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nameless body. Kalawun, however, would not ignore such cruelty.
    Passing his goblet to a servant, he started to make his way through the crowd. He had not gone far when he was greeted by the familiar face of Nasir, one of the officers of his own regiment, the Mansuriyya.
    The tall, solemn young man, an olive-skinned Syrian, inclined his head respectfully as he approached his commander. “Amir, it was a truly beautiful ce—”
    “A beautiful ceremony,” said Kalawun, forcing a smile, “I know.”
    Nasir looked at him quizzically, then returned the smile, which brightened his otherwise plain face. “I’m sorry, Amir, I must be one of many to have spoken to you today without truly saying anything at all.”
    “As is the tradition at weddings,” responded Kalawun, glancing back to the youths. As he did so, Baraka stepped away from the slave and caught his eye. For a second, there hung a look of guilty shame on the young prince’s face as he realized what Kalawun had witnessed. Then, almost as quickly as it appeared, the expression was gone, replaced by one of haughty defiance. Baraka nodded curtly to Kalawun and moved off with his friends, leaving the slave huddled against the wall, near to the cage where the lion paced.
    “Amir?” questioned Nasir, studying the commander’s face, which was tight with concern. He followed Kalawun’s stare and saw Baraka laughing with the group of boys. “He will make a fine son,” he commented.
    “But will he make a fine husband?” murmured Kalawun. He met Nasir’s gaze. “A fine sultan? Sometimes, I think he ignores everything I have tried to teach him.”
    “You have guided him well, Amir. I have seen how you have instructed him so patiently, as if he were your own.” Nasir lowered his voice. “You have given him more than his own father has.”
    “Sultan Baybars has not had the time to train him,” answered Kalawun. But they both knew this wasn’t true.
    Baybars had ignored Baraka for most of the boy’s early life, saying that he belonged with his mother in the harem until he was old enough to be trained as a warrior. When he finally felt Baraka was of an age suitable for training, he handed him over to a tutor and, for a brief time, took a real interest, even pleasure, in his eldest son. But then Omar, his closest comrade, was killed by an Assassin’s blade that had been meant for him, and following that death Baybars hadn’t taken much interest in anything.
    Nasir shook his head. “Still, it amazes me how much you have given of yourself to the boy.”
    “I want him to lead his people well.”
    “And he will. He may have become a man today, but in his heart he is still a boy, and boys of his age sometimes believe they are better than their masters.” Nasir met Kalawun’s eyes. “We all have.”
    Kalawun put a hand on his shoulder. “You are right. It is just that sometimes I feel as if I am trying to mold clay that has already been fired. I worry, Nasir, that he is ...” His next words were cut off as a girl’s voice called across to him.
    “Father!”
    Kalawun turned to see Aisha, his fourteen-year-old daughter, weaving through the throng. Her black hijab , threaded with gold, was dangerously close to sliding off her head and uncovering her sleek dark hair. On her shoulder, its claws making little nicks in her black gown, was a tiny, amber-eyed monkey. It had a jewel-studded collar, from which hung a leather leash that Aisha had twined around one long finger. In her other hand was a fistful of dates.
    “Look, Father!” she said, tossing up one of the fruits. The monkey reached out and snatched it out of the air. With little jerking movements it grasped the date and chewed, looking around inquisitively.
    “I see you have been training him,” said Kalawun, cupping his daughter’s face in his large, callused hands and kissing her brow. He tugged her hijab over the line of hair that had been revealed, making her frown. “You haven’t let him out of