Kingdom

Chapter 12

JUNE 1171: JERUSALEM

The loud crack of wooden sword blades knocking together sounded in the courtyard of Agnes’s home. John parried the thrust of young Baldwin, stepped inside the prince’s guard, and pressed the edge of his practice sword against his opponent’s neck.

‘You are dead, my lord.’

‘But you fought well,’ Agnes called from where she watched under a canopy.

Baldwin scowled. In the two years since the debacle at Damietta, he had grown like a desert flower after the rain. He was ten now, and was tall and ungainly. He wore only breeches, and as he struggled to catch his breath, his ribs were visible under his pale skin. He showed no signs of his sickness, other than a half-dozen scars on his hands and forearms. His leprosy was slowly robbing him of feeling in his hands, and it made him prone to accidents. It also made handling a sword difficult, but Baldwin was determined to become a warrior. He and John practised several times a week. They had been meeting in Agnes’s home for the past two months, ever since Amalric and William left for Constantinople. The Emperor Manuel had been furious after he sent his fleet to Damietta, only for Amalric to withdraw when the Nubian uprising failed. Amalric needed his support more than ever now the Saracens held Egypt and Syria.

‘Again,’ Baldwin said.

John wiped sweat from his brow. They had been training for nearly an hour, and at almost forty years of age John found the exercise was not as easy as it once had been, particularly in the morning when his old injuries ached. He rolled his stiff shoulders. ‘Perhaps you should rest, my lord.’

Baldwin’s jaw clenched. John knew that the prince hated nothing more than when people made allowances for him because of his illness. The boy dealt with the many at court who shunned him because of his disease with surprising grace, but he could not abide being pitied. ‘Again,’ he repeated.

John nodded and raised his wooden practice sword. Baldwin attacked immediately, lunging at John’s chest. John knocked the prince’s blade aside, and Baldwin spun left and brought his sword arcing towards John’s side. John parried and countered, swinging for the prince’s head. Baldwin knelt to duck the blow and then slashed upwards. John jumped backwards, but the tip of the wooden blade caught him high on his right side.

‘You are touched!’ Baldwin grinned. ‘I have won!’

John felt his side. There would be a wicked bruise there tomorrow. He took a deep breath and forced himself to ignore the pain. ‘Your foes will be wearing mail,’ he told Baldwin. ‘They will hardly notice such a blow.’ He resumed his fighting stance.

Baldwin’s knuckles whitened where he gripped his sword. He lunged again at John’s chest. This time, John sidestepped the blow and chopped at the prince’s side. Baldwin just managed to parry. John reversed his sword, swinging high. Baldwin ducked, and John brought his sword down to tap the prince’s head.

‘You are dead again, my lord.’

Baldwin frowned as he rubbed his head. Then he grinned. ‘In battle, I will be wearing a steel helmet. I will hardly notice such a blow.’ The prince attacked with a series of quick lunges and John gave ground. Then Baldwin overextended himself. John sidestepped the blow and brought his wooden blade down on the back of the prince’s sword hand. Baldwin jumped back and raised his blade, ready to fight. But John had lowered his sword.

‘Why do you stop?’ the prince demanded.

‘My lord, you are bleeding.’

Baldwin looked down at his right hand. There was a red welt on the back with blood trickling from it. His brow furrowed. ‘So I am,’ he murmured.

Agnes hurried forward and took Baldwin’s injured hand in hers. ‘My dear, we must get this bandaged.’

‘It is nothing.’ Baldwin pulled his hand away.

Agnes gripped his arm tightly. ‘It is not nothing. Bernard!’ Baldwin stood impatiently while a servant rubbed his wound with a sulphurous ointment and then wrapped a strip of linen around his hand.

‘You fought well today, Baldwin,’ John told him.

‘I lost,’ the prince replied, a bit petulantly.

‘Lady de Courtenay,’ a man called, and John turned to see a thin fellow dressed in expensive silk step into the courtyard. John recognized him as one of the courtiers in Agnes’s pay.

