Eagle

Chapter 7

NOVEMBER 1149 TO APRIL 1150: BAALBEK

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ The penetrating voice of the muezzin woke John. He rolled over on his straw mattress and reached up to pull open the wooden shutter. Only a faint predawn light filtered into his tiny room. As Yusuf’s private slave, John was entitled to a thicker blanket, the straw mattress and his own room — spare and small, but all his. However, he still had to wash with the other slaves. As the muezzin continued his call — ‘Al-salatu khayru min an-nawm’, prayer is better than sleep — John rose and headed for the baths. Taur was already there, and he greeted John with a grin. ‘Look who decided to get up. Did you get your beauty sleep, Saxon?’

‘Obviously, you didn’t get yours,’ John replied as he pulled off his tunic and took a clay jug from the wall. The other slaves stepped respectfully out of John’s way, allowing him access to the water. He filled his jug and dumped it over his head. ‘’Sblood, that’s cold!’ he exclaimed. At least the bathing chamber was heated; a small fire in another chamber ran heat through clay pipes beneath the tile floor.

‘What’s your master got you up to today?’ Taur asked.

‘The usual: more studies, more sword practice. You?’

‘I can’t say.’ John raised his eyebrows, but Taur offered no elaboration. John shrugged. It was none of his business anyway. He tried to avoid Turan as much as possible.

John finished washing and towelled dry. Still, he shivered as he stepped outside. Autumn had come, and a chill mountain air had moved down to blanket the town. He entered the villa and headed along the hallway to Yusuf’s room. The door was open. Inside, Yusuf knelt on a prayer rug, facing a mark on the wall that showed the direction of Mecca. John leaned against the doorframe and watched. Yusuf placed his palms on the ground before him and bent forward until his forehead touched the prayer rug. After a moment, he sat back on his heels. All the time, he quietly murmured the words of the rak’ah, the Muslim prayer ritual. ‘Surely you are the most praiseworthy, the most glorious,’ Yusuf concluded in a louder voice. He turned his head to the right and although he was looking directly at John, he seemed not to notice him. ‘As-salaamu alaykum,’ Yusuf whispered. Peace be with you. He turned to the left and repeated, ‘As-salaamu alaykum.’ Then he began to roll up his prayer rug. ‘Greetings, John,’ he said as he rose and placed the rug in the corner.

‘Morning.’ John pointed to the rug. ‘Do you ever grow tired of that?’

‘Of what?’

‘Of all that bowing and scraping?’

‘Do the Christians not kneel and bow their heads to pray?’

‘We kneel, yes, but we do not grovel before our God.’

‘He is not your God, John,’ Yusuf corrected. ‘There is only one God. And when I prostrate myself before Him, it is not to grovel or beg for favours. It shows my submission to His will. That is my faith.’ Yusuf tilted his head in thought. ‘From what you tell me, your religion requires you to submit to the will of priests of whom you must beg forgiveness. If one must grovel, as you say, is it not better to grovel before God than before other men?’

‘Perhaps,’ John grumbled.

Yusuf grinned triumphantly. ‘I will make a true believer of you yet. Now come. We have much to do today.’

‘And what sort of God do you think was worshipped here?’ Imad ad-Din asked. Yusuf and John had met him on the steps of the temple late that afternoon after practising swordplay. Only twenty-four, Imad ad-Din was already a learned imam — a poet, scholar, legal expert and private secretary to Yusuf’s father, Ayub. Recently, he had also taken over from Ibn Jumay as tutor of Ayub’s children. He was a handsome man with a thick beard, sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose that gave him a hawk-like appearance. The resemblance was heightened when, as now, he fixed his intense brown eyes on his two pupils.

‘The god of war?’ Yusuf hazarded. Imad ad-Din shook his head.

‘The god of love?’ John suggested.

Imad ad-Din smiled. ‘No again. Come, I will show you.’ Their teacher led them to the back wall and pointed to the faint remains of a mosaic, barely visible in the dim light that managed to penetrate the clouds gathering overhead. Yusuf had noticed it before, but had thought little of it. The mosaic of red and gold tiles pictured a man in a short tunic — or perhaps a leopard skin, it was difficult to say — lounging in the shade of a tree. He was crowned with leaves and held a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a goblet in the other.

