Kingdom

Chapter 14

JULY TO AUGUST 1173: CAIRO

Yusuf and his guard entered Cairo through the Al-Futuh gate after a tour of the new walls that Qaraqush was building. Extending the wall to the Nile meant that a besieging army would no longer be able to cut Cairo off from the river. In addition, Yusuf was extending the southern wall to include the rich gardens south and west of the city. In Alexandria, he had witnessed what happened when a city ran short of food. That would not happen here. Once the walls were finished, Cairo would be able to withstand a siege lasting months, even years.

When he reached the palace, Yusuf handed his horse to an attendant and strode inside. He was halfway across the entrance hall when he stopped short. Turan stood waiting at the far end. Yusuf had not seen his older brother for nearly twelve years, not since he had left Turan in charge of Tell Bashir, the fortress in Syria that had been Yusuf’s first fief. Turan had always been an imposing man, tall with a broad chest and shoulders, but now his thick build had softened. He had a paunch and heavy jowls. His dark hair showed traces of grey. Yusuf wondered if he, too, looked so old.

Turan grinned. ‘Brother! As-salaamu ‘alaykum!’ He crossed the hall and engulfed Yusuf in a hug, and then kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Turan,’ Yusuf murmured, thrown off balance by his brother’s warm greeting. As children, Turan had bullied Yusuf mercilessly until the day Yusuf finally bested his brother in a fight. Even after Turan had agreed to serve as one of Yusuf’s emirs, the two had not been close. It seemed that Turan’s temperament had softened with time.

‘What brings you to Cairo?’ Yusuf asked.

Turan’s grin faded. He glanced at the mamluk guards stationed in the hall. ‘We should speak in private.’ Yusuf led Turan to a small chamber where visitors were sent to wait for their audience with the king. ‘Nur ad-Din has taken Tell Bashir from us, Brother.’

‘What? When?’

‘A month ago. A thousand mamluks under Al-Muqaddam arrived and demanded that I hand over the fortress. I had no hope of holding out against such a number. Nor did I think it wise to defy our lord.’

‘You did well, Brother. Did Al-Muqaddam say why Nur ad-Din was reclaiming Tell Bashir?’

‘No. I went to Aleppo to assure Nur ad-Din of my loyalty. He refused to see me, Brother. Men at court whisper that you are a traitor. They say that Nur ad-Din was furious when you withdrew from Kerak. He has declared publicly that if you do not come to him in Aleppo, he will march on Cairo and sack the city.’

The sudden burning in Yusuf’s stomach was so painful that he was forced to place a hand on the wall to keep from doubling over. He took a deep breath. ‘And if I do go to Aleppo?’

Turan shook his head. ‘Gumushtagin has poisoned our lord against you. I believe that Nur ad-Din means to see you dead, whether you go to him or not.’

‘Dark times are upon us, friends.’ Yusuf paused and looked around the council chamber at his advisers: his father Ayub, his brothers Selim and Turan, the mamluk emirs Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub, and his private secretaries Imad ad-Din and Al-Fadil. They met atop the tallest tower in Yusuf’s palace, a practice that he had borrowed from Nur ad-Din. Here, he could be sure they would not be overheard.

‘Turan has brought news from Aleppo,’ Yusuf continued. ‘Nur ad-Din is preparing to march on Egypt.’

No one spoke, but the pale faces of the men revealed their alarm. Ayub recovered first. ‘You must send a message to him immediately. Tell Nur ad-Din that there is no need for him to attack Egypt. Tell him that if he wishes to see you, he need only send for you and you will come as his humble servant.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘Turan says that Nur ad-Din means to see me dead, and my friends in his court confirm this. If I go to him, I shall never return.’

‘What will you do?’ Selim asked.

‘I have no choice. I will fight.’

Ayub scowled. ‘But Nur ad-Din is your lord!’

‘I am the King of Egypt, Father, and my first duty is to my people. But none of you are kings. If any of you do not wish to fight Nur ad-Din, then I understand. You may leave now.’

There was a pause that seemed agonizingly long to Yusuf. Finally Qaraqush spoke. ‘I will stand by you, Yusuf.’

One by one, the others also pledged their loyalty, until only Ayub had not spoken. All eyes turned towards him. He rose and strode to the door.

