Eagle

Chapter 1

MARCH 1148: BAALBEK

Yusuf sat in the saddle, his olive-skinned face mottled red and his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He was having one of his fits, during which the devil himself seemed to grip his lungs and squeeze out all the air. And the faster he breathed, the more elusive the air became. His horse had already recovered from the sprint and was tugging at one of the rare clumps of spring grass that managed to grow on the dusty polo field. On the far side of the pitch, two-dozen boys continued the match without him, the hooves of their horses stirring up a cloud of dust as they swarmed around the kura, a wooden ball made from willow root. Their long mallets waved above the dust, rising and falling as the boys swung at the kura, trying to drive it through the far goal, two half-toppled Roman columns, remnants from some long-vanished structure. A hundred yards past the columns stood the thick city walls of Baalbek, and past them dozens of pale, sandstone buildings clustered around an ancient Roman temple whose tall columns dwarfed the city around it. Over it all loomed the craggy, snow-capped peak of Mount Tallat al Jawzani.

Yusuf closed his eyes and leaned close to the neck of his horse, forcing himself to slow his breathing. He blocked out the whoops and yells of the other boys, concentrating instead on the rapid beat of his heart and the sweet, musky smell of his horse’s mane. Gradually, his chest stopped heaving and his heart slowed.

‘Yusuf!’ Yusuf sat upright and his eyes snapped open. The kura was bouncing towards him across the uneven ground, and one of his team-mates had called out to warn him. Turan, Yusuf’s older half-brother and opponent in the match, had broken from the pack and was racing after the ball. Turan was tall and thick whereas Yusuf was short and thin. At twelve, he was Yusuf’s senior by two years, and his upper lip already showed the first signs of a man’s beard. His horse was larger and faster, but Yusuf was closer. He would reach the ball first.

Yusuf flicked the reins and kicked the sides of his horse, urging it to a gallop. His eyes locked on the kura, and he raised his mallet high. He had begun to swing down in an arc towards the ball when, just before he made contact, he felt a sharp blow against his side as Turan drove the butt of his mallet handle into his ribs. Yusuf slipped sideways, lost his grip on his mallet, and then toppled from the saddle. He rolled as he hit the ground, as he had been taught, in order to absorb the impact. He sat up just in time to see Turan knock the kura through the goal, another pair of tall Roman columns. Turan let out a whoop of joy. Yusuf rose slowly, clutching his side. Dragging his mallet behind him, he trudged towards his horse, which had found another patch of grass some fifty yards off. Yusuf had only taken a few steps when Turan rode past at a gallop, almost knocking him over. Turan gathered the reins of Yusuf’s horse and led it back to him.

‘You should be more careful, little brother,’ Turan said with a grin as he handed Yusuf the reins. ‘A true warrior never leaves his horse.’

‘A true warrior fights with honour,’ Yusuf muttered as he pulled himself into the saddle.

‘What was that?’ Turan demanded, raising his mallet. He had a dangerous look in his eye. Yusuf wondered if he had been drinking again.

‘Nothing.’

‘Are you sure, little brother?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘Good.’ Turan turned his horse and spurred away to the centre of the field, where the other boys were waiting. Yusuf followed.

‘I have a proposal!’ Turan shouted to the other boys. He pointed to the mountains that lay beyond the city to the east. ‘We will play until the sun disappears behind Mount Tallat al Jawzani. Those who lose will tend the horses and muck out the stalls for the winners.’ The boys on Turan’s team, all older, cheered.

‘But that’s not fair!’ Yusuf’s younger brother, Selim, protested. Selim was only eight, and at first glance a perfect mixture of his two elder brothers — tall like Turan, but thin and wiry like Yusuf. ‘You’re already up two to one.’ Selim shook his head and turned his horse to leave.

‘Fine then!’ Turan called after him. ‘The next goal wins.’ Selim turned back towards the others. ‘But the losers will tend the victors’ horses for a full week.’

Selim shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Yusuf cut him off. ‘Agreed.’

