Malik's Story/The Wandering Faris

The Wandering Faris

The road to Ashkelon’s gates were broad and even. They made for smooth riding, for those that could ride, and an easy walk for all the rest. The lancers rode in double lines behind their captain, pinions streaming from spear tips in the soft sea wind that came rolling off the ocean, carrying on it all the cutting flavour of the sea.

Behind them walked the baggage train. The camp women and the staggering infants, servants who kept camp for their proud masters. The families and followers of the bold lance-men. It was a tight fit group, an extended clan that kept to each other as disciplined in movement as the warriors they served. Seasoned campaigners that lived a nomad like existence. Some had been nomads before finding their way into this company.

Their captain admired the walls of Ashkelon. Malik ibn Mujir had come on invitation from the master of the keep, Sayid. An old friend not seen in years. Brought out of Frankish lands and back into the bosom of Islam.

It did his heart good to be in sight of friendly walls, his own kind. His heart was in need of much remedy after all it had been through.

He looked to his left as if to speak with a companion, only to remember she was not there. His daughter had gone from his side, left to follow a Frankish heathen. A heathen he much liked, but a heathen none the less.

Instead of his beloved daughter he saw the yawning, handsome face of Aymal.

It was enough to sour his heart all over again.

“Have you been to Ashkelon before?” he asked the young man.

“Not since I was a child,” he said, hood eyed for lack of sleep. No doubt he pined for the silken pillows waiting within. He was ever one for the luxury of castle living.

Most of Aymal’s life had been spent in the east and north. Damascus and the Frank kingdoms. He knew nothing of Egypt.

“Keep a polite tone,” Malik said, “Egyptians have a great deal of pride. An ancient people with ancient ways. And keep your hands away from their women. We are guests.” That last instruction rankled Aymal visibly, his nose scrunching up. It brought a chuckle to Malik’s throat.

Malik heeled his stallion forward. The gates stood open, with a party waiting.

The master of Ashkelon’s fortress was not the lord of Ashkelon or the lands around it, that would have been his eminence Shazar A’Hassan, who was as ever at court in Fustat. The man that did greet them however, the chamberlain of Ashkelon, had been known to Malik years ago, and he recognized his friend through the fading of age, the lines and greying that years by nature forced upon a man. If he was thicker in body than he had once been, his gut hanged past his belt line, his cheeks sagged to jowls, he still had the same bright eyes and ready smile from his younger days, save now it split a peppered beard in twain.

“Malik!” he held out his arms, the sleeves of his robe spreading out like the wings of a bat. He dressed in colours of cream and blue.

“Sayid,” Malik dismounted. A groom came to take his horse.

The two men, long parted, embraced as brothers.

“It has been too long you old rover,” Sayid said, “I’m glad my message found you so close.”

“We were heading south already,” he replied, “News of civil war is on the wind. I thought to find a patron for my spear.”

“The lord of Darum is in need of every spear,” Sayid said. Then he stopped to look at the company of ibn Mujir. “I look but I do not see that little wild girl of yours. Has she come to harm?” He said the last most fearful. Sayid held special fondness for Sabeen. They had played much in the seasons of her youth spent in Ashkelon.

Malik’s heart hurt for the question, but he gave the old chamberlain an answer. “My daughter is a woman grown,” he said, “And she has left to make her own way in the world.”

Sayid clutched his sleeve. “What man shelters her?” he asked, “It is taught that a woman must be under the care of a man lest she be lead astray.”

“A Frankish man,” Malik said. The gasp raised by Sayid was unmasculine. A match for the gasps of the women folk in his retinue. When it looked as if Sayid would say something on the matter Malik raised a maille’d hand. “Peace brother, I do not wish to speak of it.”

The chamberlain’s face settled into a sympathetic little smile, inclining his head. “As you say,” he said, then he gestured to the open gates, “You must be tired. Please, the freedom of Ashkelon is yours. Be welcome and find shade within.”

Malik returned the inclination. “My thanks old friend, and the gratitude of my people,” then he straightened, turned to Aymal who was still a-horse, and laid out instruction for the care of the company, billeting and disposition. Then, once that was done he walked with Sayid through the gates.

Ashkelon was a fortress-city. The walls were high and thick, with long empty space before them offering no shelter. Soldiers kept garrisoned close to the wall, kept in a state of readiness. Beyond the walls though the streets were a wide boulevard, in the fashion of the ancient cities of Old Rome. Palm trees offered shade to those walking the day under the hot beating sun.
It was still in many ways a Roman city. Little change had been made by Egypt. The marks of heathen religion had been scoured away, idols smashed apart, but the architecture and craftsmanship of the great people remained. A living relic of a long gone Empire.

