Eagle

Chapter 10

NOVEMBER 1152: ON THE ROAD TO TELL BASHIR

Slate-grey clouds hung low in the sky as John rode out of Aleppo through the Bab al-Yahud — the Jew’s gate. John was happy to leave the city behind; he had never felt more foreign and alone than he had in the slaves’ quarters of the citadel. Perhaps Tell Bashir would be better. At least Yusuf would be in charge there. John glanced to where his friend rode beside him, his head held high. They followed a Bedouin guide named Sa’ud, and behind them came three men leading pack-horses, then six mamluks surrounding a mule that carried an iron-bound chest. John knew that the key to the chest’s heavy lock hung around Yusuf’s neck. Back at the citadel, he had allowed John to look inside. The chest contained two thousand golden dinars, enough to buy John’s freedom many times over — surely enough to ensure the loyalty of the men at Tell Bashir.

Ahead, the road was little more than a beaten track, the wind whipping up swirling plumes of sand. John pulled down one of the folds of his turban to cover his face and keep out the dust. The trail sloped down to run parallel with the tiny Quweq River, which wound its way north through broad plains. They passed orchards, the trees heavy with oranges and limes. Beyond them were fields of harvested wheat — black earth dotted with the yellow stubs of cut stalks — and also fragrant fields of bright-yellow saffron. Past the fields, the rocky desert stretched away to the horizon, where a sheet of rain fell from the dark sky. As the storm came closer, John could see the rain sweeping down the river, disturbing its placid surface. He unwound his turban as the first cool drops hit him. A moment later, the skies opened up, soaking his tunic and turning the road to mud. John turned to Yusuf and grinned.

Yusuf shook his head. ‘The rain will slow us. You won’t be smiling if we don’t make it to the inn and have to sleep in the open.’

‘That’s why we have tents. Besides, we can’t get any wetter.’

‘It’s not getting wet that worries me; it’s the bandits. There are only twelve of us. That is enough to fight off most raiders, but the rain will dampen sound and make it hard to see. It will make us an easier target.’

John’s smile faded. He looked at the road stretching across the empty plain ahead and saw only a distant camel train. ‘Are bandits really such a danger?’

Yusuf nodded. ‘There is an old saying: the companions chosen are more important than the route taken. Only fools travel alone, and even large groups are sometimes attacked. When my mother was young, she was part of a caravan of over forty that was raided.’

‘Why doesn’t Nur ad-Din do something about it?’

‘There is little he can do. The raiders often attack far from where they live. Some are Franks from the Christian lands. Most are Bedouin. After their raids, they vanish into the great desert. None dares follow them there.’

They rode on in silence, following the course of the river. John was more alert now, scanning the road ahead for potential ambushes. When they came to a small settlement — a few single-room homes mixed with tents — he gripped the hilt of his sword as they passed, ready in case bandits burst forth. The rain slackened, then stopped, and a few rays of sun broke through the clouds. Around noon, they came to a larger settlement, built where two tributaries flowed into the Quweq from the north. The village had a mosque, and John led the horses to the river to drink while the others went inside to perform their afternoon prayers. Afterwards, they ate a simple meal of flatbread and goat’s cheese, then crossed the Quweq over a rickety wooden bridge. They left the river behind, following one of its tributaries north-west. The tributary, dry most of the year, was now full of muddy, turbulent water, which had cut a deep channel in the sandy soil. Desert grasses and wild flowers grew near the channel, but there were no crops. After a time, they left the tributary behind and rode across barren desert.

‘How does our guide know the way?’ John asked Yusuf.

‘The desert is the Bedouin’s home. They can read its signs, see things we cannot.’

They saw no trace of human life until just before sunset, when they heard the familiar, wavering cry of a muezzin calling the evening prayer. A moment later, they crested a small rise and saw a u-shaped building built around a well. It was a funduq — an inn that served caravans. Yusuf’s shoulders relaxed visibly when he saw it. ‘We made it,’ he said and spurred his horse through the gate. John followed and found himself in a courtyard lined with wooden stalls on the right. Most of them were occupied by a horse or camel. A murmur of conversation — punctuated by a woman’s loud laughter — came from a door to the left. It opened, and out stepped a dark-skinned man with a bright smile and large, gold loops in his ears.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, travellers,’ he said, giving a small bow.

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Yusuf replied as he dismounted. John also dismounted and took the reins of Yusuf’s horse.

‘I am Habil, and you are welcome at my funduq,’ the man said. ‘You can stable your horses here. Beds are through that door behind you. There is food and drink in the tavern.’ He waved to the door through which he had just come. ‘Three fals each for a bed and horse stall. Food and drink are extra.’

Yusuf took a dinar from the pouch at his belt and tossed it to Habil, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the gold piece. ‘That should be sufficient for me and my men.’

