Kingdom

Chapter 8

AUGUST 1167: TYRE

John sat beside William at one of the tables in the great hall of the Archbishop of Tyre’s palace, the location that had been chosen to celebrate Amalric’s marriage to Maria Komnena. John recognized several of the nobles and prelates seated around them: the grand masters of the Temple and Hospital, Humphrey of Toron, Hugh of Caesarea and Bohemond of Antioch, who John had helped to ransom two years ago to the day. John winced. Even now, it pained him to think of those days in Aleppo.

A trumpet sounded, and the guests stood. The doors to the hall swung open, and Amalric entered with his new wife on his arm. Maria looked like a frightened girl, despite her golden crown. She had no chest, and her blue-silk caftan hung from her as if she were a boy. Her wavy hair, which had been bleached blonde with lemon juice and sunlight, was held back in a tight bun that accentuated her high forehead. She had a weak chin, a pug nose and a smallish mouth with lips that seemed to be in a perpetual pout. Her eyes, ringed with black kohl, were red from crying.

The king and his new queen were followed by the seneschal, bearing the king’s sceptre, and the chamberlain with his sword. Then came the Patriarch of Jerusalem, the Archbishop of Tyre, and half a dozen envoys from the emperor’s court in Constantinople. The procession reached the seats at the head table, and Amalric spoke. ‘Thank you for coming to celebrate this joyous day! Eat, drink, enjoy yourselves!’

The king sat, and his guests followed suit. William and John were at a side table some distance away. John nodded towards Maria. ‘She looks miserable.’

‘She could have done worse. Amalric is a kind man.’

‘And there is more than one palace servant who has benefited from his kindness. He will not be faithful to her.’

‘At least he will not beat her.’

John thanked God that he was not a woman, to be sold like chattel simply to seal an alliance. He busied himself with the duck breast on his plate.

At the head table, the emperor’s chief representative stood. With his double chin, fat fingers and soft body, the duke Thoros looked like an overweight merchant, but it was said he had the ear of Emperor Manuel, and that made him a man to be reckoned with. He raised a goblet of wine. ‘To King Amalric and Queen Maria; long may they reign together!’ He quaffed his drink. The men in the hall followed his example.

When the goblets had been refilled, it was Amalric’s turn to propose a toast. ‘To Emperor Manuel, long may the friendship between our kingdoms endure!’ Again, the goblets were quaffed.

‘You are of Manuel’s family now,’ Thoros said, loudly enough that his voice reached John. ‘He will stand by you whenever and wherever you have need.’

The hall quieted. The Hospitaller Gilbert, who sat at the king’s table, leaned forward. ‘Will he fight with us in Egypt?’

Thoros nodded. ‘You are his ally.’

John looked to William and whispered, ‘Did you negotiate this?’

William shook his head. ‘Only the marriage.’

‘Easy, Gilbert,’ Amalric was saying. ‘We have had peace with Egypt and Syria for two years. We should not be so eager to seek war. Let today be a day of celebration.’

‘Yes, sire,’ Gilbert replied. ‘A day to celebrate the alliance that your marriage has sealed, an alliance that can open the Kingdom of the Nile to us. We came close last time. With a fleet to better supply our army, we could have taken Alexandria and then Egypt. Manuel can provide that fleet, and his armies will prevent Nur ad-Din from striking the Kingdom while we are gone. We will be free to take Cairo itself!’

Amalric frowned. ‘I signed a treaty, Gilbert. I swore an oath.’

Heraclius spoke from his place just beyond Gilbert. ‘Oaths made to an infidel mean nothing, sire.’

William cursed under his breath. ‘Heraclius! I should have known he was behind this.’

John’s eyes were on Amalric. ‘M-my word means something,’ the king said, his uncertainty manifested in the return of his childhood stutter. ‘Even w-when given to an infidel.’

