Pride swelled Daoud's heart as he watched the column of Muslim cavalry
suddenly change direction and sweep like a long roll of thunder through
the valley. A flutter of orange banners on their flanks, and the men at
the far end of the line launched into an all-out gallop, while the
riders at the near end slowed to a high-stepping trot. The whole line
pivoted like a great scythe, enveloping the flank of an imaginary enemy.
"Very impressive," said King Manfred. "They get their orders from those
colored flags?" He and Daoud stood on the rounded brow of a grassy hill,
watching the Sons of the Falcon displaying their skills for their king.
The valley Daoud had found for the demonstration was a natural
amphitheater, a flat, circular plain at least a league in diameter
surrounded by hills. Normally it was used as grazing land.
For over a year Daoud had been training these two hundred men, picked
from hundreds of volunteers from Manfred's Saracen guards. With so much
time, he had been able to forge and polish the Sons of the Falcon into a
weapon that could be the vanguard of Manfred's army.
He hoped that what Manfred saw today would put him in a warlike mood, a
mood to ask Daoud for his advice. He prayed for the chance to urge
Manfred not to wait for Charles d'Anjou to invade his kingdom, but to
march north and attack Charles at once.
_O God, open Manfred's mind._
For Manfred to delay the start of his war against Charles d'Anjou even
this long could well be disastrous. A year ago Manfred could have moved
out from southern Italy and smashed Charles, as a man rises from his
couch and crosses the room to crush a mosquito. Sadly, like many a man
who sees a mosquito across the room, Manfred had chosen to remain on his
couch.
And the mosquito was fast growing into a dragon.
Lorenzo Celino and Landgrave Erhard Barth, the grand marshal of
Manfred's army, stood on either side of Daoud and Manfred. Scipio stood
beside Celino, who rested his right hand on the dog's big head. Half a
dozen nobles and officers of Manfred's court were gathered a short
distance away from the king and his three companions. Lower down the
hillside, scudieros held the party's horses.
"Those flags would be useless at night," said Barth, speaking Italian
with a heavy accent, which Daoud knew to be that of Swabia, the German
state from which Manfred's family came. "And they would be hard to see
on a rainy day." He was a broad-faced man with a snub nose. All of his
upper front teeth were missing, which caused his upper lip to sink in
and his lower lip to protrude, giving him a permanent pout.
Irritated, Daoud spoke to Manfred rather than to Barth. "There are many
ways to signal. Colored lanterns at night. Horns. Drums. These men have
learned all those kinds of signals and can respond to them quickly."
Daoud's muscles tensed as he thought that the big German and he might
have it out today. Barth, he felt sure, was one of the advisers who was
holding Manfred back.
"I like the idea of signals," said Manfred. "In every battle I have
seen, no one knows what is going on once the two sides meet. Our knights
do not know how to fight in unified groups as the Turks and the Tartars
do."
The Sons of the Falcon rode to the base of the hill from which Manfred
was reviewing. Omar, Daoud's black-bearded second in command, spurred
his horse up the slope, leapt from the saddle, and rushed forward to
kneel and kiss Manfred's hand.
"You ride splendidly," said Manfred in Arabic.
"Tell the men I am very proud of them, Omar," Daoud said. Omar flashed
bright white teeth at him.
To Manfred Daoud said, "Now, Sire, if it be your pleasure, the Sons of
the Falcon will demonstrate their skill in casting the rumh--the lance."
Manfred nodded and waved a gauntleted hand. He was dressed in a long
riding cloak of emerald velvet, with an unadorned green cap covering his
light blond hair. His only jewelry was the five-pointed silver star with
its ruby center, which Daoud had never seen him without.
_Just as I still wear the locket Blossoming Reed gave me._
Omar bowed, and vaulted into the saddle with an agility that brought a
grunt of appreciation from Manfred. Waving his saber, he rode back down
the hill.