‘Yes, yes!’ Habil bowed again. ‘You can have all the food and wine you want.’

‘I do not desire wine. Where is the mosque?’

‘Yes, of course, the mosque. It is that way.’ Habil pointed to a door at the far end of the courtyard.

Yusuf nodded curtly. ‘You may go now.’ Habil bowed and re-entered the tavern, and Yusuf turned to John. ‘Care for my horse,’ he said, then spoke to the mamluks. ‘You will take turns guarding the gold. I want two men with that chest at all times. We will leave after morning prayers.’ Yusuf crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the mosque. Shirkuh’s men led their horses into the stalls and unsaddled them. Most of the men headed into the tavern, but two stayed behind in the fading light. They carried the chest into one of the stalls and sat on the straw-covered floor while John groomed Yusuf’s horse in the next stall along.

John took a comb, hoof pick and cloth from one of the saddlebags and then removed the saddle. He slid his hand down the horse’s right foreleg, squeezing just above the hoof, and murmured ‘fauq’ — up. The horse lifted its leg, and John carefully picked out the pebbles and grit that had gathered in the sole of its hoof. When he had finished with the hooves, he used the cloth to wipe the dirt from the horse’s face and ears. Then he took up the brush and began to scrape the dirt from the horse’s coat. He was nearly done when he heard a voice from the next stall.

‘What do you say, Nathir? Do you think he’d notice if we took a few dinars for ourselves?’ one of the mamluks said.

‘The chest is locked, Jareh.’

‘I could pick it. My father was a locksmith. He showed me how.’

‘It’s not worth it. Yusuf will have you’re hands if he catches you.’

‘Then we won’t let him catch us, will we?’

John stopped brushing. In the silence, he could just hear the sound of metal scraping on metal. He tossed the brush aside and walked over to stand in the entrance of the next stall. Jareh was on his knees, his back to John as he probed at the lock with his dagger and a needle. Nathir stood over him, watching. He looked up, and his face paled. He tapped Jareh’s shoulder.

‘What?’ Jareh asked. Nathir pointed, and the other mamluk looked over his shoulder. He sat on the chest and met John’s eyes. ‘What do you want, ifranji?’ John returned the man’s stare, but said nothing. ‘Yusuf’s watchdog,’ Jareh grumbled.

‘Careful, Brother,’ John told him.

‘I am not your brother, ifranji,’ the mamluk spat. He tapped the blade of his dagger against his open palm. ‘If you speak of this to Yusuf, you are a dead man.’

John shrugged. ‘I only wished to warn you: Yusuf knows the precise number of coins in the chest. If even one goes missing, he will know.’

‘I told you!’ Nathir slapped the back of Jareh’s head, then looked to John. ‘Shukran.’

John nodded and walked out into the courtyard, which was all dark shadows now that the sun had set. Yusuf was still at his prayers, and the sounds of revelry from the tavern had grown louder. Looking through one of the tavern windows, John saw a mamluk grab a buxom young woman — a prostitute, no doubt — and pull her on to his lap. He kissed the girl, and John turned away, battling bittersweet memories of his last night with Zimat. He went to a small door that he guessed led to the sleeping hall. But when he pushed it open, he found himself in a small candlelit chapel, a wooden cross hanging from the far wall. Two benches sat before an altar, and on one of them was seated a priest in brown robes. The priest turned, and John saw that he was very old, the skin of his face mottled and wrinkled. His eyes were covered with a milky film, and he looked towards John without seeing him.

‘Greetings, Son,’ the priest said in Latin.

‘Hello, Father.’ John closed the door and crossed the room to sit beside the old man, who stared ahead, saying nothing. ‘What are you doing here?’ John asked.

The priest smiled, revealing a mouth in which only a few teeth had survived. ‘This is my church.’

John feared the old man might be crazy. ‘But these are Muslim lands.’

‘Yes, but they were not always so. I came here more than fifty years ago, with the first King Baldwin. We conquered these lands and made a new kingdom for God. I have been here ever since. When the Saracens retook these lands, I stayed. I was old and blind; too much trouble for my fellow Christians to bother taking with them, and not worth the effort for the Saracens to kill.’

‘The Saracens treat you well, then?’

‘They let me be. There are native Christians and Franks who pass through with the caravans. Just yesterday, two-score Franks stopped at the inn. I prayed with them, offered them confession and absolution. Do you wish me to pray with you?’ The priest held out a wooden cup. A few copper coins rattled in the bottom. John added another. ‘Bless you, Son. Do you wish to confess your sins?’

John shook his head. ‘It has been a long time, Father.’

‘It is never too late to find forgiveness.’ The priest placed a hand on John’s back. ‘Tell me.’

