aufens had lived in Sicily for generations, and surely that gave
them more right to rule here than the French.

"You are fighting for Islam!" he cried. Their wild cheering rang in his
ears.

"You are fighting that you and your families may profess the faith and
live by the faith. This right, your wise rulers of the house of
Hohenstaufen have granted you. But if Charles d'Anjou rules this land,
your mosques will be turned into churches, your mullahs will be hanged,
your Korans will be burned, and your children's children will never hear
the sweet words of the Prophet, may God commend and salute him. They
will be raised as Christians and will never know they were anything
else. For us this war is jihad! Holy war!"

The waves of their cheering swept over him, and their scimitars flashed
in the rising sun. He had told them the truth, but there was an even
greater truth he had not told them. They were fighting, not just for
Islam in Sicily, but for Islam everywhere. If Manfred won this battle,
it would end, for this generation at least, the threat of Christians and
Tartars uniting to destroy Islam. But how to explain that in these few
remaining moments? Enough that they knew that they were fighting for the
faith in their own land.

Seeing their eagerness, he felt proud of them, and proud of himself. The
weight of sadness he had felt when he first faced them was lifted, and
his heart beat strong within him.

The cheering faded quickly, replaced by a murmuring. Men were pointing
past him. A faint rumbling came to his ears.

At the north end of the valley a long line of horsemen was moving
forward, bright banners fluttering above them, and creamy clouds of dust
billowing up behind them.

Barth rode up to him, his eyes bright, his thick lower lip curving
upward in a smile. "King Manfred has agreed to let you attack first. The
Swabian knights are now ready. We will be behind you. Slow their charge,
and then we will smash them." He struck a mailed fist into a mailed
palm.

Exultation bubbled up within Daoud like a desert spring. Dizzy with joy,
he thought Baibars must have felt like this when he alone led the
Mamelukes against the Tartars at the Well of Goliath.

A certainty that the battle was as good as won spread through him.

"If we leave you any Frenchmen to smash," he said to Barth, who laughed,
saluted, and rode away.

_Have a care_, he warned himself. _What happens today will be as God
wants. I want only what