The Lion of the Cross

Out of darkness do dark deeds grow. These words assail my thoughts as I contemplate chronicling my Order’s final days. I have lived a life of austerity chastened, by my vows to my Order—which, one by one, I have broken, save for a solitary vow. Should I be the one to tell of our deeds? Break my final vow? Or should I let silence engulf our tragedy and thus allow outsiders to postulate our doom?

Having lived through this age, I know lesser historians, bolstered by their political leanings and deluded machinations, will undoubtedly propel my Order’s downfall into the depths of demonic mysticism.

Born between two faiths, Islam and Christianity, I am suited to tell the tale. Now I am an old man, though not one fragile in mind or body, for time has tempered me like Damascus steel folded a hundred times, hammered, and shaped into an instrument of war, then honed by faith.

Call it what you will: Crusade, Reconquista, jihad—it’s nothing more than war. And in war, men die, and those who live are left adrift in a sea of melancholy. These wars were not of God’s will; they were of man’s.

My hand soon grows heavy—laden with the sadness that has clutched my heart of late. I place my quill back in its well and peer out from my only window, which is shaped in the likeness of the Holy Cross. However, its design is not intended for worship but has a practical purpose, one meant to provide a defensive position from which archers could shoot would-be invaders. I watch the summer sunset grace the sky with a deep blur of orange-and rose-colored streaks. It is one of those rare moments in which I am truly at peace. I stand in silence, allowing the sun’s final glory to warm my face with its fading rays. Soon it is gone, and the gloom of night begins to cascade its deep shadows within my austere living quarters. My lungs expand and inhale as I take in the warm air through my nostrils. With each breath, the briny scent of the ocean pervades my senses. I think back on the past and wonder if my comrades have reached Scotland.

Five years nearly to this season, we rode out, heading east by southeast from Edinburgh to Berwick-upon-Tweed. In less than a week, we were well-stocked and boarded upon two stately cogs. The summer seas made our journey swift, for the winds filled our canvas sails like plump pillows. We were to sail towards the Holy Land at the dying request of my friend, Robert the Bruce, King of the Scots. We headed south through the channel between our isle and Flanders before making a port of call in Sluys in Flanders to resupply. After the third day in Sluys, it became evident to me that something was amiss. I sought out Sir James Douglas, Lord of Douglas and leader of our expedition, for an explanation.

A sudden splash followed by a dull hollow thud of wood upon wood, signaled to me where Sir James would be found. Perched upon the prow, Sir James stood with one foot propped up upon the railing, looking out to sea. His long, oily black hair was wet and trailed watery rivulets down his broad, hairy back. From my vantage and upon just a glance, one would have mistaken him for the fabled Minotaur. For like the half-man half-bull he did so appear to me. He stood a head taller and had twenty more years of youth than I, though these past years made him appear weary.

I hope this was not your chamber pot! I exclaimed, as I picked up the oaken pail and placed it near the railing.

Ah, William, morning to you, your power of keen observation does bring me to sobering thoughts, he responded with a rough chuckle and turned to face me.

Are you? I questioned.

Sober? Never! he roared. He let out a burst of laughter, but suddenly ceased when his pale blue eyes met mine. Ah, may the Devil take you, what is it with you? You have been so dour these days.

Before I could answer, he continued upon his rant. It would do you good to come ashore and drink with the men. Lighten your load. Hell, even pious monks are in a more festive mood than you. Sir James moved toward me, and his eyes seemed to soften as he placed a firm grip upon my shoulder. He was my friend too, you know, and I mourn in my own way.

His breath reeked of sour vomit and nearly made my eyes tear up. Given the situation perhaps tears would have been appropriate, but I was too angry to show any grief.

James, I know this—and I understand. I am not here to chastise you. We made a promise, one which I intend to keep.

He closed his eyes and stroked his coarse, black beard with his free hand. Though it was his dark deeds had made him infamous among the English, it was his thick black beard that defined his character and caused them to name him the Black Douglas.

Breaking the silence, he said, We are not going.

I pretended not hear him and asked, What?

There, I said it. We are not going. We never were, he said. Hidden in the folds of his tunic, Sir James produced a thickly rolled parchment with a broken wax seal.

