Aleppo rose before the slave army. Baybars saw Halawoon’s troops laying siege to the great city, one division on each side, east, west, north, and south.
“That is a large army,” said Baybars.
“Too large,” added Othman.
“It behooves us not to fight them in the plains,” said Aydmur. “We must enter the city. Attack the southern division ahead of us, break their ranks, and clear a path to the gates. The other divisions will not have time to come to their rescue. Once inside, we choose when and whom to fight, and our archers will have more luck from the towers.”
“We do not need luck, sire,” one of the archers said. “God guides the flight of our arrows.”
“Pardon me for interrupting,” said a refreshed Layla, “but this one division is approximately eight thousand men. By what means do you plan to defeat them?”
“The slaves will create a wedge,” said Aydmur.
“And this slave will be the wedge’s foremost point,” said Baybars.
“And these slaves will be with you,” said the Africans.
“I will ride the second wave,” said Layla. “I prefer my death less certain.”
“And I must protect my wife,” said Othman.
And when the historians sat down to write the story of the great reign of the Mamlukes, the slave kings, before they could elaborate on the rule of two hundred and fifty years, before they could talk about the first defeat of the Mongol hordes, before they could tell how the slave kings crushed the Crusaders, they had to record the first battle, what became known in the books as the Battle of al-Awwar, the greatest warhorse that ever was.
The tales of Shams’s healing powers spread across the land, from east to west, from deserts to mountains, and hopeful believers trekked for leagues and leagues to witness and partake of the miracles. After his second birthday, he began to heal many complaints of his supplicants, but his specialty remained primarily hair-related. His ability to seduce bald heads into growing hair became legendary. There were some logistical restrictions to his powers, though. His constant companion, Layl, and at least one of the parrots had to be present. Best results — soft, smooth, and untangled — were achieved when the two red ones were around. Timing was essential as well; Shams could only cure for an hour before naptime.
The emir’s wife wished her baby were more pliant. If only she could make him comprehend the magnitude and importance of his talents. If only she could separate him from his dark attendant. The time limitations were hard on the attendees as well. The waiting line to be touched by the One was interminable — and constantly changing as titled devotees went ahead of commoners. After an hour of touching, Shams would close his eyes to nap, and the parrots would instantly fly him out of the hall.
When he reached the age of three, Shams’s powers were still chiefly cosmetic. The emir’s wife preferred to call his new specialty “breast perfection” instead of “breast enhancement,” because “When he touches a pair of unnaturally small breasts, they inflate to an ideal size. The Chosen One does nothing haphazardly, but is guided by the Infallible Wisdom of the Divine.” Later that year, he developed the ability to adjust people’s weight: his touch increased a thin man’s heft and reduced that of a fat man. Tailors were ecstatic, their work made much easier by the miracles, for almost all the residents of the emir’s land soon had the same measurements, and all began to wear no color but ecru following the trend set by Shams’s mother. “My son inspires me to seek simplicity,” the emir’s wife said. “I have no more need for the spices of life.”
By his fourth birthday, Shams was able to cure the common cold and sexual impotence. The last increased his devout following a hundredfold, from thousands to uncountable.
“My son the body-enhancement specialist,” Afreet-Jehanam snorted to his lover as she watched the two boys happily playing with slick, slithering snakes. “His devotees are imbeciles, and the ecru woman is insane.” He squeezed Fatima’s shoulder, his arm around her. “And it is not good for him to be called a prophet.” Layl stood up, covered in asps, and reached for the crows flying playfully above him. “I have always had trouble with prophets. They never understand nuance or subtlety. They cannot grasp irony if it slaps them in the face.”
Shams grabbed a black scorpion with both hands and tried to bite its glistening tail off.
“No, darling,” said Afreet-Jehanam. “You must not do that.” He kissed Fatima’s hair. “I would like to see more of them. I miss the boys, and I miss you even more. Promise me you will bring them below more often.”
At the age of five, Shams cured two of the major illnesses, insanity and leprosy. The names Shams and Guruji — the epithet bestowed upon Shams by a small group that had traveled all the way from Calcutta — blossomed on praying lips throughout the known world, from the backwaters of Ireland to the steppes of Siberia to the swamps of China.
And rivers of ecru rushed toward the prophet.
Al-Awwar surveyed the scene before him, gauging the best point of attack. He raised his head, shook it, and snorted. He neighed loudly, announced his intentions to his surprised enemies, and charged. The infidels rushed to take up defensive positions. A giant melee erupted. And before al-Awwar reached the first disorganized line, a thousand arrows soared above him and landed in the hearts of a thousand infidels. And when al-Awwar trampled the first soldier, another thousand arrows felled another thousand. Steel arrow-tips projected from the throats of Halawoon’s soldiers, and the feathered shafts stood quivering in the soldiers’ napes. And the slave army entered the fray, and a great wedge was formed.
“Leave some for us,” cried Lou’ai as he led the second wave through. Othman rode close to his wife in order to protect her, but she shoved him away. From her belt she whisked out a leather whip with multiple strands, each with a sharp metal hook at its end, and unleashed her fury against the enemy. Skin and blood burst forth along her path.
“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.