The other boys on Yusuf’s team looked at him wide-eyed, surprise mingled with anger. They were all older than Yusuf, and they were Turkish, part of the elite warrior class that ruled over the local Arabs. Two years ago, while Yusuf’s father was governor of Baalbek, the other boys would have been forced to go along with him. But after the Emir of Damascus conquered Baalbek, Yusuf’s father had lost his post, and the boys’ respect had turned to scorn. Now when his family visited from Damascus to oversee their remaining lands, Yusuf was just another Kurd, an outsider. The local boys followed Turan because they were afraid of him, but no one feared Yusuf.

Haytham, the oldest boy on Yusuf’s team, rode up beside him and gripped his arm painfully. ‘What are you doing, Kurd?’ he hissed. ‘You know we’ve never beaten them.’

The son of the local emir, Khaldun, put a hand on Haytham’s shoulder. ‘Peace, Haytham.’ He gestured to the sun, which hung huge and molten red just above the mountains. ‘We only have to hold on a little longer for the tie.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘No, we only have a little longer to win.’

Khaldun chuckled. ‘You’re not so bad, for a Kurd.’ He turned to Turan. ‘We accept your bet.’

Turan grinned. ‘Then let’s play.’ He raised his mallet high and swung down in a loop, hitting the wooden kura with a crack and sending it bouncing towards the weathered columns on Yusuf’s side of the field. The boys spurred after it, swarming around the ball. Yusuf and Selim kept free of the crowd, circling around to defend their goal. They played better in open space, where their superior horsemanship was to their advantage. The other boys always mocked Yusuf for hanging back, refusing to join the scrum for the ball. They claimed he lacked bravery, but Yusuf did not care what others said, so long as he won.

The mob of riders surged back and forth across the field, now closer to Yusuf and the goal he guarded, now further away. The thick dust surrounding the riders prevented Yusuf from making out what was happening in the melee, but it was clear that Turan was dominating the game, using his superior size to knock other riders aside and get at the ball. Yusuf looked past the players to the mountain behind Baalbek. The sun had just touched its peak, and shadows were already racing across the city, swallowing up the Roman temple and the houses around it. The match was almost over. If he wanted to win, then he had to act soon.

Yusuf looked back to the action around the ball just in time to see Turan rise up amongst the other riders and knock the ball hurtling towards the goal to Yusuf’s left. Yusuf responded instinctively, turning his horse with his knees and kicking its flanks to urge it forward. He reached the ball just in time, slamming his mallet into the ground and blocking the rolling kura. Turan’s cry of victory died on his lips.

‘Selim!’ Yusuf yelled as he swung his mallet, sending the ball bouncing to his right, towards his brother. The rest of the boys followed the kura, but Yusuf headed to the left of the crowd. When the ball reached Selim, he sent it bouncing back across the field, past the other riders, to where Yusuf sat alone on his horse. The boys in the crowd turned their horses, but it was too late. There was no one between Yusuf and the far goal.

Yusuf slammed the kura up the field and galloped after it. He was halfway across the field when he reached it, and, without slowing, swung his mallet in an easy loop, striking the ball with a loud crack and driving it on towards the goal. The boys giving chase were still far back, except for Turan. He had broken free of the crowd and was gaining quickly. Yusuf kicked his horse’s sides, leaning close to its neck as he raced for the ball. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Turan closing fast. There was something odd about the way he was riding. He held his mallet at a funny angle, and his eyes were fixed not on the kura, but on Yusuf. Yusuf felt a shiver of fear run through him as he realized that he was Turan’s target.

Yusuf was almost to the ball, and now he could hear the pounding hooves of Turan’s horse. He took his eye off the kura, focusing instead on Turan’s mallet. He would have to time this just right. Yusuf raised his mallet as if he were about to strike the ball. At the same time, he let go of the reins with his left hand, grabbed his horse’s mane and slipped his left foot from the stirrup. Turan rode closer and closer, and then his mallet was in motion, arcing down towards Yusuf’s head. Yusuf dropped his own mallet and dodged to the right, swinging out of the saddle and gripping the mane of his horse as he clung to its side, one foot in the stirrup. Turan’s mallet landed with a thud on the saddle. Yusuf grabbed it, and pulled hard. Turan was off balance after missing Yusuf. He let go of his mallet, but too late. ‘ Yaha!’ he cried out as he tumbled from the saddle and landed in a cloud of dust.

