Kingdom

Chapter 13

MAY 1173: CAIRO

Yusuf lay on the floor with his second son, Al-Aziz, on his chest. The boy was a fat-cheeked babe, not yet one year of age. He smiled, and Yusuf grinned back. Yusuf’s first son, Al-Afdal, tottered across the room and shoved his brother off Yusuf’s chest. The babe began to cry. Yusuf lifted him back to his chest and gave Al-Afdal a hard look. ‘Why did you do that?’ The young boy’s lip trembled. He tottered away, tripped and fell. Shamsa scooped him up and began shushing him.

‘You baby him too much,’ Yusuf told her. ‘He will never learn to be a warrior.’

‘Then he shall live longer.’

Yusuf smiled at his wife. Since he became king two years ago, he had spent most of his time in the courts, in council meetings or training his troops. The pain in his gut had grown worse, and he often could not sleep at night. He treasured these rare moments with his family. Al-Aziz had ceased crying. He gurgled. Then he was sick on Yusuf’s chest. A nurse took the child and patted its back. A servant girl brought a wet cloth and wiped the vomit from Yusuf’s silk caftan. He smiled again. He might be a king, but here in the harem he was definitely not in charge. It was a nice feeling.

‘Saladin.’ It was Ayub, standing in the doorway. He held out a roll of paper. ‘A message from Nur ad-Din.’

Yusuf took the paper and went to the window to read. His brow furrowed.

‘What is it, Husband?’ Shamsa asked.

‘The Frankish king has taken men north to join the Emperor Manuel in a campaign in Cilicia. The Kingdom of Jerusalem is only weakly defended, and Nur ad-Din is planning an invasion. He will march from Damascus in one month. He has ordered me to attack from the south at the same time. Our first objective is Kerak.’ Yusuf scowled. ‘I had hoped the peace with the Franks would last.’

‘Then stay,’ Shamsa said. ‘You are no mere emir to come at Nur ad-Din’s beck and call. You paid back the two hundred thousand dinars he gave Shirkuh for the invasion of Egypt. You owe him nothing.’

Ayub glared at her and then turned back to Yusuf. ‘You should teach your wife to hold her tongue. Nur ad-Din made our family what it is. We owe him everything.’

Shamsa opened her mouth to retort, but Yusuf raised a hand, cutting her off. ‘My father is right. Nur ad-Din is my lord.’

‘He is a man obsessed with defeating the Franks. You have said so yourself. You do not need to sacrifice the happiness of your people to his bloodlust.’

Privately, Yusuf agreed. Still, Nur ad-Din was his king. ‘It is not your decision to make, Wife. If Nur ad-Din calls on my army, then we shall march.’

‘Shall I send messengers to gather the emirs in Cairo?’ Ayub asked.

‘I shall do it myself.’ Yusuf rose and went to the door. He looked back to his children. He would not have time to see them again until after the campaign. He went to Al-Aziz and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Allah yasalmak, young prince.’ He knelt and kissed Al-Afdal. ‘Be good, my son.’ Then, he rose and turned to his father. ‘Come. There is much to do.’

‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,’ John murmured as he knelt on the stone floor of his cell in the monastery in Mataria. He performed his morning prayers here instead of with the monks, who prayed in Coptic, a tongue he did not understand. John kissed the cross that hung from his neck and then rose and went to the window. Fifty mamluks were riding past the monastery on the way to Cairo. Men had been pouring into the city all week, joining the growing army camped along the Nile.

He went to his bed and flipped over the straw mattress. Monks in the monastery were not allowed private possessions, and although as a visiting priest he was given some dispensations, his mattress had to do for the rest. He reached through the hole he had cut in the cotton covering and felt in the straw for a moment before pulling out a leather-bound notebook and his dagger. He belted the dagger about his waist and carried the notebook to his desk, where he began to sharpen a quill.