Baldwin gave the man a haughty stare. The prince had little patience for such men. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘It is your father, Prince. The King has returned from Constantinople.’

‘How was your trip?’ John asked William. They stood in the waiting-room outside the king’s private audience chamber. Prince Baldwin was inside with his father.

William rolled his eyes. ‘You have never seen such foolish luxury: dances in the hippodrome, luxury barges on the Bosporus, endless feasts, women whose lewd actions matched their ill-repute. It was no place for a priest.’

John smiled. ‘And how do you know so much about these women’s lewd actions?’

‘Amalric would not stop boasting of them. He-’ William stopped short as he realized what John was implying. ‘I am offended, John. I am a priest, dedicated to Christ.’ He gave John a hard look. ‘We are not all of us slaves to earthly passions.’

John did not want to start another argument about Agnes. ‘And how did the negotiations progress?’

‘The Emperor Manuel will send troops in the event that Nur ad-Din invades. And he has agreed to another joint attack on Egypt.’ William nodded to the doors to the chamber. ‘How is my pupil, Baldwin?’

‘Stubborn, tenacious, wilful. He will make a good king.’

William met John’s eyes. ‘And Agnes?’ John looked away, and William lowered his voice so that the guards by the door would not hear him. ‘I told you to stop seeing her. She has married again, John.’

John winced. Agnes had married Reginald of Sidon last year, but it had not changed anything between them. She said it was a mere formality, and indeed, she spent little enough time in Sidon.

William sighed. ‘I suppose it does not matter. Her dalliance with you will be at an end soon enough. You are leaving Jerusalem.’

Before John could question William, the doors to the audience chamber opened and the seneschal Miles stepped out. ‘Father John, the King wishes to speak with you. William, your presence is also requested.’

John entered to find Amalric seated in a simple wooden chair on the far side of the room. John knelt before him. ‘God grant you joy, sire.’

The king’s mouth was set in a hard line. Visiting with his son always upset him. No matter how often John told the king that leprosy was a disease, Amalric persisted in seeing it as a judgement from God, a judgement against him. ‘William has no doubt told you of our trip to Constantinople. Manuel has offered his fleet to support another invasion of Egypt.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Amalric leaned forward. ‘I want you to go to Cairo, John. I had spies in the caliph’s court, but they are useless now. Saladin has dismissed all the courtiers. He depends only on his own men. I want you to be my eyes in Cairo. Tell me about Saladin’s plans. Let me know how many men he has, and when they are on the move. Find out where Egypt is weak.’

John’s first thought was not of Cairo or Yusuf, but of Agnes. He did not want to leave her. Or Baldwin. He had grown close to the boy. He glanced at William. Was this his doing? ‘Why me, sire?’

‘You speak Arabic like a Saracen. You know their ways. More importantly, you were close to Saladin. You know people at his court, people who can give you information.’

‘And you are a priest,’ William added. ‘The Saracens respect holy men. When you travel, you will say that you are on a pilgrimage to visit the sites where the holy family stopped in Egypt. When you arrive you will join the brothers at a Coptic monastery in Mataria, just outside Cairo. The Coptic bishop in Jerusalem will prepare you a letter of introduction.’

John frowned. ‘I owe Saladin my life, sire. I will not spy on him.’

Amalric was suddenly stern. ‘I am your king. You will do as I command.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Do not trust your news to messenger pigeons. When you have information, ride to Ascalon and deliver it yourself.’

‘We are particularly interested Saladin’s relations with Nur ad-Din,’ William said. ‘We want you to find ways to drive them apart.’

John shook his head. ‘Saladin will never betray his lord.’

‘He is vizier of Egypt now, John,’ Amalric said. ‘And rulers will do what they must. There is no lord above us but God.’

‘When do I depart?’ John asked. He was thinking of Agnes again. He would need to take his leave of her.

‘Tomorrow,’ William told him. ‘Tonight, you and I will be busy discussing your mission in more detail.’

‘And how long am I to stay in Cairo?’

‘Until we send for you. And that might not be for some years.’