‘Bacchus,’ Imad ad-Din declared. ‘The god of wine. The lewd rites associated with his cult took place right where we stand. Here his followers would re-enact the life, death and resurrection of Bacchus, before sharing wine in his name.’ He turned to John. ‘Not unlike how you Christians worship Jesus.’

John frowned. ‘Bacchus is a pagan god. It’s not the same.’

‘At first, the Romans considered your Jesus to be a pagan god,’ Imad ad-Din mused. ‘But you are right: the ceremonies are not precisely the same. For it is written that after they had become drunk on wine, the worshippers of Bacchus engaged in wild orgies, where every possible perversion was committed.’

‘The bacchanalia,’ John said. ‘It is a Latin word that remains with us.’

‘Indeed.’ Imad ad-Din shook his head. ‘Is it any wonder that the Roman Empire fell?’ He turned away from the mosaic and led them back towards the front of the temple. ‘What do you take from this, Yusuf?’

‘To beware of the dangers of wine and women. The Prophet was wise in this. He forbids drink to the faithful and sought to tame the lustful hearts of women.’

‘Excess is a dangerous thing,’ Imad ad-Din agreed. ‘But life would be only half as sweet without women and wine. What do you think, John?’

They had reached the front steps, and John gestured back to the temple. ‘We can build nothing so magnificent today. The Romans may have been depraved, but their empire was the greatest the world has ever known.’

‘But they fell,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘Their glory did not last.’

‘No, it did not,’ Imad ad-Din agreed. ‘But what was the cause of their fall? Was it their depravity, or was the Romans’ lack of honour perhaps the reason for their greatness? After all, their empire did last for over four hundred years.’

‘Virtue counts for little amongst men,’ John said. ‘I have seen honest men hanged from the gallows, while liars and scoundrels rule over kingdoms.’ His hand went to his side, where Ernaut had stabbed him long ago at Damascus. ‘I have seen traitors paid in gold, and brave men made slaves.’

‘But no kingdom can last like this,’ Yusuf countered. ‘A king who bases his rule on treachery will find himself betrayed. The righteous ruler will create a kingdom that endures.’

‘Tell me, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din said. ‘Do you believe an empire can be created that lasts forever?’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I do.’

‘And how would you keep this empire together?’

‘When I am king-’

‘When?’ Imad ad-Din chuckled. Yusuf only nodded. ‘You are a Kurd, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din cautioned. ‘You must know your place.’

‘Very well,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘If I were king, I would rule with justice and moderation, and I would enforce the laws of Islam. This will prevent the perversions that undermined the Romans.’

‘And what if the leader himself becomes perverted? Or if his heirs are unjust?’

‘Only the greatest of men should rule, and he must pick his heirs carefully.’

‘The Greek Plato believed something similar,’ Imad ad-Din noted. ‘You truly believe such a man can exist?’

‘I know it.’

Imad ad-Din stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps. But history shows that one great man rarely follows another. What happens to your empire after the king dies?’

‘Maybe empires are not meant to last,’ John offered. ‘Perhaps greatness in one’s own time is all that can be hoped for.’

‘Indeed,’ Imad ad-Din approved. His words were punctuated by the roar of thunder. As Yusuf looked up to the dark sky, a drop hit him, splashing off his nose. Another hit and then another. Lightning flashed across the sky, and an instant later rain began to pour down. Yusuf and Imad ad-Din hurried to take shelter in a corner of the temple, where a portion of the roof remained. John remained standing in the rain, his face turned towards the heavens.

‘That is enough for today,’ Imad ad-Din shouted over the rain. ‘The emir in Damascus has sent for me, and it will be a long ride in this storm. I will return in two days, and we will resume your studies. Until then, think well on what we have said today.’

‘Aiwa, ustadh,’ the Yusuf replied. Yes, teacher.

Yusuf went to John, who grinned at him. ‘Just like home!’

Yusuf shook his head in wonder at his strange friend. ‘Come!’ he shouted. ‘We must return home. There will be feasting tonight to celebrate the first rains of the year.’