John had spent the previous night at his window counting the campfires of the Egyptian army. He added the number of men who had arrived today to his estimates and then dipped the quill in ink and marked the total: eight thousand men. Egypt was preparing for war. John would ride that day for Ascalon to send a message to Amalric. But first he needed to know where the army was headed.

He tucked the notebook into his saddlebag, which he slung over his shoulder. He left his room and walked through dim hallways to the quarters of the abbot, who sat reading at his desk. He looked up, and his eyes moved to John’s saddlebag. ‘You are leaving us, Father John?’ he asked in Arabic. John nodded. ‘I hope you found your stay profitable.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Father Abbot.’

‘You return to Jerusalem?’

John shrugged. Once he had delivered his message, he would wait in Ascalon for further orders. He might be called to Jerusalem or sent back to Cairo.

The abbot reached into a drawer in his desk and removed a stack of letters. ‘These are for the Coptic Bishop in Jerusalem. Will you see that they are delivered?’

‘Of course.’ John put the letters in a pocket of his saddlebag.

‘I wish you a safe journey. God be with you.’

‘May God grant you peace, Father Abbot.’

John left the monastery on a dusty path that cut through green fields before turning south to follow the Nile. The sun had just risen in the east, but the fishermen were already at work. John watched as a nearby boat pulled up a net where a dozen silver fish thrashed and squirmed. The road was also busy. Farmers called encouragement to the donkeys and mules that pulled their carts. Long lines of camels shuffled alongside the river, their drivers taking advantage of the morning cool to cover the last distance to Cairo. The tall white walls of the city were just visible in the distance.

By the time John reached the Al-Futuh gate the sun had risen, and the day had grown warm. ‘Morning, Father,’ said one of the guards, a thin man with a gold tooth.

‘Morning, Halif.’ John had passed through this gate every morning for nearly two years, and he knew most of the guards by name. ‘Will you be joining the army when it goes to war?’

‘No. I am stuck here on guard duty.’

‘My condolences. I hear the army is heading for the Kingdom,’ John guessed. ‘You shall miss your chance to enjoy the Frankish women.’

Halif shrugged. ‘I have three wives; women enough for one man.’

‘My condolences again,’ John said and continued into the city. So the army was headed for the Kingdom. But where? He meandered along narrow streets towards the north-west corner of the city, where Yusuf’s mamluks were quartered in a collection of buildings built around a square where they trained. The square was empty at this early hour. John stopped in the shade of a tree on the far right edge, near some merchants who were setting up stalls to sell fruit and water to the training men. John approached a merchant he knew well. Shihab was a bald man with ropey arms and an enormous potbelly over which hung a crucifix, identifying him as a Copt. ‘Salaam,’ John greeted him.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Ifranji.’

John selected a mango from Shihab’s cart and gave him two fals.

‘Three fals,’ Shihab corrected. John arched an eyebrow. ‘I am sorry, friend, but our lord Saladin, in his infinite wisdom, has raised the tax on all goods entering Cairo. The extra fal goes not to me but to him, to fund his war.’

John handed over the extra copper piece. It was a small price to pay for information. ‘Do you know where the army is headed?’ he asked. ‘I have family in Jerusalem. I fear for their safety.’

‘They are safe enough,’ Shihab replied. He lowered his voice. ‘A merchant friend of mine says the army will march on Kerak. It sits near the route from Damascus to Egypt, and Frankish raiders from the castle prey on the caravans. With it in our power, communication between Cairo and Damascus will be secured.’ Shihab smiled, revealing the broad gap between his front teeth. ‘Trade will prosper. Fortunes will be made.’

John handed him a piece of silver. ‘Thank you, friend.’ He had just started to walk away when two dozen mamluks entered the square. They wore protective leather vests and paired off to spar. John stopped to watch. He was particularly interested in the two mamluks who faced off only a few yards from him. One of the fighters looked to be about fifteen. He had only the beginnings of a beard, but he already had the broad chest and muscular arms of a man. His sandy-brown hair was light for a Saracen. His opponent was older and had the thick beard of a grown man. He was short and stocky.