AUGUST 1171: CAIRO

Yusuf sat in his study, a writing desk on his lap, and blinked his tired eyes as he read a report from Selim on the army’s progress in southern Egypt. Yusuf had sent his brother and Qaraqush up the Nile to deal with the remaining Nubians. The campaign was going well. The Nubians were divided amongst themselves, and Selim had been defeating scattered groups one by one. He expected the remaining warriors would soon seek peace.

Yusuf set the report aside and picked up another message. It had come by carrier pigeon from the court in Aleppo. In it, Nur ad-Din ordered Yusuf to instruct the mosques of Cairo that the khutba, a sermon delivered before Friday prayers, was to invoke Allah’s blessing on the Sunni caliph in Baghdad — not the Egyptian caliph, Al-Adid. It was the eighth such letter Yusuf had received since he became vizier, two years previously. He frowned. He was only the vizier, which meant that, technically, he served at Al-Adid’s pleasure. If he broke with the caliph so openly, then Al-Adid would be forced to move against him. There would be a rebellion.

Yusuf had begun to compose a response when there was a soft knock at the door. He looked up to see Shamsa standing in a tight-fitting silk caftan that accented her pregnant belly. The child would be born any day now, and unlike his child by Asimat, this one Yusuf could claim as his own.

Shamsa frowned. ‘You work yourself too hard, my lord.’

‘There are men in the fields who work harder.’

Shamsa crossed the room and took the quill from his hand, placing it back in the inkwell. ‘No more work for now. You have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘Your father.’

‘What?’ Yusuf stood. ‘I thought he was in Damascus. Why was I not informed of his coming?’

‘It seems he did not want you to know. He has brought your nephew Ubadah with him.’

Yusuf turned his back to her while he struggled with warring emotions: surprise, anger, joy, anxiety. It had been nearly three years since he had last seen his father, during a brief stop in Damascus on the way to Egypt. They had hardly spoken. His relations with Ayub had been frosty ever since Yusuf had refused to serve as his lieutenant in Damascus. Yusuf had been little more than a boy at the time, but he still remembered precisely what he had said when Ayub had told him that if he stayed in Damascus he might govern the city after him: I wish for more than to govern Damascus, Father. I will be more than a mere wali. His father had laughed.

Shamsa put a hand on his back. ‘Look at your silk robes, the jewelled sword at your side. Your father will be impressed, my lord. You are the ruler of Egypt.’

‘That will not matter to him,’ Yusuf muttered. He passed through his bedroom and entered his private audience chamber. It was a small, thickly carpeted room, the walls hung with red silk decorated with geometric designs in silver thread. On one wall a row of open windows looked south towards the caliph’s palace. Ayub and Ubadah stood near the door. Yusuf went to his nephew first and embraced him. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Ubadah!’ He gripped his nephew’s muscular arm. Ubadah was only thirteen and lacked a beard, but he was already tall and broad-shouldered. ‘You are a man now!’

‘Mother sent me,’ he said. ‘You are to teach me the ways of a warrior.’

‘You shall have a place in my army.’ Yusuf gave Ubadah’s arm a final squeeze and then turned to his father. Ayub still had the angular features and piercing eyes that Yusuf remembered, but his short-cropped hair had gone completely grey. Yusuf had thought of his father as ageless, but now he realized that he was growing old, nearly sixty. Still, he stood stiff-backed, like a soldier at attention.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Father.’ Yusuf embraced and kissed him.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, my son.’ Ayub frowned as he gestured to Yusuf’s fine robes. ‘What is this frippery?’

Yusuf flinched. ‘They are the robes of the Vizier of Egypt, Father. All is well in Damascus? Nur ad-Din is pleased with your governance of the city?’

‘I am wali no longer. He has sent me here to counsel you. We must talk.’ He glanced at Ubadah. ‘In private.’

‘Of course. But first you must bathe and eat. You must be tired after your long journey.’

‘I am not tired. We will speak now.’