The two boys sprinted out of the temple. Yusuf pulled himself into the saddle of his horse and gestured for John to mount behind him. They rode off at a canter, the horse’s hooves splashing in the ankle-deep water flowing down the streets. By the time they arrived at the villa, dusk had fallen. They stabled the horse and headed straight for the kitchen and its warm fires. Inside, preparations for the feast were already underway. Pots hung over the fire releasing mouth-watering smells. Bread was baking in the oven. And people were everywhere: kneading dough at the long table in the middle of the room, chopping vegetables, carrying pails of goat’s milk in from the pantry and adding wood to the fire. Basimah stood in the middle of it all, her hands on her hips as she issued orders. When she noticed Yusuf and John, she frowned.

‘What are you two doing there dripping on my kitchen floor?’ she demanded. ‘The governor of Baalbek is coming tonight. Go and make yourselves presentable.’

John stood against the wall in the dining room, directly behind Yusuf. The low table was crowded with food: crisp, freshly baked flatbread; a steaming vegetable stew; and whole, roasted partridges that had been marinated in a mixture of yoghurt, mint and garlic. John’s mouth watered, but he would have to eat later with the other servants. For now, his role was to stand silent behind his master, ready to do anything he was asked.

Half a dozen of Ayub’s mamluks, led by Abaan, sat at the foot of the table. Yusuf and Selim sat near the table’s head across from Khaldun, the eldest son of Mansur ad-Din, the governor of Baalbek. John studied Khaldun with special interest, for he was to be Zimat’s husband. She had met him for the first time that evening, before the men went to the dining room and the women retired to the harem — the section of the house forbidden to visiting men. Khaldun was thin, with long black hair and pinched features. His father was a plump man with an exceptionally long, curly beard. He sat to the left of his son, and to his left, at the head of the table, was Ayub. The space between Ayub and Yusuf was empty. Turan had not yet arrived.

Ayub frowned as he looked towards the door for at least the tenth time. ‘I apologize again for my son’s tardiness,’ he said to the governor. There were footsteps in the hall, and Ayub’s face brightened. ‘Ah, this must be him.’

But it was not Turan. The doctor Ibn Jumay entered, followed by a Frank in dark priest’s robes. The priest was thin and tan, with a narrow face and brown, tonsured hair. John’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the same priest that he had met his first day in the Holy Land, all those months ago.

Ibn Jumay bowed towards Ayub. ‘Greetings Najm ad-Din. And to you, Mansur ad-Din. I apologize for my late arrival. The rains slowed my return from Jubail, and I did not learn of your invitation until I reached home. I came straightaway.’

‘You are welcome at my table, Ibn Jumay,’ Ayub said. He looked to the priest and scowled. ‘And who is this that you have brought with you?’

‘I am William of Tyre,’ the Frank declared in passable Arabic.

‘I met him in Jubail,’ Ibn Jumay explained. ‘He is a priest and my guest at my home in Baalbek.’

‘If he is your guest, then he is welcome here,’ Ayub said, although his gravelly voice sounded far from welcoming. ‘Sit, both of you.’ The mamluks made room at the centre of the table, and William and Ibn Jumay sat down across from one another.

Ayub held up a piece of round flatbread. ‘We shall begin without Turan. We feast tonight to thank Allah for the rains He has sent us.’ He broke the bread in half. ‘To Allah! And may our crops grow tall and our livestock fat under this rain.’ He dipped his bread in the stew and ate. The others at the table followed suit.

Mansur ad-Din was toying with his beard as he examined the Frankish priest. ‘Tell, me. What brings you to my lands, William of Tyre?’

‘Curiosity. I have long wished to see the temple of Baalbek. It was a Christian church once. I was at the home of William of Jubail when Ibn Jumay visited to treat the lord’s son. Ibn Jumay offered to escort me to Baalbek, so I came.’

‘It is dangerous for a Christian to travel in Muslim lands,’ Ayub noted. ‘You might be taken for a spy.’

‘I am a man of God. I carry no arms, and I mean no harm.’

‘If you carry no arms,’ Mansur ad-Din noted, ‘then you will be easy pickings for bandits and thieves upon your return.’

William smiled. ‘God will watch over me.’

‘ Hmph.’ Ayub’s forehead creased. ‘When you return, I will send two men to escort you back to Christian lands.’ He looked to Ibn Jumay. ‘How did your patient fare?’

Ibn Jumay sighed. ‘Not well, I fear. He is dead.’

‘You could not cure him? I have never known you to fail before.’