The two mamluks were circling one another. Suddenly the younger man sprang forward. He slashed down, and his opponent parried the blow. The young mamluk kicked out, catching the bearded warrior in the gut. He stumbled backwards, and his younger opponent was on him immediately. The bearded warrior parried, but the light-haired mamluk spun and lashed out, catching him on the side. The older fighter backed away, clutching his ribs and holding his sword with one hand. His adversary attacked furiously, hacking down until he knocked his injured opponent’s sword from his hand. The young mamluk reared back to strike his now defenceless foe, but his sword arm was caught at the last second by Qaraqush.

‘Easy, Ubadah! You have won.’

Qaraqush released him, and Ubadah made the smallest of bows to his injured opponent, who threw down his practice sword and hurried from the square. He was clearly embarrassed, but there was no shame in losing to Ubadah. John had seen Ubadah defeat dozens of older warriors. He was speaking quietly with Qaraqush now, and John edged forward to hear.

‘You are a natural swordsman, Ubadah,’ Qaraqush said, ‘but you must learn patience.’

‘I won,’ the boy replied.

‘This time, yes. But the Franks are clever warriors, they will turn your aggression against you.’

‘I do not fear them. None have bested me yet.’

Qaraqush walked over to the practice sword the other mamluk had discarded and picked it up. ‘Then perhaps it is time.’

Ubadah laughed. ‘Are you jesting, greybeard? I do not wish to hurt you.’

Qaraqush did not reply. He swung the sword from side to side to test its balance and then stood straight, the weapon held casually in his right hand with its tip towards the earth. The mamluks nearby stopped fighting and turned to watch.

Ubadah raised his sword and began to circle Qaraqush. He feinted forward and then jumped back, but the old warrior did not so much as blink. Ubadah feinted several more times. Only Qaraqush’s eyes moved as he tracked his opponent. Ubadah circled behind Qaraqush, and this time he attacked in earnest, lunging for the small of Qaraqush’s back.

Qaraqush moved quickly, pivoting to his right and swinging his sword up to knock aside the attack. Ubadah spun left and brought his blade arcing towards his opponent, but Qaraqush stepped back so that the blade passed inches from his chest. Then he moved inside Ubadah’s guard and punched the boy hard in the shoulder. Ubadah was already off balance from his spin, and the blow toppled him. He rolled away and sprang to his feet, sword at the ready. But Qaraqush had not followed up his attack.

‘In a true battle you would now be dead,’ the grizzled mamluk said.

Ubadah’s forehead creased and his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. He attacked, his sword moving with blinding speed, hacking, lunging, slashing. Few could have withstood such an attack, but Qaraqush was a seasoned warrior. He made small movements of his blade, just enough to steer Ubadah’s attacks aside, and gave ground as he waited for his opponent to make a mistake. Then it came. Qaraqush was back-pedalling, and Ubadah lunged at his chest, overextending himself. Qaraqush brought his sword up, knocking Ubadah’s blade above his head. The boy brought his sword slashing back down, but Qaraqush sidestepped and slammed his practice blade into Ubadah’s side. The boy cried out as he stumbled back holding his ribs. Qaraqush sprang forward and brought his blade down on the boy’s forearm.

‘Yaha!’ Ubadah cried as he dropped his sword. The blades were blunted but the blow still stung.

‘As I said, you must learn patience,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘There is no prize for dispatching your opponent quickly. Dead is dead, no matter how long it takes.’

‘My Uncle Saladin says I am the best young swordsman he has ever seen,’ Ubadah pouted as he gingerly touched his side. The protective leather jerkin would have softened the blow, but John guessed a deep bruise was already forming. ‘Better than him, even.’

‘You are just good enough to get yourself killed. That is enough for today.’

Qaraqush walked away, and the other mamluks went back to sparring. Ubadah stood red-faced, rubbing his sore wrist. The boy was upset, although John was not sure if it was because of his defeat or because Qaraqush had dressed him down before the other men. But Qaraqush was right. Ubadah was too aggressive. He fought as if he wished to prove something. The songs of poets were filled with tales of such men, of their glorious victories and their early deaths.