But, I started and was quickly interrupted as he thrust the parchment into my hands.

Here, read them while I relieve myself.

I first examined the broken seal and immediately recognized it as the seal of the English King—a newer seal, belonging to the young King, Edward III. Seeing this, I could feel, not only anxiety, but anger welling up through my body. As I unfurled the parchment, I saw two separate letters. The first letter gave us and our fellow Scots safe passage to conduct ourselves through English held territories.

While reading the last letter, Sir James called out, Well, what know you of the Moors? Do they fight like the Mameluks?

I finished reading, rolled the parchments back into one large parchment and handed it to Sir Douglas. I was furious with Sir Douglas. I just stood silently and stared out across the ocean.

Had I told you the truth, you never would have come, growled Sir Douglas. I need you there; you alone know their language, their strengths, their weaknesses…

I listened not saying a word but just trying to make sense of it all. Had Sir Douglas not seen what I saw? My mind was awash with conspiracies aplenty. Here, leagues away from Scotland were we; the men, the rebels, who fought against the English to win their independence from them. How convenient for the new king that his enemies were embarking on a crusade, the Reconquista, for Alfonso XI of Castile against Moorish-held Granada. Why would our former enemy write such a glorious recommendation? A sense of doom and foreboding took hold of me.

This is not what Robert wanted, I said in a calm but stern voice.

I know, it is better, he said with a grin. He turned and headed off the boat towards the pier, singing an all too familiar rhyme:

Hush ye, hush ye, little pet ye,

Hush ye, hush ye, do not fret ye,

The Black Douglas shall not get ye.

For the remaining nine days at Sluys, I remained on the ship, but not for the reasons assumed by Sir Douglas. I and others like me were still wanted men, and I preferred to be safely unseen.

Though the Bruce wanted us to lay his kingly heart as penance inside the Holy Sepulcher deep in Saracen-held Jerusalem, we set our course for the Iberian Peninsula, and it was there we would take the Bruce on a Holy Crusade to purify his very soul.

Our passage was an unexpectedly stormy one, but the waters calmed once we sailed up Guadalquivir River. We made landfall in Seville in a month’s time. With much pomp and grandeur worthy of kings, I¹, the Scottish knights Sir Walter de Keith, Sir William de St. Claire of Rosslyn, and the brothers, Sirs Robert and Walter Logan, as well as twenty men-at-arms—including the half-dozen squires, who were mere boys—and Sir James Douglas, were gladly met on the docks by King Alfonso XI and his honor guard.

The look upon Alfonso’s face when he spied the relic hanging from Sir Douglas’ neck betrayed his true feelings about our arrival. Around Sir Douglas’s neck, suspended from a thick steel chain, was a silver-enameled box no bigger than a mailed fist. Inside the ornate box rested the embalmed heart of our beloved King, Robert the Bruce. Not all caught the Castilian’s gleeful, narrowed-eyed, glance for only those who have seen men like him know this look. It was one I knew all too well—a look of greed, born of noble arrogance. To Alfonso, we were to be his knightly champions, sent to purge the land of the Moorish scourge. He had at his disposal foreign warriors seeking absolution for their sins to lead his vanguard. The conditions were the same as they have always been, All for the Glory of God. But if we were to fail in our charge, Alfonso would have convenient scapegoats to stifle his populace’s anger at his failed boast to reclaim the lands taken by the Moorish Emirate.

I am here now, lost in my thoughts, which are fading away like the remnants of sunlight from the night sky. Sir James Douglas, he who knew my secret, is gone. Sir William Keith and James’ lordly bones, along with the Bruce’s heart, are now several leagues out to sea and nearing their return to Scotland. Bruce’s heart will undoubtedly join his body in its tomb at Dunfermline Abbey.

My room is dimly lit by an elongated crucifix of starlight shining through the window. Though it provides enough illumination to see vague outlines of the four walls, I feel the panic beginning to set in. The walls and the ceiling feel as if they are closing in around me, encircling me. The elongated pale cross ominously illuminates the door, my way out. I muster enough courage to leave the room in search of a more suitable light source. With light, I know I can combat this dreadful feeling. I move silently along the narrow stone hallway. My rapid pulse slows but the quickening felt from deep inside me causes a cool sweat to trickle down my brow. Beneath my feet, the flagstones are cool to the touch, despite the warm soft flickering candlelight from the staggered sconces along the wall.