‘Oh, I could have saved him from his illness, but I could not save him from his own people.’ Ayub’s eyebrows arched questioningly, and Ibn Jumay continued. ‘My patient was a knight, the nephew of the lord of Jubail. His thigh was cut in one of their tournaments, and an abscess formed. By the time I arrived, it had grown so large that the man could no longer walk. I applied a poultice to his leg, and the abscess opened and began to heal.’

‘So how did he die?’ Ayub asked.

Ibn Jumay frowned. ‘A Frankish doctor arrived. He called me a charlatan and had me chased from the sick man’s room, but I listened at the door. This madman asked the knight if he would rather live with one leg or die with two. When the knight replied that he would rather live with one leg, the doctor sent for a man with a sharp axe. It took two blows to sever the leg. Blood was everywhere. The Frankish doctor could not stop the bleeding. I watched the knight die while a man-at-arms held me back.’

‘Bloody savages,’ Mansur ad-Din muttered.

‘Not all our doctors are such butchers,’ William noted. ‘But alas, there are some such among us. We have much to learn from your people.’

‘The Franks do not seem interested in learning,’ Ayub replied. ‘Only in taking. Look at what happened at Damascus. The ruler befriended you, and yet you sent your crusaders against his city.’

‘There are many among us who did not wish to attack Damascus,’ William said. ‘Queen Melisende believes that there can be peace between our peoples. Her son, Amalric, believes the same.’

‘But Amalric is not king, nor is Melisende. Baldwin rules in Jerusalem.’

‘He rules alongside his mother. She is still the true power, even more so after the failure to take Damascus.’

‘A woman ruling over men!’ Mansur ad-Din scoffed.

‘But a wise woman,’ William countered.

‘ Hmph,’ Mansur ad-Din snorted. ‘Still a woman.’

At that moment, Turan entered with Taur trailing behind him. Both walked stiffly; John guessed they had ridden far that day.

‘Where have you been?’ Ayub snapped at Turan.

‘I was in town. I was delayed by the rain. I apologize.’

‘Apologize to our guests, who you have insulted.’

Turan bowed. ‘My apologies honoured governor, Khaldun.’

Mansur ad-Din, his mouth filled with partridge meat, waved his hand dismissively. ‘It is of no matter.’

Turan sat down, and Taur took up his place next to John. Ayub studied his son. ‘Tell us, Turan. What were you doing in town?’

Turan hesitated, his eyes roving the room as if searching for the answer. ‘I–I was with friends, practising swordplay.’

Mansur ad-Din brightened at this. In his younger days, the governor had had a reputation as a swordsman. ‘My son tells me that you are quite fearsome with a sword, Turan.’

Turan sat up straighter. ‘None my age can best me.’

‘And what of you, young Yusuf?’ Mansur ad-Din asked. ‘Are you also a terror with the sword?’

‘Yusuf prefers books to swords,’ Turan sneered.

Yusuf ignored him. ‘I try to cultivate my mind as well as my body. I believe the two can be equally dangerous weapons.’

‘Well said,’ Khaldun murmured.

‘Indeed,’ Mansur ad-Din agreed. He turned to Ayub and began to speak in a low voice, a signal that the others at the table could talk as they pleased. Soon the room was buzzing with conversation.

John took advantage of the opportunity to whisper to Taur. ‘Where were you really?’ Taur smiled slyly, but did not reply. ‘Surely you were not in town all day,’ John insisted. ‘You were stiff as a priest’s cock when you walked in here.’

‘I cannot say,’ Taur whispered back. ‘My master would kill me.’

‘He doesn’t have to know,’ John offered, but Taur shook his head and refused to speak.

The next morning Yusuf was shaken awake by the mamluk, Abaan. Yusuf looked to the shuttered window in his room. No light filtered through. ‘Your father requests your presence in the interior courtyard,’ Abaan said. He began to leave, then stopped in the doorway when he saw that Yusuf had not yet moved. ‘Now!’

Yusuf rolled out of bed and pulled on his cotton pants, tunic and a brown caftan. He slipped on his sandals and belted his caftan around his waist as he walked down the cool, shadowy corridor to the courtyard. He entered to find his father waiting in the dim predawn light, his arms crossed and his face a blank mask. Turan stood next to him. He sneered at Yusuf, who scowled back. Next to Ayub and Turan was a third man — a Bedouin, one of the nomadic people who wandered the wastes beyond the villages, driving their flocks from pasture to pasture.