John lowered his head and looked at his hands. For a moment, it seemed as if he could still see them covered with blood. ‘I do not wish to be forgiven for what I have done.’

‘And why is that?’

‘I killed my brother.’

‘Why?’

John’s jaw clenched as long-buried memories came to the surface. ‘He sold my father to the Normans. They strung him up as a traitor. I watched him die…’ John felt tears in his eyes and wiped them away.

‘It was vengeance, then.’

‘Yes. But it was not justice.’

The priest nodded. ‘I understand. I too killed someone I loved.’ John looked up, surprised. The priest smiled. ‘I was not always the old man you see now. Once I was young, with a beautiful wife.’ He sighed. ‘I found her in bed with my closest friend. I killed them both, with these hands.’ He held up his hands, gnarled and wrinkled. ‘I stabbed them to death, and then I ran away. I entered the priesthood and ended up here.’ The priest turned his blind eyes upon John. ‘I hated myself. I wanted to die. But hating myself did not bring them back. And it will not help you, either. God does not want our hate, but our love. It took me a long time to learn that. Too long.’

The priest fell silent, and they sat side by side while the candles on the altar burned down. Finally, John knelt before the altar and bowed his head. He prayed silently, then rose and added a silver coin to the old priest’s cup.

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘I will pray for you,’ the old man replied. He held out his hand towards John and made the sign of the cross. ‘Go with God, my son.’

The sun had not yet risen when Yusuf and the others rode away from the funduq, quickly leaving it out of sight in the pre-dawn gloom. The innkeeper had warned them that bandits had struck several caravans nearby, and Yusuf had decided to leave early, skipping prayers in the hope of slipping past unseen in the darkness. No one spoke, and the only sound was the faint clip-clop of their horses’ hooves over the dusty ground. Yusuf kept his hand on his sword and scanned the dimly visible terrain around them for signs of danger.

The darkness gave way to soft, morning light as the sun rose dull red before them, revealing a barren landscape, unmarked by a single tree or boulder. Low, rolling hills rose up ahead, and the dusty track they followed headed straight for them. Yusuf spurred his horse forward next to their Bedouin guide. ‘If there are bandits about, those hills would be the perfect place for them to set an ambush,’ he said. ‘Is there another way?’

Sa’ud shook his head. ‘The hills stretch for miles in either direction. Going around will cost us at least a day. Better to push straight through.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Very well. But we will ride fast and avoid the hilltops so as not to be seen.’ He raised his voice. ‘Have your weapons ready, men.’ Yusuf took his short, curved bow from where it was tucked into the saddle behind him and strung it as he rode. He then slung it over his shoulder, along with his quiver. The other men did the same.

Sa’ud spurred his horse to a canter. Yusuf kept pace, John beside him and the other men bringing up the rear. The track they were following snaked into the hills, and the sound of their horses’ hooves echoed loudly off the steep slopes on either side. Yusuf scanned the hilltops as they rode, expecting at any moment to see a bandit staring back at him, but there was nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief as they rode free of the hills and into a broad valley, which sloped downwards to a sparkling river. More hills rose on the far side of the water.

Ahead, Sa’ud kept up the pace, but then reined to a stop as he reached the edge of the wide, shallow river. His horse immediately plunged its nose into the stream and began to drink. ‘We should pause to water the horses,’ he suggested. ‘There will be no more water until we reach Tell Bashir.’

John rode up beside Yusuf and leaned close. ‘I don’t like this. We are too exposed here. We should move on.’

Yusuf scanned the hilltops on either side of the river and saw nothing. Beneath him, his horse was wet with sweat and breathing heavily after the long canter. ‘Our horses will not last much longer without water,’ he said. ‘And I’d rather face bandits than walk through the desert to Tell Bashir.’ He raised his voice. ‘We will let the horses drink, but be ready to ride, men.’ Yusuf dismounted and led his horse to the edge of the river, where he stood holding the reins while it drank thirstily. He unstopped his waterskin and also drank, keeping his eyes fixed on the hills on the far side of the river. He saw nothing and turned to examine the hills they had just traversed. He was just looking away when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of sunlight on steel. He looked back, but saw nothing.

John walked over, leading his horse. ‘I think we’re being watched.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I saw it, too.’ He turned to shout to the men. ‘Saddle up!’ Yusuf was pulling himself into the saddle when two dozen riders in chainmail broke from the hills behind them and came thundering across the valley. ‘Follow me!’ Yusuf shouted. He grabbed the lead rope for the mule carrying the gold and then kicked his horse’s sides, sending it splashing across the shallow river. As he emerged on the far bank and urged his horse towards the hills, Yusuf glanced back over his shoulder. The bandits were approaching the river, but it looked as if Yusuf and his men would reach the hills before they crossed. Just behind Yusuf, John was yelling and pointing forward. Yusuf turned to see another twenty bandits pouring from the hills ahead of them, only a hundred yards away. They had bows in hand, and they reined in and released a volley. Yusuf heard the arrows whiz past, and there was a cry of pain behind him. He turned to see one of Shirkuh’s men fall from the saddle, the feathered end of an arrow protruding from his chest. Yusuf veered to the left, riding away from the archers and up the valley floor. John and the mamluks followed, spreading out to create a barrier between Yusuf and the bandits.