‘Then honour your word, sire,’ Heraclius said, speaking loudly so that all in the hall could hear him. ‘You have taken an oath before God to protect the faithful. What better way to do so than to liberate Egypt from the infidel? There are thousands of Christians living there, and with the Land of the Nile in our power, our Kingdom will be invincible.’

The envoy Thoros nodded. ‘The crown of Egypt would be a fitting present to your new wife. It will take time to plan the assault, but I am sure the Emperor’s fleet could be available by the autumn of next year.’

All eyes turned to Amalric, who was tugging at his beard.

‘The riches of Alexandria and Cairo, sire,’ Gilbert said. ‘The Kingdom of the Pharaohs. It lies waiting for you.’

Amalric took a long drink and then looked to his new wife. ‘W-what do you ad-ad-What do you suggest, Maria?’

The girl shrank back into her chair in wide-eyed terror. She looked to Thoros, who nodded. ‘I should like to be Queen of Egypt,’ she said in a small voice.

‘Then so be it!’ Amalric raised his goblet. ‘To Egypt!’

OCTOBER 1168: ALEPPO

Yusuf stood before the door to Gumushtagin’s quarters in the palace and took a deep breath to steady himself. He had not met the eunuch in private since his return from Egypt three years ago. He had hoped that Gumushtagin was done with him, but that morning a messenger had come to request a meeting. Yusuf dared not avoid the summons. He had just raised his hand to knock when the door swung open.

‘Saladin!’ Gumushtagin flashed his false smile. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum.’

‘Salaam,’ Yusuf replied curtly.

Gumushtagin affected not to notice his unfriendly tone. ‘Come in. Come in.’ Gumushtagin closed the door behind them and carefully latched it. ‘Tell me, Saladin, would you like to be Vizier of Egypt?’

Yusuf blinked in surprise and then shook his head. ‘I found nothing but hunger and suffering there. I wish to never see Egypt again.’

‘That is not to be. Nur ad-Din will hold council this afternoon. This is why.’ The eunuch held out three locks of dark hair.

‘What is that?’

‘See for yourself.’ Gumushtagin handed Yusuf a roll of parchment. ‘This came today via messenger pigeon from Cairo.’

Yusuf read the tiny script:

Nur ad-Din, King of Syria, defender of the faith, my land has been invaded by the ifranj. I ask for your aid to repel the infidel invader. The locks of hair are from my wives. They beseech you to come and rescue them from the outrages of the ifranj. Do not delay. If you answer my call, I promise you a third of the land of Egypt as fiefs for your emirs.

Yusuf noted the caliph’s seal at the bottom. Seals, however, could be forged. ‘Is it authentic?’

‘We received four such messages. There can be no doubt; the Caliph himself has asked for our help.’

‘What of Shawar? He rules in Egypt.’

‘The Caliph appoints the Vizier. And it is Al-Adid who has called for our help.’ Gumushtagin met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘It is an opportunity that cannot be missed.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘I told you: I want nothing to do with Egypt.’

Gumushtagin stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘But you could be king!’

That gave Yusuf pause. Egypt was the greatest prize in Arabia, perhaps in all the world. ‘Explain yourself,’ he told Gumushtagin.

‘The Caliph has invited us to Egypt. That means the Vizier is no longer in favour. When our men arrive, Shawar will be put to death.’

‘I would happily do the deed. The man is a snake.’

‘Shirkuh will no doubt replace Shawar as vizier,’ Gumushtagin continued. ‘If he should die-’

Yusuf was moving before he had time to think. He grabbed Gumushtagin by the throat and pushed him backwards until the eunuch slammed into the wall. ‘Shirkuh is my uncle!’ he growled.

‘Unhand me,’ Gumushtagin choked out.

‘Why?’ Yusuf leaned close. The eunuch’s face was turning bright red as he struggled for air. ‘I should kill you now. Asimat and my son will have nothing to fear.’