A scaffold and swinging target for the lances had been set up halfway
across the valley. Recalling his own training--and Nicetas--Daoud
watched his riders form a great circle in the plain below them. He heard
in his mind a boy's warbling battle cry, and felt a deep pang of
sadness.
"Why do you call them the Sons of the Falcon, Daoud?" Manfred asked.
"Because I know the falcon is the favorite bird of your family, Sire,"
Daoud said. Manfred grinned and nodded.
He thought, _And because the falcon does not hesitate_.
Daoud admired Manfred. He was said to be the image of his father, and
that made it easy to see why Emperor Frederic had been known as "the
Wonder of the World."
_Easy to see why Sophia loved Manfred for a time._
But as a war leader, Manfred was frustrating to work with. He seemed to
have no plan for fighting Charles d'Anjou. All over southern Italy and
Sicily, knights and men-at-arms were in training and on the alert, but
days, months, seasons, followed one another and Manfred ordered no
action.
Daoud's own goal remained the same he had set for himself a year ago in
Orvieto: To spur Manfred on to make war and to help him win a victory.
And when the war gave an opportunity, Daoud would once again try to kill
the Tartar ambassadors. They were now, Manfred's agents in the north
reported, in Rome under Charles's protection. Perhaps he could even
rescue poor Rachel.
Daoud smiled with pleasure as the riders below formed a huge circle, one
man behind the other. He was able to recognize individual men he had
come to know over the past months--Muslims from Manfred's army whom he
had picked and trained himself--Abdulhak, Mujtaba, Nuwaihi, Tabari,
Ahmad, Said, and many others. They were as eager for this war to begin
as he was.
At a shouted command from Omar, who sat on his horse in the center, the
circle began to rotate, the horses running faster and faster. Each man
balanced a lance in his right hand, and as he rode past the swinging
target ring, he hurled it. The ring was pulled from side to side with
long ropes by attendants, just as when Daoud had trained as a Mameluke.
As lance after lance flew through the moving target, Manfred gave a low
whistle of appreciation. Daoud had ordered the ring to be a yard wide
and the distance from horseman to target fifty feet. It was easier than
it looked for men who had practiced for months, but the rapidity of it
made a beautiful spectacle. Daoud's eye caught a few misses, but he
doubted that Manfred noticed.
"Like falcons, swift and fierce and sure," said Manfred. "But a bird is
just bone and muscle and feathers, Daoud. These men are lightly armed
and armored compared to Christian soldiers. These two hundred of yours
could never stop a charge of Frankish knights."
Daoud tensed. This was an opening.
"True, Sire, when Frankish knights in all their mail get those huge
armored war-horses going at a gallop, nothing can withstand them. But we
Mamelukes have defeated the Franks over and over again by not letting
them use their weight and power to advantage. They must close with their
enemy. We fight from a distance, raining arrows down upon them. If the
enemy pursues you, flee until he wearies himself and spreads his lines
out. Then rush in and cut him to pieces. Attack the enemy when he is not
expecting it."
"That might do well enough in the deserts of Outremer," said Manfred,
"but European warfare is different. There are mountains and rivers and
forests. We cannot spread out all over the landscape."
Daoud threw an exasperated look at Lorenzo, whose dark eyes were
sympathetic, but who shook his head slightly, as if to warn Daoud to be
politic in his argument with the king.
"There is one principle that you can adopt from Mameluke warfare," said
Daoud, choosing not to contradict Manfred, "and that is speed."
"Our Swabian knights and our Saracen warriors ride as swiftly as any in
Europe," Barth growled.
"Once they get moving," said Lorenzo sharply.
_He isn't always politic himself_, thought Daoud.
"Forgive me for speaking boldly, Sire," said Daoud, "but a whole summer
has gone by since Pope Clement proclaimed a crusade against you and
declared that your crown belongs to Charles d'Anjou. And there has been
no fighting. Is this what you mean by European warfare? In the time it
takes Europeans to get ready for one war, we Mamelukes would have fought
five wars."