Yusuf’s forehead creased. He did not appreciate being ordered about like a servant in his own palace. Still, Ayub was his father, and Yusuf was curious to know what had brought him to Cairo. ‘Very well.’

When Ubadah had left, Yusuf sat on the low dais that had been set up below the windows. He found forcing his guests to look into the sun did more to establish his authority than any throne. Yusuf gestured for his father to sit on the floor before him. ‘How is Mother?’

Ayub remained standing. ‘I do not have time for trifles, Son. Nur ad-Din has sent me because he is displeased with you.’ Yusuf blinked in surprise. ‘Our lord ordered you to change the khutba to honour the Sunni Caliph in Baghdad. You have not done so.’

‘Egypt is Shiite, and its people are wary of foreigners. I am a Sunni and a Kurd. My rule is far from secure. If I change the prayers, then there will be a rebellion. I have sent letters explaining this to Nur ad-Din.’

‘If there is a rebellion, put it down,’ Ayub said coldly. ‘Nur ad-Din did not send his troops to Egypt so that they would lie idle.’

‘It is not that simple, Father. Most of the emirs that came with us have returned to Syria. The loyalty of the Egyptian troops is the only thing that keeps me in power. I will not risk losing it by forcibly converting Cairo.’

‘Nur ad-Din suspects that is not your only reason.’

Yusuf flushed red with anger. He stood and looked down at his father. ‘What other reason could I have?’ He waited for a response, but Ayub said nothing. He did not need to. Yusuf could guess well enough what his lord was thinking. A few months ago, Nur ad-Din had been confirmed as lord of Egypt by the caliph in Baghdad. But such a declaration meant little so long as the Shia caliph still ruled in Cairo. If Yusuf made Cairo Sunni, then he would be putting Egypt more firmly under Nur ad-Din’s power. More to the point, he would be weakening his own position. Without the caliph in Cairo between him and Nur ad-Din, Yusuf would be expected to answer to any and all of his lord’s demands. If Nur ad-Din called for Yusuf to leave Egypt, then he would have no choice but to comply — or to rebel.

‘I am no traitor, Father,’ Yusuf said sharply.

Ayub’s expression softened. ‘I believe you, Yusuf. You have always been a dutiful son. But you run a great risk. If you continue to disobey Nur ad-Din then he will come to Cairo himself with an army at his back. You will be disgraced. Our family will lose everything.’

‘If I obey him, then we will lose Egypt.’

‘Perhaps there is another way.’ Ayub went to the window and looked out towards the caliph’s palace. ‘The Caliph Al-Adid has no sons. Perhaps it would make matters easier if he were to die.’

‘He is a holy man, Father. I will not be party to his assassination.’

‘I said nothing of assassination. He should die of-natural causes.’

Yusuf’s expression hardened. ‘This conversation is over, Najm ad-Din.’

‘Yusuf-’

‘You may call me Saladin.’ Yusuf turned away and entered his apartments. Shamsa was waiting for him in the next room. He strode past her without stopping and entered his study, slamming the door behind him. He sat down to his papers, but could not concentrate. He found himself thinking of the time, years ago, when his father had used treachery to deliver Damascus to Nur ad-Din. Ayub had spread rumours about the ruler of Damascus, even paid a male prostitute to sleep with him. Yusuf wanted nothing to do with such foul tricks. He wondered if Nur ad-Din was aware of Ayub’s plotting. He had thought the malik above such things.

The door swung open, and Yusuf looked up to see Shamsa. Without speaking, she moved behind him and began to rub his shoulders. Yusuf sighed. He had not realized how tense he was.

‘What has upset you, my lord? It is your father?’

‘He treats me as a child, Shamsa. He no sooner arrives than he begins to issue me orders.’

‘He is your father. You will always be a child to him. And he does respect you. That is why he wanted to speak in private, so as not to embarrass you before your men.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘Perhaps.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

Shamsa leaned close to his ear. ‘Tell me, my lord. It is a wife’s duty to relieve her husband’s burdens.’

‘He-he wishes for me to have Al-Adid murdered.’

Shamsa continued to massage him in silence. ‘He is right,’ she said at last.