Castles, I grumble to myself, no better than a living tomb.

I have been in several castles. These fortresses of stone and wood appear to be seemingly impenetrable, but experience has taught me otherwise. My fingers fumble trying to remove a candle from its sconce and I end up spilling hot wax painfully down my wrist and forearm. Clenching my teeth to bite back the discomfort, I hold my ground firmly so as not to snuff out the flame. After all, it is my guiding light, and only it can chase away my anxiety. Quickly and carefully I take my prize and as swift as a shadow dart back into my room. With light, meager as it is, the room seems to have returned to its small but comfortable size and I return to normal state of mind.

I should feel safe; I am a welcomed guest of the King of Portugal, Alfonso VI of the House of Burgundy. But the sense of security I feel comes forth not from Castle Pombal’s high granite walls, but from my own ease. This is the second time since the downfall of my Order that I have felt this way. It is a most pleasant feeling. Alfonso VI, like his father, Danis the First, continues to ignore the puppet Pope’s papal bull, Vox in excelso. Had my brothers known about Portugal and Scotland, perhaps more from my Order would have survived, but alas, this was not to be.

I have survived, and it is the Year 1335, and I am in Portugal where our brothers not only survive, they thrive. And here the Knights of the Temple are born anew, calling themselves the Knights of the Cross. And it is I, William de Scotia, who have found them, and with them, I have found our most priceless and holiest of treasures.

With a newfound determination, I write to chronicle the deeds of my Order, deeds fulfilled and deeds yet to be fulfilled. How shall I begin? I, like others, was not born a Templar.

¹ The king’s banneret was a knight who led troops during a time of war. It was an honor usually bestowed by a king after a battle.

I knew naught of my father, for my mother never spoke a word of him. Later in life I understood her reasons. We lived in her palace with other mothers, surrounded by the comfort of plush cushions, bright-white domed ceilings, and the delicate sounds of running water from fountains which sprung forth from the mirrored marbled floor. To my mother, it was a prison.

My memories of her are those of a child. I was the only male other than the Sultan who could see her face and this was because I was only a child, her child. A thin colorful silken veil concealed everything but her eyes, which were always enhanced by the black charcoal eye liner used to further accent them. I still see her eyes in every reflection I look upon. Blue, like the sky on a winter’s morning, they were. I knew them to possess kindness and a keen intellect—but like the winter’s sky, they were cold. Her hair was covered with a headdress made of flat round brass medallions which wrapped around her head in concentric rings and then formed strings to mimic strands of long hair. Her veil and headdress concealed a radiant beauty. Her skin was pale and as soft as the cotton gowns she wore, but it was her hair that made her so strikingly beautiful. When she removed her headdress, her fiery orange-red locks would spill like hundreds of loosely coiled springs to her shoulders. She would touch my nose with hers and we would laugh and smile.

My mother was my first teacher. She taught me how to write, to read, and to speak my first languages: in our captors’ tongue; in the words of the infidel, Frankish; and in the secret language of our homeland. Touching my nose and tickling me, she would often speak to me in our secret language, Gaelic. She called me William, after her great-grandfather who bore the same name. She boasted and told me often I was the very spirit of her great-grandfather, William the Lion, King of the Scots. I never believed her though. How could I be descended from a king?

She spoke of our homeland often. She described it as a mystical place. Cradled in her arms, I would envision myself atop a stout pony, galloping up and over rolling green hills and down through never-ending, mist-laden valleys. Sometimes, I would imagine swimming in cold but refreshing deep lochs. To me it was a wondrous place, because outside her palace was a stark contrast. The land outside the city proper was arid, a sea of shifting sand. If not for the Nile River cutting through the heart of the city on its journey north to the sea, Cairo, the grand city of the Mameluk Sultans, would not be.

As I grew, I soon learned that the true ruler of this land rose in the east and set in the west. The sun, its heat blazing like a kiln, baked the landscape without mercy. On the days I was outside my mother’s palace, I grew to understand why the pharaohs of old mistook the sun for a god.

