Eagle

Chapter 11

NOVEMBER 1152: TELL BASHIR

Yusuf sat on the dirt floor of the small cell, his knees drawn up to his chest in an attempt to ward off the evening chill. John was slumped against the opposite wall, his head hanging between his knees, his blond hair lit by a stream of light slanting in through the barred window. As soon as they had been admitted to the citadel, they had been marched to this cell. They had seen no one since.

John raised his head. ‘What do you think they will do with us?’

‘They will not kill us,’ Yusuf replied, ‘not after inviting us in. That would shame them.’

‘What then?’

Yusuf shrugged. ‘I do not know.’ There was the rasp of metal on metal as the door’s bolt slid back, and he got to his feet. The cell door swung open to reveal four mamluk soldiers in chainmail. One of them, a slender young man with a shaved head, stepped inside and held out his hand. ‘Your weapons.’ Yusuf hesitated. ‘They will be returned to you,’ the mamluk promised. Yusuf handed over his weapons, and John did the same. The young mamluk tucked Yusuf’s sheathed sword and dagger into his belt and handed John’s sword to one of the other men. ‘Come with us,’ he said. ‘Qaraqush requests your presence at dinner.’

Yusuf and John followed the young mamluk out of the cell, and the other guards fell in behind them. They crossed the courtyard to the citadel’s keep, a thick-walled, three-storey building. They stepped through the arched doorway and into a dimly lit entrance chamber. A staircase opposite led to the next floor. Yusuf and John headed for it, but one of the mamluks grabbed John’s arm, stopping him.

‘Your slave will eat in the kitchen,’ the soldier said, gesturing to a door to the right.

‘He is not a slave,’ Yusuf replied.

‘He is a Frank,’ the bald mamluk spat.

Yusuf’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but John put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is all right, Yusuf. Go ahead. I will be fine.’

‘Very well,’ Yusuf grumbled. The guards led John away, and Yusuf followed the young mamluk up the stairs and into a thickly carpeted room, well lit with candlelight. Opposite the door, Qaraqush sat on a cushion before a low table. He was dressed simply in a tunic of white cotton. He extended his hand, indicating that Yusuf should sit on the cushion opposite him.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Yusuf said as he sat. ‘You saved my life today. I am in your debt.’

Qaraqush waved away his thanks. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessing of Allah be upon him, commands us to welcome friend and enemy alike with open arms.’

‘I hope you shall count me as a friend.’

Qaraqush frowned. He clapped his hands, and two servants entered carrying bowls of hot water and towels. When Yusuf had washed his hands, more servants entered, and a bowl of steaming lamb stew, a plate of fresh flatbread, and a dish of cool cucumber yoghurt were placed on the low table before Yusuf. His stomach rumbled loudly.

‘You are hungry,’ Qaraqush said. ‘Eat.’

Yusuf eagerly tore off a piece of the soft flatbread and scooped up some of the lamb stew. ‘In the name of Allah,’ he murmured and ate, closing his eyes to savour the taste. He tore off another piece of bread.

‘Eat well,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘Tomorrow morning you leave.’

Yusuf lowered the bread. ‘You know that if you send us away, we will die. The Frankish raiders are waiting for us.’

‘That is no concern of mine.’

‘On the contrary. You know of my uncle, Shirkuh?’

Qaraqush’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Shirkuh?’ His eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf more closely. ‘Of course I know of him. He is Nur ad-Din’s greatest general.’

Yusuf met Qaraqush’s eyes. ‘If I am killed, my uncle will not rest until he sees you dead.’

Qaraqush thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I am afraid you are wrong. Why should Shirkuh seek vengeance against me, when it is Frankish bandits who will have killed you?’

‘I see,’ Yusuf murmured.

‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but it seems we are not destined to be friends. Tomorrow you will leave. What happens after that is in Allah’s hands.’ Qaraqush clapped, and servants entered with the next course.

Yusuf had lost his appetite, and he ate little for the remainder of the meal. Qaraqush was content to dine in silence. When the last course had been consumed, he bid Yusuf farewell. ‘Ma’a as-salaama, Yusuf. The guards will show you out.’

The door opened and the bald mamluk guard entered. Yusuf rose to leave, but then stopped at the door. ‘Wait,’ he said, turning back to face Qaraqush. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

‘A proposition?’

‘A challenge: I will fight your strongest man in hand-to-hand combat. If I win, we stay.’

‘You against my strongest man?’ Qaraqush chuckled. ‘You are brave, Yusuf, but you are little more than a boy.’

‘Then you should have no fear of my winning.’

‘ Hmph,’ Qaraqush snorted. ‘And why should I accept your challenge? What do I have to gain?’

‘My dagger.’ Yusuf gestured to the weapon tucked into the bald mamluk’s belt. ‘The man who defeats me will have it. And you, Qaraqush, shall have my sword.’

