Eagle

Chapter 16

JUNE TO SEPTEMBER 1157: ALEPPO

Rose petals, luminous in the spring sunshine, showered down upon John as he rode through the cheering crowd that filled the central square of Aleppo, pressing close to the long line of riders headed towards the citadel. Nur ad-Din rode at the head of the army, and as he passed the crowd roared ‘ Malik, jazak Allahu khair! Jazak Allahu khair!’ — great king, may Allah reward you.

But not all in the crowd cheered. John rode beside Reynald, who still wore his distinctive plate armour, although his hands were now tied before him. Some in the crowd hissed as Reynald rode past. Others made the sign of the evil eye — bringing the forefinger and thumb together in a circle and shaking their hands. Reynald ignored them, riding with his head held high and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

John reached the far side of the square and rode into the shade of the citadel. The crowd was thickest around the bridge that led across the moat. Mamluk guards struggled to hold the masses back, but as John watched, the people surged towards Nur ad-Din, eager to touch him. After a moment the guards pushed them back, and the convoy continued. John was almost to the bridge when the crowd again surged forward. Turbaned men pressed all around him, shouting insults at Reynald. The guards had begun to push the crowd back when a grey-bearded man, his mouth empty of teeth, stepped past them and spit at Reynald, catching him in the face. Reynald grimaced in disgust and raised his tied hands to wipe away the spittle. ‘Savages,’ he muttered and turned towards John. ‘How can you fight for these infidels? You have betrayed your crusader’s oath. You will burn in hell.’

‘Then I shall have you there for company,’ John muttered and urged his horse ahead of Reynald’s and across the wooden drawbridge. They rode up the paved causeway and into the citadel grounds. The rest of the convoy had begun to gather around Nur ad-Din, who was addressing his men, inviting the emirs and sheikhs to a feast at his palace. John led Reynald to the right, towards the prison house.

John had not ridden far when Nur ad-Din hailed him. ‘Where are you taking my prisoner?’ he asked as he rode out from the crowd.

‘To his cell, malik.’

‘No, bring him to the feast. And you come, too. You can translate for your countryman.’

‘He is no countryman of mine,’ John grumbled under his breath, but to Nur ad-Din, he nodded and said, ‘Very well, malik.’

‘What did he say?’ Reynald asked as Nur ad-Din rode away.

‘He has invited you to tonight’s feast.’

‘I have no wish to dine with that infidel,’ Reynald sneered.

‘You have no choice.’ As John rode past, he grabbed the reins of Reynald’s horse and pulled it after him towards the barracks.

‘Where are we going now?’ Reynald asked.

‘To the baths.’

Reynald’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘A bath? Do you wish to kill me?’

John gave Reynald a hard look. ‘You smell like a pig. I will be sitting beside you, and I wish to enjoy my food. Come.’

The feast was held in the palace’s great hall, a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling held up by two rows of stone columns. The guests — fifty in all — were seated cross-legged on cushions around a long, low table, with Nur ad-Din at its centre. Nur ad-Din had Reynald seated across from him, and John sat to Reynald’s right, across from Yusuf.

When all the guests were seated, the servants entered. One stood behind each of the guests, and in a simultaneous movement they bent forward and placed a dish before each diner. John’s mouth watered as he breathed in the aroma of the tharidah — pieces of chicken on the bone in an aromatic sauce of chickpeas, onions, eggs, pounded almonds and cinnamon. He took up his knife and two-pronged fork and carved off a piece of the tender chicken. As he did so, he glanced at Reynald. The Prince of Antioch had picked up a drumstick with his hands and was gnawing the meat straight off the bone as fat dribbled into his beard.

‘You are meant to use the fork,’ John whispered, pointing to the piece of cutlery.

Reynald sucked a last piece of flesh from the drumstick and tossed it on the table. ‘Why should I use a fork when God gave me two hands?’ he asked, wiping his fingers on his caftan and leaving greasy streaks on the white cotton.

‘What are the two of you discussing?’ Nur ad-Din asked, leaning towards John.

‘The Prince of Antioch was marvelling at your use of the fork,’ John explained. ‘He says that he prefers to use the hands that God gave him.’

‘God gave him feet, too,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Perhaps he wishes to eat with those.’ He chuckled at this pleasantry and was joined by the other men at the table.

Reynald flushed red and turned towards John. ‘What did he say? Why is he laughing?’

