Holy War

Chapter 3

April 1183: Diyarbakir

‘I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.’ Yusuf looked to his right and murmured, ‘Peace be upon you.’ He looked left and repeated the phrase. He rose, his morning prayers completed, and stepped outside his tent. The hundreds of tiny plates of his golden jawshan armour flashed in the light of the newly risen sun. Before him, the Tigris River valley was covered in a low mist pierced by the roofs of hundreds of tents. Beyond them, his men had drawn up ranks on the plain. The thousand closest to Yusuf were mounted, but the rest were on foot and the mist came up to their chests. Spears as numerous as blades of grass poked up from the ranks.

Beyond the army rose the black walls of Diyarbakir. They were fifteen feet thick and reached a height of forty feet. Massive towers studded the wall and framed each of the city’s four gates. They were the most impressive fortifications Yusuf had ever seen, and they had made the emir of Diyarbakir bold. Yusuf had spent the last months isolating Aleppo by subduing the towns and fortresses between it and Mosul. The cities of Edessa, Saruj, Rakka and Nisbin had surrendered with hardly a fight. But Ishfaq of Diyarbakir had decided to resist. Yusuf would make an example of him. After today, none of the other minor emirs would dare oppose Yusuf.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Malik,’ Qaraqush called as he approached along the spine of the hill with Ubadah at his side. Behind them came Muhammad. The carefully groomed emir of Hisn Kaifa had soft hands, an immaculately trimmed beard and a tongue of silver. He looked uncomfortable in a coat of heavy mail. He was one of three emirs of Al-Jazirah who had joined Yusuf in return for new lands. Muhammad had been promised Diyarbakir.

Saruj had gone to Gokbori, the governor of Harran, who was huffing along after Muhammad. He was as fat as Muhammad was thin, with red cheeks and a curly black beard that hung down to his ample belly. ‘A beautiful day for a battle!’ he declared with a grin as he tucked his beard inside his suit mail. ‘Been growing this since I was a boy. Don’t want it to get cut off, Malik.’

‘You know what they say about men with long beards,’ muttered Nu’man. The emir of Al-Birah was short, almost a dwarf, with pinched features and a scowl that never seemed to leave his face. He wore a suit of oft-repaired mail that looked to have seen a dozen battles, and strapped to his back a massive battle-axe. Yusuf had given Nu’man the rich city of Edessa, and he had not regretted it. He would not have wanted the man as a foe.

‘And what would you know about the size of my cock?’ Gokbori asked the short man. ‘Did your mother give you a full report? Hah!’

Nu’man’s scowl deepened. Qaraqush guffawed but then grew serious as he turned to Yusuf. ‘The men await your command.’

Yusuf kept his instructions simple, so there would be no misunderstandings. ‘When the horn sounds, Ubadah will lead the first wave. His men will strike the western wall, forcing the defenders to spread themselves thin. The torchbearers will strike there.’ Yusuf pointed to where three weeks of tunnelling and bombardment had opened a ten-foot gap in the wall. The city’s defenders had built a wooden wall atop the rubble. ‘Once that wall begins to burn, the drums will signal for the second wave to attack. Qaraqush and Gokbori, you will lead five hundred men through the gap and open the gate.’

Muhammad stepped forward. ‘As Diyarbakir has been promised to me, I request the honour of leading the-’

‘I will lead the cavalry charge myself,’ Yusuf said. ‘Once we have taken control of the central square, Muhammad will move on to secure the north gate and Nu’man the south. I will take the east gate. You all understand your roles?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Take your positions, and Allah yasalmak.’

As his emirs departed, Yusuf went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He checked to see that his shield, light spear, bow and quiver were all in place, and looked up to Diyarbakir. The sun had risen clear of the horizon and was gilding the city’s tallest minaret with golden light. On the plain before the city, Ubadah was galloping towards the front ranks of the army. His red standard dipped when he was in position.

Yusuf nodded to Saqr. ‘Signal the attack.’

Haa-room! Saqr blew a piercing blast on a curved ram’s horn. Before the sound had faded, the front ranks of Yusuf’s army were already surging forward, spreading out across the golden plain like ink spilling over parchment. A cloud of arrows flew from the wall. Most fell harmlessly to the ground or thumped into the shields that the foot-soldiers had raised over their heads. The stones hurled by catapults mounted on the towers struck with more devastating effect. They splintered shields, crushed helmets and ripped off limbs. But the catapults were too few to slow the charge. Yusuf’s men reached the wall and began to throw up ladders. Other men hurled grappling hooks and climbed up the ropes. A soft breeze from the east brought Yusuf the din of battle — screams of pain and rage mixed with the clang of steel upon steel.