Qaraqush beckoned to the guard, who handed the two weapons over. Qaraqush took the dagger — the one that Shirkuh had given Yusuf — and whistled in appreciation as he fingered the eagle intricately carved into the hilt. Then he drew the sword and ran his finger along its curving blade. ‘Damascus steel,’ he noted. ‘A fine piece of craftsmanship.’ He sheathed the blade and smiled. ‘I like you, boy. You have spirit. I accept your challenge, but your victory will not win your Frank’s freedom.’

‘John is my friend,’ Yusuf protested. ‘I will not leave without him.’

‘Then he shall have to fight for himself. My men will enjoy watching him beaten.’

‘I am sure,’ Yusuf said, a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘I accept.’

‘Then we have a deal.’ The two men clasped shoulders and kissed one another’s cheeks to seal the agreement. ‘But even if you win, you will only be postponing the inevitable,’ Qaraqush warned Yusuf. ‘The Seljuk Sultan’s men will arrive in two weeks. My lord, Gumushtagin, has ordered me to turn the citadel over to them, and you will go with it. The sultan will pay good money for the nephew of Shirkuh, and I fear he will not treat you as generously as I have.’

‘You will not turn the fortress over to the sultan.’

‘No?’ Qaraqush’s eyebrows rose. ‘And why is that?’

‘Gumushtagin is no longer your lord. I am. Nur ad-Din has decreed it.’

‘Yes, but Nur ad-Din is far away, and the Seljuk Sultan is paying us well for Tell Bashir — one thousand dinars.’

Yusuf looked Qaraqush in the eyes. ‘I will give you two thousand.’

‘And where will you find two thousand dinars?’ Qaraqush scoffed.

‘That is my concern, but I promise: you will have your money.’

Qaraqush frowned. ‘I think you lie.’

‘I do not expect you to believe me. But you have nothing to lose. If I am defeated by your champion tomorrow, then you will be rid of me. If I win, then you can hold me hostage until the sultan’s men arrive. If I do not get you the money before then, you can sell me to the sultan. But if I do succeed, then you will swear loyalty to me and to Nur ad-Din.’

Qaraqush grinned. ‘You are a bold one, Yusuf. You will make a great leader, if you do not die first.’ He placed his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘If you defeat my champion and find the money, then I will gladly swear loyalty to you.’

‘I have one more condition,’ Yusuf warned. ‘Until the sultan’s men arrive, you and your men must do as I say. I will be in command here, as Nur ad-Din has decreed.’

Qaraqush burst out laughing, his head tilted back and his shoulders shaking. ‘By Allah, you are brash. First win your fight. Then we shall see.’

‘Wake up!’ John jerked awake to find Yusuf shaking his shoulder. It was morning, and pale sunlight streamed through the cell window. John sat up. He could hear dozens of voices outside. Occasional snatches of conversation floated through the window. ‘The little one won’t last one minute-’ ‘The Frank either-’ ‘Al-Mashtub will fight. I saw him kill a man with one blow-’

‘They started gathering after morning prayers,’ Yusuf said. He smiled. ‘One minute? They’re in for a surprise.’

John shook his head. ‘Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Remember what I taught you.’

Outside, the crowd began to roar, and a moment later, John heard the rasp of the door’s bolt. The door swung open, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. A mamluk stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light.

‘Come,’ the guard said. ‘It is time.’

John followed Yusuf out of the cell. The courtyard was crowded with dozens of mamluks, who stepped aside to create a narrow path. As John passed, they leaned close, spitting insults: ‘Frankish bastard!’ ‘Son of a donkey!’ ‘Male whore!’ ‘Your mother is a slut!’ John thought back to Acre, when, newly arrived in the Holy Land, he had fought the Saracen prisoner. Now he was the one being led to the slaughter. John shook the thought from his head. He would not die in this god-forsaken frontier town, not if he could help it. He walked on stone-faced, following Yusuf into an impromptu ring that had been marked off in the dust of the fortress courtyard.

Qaraqush was waiting for them in the centre of the ring. He pointed to John. ‘You first.’

John stripped off his tunic so that he wore only his breeches. ‘Remember,’ Yusuf told him, ‘fight to the end. If you lose, you die.’ John nodded. Yusuf clasped his arm. ‘Good luck. Allah yasalmak.’ God keep you safe. Yusuf stepped back to the edge of the ring, and John turned to await his opponent.

‘Nazam!’ Qaraqush called.

The crowd cheered as the young, bald-headed guard from the night before stepped forward. He had already stripped to his waist, and his well-defined stomach and chest glistened with oil. That would make it hard for John to grab hold of him. John could hear men in the crowd placing bets over how long the fight would last. Then Yusuf shouted, ‘I’ll take the Frank to win! I will take all comers!’ He was immediately crowded about by mamluks.