The man wore a caftan of rough cotton and a white turban, tied in place with a black ribbon. He was very short, with a thick black beard, beak-like nose and penetrating grey eyes. The man’s mouth was set in a thin line. As Yusuf approached, his father turned to the shepherd. ‘Is this the one?’

The Bedouin’s forehead wrinkled as he examined Yusuf. ‘I cannot be sure. But it was one of your sons, of that much I am certain.’

Ayub frowned and turned to face his sons. ‘Waqar here is the sheikh of his tribe.’

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Waqar,’ Yusuf and Turan said, welcoming him. The sheikh did not reply.

‘Waqar has come to lay a serious charge against one of you,’ Ayub said.

The shepherd nodded. ‘Yesterday, I rose before sunrise and rode into Baalbek with my sons to trade. When I returned that night, I found that my camp had been raided. There were at least two men. They killed one of my goats and raped my young daughter. She was to be married this spring, and now she is worthless. My brother chased the intruders off, and in their hurry they left behind a horse. It bore the brand of Najm ad-Din.’ The shepherd pointed an accusing finger at Turan, then at Yusuf. ‘One of you did this. I demand justice!’

‘Forgive my impertinence, ya sidi,’ Yusuf said to the shepherd, addressing him respectfully as sir. ‘But perhaps it was one of my father’s men who did this terrible crime. The horse alone proves nothing.’

‘It was no man,’ Waqar spat. ‘My daughter swears that the one who shamed her was no older than she.’

‘It was Yusuf!’ Turan burst out. ‘Yusuf and that Frankish slave of his. They must have done it.’

‘He lies!’ Yusuf protested.

‘Silence!’ Ayub roared. ‘You shame me with your childish behaviour.’ He turned to Turan. ‘Explain yourself. Why do you say that Yusuf did this thing?’

‘Because I could not have done it, Father. I was in town all of yesterday. My friends, Idiq and Rakin, will vouch for me.’

‘What do you say to this, Yusuf?’

‘I was with Imad ad-Din yesterday afternoon. I could not have raided this man’s camp.’

Ayub’s mouth set in a hard line as he looked from one of his sons to the other. ‘One of you is lying. Admit your fault now, and I will be lenient.’ Neither Turan nor Yusuf spoke. ‘Very well,’ Ayub said. ‘You will be judged, and judged harshly. I will sell the slave of whichever of you did this deed; he let you commit this crime, which makes him as guilty as you. And whoever did this will marry the sheikh’s daughter and will pay the bride gift out of his inheritance.’ He turned to Waqar, who was smiling at his good fortune; to be connected by marriage to the household of Nur ad-Din was more than he could have hoped for. ‘The local imam, Imad ad-Din is a wise man. He returns from Damascus tomorrow, and I will ask him to judge the case. Tonight, you will be my guest. Tomorrow, you shall have justice.’

Yusuf sat cross-legged on the floor of the dining room and listened as a rooster’s crowing broke the morning silence. Despite the early hour, the room was already full with men who had come to hear his case. The long, low table had been removed to create space for an impromptu court. At one end of the room, Imad ad-Din sat on a pile of cushions, his expression stern. To his left sat Ayub and to his right the Bedouin Waqar, who maintained a permanent scowl.

Yusuf sat before them, with Turan on his left. Immediately behind Turan were the men he had brought as witnesses: his friends Idiq and Rakin, his slave Taur and a bearded man that Yusuf did not recognize. Only John sat with Yusuf. The back of the room was crowded with his father’s men, Abaan at their head.

Imad ad-Din cleared his throat, and Yusuf turned his eyes back to him. ‘The case before us is not clear,’ the imam began. ‘Both of the accused claim to have been in Baalbek when the crime was committed. Today, we shall find the truth of the matter. Turan.’ Imad ad-Din beckoned Turan forward. ‘State your case.’

‘I was in town all of yesterday in the company of Idiq and Rakin,’ Turan said, gesturing to his two friends. ‘My slave and I left shortly after morning prayers. We took two horses from the stables. We returned with two horses in time for the feast. My father saw me there. I could not have done this shameful deed.’

