Holy War

Chapter 7

November 1185: Mosul

Yusuf felt as if his insides were on fire. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he grit his teeth as he squatted over the chamber pot. When he had finished shitting, he stepped outside the private section of his tent and a servant went in to retrieve the pot. As it was carried out, Saqr looked inside and frowned.

‘Malik-’

Yusuf waved away his concern. Mosul was almost his. He could not afford to be weak. ‘It is nothing. Have water brought and help me with my armour.’

Saqr helped him pull on a shirt of heavy mail and then laced up the vest of golden scale armour that Yusuf wore over it. Yusuf buckled on his sword belt, pulled on his helmet and stepped outside. The morning sun flashed off his golden armour and the gilt crown of his helmet. It was important to look the part of a king, no matter how miserable he might feel.

Yusuf’s tent had been set on a low ridge two miles west of Mosul. The tents of his khaskiya covered the face of the slope before him, and beyond them the camp stretched to within half a mile of the city, on the far side of which the Tigris River flowed past, its waters glittering reddish gold. From here, Mosul’s tall walls — the same dusty brown colour as the land around them — looked small enough to step over. The emir, Izz ad-Din, was trapped behind those walls. His ally, the Seljuk Pahlavan, had fled when Yusuf crossed the Euphrates. After his withdrawal, many of the emirs east of Mosul had gone over to Yusuf’s side. The city was isolated. It held less than half as many men as Yusuf’s army. Yet after five months of siege, it still stood.

A servant arrived with a cup of water. Yusuf forced himself to drink, though his stomach still burned. Perhaps the water would help to quench the fire. As he sipped, he watched the catapults at work, hurling chunks of rock taken from ruins in the hills across the Tigris. The catapults pounded day and night, but they did little damage. Izz ad-Din had sent out sorties to drive away Yusuf’s sappers before they could get close enough to undermine the walls. Yusuf would have to starve the city into submission. He could well imagine how the people must be suffering. As a young emir, Yusuf had spent four months under siege in Alexandria. He still remembered the gnawing hunger in his gut. It had eventually become so much a part of him that he almost ceased to notice it.

Yusuf lowered his cup as he noticed a flurry of activity atop the nearest gate. Helmets flashed in the sun as more men joined the guards that were there. A horn sounded from amongst the men Yusuf had posted to watch the gate. A moment later, the gate opened. Yusuf’s men quickly formed a line to blunt the charge of any sortie. Below Yusuf, the camp sprang to life as men dropped their breakfast to reach for swords and spears. Al-Mashtub galloped up the ridge and slid from the saddle before Yusuf.

‘Malik, the gate!’

‘So I see,’ Yusuf replied calmly. ‘Inshallah, Izz ad-Din will be fool enough to attack. You will lead the Egyptian regiments against him. When the enemy charges, hold fast in the middle and send your flanks to cut them off from the city.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘And make sure the guards at the other gates stay alert. This may be only a feint before he attacks in force elsewhere.’

Al-Mashtub climbed into the saddle and galloped away shouting orders. Yusuf turned his attention back to the gate. If it was a sortie, Izz ad-Din’s men were taking their time about it. Any element of surprise had long since past. Finally, two dozen men rode out. Even from this distance, Yusuf could see that the three men at the centre were not soldiers. They wore no armour, which would have reflected the morning sun. Emissaries. The gates swung shut behind them.

Yusuf turned to one of the dozen messengers who attended him. They were young mamluks, selected for the speed with which they rode and their ability to accurately remember his instructions. ‘Tell Al-Mashtub to keep a careful watch,’ Yusuf told him. ‘This may be some trick.’ The man nodded and sprinted for his horse. ‘You four, have Gokbori, Nu’man, Muhammad and Imad ad-Din attend me in my tent. And you, see that Izz ad-Din’s messengers are shown here. Saqr, have food and drink prepared for our guests.’

Yusuf entered his tent and seated himself on a camp-stool. Imad ad-Din came in first and the emirs arrived shortly thereafter. Gokbori was still chewing on a roasted chicken leg. Muhammad was dressed immaculately in silk robes of emerald green decorated with a floral motif in silver. Nu’man waddled in last of all, wearing the hard leather and stained mail that never seemed to leave his back. The three men joined Imad ad-Din at either side of Yusuf’s stool.

‘You think they have had enough, Malik?’ Gokbori asked.

‘Inshallah,’ Muhammad said. ‘Sieges are a tiresome business.’