‘He said that God also gave you feet and suggested that you eat with those.’

Reynald’s jaw clenched. ‘Who is this infidel to mock me? Ask him what sort of people scorn pork and wine?’

John translated, and the laughter at the table died away. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, has told us to avoid these things,’ Nur ad-Din said sternly, his voice loud in the silence. ‘If your Pope told you to forgo wine, would you not do so?’

‘Fat chance of that,’ Reynald snorted when he had heard John’s translation. ‘The Pope drinks like a fish.’

John turned to Nur ad-Din. ‘He says, “no”.’

‘Do you not respect the words of your prophets, then?’ Nur ad-Din asked. All eyes turned to Reynald.

‘What are priests good for?’ Reynald asked, picking up the drumstick and waving it to emphasize his point. ‘They sit in their churches with their gold and their wine while the real men do the fighting.’

‘Do your priests not pray for you, like our sufis?’

‘ Hmph, I have no need of their prayers, so long as they give me money when I ask. And if they do not-’ he snapped the chicken bone in half ‘-then I take it.’

When John translated, Nur ad-Din’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You do violence to your Holy Men? Kill them, even?’

‘It is forbidden to kill a man of God, and I am no savage.’ Reynald paused. ‘But I have other ways of persuading priests to do as I ask. When the Patriarch of Antioch refused to fund my expedition against Cyprus, I had him stripped naked, covered in honey and tied down on the roof of the citadel. After four hours in the sun, with ants and bees crawling all over him, he became more amenable to reason.’

Nur ad-Din turned towards John. ‘And this patriarch is like an imam?’

‘Yes, only more powerful, almost like a caliph.’ The emirs grumbled at this.

‘Do you not fear the wrath of God?’ Nur ad-Din asked Reynald.

‘I have taken up the cross and fought to keep the Saracens at bay. It is because of men like me that Jerusalem is Christian, its churches filled with priests instead of infidels. I do not fear God. He has need of me.’

Nur ad-Din’s face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Men like this are why we must drive the Franks from our lands,’ he declared loudly enough for all at the long table to hear. The emirs and sheikhs nodded and thumped the table to show their approval. ‘Take him away. He is spoiling my appetite.’

John rose and pulled Reynald up beside him. ‘Shall I place him in the prison?’

‘No,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘We are not savages like him. Give him a house in town and slaves to serve him as befits his station. The sooner he is ransomed, the better. I do not wish to see him again.’

‘Yes, malik.’ John grabbed Reynald’s arm and guided him from the room.

‘What did he say?’ Reynald asked as they passed through the palace entrance hall and out to the citadel grounds.

‘You will be given you own house and slaves until you are ransomed. And he remarked that your customs are very different from theirs.’

‘Damn right. I have nothing in common with those heathen savages.’

‘Indeed,’ John murmured.

The next day Yusuf stood before the mirror in his chamber, dressed in his finest caftan of red silk. He smiled and leaned close to the mirror to be certain there was nothing caught between his teeth. He straightened his caftan one final time, and satisfied, left his room and headed to the harem. The entrance was framed by two eunuch guards. ‘I have come to see Asimat,’ Yusuf said.

‘You are expected,’ one of the eunuchs replied. He led Yusuf down a long hallway, dimly lit by burning tapers. As they approached the door to Asimat’s chambers, Yusuf was surprised to see Gumushtagin exit her rooms. When the bald eunuch saw Yusuf, he smiled ingratiatingly.

‘Salaam, Yusuf.’

‘Salaam, Gumushtagin. What brings you to the harem?’

‘One of the few advantages of being a eunuch: I have free access to Nur ad-Din’s apartments.’ Gumushtagin gave Yusuf a hard look. ‘But you are not a eunuch.’

‘I am here to visit Asimat.’

‘You spend a great deal of time with Nur ad-Din’s wife.’

‘At his bidding.’

Gumushtagin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, of course. Ma’a as-salaama, Yusuf.’ Gumushtagin gave a small bow and stepped past him.

‘Allah yasalmak,’ Yusuf replied to the retreating figure, then turned and waited while one of the eunuch guards entered Asimat’s chamber and announced him.

‘You may enter,’ the guard told Yusuf.

Yusuf stepped into the room to find Asimat seated in one of the windows, half a melon in one hand and a spoon in the other. She was wearing a simple, white cotton caftan. One of her maidservants sat on a cushion at her feet, reading from a book. The servant stopped reading when Yusuf entered.