As he spoke he proudly recalled what an Arab poet had written of the
Mamelukes: _They charge like lightning and arrive like thunder._
Manfred turned to watch the riders. A royal privilege, Daoud thought, to
conduct an argument at one's chosen pace. He pushed down the urge to say
more, forced himself to be patient, waited tensely for Manfred to reply
in his own time.
He felt a movement beside him and turned to see that Lorenzo had moved
closer to him. He gave Lorenzo a pleading look, trying to ask him to
join the discussion. Manfred respected Lorenzo and listened to him.
Lorenzo replied with a frown and a nod. He seemed to be saying he would
speak up when he judged the moment right.
When the men who had cast came around to the opposite side of the
circle, fresh lances thrust upright in the ground by their servants were
waiting for them. Each warrior leaned out of the saddle, seized a lance,
and rode back around at top speed to throw at the target again.
After a moment, Manfred turned back to Daoud and said, "Charles d'Anjou
has been hanging about in Rome all through the spring and summer
claiming to be king of Sicily. This morning I asked to see my crown, and
my steward brought it to me from the vault. The pope's words had not
made it disappear. Rome is not Sicily. Anjou is welcome to stay in that
decaying pesthole until he takes one of those famous Roman fevers and
dies."
No doubt, thought Daoud, Manfred's gesture in calling for his crown had
amused his whole court. And put heart into any who feared Charles's
growing strength. Manfred was charming, no question. But meanwhile
Charles d'Anjou, who by all accounts had not a bit of charm, _was_ in
fact growing stronger day by day. Those of Manfred's supporters who were
afraid had good reason, and Daoud was one of them.
It was agony to think how the opportunity to beat Charles now was
slipping away.
"So, you will wait for Charles to come to you," said Daoud.
Manfred smiled. "And he, I suspect, hopes that I will come to him.
Charles has to pay his army to stay in Italy. The longer he puts off
attacking me, the more his treasury is depleted. My army waits at home,
sustaining itself."
Daoud said, "Now that Charles's war is called a crusade, barons and
knights are joining him from all over Christendom. Many of them are
paying their own way. Sire, when Charles decides he is ready to move
against you, his strength will be overwhelming."
Lorenzo spoke up. "And meanwhile the pope has placed your whole kingdom
under interdict. No sacraments. No Masses. Couples cannot marry in
church. Can we weigh the pain of mothers and fathers who think their
babies that die unbaptized will never see God? And what about the terror
of sinners unable to confess, and the dying who cannot have the last
sacraments? And the grief of those who had to bury their loved ones
without funerals? Sire, your people have not heard a church bell since
last May. They grow more restless and unhappy every day. And it does not
help your cause when they see your Muslim and Jewish subjects freely
practicing _their_ religions."
"I am surprised to hear _you_ pay such tribute to the power of religion,
Lorenzo," said Manfred with that bright grin of his.
The grim lines of Lorenzo's face were accentuated by the droop of his
black and white mustache. "I have never in my life doubted the _power_
of religion, Sire."
Having used up all their lances, the Sons of the Falcon were now
shooting arrows from horseback, riding toward lines of stationary
targets that had been set up at the far end of the valley.
"Do you have a proposal, Daoud?" said Manfred with a sour look. "Let me
hear it."
Daoud felt an overwhelming sense of relief. This was the moment he had
been hoping for all day.
"Sire, do not wait for Charles to come out of Rome," he said. "In
January, February at the latest, assemble your army and march north."
There, he had made his cast. Would it pierce the target?
"I could go all the way to the Papal States only to find Charles lurking
behind the walls of Rome. I cannot besiege Rome. That would take ten
times as many men as I have."
"No," said Daoud. "His army will not let him stay in Rome. By the end of
winter they will have stolen everything in Rome that can be stolen.
Charles will have to promise them more spoils and lead them to battle,
or they will desert him."