‘Don’t-’ Gumushtagin rasped, ‘throw-your life-away-’

Yusuf held the eunuch a moment longer and then released him. Gumushtagin bent over, gasping for breath. After a moment, he straightened. ‘I am not asking you to betray your uncle, or Nur ad-Din. All I ask is that you do nothing. Let events unfold.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I will not let you kill him. You may well hold my fate in your hands, Gumushtagin, but I warn you: I am not afraid to die.’

‘Do not be a fool, Yusuf. If you cross me, then I will see Asimat stoned and your son hanged.’

Yusuf’s hands balled into fists. He took a step towards the eunuch, who shrank back against the wall. ‘Not if I kill you first, you ball-less shit!’

Gumushtagin drew himself up straight. ‘I have taken precautions. If I die, Nur ad-Din will still learn the truth. I do not fear you,’ he added in a quavering voice.

‘Then you are a fool.’ Yusuf spat at Gumushtagin’s feet and then turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Yusuf stopped at one of the narrow windows that looked out from the spiral staircase leading up to the council chamber. Was it the last time he would see the sky? He had been a fool to let his anger get the better of him in his meeting with Gumushtagin that morning. Before the day ended, he could be dead.

He forced himself to continue to the top of the tower. The guard at the door to the council chamber waved him through. Nur ad-Din stood in the centre of the room. The king had turned fifty earlier that year, but although his black hair was now streaked with silver, he seemed a new man ever since the birth of his son and his victory at Harim. He stood straight-backed and moved with a warrior’s ease. Shirkuh, Gumushtagin and Usamah were with him. Yusuf’s stomach twisted with worry at the sight of Gumushtagin in whispered conversation with the king.

Nur ad-Din frowned. ‘Are you well, Saladin? You look as if you have drunk donkey piss. Perhaps you have received some unpleasant news?’

Yusuf felt the blood drain from his face. The king knew. He was sure of it. Yusuf looked to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I am well, Malik.’

‘Good! I need you healthy for what is to come.’ Nur ad-Din paused to look at each of the men present. ‘The Franks are invading Egypt, and the Caliph has called on us for help. Shirkuh, you will drive the Franks back to Jerusalem.’

‘Inshallah, Malik,’ Shirkuh said.

‘I will not make another peace with that snake Shawar. Once the Franks are defeated, you will dispose of him and have yourself declared Vizier of Egypt.’

Shirkuh grinned. ‘I like the sound of that.’

Nur ad-Din clapped the rugged warrior on the back and then turned to Yusuf. ‘And you, young eagle, what shall we do with you?’

Yusuf swallowed. But he straightened and met his king’s eyes. He had known this day would come. He would not cower. ‘I am your servant, Malik. You must use me as you see fit.’

Nur ad-Din’s golden eyes studied Yusuf, and then he smiled. ‘You shall serve as Shirkuh’s second in command, and when Cairo falls, you shall assume the government of the city.’

Yusuf blinked in surprise. He looked from Nur ad-Din to Gumushtagin. ‘It is a great honour the King bestows upon both of you,’ the eunuch said. His eyes met Yusuf’s. ‘A reward for your incomparable loyalty.’ The message was clear. Gumushtagin was giving him a second chance. Next time, he would not be so generous.

‘Very well, Malik,’ Yusuf murmured.

‘Do not look so glum, Nephew!’ Shirkuh said. He gripped Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We will be rulers of Egypt! And we shall finally have our revenge on that two-faced bastard, Shawar.’

NOVEMBER 1168: BILBEIS

John stepped over dead bodies and through the splintered remains of the southern gate of Bilbeis. Acrid black smoke hung in the air. Beside the gate a Saracen warrior sat moaning in pain, his bowels spilled out on the ground before him. A knight slit his throat and then yanked the gold chain from around the dead man’s neck. John looked away. A line of chained women pulled along by two knights emerged from the smoky haze. One of them, a thin young woman with large brown eyes and a purplish bruise on her cheek, called out to John. ‘Please, Father, help me! I am a Christian!’