‘My lady,’ Yusuf said and bowed.

Asimat whispered something to the servant and then rose. ‘Salaam, Yusuf,’ she said. ‘Come, sit.’ She gestured towards the centre of the room, where silk cushions sat on the thick carpet. Yusuf waited for her to sit and then sat across from her. The maidservant closed the book and went to the loom.

‘Would you like some refreshment?’ Asimat asked, holding up the melon in her hand. Yusuf nodded. ‘Kaniz!’ Asimat called, and a moment later a female servant appeared carrying half a melon. She handed it and a spoon to Yusuf. The pulp of the melon had been mashed and mixed with crushed ice. Yusuf spooned out some of the mixture, which trailed wisps of cold air.

‘Ice in the summer; how is it possible?’ he asked.

‘In winter it is brought from the mountains near Baalbek and stored under straw in a cellar beneath the palace. It is a rare luxury.’

Yusuf swallowed the spoonful of chilled melon and closed his eyes to savour the cool sweetness. ‘Delicious.’

‘I am glad you enjoy it, and I am glad that you have returned to Aleppo alive, if only so that I could see you again.’

The woman at the loom stopped her work and looked over. Yusuf paled. ‘Careful what you say, Khatun.’ There was an awkward moment of silence, during which Yusuf fingered his golden belt. ‘You have been well since I last saw you?’ he finally asked.

‘Better. You were right: tears will not help me. If I wish to have a son, I must take my future in my own hands.’ She met Yusuf’s eyes and did not look away.

Yusuf cleared his throat and glanced towards the loom. ‘I am sure that Nur ad-Din will be happy to hear that you are eager to try again.’

Asimat frowned. ‘He has taken yet another favourite, who he hopes will give him an heir. I fear I will never have a son by him.’

‘But you said-’

‘It is best not to speak of it,’ Asimat said, cutting him off.

‘What shall we talk of, then?’

‘I hear that you fought bravely at the battle at Jacob’s Ford. Tell me about it.’

‘It was glorious,’ Yusuf said with a grin. He went on to describe the battle in detail, gesturing with his hands to indicate the position of the two armies. Asimat followed him closely, nodding with interest. ‘We crushed them,’ Yusuf concluded. ‘Hundreds of Franks were killed and thousands more taken prisoner. Their king was lucky to escape.’

Asimat’s forehead creased. ‘And after all that, you let them go? You did not pursue them?’

‘We could not. The Roman Emperor was leading an army from the north. We had to make peace.’

‘I see. And did it strike you as strange that Nur ad-Din did not learn that the emperor was on the march until just after he defeated the Franks?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘An army as large as the emperor’s would be hard to conceal.’ Asimat lowered her voice. ‘Sometimes I think that Nur ad-Din does not wish to conquer the Christians.’

‘That is mad!’ Yusuf spluttered. ‘He speaks of nothing but driving them from our lands.’

‘Yes, and the emirs and sheikhs follow him because of this. The people gladly pay their taxes to support his wars. But with the Franks gone, there will be nothing left to unite our people. I think Nur ad-Din fears that if he defeats the Franks, then he will lose his kingdom.’

Yusuf’s forehead creased. He had never even considered such things. ‘Nur ad-Din will crush the Franks,’ he insisted. ‘Usama is making peace with the Roman Emperor now. We will have no more to fear from him. Then, once King Baldwin is dead, we will strike again.’

‘Perhaps you are right. But if Nur ad-Din does not move against them?’

‘Then someone will.’

‘You?’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I am only the Emir of Tell Bashir.’

‘Yes, but your ambition burns bright, Yusuf.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but Asimat held up a hand, stopping him. ‘Do not deny it. I have seen the same flame burning in Nur ad-Din. But if you want to be great, then you must seize your destiny.’

‘Be careful what you say, Khatun,’ Yusuf said stiffly. ‘I am a man of honour, and Nur ad-Din is my lord.’

‘Nur ad-Din had a lord once, too.’ Asimat glanced towards her maidservants and then continued in a whisper. ‘His father, Zengi, was found murdered in his own bed.’ Again, her dark eyes found his. ‘Sometimes you must seize what you want, Yusuf.’

Yusuf forced himself to look away. ‘Why are you telling me this? Do you think me a traitor?’