‘Father!’ Yusuf cried, but Ayub left the chamber without looking back. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell that led down from the tower. Yusuf hurried after him. ‘Father, wait!’ He caught up to Ayub at the bottom of the curving stairway and grabbed his arm. ‘Where are you going?’

Ayub shook off Yusuf’s hand. ‘I will not stay and listen while you plot treason.’

‘It is not treason to defend my lands.’

‘No, but it was treason to refuse to meet Nur ad-Din in Kerak. And it is treason to build walls around Cairo to keep out your rightful lord.’

‘You will return to Damascus?’ Yusuf asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. ‘You would choose Nur ad-Din over your own son?’

Ayub sighed and bowed his head. He suddenly looked every bit of his more than sixty years. ‘I am your father, Yusuf, and if there is anyone who loves you and wishes you well, it is I. I will stay in Cairo and serve you as I am able. But know this: if Nur ad-Din comes here, nothing will prevent me from bowing before him and kissing the ground at his feet. If he ordered me to lop off your head with my sword, I would do it.’

Yusuf turned away so that his father could not see the wetness in his eyes. ‘I do not understand why you love him so.’

‘He took us in when we had nothing. We owe him everything.’

‘You owe him everything.’ Yusuf turned to face his father. ‘I have made my own kingdom.’

‘Such talk reeks of treason, my son.’

‘Who are you to speak to me of treason? I am your king so long as you live in Egypt. I am your son, too, yet you think nothing of betraying me. Tell me truly, Father: what will happen if I go to Nur ad-Din, as you suggest?’

Ayub lowered his gaze. His silence spoke for him. Yusuf’s jaw clenched as he fought back tears of anger and disappointment. His father had taught him to value honour above all else, to put loyalty before family and friends. He should have expected nothing less from him.

Ayub placed a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘More than your life is at stake. What do you think will happen if you resist our lord? It will plunge the East into chaos. The Franks will take advantage of our dissension to attack. Everything we have gained over the last thirty years will be lost. But if Nur ad-Din controls Egypt and Syria, then he can take Jerusalem. He can drive out the Franks.’

‘And I will die.’

‘A sacrifice worth making. I will go with you to Aleppo, Yusuf. Whatever fate Nur ad-Din decrees for you, I will share it.’

‘I cannot.’ Yusuf opened his mouth to continue, but then shook his head. He could not tell his father that he had already betrayed their lord, and in a far worse manner than Ayub could have imagined.

‘Do not turn your back on Nur ad-Din-’ Ayub was pleading now. ‘He will not forgive it.’ He met his son’s eyes. ‘Nor will I.’

It took all Yusuf’s will to speak without his voice breaking. ‘Do what you think right, Father. I shall do the same.’

‘Very well.’ Ayub kissed Yusuf once on each cheek and then walked away.

Yusuf stood at the window of his bedroom and looked south, beyond the city to where men were working on the new wall by torchlight. He frowned as he thought back to his last conversation with his father. It had been a week ago, but it was never far from his mind. It nagged at him, like a sore tooth. ‘He does not love me,’ he murmured.

‘What?’ Shamsa called sleepily from bed. ‘Who does not love you?’

‘My father. He never has.’

She rose and came to stand beside him. ‘Come to bed, my love.’

‘Later.’

She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I have seen Ayub with you. He is proud of you. But he has had a hard life. Affection does not come easily to such a man.’

‘He said he would kill me if Nur ad-Din commanded it. Does that sound like love, Shamsa?’

‘He only says such things because he is frustrated. You are his son, Yusuf, but also his lord. It is not easy for him.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘He meant what he said.’

Shamsa examined his face for a moment. She nodded. ‘You may be right. Your father sees dishonour as a fate worse than death. He would do anything to save you from it.’

They stared out at the low, scudding clouds, lit silver by a crescent moon. ‘Come, habibi,’ Shamsa said at last. ‘Let us to bed.’ She took his arm and was leading him across the room when loud shouting and the unmistakable ring of steel upon steel came from just outside the bedroom. An axe slammed into the door, splintering the wood near the lock. Shamsa paled. ‘Assassins!’

Yusuf retrieved his sword from where it hung beside the bed and drew the blade. He took Shamsa by the arm and led her to his private audience chamber. He had just placed his hand on the far door when it shook as someone tried to force his way in. Yusuf backed away. Shamsa hurried to shut and lock the door through which they had entered. A moment later someone slammed into it from the other side.