Qaraqush chuckled and turned to John. ‘What is your name?’

‘John.’

The mamluk commander frowned at the foreign-sounding name. He turned and gestured to John’s opponent. ‘I present to you Nazam!’ he roared to the crowd. ‘Our fiercest warrior, he has already killed six Franks. Today, he fights another: Juwan. They will fight until one of them is unconscious, or dead.’ Qaraqush stepped out of the circle. ‘Fight!’

Nazam circled left, his movement smooth and assured. John shadowed him, keeping the ring between them. The crowd was close behind him, yelling insults. Someone shoved John in the back, and he stumbled into the centre of the ring. Nazam attacked immediately, stepping forward and levelling a straight right at John’s chin. John ducked the blow and slammed his shoulder into Nazam’s gut. He tried to wrestle the mamluk to the ground but slid off his oiled skin. Nazam spun away and moved to the far side of the ring.

John turned to face him, careful now to keep distance between himself and the crowd. He edged towards Nazam. Suddenly the mamluk sprang forward and snapped off two quick jabs. John stumbled back, his right eye already swelling. Nazam grinned, and the crowd roared, calling for him to finish the Frank. Nazam pressed the attack, delivering another left jab that caught John on the chin. The mamluk put all his weight behind a straight right, but this time John knocked the blow aside with his left arm. He stepped inside Nazam’s reach and threw a vicious uppercut that caught the mamluk in the jaw, snapping his head back. Nazam stood unsteadily, blood running down his chin from where he had bitten his tongue. Then his knees buckled and he collapsed. The crowd fell silent.

John rolled Nazam over and knelt on his chest. He raised his fist threateningly, but Nazam did not respond. He was already unconscious. John rose. The mamluk warriors around him were looking on wide-eyed. Qaraqush entered the ring, his brow knit. Then he grabbed John’s right wrist and raised his arm high. ‘The winner!’ he shouted. Several of the men spat. John walked over to Yusuf amidst silence.

‘You just made us ten dinars,’ Yusuf told him, sliding a handful of coins into a pouch and handing it to John.

‘Be careful out there,’ John replied. ‘My opponent was over-confident. Whoever you fight, he’ll be ready for you.’ Yusuf nodded and pulled off his tunic. He was thin, his ribs showing clearly, but John knew that he was stronger than he looked. ‘Allah yasalmak,’ John called as Yusuf stepped into the ring.

‘Al-Mashtub!’ Qaraqush yelled. ‘You’re next.’

The crowd parted, and a bear of a man stepped forward. He was easily a foot taller than Yusuf and perhaps twice as heavy. He had thickly muscled shoulders, a barrel chest, and his biceps were thicker than Yusuf’s thighs. The giant grinned when he saw Yusuf, revealing a broad gap between his front teeth.

‘Mary, Mother of Jesus,’ John whispered.

‘You said you wanted to face my best man,’ Qaraqush told Yusuf. ‘Allah save you.’ He stepped out of the ring. ‘Fight!’

The crowd roared. Al-Mashtub raised his huge fists — like twin mallets — and headed straight across the ring. Yusuf began to circle away, and Al-Mashtub charged, moving surprisingly quickly for his size. Yusuf just managed to jump aside, and the huge man went barrelling into the crowd, bowling over three men.

Yusuf waited in the centre of the ring while Al-Mashtub turned and lumbered back into the circle. The huge mamluk advanced more slowly this time. Yusuf tried to circle away, but Al-Mashtub shadowed him, keeping the smaller man in front of him. Yusuf was running out of space, and Al-Mashtub was almost on top of him.

‘Move!’ John shouted. ‘Don’t let him get a hold of you!’

Yusuf stepped forward and snapped off a jab, catching Al-Mashtub in the chin. Al-Mashtub swung, but Yusuf ducked and got off two more quick blows to his gut. It looked like he had punched the side of an ox. Al-Mashtub did not even wince. He tried to grab Yusuf, but the smaller man ducked away and sprinted past him.

‘He’s a slippery bastard,’ the mamluk to John’s right spat as he handed a few coppers to the next man along. ‘I was certain that runt wouldn’t last a minute.’

Al-Mashtub moved in again, and Yusuf hit him with a quick combination — two left jabs to the chin and a right to the gut — before dancing away. The giant mamluk’s lower lip was split and bleeding, but he kept bulling his way in, trying to get a hold of Yusuf. Yusuf continued jabbing and slipping away. As the fight wore on, John noticed that some in the crowed had started to cheer for Yusuf.