‘I see.’ Imad ad-Din paused, his brown eyes burrowing into Turan, who lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘I have examined your father’s stables. I found a horse there that does not bear the brand of your father. Do you know where this horse might have come from, Turan?’

‘I do not know. Ask Yusuf.’

Imad ad-Din ignored the suggestion. ‘You were in town all of yesterday, you say? Tell me, what were you doing?’

Turan hesitated. His eyes flitted from his father to the floor and back. ‘I was at a tavern.’ Ayub frowned.

‘A tavern?’ Imad ad-Din asked. ‘Which one?’

‘Akhtar’s.’

‘A place of ill-repute, gambling and prostitution,’ Ayub growled. ‘Such conduct does you little credit, Son.’

‘Nevertheless,’ Imad ad-Din said, ‘if Turan was at Akhtar’s then he could not have also raided Waqar’s camp. Turan, you may sit.’ Turan smirked triumphantly as he took his seat. ‘Idiq, Rakin,’ Imad ad-Din called. ‘Come forward.’ The two young men approached. They were Turan’s frequent companions when he smoked hashish, local boys with wispy facial hair and pimply faces. Rakin stood with his head down and his hands clasped before him. Idiq held his head high and met Imad ad-Din’s gaze. ‘Idiq, do you swear that you were with Turan all of yesterday?’ Imad ad-Din asked.

‘Yes,’ Idiq said confidently.

‘And you, Rakin?’

‘I was with him all day,’ Rakin affirmed in an adolescent warble.

‘And you passed the day at Akhtar’s?’ Both boys nodded. ‘Did you win at the tables?’

Rakin’s forehead creased, and he looked to Turan. Idiq looked equally unsure. ‘We-we did,’ Idiq said at last.

‘How much?’

The two boys looked at each other. ‘Three dirhams,’ Rakin said. ‘Idiq was lucky at dice.’

‘I see,’ Imad ad-Din mused. ‘I notice that you have your purse with you, Idiq. May I see it.’

‘I–I-’ Idiq stuttered.

‘Come, give it here, boy,’ Imad ad-Din insisted. Idiq handed the purse over. Imad ad-Din opened it and shook the contents into his hand. ‘Four fals,’ he said, holding up the cheap copper coins. ‘Where did your winnings go?’

‘Women,’ Turan interjected. ‘We spent them on women.’

‘Silence!’ Imad ad-Din snapped. ‘You were not questioned, Turan.’ He turned back to Idiq. ‘You spent this money on women?’ The boy nodded. Imad turned his penetrating gaze upon Rakin. ‘Tell me about the woman you purchased, Rakin.’

‘She-she was beautiful,’ Rakin stammered.

Imad ad-Din nodded. ‘I am sure. Of what did her beauty consist?’

Rakin stared up to the ceiling, as if he might see a picture of the woman painted there. ‘She had brown eyes-and brown hair-and brown skin. She had very large breasts.’

‘And were they brown as well?’ Rakin’s blush deepened. He nodded. ‘Very well,’ Imad ad-Din said with a frown. ‘You may both sit.’ Imad ad-Din dipped a quill in ink and wrote something, then turned to Turan. ‘Do you have anything to add?’

‘Akhtar, the owner of the tavern, is here,’ Turan said, gesturing towards a thin-faced man seated cross-legged behind him.

The man had thinning black hair, light skin and dark rings under his eyes. His rather gentle features were marred by a cleft lip. ‘He will vouch for my story.’

‘Come forward, Akhtar,’ Imad ad-Din said. The tavern owner unfolded his long limbs and rose.

‘Your Exthellenthe,’ he lisped and bowed to Ayub, who nodded back. Akhtar turned to face Imad ad-Din.

‘Were Turan and his friends at your tavern yesterday?’ Imad ad-Din asked.

‘Yeth.’

‘And what did they do there?’

‘They gambled, thmoked hashish and had women. As usual.’

‘Turan is a regular client?’ Akhtar nodded. ‘And what of this brown girl? The prostitute?’

‘Buthayna,’ Akhtar said. ‘She is from Africa, and she doeth have very large breast-th. You can come to my tavern and examine her, if you like.’

Imad ad-Din grimaced. ‘That will not be necessary. You may sit.’ He turned to Yusuf and waved him forward. Yusuf kept his head up and met his teacher’s gaze. ‘Turan presents a strong case,’ Imad ad-Din said. ‘What do you have to say in your defence, Yusuf?’