‘The window!’ Yusuf shouted.

It looked out over a flat rooftop that ran along one side of an interior courtyard. Shamsa crawled out first. Yusuf followed, feeling for the thin ledge below the window with his bare feet. He had just lowered Shamsa to the roof below when one of the doors burst open behind him. He tossed his sword down and jumped, rolling as he landed. Above, men dressed in black and wearing masks were crawling out of the window. One of them jumped, and Yusuf impaled the man as he landed. He turned to Shamsa. ‘Go and bring the guards.’

She shook her head. ‘I will stand by you.’

Yusuf shoved her towards the far side of the roof. ‘Go! Now!’

He turned to see two men on the ledge above. They jumped at the same time, and Yusuf was forced to back away. Behind them, more men were climbing out of the window. Yusuf lunged forward, thrusting his blade at the man on his right. The man parried while the other man swung for Yusuf’s head. Yusuf dropped to a crouch to avoid the blade and then kicked out, sweeping the man’s legs from beneath him. Yusuf knocked aside an attack from his other assailant and swung his sword back, catching the man in the throat. Then he ran. After a dozen yards the roof ended, a gap some ten feet wide separating it from the roof on the far side. Yusuf accelerated and jumped, just clearing the gap. He glanced back as he ran and saw three of the masked men take the jump. Two made it but one missed, cursing loudly as he fell. More men were gathering on the roof behind them.

Yusuf veered left and jumped down into the courtyard. He rolled and then sprang to his feet. He raced past a rose bush, which tore at his silk robe, and through a door into a long hallway, the marble floor cold under his bare feet. Where were the guards? This hall should have been patrolled. He glanced back to see his pursuers enter the hall behind him. Yusuf raced to the far end of the hallway and pushed open a heavy door. In the entrance hall two-dozen mamluks were headed his way with Shamsa and Selim at their head.

‘Alhamdulillah!’ Shamsa cried as she rushed forward and embraced him.

The first of the masked men burst into the room. When he saw the mamluks, he turned and ran. A dozen of Yusuf’s men gave chase. Yusuf looked to his brother. ‘Send men to block every exit from the palace. Take them alive if you can.’

‘No, no! Please! Ya Allah! Ya Allah! Have mercy!’ The assassin squirmed as Al-Mashtub slowly turned one of the screws of the steel vice that encircled his head. The head crusher was a truly terrible instrument. It had two clamps, one putting pressure on the forehead and back of the skull, the other squeezing the victim’s head just above his ears. Al-Mashtub continued turning the screw, putting unbearable pressure on the sides of the man’s skull. ‘Please! Please!’ the assassin moaned. ‘Make it stop!’

Yusuf forced himself to watch. It was late, only an hour after the assassins’ failed attempt. He was tired and sickened from watching men suffer, but he wanted to know who had hired them. He wanted to know, and yet he feared the truth.

The tortured assassin was now screaming incoherently, one long wail of agony. Then he passed out and the room fell silent. Yusuf turned to another assassin who had been tied to a chair and forced to watch his friend suffer. The man’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘Let us try again,’ Yusuf said. ‘Who gave you access to the palace? Who told you where my chambers are?’

The man’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘I will tell you nothing, Sunni dog.’

The man was brave, but Yusuf knew that even brave men could be made to talk if one applied the correct combination of fear, pain and hope that it all might end. The man had called Yusuf a Sunni dog. He would start there.

‘You sought to kill me because I am a Sunni, because I have converted the mosques of Cairo,’ Yusuf suggested. The man did not speak. ‘No, it is something else. You are loyal to the Fatimids, perhaps? You resent their imprisonment. I could have had them killed, you know. I showed them mercy. I will show you mercy as well, if you tell me what I want to know.’ The man shook his head. ‘Very well.’ Yusuf nodded to Al-Mashtub.

The giant mamluk unscrewed the vice from the first victim’s head and pulled it off. It had cracked the sides of the man’s skull, and purplish-black blood had pooled under the skin around his temples and below his ears. Al-Mashtub brought the head crusher towards the second assassin, who began to squirm in his chair, thrashing his head from side to side. A mamluk stepped behind the man and put a leather strap around his neck. He pulled up and back so that the strap dug into the flesh under the man’s chin, holding his head motionless. Al-Mashtub pressed the vice down over his head.

