The Holy Sail by Abdulaziz Al-Mahmoud Page A

conflict was raging between top Mamluk leaders, and people fleeing from the countryside were now pouring into the cities – all because of bad decisions made by the sultan or his entourage to raise money and buy loyalties by any means.
    Hussein shuffled out of bed and looked out the window. He spotted an empty nest a dove had started building several days ago. He stuck out his hand and pushed it into the ground below; he hated it when birds built their nests near his window.
    Hussein was torn. He abhorred corruption, weakness and bad governance, which he saw as the main causes of the sultanate’s sins, failures and divisions. These matters preoccupied him almost constantly, but he was unsure of how they should best be dealt with or resolved. He felt the rise of a strong leader to power would change all this, but he began to despair about seeing this happen in his lifetime.
    For Hussein, weakness equated to death, which was why he reacted harshly towards the weak in general. That included the doves that came to his window, which to him were pathetically fragile creatures that did not deserve to live.
    Hussein did not have many friends. Not many people could tolerate him and his non-stop grumbling over the dismal situation. Only Suleiman knew how to deal with him and accommodate him. Without Suleiman, he felt lost and lonely, and sometimes angry and incomprehensibly violent. He scanned the road in front of the fort. Not long ago, it would have been crawling with caravans travelling from Suez, and carrying goods from India and China. Where were they now? How did the road become so deserted and miserable? Who was responsible for all this? Where was the sultanate headed?
    Disorganised ideas shifted in his head in rapid succession. There were so many things that needed fixing, but he was ultimately only a junior officer in the Mamluk army. All he could do was follow orders without thinking twice. ‘Curse these ranks we hold,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They are just meant to tell us our place in the pecking order, and what proportion of our brains we must not use.’
    Suleiman had sailed away with a large campaign to fight pirates near Rhodes; Hussein missed him terribly. His mind was teeming with worries and concerns that he wanted to tell Suleiman about, the only person in the world who would listen to him and his complaints.
    Suleiman had not changed much since they were teenagers. He had always been witty and sarcastic, laughing at everyone and everything, and finding a joke in everysitutaion. Everyone loved him for his big heart and good nature.
    â€˜Oh Suleiman, where are you?’ Hussein sighed.
    As adolescents living in the Mamluk barracks, the older boys used to humiliate and beat them for no reason. In those days, he wished he were older and bigger so he could fight back; he hated being weak. He remembered the time the older boys beat Suleiman so severely and left him crying for hours. He could not bear to see his friend sobbing. He took a small knife from his pocket and put it in Suleiman’s hand, and told him to stab one of the older children who attacked them as a matter of habit. When Suleiman refused, Hussein took the knife back and stabbed the boy in his thigh. It was the first time he had stood up for himself. Afterwards, the other boys understood that Hussein’s anger was fierce and his wrath cruel, and they avoided him, fearing his reaction. Since that time, Hussein glorified might and loathed weakness.
    He could no longer bear to stay in that depressing room. He put his clothes on and left, taking the stairs down to the courtyard of the fort where new slave soldiers were training. He felt sorry for them; they must have endured much pain and anguish on their way here. He did not want to remember his own story again, and cried out to the groom to bring his horse.
    Hussein heard someone calling his name. It was the chief of the guards at the fort who was running towards him.