‘And expensive,’ Imad ad-Din added. ‘Each day costs thousands of dinars in food and pay for your mamluks, Malik. Even the coffers of Egypt will run dry at some point.’

‘Izz ad-Din’s treasury is filled with gold,’ Nu’man said. ‘We will have all we need when the city falls.’

‘Malik.’ Saqr stepped inside. ‘Izz ad-Din has sent his wife, the khatun Asma umm Arslan, and her two eldest daughters.’

Saqr held the flap aside, and the women entered. The two daughters were dressed in caftans of white — a symbol of purity indicating that they were virgins — and wore niqabs that covered all but their eyes. Izz ad-Din’s wife Asma wore robes of yellow silk and her face was uncovered. She was an attractive woman, with brilliant golden eyes that had the beginnings of crow’s feet at their corners. Her hair showed no trace of silver and her face was round. She, at least, had not suffered from a lack of food during the siege. She met Yusuf’s gaze boldly.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Yusuf welcomed them. He gestured to the food that had been set out. It was the hospitality due any guest. ‘Sit. Eat and drink.’

‘Shukran Allah, Malik,’ Asma said. ‘Your welcome honours us.’ She sat first, followed by her daughters. They each took a small bite of bread and a sip of water, then set the food aside.

‘After months surrounded by only warriors,’ Yusuf told Asma, ‘it is a joy to look upon beauty such as you and your daughters possess. It is like finding an oasis in the desert.’ Yusuf was more concerned with their message than their looks, but certain formalities had to be observed.

‘I see your reputation for courtesy is as well earned as your reputation in war, Malik. I hope to find that your reputation for mercy is equally well founded.’

That was well done. This Asma was clever. ‘Those who admit their faults and accept my judgement will find me ever merciful,’ he told her.

‘Then I beg mercy for the people of Mosul. They have done nothing to offend you, yet it is they who suffer most from this siege. Grain is worth its weight in gold. Men have been murdered over a loaf of bread. Hundreds of starving children beg in the streets. Be merciful, Malik. If you will not lift your siege, at least send food for our people.’

Food that would no doubt go to feed Izz ad-Din’s soldiers. ‘If your people want food, they have only to open the gates to me.’

Asma shook her head. ‘Our people are loyal before all else. They will never betray Izz ad-Din.’

‘We shall see, khatun. It is said that a hungry belly knows no loyalties.’

Asma’s eyes narrowed. When she spoke again, there was an angry edge to her voice. ‘You claim to be the servant of Islam, Malik. Why, then, are you here in the east fighting your brothers when the enemy lies far to the west in Jerusalem?’

‘You know well enough why I am here. I cannot fight the Franks so long as I fear a knife in my back the moment it is turned.’

‘You use clever words to hide your ambition. If all you seek is to secure your borders, then make peace with Mosul. Do not destroy it.’

Finally, they had reached the heart of the matter. Yusuf nodded for her to continue.

‘Izz ad-Din offers a ten-year truce. My daughters will marry your sons. You will free the emirs east of Mosul of their oaths to you. In return, Izz ad-Din will allow you to keep the lands to the west.’

Yusuf arched an eyebrow. ‘He will allow me? He cannot stop me. I do not seek a truce, khatun. I have come for Mosul, and it will be mine.’

One of the daughters sniffled. She began to weep loudly. The other joined in. Yusuf almost smiled, the ploy was so transparent. Asma herself made as if to wipe away a tear. ‘You would leave us with nothing?’ she demanded, her voice quaking. ‘You would kill your Muslim brothers? You would condemn my daughters to a life of squalor, make them the whores of your soldiers? I see that the legend of your piety is false. You are no man of God.’

Yusuf smiled gently. He, too, could play this game. ‘I do not wish any harm to your good daughters, khatun.’

‘Then you will make peace?’

‘If Izz ad-Din kneels before me as my subject, then I will grant him his life and spare his men and the people of Mosul. I will give your husband the province of Sinjar to rule.’

‘Sinjar?’ Asma said the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. She rose, and her daughters did likewise. ‘Izz ad-Din is the descendant of the great Imad ad-Din Zengi. He will never bow before a Kurd such as you.’

‘Then he will die and Mosul will fall. When that day comes, not even your daughters’ tears will save you. Go and tell your husband that.’