The torchbearers had reached the breach and were hurling torches at the foot of the temporary wall. The wood began to smoke, but then the defenders tipped several cauldrons of water over the wall and extinguished the flames. Yusuf’s face remained impassive, but inside he was cursing. The emir of Diyarbakir was a clever man. He had been prepared.

‘Shall I signal the retreat, Malik?’ Saqr asked.

‘No. We will give Ubadah more time.’

Yusuf had spotted his nephew. He thought the red cloth that Ubadah tied about his helmet was a foolish affectation, but Ubadah claimed it helped his troops to rally to him in battle, much like Yusuf’s golden armour. It seemed to be working now. Ubadah was on horseback only a dozen yards from the breach. He waved his sword, gathering several dozen men around him, and then pointed his sword to the wall. Some of the men began shooting arrows at the defenders while the rest ran forward and threw grappling hooks over the wooden barrier. But instead of climbing, they began to pull on the ropes. The wooden wall shook, then tilted outwards and collapsed.

‘Saqr, signal Qaraqush and Gokbori.’

‘Drums!’ The command was relayed to the drummers at the base of the hill. Boom, boom, boom. They beat their large goatskin drums, and five hundred mamluks surged forward with Qaraqush and Gokbori at their head. Boom, boom, boom. The beat increased, and the men began to run, driving like a spearhead towards the gap in the wall.

Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Sound the horn when the gate opens.’

The hundred men of Yusuf’s khaskiya fell in around him as he rode down the hill. The ranks of the cavalry waiting below parted to allow him and his private bodyguard to ride to the front, where he joined Nu’man and Muhammad. From the plain, the walls of the city looked even taller. He could see men swarming around the breach, but it was difficult to make out what was happening. He busied himself stringing his bow. To his left, Muhammad was readying a large shield. His free hand drummed nervously on the hilt of his sword. Beyond him, Nu’man held his double-bladed war-axe in both hands. Yusuf located Nasir ad-Din in the ranks of cavalry. He hoped his cousin was sober for a change.

Yusuf raised his voice. ‘The men of Diyarbakir have defied us, and now they will suffer for their arrogance. Spare the women and children, but grant no quarter to any warrior. And bring me the head of Ishfaq!’

Yusuf’s last words were lost in the blast of the horn sounding behind them. He readied his small shield and took his light bamboo spear from his saddle. ‘It is time, men. For Allah!’

‘For Saladin!’ the men roared back.

Yusuf spurred his horse to a gallop. He passed fallen men, some dead, some moaning in pain. He weaved around a man whose chest had been crushed by a rock from a catapult. Ahead, the Urfa gate was open. As Yusuf neared it, arrows began to fall around him. One struck him in the chest, but did not penetrate his mail. He spurred his horse still faster. He sped through the gate but then pulled back on the reins; the road ahead was blocked by several hundred enemy foot-soldiers with spears bristling from their ranks.

Nu’man galloped past, his axe raised high. ‘Kill the bastards!’ he roared. ‘Kill them all!’ He rode straight for the enemy, turned at the last second and swung down, cleaving a man’s skull in two. He urged his horse into the gap, hacking at the men to his left and right.

Yusuf followed. He jabbed his spear, catching one of the enemy soldiers in the throat. The next man caught the spear on his shield, and the bamboo shaft shattered. Yusuf drew his sword and spurred on into the enemy ranks. A warrior jabbed at him, and Yusuf twisted out of the way as he slashed across the man’s face, spraying the cobblestones with blood. A spear glanced off Yusuf’s side, tearing away several scales of his gold armour. He hacked down at his attacker, and the man cried out in pain as the sword cut through his mail and into his shoulder. As Yusuf wrenched the blade free, another man plunged a spear into the neck of his horse. The beast collapsed, and Yusuf rolled free before it pinned him beneath it. He sprang to his feet just in time to sidestep another spear thrust. Yusuf cut across his attacker’s thigh, dropping him. He heard a shout from behind and was turning when an enemy soldier slammed into him, knocking away Yusuf’s sword and sending the two of them skidding across the bloody cobblestones. The man who ended up on top of Yusuf had a bushy black beard and wild eyes. His hands closed around Yusuf’s throat. Yusuf tugged at the man’s arms, but it was no use. His foe had the heavily muscled forearms and thick fingers of a smith. Lights began to swim before Yusuf’s eyes. His gasped in vain for breath.