Ubadah looked up, and his eyes settled on John. Looking at the boy’s face was like looking into a mirror. He had the same arch of the brow as John, the same square jaw, the same thin nose. John turned away and casually asked for a cup of water from one of the merchants. From the corner of his eye he could see that Ubadah was still watching him. Surely the boy did not recognize him. It was nearly seven years since Ubadah had last seen him.

John handed a copper to the merchant and took a cup of water. Ubadah had begun to walk in John’s direction. John handed the cup back without drinking and walked away. When he reached the street leading from the square he glanced back. Ubadah had stopped at the edge of the practice arena, but his eyes were still on John. Their gazes met for a moment, then John strode away. The sooner he left Cairo, the better.

He was leaving through the Al-Futuh gate when a guard hailed him. ‘John! Stop!’

‘What is it, Halif?’

‘You are a Frank, yes?’

John nodded. He had never tried to hide his origins. It would only raise more questions. ‘I am a priest, come to pray at the holy sites.’

‘Wait here.’ Halif turned to one of the other guards. ‘See that he does not leave.’

Halif disappeared into the gatehouse. He returned a moment later with Ubadah. John felt his stomach tense.

Ubadah scratched at his patchy beard as he peered at John. ‘I thought I recognized you, ifranji. You are John.’

John knew that it was too late to lie. ‘Ubadah.’

‘What are you doing in Cairo?’

‘I was here to pray. I was just leaving.’

Ubadah shook his head. ‘My uncle will want to see you. Guards, bring him.’

The burning in Yusuf’s gut grew worse as he examined a page of the notebook taken from John’s saddlebag. It was covered with detailed sketches of the walls of Cairo. He flipped to another page, the first of several containing figures on the number of men in Yusuf’s army, the supplies they had and how long they could stay in the field. The next few pages discussed the training regimen and tactics of Yusuf’s troops.

‘You should execute him publicly,’ Ayub said. He was standing in the corner of Yusuf’s private audience chamber, watching his son.

Yusuf ignored his father and continued flipping through the book. A series of pages were covered with the designs for the citadel that Yusuf planned to build south of the city. How had John obtained those?

‘You have seen what is in that book,’ Ayub continued. ‘I spoke with a merchant who says the Frank has been around for months asking questions. He was here as a spy, Yusuf.’

‘He broke no laws, Father.’

‘You cannot afford to appear weak in the eyes of your men, not when we are going to war. What better way to show your strength and to rally the troops than to execute a Frankish spy?’

‘John is a man of God.’

‘He is a spy!’ Ayub was red-faced, angry at his son’s intransigence.

Yusuf met his father’s eyes. ‘He is my friend.’

Ayub sighed. ‘You are a king now, my son. You cannot afford friends, least of all Frankish ones.’

Perhaps his father was right. Yusuf looked at the notebook in his hands. Perhaps John was not truly his friend. No. Yusuf closed the book and tossed it aside.

‘A great king is generous with his enemies,’ he said. ‘He shows mercy.’

‘You would show mercy to those who have shown us none? Have you forgotten what the Franks did when they took Jerusalem? What they did in Bilbeis? What they did to your mother?’ Yusuf flinched. Before he was born the Franks had raped his mother. It was something that was never discussed. ‘Have you?’

‘John is not like the other Franks.’

‘They are all the same. There is no place for them in our lands. They must be driven back into the sea from whence they came.’

‘They are savage, so we should be savage in return? That is your counsel? Why, tell me, do we deserve these lands if we are no better than the Franks?’

‘Because they are our lands!’

‘Yes!’ Yusuf replied, his voice rising to meet his father’s. ‘And we must strive to be worthy of them.’ He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was calm and even. ‘Have the prisoner brought here.’

‘You must kill him.’

‘That is for me to decide, Father. Bring him.’

Yusuf retrieved John’s notebook and took a seat on the dais. He flipped through the pages again while he waited. The door opened, and Ayub pushed John into the room.