Yusuf hunched beneath his cloak as he rode out from camp for his evening inspection of the men on guard. The siege had reached seven months and winter had come. Heavy wet snow collected on the hood of his cloak and his horse kicked up mud, spattering Yusuf’s legs. They might be starving in Mosul, Yusuf reflected, but at least they had roofs over their heads. He could hardly remember the last time he was warm. The winter chill seemed to have got into his bones. And the ache in his stomach was worse than ever. Today was the last day of Ramadan; perhaps when the daily fasting was through, he would feel better. He glanced at Saqr who rode straight-backed, his head uncovered. He seemed to not notice the cold. Ah, to be young again.

Through the snow ahead, Yusuf spied ranks of mamluks. The guards stationed outside Mosul’s northernmost gate stood to attention as he approached. He knew the men were worse off than he. Some were shaking with cold as they clutched their spears. They knelt in the mud as he passed.

‘Saqr,’ Yusuf called. ‘Send a messenger back to camp. Have the cooks prepare a hot soup and see that it is brought to the men on guard.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf continued on towards the next watch. The fire in his belly was growing worse. He felt a sudden, sharp stab of pain, like a hot poker thrust into his gut. He dismounted and fell to his hands and knees in the mud as he retched violently. His vomit was red with blood.

Saqr was at his side immediately. ‘Are you well, Malik? I will call the doctors.’

Yusuf waved him away. ‘Leave me be.’ He tried to rise, but his head was spinning and his legs weak. He collapsed and rolled on to his back. The last thing he remembered was the touch of the wet snow on his hot cheeks. And then the world went black. .

He did not know for how long he was unconscious, but after a time, images came to him. He saw his son Al-Salih as a young babe, crawling towards him from the darkness. The baby became a man, holding a golden sword with a wide, curving blade. When he spoke, Al-Salih’s voice was hollow and cold, the voice of a dead man. ‘Vengeance, Father. I will have vengeance.’ He swung his blade, and Yusuf skipped back out of the way. He was in armour now, with a sword in his hand. He met his son’s next blow and turned it aside. Yusuf countered and his blade opened up a gash in Al-Salih’s stomach. No blood appeared.

Al-Salih attacked again, hacking down. Yusuf sidestepped the blow and impaled his son. Al-Salih laughed, a hollow sound, like bones clacking together. ‘You cannot kill me, Father. I am already dead.’ He reached for Yusuf with his hands, and as they closed around Yusuf’s throat, Al-Salih transformed into his mother, Asimat. Yusuf pushed her away, but she came back, raking at his face with long nails. Her hand closed again on his throat and began to squeeze. Yusuf grabbed her arms and tried to pull her hands away, but her grip was like iron. He was growing desperate for air.

‘I know,’ she rasped. ‘I know what you did.’ The flesh of her arms began to decay in his hands. Her face became grey, the skin sloughing off to reveal white bone. ‘I know!’ Her fingers closed tighter and tighter, choking the last air from him. He sank into darkness once more.

January 1186: Harran

Yusuf awoke in a dim room. He was lying in a soft bed and above him shadows played on the ceiling, cast there by a candle that flickered on the bedside table. He tried to call for a servant but only produced a strangled croak. His throat was impossibly dry. He made to get up, but sank back into the feather mattress, his head spinning. He heard voices and turned his head, locating the door. It was open. Outside, he saw dim figures speaking in hushed tones.

‘He must not be disturbed,’ one of them said. Yusuf did not recognize the man’s voice. ‘He needs rest if he is to recover.’

‘Yes,’ agreed another strange voice. ‘More hashah to dull the pain and allow him to sleep.’

‘He has had sleep enough.’ That was Selim. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be in Aleppo. ‘While my brother lies in bed, men are conspiring to steal his kingdom from him and his children. I must speak with him. You will do whatever it takes to wake him.’

‘I dare not,’ one of the doctors protested.

‘Let-’ Yusuf managed to rasp. It felt as if the words were clawing their way out of his throat. ‘Let. Him. In.’

‘Brother!’ Selim entered and knelt at Yusuf’s bedside. He looked back to the doctors. ‘Bring water at once.’

One of the doctors entered with a cup. He was a compact man with a beak of a nose and a black beard with a few streaks of grey. He looked familiar, but Yusuf could not place him. It did not matter. He took the cup and drank greedily. When he spoke again, it was easier. ‘Where am I?’

‘Harran. Your men carried you here four weeks ago.’

‘Four weeks? What of Mosul?’

‘The siege was abandoned. I came from Aleppo as soon as I could.’

‘I heard you talking. What are these conspiracies you speak of?’