‘I was with you, ustadh, all afternoon. Before that, I was in Baalbek with my servant, John, practising swordplay. I could not have done this crime.’

‘John, is this true?’ Imad ad-Din asked, looking to the slave.

John stood. ‘Yes, ustadh. It is as my master says.’

‘He lies!’ Turan spat. ‘The word of a slave means nothing.’

‘That is enough, Turan,’ Imad ad-Din admonished. He turned back to Yusuf. ‘But he is correct. A slave’s word stands for nothing in court. Did anyone else see you practising?’

‘No,’ Yusuf admitted. ‘We practised in the Roman temple. No one saw us.’

‘How convenient,’ Turan snorted.

Imad ad-Din ignored the outburst. ‘And after our lesson, how did you return from the temple?’

‘I rode.’

‘And your servant?’

Yusuf opened his mouth, then froze. The truth was that John had ridden with him because of the rain, but if he spoke true, then it would only condemn him. After all, Waqar had captured one of Ayub’s horses. It would look as if Yusuf and John had raided the camp, then been forced to ride back together.

‘I–I-’ Yusuf stuttered.

‘I saw you and John ride away on the same horse, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din said.

‘The case is settled then!’ Waqar burst out. He pointed a stubby finger in Yusuf’s direction. ‘It must have been the young one!’

‘No!’ Yusuf protested. ‘I did not do it.’ He breathed deeply, trying to remain calm. Everything pointed to his guilt: the testimony of Akhtar; Yusuf’s own lack of witnesses; his return with John on a single horse — that was it! ‘I can prove my innocence!’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ Turan spluttered.

Imad ad-Din held up a hand to silence Turan. ‘Explain yourself, Yusuf.’

‘Ustadh, you met me at the temple after afternoon prayers,’ Yusuf said.

‘So?’ Turan interjected. ‘This proves nothing. You could have raided the Bedouin camp in the morning.’

‘On the contrary,’ Yusuf countered. ‘Waqar has told us that he was camped in the mountains, several leagues up the Orontes River. Even had I pressed my horse, it would have taken me from sunrise to nearly midday just to reach Waqar’s tents. Then, if I turned and rode straight back, I would have arrived just in time for my lesson.’

‘I do not understand,’ Ayub said. ‘By your own admission, then, you could have done this crime.’

‘No. Imad ad-Din has said that my slave and I returned on one horse. He speaks true. There is no way that we could have ridden from this man’s camp on one horse and arrived so quickly, much less would we have had time to rape his daughter or to roast and eat a goat.’ Yusuf gestured towards Turan, whose face had begun to turn red. ‘By his own admission, Turan left early and was gone all day. He had more than enough time to commit this crime.’

Imad ad-Din stroked his beard. ‘Very clever, Yusuf.’ Yusuf exhaled in relief, but then Imad ad-Din continued. ‘But this proves nothing. I saw you leave the temple on one horse, but that does not mean that you could not have ridden back from the Bedouin camp on two. And besides, I cannot place your reasoning — no matter how clever — above the word of three men. Do you have anything else to add before I pass judgement?’ Yusuf’s mind raced, but he could think of no way to prove his innocence. ‘Very well,’ Imad ad-Din sighed. ‘Turan, come forward. I am prepared to deliver my verdict.’

Turan rose to join Yusuf. ‘Who is the clever one now, little brother?’ he whispered under his breath.

Imad ad-Din cleared his throat. ‘Yusuf, I find that-’

‘Wait!’ Yusuf interrupted. ‘I have something to add.’ He glanced at Turan. ‘My brother spoke true about one thing: he could not have committed this crime.’

‘What do you mean?’ Imad ad-Din asked, his eyes wide.

Yusuf looked to the floor. ‘I–I cannot say.’

‘Speak!’ Ayub told him. ‘I command it.’

‘Very well.’ Yusuf looked to Waqar. ‘The beauty of your daughter is well known. Turan never would have ridden so far to be with her.’

‘And why not?’ Imad ad-Din asked.

Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I know my brother. He has no feeling for women.’

‘What!’ Turan cried.

‘He might be interested in the goat, ya sidi, but not your daughter.’