‘We can’t outrun them!’ John shouted. ‘Not with the mule. We have to leave it.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘Without the gold, we won’t even get into Tell Bashir.’ He looked back and saw that the archers were almost within range. The other bandits had splashed across the river and were angling across the valley, gaining fast. ‘We’ll lose them in the hills!’

Yusuf turned his horse and headed for a gap between two sheer rock faces. John and Sa’ud followed, while the mamluks pulled up behind them to block the passage and protect their escape. Yusuf kicked at the sides of his horse and pulled at the lead, urging the mule to keep pace as he cantered along a narrow trail that snaked between the steep-sided hills. Behind him, he could hear shouts and cries of agony as the bandits reached the mamluks. Then the shouting stopped, replaced by the thunder of hooves as the bandits charged after them. The rumbling grew steadily louder, and then an arrow hissed past Yusuf. The bandits were almost upon them.

Up ahead, the trail turned sharply to the right. Yusuf rounded the corner and shouted ‘ Stop!’ He reined in, and John and Sa’ud pulled up beside him. ‘Quick, your bows!’ Yusuf turned his horse and swung his bow from his back. He nocked an arrow and drew the bow taut. The first bandit rounded the corner, and his eyes went wide. Yusuf let fly, and the man dropped from the saddle, an arrow in his throat. Four more bandits rounded the corner in quick succession. John fired first, taking the lead rider out. Sa’ud’s arrow also found its target. Yusuf hurriedly nocked another arrow and let fly. The arrow lodged in the chest of the leading bandit’s horse, causing it to rear and throw its rider. The other bandit pulled up short as the injured horse — whinnying and eyes rolling — reared again and again, blocking the narrow path.

‘Come on!’ Yusuf yelled as he grabbed the mule’s lead rope and cantered away. Soon, he could again hear the rumbling of horses’ hooves, and then the shouts of the bandits as they closed in. An arrow whizzed past Yusuf’s ear and shattered on the rock face ahead of him. He looked back and saw that the nearest bandits were only a dozen yards behind him. As he watched, Sa’ud’s horse was shot beneath him, collapsing and sending Sa’ud tumbling. The pack mule brayed loudly as it took an arrow in the flank. It stumbled and fell.

‘The gold!’ Yusuf exclaimed as he pulled back on the reins.

‘Forget it!’ John shouted as he rode past.

Yusuf hesitated for a split second, then spurred after his friend. Arrows were whizzing all around him. One sank into the rump of John’s horse, which slowed immediately. Yusuf rode up alongside him. ‘Quick, get behind me!’ John grabbed Yusuf’s arm and swung himself on to Yusuf’s horse. ‘ Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf shouted as he urged the last bit of speed from his tired mount.

‘’Sblood!’ John grunted as an arrow slammed into his shoulder. Another grazed the flank of Yusuf’s horse, and it whinnied in pain. ‘They’re right on top of us!’ John yelled. ‘No, wait,’ he added a second later. ‘They’re falling back!’

Yusuf looked back, incredulous. But it was true: the bandits were slowing, letting them escape. Yusuf met John’s eyes and they both grinned. Then, as their horse rounded a corner, the grin fell from John’s face. ‘ Stop!’ he yelled, but it was too late.

The ground fell out from beneath them as they rode straight over the edge of a tall cliff. The horse tumbled head first down the steep, gravelly slope, sending both John and Yusuf flying. Yusuf hit the ground and went tumbling head over heels. To his left, he caught a glimpse of John lying flat on his stomach, his arms and legs extended as he slid down the face of the slope. Yusuf saw the sky flash by, then the floor of a valley far below rushing up to meet him, then the sky again. Next moment, his head slammed into a rock, and the world went black.

Yusuf awoke in a darkness so absolute that he could not see his hand in front of his face. He was stiff and shaking with cold. He stretched gingerly, flexing his arms and legs. He was covered in bruises and his head ached, but he did not appear have broken anything. He sat up and slammed his forehead into hard rock. He fell back, groaning.

‘ Quiet!’ John hissed, his hand clapping over Yusuf’s mouth. ‘They’ll hear you.’

Yusuf fell silent, and John removed his hand. ‘Where are we?’ Yusuf whispered.

