The Hakawati (57 page)

“You frighten me,” exclaimed Othman.

“I would never wish to don your robes,” Harhash bellowed.

When al-Awwar reached the walls, the gates opened to welcome him, but he did not enter. He turned in mid-stride and returned to battle. Like rushing water hitting a wall, the wedge separated at the gate in two directions and rejoined the fray. And in less time than it takes a master archer to shoot an arrow into the sky above him and wait for its return, the slave army had massacred one division of Halawoon’s army and entered Aleppo’s gates as glorious heroes. The city’s populace poured out of their homes, garlanded the warriors with jasmine and roses, and bowed before their rescuer, Prince Baybars.

From the city’s eastern parapet, the mayor of Aleppo showed Baybars and his companions the enemy’s lines and positions.

“See Halawoon there,” Othman said. “He doesn’t seem too happy.”

“The sight of his flag of fire burns my heart,” said Baybars.

One of the archers cocked an arrow and unleashed it; the flag was torn in two. The stunned mayor applauded the archer and asked how he could shoot so much farther than any of the city’s archers. “We have Sitt Latifah’s bows,” the archer said, “and none are better.”

Othman’s wife climbed the stairs to the parapet, carrying a swaddled bundle. “If your arrow can hit the flag,” she said, “should you not aim for a few of the fire-worshippers before they figure it out?”

“Get the archers up here,” Baybars ordered. “Hit them before they retreat.” The archers hurried forth, and the first hail of arrows descended
upon Halawoon’s troops. A hasty retreat was called, and disarray ensued. Halawoon could be seen cowering behind one of his officers. Slaves picked up the royal red tent, and he ran beneath it out of the line of fire. The archer shot his arrow and snapped the main pole. The tent collapsed upon its occupant, and Halawoon scuttled like a scarlet ghost. Aleppo’s people cheered. “That hit the mark,” exclaimed Prince Baybars.

Saadi, the great Persian poet, once told a story that went like this: Not long ago, a king in the divine city of Shiraz held an archery competition for the amusement of his friends. He had a jeweler forge a ring of pure loveliness, upon which was set an emerald of inestimable value. The king caused the ring to be fixed high on the dome of Asad. A barker announced that whoever sent an arrow through the ring could claim it as a reward for his impeccable skills. One thousand of the best archers in the land shot at the ring with no success. It so happened that a young boy on a roof was amusing himself with a small bow. One of his arrows, shot at random, penetrated the jeweled ring. A great cheer erupted from the rapt audience. The ecstatic king offered the ring to the young boy, who took his great prize and wisely hurried home to burn his bow, so that the reputation of his immaculate feat should never be impaired.

Layla uncovered her bundle, a small gilded cage within which a red dove cooed at the sight of her owner. She opened the door, and the pigeon perched on her finger. Her husband said, “You carried a pigeon all the way from Cairo?” and she replied, “Two.”

“Where is the other?” Othman asked.

“We are calling him now. He will join us soon.”

Baybars told his companions, “We have to decide when to attack our enemy. It is true they outnumber us, but we have courage in our hearts. With the city’s troops, we now number five thousand men.” And Aydmur added, “Our enemy has twenty-five thousand men left. Determination and the right plan of attack will compensate for the unevenness in numbers.”

Layla raised her hands in the air, and the dove fluttered its wings in joy. “He comes,” Layla said. A splendid red cock appeared in the sky, circled, and landed upon Layla’s outstretched arm.

“Where did he come from?” asked Othman.

“Not from too far, I hope.” She set both doves upon the cage and removed a message from the cock’s foot. “Forsake your planning,” Layla told Baybars and the warriors. “The army of the sons of Ishmael arrives and seeks to redeem the kingdom’s honor. They number five thousand men as well, and they lust after infidel flesh. If you desire a taste of your enemy’s blood, tarry not, for Halawoon’s army will not last much longer.” On the far horizon, a large swirl of sand bloomed.

“Get the horses,” commanded Prince Baybars.

The emir’s wife paced her chambers, irate. “There are too many of them. They are coming from all over, and the line gets longer every day. I cannot get to our garden anymore without passing through the reeking rabble. Not only that, but some of our friends no longer wish to be healed, because they do not wish to mingle.”

“If you do not want the people to see our son,” the emir said, “we can deny access. We will make an announcement, and the seekers will return home soon enough. Frankly, I am not happy with the situation, either. It was grand and entertaining to help the needy, but years and years of incessant lines is enough. So much pleading, so much begging, does a soul no good. I thought it made you happy, but now that I know, we will stop the insanity.”

“No, we will not. We will move the people away from our home. We will build a shrine, a glorious building with columns the thickness of twenty men and soaring arches and at least two minarets that reach the sky. Shams will receive visitors in the temple, and the masses will pray for him while they wait. Will that not be lovely?”

The slave army rode out of the western gate with Baybars at its head, reached the enemy lines before the army of the sons of Ishmael. The ringing of swords, the war cries of heroes, rose on the battlefield. Fire-worshippers fell and were felled. Al-Awwar paid them no mind; he searched for the red specter of the fire king. The coward cowered behind his slaves. Al-Awwar lurched forward, pushed one steed out of his way, then another.

The sons of Ishmael crossed the battle’s threshold. Upon hearing
their war cries, Halawoon the vile mounted a horse and bade his minions protect him. He ran away with his royal slaves and a squadron of his guards. Al-Awwar trotted after him, but the battle lay behind. He turned around, angry with himself for allowing the cowardly escape, and bulldozed his enemies, trampled them with the ferocity of a lion mauling an oryx. The slave warriors triumphed. Their enemies were slain or enslaved. The victorious fighters met in the field, amid the dead and defeated. Prince Baybars congratulated his troops on the victory. “A most valiant triumph it was,” said the leader of the sons of Ishmael. “I am called Ma
rouf ben Jamr. I am the kingdom’s chief of forts and battlements. My people and I are at your service.”

“I thank you, my chief. Your arrival was most opportune. How did fate encourage you to meet our enemies on this auspicious occasion?”

“We were inspired by an eloquent letter from one of your subjects, a staunch dispatch which called us to arms to stand by loyal Prince Baybars, the defender of the faith.”

Othman cried, “Where does the chief of forts reside? Pray tell me it is not the Fort of Marqab.” And Ma
rouf replied, “It is precisely there.”

“Where is my faithless wife?” Othman demanded.

“Faithless?” his wife asked, as she penetrated the circle of men. “You call the writer of that letter faithless? I play my part in God’s theater. Do not revile what you do not understand.”

“You asked my leave to visit lady friends in the fort, not the chief of forts.”

“But I did visit my lady friends. They happened to dwell in the harem.”

“You mock me,” Othman said. “I am bereft of honor, naught but a shell of a man.”

“Judge not your wife, or yourself, too harshly,” Ma
rouf interrupted. “I long ago made the acquaintance of your lovely dove. The kingdom was in need, and your wife’s actions were heroic. A wife’s valor demeans not the honor of a husband.”

“I do not know how to live with such shame,” said Othman.

“Practice,” replied Layla.

The army began its journey back to Cairo. “Ride with us to Damascus,” Baybars told Ma
rouf. “You will be my guest. Allow my mother’s eyes the glorious sight of our army. It will please her to find her dream
come true.” And so the great army arrived in Damascus and was fêted. Sitt Latifah was elated. The army celebrated for three days, and separated. The sons of Ishmael returned to their homes, and the slave army left for Cairo, where they were fêted once more as the liberators of Aleppo and the great defenders of the kingdom. The king gifted Baybars with new robes.