Yusuf swung himself back upright and reined in his horse beside the kura. He looked back, past where Turan lay, past the approaching riders, to where the last glimmer of the sun was slipping behind the mountain, leaving the field covered in shadows. Yusuf turned back to the ball and swung Turan’s mallet hard, sending the kura bouncing through the goal.

‘Subhan’alla!’ he cried. Hallelujah! They had won. Yusuf dropped the mallet and raised his arms to the sky, a huge grin on his face. He was turning his horse to accept the congratulations of his team-mates, when he felt himself grabbed from behind and pulled from the saddle. He landed hard, knocking his head against the ground. Dizzy, his head pounding, he rose to his feet to find himself facing Turan. Turan was red-faced, his hands balled into fists.

‘Cheater! You grabbed my mallet.

You broke the rules!’ ‘You were trying to hit me!’ Yusuf protested.

‘How dare you accuse me!’ Turan growled and shoved Yusuf, who stumbled backwards. ‘You’re the one who cheated!’

The others had arrived, and still mounted, they formed a circle around Yusuf and Turan. ‘Leave him be, Turan,’ Khaldun called out.

‘But he cheated! He grabbed my mallet. We would have won otherwise.’

‘Fine,’ Khaldun said. ‘We’ll call the goal off. Nobody wins the bet. Happy now?’

‘I’ll be happy when this cheater tends to my horse and mucks its stable.’ Turan looked around the circle of boys. ‘And all of your horses, too.’

A tense silence fell over the group, and all eyes shifted to Yusuf. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he said quietly.

Turan jerked his chin up and clicked his tongue to show that he disagreed. ‘You lie, little brother.’ He stepped close enough that Yusuf could feel his brother’s hot breath on his face. ‘Admit it. You grabbed my mallet. Otherwise I would never have fallen.’

Yusuf looked to the other boys, then back to Turan. Their eyes met. ‘In battle, men will do worse things than grab your mallet, Turan. A true warrior never leaves his horse.’

The words were hardly out of Yusuf’s mouth when Turan’s fist slammed into his face and white lights exploded behind his eyes. He found himself sitting on the ground, blood pouring from his nose. Turan was standing over him, his fists still clenched and his lips curled back. ‘Always so clever, aren’t you, little brother?’ he snarled. ‘You’re not so smart now, are you?’

Yusuf could feel the eyes of the other boys on him. He began to struggle for air and fought against the familiar panic. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, but he was hardly up before Turan punched him in the stomach, doubling him over. Yusuf was breathing in ragged gasps now, desperate for air.

‘That’s enough, Turan!’ Khaldun shouted.

‘Stay out of it!’ Turan snapped. ‘This is between me and my brother. He needs to be taught a lesson.’

Yusuf wiped the blood away from his nose, leaving a crimson smear on the back of his hand, and slowly straightened. His chest heaved rapidly as he gulped for air, but it was no use. One of his fits had seized him. Still, he forced himself to remain standing and met Turan’s gaze. Turan punched him again, catching him in the jaw. Yusuf stumbled but stubbornly kept his feet. He braced himself for another blow, but it never came. Turan had turned away. He and the other boys were watching a rider approach from the city. Yusuf recognized the compact, dark man as Abaan, one of his father’s mamluks — Turkish slaves purchased as children and raised as soldiers. The circle of boys parted to allow him to approach.

‘What’s this?’ Abaan demanded as he reined in before Yusuf and Turan.

‘He fell,’ Turan said, gesturing to Yusuf.

‘Is that so?’ Abaan looked to Yusuf, who simply nodded. Accusing Turan would only lead to worse later. And besides, Yusuf knew his father. He would care little for Yusuf’s complaints. ‘Very well,’ Abaan said. ‘You are to return with me immediately. You too, Selim.’

Turan and Yusuf mounted their horses. As they fell in behind Abaan, Turan rode close to Yusuf and whispered, ‘We’ll finish this later, little brother.’

Yusuf passed through the gate in the thick stone wall that surrounded his home and rode into the dusty courtyard. Before him was the main building, a low, rectangular structure of tan sandstone. Torches in brackets flickered on either side of the domed entrance way, driving back the advancing darkness. Yusuf dismounted and followed the others to the stables, which were situated against the wall to the left. Four strange horses were there, all of their noses buried in the feeding trough. Judging by how determinedly they were eating, Yusuf guessed that they had been ridden far that day. Visitors, then. But who? Yusuf turned away and followed Turan, Selim and Abaan.