‘In a cave,’ John replied, his voice so low that Yusuf could barely hear him. ‘I carried you here after we fell. The bandits searched for us and then returned to their camp. It is not far from here. Come and see.’ Yusuf felt John tug on his arm, and he crawled forward after him, groping his way over the rocky floor. The passage narrowed until Yusuf was forced to squirm forward with his head sideways and his cheek pressed against the cold stone. On the other side of the narrow passage, the cave grew brighter. Yusuf could see John ahead, his finger to his lips. Yusuf joined him at the mouth of the cave. They were thirty feet up a steep slope, looking out over a rocky ravine.

‘There,’ John whispered, pointing to the right, where flickering firelight danced on the ravine walls. ‘They are camped a hundred yards down the ravine. I think they are Franks; I overheard two of them speaking Latin.’

‘Franks?’ Yusuf looked at John. ‘You could have gone to them.’

John shrugged. ‘And leave you to die? You know me better than that, Brother.’

Yusuf placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Saving me was not the act of a slave, John. From this moment, you are free.’

John turned away. When he looked back, his eyes shone with tears. ‘Just my luck,’ he whispered, forcing a smile. ‘I gain my freedom just in time to die. We have one waterskin and no food. And with our guide dead, we have no idea how to get to Tell Bashir.’

‘Are the English all so grim?’ Yusuf said, clapping John on the back. ‘You are free, and we are alive. Allah has saved us from the bandits for a reason. He will guide us to Tell Bashir.’

‘How?’

‘The stars.’ Yusuf pointed to the heavens. ‘That is smiya, the north star. That means east is that way.’ He nodded across the ravine. ‘If we head east then we will meet the Sajur River, and it will lead us to Tell Bashir. The moon will set within the hour, and we will go then, under the cover of darkness. The further we are from those bandits come morning, the better.’

‘Christ’s blood,’ John cursed under his breath as he trudged forward, his chest heaving and his feet sore after jogging through the night. He stumbled to a stop as the fiery red sun rose above the horizon, and the first rays of sunlight hit him. Yusuf also stopped, and they looked about at the world now visible around them. They had left the hills behind and now stood on a rocky plain that stretched away as far as John could see in every direction. The landscape was empty save for the occasional twisted tree and scattered clusters of delicate, trumpet-shaped flowers, golden on the inside and pale pink on the outside.

‘We’ll be easy to spot out here,’ John said, keeping his voice low as if afraid to disturb the stillness around them.

Yusuf nodded. ‘We had best carry on.’

They walked towards the sun as it rose higher and higher, burning away the cool night air and baking the hard ground beneath their feet. Soon John’s tunic was soaked with sweat. They trudged on in silence, drinking from the waterskin when the hot desert air became too much to bear. In the afternoon, they stopped beside a stunted, gnarled tree that cast a tiny pool of shade. Yusuf took a swallow from the waterskin and then handed it to John. He tipped it back and a tiny mouthful of water ran out, then nothing. He tossed the skin aside. ‘We’re out of water.’ He gazed across the endless plain stretching out before them. The landscape wavered and shifted as heat rose from the ground. John licked his dry lips. ‘Maybe we should rest here.’

‘No, we cannot stop.’ Yusuf pointed to the ground behind them. Their footprints in the dust stretched away into the distance. ‘If the bandits decide to follow us, it will be easy enough.’

‘We won’t make it much further in this heat.’

‘We have no choice. We’ll stop when night falls. It will be harder to track us, then.’

They pushed on across the scorching desert. At first, John glanced back frequently, checking for signs of pursuit. He saw nothing, and after a few hours he ceased to care. His mouth grew so dry that he could not summon spit. His muscles burned and his thoughts slowed. He became dizzy, but he staggered on after Yusuf. Finally, the sun set behind them. Yusuf stopped. ‘That is far enough.’

Groaning with relief, John lay down and stared up at the sky. Yusuf joined him, and they lay there without speaking while the world darkened around them. The fading light took the heat with it, and the air grew chill. John began to shiver in his sweat-soaked clothes and curled up on his side. He and Yusuf huddled together, back to back, and John could feel Yusuf shaking with cold. They lay awake, too miserable to sleep.

‘Do you think we’ll reach the river tomorrow?’ John asked.

‘I-inshallah,’ Yusuf replied, teeth chattering. ‘We w-won’t make it through another day without water.’

Then John saw something in the dark — a pinprick of light. He sat up and squinted into the distance. ‘I see something. Look, there.’

‘A fire,’ Yusuf said as he sat up.

‘The bandits?’

‘Or Bedouin.’

‘They would have water,’ John said, pushing himself to his feet. He began to stumble towards the light.