Selim glanced towards the door. ‘It would be best to speak in private. I know a place where we will not be overheard.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Help me up.’

Selim put his arm behind Yusuf’s back and helped him to sit. Yusuf looked down at his legs. They were impossibly thin beneath his linen tunic. He raised a bony arm and examined it.

‘At first, you could keep nothing down,’ Selim told him. ‘You lost two stones before the doctors managed to feed you a little broth. Do you want food?’

‘Later.’ Yusuf tried to rise, but the world was spinning. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and Selim helped him to stand. ‘I wish to speak with Imad ad-Din as well. Have him come with pen and paper.’

‘You heard the Malik,’ Selim told the doctors. ‘Fetch his secretary.’

Selim helped Yusuf down the hall to a windowless room. He eased Yusuf on to a stool. Yusuf sat hunched forward, sipping from the cup of water until Imad ad-Din arrived.

‘I am so pleased to see you well, Malik. Allah has answered my prayers.’

‘Close the door,’ Selim instructed. He turned back to Yusuf. ‘Rumours of your death have been enough to fray the seams that hold your kingdom together, Brother. Your emirs are scrambling to secure what is theirs or to add to it. Our cousin Nasir ad-Din is the worst. It seems he is not content with Homs. He has made arrangements to take Damascus when you die.’

‘Are you sure of this?’ Yusuf rasped. He knew that Nasir ad-Din was given to excess, but he had not thought him a traitor.

‘It seems he resents you. I am told that he said you treated him worse than the lowest of your emirs.’

‘I spared his life when I could have had him hanged,’ Yusuf growled. ‘Tell me of this plot of his.’

‘One of the men he sought to buy told Al-Muqaddam, who informed me. The plan was for the emirs of Damascus to take your son Al-Aziz hostage. Nasir ad-Din would then rule as regent. The boy was to be disposed of before he came of age.’

‘My own family turns against me.’ Yusuf shook his head and looked to Imad ad-Din. ‘Write to Al-Muqaddam in Damascus. Have him distribute alms in celebration of my recovery. Five thousand dinars should be enough to remind the people who their rightful ruler is. Selim, you will return to Cairo.’

‘But Brother-’

‘You have done enough in the north. If Damascus is restive, Cairo will be as well. Egypt is the key to my kingdom. I need you there. On your way south, you will deal with Nasir ad-Din. Our nephew has a fondness for wine. That will lead to his death, if he is not careful.’

‘I understand, Brother.’

‘Good. Now go; you both have much to do. Have food brought for me and send in Al-Mashtub, Gokbori and Nu’man. I must prepare to return to Mosul.’

Imad ad-Din frowned. ‘So soon, Malik?’

‘My enemies and allies alike will think me weak after my illness. If I do not show them otherwise, the emirs of Al-Jazirah will start to shift their allegiance back to Izz ad-Din. Mosul would slip through our fingers. That must not happen. I will ride within a fortnight. A show of force may be enough to bring peace.’

‘Peace, Brother? I thought you had determined to take Mosul.’

‘And Allah has shown me my error. Izz ad-Din’s wife said I was a godless man, and Allah struck me down. I am done fighting my Muslim brothers. It is time to turn to the kingdom of the Franks. Now go.’

Imad ad-Din opened the door. Selim let him leave, then closed the door and turned back to Yusuf. ‘I have one last thing to tell you. Your wife Asimat was involved in the conspiracy to put Nasir ad-Din on the throne of Damascus.’

An image sprang into Yusuf’s mind: Asimat as a corpse, her cold hands clasped around his throat. He shuddered. ‘Are you certain?’

Selim nodded. ‘She claims you killed her son.’

Yusuf’s stomach began to burn. He had told her that Izz ad-Din killed Al-Salih. How had she discovered the truth? The Hashashin were sworn to secrecy. Yusuf sat up straight. The doctor! He remembered where he had seen that face. ‘The doctor who attended me, the one with the beaked nose, bring him to me.’

‘If you feel ill, perhaps you should lie down, Brother.’

‘I am fine. Do as I say.’

The doctor entered and shut the door behind him. ‘Malik.’

‘Rashid ad-Din Sinan,’ Yusuf greeted him, and the head of the Hashashin bowed. ‘You are far from Masyaf. Are you so concerned for my health?’

‘I am, Malik. You have been a good friend to my people, but that is not what brought me here. I came to apologize.’

‘Asimat.’

Sinan nodded.

‘How did she learn the truth?’