One of the knights slapped her. ‘Quiet, bitch!’

John’s hands clenched into fists, and he glared at the man. He was one of the Duke of Nevers’s men. They were newcomers to the Holy Land. Their arrival had encouraged Amalric to set out for Cairo early, before William returned from Constantinople with the emperor’s fleet. The knight returned John’s gaze. ‘What are you looking at, priest?’

John took a step towards him, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him. It was Amalric. There was blood on the king’s surcoat, and his face was pale. He smiled wanly. ‘We have won the day, John. Tonight, you will celebrate a victory Mass.’

‘Victory? This was a slaughter.’

‘It is unfortunate, but n-necessary,’ the king stuttered. ‘Cairo will n-not dare to resist once they hear the f-fate of Bilbeis. The people will open the gates to us. Egy-Egy-the Kingdom of the Nile will be ours. Jerusalem will be secure for all time.’

John said nothing. He watched the line of sobbing women as they shuffled through the gate; they would be used by the men of the army before being sold at the markets in Acre or Tyre. John felt sick.

Amalric pulled on his shoulder. ‘Come away, John. This is no place for a priest.’

John shrugged off the king’s hand and strode into the city. Dead bodies were strewn across the main street, and the cobblestones were slick with blood. The city, only a day’s march from Cairo, had fallen after a siege of three days. Once the defences were overrun, the people of Bilbeis had no hope of saving themselves from the slaughter that followed. It had started with the knights from Nevers. While the men of the city were being rounded up, a woman had spat at one of the troops and made the sign of the evil eye. The knight had cut the woman down, and the crowd of citizens panicked and ran. The men of Nevers gave chase, and once the blood started to flow, it was impossible to stop.

John heard a high-pitched cry coming from an alleyway to his right. The screaming grew louder as he turned into the narrow passage. ‘No!’ a woman was shouting in Arabic. ‘Allah help me! No!’ Then she fell silent. John quickened his pace, then stopped as he passed an open doorway. A dark-haired Egyptian woman was pinned to the floor beneath a pale-skinned Frank. The man had removed his armour and wore only a tunic, pushed up above his waist. Another Frank was just removing his mail. His surcoat was black with a white cross in the middle: the sign of the knights Hospitaller.

The woman on the floor screamed and tried to squirm free, but to no avail. The man atop cuffed her backhanded. Blood ran from her nose. She looked about in panic, and her dark eyes settled on John.

The Hospitaller who had just removed his mail looked up. ‘Leave us, priest. This is not your affair.’

John did not move.

The Hospitaller raised a fist and took a step towards him. ‘Are you deaf, priest?’ John still did not move, and the Hospitaller’s expression changed suddenly. He dropped his fists. ‘You want a piece of her too, don’t you, priest? A little taste of Egypt, eh?’

John removed the cross from about his neck, and the Hospitaller leered. John grasped the gold crucifix in his fist so that the top protruded between his fingers. He slammed it into the Hospitaller’s grinning face. The man crumpled to the floor.

‘What in God’s name-!’ the other man cried as he rose to his knees. Before he could stand, John grabbed him by his long hair and pulled him off the woman. She scrambled into a corner, where she drew her knees to her chest and sobbed. The man had pulled free from John’s grip and now turned to face him. ‘Whoreson!’ he growled and stepped forward with fists raised. He swung. John caught his arm and slammed the cross into the side of his head. The man’s knees buckled and he slumped to the ground. John dropped the cross and knelt on the man’s chest. ‘Wait-’ the man murmured as he came to and saw John’s fist raised above him. John punched him and felt a crunch as the man’s nose broke. The man’s eyes glazed over, and he fell back unconscious. John raised his fist again.

‘John! What have you done?’ It was Amalric.

John picked up his cross and wiped the bloody top on his tunic before hanging it about his neck. ‘They were raping her.’