‘John!’ Yusuf called. ‘If it is the bandits, then you are walking to your death.’

John turned to face Yusuf. ‘What does it matter? Like you said, we’ll die anyway without water.’

‘You are right,’ Yusuf said and rose. ‘Let us go to meet our fate.’

Yusuf stood just beyond the reach of the firelight and peered into the camp. The flickering light played on the dark wool of three tents — large, rectangular structures with peaked roofs, which had been erected in a row to the right of the fire. The shadowy forms of camels were just visible in the darkness beyond the camp, and from behind them came the bleating of sheep. A piece of meat roasted over the fire, unattended. There was no movement anywhere.

‘Are they Bedouin?’ John whispered, leaning close to Yusuf.

Yusuf nodded. ‘But something is wrong. Someone should be tending the fire.’ He put his hand to his sword hilt and took a step forward into the ring of firelight.

‘Waqqif!’ a deep voice called from the darkness behind them — stop. Yusuf spun around to see four Bedouin step out of the night with bows drawn. A fifth man stepped past them, leaning on a long staff. As he approached, the fire lit his face which was leathery and tan, with a long, greying beard.

‘Who are you?’ the old man demanded in a gravelly voice.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, sheikh. I am Yusuf ibn Ayub, emir of Tell Bashir.’

One of the archers laughed at this. He was tall with a short, black beard and teeth that flashed white in the night. ‘You are far from your citadel, emir.’

The old man waved for him to be quiet. ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ he said to Yusuf. ‘I am Sabir ibn Taqqi, sheikh of this goum.’ A goum was several related families, living together. ‘And who is this?’ Sabir pointed to John.

‘My servant.’

‘What brings you to our camp?’

‘We were attacked by Frankish bandits. We have wandered far on foot. We need water and have come to beg your hospitality.’

Sabir looked into Yusuf’s eyes, and Yusuf returned his gaze. After a moment the old man nodded. ‘You are welcome in my tent.’ He raised his voice. ‘Wife! Prepare food for our guests.’ A veiled woman stepped out of one of the tents and began to turn the spit of roasting meat.

The archers surrounding Yusuf shouldered their bows, and Sabir led the way towards the fire. ‘Sit and warm yourselves,’ he said, gesturing to a wool mat that had been laid out beside the fire. Yusuf and John sat, and the other Bedouin men joined them around the fire. ‘Drink.’

One of the women handed Yusuf a waterskin. The cool water stung his cracked, dry lips, but he did not care. He took a long drink, then handed the skin to John. ‘Shukran,’ he said to Sabir, thanking his host.

Sabir nodded. ‘This is my brother, Shaad,’ he said, gesturing to the heavy-set man seated across from Yusuf. ‘And this is my cousin, Saqr, his son Makin, and my own son, Umar.’ Umar was the tall archer with the white teeth. In better light, Yusuf saw that he was a handsome man, with lean features and a prominent nose. He was fingering his dagger as he eyed John.

Suddenly Umar rose to his feet, dagger drawn. He stepped around the fire and tore the waterskin from John’s hands, tossing it to the side. ‘He has blue eyes,’ he growled. ‘He is a Frank!’ Umar grabbed the front of John’s tunic and held the dagger close to his face.

Yusuf sprang to his feet, his hand on his sword hilt. ‘If you kill him, then you will die,’ he said quietly.

‘Put your dagger away, Umar!’ Sabir barked.

‘But he is one of them!’ Umar protested.

‘He is our guest. It would shame us to do him harm.’

Umar released John and stepped back, shaking his head. ‘There would be no shame in it. I recognize him. He is one of the Franks who attacked us.’

‘Forgive my son,’ Sabir said as he pushed himself to his feet, leaning on his staff. ‘We were attacked by Frankish raiders two days ago. They killed Umar’s wife.’

‘You did it!’ Umar spat, pointing his dagger at John.

‘My servant had nothing to do with this,’ Yusuf said. ‘Those same Franks attacked us. They killed ten of my men.’

‘You lie!’ Umar snarled.

‘Silence!’ Sabir roared. He examined John for a moment, then turned to Yusuf. ‘You swear that this man is your servant, that he had nothing to do with the Franks who attacked us?’

Yusuf nodded. ‘By Allah, I swear it.’

‘You would accept the word of this stranger over that of your own son?’ Umar demanded, red-faced. ‘I tell you: I saw this ifranji kill my wife. He must die!’

Sabir looked from his son to John, and then back to Yusuf. ‘There is only one way to prove that what you say is true, young emir. You will undergo the bisha’a.’

The blood drained from Yusuf’s face, leaving him pale, but he nodded. ‘I will.’

‘Then let it be done.’ Sabir drew a dagger from his belt and crouched down beside the fire. He plunged the dagger’s blade into the glowing coals. Women and children came out of the tents and gathered around the fire.

