The Mystic Rose Page 10
The frightened child cried out, but the conjurer paid him no heed. Indeed, the more he cried, the more Sinjari shook the rope, each jerk growing more violent until those looking on were shouting, too—for the magician to desist and let the boy descend.
Their pleas were too late, for Sinjari gave the rope a final terrible jolt and the hapless child shrieked and lost his grip, plummeting to the courtyard like a stone, the rope collapsing over him. But when Cait looked, she saw only an empty tunic and pair of trousers. Of the boy there was no other sign.
The spectators gaped in amazement and declaimed to one another in voices thin with shock as the other boy picked up the crumpled clothes and threw them into the basket, and then fed in the rope, coiling it round and round. Sinjari meanwhile walked to one of the torches and pulled it from its container. Returning to the basket, he pointed to it, and the boy with the rope climbed inside, pulling the last of the rope in with him.
The magician replaced the domed lid and, taking up one of the blue silks, covered the basket with the cloth. He called out to the boy inside, who answered. He called out again, and the boy answered likewise; he called a third time, and before the boy could make his reply, Sinjari whipped away the cloth and, throwing off the lid, thrust the torch inside.
Cait, fearing the boy would be burned, threw her hands before her face. Otti leaped to his feet and prepared to charge to the boy’s rescue—and was restrained with difficulty by Haemur and Abu—while the others cried out in dismay for the child’s sake. But the magician, impervious to their anguished shouts, stirred the torch around and around, filling the basket with flames.
Then, withdrawing the torch, Sinjari placed his foot against the basket, and kicked it over. The wicker vessel rolled lightly aside. Both boy and rope were gone—and in their place, a real, living snake, its skin glistening dully in the torchlight as it slithered slowly into the courtyard. The crowd gasped and drew back in fright.
Stooping to the serpent, Sinjari seized the beast by the tail and picked it up. Holding it at arm’s length as it writhed in the air, he began to spin it—gently at first, but with increasing speed, he spun the creature, its sinuous length blurring in the flickering torchlight. Then all at once, he stopped and…Behold! It was a serpent no longer, but a handsome wooden staff, which he tapped on the ground three times with a solid and satisfying thump.
Next, he raised the staff and held it across his outstretched palms. He elevated it heavenward once, twice, three times, whereupon there was a sharp, resonating crack. The staff snapped in two, spouting sparks and plumes of flame from the broken ends. The flames showered tiny glowing embers of gold which bounced on the ground with a fizzing sound, creating a curtain of white smoke. And when the smoke cleared, there, standing before Cait’s astonished eyes were the two small boys, unharmed and neatly dressed as before.
The gathering cheered and applauded, and Cait laughed and clapped her hands with delight. Otti dashed forward to examine the two young lads and their mysterious basket, as al-Farabi congratulated the renowned conjurer on his extraordinary feats. Cait turned to speak to Rognvald and found him looking, not at the spectacle before him, but at her.
For an instant his eyes held hers, and then he smiled and glanced away, leaving the distinct impression that he had been subtly appraising her. Before she could think what to say to this, al-Farabi clapped his hands for silence. “My friends!” he called, with Abu’s help, “Jalal Sinjari has kindly consented to apply his skills as a seer for us this evening. Please, remain seated and he will come among us.”
The magician bowed and proceeded to the reclining diners. Pausing before one of the merchants, he said, “You wish to know whether your sojourn in the city will bring an increase in fortune. I tell you, friend, it already has!”
There were murmurs of approval from the others in the party, and he turned to the man beside him, and said, “Your wife will not thank you for bringing home the servant girl. Unless you marry her and make her a wife, you will not have a moment’s peace.”
The man sputtered with chagrin, but his friend roared with laughter. “He has seen through your cunning plan, Yusuf!” he cried. “Marry the girl!”
