Kingdom by Jack Hight Page A

and fortune.’
    ‘And I am Hugh of Caesarea. God keep you, Caliph.’
    John translated for both.
    ‘We have brought the treaty, signed by King Amalric,’ Geoffrey said.
    John removed four copies of the treaty from the tube around his neck and unrolled the parchments. He stepped forward to hand them to the caliph.
    ‘Wait!’ Shawar ordered. He held out a hand, and John gave him the treaties. Shawar read quickly. His face remained expressionless, but his cheeks tinged red. ‘We did not agree to your quartering troops in Cairo,’ he hissed in a low voice that the caliph could not hear.
    ‘It is for your protection, Vizier,’ Geoffrey replied once John had translated.
    ‘We can protect ourselves.’
    Hugh smirked. ‘In that case, we shall take our army back to Jerusalem.’
    Shawar’s face reddened further. The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Is there a problem, Vizier?’
    ‘No, Imam,’ Shawar replied. ‘All is well. Al-Ifranj will help us to drive the Sunni invaders from our lands.’
    ‘That is good. Sign the treaty.’ When the boy caliph spoke again, his voice was harsh. ‘We must teach the infidels a lesson.’
    John knew of the rift between the Sunni and Shiites, but he was still surprised. The caliph seemed unconcerned that the Franks were Christians. He hated the Sunni Muslims much more.
    Shawar turned to Geoffrey. ‘The Caliph has given his consent to the treaty.’ Shawar went to the table and signed all four copies. He had regained his equanimity, and he smiled as he handed two of the treaties to Geoffrey. ‘There. It is done.’
    ‘That is not enough,’ Hugh said.
    The vizier’s smile faded. ‘Pardon?’
    ‘A treaty is only a sheet of paper. The Caliph must give me his word, man to man.’
    ‘But—’ Shawar’s words ended in a gasp. Hugh was striding across the room, his hand extended to shake that of the caliph. The caliph shrank back against his throne. John heard the whisper of steel against leather as several of the mamluks standing along the back wall drew their blades. Shawar held up a hand to stop them. ‘My lord!’ he beseeched Hugh in Frankish. ‘You cannot touch the Caliph!’
    Hugh ignored him. He thrust his hand towards the caliph’s face . ‘Swear that you will abide by the terms of this treaty.’ He looked to John, who translated.
    ‘What more does this man want?’ the caliph asked, his voice breaking. ‘I have already given my consent.’
    ‘You are to clasp his hand.’
    The caliph turned towards Shawar. ‘Must I?’
    John had not translated these last statements. Hugh looked to him questioningly. ‘Why will he not give his word?’ he demanded. ‘I knew there was treachery afoot.’ John chose not to translate that, either.
    Shawar ignored Hugh’s outburst. ‘Yes, Imam. It is necessary.’ The caliph extended a trembling hand.
    ‘He must remove his glove,’ Hugh insisted. ‘The oath is not valid unless we clasp hands, flesh to flesh.’
    Shawar went pale. ‘But that is impossible!’ he cried in Frankish.
    ‘Then there will be no treaty!’ Hugh declared.
    Geoffrey nodded in agreement. ‘We must be certain the alliance will be honoured.’
    Shawar looked from one to the other, then to John. ‘Make them understand,’ he said in Arabic. ‘The Caliph cannot take this man’s hand. It is impossible.’
    ‘Even if it means the failure of the treaty?’ John asked.
    ‘Even then.’
    Hugh was standing with his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting forward belligerently. John doubted he could speak reason with the man. Instead, he looked to the caliph. He approached the throne and knelt, bowing low so that his forehead touched the floor. ‘Representative of God, defender of the faithful,’ he said in Arabic. ‘This man is not worthy to be in your presence. He is an ifranji, a savage, an animal. He is filthy and impure, but he longs for purity. He wishes to embrace the true faith.’
    The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Truly?’
    Hugh