John stepped close to Yusuf. ‘What is going on?’

‘Bisha’a is a trial by fire, an old Bedouin ritual. I will lick the hot blade of the dagger three times. Then the sheikh will examine me. If my tongue is burned, I lie. If it is not, then I tell the truth.’

‘But that is ridiculous!’

‘It is their way,’ Yusuf said and turned back to face the fire.

Umar crouched down with a wet cloth in hand, and pulled the dagger from the fire. ‘The blade is ready!’ he declared, holding it up for all to see. The dagger’s blade glowed red against the night sky.

Umar handed the dagger to Sabir, who brought it to Yusuf. The rest of the tribe pressed close as Sabir held the dagger out before Yusuf’s face. Yusuf could feel the heat radiating from the blade. ‘Now,’ Sabir commanded.

‘Allah protect me,’ Yusuf whispered under his breath. He extended his tongue and pressed it briefly to the glowing blade. The searing pain was excruciating. He thought he could already feel his tongue beginning to blister, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to show no sign of his agony. If he showed pain, it would be clear his tongue was burned. John would die.

‘Again,’ Sabir told him.

Yusuf licked the blade a second time. It felt as if a hundred angry wasps were in his mouth, stinging at his tongue. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. He dug his fingernails into his palms. Yusuf met the eyes of Umar, who was watching him closely, and forced himself to smile. Then, before Sabir even prompted, he licked the blade a final time. He could taste blood in his mouth now and felt himself grow faint. Sabir took his arm, steadying him.

‘Bring him water!’ Sabir shouted.

A woman presented a cup, and Yusuf drank. The cold water only worsened the ache in his tongue. He drained the cup and forced a smile. ‘Shukran,’ he said to the woman who had given him the water.

Umar pressed forward. ‘Examine him, Father. Let us see if he tells the truth.’

Sabir nodded. ‘Back!’ he shouted to the crowd. They retreated several feet, opening up a space around Yusuf and Sabir. Sabir turned to Yusuf. ‘Open.’

‘I do not lie,’ Yusuf whispered to him, then opened his mouth.

Sabir peered inside for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. ‘He speaks the truth!’

‘Impossible!’ Umar protested, rushing forward.

‘I have made my judgement, Son. Yusuf speaks the truth. You will apologize to him.’

Jaw clenched, Umar bowed slightly to Yusuf. ‘Forgive me my error,’ he spat, then turned and strode away into the darkness beyond the firelight.

‘Forgive him,’ Sabir said. ‘The death of his wife has unbalanced him. Now come to my tent. You need food and water.’

Yusuf began to follow Sabir, when John grabbed his arm. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered in Frankish. ‘How did it not burn you?’

‘It did,’ Yusuf replied.

John looked to Sabir, who was standing at the entrance to his tent, beckoning for them to follow. ‘Then why did he lie?’

‘He is a wise man. He knew I told the truth.’

‘Wake up! Wake up!’

John opened his eyes to see Sabir crouched over Yusuf, shaking his arm. The tent flap was open and morning sunlight streamed inside. ‘What is it?’ Yusuf mumbled, his burned and swollen tongue making it painful for him to speak.

‘The Frankish bandits have followed you. You must go quickly. If they find you here, then we will suffer.’

Yusuf rose immediately. ‘I understand.’

John and Yusuf followed Sabir outside. He pointed to the horizon, where a plume of dust rose high above the desert floor. ‘There. They are only a few miles off.’ He handed them each a full waterskin. ‘Take these and head east.’ He pointed in the opposite direction of the Franks, to where John could just make out a line of low hills on the horizon. ‘The Sajur River is just over those hills. Once you reach it, Tell Bashir is not far. If you move fast, you may make it.’

‘Thank you, sheikh,’ Yusuf told him. ‘You have saved our lives.’

‘Not if you do not hurry. Go!’

Yusuf kissed Sabir on both cheeks, then slung the waterskin over his shoulder and loped out of camp. John joined him, jogging at his side. ‘The Franks already have our gold. Why would they follow us?’ John huffed between breaths.

‘Perhaps it is not our gold that they are after.’

‘What then?’

‘Me. If they know who I am, then they know my father will pay for my ransom.’

John glanced back at the cloud of dust. It already seemed much closer. ‘Then we had best hurry,’ he said and picked up the pace.

They ran on in silence, conserving their breath. John’s legs burned with fatigue after the previous day’s march across the desert, and painful blisters had formed on his heels. He gritted his teeth and pressed on. The sun rose from behind the hills ahead, and John was soon soaked in sweat. When they finally reached the shade cast by the hills, they stopped to drink. As he tilted back his waterskin, John looked back to the cloud of dust thrown up by their pursuers.