Yusuf pulled away. ‘No. The Caliph is my lord.’

She moved to sit across from him, lowering herself with great care. ‘Your father only wants what is best for you, Yusuf.’

‘My father serves Nur ad-Din first and his family second. He cares nothing for me. He never has.’

‘You are wrong. Think, my lord! So long as the Caliph sits in his palace in Cairo, your rule will never be secure. He appointed you, and if you displease him, he will remove you. He has already conspired against you once. You know that he was in league with Al-Khlata.’

‘He denied it.’

‘You know better. The Caliph resents you. He will seek to turn the Egyptian troops against you, and eventually he will succeed. After all, they were raised to serve him.’

Yusuf frowned. He knew she was right.

Shamsa touched his arm. ‘Al-Adid has no heir. If he dies you can declare yourself king. But if you wait until he has a son, it will be too late. You must act now.’

Yusuf rose and went to the window, which looked out over an interior courtyard. Rose bushes bloomed and fat bees buzzed between the flowers. Watching them, Yusuf was reminded of his youth. How many days had he spent in Baalbek under the lime trees in bloom, watching bees chart their course amongst the flowers? He scowled. He had thought then that honour was what made a ruler great. He turned from the window to face Shamsa. ‘Bring me Ibn Jumay.’

The Jewish doctor was staying in the palace in order to be on hand for Shamsa’s birth. He was shown in a moment later. Yusuf’s childhood tutor was nearly fifty now, but his appearance was largely unchanged. He had the same kind brown eyes, the same close-cropped beard and curling sidelocks. Only his small paunch showed his advancing age.

Ibn Jumay bowed. ‘Are you well, sayyid?’

‘I am not the one who needs your ministrations, friend. The Caliph is unwell. I do not number long his days in this world.’

‘I have heard nothing of it.’

‘Nevertheless, it is so. I want you to go to him. Take away his pain. You have drugs that will ease his passage to the next life?’

Ibn Jumay opened his mouth to reply, then frowned. ‘What are you asking me, sayyid?’

‘I need your help, friend. Nur ad-Din will invade if I do not convert Egypt to Sunni Islam. And yet, if I do so and go against the Caliph’s wishes there will be a rebellion. I would lose everything. But if the Caliph were to die a natural death-’ Yusuf let the words hang in the air.

‘I am no murderer, Yusuf.’

‘You are a doctor, and now it is the state itself that needs your care. You would be sacrificing one life to save thousands.’ Yusuf met Ibn Jumay’s eyes. ‘If you do not help me, then I will die.’

After a moment the doctor dropped his gaze to the floor and whispered, ‘I understand, sayyid.’

‘A son, my lord!’

Yusuf blinked at the midwife. Shamsa had entered labour shortly after his meeting with Ibn Jumay. The delivery had been long, stretching into the next day. Yusuf had not slept, and now he was groggy, his thoughts slow.

‘You have a son. Come and greet him.’

Yusuf followed the woman into Shamsa’s chamber. Her bed was surrounded by nurses and doctors, but Ibn Jumay was absent, busy at the caliph’s palace. The crowd parted as Yusuf approached the bed. Shamsa was pale, her face drawn. In her arms she held a sleeping babe.

‘Leave us,’ she ordered. When the others had left, she patted the bed beside her. Yusuf sat and bent over to kiss her forehead. She held the babe towards him. ‘Our son.’ The child’s face was flushed red. He had dark hair and pinched features.

‘Al-Afdal,’ Yusuf whispered the boy’s name. ‘You have given me an heir, Wife. Ask for anything you wish, and it shall be yours.’

‘Send Faridah away,’ Shamsa replied without hesitation.

Yusuf pulled away from her. ‘Why? She welcomed you to the harem as if you were her own sister.’

‘I am mother of your son now. I should reign in your harem, as you reign in Egypt. But I never will so long as Faridah is here. She rules your harem, Yusuf. She rules you, more than you know.’

‘And you wish to rule me instead?’

‘To help you, if you will let me.’