By age seven, I frequently ventured out of the confines of my mother’s prison, which I learned in the language of our captors was called a harem. It was my eldest brother, al-Said Barakah, who told me this; he was a young man of thirteen, and destined to rule by our father’s side, or so he believed. I learned much about the outside world from Barakah.

Barakah had a dark complexion, a gift from his mother, and his eyes were deep brown like the fertile soil from the banks of the Nile River. Being older and entering into his maturing years, he was taller and broader than I. Unless Barakah was bathing, the top of his head was wrapped tightly in a white linen turban. A game I would play on Barakah, much to his chagrin, was to remove his turban and run away with it. This was a game I would play always in public, the more public the better. He would give chase like a hungry lion, and I like a gazelle would run darting in and out of market stalls in the great souk, the central market place. He would always catch me, but unlike the lion, his mane looked more like dried tufts of blackened papyrus plant, which gave me and the onlookers great laughter.

Praise be to God, Wasim, he said, "our great father, may God’s peace and blessings be upon him, has brought the sword of wrath down upon the infidel, and with it, he has cut a swath through the Frankish-held lands, a feat to rival the deeds of the great Saladin."

I was born Wasim ibn Baibars al-Bunduqdari. Ibn means the son of, and Baibars, my father, was the Sultan of Egypt and ruler of all of the Mameluks. As told by Barakah, our father had been a slave—a Mameluk, which meant in our language owned –taken from his home in the far northeast and eventually sold to the then Egyptian ruler, an Ayyubid named As-Salih Ayyub, where he became the ruler’s bodyguard. With the blessings of the One God, our father’s people rose up and broke the yoke of slavery placed on them by the slothful Ayyubids, and with their freedom, they took their rightful place as rulers of Egypt and became the true champions of Islam.

We were climbing one of the great pyramids on the outskirts of city, and I was struggling. The stones were too high for me, nearly twice my height. The soft sand beneath the leather soles of my tan, felt-covered slippers made the stones as slippery as wet marble. After several attempts, Barakah became impatient, lay flat on his stomach, and stretched out his arm to render me some much-needed assistance.

"The great Frankish King Louis², may his infidel body rot and his seed be forever weak, was easily defeated by our father, Barakah said as he grabbed my hand to assist me. Upon the stone, the scraping sound of loose sand pressed between my soles gave way to his straining voice as he wrenched me upward on to the first block. You best keep pace with me; I want to reach the top before the muezzins call us to prayer."

Barakah was always impetuous. Perhaps this character flaw was from his mother, but my guess would have been from our father. With Barakah constantly urging me, I hastened my efforts. My body worked in tandem with legs and arms as I began climbing like a monkey. By pushing with my legs at the same time as I stretched out both arms to grasp the stone blocks and pull my body upward, I kept a pace to Barakah’s liking. As we ascended, the stone blocks which formed this massive wonder became smaller and allowed me to climb more rapidly.

In the year of my birth, God, most beneficent and most compassionate, bestowed upon our great father a victory in battle the equal of which has never been seen in all of the kingdoms, Barakah said, as he pulled me up onto another stone. Both sides had 20,000 men. Our army was blessed by God and led by Father, and the infidel’s wretched army was an unholy mixture of Franks and Mongolian lapdogs. Hulagu, the great Mongolian Khan, the so called King of Kings and bringer of despair, foolishly provoked our people. In the name of Islam, our father marched to Syria and took to the field of battle—deep within the Jazreel Valley at the Spring of Goliath. Our blessed father, with the ferocity of a lion and the cunning of a fox, slew the infidels and brought humility to the arrogant Mongol horde. Not soon after he was anointed as Sultan. When Barakah finished, he was beaming; his eyes narrowed to two small slits and his wide smile exposed his protruding white teeth. To me, he looked like the small captive monkeys I had seen being sold at the market. When I would give a sweet date to one of those monkeys, it would bare its teeth at the other monkeys, keeping them at bay. As this image crossed my mind, I found myself smiling as well.

Barakah, what does father look like? I asked.