‘She is a stubborn woman. She tortured and bribed the palace guards until she found the man responsible. He had been serving as one of Al-Salih’s private guards.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘The Hashashin are sworn to secrecy.’

‘Yes, but we are only men. My fidai would never have given in to torture, but Asimat is a beautiful woman. She can be most convincing.’

‘I see. Where is this man now?’

‘Dead. As for your wife. . That is why I am here, to learn your will.’

Yusuf met the assassin’s dark eyes. ‘You will visit her yourself. Traitors must be punished.’

March 1186: Mosul

Yusuf sat in his tent eating a bowl of boiled wheat. That and a thin chicken broth were all that Ibn Jumay allowed him. The doctor had arrived from Damascus two weeks ago. He had also forced Yusuf to cease making his twice-daily rounds of the men on watch. So Yusuf had to be content to wait in his tent while his army besieged Mosul. He turned to Imad ad-Din, who sat across from him sorting through the correspondence they had received that day.

‘What do you have for me?’

Imad ad-Din held up two letters. ‘A letter from your brother and another from the Hashashin’s leader, Rashid ad-Din Sinan.’

‘Start with my brother.’

Imad ad-Din broke the seal and scanned the letter. ‘Your cousin Nasir ad-Din is dead. Apparently, he died of an excess of drink.’ Yusuf knew better. As per his instructions, Selim had drowned Nasir ad-Din in a barrel of wine. ‘His son — a boy named Shirkuh, like your uncle — is to succeed him.’

Yusuf set his bowl aside. He found no pleasure in vengeance. It had taken his appetite. He held out his hand. ‘I will read the letter from the Old Man of the Mountain myself.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Imad ad-Din handed over the letter. Yusuf broke the seal and read: Greetings Al-Malik al-nasir from your friend and ally Rashid ad-Din Sinan. I regret to inform you that your wife, Asimat, has died of a heart attack. She died quickly. There was no pain. Yusuf stopped reading. He felt a sudden burning in his chest and tasted bile. I only did what I must, he reminded himself. He dropped the letter in the brazier of coals that had been set beside him for warmth. He watched it burn before turning to Imad ad-Din. ‘Asimat has died. Distribute alms in her memory, and see that her tomb is suitably splendid. Spare no expense. That is all for now.’

Imad ad-Din departed without a word. Yusuf rose and began to pace his tent. His legs felt weak. Was that an effect of his long illness? Or was it Asimat’s death? He tried to remember her face as he had first seen it, when he was a young boy just come to the court of Nur ad-Din. But he could only see her as a corpse, as she had come to him in the dream.

‘Malik!’ Imad ad-Din called as he re-entered the tent.

‘What is it?’ Yusuf snapped.

‘Izz ad-Din. He wishes to speak with you.’

‘He is here?’

‘He waits before the walls of the city.’

Yusuf stepped outside and looked to Mosul. Outside the western gate, a rider sat surrounded by forty soldiers on foot. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘My horse! Saqr, prepare the guard.’

Yusuf rode from camp at the centre of fifty mamluks. He signalled for them to halt when they were still a hundred yards from Izz ad-Din. ‘I will ride on alone.’

Yusuf’s men parted, and he rode through. Izz ad-Din came forward to meet him. The two men stopped only a few feet apart. Izz ad-Din was ten years Yusuf’s junior and was a handsome man with sharp features and not a trace of grey in his long hair. He smiled, showing even white teeth.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saladin. I am pleased to meet with you at last.’

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam.’

Izz ad-Din’s eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf more closely. ‘I understand you were ill, Malik. I thank Allah for your recovery.’

‘I have not come to exchange flatteries and platitudes, Izz ad-Din. Say what you have come to say.’

‘Very well. The war between us has cost us both much. How much more are you willing to lose to take Mosul?’

Izz ad-Din was a proud man. Admitting that Mosul would eventually fall was as close to an offer of peace as Yusuf was likely to receive. ‘It is your men I want,’ he told the emir of Mosul, ‘not your city. Acknowledge me as your overlord, pay tribute and send your men to fight with me against the Franks, and you shall keep Mosul.’

‘Mosul and the lands to its north and east.’

Yusuf nodded.

‘Then I am your man, Malik.’ The emir of Mosul dismounted and took hold of Yusuf’s stirrup.

Yusuf dismounted and embraced him, exchanging the ritual kisses. ‘We are brothers, Izz ad-Din. Now, the Franks will tremble before us.’