Al-Mashtub closed again, swinging in a wide arc for Yusuf’s head. Yusuf ducked the blow and delivered an uppercut to the chin, then two quick blows to the gut. ‘Get out!’ John yelled, but it was too late. Yusuf stayed in close to deliver another right to the head. Al-Mashtub caught the blow in his huge hand. He jerked the smaller man towards him and then locked his arms behind Yusuf’s back, hugging him to his chest and lifting him off the ground.

Yusuf’s arms were pinned to his side, and he struggled in vain to break his opponent’s grip. He kneed Al-Mashtub in the groin, and although the huge man’s eyes widened, he did not release Yusuf. Yusuf smashed his forehead into Al-Mashtub’s face, splattering blood as he crushed the giant man’s nose. Al-Mashtub grinned despite the blood running down his face, and he squeezed Yusuf tighter, forcing the air from him. Yusuf’s face shaded scarlet, then purple. He tried to head-butt Al-Mashtub again, but this time the mamluk pulled his head back out of the way. Yusuf thrashed wildly, desperate to escape. The veins on his forehead and neck bulged as he gasped for air.

Then Yusuf went still. Al-Mashtub grinned in triumph. Suddenly Yusuf opened his mouth wide and sank his teeth into the mamluk’s thick neck. Al-Mashtub tried to jerk away, but Yusuf did not let go. Blood ran down the huge man’s neck, and he roared out in pain. He released Yusuf and began trying to push him away. But Yusuf clung to him. When Al-Mashtub finally managed to throw Yusuf off, the boy fell back with a piece of flesh in his mouth. Al-Mashtub stood wide-eyed in the centre of the ring, his hand to the ragged wound in his neck, blood oozing between his fingers.

The crowd had fallen silent. Yusuf stood and spit out the piece of flesh. He snarled, showing teeth stained red with blood. Then he clenched his fists and went on the attack, pounding four quick blows into Al-Mashtub’s stomach. Al-Mashtub swung at Yusuf’s head, but he ducked the blow and threw a wicked uppercut, followed by two more straight rights to the head. He skipped back out of the way at the last second, avoiding another wild punch from the mamluk.

Al-Mashtub was staggering now, covered in his own blood. In one last effort, he roared and charged. Yusuf was ready. He jumped aside and punched Al-Mashtub hard in one of his kidneys. With a cry of pain, the huge man fell to his knees, and Yusuf sprang on him from behind, wrapping his arms around his opponent’s throat. Al-Mashtub pawed feebly at Yusuf’s arms, but he was too battered and weak to put up much of a fight. His lips tinged blue and his eyes bulged. Then the huge man collapsed, unconscious. Yusuf rose and stood unsteadily, his chest heaving.

John stepped forward and put his arm around Yusuf to keep him from falling. ‘I can’t believe you bit him. I have never seen you fight like that.’

‘I did what I had to do to win.’

Qaraqush stepped into the ring. ‘By the prophet, I can’t believe it,’ he murmured as he took Yusuf’s hand and raised it. ‘The winner!’

As the crowd of mamluks cheered, Qaraqush turned towards Yusuf. ‘You’re a tough one, all right, Yusuf. Nur ad-Din was no fool when he sent you here. I will follow you, at least until the Seljuk Sultan’s men arrive.’ There were murmurs of approval from the crowed. ‘What is your first command?’

Yusuf gestured to Al-Mashtub. ‘Bring a doctor for your man and see that he is looked after.’ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and it came away streaked with blood. ‘I need a drink. I command you all to the tavern.’ He took the pouch with his winnings back from John and held it up. ‘I’m paying.’

Qaraqush slammed a cup down in front of Yusuf and filled it with wine from a clay jug. He slapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Drink your fill!’

Yusuf raised the cup and peered at the murky, red contents. He had never tasted alcohol; it was forbidden by the Prophet. The moment he drank it, he would be unclean. Yusuf’s grip tightened around the cup. He could hear Shirkuh’s final words to him: if he wanted to lead his men, then he first had to be one of them. Yusuf tilted his head back and drained the cup of wine, grimacing at the bitter taste. The men cheered and emptied their cups. They began to pound the long table with their fists. ‘More! More! More!’

‘Another cup for our brave commander,’ Qaraqush roared as he refilled Yusuf’s cup, splashing wine on the table in the process. Yusuf took a deep breath and drank it. The taste was not so horrible this time. Perhaps alcohol was not as bad as he had feared.

An hour later, as he slammed down yet another drained cup, Yusuf felt the world spin around him. He began to slip off the bench, but Qaraqush reached out and held him upright. ‘More!’ the men roared. Yusuf fumbled in the pouch at his belt and pulled out his last two dinars. He tossed one of them on the table. ‘Another round!’ he shouted. The men cheered, and the tavern keeper — a pot-bellied, smiling man named Zarif — brought more jugs of wine to the table. He set one down before Yusuf.

