The Saracen: Land of the Infidel by Robert Shea (poetry books to read txt) 📖

prefer the frontal attack, the pitched battle, to trickery. That was why the Franks were gradually losing their grip on the land they called Outremer. The French cardinal was another story. Daoud had seen in him a combination of pride, ambition, and lack of scruple that would use any means to defeat an enemy.

How to find out the truth? He ground his teeth.

"You are lying," Daoud said firmly. "It is Cardinal de Verceuil you serve. Giancarlo—" Daoud gestured, and Lorenzo went over to the brazier and slowly drew out an iron. The tip of it glowed red in the dim light of the chamber. His teeth flashing white under his thick mustache, Lorenzo advanced on Sordello.

"No! It is the truth!" Sordello shrieked, the chain that suspended the hoop rattling as he tried to pull himself away from Lorenzo and the smoking metal rod he held. As Lorenzo slowly approached, Sordello babbled out a tale of having been sent to Venice by Charles d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, to recruit and command archers for Count Simon. He had gotten into a brawl and wounded an Armenian prince who had come to Venice with the Tartars, and Simon had sent him away.

"I cannot serve Count Simon openly because the Armenians still want my blood," Sordello explained. "So he set me to spy on you instead."

The frantic haste with which Sordello spilled out his story gave[332] it the sound of truth. This was going much better. Daoud's tense jaw muscles were relaxing.

Daoud picked up the bowl with the needle in it, gestured Lorenzo back, and slowly strolled across the chamber to Sordello. He gave the bowl to Lorenzo to hold, and drew closer until his face was only a hand's width from Sordello's, until he could smell the inner rot on the man's breath. Sordello's eyes rolled sideways, trying to watch the needle in the bowl Lorenzo was holding.

"What does de Gobignon say of me?" Daoud whispered. "What does he think I am?"

"He thinks you are a foreigner brought here by Ugolini to thwart the French plans for a crusade," Sordello gasped. "He says Ugolini is an agent of the Hohenstaufen king. He thinks Giancarlo is gathering a band of men to murder the Tartars. Please, for the love of God, do not hurt me, Messere." His eyes would fall out of his head if he stared any harder at the needle.

"Give me a candle, Giancarlo," said Daoud. He reached out without looking, and Lorenzo pressed the lighted candle into his hand. Taking a step back, he held the flame before Sordello's sweating face. His lips trembling, Sordello turned his head away.

"Look at the flame, Sordello," said Daoud softly. "Just look at the flame and listen to me. Look at the flame, and I will tell you what I really am." Daoud passed the candle back and forth before Sordello's face, murmuring reassurance. Sordello's eyes followed the candle.

He wondered if this would work. It seemed too much like magic. He had seen it done by Hashishiyya imams, but he had never done it himself.

"I am a sorcerer, Sordello, a mighty wizard. I can pass through any obstacle. I can see what people are doing thousands of leagues away. I can bring the dead back to life. I told you that you are a dead man, Sordello. You are truly dead, but you have nothing to fear, because my power can bring you back to life."

The bravo hung lax in the chains, his half-shut eyes still moving from right to left, following the candle flame. His knees had buckled and his belly sagged.

Daoud handed the candle to Lorenzo and beckoned to one of the Africans, who took the simmering pot of drugged wine from the tripod, holding it by a wooden handle, and gave it to Daoud.

"Where are you, Sordello?"

"I am in hell."[333]

"And what are you?"

"A dead man."

"And I?"

"A mighty wizard."

"Very good. Now drink this." Daoud felt the lip of the pot to make sure it was not too hot, then brought it to Sordello's mouth. Obediently Sordello lifted his chin and opened his lips, allowing Daoud to pour the warm wine into his mouth, and then swallowed. Daoud poured more into him and then gave the pot back to Tilia's servant.

"Now you will truly know my power, Sordello. Prepare yourself for the most wonderful night of your life. You will make a journey from hell to heaven. Close your eyes and raise your head." Lorenzo held out the brass bowl with the needle, and Daoud took the needle, holding it firmly with his thumb and first two fingers. Gesturing to Lorenzo to bring the candle close to Sordello's throat, he searched out a vein just where the neck met the shoulder.

"You can feel nothing. You can feel no pain at all."

Daoud took a deep breath and prayed to God to guide his hand. He jabbed the needle into Sordello's neck. The bravo remained utterly motionless, and Daoud heard Lorenzo gasp in amazement. Daoud left the needle stuck in the pale, pink flesh. He watched Sordello closely and put his palm before his lax mouth. He could feel Sordello's breath on his palm, slow and steady, the breath of a sleeping man. After a time the craggy block of a head fell forward, and the body hung limp in the chains.

So far, all was working as he had hoped. But the man was stronger than he had thought. He had been harder to break. There was always the danger that somewhere deep in his soul a part would remain free. Daoud had heard of such things happening, of slaves of the Old Man of the Mountain who suddenly rebelled. The methods of the Hashishiyya were not perfect.

He would have to chance it. It was in God's hands now.

"Are you sure he is not dead?" Lorenzo said in a low, awed voice.

"Look for yourself. He breathes. His heart beats."

Lorenzo shook his head. "What is that stuff?"

Daoud pointed to the two Africans, who stood calmly by, awaiting orders. "They know. In the jungle below the great desert, where it is very hot and wet, a body can rot in hours. Tiny men, less than half our size, live there, and they hunt large animals for their meat.[334] They smear this stuff on their darts. It comes from a mushroom that grows in their forest. The animal struck is paralyzed and unconscious, but it lives. They have time to carry it back to their village, which may take days, and then they can slaughter it and butcher it."

