaching up into the night sky. He had heard such singing before—a long time before. He felt a catch in his throat.

"Why are the priests singing so late at night?"

"Those are the priests of the cathedral chapter. It is the beginning of day for them. They are chanting lauds, the dawn prayer of the Church."

Listening to the voices, Daoud felt hot tears running down his face.

Lorenzo glanced at him and chuckled. "I see you are not so impervious to the attractions of Christianity."

Daoud was embarrassed, but he could not stop the flow of tears. "It is the wine."

He was remembering high mass in the chapel of the castle, with his father's hand on his shoulder as they knelt and the chief priest in dazzling white and gold cope raised the white wafer toward heaven. His father whispered, "Jesus is come down among us," and then his strong tenor voice joined in "Veni Creator Spiritus."

I weep now for my father because