‘No!’ the man cried. ‘Wait!’

Al-Mashtub tightened one of the screws, just enough so that the man could feel the cold metal pressing against the sides of his head.

‘Please! Stop!’ The man’s eyes were jerking wildly from side to side. ‘It was Najm ad-Din! He is the one who showed us into the palace!’

Yusuf felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He closed his eyes and gripped the back of the chair, waiting until his breathing returned to normal. He leaned close to the assassin’s face. ‘If you speak false, you shall suffer such pain that you will wish to die, but I will not let you.’

‘I do not lie,’ the man said. ‘It was your father. I swear it.’

‘I want details.’

‘On his way to Cairo from Damascus, Najm ad-Din stopped in Yemen. There are many loyal to the Fatimids there, men who fled Egypt when the Caliph died. He recruited us, brought us to an apartment in Cairo and told us to wait. Then we did not see him for months. We thought he had changed his plans until last week when he came to us. He told us how to enter the palace and where to find you. He said that if we killed you, he would place one of the Fatimids back on the throne.’

Yusuf looked to Al-Mashtub. ‘See that this one dies quickly. Crucify the others outside the northern gate.’ He turned to Saqr, who stood at the door. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf left the torture chamber and crossed the palace to his father’s quarters. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he nodded to Saqr, who pushed the door open.

Ayub sat across from the door, bent over a lap desk as he wrote by the light of a single candle. He looked up as Yusuf entered. Ayub’s face was drawn, his eyes red. He placed his quill aside, took the piece of paper on which he had been writing, and held it to the candle flame. As it began to burn, he rose and dropped it out of the window behind him. Then he turned to face Yusuf.

‘Alhamdulillah. I am pleased to see you are well, my son.’

‘Are you, Father?’ Yusuf looked to Saqr. ‘Leave us.’ Saqr departed and drew the door closed behind him. Yusuf turned back to his father. ‘Were you writing to Nur ad-Din? Congratulating your lord on my death?’

‘I only wished to protect you, Yusuf.’

‘By sending assassins to kill me in the night?’

‘You would have died with your honour intact.’

‘Honour? That is all you care about, Father!’

‘Without honour we would be little better than animals,’ Ayub replied softly. ‘I thought I taught you that much, Yusuf, if nothing else.’

‘You taught me that you care more for Nur ad-Din than for your own family. You taught me that nothing I ever did would be good enough to earn your love!’

‘That is not true.’

Yusuf opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. Across the room a single tear had fallen from his father’s eye to zigzag down his weathered cheek. Yusuf had never seen his father cry. He had not thought him capable of it.

‘I am sorry, Yusuf,’ he said. ‘But loyalty is the most important virtue, even more than love.’

‘And what of your loyalty to me? I am your king.’

‘And I am your father.’ Ayub straightened and some of the old fire returned to his grey eyes. ‘Why would you not do as I asked? You have always been too headstrong.’

Yusuf did not reply. He did not know which he desired more: to forgive his father or to order his death. He was suddenly very tired. He wished only to be gone from here. He turned to leave.

‘Son!’ Ayub called, and Yusuf turned back. ‘I-’ His father met his eyes. ‘I understand what you must do. I only ask that you let me die an honourable death. Do not shame me. And do not let your mother know what I have done.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Yusuf was on his knees, prostrate so that his forehead touched the carpet beneath the domed ceiling of the Al-Azhar mosque. Morning prayers had ended, but Yusuf remained, surrounded by members of his private guard. He whispered the same words again and again. ‘Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory. Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory-’

He heard soft footsteps on the carpet and felt someone touch his shoulder. He looked up to see Qaraqush. ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Your father had an accident while hunting. He fell from his horse and broke his neck.’

Yusuf rose. ‘He is dead?’

‘In a coma. The doctor Ibn Jumay does not expect him to live long.’

Yusuf felt a tightening in his chest. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. It was like one of his childhood fits when no matter how much he gasped the air would not come. He had not suffered such a spell in years. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly and steadily. The fit passed, but the heaviness in his chest remained.

Yusuf rode at a gallop back to the palace, where he went straight to his quarters. Shamsa was waiting in the antechamber. Yusuf strode past without a word and went to his bedroom. She began to enter after him, but he turned to block her way.