‘If you wish to help me, then do not ask this of me.’ Yusuf turned away. ‘Faridah has been with me since the beginning. I cannot send her away.’

Shamsa placed a hand on his back. ‘I know it is no small thing that I ask of you, my love. But it is no small thing that I have given you.’ She handed him Al-Afdal.

Yusuf cradled his son awkwardly. The babe twitched and opened his eyes sleepily. Then it shut them again. Yusuf handed him back. ‘Ask anything else of me, Wife. I cannot send Faridah away.’

Shamsa’s face hardened. ‘I wish for nothing else, Husband. If you wish to visit my bed again, you must choose: Faridah, or the mother of your son.’

Yusuf went to the window. A column of black smoke was rising over the caliph’s palace. He knew what it meant. Yusuf felt suddenly nauseous. He left the room, ignoring Shamsa’s calls for him to stay. He strode to his quarters, where he found Ibn Jumay waiting. The Jewish doctor’s face was haggard.

‘It is done, sayyid,’ he said quietly. ‘The Caliph died this morning of a sudden fever.’

‘Did he suffer?’

Ibn Jumay closed his eyes. ‘It was terrible. I am a doctor, dedicated to preserving life-’

‘And you have. You have saved my life, and you have saved Egypt from civil war,’ Yusuf said, although even he felt that his words were hollow.

The doctor shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but I must resign from your service.’ He headed for the door.

‘Ibn Jumay, wait!’ The doctor turned. ‘You only did as I asked. The burden is not yours to bear.’

‘I am the one who had to watch him die. Goodbye, Yusuf.’

That night Yusuf paused at the door to Faridah’s room. He took a deep breath and pushed it open. She sat in bed reading by candlelight, and as Yusuf entered she looked up and smiled. She was as beautiful as ever. Older, yes, with a fuller, softer figure. But beautiful all the same. She set her book aside. ‘My lord, you look as if you are walking to your execution.’ She patted the bed. ‘Sit.’ Yusuf sat at the edge of the bed, and she began to massage his shoulders. ‘Tell me.’

‘The Caliph is dead. I had him killed. What have I become? Ibn Jumay has left my service. He does not wish to attend upon a murderer.’

Faridah stroked his hair. ‘Ibn Jumay is a good man, but he is not a king. You wish to be great, Yusuf, and there is a price to pay for greatness.’

He shook his head. ‘A great king obeys the laws of Allah. He does not slaughter women and children, as I did when I burned the Nubians’ barracks. He does not commit murder.’

‘A good man obeys Allah. A great king does what he must do.’

‘Am I a good man, Faridah?’

‘You are the best I have ever known.’ She kissed him. ‘Go now. There is a coronation to prepare. With the Caliph dead, you will be king.’

Yusuf looked away. ‘I need your council now more than ever. Shamsa-’ Yusuf faltered. He could not find the right words.

‘I knew this day would come,’ Faridah said. He turned back to her, and she met his gaze. ‘You are dismissing me, are you not? It is time, my lord. Shamsa is a good wife. She is all that I could have wished for you.’

‘I do not love you any less, Faridah.’

‘You have always been a poor liar, Yusuf.’

He saw only love in her green eyes. He longed to tell her she could stay. Instead he said, ‘You will have a home wherever you wish and servants to tend to you.’

He looked away, tears in his eyes, and she gently turned his head to face her. ‘You have given me more than I could have ever hoped for, Yusuf.’ She kissed him and then welcomed him into her arms. They lay side by side while the candle burned low and was finally snuffed out in a pool of wax.

‘You should go, sayyid,’ Faridah whispered. ‘You have a kingdom to rule.’

‘I love you, Faridah.’

‘Go.’

Yusuf rose reluctantly. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. Faridah had rolled over so that her back was to him. He could see her shoulders shaking. He turned and left, feeling as if he was leaving a part of himself behind. He feared it was the best part, too.