‘Die!’ the bearded man growled, showing rotting brown teeth. ‘Die!’

Suddenly, the pressure on Yusuf’s throat lessened as someone grabbed a handful of the man’s beard from behind and yanked his head back. His throat was slit, spattering Yusuf’s face with hot blood. The bearded man slumped to the side. In his place stood Nasir ad-Din. He extended his hand and helped Yusuf to his feet.

‘Shukran, cousin,’ Yusuf managed. His throat was bruising already, and it hurt to speak. Yusuf looked about for someone to fight, but the enemy had begun to fall back, retreating towards the square at the centre of the town. Yusuf’s men spurred after them, and the retreat became a rout.

‘Congratulations, Malik,’ Muhammad said as he gingerly picked his way towards Yusuf over dead bodies. There was not a drop of blood on the emir’s armour or on the blade of his sword. ‘A great victory. I-’

‘Malik!’ Nu’man was cantering towards them. A cut above the dwarf’s eye had left his face masked in blood. He held a decapitated head in his hands. Nu’man slid from the saddle and held it towards Yusuf. ‘The head of Ishfaq of Diyarbakir.’

Ishfaq had been a thin man with hollow cheeks and steel-grey hair. His bloodless face looked strangely peaceful. Yusuf tossed it aside. ‘Thank you, Nu’man.’

Muhammad looked as if he were going to be sick. ‘Excuse me, Malik.’ He gestured to the walls. ‘Diyarbakir is mine now. Its soldiers are laying down their arms. Perhaps it would be best to spare them?’

Yusuf shook his head. Killing defenceless men did not sit well with him, but it had to be done. ‘I know Imad ad-Din, the ruler of Aleppo. After he learns what happened here today, he will not stand against us.’

June 1183: Aleppo

The sound of the muezzins calling the faithful of Aleppo to evening prayer reached Yusuf as little more than a faint murmur as he completed his circuit outside the city walls. He would make up the prayers he missed that night. For now, seeing to his men was more important. It had been more than a year since Yusuf and his men had left Cairo, and he knew they were weary of war. The emirs wished to return to their lands, and the mamluks grumbled of arrears in pay. It was only Yusuf’s force of will that kept the army together. So each evening and morning, with only Saqr at his side, he walked around the city, stopping to encourage and commiserate with the men that he had stationed before each of Aleppo’s six gates. As he approached the next watch, some of the men rubbed their fingers together in the universal sign for coin.

Yusuf greeted them with a smile. ‘You shall have your pay soon enough, men, when Aleppo falls.’

A thin, grizzled warrior stepped forward. Husam had already fought for Shirkuh for many years when Yusuf met him. He removed a piece of straw from between his teeth before he spoke. ‘And when might that be, Malik?’

Yusuf knew Husam spoke for the other mamluks. The old warrior’s long service had earned him the right to be more direct. ‘Soon enough,’ Yusuf promised.

Husam smiled, and his gold tooth glinted. ‘That’s what you said yesterday.’

‘And it is just as true today. The siege is twenty days old. Food will be running short in the city. But worse than the lack of food is the absence of hope. We have conquered all of the fortresses between Aleppo and Mosul. No one will come to save Aleppo, and the people of the city know it. They also know what will happen if we take the city by force. It is this knowledge that will open the gates to us.’

A young mamluk with a patchy beard stepped up beside Husam. ‘Talk of hope is all well and good, but I want money. We are not slaves, but soldiers. I expect to be-’

Husam slapped him, jerking the man’s head to the side. The old mamluk grabbed his young companion by the chin. ‘I have served Saladin for over thirty years, and in all that time, I have never known his word to prove false. If he says the city will soon fall, then it will fall.’

The man rubbed his cheek, then turned to Yusuf and bowed. ‘My apologies, Malik.’

Yusuf nodded and continued on his way. So long as he had men like Husam, he knew he could count on his army. He strode through a field of spring wheat towards the final watch, which guarded the Gate of Gardens. The men were lounging in the green grass that grew near the Quweq River. They rose at his approach. Az-Zahir stepped forward. Yusuf had given each of his sons command of one of the watches. Al-Afdal, Al-Aziz and Az-Zahir had joined the army two weeks ago. In letters, Shamsa insisted that the boys were too young to go to war, but Yusuf wanted them by his side when he took Aleppo. Looking at Az-Zahir, however, made him think that perhaps Shamsa had the right of it. The nine-year-old boy’s mail armour hung in folds from his skinny frame. He stood straight, though, and met his father’s gaze without blinking. He reminded Yusuf of himself at that age.