Asimat smiled. ‘No, of course not. But not all of Nur ad-Din’s subjects are so loyal. If you do not act, then someone will. Gumushtagin, for instance.’

‘Is that what he was here for? To plot against Nur ad-Din?’

‘Gumushtagin is far too clever to discuss his plans with me, and I would never support him. But you…’ Asimat met his eyes and lowered her voice still further. ‘I will help you, if you help me, Yusuf. We can take both our destinies in hand.’

Yusuf’s eyebrows rose. ‘Surely you do not mean-?’

Asimat held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. ‘No,’ she said brusquely. ‘Forget I spoke. You should go.’

‘But-’

‘Go!’ Asimat said with finality.

His brow knit, Yusuf rose and left the room, the unspoken words churning in his head.

Yusuf returned to his chambers to find Faridah lounging on his bed in a satin robe. ‘You look very handsome, my lord,’ she said.

Yusuf looked away, embarrassed. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked gruffly.

Faridah smiled. ‘You have no secrets from me, Yusuf.’ She crossed the room to him. ‘You have been to see Asimat. You would never take such care for me.’ She untied the belt of his caftan. ‘Be careful of her, my lord. Nur ad-Din favours you. Do not throw away his generosity.’

‘I have Nur ad-Din’s permission to visit Asimat.’

‘All the more reason to be careful.’

Yusuf turned away from her. He shrugged off his caftan and dropped it on the floor. ‘Do not lecture me, woman. I know what I am doing.’

Faridah moved close behind him and put her arms around his waist. ‘Does Nur ad-Din ask you to dress in your finest clothes when you meet his wife?’ she murmured in his ear. ‘I cannot stop you from wanting her, Yusuf, but I will stop you from acting the fool. If I can see that you are infatuated with her, then others will, too.’

‘There is nothing to see,’ Yusuf lied.

‘Then you will not go to her again?’

Asimat’s words flashed through Yusuf’s mind: ‘I will help you, if you help me.’ Did she want him to give her a son? And what would she give in return? Yusuf rubbed his forehead, trying to bring order to his thoughts. This was madness. Nur ad-Din was his lord. And yet… An image of Asimat’s dark eyes flashed through his mind.

‘I do not wish to speak of it,’ he said at last. He pulled away and went to his trunk to retrieve a plain white caftan.

‘If you do not speak to me, then I cannot help you. Tell me, my lord. What did she say to you?’

Yusuf sighed and turned to face her. ‘She wants me to give her a son.’

Faridah’s eyes widened. She came to him and took his hands. ‘You cannot.’

‘I know,’ Yusuf snapped, then continued more softly. ‘But she promised me-’

‘What?’

Yusuf met her eyes. ‘The kingdom.’

‘This is madness. Remember what happened to Nadhira. Nur ad-Din will have her stoned, and you executed.’

Yusuf nodded, but even as he did an image rose unbidden in his mind: the curve of Asimat’s body beneath her caftan. Faridah frowned, then slapped him hard. ‘How dare you!’ Yusuf spluttered. ‘Are you mad, woman?’

‘It is you who have taken leave of your senses! I will not let you ruin yourself over this woman. We will leave for Tell Bashir.’

‘No,’ Yusuf said firmly. ‘My lord has need of me.’

‘You are not thinking of your lord, but of his wife. We will go. That is the only way to put her from your mind.’

Yusuf hesitated, and Faridah raised her hand again. Yusuf caught her wrist. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You are right, Faridah. I will return to my lands until Nur ad-Din calls for me. I will think no more of Asimat.’

John crossed the sunny square at the heart of Aleppo and stepped into the souk where medicine was sold. Long ago Yusuf had told him that, for a price, anything could be bought in the souks of Aleppo, and it appeared he was right. The street that held the market was covered over with long strips of wood set half an inch apart, and diffuse light filtered through, illuminating a dizzying array of goods. John stepped around several herb-filled baskets that overflowed the small shops and spread into the street. Other stores sold more refined drugs — powders in clay pots and brightly coloured liquids in glass jars. John passed a thin Saracen who was boiling a deep-blue liquid over a small flame, sending the steam through a tube to collect in a glass jar, where it was now a pale green. John looked away just in time to avoid running into a doctor who was pulling a patient’s tooth right there, in the middle of the street. Beyond the doctor, a dark-skinned man with a full head of bushy, black hair was holding up a jar containing a black, viscous substance and loudly proclaiming its ability to cure baldness.