He is a man like no other. He towers above all men. He has the strength of a bull—no, of ten bulls. His eyes are blue, a deep blue. Behind his eyes is a keen mind. He is the great benevolent Sultan of the world, yes, that is how I would describe my father, he answered, with another smile.

Are his eyes like mine?

Bah, no, not at all! Your eyes are common like those of a stray cat, he said, laughing. But when I am named an emir, I will bring you with me as my personal bodyguard. His look was stern as he looked at me from head to toe and back again. He then grabbed both my shoulders and said, First, I will see that you are instructed in the Al-Furūsiyya. This must be done, upon my honor as a brother and as your emir, so say I.

I want to be an emir too, I said frowning.

"No, this cannot be, it will never be—you are the son of a concubine. So you see—you will be my Tabardariyya³; it is a place of high honor, this I testify to God," he said as he gave my shoulders a firm squeeze.

A flash of anger nearly took me but I suppressed it, for I knew not what Barakah meant and I knew my anger would not gain an answer. What is—what is a concubine? I asked.

It is a woman who is meant for—no more, it is not for your young ears to be hearing so…, he paused and turned to climb the next stone block. "In the morning, we will begin your learning of the Al-Furūsiyya. This noble art is only for the elite among our people. With it, you will be a master of the horse. You will be learned in the ways of all manner of weaponry, even the Tabar Zin⁴, and thus you will become my favored Tabardariyya."

At the midpoint of our climb, I stopped to look around. It was a grand sight, for I could see all of Cairo. The city stretched from north to south along the Nile River, whose deep blue waters glittered with the sun’s brilliant rays. The city’s boundaries were marked by two modest mosques, which had been commissioned by our father to be built in his name. These mosques each had a solitary minaret and lacked the customary domed roof. My eyes traced the river’s path southwards from the edge of the city. Near the middle, I could see the people hurrying about the docks and closing their shops in preparation for prayer. To my eyes they seemed like herds of miniature white, brown, and grey goats, moving quickly then stopping suddenly, then moving again, only to stop.

I saw wooden boats tied to piers, their sails loosely rolled up and secured to their booms, bobbing and rocking to the rhythmic flow of the river, and I saw my mother’s palace, its massive white dome reflecting the orange-pinkish hue of the setting sun. I paused and said a blessing for her. The only structure larger than mother’s palace was the Al-Azhar Mosque. This was the mosque where Barakah received his education both spiritual and practical, and where I was soon to follow.

Quickly, Wasim, Barakah ordered. His voice woke me from my mind’s wandering and prompted me to once again quicken my efforts. If you are to become my personal Tabardariyya, you must be as swift as a falcon, so make haste now.

We soon reached the summit of our climb. At this height, we towered above the city, for we were twice as high as the Al-Azhar Mosque. The gusty wind drove fine sand particles into our eyes, causing me to periodically seek shelter behind the limestone blocks. I sat with my back resting against the stones and gazed again at the city. It looked even smaller from this vantage point. The dwellings were now small camel-colored squares and rectangles. Only the larger more prominent structures, like the palace and the mosques with their minarets, could be seen.

Slowly the sun melted away into the vast western desert. As the sun began to give way to night, I could feel the temperature cool, much to my relief. Climbing in the dry heat had caused my body to perspire immensely, dampening my hair. I had not paid much attention to it until now. I wiped my brow and then licked the sweat collected by the back of my hand; its salty taste was sweet sending signals of thirst into my thoughts.

Barakah, water, please, I asked meekly. He handed me his goat-skin bladder filled with precious, thirst-quenching water. I took a long pull from it, paused and began to drink more, but he snatched it from my hands.

Wasim, you must be like the camel. This water is for washing, for soon we must pray, Barakah said incredulously. Now, my brother, um, point me to the Ka’aba.

I wanted to point to any direction but the correct direction. I was upset with him. He first offered me water and then pulled it way. My thirst had not been slaked and washing my hands, feet and head with the water seemed wasteful. I then thought of how foolish Barakah was. The sun now sets in the west, and surely someone as pious as he would know that the Ka’aba⁵ sitting in Mecca was to the southeast of us.