‘You may wait outside, Father.’ Yusuf turned his gaze on John, who stood with his hands tied together before him. His friend was perhaps a touch heavier, the lines on his face a bit deeper, but other than that he was unchanged. He had the same square jaw, the same clear blue eyes, which met Yusuf’s gaze and did not look away. ‘It has been a long time, John.’

‘Too long.’

Yusuf held up the notebook. ‘Why did you come to Cairo?’

‘King Amalric sent me.’ John lowered his eyes. ‘To-to gather information.’

‘To spy, you mean.’

John nodded.

‘Ya Allah!’ Yusuf cursed. ‘How could you, John? I am your friend.’

‘And Amalric is my king. I took an oath to serve him, just as you have sworn to serve Nur ad-Din. That is why you prepare to march on Kerak, is it not? Your lord has summoned you, and so you must go. You have no choice. Nor did I.’

‘And if your lord commanded you to fight against me, John?’

‘I am a priest. It is not my role to fight.’

‘Answer my question.’

John met his eyes. ‘Whatever you may think, I am still your friend, Yusuf.’

‘You do not act the part.’

‘Do I not?’ There was a touch of anger in John’s voice. ‘I have already broken my oath to protect you. During the siege of Alexandria the Franks were searching for tunnels into the city. I discovered them first and made certain they remained hidden. I saved your life. Is that the act of an enemy?’

‘I did not ask for your help at Alexandria, John.’

‘You did not need to.’

Yusuf opened his mouth to retort and then thought better of it. John was right. He took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. ‘I am sorry, friend. But you have placed me in a difficult position. My father wants you executed. The emirs feel the same.’

‘I was willing to die for you at Butaiha, Yusuf. I still am.’

‘No. Your death would please the emirs, but if I can ransom you, the money will please them still more. You will come with me as a hostage. We leave for Kerak in three days.’

JUNE 1173: KERAK

‘It will be no easy thing to take,’ John murmured.

They stood gazing at the castle of Kerak. The thick walls were uneven, lower on the left, where they protected a lower court, and higher on the right, where the keep was situated at the crown of a hill. Even reaching the walls would be difficult. Kerak sat astride a strip of land only forty yards across, and the ground to either side of the strip fell away sharply into deep wadis. The Franks had faced the slopes of the wadis with stone to remove all handholds. The only possible path of attack was along the narrow spur of land that sloped up to the castle. A trench some ten feet deep and thirty feet wide had been cut into the stone of the spur, separating the castle from the land where John and Yusuf stood. The bridge across the trench had been burned by the castle’s defenders.

John turned from the fortress to look behind him, where Yusuf’s men were forming ranks. ‘It is too soon to attack,’ he said. ‘We have only just arrived. You should allow the catapults to do their work.’

‘I do not expect to take the citadel in our first assault, John. I wish to show the defenders my intentions. Sometimes a little bloodshed is all that is needed to force an enemy to capitulate.’

‘I have met the lord of Kerak. Humphrey is a hard man. He will not surrender.’

‘No, I suspect not.’ Yusuf turned at the sound of hoofbeats. John followed his gaze to see Selim approaching.

‘The men are ready,’ Selim said.

Ubadah arrived just after him. The young man was dressed in mail and had wrapped a scarlet cloth around his helmet.

‘Why are you dressed for battle, Ubadah?’ Yusuf demanded.

‘I want to fight, Uncle. I am ready.’

‘You are only fifteen.’

‘You were not so old when you saw your first battle.’

Yusuf opened his mouth to reply, but John spoke first. ‘He is not ready.’

Ubadah reddened. ‘Silence, ifranji! Who are you to speak thus of me?’

A group of emirs stood a dozen yards off, and now they all looked towards John. Yusuf too gave John a dark glance. ‘You may fight,’ Yusuf said reluctantly, ‘but do not leave your uncle Selim’s side. Do exactly as he tells you.’

‘Yes, Uncle,’ Ubadah said, grinning.