As they walked through the cool, red-tiled entrance way, Yusuf looked up, as he always did. High above, the domed ceiling was tiled in indigo, inlaid with golden stars. A low fountain was set in the floor directly below the centre of the ceiling. Its burbling waters flowed to a channel cut into the floor, and Yusuf and the others followed the channel out to the courtyard at the centre of the residence. Torches had been lit along the walls, illuminating the pool that ran the length of the courtyard. Two men were talking quietly as they paced beside the still waters, their backs to Yusuf. The man on the right stood stiffly upright. He was short and wiry, with darkly tanned skin and short-cropped hair just beginning to grey. Yusuf recognized him immediately as his father, Najm ad-Din Ayub. The other man had unkempt, black hair, and although he was only slightly taller than Yusuf’s father, he was much stouter, if not downright fat.

‘Your sons are here, my lord,’ Abaan called and then withdrew.

The two men stopped and turned. Ayub scowled when he saw Yusuf’s bloodied nose and swollen lip. The other man was red-faced, with a gruesome scar across his milky-white right eye. When he saw the boys, he smiled broadly, revealing crooked teeth. It was Yusuf’s uncle, Shirkuh.

Yusuf and Selim ran to him, and he gathered them both in his thick arms, lifting them from the ground and kissing first Selim, then Yusuf on both cheeks. ‘Salaam ‘Alaykum, my little nephews,’ Shirkuh rumbled. Peace be upon you.

‘Wa ‘Alaykum as-Salaam, Uncle,’ Yusuf and Selim replied together, as Shirkuh set them down.

Shirkuh’s smile faded as he inspected Yusuf more closely.

‘What happened to your face, boy? Your nose looks to be broken.’

‘A polo match.’

‘Polo, eh? Did you win?’

Yusuf smiled, despite the pain it caused his swollen lip. ‘I did.’

Shirkuh squeezed his shoulder. ‘Well done.’

Turan now stepped forward. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Uncle.’ The two exchanged three kisses, the proper greeting between adult relatives. ‘I am pleased to see you.’

‘And I am pleased to see you-all of you,’ Shirkuh replied. ‘It has been far too long.’

‘Now, go and look after your horses,’ Ayub told his sons.

‘Your uncle and I have business to discuss.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Yusuf said, echoed by his brothers.

‘I will see you all tonight, at supper,’ Shirkuh called after them as they hurried from the courtyard.

The three boys reached the entrance way, but they did not continue on to the stables. Instead, Turan turned right and pulled open the door leading to the living quarters. ‘Where are you going?’ Selim asked. ‘What about the horses?’

‘There’s time for the horses later, Selim,’ Yusuf told him.

‘After we find out what they are talking about,’ Turan agreed.

Yusuf pulled the door shut behind them, careful to make no noise, and the three of them hurried down the hallway, past sleeping chambers and the weaving-room, with its huge loom holding a half-woven carpet. They turned the corner and raced down another hallway to a heavy wooden door. It was already slightly ajar. Turan pushed it open, and the three of them stepped into a dark room. Hundreds of fleeces were stacked five deep against the far wall, filling the air with their musky smell. The wool was this year’s tribute from Yusuf’s father’s vassals, stored here until it could be worked, sold or sent on to their father’s lord, Nur ad-Din, in Aleppo. The stacks reached almost to the ceiling, and at the end of the pile, directly across from the door, the white soles of two bare feet were just visible.

‘Who’s there?’ Turan asked.

The feet disappeared, replaced a second later by a face. It was their sister, Zimat. She was older than all of them, thirteen and already a woman. Zimat was stunningly beautiful, and she knew it. She had flawless skin the colour of golden sand, long black hair and brilliantly white teeth, which she showed now as she grinned at them. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been listening.’

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Turan told her. ‘Get out!’

Zimat did not move. ‘Shush, you big ox!’ she hissed. ‘They’ll hear you.’