‘Malik,’ Az-Zahir greeted him formally.

‘All is well?’

‘No sign of movement in the city.’

‘At the first sign of a sortie, sound your horn. Keep your men around you at all times. Your first duty-’

‘Is to stay alive. I know, Father.’

‘Good. Carry on.’

Yusuf turned towards the camp. It had been set up amidst the gardens on the far side of the Quweq River, which would provide a line of defence against any sorties from the city. The dusty path that Yusuf and Saqr followed led them between orchards of pistachio and olive trees and over a wooden bridge. The light was fading from the sky by the time he reached his red tent, perched on a hill at the centre of the camp. He entered and turned to Saqr.

‘Inform Taqi ad-Din, Qaraqush and my sons that they are invited to dine in my tent. Nasir ad-Din is to come as well.’ Yusuf had yet to properly thank his cousin for saving his life at Diyarbakir. He would reinstate him as emir of Homs. Inshallah, the boy would rule more wisely this time.

While Saqr relayed the message to the runners outside, Yusuf stepped into the screened-off portion of his tent and removed his armour. He donned a padded vest lined with steel plates — a precaution against assassins — and over it, a caftan. He poured a glass of water and took a long drink, then stepped back into the main room. Servants had spread down-filled cushions around a low round table set with bowls of creamy hummus and a basket of flatbread. Yusuf sat while he waited for his guests.

Qaraqush arrived first, looking uncomfortable in robes of indigo blue silk. He was followed shortly afterwards by Ubadah. Yusuf’s sons entered together. Al-Afdal, almost twelve, was tall and well muscled. He reminded Yusuf of his brother Turan. Al-Aziz was just as tall but thin as a reed. He was a fearless child, who was determined to do anything his older brother did. Az-Zahir came last. The boys remained silent during supper, while Yusuf and his advisors discussed the siege. They were finishing the last course when Saqr entered. ‘Malik, a visitor.’

Yusuf scowled. ‘I am dining, Saqr.’

‘You will want to meet with him, Malik.’ Saqr stepped aside and a man entered. He wore a black cloak with a hood that cast his face in dark shadows. He pushed the hood back.

Yusuf managed to keep his face impassive, even as the eyes of his men widened. ‘Imad ad-Din.’ The emir of Aleppo was fifteen years Yusuf’s junior. He was a thin man with narrow shoulders and soft hands. His short beard was flecked with grey despite his relative youth. ‘You are welcome in my tent.’

‘Shukran, Malik. I wish to speak with you. Alone.’

‘These are my sons and most trusted councillors. I have no secrets from them.’

Imad ad-Din licked his lips nervously but nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘Sit.’ Yusuf gestured to the table. ‘Eat. Drink.’

Imad ad-Din took a place across from Yusuf. He took a bite of bread and washed it down with a long drink of water. His shoulders relaxed. Now that he had eaten in Yusuf’s tent, he had guest rights. It would dishonour Yusuf to harm him. Imad ad-Din licked his lips and began. ‘The situation in Aleppo is not good.’

Yusuf raised his eyebrows but did not speak.

‘The treasury is empty. Tomorrow, my troops are due their pay. I fear a mutiny.’

‘That is unfortunate for you.’

‘And for you as well, Saladin. I am not an unreasonable man, but those who would rule the city in my place will fight until the last man to defend Aleppo.’ Imad ad-Din shook his head. ‘A foolish gesture. The city will fall. They know it as well as you and I. Their stubborn pride will only drown us all in blood, as at Diyarbakir.’

‘I wish to avoid bloodshed as much as you do. What do you propose?’

Imad ad-Din’s tongue again flickered over his lips. ‘I can offer the city to you, for a price. But you must decide now. After tomorrow, it will be too late.’

‘And what is this price?’

‘Sinjar, Saruj, Rakka and Edessa.’

Yusuf sipped at his water as he considered the offer. He would accept, of course, but there was no sense showing Imad ad-Din how delighted he was. He could see beads of sweat forming on the emir’s forehead. ‘I will not give you Edessa,’ Yusuf said at last.

Imad ad-Din nodded. ‘And the others?’

‘Yours.’

‘But Uncle!’ Ubadah protested. ‘Those are-’

Yusuf silenced him with a glance. He turned back to Imad ad-Din. ‘And you shall have precious silks, horses and camels, as befits your station.’

