"We are a hundred thousand and they not a fourth of that," said Qutuz almost petulantly, his eyes fixed on the oncoming Tartars. "How can they dare to turn and fight us?"
"They are Tartars," said Baibars. "They do not fear the numbers of their enemies."
"Being a Tartar yourself, you can tell us how they think," said Qutuz. Daoud heard a faint undertone of contempt in the Kurd's voice. Baibars must have heard it, too; Daoud saw his lord's cheeks darken slightly.
Looking into the sultan's set face, Daoud realized that Qutuz, despite his apparent disdain, had already given up the battle. His lips, almost hidden in his oiled black beard, were pressed tight, in an effort to keep them from trembling.
The Mamelukes might outnumber the Tartars today, but the Tartars had never been defeated anywhere in the world. The sultan must have led the army to what he saw as certain death, for himself and all of them, only because he knew his Mameluke emirs would depose and kill him if he did not.
How can a Mameluke fear death, or even defeat? Qutuz has been sultan too long.
"With the help of God, my brothers," said Qutuz, his voice hollow, "let us ride forth and slay them. I will command the center, Kalawun the left wing, and Baibars the right. When you see my green banner dip, we will advance to surround and destroy them."
He does not believe that God will help him, thought Daoud. And he does not believe he can help himself.
Riding over the dusty field to rejoin the men under his command, Daoud yearned for the fighting to begin. His body felt tight, as if it were being pressed inward from all directions, and his heart seemed to swell in his chest, trying to break out of the pressure.
If I must die today, let me first do a great deed for God!