Amalric looked from John to the two unconscious Hospitallers. The king nodded towards the woman huddled in the corner. ‘What will become of her now? Will she stay here, alone in this ruined city? How long do you think she will last before she starves to death, or someone else takes her for his own?’

‘I could not stand by and do nothing.’

‘It is the way of war, John.’ Amalric’s expression softened as he looked back to the girl. ‘Ask her what her name is.’

‘Halima,’ the woman replied when John asked.

‘Halima,’ Amalric mused. ‘She is pretty enough. Have her brought to my tent.’ John opened his mouth to protest, but the king cut him off. ‘I will treat her well, John, better than those knights would have.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Now, come. Cairo awaits.’

DECEMBER 1168: THE SINAI

Yusuf gazed into the cloudless sky as he tilted his head back to drink from his waterskin. He allowed himself only a single mouthful. He lowered the skin and replaced the stopper. He stood atop an enormous sand dune that it had taken precisely three hundred and seventeen steps to climb. Behind him, men were zigzagging up hill, the sand spilling away from their feet. The slope was too steep to ride up, so they led their horses behind them. Far away, at the bottom of the dune, those just starting to climb looked like toy figures. The column stretched along the valley between two dunes and then over another dune and another after that. There were nearly six thousand men in all. Two thousand were Nur ad-Din’s own mamluks from Aleppo, Damascus and Mosul. Another thousand mamluks, including Yusuf’s own contingent of two hundred men, had come with the dozen emirs who had joined the campaign. The remaining three thousand were Bedouin and Turcoman warriors — Arab and Turkish nomads who had joined the army in hope of collecting spoils. They had gathered the men in Damascus and left two weeks ago.

‘A storm is coming,’ their guide said from where he sat with his legs folded. Mutazz was a badawi, a traveller of the desert. He had a thin, weathered face, like the craggy stone floor of Al-Niqab, the rocky expanse they had crossed to reach the dune sea. While Yusuf and Shirkuh had struggled up the dunes, Mutazz strode ahead of them, never showing any sign of fatigue. Yusuf had wondered at how the badawi found his way among the towering dunes. When he asked, Mutazz had told him that the dunes spoke to him. Yusuf had smiled, thinking that Mutazz was joking, but the Bedouin was serious. ‘The hiss of the sand sliding across the slopes,’ he said, ‘the slant of the shadows across their face, these things tell me where I am.’

Mutazz stood and pointed in the direction they were headed. Huge waves of sand stretched to the horizon. ‘There. A sandstorm.’

Yusuf could just make out a brown smudge in the distance.

‘When will it hit us?’ Shirkuh asked.

The Bedouin shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Storms are like wild horses; they move at their own pace, sometimes a walk, sometimes a gallop.’

‘Before nightfall?’

Mutazz shrugged again.

‘We will press on,’ Shirkuh decided. ‘I’d rather face a sandstorm than spend another day among these cursed dunes without fresh water.’

‘Yes, ya sidi.’ The guide took the reins of his horse and led it down the far side of the dune. Yusuf wetted his keffiyeh — that would help to keep out the fine dust during a sandstorm — and checked his saddlebags to make certain that the tent cloth he would use as a shelter was to hand. Finally, he tugged at his horse’s reins and led it down the dune, following in Mutazz’s footsteps.

They continued west as noon came and went. Yusuf was walking in the shadows of a dune when he heard shouting from the men high on the hill behind them. They were pointing ahead. Yusuf noticed that the light was starting to dim, as if the sun had set.

Mutazz had stopped. ‘Listen!’ he said. There was a hissing sound, like steel being drawn across leather. It was growing louder. The badawi took a white tent cloth from his saddlebag. ‘La-taht,’ he called to his mount, which immediately lay down. He looked to Shirkuh. ‘The storm is almost upon us. It is moving fast.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a cloud of swirling brown sand appeared at the top of the dune before them. Yusuf pulled his keffiyeh down over his mouth and nose just before the storm hit with a shock of cold wind followed by stinging sand. Ahead, Yusuf saw that Mutazz had disappeared, drawing his tent sheet over him and his horse. A short piece of wood poked up in the middle to form a makeshift tent. Yusuf went to his saddlebag and took out his own tent cloth. Behind him, Shirkuh was shouting to the men. ‘Take shelter! Take shelter!’ Suddenly the full force of the storm hit them and Shirkuh disappeared, obscured by the thick cloud of swirling sand.