The magician moved on, and was soon standing before Cait. Pressing his palms together, he bowed respectfully to her. “Most noble lady,” he said, speaking through Abu, “you are as lovely as the jasmine that blossoms in the night. Please, give me your hand.”
Enthralled, Caitríona extended her hand to him. Taking it in both of his own, Sinjari pressed it, and then turned it over. He traced the lines of her palm lightly with a finger and Cait saw the merriment die in his eyes. He stared at her palm and then looked into her face. His touch grew instantly cold.
“Your other hand, please?” he said, glanced at it, thanked her, and stepped away abruptly, saying, “A long and happy life awaits you, good woman. Allah wills it.”
Dismayed and confused by this brusque dismissal, Cait felt the color rising to her cheeks. Aware that the others were watching, she smiled weakly and tried to shrug off the waves of distress rising around her. After all, she told herself, it was only a ruse, a trick for entertainment’s sake—like the snake and disappearing boys—the sly deception of a practiced performer.
And yet, despite all that reason assured her, she could not shake off the feeling that Sinjari had seen something in her future that had caused him to abandon what he had been about to say.
The magician moved on, foretold a few more futures—the innkeeper would have another son before the year was through, and one of the merchants would become an amir—and then quickly thanked his audience for their most gratifying praise and attention, and dismissed himself. Ibn Umar al-Farabi walked with him to the doorway and bade him farewell. While the two men talked together, Cait, unable to resist, summoned Abu and, when Sinjari took his leave, she followed him out into the yard.
“A word, sir, if you please,” called Abu on her behalf.
The conjurer turned. “Ah, I expected as much.” He smiled wanly. “Accept my humble admonition: do not persist in your inquiry. Sometimes it is better not to know.”
“I understand,” replied Cait, through Abu, “but I must know.”
“Noble lady, a seer glimpses only shadows, nothing more. What can I tell you that you could not guess?”
“Please.”
Sinjari sighed. Taking her hand once more, he turned up the palm and gazed into it. After a moment he began to speak in a low, solemn voice that caused Cait’s skin to tingle with stark apprehension. “You have placed yourself in great jeopardy,” he said. “Already the forces of chaos and destruction gather about you—they soar like vultures circling in the air, waiting for their feast.” He regarded her sadly. “If you persist in the way you have chosen, death will mark you for his own. Death is a shrewd and pitiless hunter. None escape his snares.”
She pulled her hand from him as he finished, and thanked him for telling her, then bade him good night and turned away.
“It is not too late to turn aside,” the magician called after her. “The future is written in sand, not stone.”
NINE
“FORGET THE WOMAN, I say. She is nothing to us.”
Commander de Bracineaux regarded his companion with a stony basilisk stare. “She has stolen the pope’s letter.”
“She might have stolen the pope’s golden chamber pot for all the good it will do her.” Félix d’Anjou leaned his long frame against the stone rail of the balcony and, eyeing the fruit in the glass bowl on the table before him, drew a knife from its sheath at his belt. The red-and-blue striped sunshade rippled lightly in the breeze, as if it were struggling to exhale in the stifling heat of the day.
“She has the letter and she has gone to Damascus.”
“My point exactly,” replied Baron d’Anjou, spearing a ripe pear on the point of his dagger. He cut a slice from the soft flesh, and lifted it to his lips on the edge of the blade.
“Are you finally insane, d’Anjou?”
inquired the Templar commander. Inert in his chair, his white tunic open to the waist, sweat was rolling off him in drops that spattered the dusty tiles like fat raindrops on hard desert pan.
“Perhaps,” allowed the baron judiciously. “But it occurs to me that if she has gone to Damascus it can mean but one thing.”
“Which is?”
“She does not have the slightest idea what she has stolen.” D’Anjou cut another slice from the soft fruit, ate it, and tossed the rest over the rail into the garden below. “That is to say, the woman has no idea of the letter’s value, or what it means. She is nothing but an opportunistic thief—and not a very clever one at that. Probably she cannot even read.”