‘You are too generous, Malik.’

‘You will find that I treat my subjects well. You may rule your new lands as you see fit, but you must swear to serve me loyally, to pay tribute, and to provide men for my wars with the Franks.’

‘I swear it.’

‘Then we are brothers.’ Yusuf rose, and the others did likewise. He embraced Imad ad-Din and kissed him on the cheeks. ‘You brought men with you?’

‘Of course. Four guards.’

‘Saqr, see that his men are given a dozen of our yellow banners. Imad ad-Din, your men will unfurl them atop the walls at first light tomorrow as a sign that the city is ours.’

‘It shall be as you say, Malik.’

‘Good.’ Yusuf embraced him again. ‘Ma’a as-salaama.’

As soon as Imad ad-Din stepped outside, Ubadah stepped forward. ‘Sinjar was mine, Uncle!’

‘We lost good men to take the city,’ Qaraqush agreed. ‘And Saruj belongs to Gokbori. He has been a faithful ally.’

‘When Mosul is ours, you shall all have something better. Saruj and Sinjar are nothing, friends. We have exchanged dirhams for dinars.’

Yusuf sat in the saddle and peered towards the walls of Aleppo, which were lost in the pre-dawn gloom. A horse nickered behind him, and he could hear his son Az-Zahir murmuring calming words to his mount. Yusuf drew his dagger and began to sharpen it, the long rasping strokes calming him. The world around him slowly brightened. The grey shapes lining the road to Aleppo resolved into pistachio trees. A bird tweeted from one of the branches. Another joined it, and another, and soon the air was alive with their song. Yusuf could now make out the distant walls. Yellow banners were being unfurled atop them. Yusuf sheathed his dagger.

‘It is time.’ He urged his horse forward over the Quweq River. His men followed, the hooves of their mounts clattering on the wooden bridge. The walls loomed ever higher as Yusuf approached. The gate began to swing open, and Yusuf urged his horse to a trot. He reached the gate to find Imad ad-Din backed by a hundred of his men.

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Malik,’ Imad ad-Din called. ‘The city is yours.’

‘Will you come to the citadel with me to feast my arrival?’

‘I am honoured by the invitation, Malik, but I must refuse. I am not well loved in Aleppo, and I fear I shall be less so after today. I will leave for Sinjar, if it please you.’

‘Very well. God protect you, Imad ad-Din.’ The emir nodded and led his men from the city. Yusuf turned to Qaraqush. ‘Take charge of the city gates. Take the defenders’ weapons, but do them no harm.’

Yusuf continued into the city, followed by Ubadah, his sons and a guard of five hundred men. The only sound was the clip-clop of hooves on the cobblestones. The streets were empty, but Yusuf saw the faces of men in the windows that they passed. The main square, too, was deserted. He crossed it to the bridge that led across the citadel’s moat. A dozen guards with lowered spears stood on the bridge. Yusuf rode forward to address them.

‘I am Saladin, al-Malik al-nasir. I have come to take charge of Aleppo. Let me pass.’ Several of the guards stepped aside, but the rest held their ground. Yusuf’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. ‘Stand aside,’ he barked in his most commanding tone, ‘or you will die.’ Behind him, he could hear the creak of his men’s bows as they were drawn taut.

After a moment’s hesitation, the men stepped aside. Yusuf cantered across the bridge and up the causeway. The guards at the gate parted as he rode through and on to the grassy pitch at the centre of the citadel. Yusuf headed for the palace at the east end of the grounds. A dozen men came out to greet him. When they saw his golden armour, some knelt. Others simply stood wide-eyed. The rest looked to an older man in mail. He stepped forward, his hand on his sword hilt.

‘Saladin? What is the meaning of this?’

‘Imad ad-Din has turned the city over to me.’

‘Damn his seventh grandfather! The man had no right!’ He turned to the men behind him. ‘I told you we couldn’t trust the bastard.’

‘What is your name, emir?’

‘Salamat,’ the man said as he turned back to Yusuf. ‘My family has served the Zengis for generations.’ He drew his sword. ‘We will not stand idly by while Aleppo is turned over to an usurper.’

‘Put your sword away, Salamat. I am no enemy of yours.’ Yusuf raised his voice to address all of them. ‘Imad ad-Din is the grandson of Zengi, the founder of the line. He entrusted me with the rule of Aleppo. If you swear loyalty to me, then you will keep your property and your posts. As for me, I swear that I shall make Aleppo a great city, a holy city. As a sign of my intentions, I hereby abolish all taxes not permitted in the Koran.’

