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," said Qutuz
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 were dark
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 furious melee 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, refilled his
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 his 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.
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
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.