Yusuf stood in the shade of the portico that fronted the caliph’s palace. No, not the caliph’s palace, he reminded himself. It was his palace now. After the caliph had died, Yusuf had placed the rest of Al-Adid’s family under lock and key. He had spent an anxious week under heavy guard in his palace, but there had been no rebellion. His father and Shamsa had been right. He was king of Egypt, and the people who had braved the summer heat to flood the square between the two palaces were his people. Yusuf tugged at his collar. The silk robes of the vizier were no longer appropriate, and he was now dressed in a caftan woven almost entirely of gold thread. It was heavy and hot, and the collar chafed.

Al-Fadil approached from the direction of the steps that led down to the square. ‘It is time, Malik.’

There was a murmur in the crowd when Yusuf came in sight. He walked to the edge of the steps and stopped, his father and Al-Fadil flanking him. His guard spread out behind.

Al-Fadil began to speak in a loud voice. ‘People of Cairo, welcome your new king, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, defender of the faith, the Malik Saladin!’

The mamluks who surrounded the square roared their approval. The people were not quite so enthusiastic, although many did cry out ‘Allah protect you!’ or ‘Allah bless our king!’ When the crowd had quieted, Al-Fadil unrolled a scroll of parchment and began to read, listing Yusuf’s many accomplishments and encouraging him to protect the people, to ensure that the lands thrived, to defend Islam and to act as the scourge of the Franks.

Yusuf’s gaze moved over the crowd but stopped suddenly. There was something familiar about one of the men standing in the second row. Perhaps it was the way he stood, or the set of his shoulders.

‘Malik!’ Al-Fadil had finished his speech and was whispering urgently to get Yusuf’s attention.

Yusuf straightened and took a deep breath as he prepared to address the crowd. ‘My people, I was not born a king,’ he began. ‘Allah has blessed me, but he has also given me a charge, to watch over his lands and his people as the shepherd watches over his flock. I will dispense justice. I will help the lands to thrive. And I will defend Egypt from its enemies. I was not born a king, but I shall rule as one!’ He paused to allow the crowd to cheer but received only quiet applause. They would cheer soon enough.

Yusuf gestured to the palace behind him. ‘A king does not need a home such as this. A king should live a simple life and devote every last fal to the good of the people. That is why I shall remain in the Vizier’s palace. For the palace of the Caliph — Allah grant him peace — does not belong to me. It belongs to you, the people of Cairo, who built it, who paid for its riches with the taxes taken from you. And so I give it back to you; the palace, and all that it contains!’

This time the roar of the crowd was deafening. Yusuf gestured to the men who held the people back, and they stepped aside, allowing the throng to rush forward. Yusuf stood calmly as the people raced up the steps. The crowd parted as it reached him. Grinning faces flashed by on his left and right: dark and light men, old and young, all driven by greed. Then there was a familiar face. Yusuf turned to follow, but he was already lost in the crowd rushing towards the palace.

Yusuf felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘We should return to the palace, Malik. It is not safe here.’

Yusuf nodded. He gave the crowd behind him a final searching glance and then shook his head. Surely John was not here. He had imagined it.

John pulled a fold of his keffiyeh over his mouth and nose as he managed to push his way out of the stream of people and took shelter behind one of the columns of the portico. He looked out from behind the column to where Yusuf was now heading down the steps to the square. John had hardly recognized his friend, dressed in brilliant gold, a jewelled sword at his side and a towering turban atop his head. He thought back to when he had first met Yusuf; he had been a skinny boy, bullied by his older brother. Even then, Yusuf had dreamed of greatness. Now he was a king.

John waited for Yusuf and his men to march from the square and then hurried down the palace steps. He headed north, in the same direction Yusuf had taken. John would have liked nothing more than to follow his friend to his palace, to celebrate this day with him. Instead he turned left down a broad street that led to the mamluks’ barracks. Their commander was now king, and they would be in the mood to celebrate. John would buy a few drinks, and in short order he would know everything there was to know about Yusuf’s rule and the state of his army. Then he would write to Jerusalem. Yusuf was his friend, but Amalric was now his lord. John had taken an oath before God, and he would not betray it.