John ignored them all, striding through the market until he came to a narrow alleyway that opened off to the right. He hesitated at the entrance, clenching and unclenching his fists. He knew that what he was doing was wrong, but what other choice did he have? He thought of Zimat, of what she had told him last night. He had to protect her, no matter what the cost. He took a deep breath and entered the alley.

The light was dimmer here, and John had not gone far when he tripped over the outstretched legs of a beggar. He began to offer his apologies, then grimaced in disgust and backed away. The beggar was a leper, his face and arms covered in sores that formed blotches of white against his darkly tanned skin. Amorphous bumps deformed his face, cruelly exaggerating his brow. He held out a mangled hand missing two fingers. ‘Charity, good sir. Charity for a poor leper.’

‘Stay back, devil,’ John growled and drew his dagger.

‘Leave him be, John.’ John looked up to see Ibn Jumay standing in the alleyway. ‘Leprosy is not a judgement from God, it is a disease,’ the Jewish doctor said. ‘So long as you do not touch him, it is not contagious.’ He tilted his head, eyeing John quizzically. ‘What brings you here, friend?’

‘I came to see you. Yusuf told me that you have a practice in town.’

‘Indeed. The man you were about to knife is one of my patients. Come, step inside.’ He led John into a brightly lit room that opened off the alley. A broad table — large enough for a man to lie down upon — took up most of the floor space. The walls were covered with shelves lined with clay jars. John took one down and peeked inside to see black, withered leaves. ‘Tea,’ Ibn Jumay informed him. ‘It helps with the digestion. But that is not what you are looking for, I’d wager.’

‘No.’ John put the jar back. ‘I–I-’ he began and faltered. He could feel himself flushing red. ‘There is a woman.’

‘Ah. You have got yourself into a bit of trouble, have you?’ John nodded, and Ibn Jumay patted his shoulder. ‘You are not the first, John. Nor will you be the last. Luckily, the laws of Islam are lenient in this regard. One moment.’ The doctor went to the shelf on the far wall and began pulling down jars and looking into them. Finally, he found the one he was looking for and set it on the table. He scooped out a spoonful of dried leaves and dropped them into a pouch. ‘Mix this with boiling water and have her drink it.’ He met John’s eye. ‘It will cause her to expel the child.’

John felt suddenly nauseous. He lowered his eyes and fumbled in his coin purse for payment. He held out a dinar, but Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘That is not necessary.’ He placed the pouch in John’s outstretched hand.

As John stared at the pouch, he felt tears form and run down his cheeks. Finally, he dropped the medicine on the table. ‘I cannot,’ he mumbled and hurried out of the door. ‘There must be another way.’

John strode through the gate and into the sunlit grounds of the citadel. A mamluk regiment was training on the field, and John skirted around them as he made his way towards the palace. He was almost there when Yusuf emerged.

‘John!’ he called. ‘I was just coming to see you.’ Yusuf frowned as he came closer. ‘Are you well, friend? You look ill.’

‘I am fine.’

‘That is good, because we have a long journey ahead of us. I have decided to leave Aleppo.’

John felt his stomach tighten. He could not leave. Not now. His mouth was impossibly dry, but he managed to ask, ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. I go now to take my leave of Khaldun and my sister. I will meet you in the barracks afterwards to arrange our departure with Qaraqush and Turan.’

John nodded. He watched Yusuf leave the citadel grounds, but when Yusuf had gone, John did not go to the barracks. Instead, he hurried to Yusuf’s quarters in the palace. He found Yusuf’s bedchamber empty. ‘Hello?’ John called. Faridah entered from the next room. She wore a thin cotton nightgown through which John could see the outline of her breasts and the curve of her hip. He looked away.

‘Yusuf is not here,’ she said.

‘I know. I have come to speak with you.’

‘We should not meet alone. You should go.’

John met her eyes. ‘You said once that if I needed a friend, I could come to you. I am desperate, Faridah, and you are the only one who will understand.’

‘What of Yusuf?’

‘I cannot speak to him of this.’

Faridah studied him. ‘You look terrible,’ she said at last. ‘Wait here.’ She passed back into her room, and when she returned a moment later, she wore a green silk caftan. ‘Have a seat,’ she told him, and they sat across from one another on cushions. ‘What is bothering you, John?’