The men before Yusuf began to murmur amongst themselves. Yusuf looked to Salamat. ‘Will you help me to dismount, emir?’

Salamat hesitated. To hold another man’s stirrup was a sign of fealty. Finally, he sheathed his sword and took hold of the stirrup. Yusuf swung from the saddle and kissed Salamat on the cheeks.

‘You have chosen wisely,’ he told the emir, then raised his voice. ‘There shall be a feast today to celebrate my return to Aleppo after so many years. You are all invited.’ Yusuf strode past them and entered the place, Saqr, Ubadah and his sons at his heels.

Ubadah was scowling. ‘The taxes, Uncle — we could have used that money in our campaign against Mosul.’

Yusuf looked to his three sons. ‘Al-Afdal, tell Imad ad-Din why I did it.’

The boy’s forehead creased in concentration. ‘It was the righteous thing to do,’ he said at last. His brother Al-Aziz nodded in agreement.

‘It was righteous, yes, but that is not why I did it. Az-Zahir? Can you enlighten your brothers?’

‘It was necessary,’ the skinny boy said quietly. ‘By removing taxes, you will win the people to your side. The emirs who still oppose you will find they have no support.’

Yusuf nodded in satisfaction. ‘You are wise beyond your years, my son. When I leave Aleppo, you shall have the rule of it.’

Yusuf took a bite of roast lamb spiced with coriander and closed his eyes to savour the rich taste. The tender lamb melted in his mouth. He made a mental note to find the cook responsible for the dish and to take him when he left Aleppo. Despite the delicious food, though, his celebratory feast was a sombre affair. Yusuf had taken careful note of the dozen emirs of Aleppo who had not come. It was an act of rebellion. They were no doubt fleeing for Mosul even now. Their lands would be forfeit, and their lives, if Yusuf captured them. Salamat and the other Aleppan emirs knew as much. They had lost their city and now their friends, and that had cast a cloud over the feast.

Yusuf turned to Salamat, who had been given the seat of honour to his right. If he could win this man’s loyalty, then Yusuf was sure the other emirs would fall in line. ‘The last time I dined in this hall, it was in the presence of Nur ad-Din. He gave me my first lands: Tell Bashir.’

‘I know it, Malik.’

‘Nur ad-Din was a great man. He united Aleppo, Damascus and Mosul against the Franks, but he died before he could strike the finishing blow. I will complete his work. Once Mosul has joined me, I will turn on Jerusalem. When that day comes, I hope you will ride with me.’

The other conversations had ceased and all eyes were on Salamat. He nodded. ‘I have always dreamed of seeing the Noble City.’

‘And you shall, inshallah.’ Yusuf noticed that Imad ad-Din had entered the hall with a letter in his hand. His secretary would not disturb him were it not important. ‘Excuse me,’ Yusuf told Salamat. ‘I will return shortly.’

He joined Imad ad-Din in a side room off the hall. ‘A letter from your brother Selim,’ the secretary told him. ‘The Lord of Kerak, the one called the Wolf, has raided the Hijaz.’

Reynald. He was an old enemy. Yusuf knew him to be an oath-breaker and unspeakably cruel, but to raid the Hijaz — the stretch along the east coast of the Red Sea that included the holy cities of Mecca and Medina — was brazen, even by Reynald’s standards.

Yusuf took the letter and scanned the contents. Reynald’s men had built boats that they disassembled and carried across the desert to the Red Sea, where they reassembled them. They had burned the ports that served Medina and sacked the Nubian port of Ajidib, across the sea from Mecca. Yusuf flipped another page. Selim had sent a fleet to deal with them. They had met the Frankish ships off Al-Hawra and destroyed them. The captives had been sent to Cairo. Reynald had escaped and returned to Kerak.

Yusuf crumpled the paper in his fist. His authority rested on his claim to defend Islam against the infidels. That was his justification for unifying Syria, for moving against Aleppo and Mosul. He could not let Reynald’s raid go unpunished; to do so would make him look weak in the eyes of the Caliph and his people. ‘Send word to my brother in Cairo that the captured Franks are to be beheaded. Send four of them to Mecca to be killed at the Place of Sacrifice during the next hajj. Their deaths will be a lesson to the Franks and a message to the faithful that I will protect our holy sites. As for the Wolf, it is time he be brought to bay. Mosul can wait. As soon as Aleppo is secure, we march for the Kingdom.’