Yusuf looked to Selim. ‘Keep him safe, Brother, and Allah protect you, as well. You may begin the attack.’ Selim and Ubadah spurred their horses back towards the troops, and the emirs followed.

‘You should not have sent him,’ John told Yusuf. ‘I have seen him fight. He is impulsive, rash. He will get himself killed.’

‘I would not send him into battle if I did not think him ready. He is my nephew.’

‘And he is my son!’ John hissed so that only Yusuf could hear.

‘He is never to know that,’ Yusuf snapped. He shook his head. ‘If you had wished to protect him, then you should have held your tongue, John. You gave me no choice but to send him. My men were watching. I could not be seen to favour the word of a Frank over that of my own nephew.’

Selim’s horn sounded and the ranks of mamluks advanced, marching on to the narrow strip of land that led to the castle. The sixty foot-soldiers at the head of the column carried a mobile wooden bridge that would be used to span the trench. They were surrounded by another hundred soldiers, each carrying a tall, body-length shield. It was their duty to protect the men carrying the bridge.

Selim and Ubadah came next, riding amidst fifty hand-picked mamluks. Behind them marched two hundred men carrying tall ladders for scaling the wall. Bringing up the rear were another hundred infantry with tall shields, surrounding a dozen men pushing a wheeled battering ram.

The men carrying the bridge reached the steepest part of the slope and began to labour up it. As they climbed, arrows from the castle began to rain down among them. The soldiers around them raised their shields above their heads and held them sideways to protect both themselves and the men carrying the bridge. Here and there a man stumbled and fell as he was hit, but most of the arrows bounced harmlessly off the shields. A catapult within the castle hurled a huge chunk of stone towards the men. It landed just short and shattered on impact, sending splinters of stone into the front ranks of soldiers. Several men fell, crying in agony. The rest marched on. More catapults fired, and chunks of stone began to fall all about the men. Selim blew his horn again, and the men carrying the bridge quickened their pace. Behind them, the mounted mamluks spurred their horses to a trot. At the end of the column the ram bounced and jolted as it rolled over the uneven ground.

The bridge had reached the edge of the trench. Long ropes had been attached to the front of it, and now men began to pull on them, raising the front end up towards the sky as the men in the back walked the rear of the bridge forward. They continued this procedure until the bridge was nearly vertical, its bottom end resting only a few yards from the trench. Then they released the ropes and the bridge fell forward to span the gap. Immediately the troops parted, and the mamluk cavalry galloped across. John lost sight of Ubadah as the mamluks dismounted some thirty yards from the wall. They ran the final distance. A few men fell as arrows rained down amongst them, but most reached the lower portion of the wall, where they began to hurl grappling hooks up over the battlements. Men began to climb, only to fall crashing down when their rope was cut. The next wave of mamluks hit the wall, and ladders went up all along its front.

‘There is Ubadah,’ Yusuf shouted, pointing.

John spotted his son’s scarlet helmet. Ubadah was second up one of the ladders, following a man with a shield. As they reached the top Ubadah speared a Frank off the wall, then another. The mamluk with the shield scrambled over the battlement, only to be cut down. Ubadah was moving after him when a defender placed a notched stick against the top rung of the ladder and began to push it away from the wall. The men below Ubadah scrambled down or jumped off. He dropped his spear and used his hands to guide him as he slid down the ladder, touching the ground just before it tumbled over backwards.

The ram had now reached the walls, and John could hear the boom as its steel-capped head slammed into the wooden gate. It hit the gate a second time, and then the defenders poured a thick, black substance down upon it. It coated the ram and splashed over the men pushing it. A moment later a burning torch was dropped from the wall, and the ram burst into flames. The men who had been pushing it were engulfed as well, and they scattered, screaming desperately. Selim’s horn sounded the retreat.

Yusuf’s men formed ranks and fell back, the men with tall shields coming last to protect those behind them. The mounted troops had reached their horses and were swinging into the saddle. As they clattered across the bridge, John spotted Ubadah’s crimson helmet amongst them. John realized that his hands had been clenched into fists, and he relaxed them. The boy had made it.