John came forward from his place in the corner and whispered in Yusuf’s ear. ‘I think you have had enough.’

‘Nonsense.’ Yusuf stood, gripping the table to steady himself, and held his cup high. ‘To my new men, the brave warriors of Tell Bashir. I shall lead you to riches and glory.’ The men roared their approval and pounded on the table. ‘From Tell Bashir, we shall conquer Damascus, Cairo-’

‘Jerusalem!’ one of the men suggested with a laugh.

‘Jerusalem!’ Yusuf agreed. ‘I shall be king, and I shall make you all lords.’ More pounding. ‘To glory!’

‘To glory!’ the men chorused.

Yusuf drained his cup and sat down with a thud, almost falling backwards off the bench. His stomach grumbled ominously as he straightened. ‘I do not feel well,’ he murmured.

Qaraqush clapped him on the back. ‘Nothing a woman cannot cure. Zarif! Let us have entertainment!’

‘Of course, ya sidi.’ Zarif clapped his hands. ‘Dancers!’

Yusuf heard the sound of tambourines and turned his attention to a beaded curtain at the far end of the room. A tall, lithe Frankish woman emerged, a tambourine held high over her head. ‘Faridah,’ Qaraqush whispered. She had long auburn hair and creamy-white skin. Her large breasts and narrow hips were covered by strings of shining copper discs that showed flashes of curly pubic hair and pink nipples. A brilliant jewel hung from her gyrating belly-button. She was veiled, but her eyes were visible — bright green and highlighted with kohl. They locked immediately upon Yusuf.

Three more women followed, beauties all, but Yusuf could not take his eyes from Faridah. She slowly crossed the room, her hips swaying in time to the beat of her tambourine as she weaved between the crowded tables. She came tantalizingly close to some of the men, but when they reached out to grab her, she spun away and continued dancing. And always, her eyes came back to Yusuf.

‘She’s got her eye on you, boy,’ Qaraqush winked.

Faridah reached Yusuf’s table, and he turned to watch her. She stopped before him, her hips still rotating, the tambourine held high as she slowly turned. Qaraqush reached out to grab one of her perfectly shaped buttocks, and she slapped his hand away. She turned back to face Yusuf, placing a hand on his shoulder and sitting on his lap so that her breasts were only inches from his face.

Yusuf flushed as Faridah’s eyes moved to the prominent bulge in his breeches. She leaned close and breathed in his ear, ‘Come.’ Then, she took his hand and led him from the table.

‘Lucky bastard,’ Qaraqush grumbled.

The rest of the men cheered as Yusuf followed Faridah through the curtain of beads and up a dark stairwell. He stumbled after her into a small room, where a single candle cast a flickering light over a wide bed. Faridah closed the door behind Yusuf and turned to face him. He did not move. He had no idea what to do next. She stepped close and pulled his tunic over his head. His breathing quickened as she proceeded to unlace his breeches. She gestured to the bed, and he sat. Faridah knelt before him and removed his boots. Then she took hold of his breeches and pulled them off. Her eyes widened when she saw his fully erect zib. Yusuf felt the room spin around him as the blood pounded in his temples.

Faridah stepped back and untied the string that held the dangling copper disks in place around her chest. It dropped to the floor, revealing her firm breasts. She untied the string around her waist and then removed her veil last of all. She was striking, her lips full and her cheeks soft curves. Her eyes had the faintest hint of wrinkles at the corners. She was older than Yusuf had expected, perhaps thirty.

She sat beside him. Yusuf’s hand trembled as she took it and placed it on her warm, soft breast. She met his eyes. ‘This is your first time?’ He nodded, and she smiled. She gently pushed him back down on the bed and straddled him. She bent forward, and Yusuf gasped as she kissed his neck, her tongue flicking over his skin. He reached out tentatively and ran his hand down her side.

Faridah moved down, kissing his chest, his stomach. Yusuf closed his eyes, dizzy with pleasure and wine. Then there was an ominous grumbling from his stomach. Faridah pulled back as Yusuf rolled over and vomited over the side of the bed.

‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled as he rose and hurriedly dressed, pulling on his leather breeches and tunic without even bothering to tie them.

Faridah remained on the bed. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘You do not have to go,’ she said softly. Yusuf nodded and sat, his head in his hands. Faridah rubbed his back. ‘You are not used to drink?’

‘It is my first time,’ Yusuf said without looking up.

‘You are celebrating something?’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I am trying to earn my men’s trust, to show that I am one of them.’

‘You will do so with deeds better than with drink,’ Faridah advised.

‘What do you know of such things?’ Yusuf snapped, pulling away and standing. ‘You are only a whore.’ He moved to leave.

‘A whore yes, but not a fool. I know more than you would imagine. I know why the Franks are waiting for you outside town. I know why they want you dead.’