"But what a blessing this could be for the wounded and the sick," said Lorenzo. "Why does the world not know of it?"

Daoud shrugged. "The tiny men kill those who venture into their forests. What little is brought back by Arab traders is kept as a precious secret. Only sultans may permit its use." He turned to the two blacks. "Take him upstairs now."

XXX

Well satisfied with what Tilia had accomplished, Daoud gazed about at the frescoed moons, stars, and suns scattered across the dark blue walls of the apartment. A cool night breeze blew through the rooms from windows hidden by screens and gauzy curtains. In the large central chamber an oval pool gave off a scent of roses. Hangings of violet, silver, and azure turned the rooms into a maze that baffled the eye.

Everywhere Daoud looked he saw beds and divans and cushions. The floors were covered with soft rugs and the tables laden with pitchers of wine and plates of peaches, grapes, and melon slices.

In a corner of a smaller room, its walls covered with maroon and black drapes, the flame of a large candle warmed a solution of wine and hashish in a green earthenware bowl. A single silver cup stood beside the candle.

"All this for one lousy traditore?" said Lorenzo.

"After he has experienced what I have prepared for him tonight, he will no longer be a traitor," said Daoud. "His very soul will be mine, and that will be worth—all this."

He watched the two silent black men lug in the naked body of[335] Sordello, and he pointed to a forest-green divan beside the pool. Gently they laid Sordello there.

Tilia Caballo appeared from behind a curtain. At a gesture from her, the two black men bowed to Daoud and left.

Three women followed Tilia into the room.

"Goddesses!" whispered Lorenzo, staring.

Daoud, who had chosen them, agreed. Two of them, Tilia had told him, were sisters whose specialty was working together with one man. They had hair the color of honey, olive skin, and Grecian profiles. Each had a gold fillet in her hair and wore a short tunic of pure white linen. Each tunic left one delicate shoulder and one perfect breast exposed. On Orenetta the uncovered side was the right, and on Caterina the left.

The third woman was tall, taller than most men, and her bare shoulders were broad. But her body, tightly wrapped in a gown of black silk that stopped just above her breasts, was magnificently female. Her long unbound hair was lustrous and black as her gown, her skin pale as snow. A gold collar that appeared to be woven of spiral strands encircled her neck. Maiga, Tilia said, was from Hibernia, an island west of Britain, and she spoke no Italian and did not need to.

Daoud felt a fluttering in his chest as the sight of the three women, and the scent of the simmering wine brought back memories of his own initiation at the hands of the Hashishiyya.

It had been the Tartars, indirectly, who had made it possible for him to take that training. They had besieged and destroyed Alamut, the great Persian fortress of the Sheikh al-Jebal, the Old Man of the Mountain, and kicked him to death after he surrendered. The Old Man's surviving followers scattered across the lands of Islam. It was inevitable that some of the highest adepts came for protection to Sultan Qutuz of El Kahira.

After they were settled, Baibars had gone to them with the proposal that certain Mameluke emirs be initiated into the secrets of the sect. Fayum al-Burz, the new Sheikh al-Jebal, saw an opportunity to infiltrate the highest levels of the Mamelukes and was only too pleased to comply.

And so it had come about that Daoud, already trained by Saadi to resist the power of hashish, passed through the gates of paradise and learned, in time, how to administer the same experience to others.

Of course, Sordello, after he went through this, would be no[336] adept. He would learn no secrets. He would be the lowest of the low—a tool, like the fedawi, the devoted killers who were the source of the Sheikh al-Jebal's power.

"This is a lucky man," said Tilia, her big mouth splitting her face in a lascivious grin. "He will experience delights here tonight that many of my most distinguished patrons have never enjoyed. His pleasures will be limited only by what his body can endure."

She walked over to Sordello, asleep on the divan, and ran caressing fingers down his bare chest and belly. "And he looks to be a strong man for his age. These scars. Quite the veteran bravo, eh?"

Though the room seemed cool to Daoud, sweat ran over Tilia's bare bosom down into the deep square collar of her purple gown. Her deadly pectoral cross lay heavily against the purple satin between her breasts. She might need that cross tonight, Daoud thought, if anything went wrong with Sordello.

"I begin to envy the man," said Lorenzo. "Ill-treated as he has been up to now."

"Surely you are not such a fool," said Daoud brusquely. But then, he thought, Lorenzo had no real idea what initiation into the Hashishiyya did to a man.

A few last soft words of instruction to Caterina, Orenetta, and Maiga, and Tilia led Daoud and Lorenzo to a wall panel which swung open at the pressure of her finger on a spring. The room they entered was as cool as the one they had just left, its large open window covered over with fine netting to let in air and keep out insects. But it was darker. Only a single fat candle burned in a large stick enameled green, red, and white.

Francesca, the woman Daoud had lain with on his previous visits to Tilia's, rose with a smile and came to him. As Daoud took her hand and kissed it, she squeezed his fingers. The polished, carved beams that ran up the walls and across the ceiling of this room were the same color as Francesca's hair, a dark brown. Opposite the window there was a small fireplace, dark and empty.

"Here, here, and here are the places from which you can watch what goes on in there," said Tilia, marching along one wall and pointing to tiny circular openings, each one ringed with a