Women who fetched water from deep wells took rest upon the benches set beneath the yawning branches, talking to neighbours as their children played. Labourers, stripped to bare chests and sweating from exertion, took lingered moments in the shade before returning to their work.

Homes and businesses lined the open streets. Camped together in neat sand brick stone. Women hanged laundry from their windows, or kept windows unshuttered to air out their homes.

Sayid ambled along, a soft doughy man next to the rigid warrior beside him. The common folk of the city would recognise him, call out friendly greeting. A well liked man, who kept no airs of superiority. When a child came running and crashed by accident into his knees it was only Malik’s strong hands that kept him from falling, and when the child’s mother rushed forward offering every apology, Sayid only laughed.

“A child should be so rambunctious,” he said, “Praise Allah for giving him such a vigorous spirit.”

The boy grinned up at the two men. Sayid sent him on with a ruffle of his downy black hair, back to the side of his mother.

“You’ve done well with this place,” Malik said, “A happy people.”

Sayid nodded. “Yes,” he stopped, “But I cannot say the same for the rest. Fields fall in disuse. Villages are emptying. Our lords are growing lax, my friend, our courts are growing lazy and corrupt. And our people are looking to other masters. The foreign devils, Allah curse them, attract away our common folk with their simpler ways.”

Malik nodded. He had heard stories, and seen the fields taken over by weeds. It all came from the top. Much like an army with poor leadership, a land with bad lords quick went to rot.

They stopped by a stand selling sweet water. Each took a cup.

“These troubles are part and parcel,” Sayid said, “Everyone is so concerned with advancing their office they have forgotten to do their first duties. And when many bad men compete for the same post, bloodshed is inevitable. Either knives in the dark or armies on the field.”

“Where lies the split as now?” Malik asked.

“As ever, between Fustat and Alexandria,” he said, “The caliph will not last long and already his kin line up to take his place, with that odious wretch of a vizier standing in the middle.” Sayid gave his old friend an upward palm, “I feel most comforted with you here. Ashkelon does not yet know which way it will all turn. You see the people smiling? It is only out of ignorance. I am full of fear my friend, fear of the future. Frank or Saracen, either one could march on Ashkelon and bring ruin. Picture for a minute this city in flames, these people put to the sword. These are the visions that haunt my half-waking hours.”

Sayid stared out at the cityscape, a haunted look in his eyes. All the natural love that had shone from his eyes now turned to fear, making that plump, jowl’d face a haunted mask.

Malik clasped his friend’s shoulder. Squeezed warmth back into him with maille’d hand.

“Not if I can help it,” Malik said.

Sayid came back to himself, face alit as he turned to his friend. A ready chuckle. “As I said, that is why I’m comforted. Few could match you for strategy my friend. Zengi himself would not dare ride against us.”

The high praise made Malik grin, though the mention of his former master rankled his guts. He ran fingers through his beard. “Do not go so far as that,” he said, “But if you wish me to stay and add to your peace of mind, I would do so.”

Sayid clasped his shoulders, all a smile. “I would my friend. If you please.”

Malik covered his friend’s hands. “Consider it done. Until these storms have passed, I shall remain in Ashkelon.”

Sayid kissed Malik’s cheeks, and Malik did the same in turn.

It was agreed. Malik and his lancers would defend Ashkelon’s walls.
-
A second reception at the fortress. The mother of the city, wife to the Lord of Darum. Her sons and daughters, and bold faris with them. Faris, or what the Frank might think of as a knight. The women were dressed modestly, in full robes with head’s covered with bright coloured scarves, hands held before them, eyes at first down turned in respect, but soon risen upward to flash welcoming smiles at the soldier.

The men wore swords, and some were armoured. The city was of martial cast, and even the scholars wore weapons above their robes.
Ashkelon had many fighters in its garrison, as well as some of the most skilled Saracen faris. One was most known to him. Kamal, who stood armoured with his wife, Sayid’s eldest girl. They had a young boy between them, a child Malik had not met.

“Bless you my friend,” Malik said to Kamal, “A boy.” They embraced. Then he embraced Tawaret, kissed her cheek then pinched it as he had done in her youth. “You have grown so womanly Tawa, I scarce recognised you.”

“Uncle,” She kissed him back, grinning for the old man. Her eyes asked the same question as her father ‘where was Sabeen?’ but he did not answer it except with a regretful look.

“It’s good to have you back from the Franks,” Kamal said, “We feared we might have lost you.”

“You act as if you have never spent a season in Jaffa, eating at Hugh’s table,” Malik reproached.

Kamal blanched. Years ago his master had made a visit to their northern neighbour. It was where Malik had first met the count.

“When we have the time we should make an exchange of lances,” he said, “See if you have surpassed this old man.”

“It would be an honour,” the faris replied.