‘This is no business of yours, woman,’ Turan grumbled as he climbed up beside her. Yusuf noticed that Turan slid in unnecessarily close to his sister, pressing his side against her. Zimat shot him a warning glance and moved away. Yusuf climbed up next, the raw wool scratching his face and arms as he pulled himself up the side. Once on top of the pile, he crawled forward in the narrow space between the wool and the ceiling, and took his place on the other side of Zimat. She had opened the shutters that covered the window a few inches, but Yusuf could see nothing through the thin crack between them except a sliver of the courtyard pool, flickering torchlight reflecting off its surface.

He could just hear the voices of his father and uncle, but they were too far off to make out what was being said.

‘What are they talking about?’ he asked Zimat.

‘Something about a king,’ she whispered. ‘From a place called France.’

‘That is the kingdom of the Franks!’ Yusuf said. ‘Across the sea.’

‘Who are the Franks?’ Selim asked as he slid in beside Yusuf.

Zimat rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you know anything? They are monsters from over the seas. Bloodthirsty savages who eat children like you!’

‘Quiet,’ Turan told them. ‘They’re coming closer.’

Yusuf strained to hear. His father was speaking. ‘When will they land, and where?’

‘Acre and Antioch,’ Shirkuh replied. The two men stopped, and Yusuf could see the backs of their heads through the crack in the shutters. ‘As for when, I do not know. Perhaps they have landed already.’

‘How many?’

‘Thousands. Enough to take Damascus, perhaps even Aleppo.’

‘Allah save us,’ Yusuf’s father said. ‘My home and most of what I possess are in Damascus. And if Aleppo and our lord Nur ad-Din fall, then all is lost for us. We have already left two homes behind, Brother. Where would we go next?’

‘It will not come to that, inshallah.’

‘God willing?’ Ayub asked. ‘God turned his back on me the day Baalbek fell.’

‘Careful, Brother, you speak blasphemy.’ The two men stood silent for a moment, then Shirkuh continued. ‘The crusade is dangerous, yes, but it is also an opportunity. Nur ad-Din has a task for you. If you are successful, then you will find yourself restored to his favour.’

‘You have my ear. Speak on, Brother.’

‘Our people are divided. The Fatimids in Egypt quarrel with the Abbasid caliphate in Baghdad. The Seljuks threaten our lord from the north, while Emir Unur in Damascus has allied himself with the Franks. The Christians have exploited these divisions to build their kingdom, but if we join forces, they cannot stand against us. This Crusade can help bind us together. Nur ad-Din asks that you go to Unur and tell him what I have told you. Persuade him to ally with our lord.’

‘I will go, but I do not think Unur will listen.’

‘He will when the Franks march on his city. Fear will bring him to us.’

‘Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ Shirkuh repeated. ‘You should take Turan and Yusuf with you. It is time that they learned their place in the world.’

‘Turan, yes, but Yusuf is too young.’

‘Perhaps, but there is something special about that one.’

‘Yusuf?’ Ayub scoffed. ‘He has been cursed with fits. He will never be a warrior.’

‘Do not be so sure.’

Yusuf did not hear the rest, for Ayub and Shirkuh had moved on, and their voices faded away. ‘Did you hear?’ Turan asked, his eyes shining. ‘Thousands of Franks: this means war! And I am going!’

‘I heard them,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Father said that Damascus might fall.’

‘You’re not afraid, are you, little brother?’ Turan jibed. He exaggerated his breathing, mimicking one of Yusuf’s fits. ‘Afraid-’ gasp ‘-the terrible Franks-’ gasp ‘-will come and get you.’

‘Stop that!’ Zimat ordered. ‘Don’t be childish, Turan.’

‘Zimat!’ It was their mother calling. ‘Where are you? You are supposed to be stirring the mishmishiyya!’

‘I must go.’ Zimat slid down from the pile of fleeces and hurried out.

‘We should go too,’ Yusuf said. ‘If we don’t see to the horses before dinner, Father will have our hides.’