Yusuf froze, his hand on the door handle. He turned to face her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The leader of the Franks sometimes sends a local man to fetch me to him. He has promised to buy me after you are dead. He said that before Gumushtagin left for Bizaa, he promised one thousand dinars for your head. The Franks wait for you even now in the hills beyond town. If you leave, you die.’

‘Gumushtagin,’ Yusuf whispered. He looked to Faridah. ‘Why tell me this? You are a Frank.’

‘I was, once, but that was long ago.’

Yusuf took the last dinar from his purse and held it out to her. ‘Thank you.’

She shook her head. ‘I have not earned it.’

‘Please, take it.’ Yusuf tossed the coin on the bed.

‘No, my lord, keep your money.’

‘I wish to give you something,’ Yusuf insisted.

Faridah took the coin and rose. She pressed herself against him, wrapping one arm around his waist while with the other she dropped the coin back in the pouch at his belt. ‘Send for me soon,’ she whispered. ‘You can pay me then.’

Yusuf nodded. He picked up his boots and left the room, stumbling down the stairs. As he passed through the beaded curtain, the men cheered.

‘Wake up.’ Yusuf cracked open a bloodshot eye to see John standing over him. Outside, the muezzin was loudly calling the faithful to prayer. Yusuf grimaced as he put his hands over his ears. ‘Leave me be.’

‘The men will expect you at prayers,’ John insisted. ‘This is your first day as their emir. You must set an example.’

‘Very well.’ The world spun as Yusuf sat up, and he leaned forward, his head in his hands. ‘I feel as if a blacksmith is hammering inside my head.’

‘I told you not to drink so much.’

‘No wonder the Prophet forbids alcohol. It is poison.’

Yusuf dressed and left the room he had been given in the keep. The guards in the courtyard nodded respectfully as he passed in the pre-dawn gloom. He headed out of the gate and down to the village mosque. After prayers, he emerged to find Qaraqush waiting for him. The mamluk commander fell in beside Yusuf as they walked back towards the citadel.

‘I trust you slept well,’ Qaraqush said with a wink. Yusuf gave him a hard look. ‘I was wondering what you have planned for today. Nothing too onerous, I hope. The men are still recovering from yesterday’s festivities.’

‘They will have to rouse themselves,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Today, we shall get your money, two thousand dinars.’

‘And where will we find this fortune?’

‘In the hands of the Frankish bandits who attacked me. We shall take it from them.’

Qaraqush stopped. ‘No. We will not.’

Yusuf turned to face him. ‘Are you afraid, Qaraqush? They are only bandits.’

‘I am not afraid,’ the mamluk commander growled, ‘but nor am I a fool. Why risk my men’s lives when we can have the sultan’s money for nothing?’

‘They are my men, Qaraqush,’ Yusuf said quietly.

‘Not yet.’

‘But they will be. I will not lead them to the slaughter. So long as you do as I say, there will be little danger to the men.’

Qaraqush’s eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf. ‘Tell me what you propose. For your sake, I had best like it.’

The gate of the fortress of Tell Bashir slammed shut behind John and Yusuf. They carried only their swords and a single waterskin — no more than they had had when they arrived. It was raining a fine rain that showed no sign of letting up, and John’s tunic was already soaked. He looked over at Yusuf. ‘What have you got us into now?’

‘Allah will protect us,’ Yusuf replied. ‘You will see.’ He strode down the hill towards the town. John followed.

The rain had kept the townsfolk inside. They passed only one man, an elderly beggar propped up against the side of the tavern, a cup in his hand. Yusuf dropped his last dinar into the cup as he passed.

‘Why did you do that?’ John asked, his eyes wide.

‘We won’t need it anymore, will we?’

They emerged from town on the road — now little better than a muddy track — and followed it alongside the winding Sajur River. After half a mile, John stopped at a side track that led between fields and towards the low hills on their right. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing out a single rider, who sat atop one of the hills. The rider watched them for a moment, then galloped out of sight over the far side of the hill. ‘They have seen us.’

‘Then let’s not keep them waiting.’

They marched through the fields, the mud sucking at their boots. The track grew wetter and widened before cutting into the hills, running between two sheer slopes. John splashed ahead into the ravine, Yusuf close behind him. They had not gone far when John heard the sound of hooves echoing off the hills around them. He and Yusuf began to run. They rounded a curve, and the narrow trail suddenly opened up into a circular, gravel-strewn wash, surrounded by steep slopes. On the far side of the open area, a narrow passage led further into the hills. They were halfway across the wash when riders started pouring out of the narrow gap. They turned to run, but more riders were emptying out of the ravine behind them.

Two of the bandits rode forward to confront John and Yusuf. Both wore full plate armour and helmets with visors down. ‘What have we here? Two mice in our trap,’ one of the riders said in Frankish. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Yusuf ibn Ayub,’ he added as he lifted his visor.