‘Leave me be! I am not to be disturbed. I want food and water brought to my chambers, but nothing else. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, habibi.’

Yusuf closed the door and sank to the floor. Tears began to form, but then he thought of something his father had said to him long ago: ‘Do not cry, boy. Only women cry.’ Yusuf shook the thought from his head. He tried to weep, but no tears would come.

Yusuf sat cross-legged in his bedroom. His hair was unkempt and his robe filthy, but he was oblivious to his appearance. A volume of the Hamasah lay open before him. He knew all of the poems by heart. How many afternoons had he spent in the shade of the lime trees behind his childhood home, lost in tales of love and glory? Yusuf smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of his father, his mouth set in a thin line of disapproval as he watched his son read. Yusuf closed the book and set it aside.

The door to the room creaked open. ‘I said I was not to be disturbed!’ Yusuf snapped.

Shamsa entered. ‘It has been two weeks, Yusuf. You have a kingdom to rule.’

‘I am not fit to rule,’ he muttered.

Shamsa sat across from him. ‘You look tired,’ she said and reached out to touch his hair, which was now flecked with grey.

Yusuf pushed her hand away. ‘Go, Shamsa. I wish to be alone.’

She did not move. ‘You did the right thing, Yusuf.’

‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

‘He tried to have you killed. He had to die.’

Yusuf felt the heaviness settle on his chest again. It was never far away. ‘I told you to go.’ He rose and went to the window, his back to Shamsa. ‘Why will you not leave me in peace?’

She approached and gently touched his shoulder. This time, Yusuf did not push her away. She wrapped her arms around him, embracing him from behind.

‘What sort of man am I, Shamsa?’

‘A great man.’

‘I do not wish to be great.’

‘You have no choice. Allah has chosen you.’

‘I wish he would choose someone else.’ Yusuf stared out of the window for a long time. Finally he turned to face Shamsa. ‘He was my father.’ Yusuf’s lip trembled. He could feel himself losing control. ‘I–I wish-’ Words failed him, and he buried his face in her shoulder and began to sob. It was the first time he had cried since his father’s death. Shamsa held him and gently stroked his hair.

Finally the tears stopped flowing. ‘To rule, you must make painful decisions,’ Shamsa whispered in his ear. ‘It is the price for greatness, Yusuf.’

Yusuf stepped back from her. The weight on his chest had vanished, and now he stood straight. ‘Some prices are too high. I should not have killed him. I am a warrior, not an assassin.’

‘You are a king.’

‘And I shall rule as a virtuous king, or I shall fall.’

She gazed into his eyes for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, but first you must have a bath.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You are filthy.’

Yusuf looked down at his soiled robes. Was it really two weeks since he had bathed, since he had left his apartments?

‘And afterwards you will hold court,’ Shamsa continued. ‘Turan and Selim are worried. We receive news daily that Nur ad-Din is gathering more troops. The emirs need you to reassure them.’

‘Have my councillors gather in the council chamber,’ Yusuf told her. ‘But first, bring me Ibn Jumay.’

Yusuf had bathed. His hair had been oiled and his beard trimmed. He sat in a clean robe when Ibn Jumay entered his study. The doctor bowed. ‘Saladin.’

Yusuf motioned for him to sit. ‘Thank you for coming, my friend. You are well?’

‘My practice is busy.’

‘I hope you have time for one more patient.’

Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘I cannot, Yusuf.’

‘I promise you that I will not sacrifice virtue for power. Not again.’

‘And what of Nur ad-Din? The rumour in the streets has it that he is marching on Egypt, and he means to have your head.’

‘If he wants me dead, then so be it. I merit death for what I have done.’

Ibn Jumay’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘You taught me that there are more important things than power, than life even. If I die, Nur ad-Din will unify Egypt and Syria. The Franks will be forced to make peace, and if they do not, he will defeat them and drive them from Jerusalem. If I fight, then I will bring nothing but suffering to my own people. Peace will be impossible.’ Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I will present myself to Nur ad-Din and submit to his judgement.

‘He will have you killed.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I fear I will not have need of your services for long. What do you say, old friend? Will you stand by me in my last days?’

Ibn Jumay bowed. ‘It would be my honour.’