“That is precisely why we must get it back,” de Bracineaux pointed out.
“Why?” The baron picked his teeth with the point of the knife.
“Before someone else finds the letter and realizes its worth. My God, d’Anjou,” he blurted in frustration, “what have we been talking about?”
The Baron of Anjou sniffed. He stabbed a fig and raised it on the end of his knife. “All the more reason to forget the girl and go for the treasure instead—before someone else gets there first.”
The commander regarded his fair-haired companion for a long moment. There was definitely something unnatural about him. In all the time Renaud had known him, he had never seen Félix d’Anjou sweat. The sun might scorch like an oven, but the pallid baron seemed always at his ease. By the same token, nothing ever rankled him; nothing ever perturbed, bothered, aggravated, or upset him. He seemed to have no feelings at all, but met each and every trial with the same unassailable equanimity. Some might consider such supreme and disciplined poise to be courage or confidence, but de Bracineaux knew it was neither.
“Unless, of course, you merely wish to gratify your deep desire to punish the slut for trespassing on your good nature,” d’Anjou continued, “then I could quite understand such a pointless preoccupation.” The baron took a bite of the fig, then flipped it over his shoulder and sent it spinning into the garden to join the pear. “But with things as they are, I daresay you would be better employed pursuing this Mysterious Rose Blossom, or whatever you call it.”
“God’s wounds, d’Anjou,” replied de Bracineaux slowly, “but I begin to see a sort of sense in what you say.”
He splashed some more of the chilled lemon water into the tall silver beaker in front of him, lifted it and rubbed the cool metal over his forehead before gulping down the sweet-sour liquid.
“We could leave as soon as troops arrive from Jerusalem,” said the baron. His blade hovered above the fruit bowl ready to strike. “The weather will stay good. We can reach Asturia—or wherever this cleric may be—well before autumn.”
“As to that,” the Templar commander rejoined, “I have twenty men garrisoned in the city. That is a force of sufficient strength. I cannot imagine we would need more. We can depart as soon as provisions are put aboard. We can leave tomorrow morning.”
“Better still.” D’Anjou’s dagger flashed down, splitting the smooth skin of a plum. He raised the fruit; red juice trickled down the blade like blood. “What of the emperor?”
“We will simply tell our host that we have been called away on urgent Church business, and beg his leave to depart at once. I am certain his niece and her new husband will find ways to amuse themselves until we return. Anyway, the Poor Soldiers of Christ have better things to do than provide escort for over-pampered newlywed royals.” He sipped from his cup, adding, “It is beneath us.”
De Bracineaux set down the beaker and rose as if he would set off for the harbor that very moment. He looked at the white sunlight beating down on the rooftops of the surrounding wings of the palace. The heat shimmered in waves before his eyes. He promptly sat down again. “Gislebert!”
He had to shout twice more before rousing the sergeant from his nap in the next room. “There you are. Fetch me a runner, sergeant. I have a message for the emperor.”
Emperor Manuel Comnenus reclined on a couch beneath a sunshade of blue silk stretched between gilded poles. The thin fabric rippled in the light breeze of the garden as he lay with his hands folded over his compact, well-muscled chest, listening with half-closed eyes as a robed official read to him from a large scroll entitled Ecloga Justinian. The aged courtier’s thin, nasal voice droned in the quiet of the sun-soaked garden, keeping the emperor from his midday sleep. Two small, half-naked children splashed in a fountain under the watchful eye of a white-robed servant in a broad-brimmed red hat.
At the approach of the papias he roused himself, rolling up onto his elbow. The official bowed low, his chain of office almost touching the ground. “Well?” demanded Manuel irritably.
“Grand Commander de Bracineaux has arrived, Basileus.”
“Good. Let him wait on the terrace.”
“Basileus,” said the courtier, “the sun…”
“Yes? What of the sun?”
“It is very hot on the terrace, your majesty.”