Yusuf arrived at the evening meal freshly scrubbed, wearing a white cotton caftan, the ends of the billowing sleeves embroidered red and the middle belted with red wool. His clothes were immaculate, but his eyes were red and his nose swollen. Ibn Jumay, the family doctor, had seen to him, and the Jew’s treatment had been almost worse than Yusuf’s injuries. First, Ibn Jumay had reset Yusuf’s nose, clucking all the while about the dangers of polo. He had then made Yusuf smoke kunnab leaves in order to reduce the pain and bring down the swelling. The pipe was hardly out of his mouth before Ibn Jumay had smeared Yusuf’s nose inside and out with a noxious unguent that smelled of rotten eggs. The doctor had said the mixture would prevent infection. It would certainly keep Yusuf from enjoying dinner.

In honour of their guest, the floor of the dining room had been covered with the family’s best rug — soft goat hair knotted on to a warp of wool, forming patterns of swirling red flowers and white starbursts against a yellow background. The room was bare of any other decoration, save for a low table that ran down the middle, surrounded by cushions of yellow saffron-stained cotton stuffed with wool. Yusuf took his place at the middle of the table, across from Selim. To his right, Turan sat across from their father, and Shirkuh sat at the head of the table. To Yusuf’s left were Zimat and Yusuf’s mother, Basimah. She was an older, fuller version of Zimat, still beautiful despite the streaks of silver in her long black hair. Normally, they would not have appeared in the presence of a male guest, but Shirkuh was family.

The meal that Basimah and her two kitchen servants had prepared to welcome Shirkuh exceeded even her usual high standards. Crisp, freshly baked flatbread and a roasted eggplant and walnut dip were followed by a divine apricot stew, the sweet fruit blending perfectly with savoury morsels of lamb. Yusuf sighed. It was his favourite dish, but thanks to Ibn Jumay, everything tasted like rotten eggs. Yusuf ignored the food and listened to Ayub and Shirkuh, desperate to know if he would be joining his father on his mission to Damascus. But as the stew gave way to lentils and roast lamb, Ayub and Shirkuh continued to talk of mundane matters: harvests, the size of their herds and that year’s tribute.

Finally, after the last dish had been cleared away, and servants had brought cups of sweet orange juice to refresh them, Yusuf’s father cleared his throat and clapped his hands twice to get their attention. ‘Shirkuh has brought troubling news. The Franks have launched a second crusade. The French king and queen are expected to land in Antioch any day now. They may be there already.’

‘Allah help us!’ Basimah exclaimed. ‘This means war.’

‘That it does,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘And it will be all we can do to turn back the Franks. Our spies say they are bringing hundreds of knights, with those accursed warhorses of theirs. We will need every sword that we can muster.’

‘I will fight!’ Yusuf declared. ‘I am old enough.’

Basimah frowned, but Shirkuh smiled at the boy’s enthusiasm. Ayub’s face remained an expressionless mask as he turned his hard, grey eyes on his son. Yusuf sat up straight and returned his searching stare. Finally, his father nodded. ‘We must all do our part. That is why I must go to Damascus. Tomorrow, my men and I will leave for the city. Turan and Yusuf will come with me.’ Yusuf could not contain his smile.

‘Turan and Yusuf will-not-go!’ Basimah stated, her voice rising with each word. ‘You will not take my sons to be murdered by those barbarians.’

‘Peace, Wife,’ Ayub replied, his voice calm and even. ‘You forget your place.’

‘No, Husband, you forget yours. It is your duty to protect your sons, and yet you propose to lead them like lambs to the slaughter. Do you want them to be taken and sold as slaves? To come of age amidst the infidels?’

‘Our sons will not be taken. I am not bringing them to fight, but they are of an age when they must learn the ways of war. They must come to know our enemy.’

‘And if Damascus falls, what then? The Franks are savages. They know nothing of God or mercy. They know only blood and the sword. They killed my father, my mother, my brother. They-’ Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away. ‘They did horrible things. They will not kill my sons!’

‘If Damascus falls, then your sons will not be safe anywhere,’ Shirkuh said gently. ‘You cannot protect them forever, Basimah.’

Basimah opened her mouth to retort, but Ayub raised his hand, stopping her. ‘I give you my word that no harm will befall Turan or Yusuf. They are my sons, too.’

Basimah’s head fell. ‘Very well,’ she sighed. ‘Come, Zimat. There is work to be done. Let us leave these men to their talk.’ She rose and ushered Zimat out, but then stopped in the doorway. When Basimah turned back to them, her eyes shone with tears. ‘I have your word, Ayub. You will bring my children back to me.’