Turan raised a fist and took a step towards Yusuf. ‘You lie!’

‘I speak the truth,’ Yusuf shouted over his brother. ‘Turan would never have touched her.’

‘You lying bastard!’ Turan shoved Yusuf, knocking him to the ground and stood over him, his hands clenched into fists. ‘I had the girl! More than once! You are the goat-fucker!’

The room fell silent. All eyes fixed on Turan. His face reddened as he realized what he had said. ‘You bastard,’ he growled at Yusuf. ‘You tricked me!’ He lunged for Yusuf, but Ayub’s man Abaan grabbed him from behind and held him back.

As Yusuf rose from the floor, he looked past Turan to his father, who was shaking his head in disgust. ‘Imad ad-Din, what do you say?’ Ayub asked.

‘Turan has admitted his guilt. Let justice be done.’

‘But Father-’ Turan began.

‘Silence!’ Ayub snapped. He rose and everyone in the hall did likewise. Ayub turned to Waqar. ‘We are brothers now. My oldest son will marry your daughter.’ He placed his hands on the shepherd’s shoulders, and kissed him three times on the lips. Waqar nodded, speechless. There were tears of joy in his eyes.

Ayub turned from Waqar and approached Turan. ‘You disappoint me, my son. Maybe marriage will cool your blood.’ He marched out of the hall, leaving Turan red-faced.

Yusuf leaned close to his brother. ‘Congratulations on your marriage, Brother,’ he whispered, then followed his father from the hall.

Yusuf stood shivering in the courtyard of the villa, his ceremonial white-silk caftan pulled close about him. The winter had been long and hard, and even now, in April, the weather was unseasonably cold. The dozens of guests — men on one side of the courtyard and women on the other — looked miserable as they stamped their feet and blew on their hands while waiting for the wedding ceremony to begin. But none looked more miserable than the groom. Turan stood next to Yusuf, wearing a pure-white caftan, belted with a length of saffron-yellow silk. His turban was also held in place with yellow silk. Last night, at the henna ceremony, the little finger on his right hand had been painted with intricate, swirling patterns in dark brown. His sparse, adolescent beard had been filled out with kohl. He looked every bit the perfect groom, except for the grimace stretched across his face.

A cheer went up from the crowd, and the frown on Turan’s face deepened as his bride-to-be, Sa’ida, rode through the gates of the villa on the back of a camel led by her smiling father, Waqar. Sa’ida was also dressed in white, with only her hands, feet and eyes showing. Her eyes had been outlined with kohl and her hands and feet decorated with henna. Yusuf guessed that she had also used powders to lighten her face, because the skin around her eyes was ghostly pale. Either that or she was simply frightened of what was to come. Indeed, her wide eyes, which were locked on Turan, spoke of something close to terror.

The camel stopped, and Waqar helped his daughter to dismount. He took her arm and led her towards Turan. She stopped before him, and Turan presented her with a necklace of beaten gold, his bride gift. The rest of her bride price — fifty fleeces, ten sheep, two fine horses and ten dinars — had already been delivered. Turan placed the necklace around Sa’ida’s neck, and Yusuf noticed that she flinched when his hands touched her. The two then turned to face Ayub.

‘I call on all of you to witness this marriage,’ Ayub called out to the crowd. He turned to his son. ‘Turan, will you take this woman, Sa’ida bint Waqar?’

Turan nodded. ‘Yes.’

Ayub turned to Waqar. ‘Waqar, will your daughter accept my son, Turan, in marriage?’ Sa’ida looked positively terrified.

Her hands shook, and her wide eyes scanned the crowd as if looking for help.

‘Yes!’ Waqar bellowed. ‘She gladly accepts.’ The crowd cheered, and Waqar grinned.

‘Let us have feasting and celebration!’ Ayub shouted. The crowd cheered again and servants rushed forward to serve the men. The women retreated to behind the villa, where they would have their own celebration.

Yusuf stepped forward and took Sa’ida’s trembling hands. She was crying. ‘You are welcome in our family,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘If you need a friend, you may come to me.’ She nodded her thanks, and Yusuf turned to Turan. He grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him three times on the lips. ‘Congratulations.’

Turan did not thank him. Leaning close, he whispered in Yusuf’s ear: ‘You will pay for this, Brother.’