Excerpt from The Scribe (The Two Daggers, Book 1) – Chapter 7
Across the city, all faces in Cairo turned toward Mecca for the observance of zuhr, the midday prayer. Yusuf al-Hikma ibn-Shihab had managed to urge his camels and servants inside the city gates just in time to find his way to the mosque that Baybars had built eleven years prior. It was not difficult to locate, for Baybars had been determined to leave as much physical evidence of his greatness as possible. Above its spikey walls, the tall, glassy dome of the structure hovered over the rooflines of the palaces and warehouses like a rising sun.
A truly superb place to pray on my return, Yusuf thought, as he hurried toward the mosque’s entrance.
After instructing his servants to take his supplies ahead to the house of the Amir Badahir, Yusuf removed his shoes as he entered the gates of the sahn and set out in search of a basin in which to wash as a cacophony of voices rose above the city - the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer. Yusuf paused, drinking in the sound. He had been on the road for too long.
An attendant hurried over to him, pausing to cast a scandalized glance at Yusuf’s dusty beard and sweat-stained robes.
“As-salaam 'alaykum. Are you here to er…pray?”
“Wa 'alaykum as-salaam,” Yusuf replied, smiling. “I realize I look atrocious, but I have just entered the city after traveling from Antioch. I wish to thank God for keeping me and my men safe on our journey.”
The attendant, a small, nervous man in white robes with a too-big white taqiya on his head, wrung his hands anxiously.
“Well… I suppose if you complete wudhu quickly before the prayers start, you should be fine. Do you have a rug of your own that you wish to use, Amir?”
Yusuf laughed, his black eyes sparkling. “Not an amir quite yet, but soon, God willing! I would be pleased to use a rug that you can provide.”
The attendant gestured to his right. “This way to the wudhu, and make sure you are quick about it.” His feet slapped loudly against the stones of the sahn as he pushed his away against the tide of worshippers who searched for space to unfurl their rugs.
Yusuf smiled again. Although the polished limestone pavers were hot under his bare feet, it felt wonderful to be rid of his stinking boots after a long journey through the Sinai, and the water from the fountains at the wudhu was cool and fresh from an underground spring. After he had washed his feet and legs, hands, arms, and face, he took the rolled rug from the attendant and set it down at the edge of the sprawling courtyard where other men had already gathered. All faced the lavish mihrab, a curved niche in a wall that indicated the direction of Mecca. Sitting at the very back, the only thing Yusuf could see were the sweaty backs of the worshipper’s robes and head-coverings, dots of taqiyas, long keffiyehs, and expertly wrapped turbans, which grew larger, brighter, and more ornate closer to the mihrab.
Yusuf stood at the foot of his borrowed rug, and the prayers began. He murmured the words as his body automatically performed the motions, his heart rushing with thanks and relief. It had been a difficult journey, and there were several times when he did not think he would make it to Cairo. Bedu had attacked his caravan and captured two of his camels, killing a soldier, and making off with a precious goatskin of water. It had been a hot, thirsty trip. Here he was, however, in a mosque built by Baybars, who his new master had served as an amir and advisor. Yusuf reminded himself to focus on his prayers, but his mind wanted to wander to the adventure that awaited him.
At twenty years old, Yusuf was a rising star among the Mamluk elite, having served almost his entire life under al-Shihab, his first master. His battle prowess was admirable, but where Yusuf provided the most value to the amirs and their personal armies was as a translator and strategist. It became clear to al-Shihab that Yusuf possessed intelligence and planning abilities far beyond the other fursān in training. This suited Yusuf more anyhow. He disliked battle, the fluids of other men spattering in his eyes and mouth, the gurgles and screams of his victims. The smells. It bothered him that they spent more time attacking villages these days than targeting their real enemies, the Mongols in the north and the Franj occupiers in Acre and Tyre, who sometimes allied with them.
Yusuf’s lip curled. The word “Franj” had originally just meant “French,” but after the other Christians from the Italian peninsula, the island of England, and the Holy Roman Empire to the north of Francia demonstrated that they were equally as cruel and fanatical, the word took on a derogatory meaning. To Yusuf and the other Muslim occupants of Palestine and Cairo, ‘Franj’ was synonymous with ‘occupier.’
Very few of the Mamluk amirs were careless enough to admit that they - slaves and soldiers purchased and kidnapped from their homes – were also occupiers. There was a difference. The Franj had not only occupied the land when they invaded two hundred years earlier, but they had desecrated sacred places, robbed the people of their wealth, and imposed their own strange brand of polytheism on the Faithful with their worship of ʿĪsā, pleace be upon him. The Turkish soldiers in the Mamluk army may have fair skin and hair, or dark eyes with smooth, single lids if they had been taken from the eastern steppes like Yusuf, but they were returning the Faith to this land, and for that, they must remain in power. They were here to protect the Faithful and rid the land of the infidels once and for all. After the Christians had been removed, then the Mamluks could turn their full attention to securing the borders against the Mongol scourge, thus earning themselves riches and bringing glory to Allah (the most glorified, the most high). Then they would rule fairly, for they did not have the messy history or family connections of the al-Ayyūbīyūn, the previous dynasty of sultans who had only recently been ousted.
With practiced efficiency, Yusuf rose to his knees and looked to his right, along with a thousand other men in the sahn. “Peace be upon you, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.”
There was a gentle rustle as all heads turned to the left. “Peace be upon you, and the mercy and blessings of Allah.”
The blessings of Allah, Yusuf thought, his heart swelling with joy. I am blessed to be here.
Elizabeth R. Andersen's debut novel, The Scribe, launched in July of 2021. Although she spent many years of her life as a journalist, independent fashion designer, and overworked tech employee, there have always been two consistent loves in her life: writing and history. She finally decided to do something about this and put them both together.
Elizabeth lives in the Seattle area with her long-suffering husband and young son. On the weekends she usually hikes in the stunning Cascade mountains to hide from people and dream up new plotlines and characters. Elizabeth is a member of the Historical Novel Society and the Alliance of Independent Authors.
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