Then, as the last of the mamluks approached the bridge, the gates of the citadel opened. A hundred knights on horseback poured out and split into two groups, galloping to either side of the retreating infantrymen. Their goal was clear: they sought to cut off the troops, trapping them on the far side of the trench. If they succeeded, several hundred men would be lost. Suddenly the infantrymen scattered to either side as two dozen mamluk cavalry spurred back across the bridge. Ubadah rode at their head.

‘’Sblood!’ John cursed. ‘What is he doing?’ The mamluk cavalry divided into two groups, and Ubadah galloped to the right, towards one branch of the onrushing Frankish cavalry.

‘He is trying to save the men,’ Yusuf said.

‘He will get himself killed-’ John started forward, but Yusuf grabbed his arm.

‘No, John. There is nothing you can do.’

‘Let me go!’ John jerked his arm away.

‘It is too late, friend. Look.’

As Ubadah and his men met the Frankish knights, several mamluks were immediately knocked from their mounts by the knights’ lances. The others were soon surrounded. They began to throw their arms down in surrender, but Ubadah’s sword continued to flash under the bright sun as he faced three men. Then a Frank slammed the pommel of his sword into the back of Ubadah’s head, and he slumped unconscious in the saddle. The other group of mamluks had fared no better, but their charge had accomplished its purpose. The last of the foot-soldiers were crossing the bridge. Beyond them, the Franks were leading their captives into the citadel.

Yusuf put his hand on John’s shoulder. ‘The boy is a prisoner. He is not dead. And he is brave. That is good.’

‘A brave fool,’ John muttered.

Yusuf smiled wanly. ‘Like his father.’

John looked back to Kerak, where the gate was now closing. ‘It is my fault.’ Had he not spoken earlier then Yusuf would not have sent the boy into battle. ‘I am your hostage, Yusuf. Exchange me for the boy.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘I mean to take Kerak, John. Many inside will die. If you go, I will not be able to protect you.’

‘Send me.’

Yusuf scratched at his beard. ‘Do you think Humphrey will accept the exchange?’

‘I am a canon of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, and I know Humphrey. He will accept.’

JULY 1173: KERAK

Yusuf stood at the start of the strip of land that led up to the walls of Kerak and watched as John walked towards the citadel. He was nearing the walls when the gate swung open, and Ubadah emerged. The two men met in the shadow of the walls and exchanged a few words. Then, John entered the castle and the gate closed behind him. Ubadah continued to where Yusuf stood.

‘Thank Allah you are safe,’ Yusuf said and embraced his nephew. ‘What did John say to you?’

‘He told me there was no glory in dying young.’

‘He is right.’

‘He is a Frankish dog,’ Ubadah spat.

Yusuf slapped him. ‘You have him to thank for your freedom. Now go to your tent and stay there.’

Ubadah trudged away, and Yusuf looked back to the castle. The exchange had taken weeks to arrange, and during that time Yusuf’s catapults had taken their toll. The walls were crumbling. It was only a matter of days before Yusuf’s men forced their way into the citadel. And when they did, the slaughter would begin. Yusuf had ordered his men to spare any who surrendered, but he knew well how hard it was to restrain men once their bloodlust was stoked. Many amongst the Franks would die, perhaps John with them. The thought upset Yusuf, but not as much as it should. And that fact upset him even more.

In the periphery of his vision he noticed a trail of dust approaching from the south. That would be a messenger from Nur ad-Din. The Syrian king had already led several raids across the Jordan as he worked his way south from Damascus. He would be pleased to hear that Kerak was almost theirs. Yusuf squinted as the trail of dust drew closer. There were a dozen riders approaching. That meant that the messenger was of some importance. Yusuf watched as the men reached the edge of the camp and dismounted.

A short time later, Selim approached on horseback. ‘A messenger has come from Nur ad-Din, Brother.’