Yusuf knew his uncle could take care of himself, so he busied himself with his own shelter. If he did not get it up soon, his horse would choke in the sand-thick air. Already the animal was huffing and snorting. ‘La-taht,’ Yusuf ordered as he pulled on the reins to make it lie down. The horse lay on the edge of the tent cloth; he would weigh it down against the wind. Yusuf drove a long pointed stick into the sand beside the horse and then crouched and pulled the sheet over them. Outside, the sand hissed and the wind howled. There was the sudden crash of thunder, and his horse’s eyes rolled. ‘Hudu, hudu,’ Yusuf murmured and stroked the beast’s neck. As the thunder faded, he thought he heard someone shouting over the fury of the storm. His horse’s ears twitched. It had heard it, too.

Yusuf crawled to the edge of his shelter and looked out. He could see nothing but dust and grit, thick in the air. Then a gust of wind ripped the curtain of sand aside. He saw that his uncle had disappeared into his own tent, only a dozen feet away. Sand was already piling up on the windward side. Beyond, dozens of other shelters dotted the valley between the tall dunes. Yusuf saw two men making their way between the shelters. At first he thought that they were two of Shirkuh’s men, coming to make certain that their lord had found shelter. Then he saw the mamluks lying crumpled on the ground behind them, swords in their hands. The wind shifted, and the two men disappeared in a cloud of swirling sand. Yusuf’s eyes were watering, irritated by the fine dust thrown up by the wind. He blinked away the grit and peered again into the storm. He caught glimpses of the men. One wore a brown robe, the other white with dark mail showing beneath it. In their hands they held curving swords, the metal dull in the dim light. They were headed for Shirkuh’s tent.

Yusuf ducked back into his shelter and blew sand from his nose. He had no doubt that the two men had come to kill Shirkuh. The storm offered the perfect opportunity. No one would see them. No one would stop them. Yusuf thought of what Gumushtagin had told him: he only had to do nothing. If he stayed in his tent, Shirkuh would die and he would become commander of the army, then vizier of Egypt.

Yusuf forced the thought from his head. He tore two strips of linen from the tunic he wore under his chainmail and wrapped them around his hands to protect them from the stinging sand. Then he drew his blade and stepped out into the storm. He staggered against the force of the wind, which grasped at the folds of his keffiyeh, pulling it askew and exposing the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth as the sand drove into his skin. It felt as if hundreds of ants were biting at him. Yusuf had heard that if skin were left exposed for too long in a powerful sandstorm, it could be stripped from the body. He had no desire to see if the tales were true. He quickly covered his neck as he looked about. He could not see three feet in front of him. There was no sign of the two men with swords.

‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Shirkuh is in danger!’ But the howling wind whipped the words away, and they were lost in the storm.

Yusuf held up a hand to shield his eyes and staggered in what he thought was the direction of Shirkuh’s shelter. He took ten steps, then twenty. He stopped. Surely he had gone too far. He had begun to turn around when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and raised his sword. A blade glanced off it, and Yusuf glimpsed the man in the brown robe, a curved sword in hand and a dagger tucked into his belt. His face was hidden behind his keffiyeh. Yusuf slashed at his throat. The man jumped back to avoid the blow and disappeared into the storm.