‘’Sblood,’ he cursed. ‘They’re close.’

‘Only a few miles back,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘And closing fast.’ He placed the stopper back in his waterskin. ‘Come on.’

To save time, they avoided the twisting paths that ran at the base of the hills and headed straight east, slogging up and down hill after hill. Sweat ran down John’s face, stinging his eyes, and his muscles screamed with agony. But he forced himself to keep going, trudging up the face of the hill before him. Yusuf ran ahead, seemingly tireless. He was already halfway up the next hill, and when he reached the top, he let out a whoop of joy. John staggered up after him and stood bent over, hands on his knees. ‘Thank God,’ he managed between breaths.

Before them, the hill sloped down towards carefully tended fields that ran up to the edge of a broad river, its slow-moving waters sparkling silver. A road alongside the river snaked to the north, and there, rising high above the valley on a lone hill, was the fortress of Tell Bashir, with the houses of the town scattered around it. It was no more than a mile off.

Yusuf clapped John on the back. ‘We made it!’

‘Not yet.’ John pointed behind them. The dust from the hooves of the bandits’ horses was rising up from the hills just behind them.

‘We’ll have to run,’ Yusuf said. ‘Are you up to it?’ John grimaced, but nodded. ‘Come on, then!’ Yusuf sprinted down the hill, and John followed.

They reached the bottom of the slope and tore across a field of saffron, leaving a haze of yellow pollen hanging in the air behind them. They crashed through a spinach patch and out on to the road. Despite his burning lungs, John kept going, straining to keep up with Yusuf. As they raced down the road, the fortress loomed closer and closer. It was of Roman construction, its thick walls showing bands of red brick separated by a mixture of concrete and rough stone. John could see three soldiers standing above the gatehouse, bows in hand.

As they passed the first house on the outskirts of town, John began to slow. ‘We’re almost there!’ Yusuf called back in encouragement, but John could go no further. He stumbled to a stop, bent over and vomited. Looking back, he saw the Frankish bandits sitting astride their horses atop the distant hills. The bandits thundered down the hill after them. With a groan, John straightened and ran on, stumbling down the main street. Houses were built close on either side, but nobody was out. The doors were all closed and the windows shuttered.

They reached the hill on which the fortress sat and John gritted his teeth, forcing himself up the sloping road after Yusuf. The two staggered to a stop before the closed gate and John fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Behind him, the bandits were galloping along the road towards them. They would reach the fortress in minutes.

Yusuf pounded on the closed gate. ‘Open up! Open the gate!’

A grill slid open, revealing a man’s face. His square jaw was clean-shaven, indicating that he was a mamluk, and he had dark, penetrating eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am Yusuf ibn Ayub. I have been sent by Nur ad-Din to take command of this fortress. Open the gate.’

The man frowned. ‘And why should I do that?’

‘I told you!’ Yusuf shouted, exasperated. ‘I have been sent by Nur ad-Din. I am your lord, and I command you to open the gate!’ While Yusuf shouted, John glanced behind them. The bandits had now reached the outskirts of the town.

‘Gumushtagin is my lord,’ the man behind the gate replied. ‘He commanded me to hold this fort until the Seljuks arrive. They are bringing us a fortune in gold.’ He eyed Yusuf’s ragged clothing. ‘What do you bring?’

Yusuf’s face was beginning to turn red, and John could tell he was on the point of exploding in anger. John placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘We cannot afford to anger him.’ He glanced back to the bandits, who were only two hundred yards away.

Yusuf nodded. ‘What is your name, mamluk?’ he asked in a more even voice.

‘Baha’ ad-Din Qaraqush.’

‘I bring only myself, Qaraqush, but that is enough to make you rich.’

Qaraqush laughed. ‘You are only a child.’

Yusuf’s jaw clenched, but his voice remained calm. ‘You are right. I am a child. I am no threat to you and your men. I humbly request your hospitality. Please let us into the citadel.’ Qaraqush’s brow creased, and he hesitated. To deny a traveller hospitality was a terrible breach of honour, and Yusuf in his dirty, torn tunic certainly did not look threatening. ‘Please, man,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘We have walked for miles through the desert. I am tired, hungry and in no mood to argue. All I ask is shelter, food and drink. We will leave in the morning.’ Qaraqush examined Yusuf for a moment longer, then the grill slammed shut.

‘’Sblood!’ John cursed. The Frankish bandits were racing up the main street, bows in hand. One let fly, and an arrow hit the gate next to John with a thud. Then the gate behind them creaked open, just enough for Yusuf and John to slip through. They hurried inside, and the gate slammed shut behind them.

Qaraqush stood before them. He was short but powerfully built, with a thick neck and arms. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to Tell Bashir.’