I pointed southeast and Barakah gave me a thin smile. He then quickly took off his leather-soled sandals and washed his feet. He then washed his hands, and then passed his wet hands over his face and head, as was the custom.

Wasim, this is the finest minaret in Cairo. It is my minaret, he said, as he gently handed me the bladder and turned away, searching for the southeast.

The moment I saw that he was facing the Ka’aba and his eyes were averted, I took to drinking the water saving very little to prepare myself for prayer.

Out of the dusky sky came a soft melody, first one, then another and another, until several of the muezzins began the call to prayer. I listened intently, as was my custom, and silently repeated each phrase, as likewise was the custom, those times when we were required to respond by saying something else.

Allahu Akbar (God is the Greatest)

Allahu Akbar (God is the Greatest)

Allahu Akbar (God is the Greatest)

Allahu Akbar (God is the Greatest)

Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah (I bear witness that there is no god but God)

Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah (I bear witness that there is no god but God)

Ashhadu anna muhammadar rasulullah (I bear witness that Muhammad is God’s messenger)

Ashhadu anna muhammadar rasulullah (I bear witness that Muhammad is God’s messenger)

Hayya alas Salah (Rush to prayer)

Hayya alas Salah (Rush to prayer)

Hayya alal Falah (Rush to success)

I say to myself in silence, There is no strength but God.

Hayya alal Falah (Rush to success)

I say silently to myself, There is no power except from God.

Allahu Akbar (God is the Greatest)

Allahu Akbar (God is the Greatest)

La ilaha illallah (There is no god but Allah)

The whisper of the night breeze was all I heard for a time. The cooling air sent the fine hair on my arms on end. Then there was silence. The silence was intensely peaceful.

My sense of peace was quickly and most rudely broken by Barakah’s voice. "Wasim, soon you must make public your shahada⁶, and you must make it in earnest at the mosque, and then you will be seen as a true believer of the faith. As one of the faithful and with the guidance of God, most beneficent and most compassionate, He, if He wills it, will grant you a jihad over the infidel."

The moon had risen, like a giant luminescent pearl; its dull shadowy light illuminated the stony stepped slopes of the pyramids. In the distance, I saw the flickering flames of torches and lamps from the city, like millions of fireflies dancing. By the full moon’s pale light, I saw Barakah motion with a hand for me to follow him. Wasim, make haste. We must depart lest we lose the gift of moonlight.

We carefully climbed down, and as we made our way downward, I asked, How do I know an infidel? What do they look like?

This I can do for you. I will take you to the docks and show you an infidel, for, thanks be to God, their foolish greed brings them here. On the morrow, before the sun sleeps and the moon wakes, I will show you an infidel. Thus you will know your enemy, he said with a moonlit smile.

² King Louis IX of France.

³ A highly trained bodyguard.

⁴ Saddle axe used by the Mameluks.

⁵ A black stone building in Mecca that is shaped like a cube and that is the most sacred shrine in Islam; believed to have been given by Gabriel to Abraham; Muslims turn in its direction when praying.

⁶ A declaration of faith.

I was filled with such excitement that I barely slept and so awoke before the crow of the rooster. I dressed in a simple linen tunic, and on my lower body, I wore a tan and teal checkered izaar, a garment similar to a kilt but lighter and thinner. Since I knew not what my training would be like, I decided the best preparation would be a proper meal. I was famished. I followed the sweet smells of baked breads. The cacophony of sounds, the clatter of pottery mixed with the chatter of voices and spontaneous laughter, told me the palace kitchen was already awake. The kitchen was one of my favorite places, not just for my nourishment but for my amazement. I was fascinated by every aspect of food preparation, from how simple grains and legumes were ground into flour to be used in porridges, spreads, and breads, and how the dried herbs and spices with their myriad of tastes—sweet, salty, tangy, acidic, bitter—transformed simple ingredients into delightful mouth-watering morsels. And for me each season produced yet another flavorful cuisine: roasted spring lamb seasoned with savory thyme and marjoram, barley and chickpea soup, tasty sweet summer melons and sun dried dates, and breaded pockets filled with Aleppo-spiced ground water buffalo meat.