‘Reynald!’ John growled.

The man’s forehead creased as he examined John. ‘Do I know you, Saracen?’

‘I am no Saracen.’ John pulled off his turban to reveal his blond hair.

Reynald shrugged. ‘Whoever you are, I have never seen you before in my life.’

‘I was your man, once,’ John snarled. ‘You betrayed me, you bastard! You sent your man to kill me and left me for dead.’

‘Saxon?’ the other Frank said, pushing back his visor to reveal the wide face of Ernaut. ‘I thought I killed you.’

‘Not yet,’ John replied.

‘We will remedy that soon enough,’ Reynald said. ‘Ernaut, finish him.’

Ernaut drew his sword and spurred towards John, who backed away, drawing his weapon. Ernaut had just raised his sword when an arrow struck him in the neck. Wide-eyed, he looked down at the shaft protruding from him. He slumped from the saddle, and three more arrows sank into the ground around him. Another struck Reynald’s horse, and it reared, throwing him. Reynald scrambled to his feet, looking about wildly.

Qaraqush and his men stood high above on the surrounding hills, firing arrows down on the Christians. Reynald turned to run, but more mamluks had filled both the exits from the wash, blocking all escape. Dozens of Frankish bandits were down and screaming in pain. Reynald turned to face Yusuf and John.

Yusuf raised his fist, and the arrows stopped. ‘It seems that you are the one in a trap,’ he said to Reynald in Frankish.

The Frank drew his sword. ‘I will kill you both before I die,’ he growled.

‘No. You will do as I say, and you will live,’ Yusuf said. Reynald paused, lowering his sword. ‘Show me where you have hidden our gold, and you will be given a horse and enough supplies to reach Antioch.’

John grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and spun him around. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded in Arabic. ‘This man is the reason I was sold into slavery. He is a coward and a liar. He deserves to die!’

‘I am sorry, friend. We need that money, and only Reynald can show us to it.’

John looked from Yusuf to Reynald. He had dreamed of killing this Norman bastard for so long that the hatred had become a part of him, but eventually he nodded. ‘Very well.’

Yusuf turned back to Reynald. ‘Do you accept my offer?’

‘Why should I believe you, infidel?’

John stepped forward. ‘I would be only too happy to see you die, Reynald. But I give you my word as a fellow Christian that if you do as he says, you will not be harmed.’

‘Your word as a Christian?’ Reynald spat. ‘You’re one of them now, another sand-devil!’

‘I am a Christian and an Englishman, and I give you my word that you will not be harmed.’

Reynald hesitated a moment longer, then sheathed his sword. ‘Very well, I will do as you ask.’

Yusuf watched as Reynald galloped away, then he turned back to the camp, which Qaraqush and his men were busy ransacking. Several men were rounding up the dozens of sheep that the bandits had stolen. Others were dragging rolls of fine silk from a tent. Two mamluks dragged the money chest to the centre of camp; Reynald had shown them where it had been buried, not far from his tent. Yusuf watched as a grinning warrior hacked the lock off the chest with his sword. The man threw back the lid and gold coins spilled out. The men cheered, and Yusuf smiled. He would not be sold as a hostage. He would be emir of Tell Bashir, and he would send the Seljuk Sultan’s men back to their master. But if he were to be emir, then he would need a banner to fly above the gate of the citadel.

Yusuf strode into Reynald’s tent. The floor was covered with sheepskins and a pile of weapons lay in one corner. In the other corner, Yusuf found the saddlebags that he had brought from Aleppo. He rooted through them and pulled out the banner that his father had given him, white with a golden eagle in the middle.

As Yusuf left the tent, Qaraqush approached and clapped him on the back. ‘Well done, Yusuf! There is wealth enough here to put the Seljuk Sultan’s offer to shame. You are a brave man, and you have Allah’s favour.’ He knelt at Yusuf’s feet. ‘I will follow wherever you lead. I am your man, Yusuf ibn Ayub.’ The other mamluks gathered around and also knelt. John joined them.

Yusuf extended his hand and pulled Qaraqush to his feet. ‘You will not regret your decision. This is just the beginning.’

That night, Yusuf stood at the window of his chamber in the keep of Tell Bashir and looked down on his men, their figures lit by a celebratory bonfire in the centre of the courtyard. Some drank, passing around wineskins and recounting their roles in the day’s battle. Others had already spent their spoils on women, whom they pulled away towards the barracks. Still others were dancing around the bonfire while their fellows stood to the side with instruments in hand. Yusuf spied Qaraqush amongst these last, smiling as he beat out a rapid tattoo on his drum. Al-Mashtub, the giant of a man that Yusuf had fought less than two days ago, stood beside him, his flute toylike in his massive hands. The tune they were playing floated up to Yusuf. It was an old Turkish folk-song, the drums quick under the plaintive notes of the flute.