“Let him wear a hat.”
“Of course, Basileus.”
The old man had stopped reading while this exchange took place, and as the papias departed, the emperor turned to the reader and said, “Pray do not stop, Murzuphlus, even for a moment, else we shall never get through this.”
He returned to his reclining position and listened for a while longer, and then, when he was ready to hold audience, he rose and thanked the old man, saying, “We will return to this tomorrow.” Calling an order to the white-robed servant to take the children inside out of the sun, he then proceeded to the terrace. As he entered the gallery, he was met by two courtiers—the protovestiarius and the silentarius. The first held out a long sleeveless robe of purple with pomegranates embroidered in thread of crimson and gold; Manuel drew on the robe and stood patiently while the laces were tied. Meanwhile, the second offered him a blue peaked hat with a brim like the prow of a ship in front, which the emperor allowed to be placed on his head.
The silentarius bowed and then, walking backward while holding aloft his ebony rod of office, he led the emperor to the terrace where an extremely hot and uncomfortable de Bracineaux was waiting.
“Ah, there you are, commander,” said the emperor; he made it sound as if he had been searching for the Templar for most of the day.
De Bracineaux swallowed down his annoyance. “It is a pleasure, Basileus, as always.” He smiled, sweat streaming from his red face.
“It is very pleasant out here,” Manuel said, walking to the terrace rail. Below the city walls he could see the Golden Horn gleaming like beaten metal in the hot sunlight. He watched the boats which ceaselessly worked the wide stretch of water. “We never grow tired of the view.”
“It is a fine view, Basileus.”
“It is, yes.” The emperor stood at the rail, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out across the water to the hazy blue hills beyond, lost, so it seemed, in a reverie.
De Bracineaux waited a few moments, but when the emperor appeared to have forgotten him, he cleared his throat and said, “You wished to see me, Basileus, I believe.”
“Did we?” wondered the emperor. He turned to the commander and regarded him mildly. “You should put off that heavy surcoat, commander,” he observed. “You look like an ox on the spit.”
“It is warm, yes, Basileus,” agreed the sweating Templar. The sun beat down on his red, uncovered head.
Manuel smiled. “We received a message that you wished to leave Constantinople.”
“With your kind permission, Basileus. A matter of some importance has arisen which requires my presence elsewhere.”
The emperor accepted this. “Are we to know the nature of this important matter?” His glance became keen as he watched the Templar commander try to avoid answering the question.
“It is a procedural matter, Basileus,” replied de Bracineaux with slight hesitation. “I would not presume to inflict the minutiae of our Order on you, your highness.”
“But your highness—” de Bracineaux started to object.
The emperor cut off his protest with a wave of his hand. Without looking at his visitor he said, “My niece and her new husband will be returning to Tripoli in a few days. You agreed to escort them, and we are inclined to hold you to your agreement.”
“With all respect, Basileus,” countered the Templar, “I must beg to be excused.”
“But you will not be excused, commander,” replied Emperor Manuel placidly. “Your procedures,” he gave the word caustic emphasis, “will no doubt wait until you have fulfilled the duty for which you have been retained.”
“No doubt, Basileus,” replied the Templar stiffly. “You are right to remind me of my duty. I will abide.”
“We are pleased to hear it,” Manuel said, turning once more to his visitor. “We are having a banquet tomorrow evening, for which we have arranged a display of arms. We understand you Franks are fond of martial entertainments. What is the word you use?”
“Tournament,” replied de Bracineaux.
“Ah, yes, we must remember that,” replied the emperor, his face lighting with pleasure. “We are having a tournament. We are certain you and Baron d’Anjou will enjoy it, commander.”
“I wait upon your pleasure, Basileus,” said the Templar. “If there is nothing else, I will trouble you no further.” He made a small bow and started away.
“It does a soul good, we find,” said the emperor, “to bend to a higher authority from time to time. You must try it more often, commander.”