The generosity of the cooks was legendary, for when I described what I thought my day’s activity would be, one of the many cooks nodded and began to prepare a special meal for me. The cook worked like a dervish. Her hands feverishly collected several kinds of spices, multiple dried herbs, and sesame seeds from around the confines of the kitchen. She gracefully bobbed and weaved through the kitchen avoiding other cooks as she worked. She combined all these ingredients with olive oil, smoothed the seasoned oil onto on a large circular flatbread, and baked the bread in a clay oven. Though I was standing in the door of the kitchen, I could feel the blaze from the oven. When the cook handed me the flatbread, I asked her the name of the seasoned mixture. The cook told me that its name was za’atar, and eating it would make my mind alert and my body strong. For good measure, the cook gave me four toasted almonds pressed into dried figs wrapped inside grape leaves. She placed them into a small square linen cloth and tied the four corners to form a small bag. She handed the bread and bag to me. And I thanked her with a smile before heading to the front gates to meet Barakah.

I rapidly devoured the za’atar-covered flatbread to sate my hunger. When I walked out into the inner courtyard, I saw the crisp white rays of the morning sun reflecting brightly upon the rectangular pool. I had not realized the morning hour was so advanced. As I neared the archway to the north gate, I spied Barakah waiting impatiently.

Peace be upon you, my brother, I said as I approached him.

Peace be upon you, Wasim, and God’s mercy and blessings, he responded. Let’s make haste; Al-Ghazi must not be kept waiting or you will pay dearly.

Who? I asked.

I have prepared a fine horse for us, he said, ignoring my question. We moved swiftly through the outer courtyard and then towards the north gate.

Blocking our path were two elite Royal Mameluk guards dressed in fine yellow silks, each of them carrying two daggers tucked into a wide leather scabbard held fast by a white linen sash. Looped around the sash was a red silken cord which came down to their hips, and dangling from it were their wickedly curved sabers. These sabers, the Mameluks favored weapon, were sheathed away in ornately decorated brass scabbards and shiny domed steel helmets with shoulder-length chainmail hid the guards’ features. As we approached, the guards, standing juxtaposed, instinctively crossed their long wooden spears to bar our exit.

With a dismissive hand gesture, Barakah gave them his customary sneer. Seeing his flippant gesture, the guards immediately removed their spears. Barakah carried himself like an emir-in-waiting. He once told me if you act like a sultan, people will treat you like a sultan, but first you must be an emir. He modeled himself after the only sultan he knew, our father.

Once I walked out of the gates, I saw, tethered to a hitching post and drinking from a water-filled trough, a most magnificent Arabian mare. For a brief moment, I admired her beauty. Her coat was a shiny blood bay, her mane was black and well groomed, and her long jet black tail swished lazily back and forth.

Barakah gathered her reins in one hand and with the other hand on her neck, he deftly swung himself onto the mare’s back. Barakah walked her over to me and stretched out his hand to pull me up on her back.

We should make it to the northern mosque before the call to prayer, he said. How honored you should be, for we shall pray at our father’s mosque. From there, we will continue to the fields by the river, near the pomegranate orchards—this is where you will begin your training as my Tabardariyya. You will be taught the Al-Furūsiyya by one of God’s finest warriors, Al-Ghazi, may God’s blessings keep him strong.

As we rode through the twisting streets and narrow alleys, I began to think of my mother. I had told her the night before, as I curled up next to her, about my adventure and Barakah’s gift. She was disappointed and told me to be careful of gifts from this family because they would want something in return and the cost might be too high for me to pay. She told me not to go to the docks to seek out the infidel, for I was much too young to trouble myself with them. I asked her again to describe our homeland. I was drifting off to slumber, when she awakened me.

My dear William, she said in her soft voice. Speaking in our secret language, which sounded so foreign in this place but made me feel special, she continued, You should learn their art of war, for I cannot protect you outside these walls. I’ll pray to Mother Mary to keep you safe.

She would pray for me often in her own unique way. Later in life, I learned Mother Mary was not my mother, but the mother of Jesus.

The northern mosque was a modest structure. Its white plastered walls were simple. The high archway leading into it lacked the adornments of the Al-Azhar Mosque. It possessed a flat roof, not the customary high dome,