Yusuf rose and pivoted, his sword held out before him. His heart was pounding, and he felt a hollow pain in his stomach. That was fear. Not fear of fighting, but fear of an opponent he could not see, of a knife in the back. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and spun around. There was only the swirling, impenetrable sand, so thick that he could not see the tip of his sword. The whistling wind suddenly dropped and the space around cleared. Ten paces ahead and to his left stood the man in the white robe. He was only a dozen paces from Shirkuh’s shelter. But where was the other man? Yusuf turned, searching for him. He saw the man in the brown robe at the same moment the man saw him. They were little more than a sword’s length apart. Yusuf swung for the man’s head. Their swords met with the ring of steel upon steel.

Yusuf’s adversary moved fast. He kicked at Yusuf’s right knee, and at the same time slashed down towards his head. Yusuf sidestepped the kick, parried the blow and then swung backhanded for the man’s chest. The man brought his sword sweeping back to turn Yusuf’s attack aside. Then, just as Yusuf’s adversary was preparing a counterattack, the storm blew up again and Yusuf lost sight of him. He guessed where the man would strike next and dropped to one knee. He caught a glimpse of steel as his enemy’s sword flashed over his head. Yusuf sprang to his feet and charged, lowering his shoulder. He slammed into the man, and Yusuf’s momentum knocked them both over. He tried to rise but the man had grabbed hold of him. Together, they rolled over several times, and the man ended up on top of Yusuf. His keffiyeh obscured his face but for his glazed, bloodshot eyes. This was a Hashashin, Yusuf realized, one of the cult of trained killers who sometimes smoked hashish to increase their bravery.

The Hashashin had lost his sword in the tumble. With one hand he pinned Yusuf’s sword arm to the ground, while with the other he reached to his belt and drew the curved dagger. Yusuf managed to catch the assassin’s arm by the wrist, but the man leaned forward, using his body weight to press the dagger towards Yusuf’s throat. The dagger inched closer, close enough that Yusuf could see the intricate Arabic script carved into the silver hilt.

In a last, desperate effort, Yusuf released his sword and jerked his hand free. He tore his attacker’s keffiyeh away before the Hashashin grabbed Yusuf’s arm and pinned it back down. The man grimaced as the biting sand struck his face, but he did not release Yusuf. He pressed the blade of his dagger so close that Yusuf felt it begin to cut into his skin. The Hashashin’s face was growing red, showing minuscule drops of blood as if he had scraped it against a rough stone. Even drugged by hashish, the pain was too much. With a cry he released Yusuf’s right hand in order to raise his keffiyeh. Yusuf found his sword and brought it up. The blade sank into the Hashashin’s neck, splattering Yusuf with blood.

Yusuf shoved the man off him. He rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. He was just in time, for a sword was slicing towards his face. He managed to parry the blow, but then a booted foot caught him in the chest, knocking him sprawling on his back. The other Hashashin stood over Yusuf, his form just visible through the sand. The assassin raised his sword high. The wind howled, and his form was obscured by a cloud of sand. Yusuf was waiting for the blow when he felt hot blood spatter on his face. The wind fell, and Yusuf saw Shirkuh standing where the Hashashin had been only a moment before. He offered Yusuf a hand and pulled him to his feet.

‘Uncle!’ Yusuf shouted over the wind and thunder. ‘You saved my life!’

‘No, young eagle,’ Shirkuh shouted back. ‘You saved mine!’

They managed to stumble back to Shirkuh’s shelter and crawled inside. Yusuf began to cough, spitting up brown phlegm.

‘Do you know who they were?’ Shirkuh asked.

‘Hashashin.’

‘I thought as much. Who do you think sent them?’

Yusuf was sure it was Gumushtagin, but if he told his uncle, then Asimat and their son might suffer for his indiscretion. He shrugged to indicate that he did not know.

‘Maybe Shawar. Or Amalric,’ Shirkuh speculated grimly. ‘Seems like everyone wants me dead. Without you, Yusuf, they would have killed me before I even knew they were there. Shukran, young eagle.’ Shirkuh kissed Yusuf on each cheek and then grinned fiercely. ‘I do not care if it was Shawar or Amalric who sent the assassins. I will grind them both into the dust.’