‘I saw him arrive. Why did you not send him to me?’

‘The messenger is impertinent. He waits for you to come to him.’

‘What is his name?’

‘Gumushtagin.’

Yusuf frowned. It had been years since he had heard from the eunuch, but he would never forget the note that Gumushtagin had sent after Yusuf became vizier. You are Vizier, as I said you would be, it had read. The opportunity will come soon for you to aid me in turn. Had Gumushtagin now come to collect that debt?

‘Go and tell Gumushtagin that I await him in my tent. If he wishes to see me, then he will find me there.’

Once inside his tent, Yusuf poured himself a glass of water. He had just begun to drink when Gumushtagin entered.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saladin,’ the fat-faced eunuch said in his high voice. ‘So good to see you again.’

‘Spare me the formalities, Gumushtagin. Why have you come?’

The eunuch tutted. ‘I made you ruler of Egypt, Saladin. You should be more grateful.’

‘You killed my uncle.’ Yusuf did not bother to disguise the hostility in his voice.

‘No. Al-Khlata had him murdered and paid for it with Frankish gold. I merely facilitated their relationship.’

Yusuf drew his dagger. ‘I should kill you here and now.’

The eunuch smiled. ‘That would be a mistake. I left a letter addressed to Nur ad-Din in my suites in Damascus. If you kill me, it will be found, and he will know of your treachery. How do you think he will respond when he learns that you seduced his wife, that the son he dotes upon is your child?’

Yusuf glared at him for a moment and then sheathed his dagger. ‘What do you want?’

‘Nur ad-Din sent me to tell you his plans. He will arrive in two days. You are to wait for him here, and then the two of you will drive westward to take Ascalon.’

‘You rode all this way to tell me this?’

‘Of course not. I want you to eliminate Nur ad-Din.’

‘You waste your time, Gumushtagin. If you want Nur ad-Din gone, then do it yourself. Kill him like you killed my uncle.’

‘Unfortunately, that is not possible. I am closely watched at Nur ad-Din’s court. There are many there who do not trust me.’

‘With good reason.’

Gumushtagin ignored the jibe. ‘If Nur ad-Din were to die in suspicious circumstances, then all eyes would turn to me. That is why I need you. Think! You would no longer have to take orders from Nur ad-Din. You are already a better ruler than him.’

Yusuf took a sip of water. The eunuch was right. Nur ad-Din was too obsessed with war, too blinded by hatred of the Franks — like Yusuf’s father. But that did not matter. Nur ad-Din was his lord. Yusuf’s hand went back to his dagger. ‘You speak treason.’

‘It would not be treason if Nur ad-Din attacked first. He fears your growing power. He knew Saladin the emir. He has never met Saladin the king.’ Gumushtagin smiled disingenuously. ‘Someone may have put it into his head that Saladin the king is dangerous. Why do you think he sent your father to watch over you? If you return to Egypt before he reaches Kerak, he will see it as insubordination, or worse.’

‘And why would I do that?’

‘If you do not, then Nur ad-Din shall be informed of your treachery. Asimat will die, as will your son.’

‘I have other sons now.’

Gumushtagin laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. ‘Come now. You are not so hard as that, Saladin. You have seen a woman stoned, yes? Is that the fate you want for Asimat? Do you want Al-Salih’s blood on your hands?’

Yusuf’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Finally, he shook his head.

‘I thought not. Tomorrow, your army will withdraw to Egypt. And before a year has passed, your son Al-Salih will sit on the throne of Syria.’

‘And you will be the power behind that throne,’ Yusuf said bitterly.

Gumushtagin shrugged. ‘Al-Salih is only a child. He will need someone to look after his interests.’ He met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Do we have an agreement, Saladin?’

Yusuf nodded. What else could he do?

‘Good.’ Gumushtagin turned to go, but Yusuf grabbed his arm.

‘Be careful what you wish for, Gumushtagin. Once Nur ad-Din is dead, you will have no power over me. The next time we meet, I will kill you. I swear it.’