John looked away. He felt suddenly awkward. ‘I–I cannot leave Aleppo.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There is someone-’ John began, but could say no more.

‘A woman?’ Faridah prompted. John nodded, and Faridah smiled. ‘This is a good thing! Yusuf is your friend, but he does not own you. You do not need to sacrifice your life to him. You should be with this woman. Yusuf will understand.’

‘No. It is not any woman.’

Faridah arched an eyebrow. ‘Who?’ John lowered his eyes and did not speak. ‘Who?’ Faridah demanded.

‘Zimat.’

‘Yusuf’s sister!’ Faridah gasped. ‘Are you mad?’

‘She loves me. She desires a divorce from Khaldun.’

‘Yusuf will never allow it. You are his friend, but you are still an ifranji. It would bring shame to his family.’

‘Then what should I do?’

‘You should leave Aleppo with Yusuf. It is for the best. Do not see Zimat again. Forget about her.’

‘I cannot.’ John paused and took a deep breath. ‘She is pregnant.’

Faridah’s eyes went wide. ‘She carries your child? Are you sure?’

‘Zimat says that the child is mine.’

‘Then you must get rid of it. There are herbs-’

‘No!’ John said, more loudly than he had intended. ‘I cannot kill the child.’ He met her eyes. ‘I will tell Yusuf. I cannot live with these secrets.’

‘No. He will kill you!’

‘Then we will run away, to the kingdom of Jerusalem.’

‘And do you think Zimat will be happy amongst the Franks?’ Faridah demanded. ‘She is the wife of an emir, surrounded by luxury. What will her life be like as the wife of a simple soldier? What future will there be for your child?’

‘Then what?’ John demanded, his jaw clenched. ‘I leave the woman I love? I leave my child to be raised by another man?’

Faridah nodded. ‘If you truly love Zimat, then you must do what is necessary to protect her and the child.’

‘And what about when the child is born? What if it has blue eyes or blond hair?’

‘Pray to God that it does not.’

APRIL 1158: TELL BASHIR

John stood atop the gatehouse of Tell Bashir, his wet clothes clinging to him and rain running off his nose as he stared out at the road from Aleppo. He held a long strip of leather, which he methodically wrapped and unwrapped around his right hand. The two mamluks on watch were hunkered down under their cloaks. ‘What the devil do you suppose is hounding al-ifranji?’ one of them whispered.

‘Maybe he lost at dice.’

‘Maybe he has lost his mind.’

John heard the words, but he paid no more attention to them than he did to the rain. It was seven months since they had left Aleppo and almost nine months since Zimat had told him that she had ceased to bleed, that she was with child. John expected news of her delivery any day, and so he stood here at the gate whenever he could, his eyes fixed on the winding road from Aleppo.

John thought he saw movement in the distance. He squinted, trying to penetrate the curtain of rain. He could just make out a group of riders at the edge of town. John turned to the men on watch. ‘Someone is coming. Inform the emir and prepare to open the gate.’

The men scrambled away, and John turned back to watch the riders approach. As they drew closer, he could see that there were five of them. They splashed down the muddy street through the centre of town and up the short ramp to the gate, where the man in the lead pushed back his hood. It was Yusuf’s younger brother, Selim. ‘Open the gates!’ he called. ‘I come with news.’

John watched as Selim entered and was led into the citadel’s keep. John bowed his head and took a deep breath. ‘Please God,’ he whispered. ‘Let the child have dark eyes.’ Then he descended from the wall and strode across the muddy courtyard to the keep. He went to Yusuf’s chambers and found the door open. Stepping inside, he found Yusuf kissing Selim on each cheek. Turan stood to the side, smiling.

‘John!’ Yusuf exclaimed. ‘Selim has brought good news.’

‘Yes?’ John asked, barely able to keep his voice from shaking.

‘You remember my sister, Zimat? She has given birth to a son!’

‘A son,’ John whispered hoarsely. He turned to Selim. ‘You have seen the boy?’ Selim nodded. ‘What is he like?’

‘He is a healthy child.’

‘And who does he favour?’ John asked urgently. ‘His mother?’ Selim frowned, confused by John’s interest. ‘The boy is only a babe, but he has his father’s eyes.’

John sighed in relief. ‘Il-Hamdillah,’ he murmured. ‘God be praised.’