On the far side of the courtyard the gate opened, and Yusuf saw John enter, his chainmail glimmering red in the firelight. He was followed by a figure whose face was hidden in the shadows of a black cloak. They crossed the courtyard towards the keep, and the mamluks stepped aside to let them pass. A moment later there was a knock on Yusuf’s door.

‘Enter,’ he called, turning from the window. John opened the door and stood aside to allow his companion to enter. She pushed aside her hood. It was Faridah.

‘Good evening, my lord,’ she said and bowed.

Yusuf nodded to her, then turned to John. ‘Go and join the men. Celebrate. You have earned it.’ John left, closing the door behind him.

‘I am honoured that you sent for me, my lord,’ Faridah said as she untied her cloak and allowed it to drop to the floor. She was wearing a tight-fitting caftan of red silk. It complemented her hair, which cascaded loose around her shoulders. Her green eyes, ringed with kohl, fixed on Yusuf. His heart began to pound.

‘We defeated the Frankish raiders,’ he told her. ‘They were waiting for me as you said.’

‘And their leader, Reynald? He is dead?’

‘I let him go.’

‘Why?’ Faridah demanded. ‘He deserved to die.’

Yusuf went to her and touched her arm. Up close, she smelled of jasmine. ‘I had to free him,’ he told her. ‘I gave him my word.’ Faridah frowned. ‘Why do you hate him?’

‘It is nothing,’ Faridah murmured. She reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from Yusuf’s face, then pressed her body against his. Yusuf put his arms around her waist and tentatively kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. She opened her mouth and kissed him back passionately. Her mouth tasted sweet, like melon.

Faridah smiled. ‘Help me with my caftan,’ she whispered.

Yusuf undid the first button, then the second and third. The caftan spread open to reveal the gentle curves of her breasts. Yusuf’s hands began to tremble as he fumbled with the fourth button.

‘Let me,’ Faridah told him. She quickly unfastened the rest of the buttons and shrugged off the caftan to stand naked before Yusuf. ‘Now, it is your turn, my lord.’ She unfastened Yusuf’s belt, then pulled his tunic over his head. She knelt down as she lowered his loose cotton pants. Yusuf gasped as she took his zib in her mouth.

‘By the Prophet!’

Faridah looked up at him. ‘Do you wish me to stop, my lord?’

‘N-no,’ he managed. ‘Do not stop.’

Yusuf awoke when he felt Faridah stir in the bed beside him. She kissed his cheek, and he smiled sleepily. He had never before tasted such pleasure as she had shown him, and he was still glowing from the experience. He reached out and pulled her towards him.

‘I must go, my lord,’ she whispered in his ear and pulled away. She rose and began to dress. ‘My master will be angry if I do not return soon.’

Yusuf sat up in bed. ‘Your master?’

‘Zarif, the tavern owner. I am his slave.’

‘Not anymore. You are free.’

‘Do not jest of such things,’ Faridah scowled.

‘I do not jest.’

Faridah shook her head. ‘And what would I do with freedom? I have no family. No man will have me.’ She turned her back to him as her eyes grew moist. ‘Zarif is good to me, better than most.’

Yusuf approached her from behind and put his arms around her waist. ‘I will protect you now,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If you must serve a master, then let it be me.’

Faridah turned to face him. ‘You do not want me, my lord,’ she protested, tears in her eyes. ‘I will never bear you children. I cannot.’

Yusuf wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I do want you. And you may call me Yusuf.’

Faridah smiled. ‘Very well, Yusuf.’

‘Now, I wish to know more about the woman who will share my bed. Where are you from?’

Faridah pulled away. ‘I do not wish to speak of it. I am here now. That is all that matters.’

Yusuf gently touched her arm. ‘If I am to take a Frankish concubine, then I must know everything about you.’

Faridah nodded, then went to the window and looked out into the darkness. ‘I grew up in Edessa,’ she said. ‘My father was a Frankish lord and my mother an Armenian Christian. They died when the city fell to Nur ad-Din’s father, Zengi. My father was killed at the walls. My mother-’ she looked away. ‘My mother was raped and murdered. I was sold as a slave.’

‘And?’

‘And I would rather not speak of it. Those days are past.’

Yusuf went to her and held her close, stroking her hair. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured. ‘You must hate my people.’

‘No. I grew up amongst Saracens in Edessa. I wore the same clothes, spoke the same language, ate the same food. I never knew I was different until the city fell.’

‘And afterwards, surely you must have thought of revenge?’

Faridah shook her head sadly. ‘Where would my dreams of revenge get me? Women exercise power through love, Yusuf, not hate. We leave that to men.’