The next in the household to welcome him was young Farida, daughter of the Lord of Darum. The image of her mother at thirteen, she bowed low. Malik drew her up. When last he had seen her she had been barely more than a thrashing, bawling infant.

“How is such a lovely girl not yet married?” he cupped her face while giving Sayid a reproachful look.

“My betrothed is in Fustat,” she said through the squish of her cheeks. So it came more as ‘m’trothed’sin’Fustat’.

“Her betrothed is in Fustat,” he said, “Part of the Caliph’s household.”

“So prestigious!” Malik said, turning the girl into demure blushes.

The last two to greet him was the imam of Ashkelon and his wife. Omar and Rawya, who were old and grey but still strong bodied. Both embraced Malik warmly.

“Allah has smiled upon Ashkelon, you return to us,” the holy man said. Despite his advancing years he wore a sword over his plain white robe. His beard was long and in tangles, near that of a street living aesthetic more than the guide of a prosperous city.

“Too long have I been gone from the prophet’s eyes,” Malik said, “We should speak when you have the time.”

“The chamber of my heart is open to you,” Omar said, and passed Malik off to his wife.

The grey haired woman was one of strong emotion, and she could not hide her tears. She had no ready words but only pawing gesture as she took the old soldier to her bosom.

“I have missed you as well Rawya,” he said.

They brought Malik into the fortress, that citadel of thick stone built in older times. Sayid took him by hand, they walked a companionable stroll through the tall gate.

It was said to have been built by Alexander, or one of his generals. Mayhap the Romans built it, or simply improved on an existing design. Either way it was a tough knuckle of a place, all the carved beauty and adornment not disguising its practical intentions. To give a bloody nose to any army that would dare try to assault it.

Within the fortress itself, hidden by the hard stone, the landscape became all of soft cast, decorated with fabrics hanged, adorned in patterns that pleased the eye. It gave the place a warm, soft glow. The younger girls ran ahead in their slippered feet, giggling excitedly to one another of the recent arrivals. Malik and his men, who followed him within, many a woman’s eye was spared for handsome Aymal in his battle worn armour.

All his troop seemed a dusty, battered mar upon the warmth of the place. It was silk and saffron, perfumed men and women who knew mostly leisure. Where they were all iron and blood.

Better to be left with the garrison, he thought as his eyes drifted over the soft skinned men enjoying the soft delights of Ashkelon’s heart. To be with the fighting company and not stand out so sorely.

Malik knew this place could be so beautiful for the wealth it hauled in out of the harbour, and the roads that led to it. Ashkelon was a frontier city, which meant danger, but also meant trade. He did not think that rich trade would lead to so many high placed men to become soft bellied.

His reassurance was Kamal’s armoured figure, who kept hand to hilt and hard eyes that saw past the drapery. They parted in the outer chamber, the faris keen to return to his duty.

Many would lust for the treasures he saw just as he walked to his quarters, led by hand by his oldest living friend. And not just Frank, but some warlord in this brewing civil war might think to plunder these halls to fill his coffers, leaving the border fatally weakened. How could they resist, when a wall of stone was slowly becoming butter?

Such was the short sighted greed of men like that.

Dark thoughts flew through his mind as he considered the best defence for the city, after taking in such troubling sights.

“Gaza to the south is in disrepair,” Malik said, “If you wish to secure Darum from southern predation, fortify it.”

But his guide was not listening. Too merry for Malik’s return, and ignoring the reason for it.

“We shall share poetry together,” Sayid said, “I have written some of my own, and new pieces from Persia are brought to us.”
Malik blew out his moustache.

“We shall smoke too,” Sayid said, “Poppy, to give spice to the poetry. Even perhaps a dancing girl?” Sayid rubbed his belly. “Brought up from the farthest south. Zanj girls. Black as night. Your wife was Zanj. Or from the North, where women have hair like honey and skin like milk.”

“I want sleep, Sayid,” Malik said, rolling tired soldiers, “Not poetry or poppy, certainly no dancing girls. Sleep, and tomorrow a review of Ashkelon’s forces.”

Sayid snorted as he showed him set quarters.

“You fret too much, it is why you are so grey,” he said.

“My first grey hairs were from a Turk axe,” Malik said, feeling an old scar across his scalp, “And now I am more cautious, so as not to be struck by another.”

Sayid chuckled. “Rest, my friend, fret on Turks tomorrow.” He gave the Syrian lancer the door, and retreated with a bow.

Malik examined the curtained quarters, the velvet covered pillows, the spread out rugs. Silver goblets with fresh clear water in bronze jugs. Curtains beaded with amber.

There was a small lute resting against the table that held the water. A beautiful little instrument. He sat cross legged, took it by the neck, rest the belly in his lap, and plucked a single chord. Listened to its long note fill the gilded room he sat in.

It was not the Turks that worried Malik.