Kingdom

Chapter 19

APRIL 1176: DAMASCUS

Yusuf spurred his horse to a canter as Damascus came into sight. He had left Selim behind to gather the army and had ridden from Cairo with only one hundred men when he received Turan’s news. Aleppo had betrayed him, signing alliances with Jerusalem and the ruler of Mosul, Saif ad-Din. When combined, the three armies would number nearly twenty thousand men. And they were coming for Damascus. Despite the danger, Yusuf was glad. Now, finally, he would be able to deal with Gumushtagin. He had been willing to let the eunuch live in peace so long as he served Al-Salih faithfully, but his ill-conceived alliances had made the boy a pawn in the hands of the Franks and Saif ad-Din. Sooner or later, Aleppo would be absorbed by one of those stronger powers. Yusuf would not let that happen.

Near the gate he rode past some two hundred Bedouin; reinforcements riding from the south to join the camp that sprawled along the Barada River. Yusuf spotted the standards of Al-Muqaddam and Al-Mashtub flying over two of the emir’s luxurious pavilions, which stood amidst the ordered rows of mamluk tents. Interspersed amongst them were the dusty, goat-skin dwellings of the Bedouin. A dozen men had organized a game of polo on the sandy banks of the Barada. One struck the kura — a ball of willow root — with a loud crack. It hurtled over the ground, nearly hitting a fat mamluk cook who was headed to the river to fill two buckets. The mamluk began to curse the players and then stopped and knelt as Yusuf approached in his distinctive gold armour. The polo players bowed from their saddles. Yusuf nodded back.

He was almost at the Al-Saghir gate when Turan rode out to greet him. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Yusuf! Thank Allah you have come so quickly. I received troubling news this morning from our spies in Aleppo.’

‘We will talk in the palace,’ Yusuf said and turned back to his men. ‘Qaraqush, make camp alongside the river.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘That is not necessary,’ Turan said. ‘Your men are welcome in the palace.’

‘The palace will make them soft. They will make camp here. After we talk, I will join them.’

‘As you wish, Brother.’

Turan led the way to his study in the palace. ‘When will Selim arrive with the Egyptian army?’ he asked Yusuf.

‘It will take time to gather and provision the men, but he should set out before month’s end. He will be in Damascus before May is through.’

‘We need every man he can bring. I have gathered nearly five thousand warriors, but I fear it will not be enough.’ Turan retrieved a scrap of paper from his desk and handed it to Yusuf.

‘Saif ad-Din has arrived in Aleppo with seven thousand men,’ Yusuf read. ‘He leaves tomorrow with the army of Aleppo at his side. He wished to march directly on Damascus, but Gumushtagin has insisted that they retake Homs and Hama first.’ The two cities had voluntarily turned themselves over to Yusuf the previous year. Their emirs had complained that Gumushtagin was a poor ruler who taxed them too much and did too little to protect their lands from the raids of the Franks and Bedouin. Yusuf had lowered taxes and sent Al-Mashtub to Homs with five hundred men and orders to secure the countryside.

‘With Gumushtagin’s men, Saif ad-Din has more than ten thousand warriors,’ Turan said. ‘If they attack Homs first, that will buy us time. We can wait for Selim to arrive with the army of Egypt. That will even the odds. We can weather any siege they bring against us.’

Yusuf’s brow furrowed. Ever since Alexandria, he dreaded the prospect of being under siege. ‘We will not stay in Damascus and wait for them. We would still be too few once Saif ad-Din joins forces with the Franks. And we will have lost Homs and Hama. I will not let that happen. We will attack now. I will leave tomorrow morning. You will stay to wait for Selim.’

‘I should ride with you,’ Turan protested. ‘The men of Damascus are mine to command.’

Yusuf placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I ride to fight a force twice the size of mine, Turan. If I am defeated, then I need you to lead the armies of Egypt to avenge me.’

Turan looked as if he were about to protest, but instead he nodded. ‘At least wait until next week, when more Bedouin will have arrived.’

‘There is no time to wait. We will ride now and trust in Allah.’

APRIL 1176: TELL AL-SULTAN

Yusuf held his arms over his head and arched his back. He had spent the previous two weeks in the saddle as his army criss-crossed Syria in search of the enemy, riding to Shaizar, then Kafartab, Maarat, Artah, Aleppo, Hama, and now back to Aleppo. It was like trying to catch smoke. Again and again they were told by passing Bedouin or local farmers that Saif ad-Din’s army was just over the next ridge, but when they arrived they found nothing but cold cooking fires and fields littered with horse droppings. Saif ad-Din was avoiding them, biding his time until he could join forces with the Franks.

Yusuf winced at a pain in the small of his back. The days in the saddle were not as easy as they had been when he was younger. He placed one hand on his back, while with the other he shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun. He watched as his men watered their horses at the wells of Jibab al-Turkman, the last source of water until they reached Aleppo, fifteen miles distant. There were a dozen wells scattered over the quarter-mile stretch of broad plain and a mile to the west there was a low ridge. At each well a camel trudged slowly in a circle, powering a wheel that brought up brimming buckets and dumped them into a pipe, which could be redirected to send the water to different portions of the surrounding fields and orchards. Currently the water was pouring into long troughs, where the horses of Yusuf’s army buried their muzzles and drank. Meanwhile the men sat in the shade, some sharpening their swords, others eating or sleeping. Only Yusuf’s private guard stood ready. The five hundred mamluks of his khaskiya were still in the saddle. They had formed a protective square around the grove where he stood.

Yusuf spotted Qaraqush nearby, speaking with the sheikh of the tribes who farmed the fields of Jibab al-Turkman. The mamluk general finished talking and walked over to Yusuf. ‘The sheikh says they saw a field of fire to the north last night.’

‘Campfires?’

Qaraqush nodded. ‘Saif ad-Din is close.’

Yusuf glanced at the shadows cast by the palms. They were slowly vanishing as the sun moved overhead. ‘We will move on at noon. The horses can drink again once we reach Aleppo.’

Qaraqush began to walk away but froze, his eyes on the ridge to the north-west. Yusuf followed his gaze and saw the flash of sunlight off metal. There it was again, and again. An army was cresting the ridge, and Yusuf’s men were spread out over the floor of the valley, in no position to fight.

‘Have the men mount up, now!’ Yusuf shouted to Qaraqush. ‘We will withdraw-’ he looked about and spotted a flat-topped mound near the horizon ‘-east. We will regroup at that hill. I will cover the retreat with my khaskiya.’

‘But my lord-!’ Qaraqush began. He was stopped with a hard stare from Yusuf. ‘Yes, Malik.’ The mamluk general strode away, yelling for the men to mount up and ride.

Yusuf called for his horse and then turned to Saqr. ‘The khaskiya will come with me. We will ride west and form a rearguard.’ Saqr’s brow furrowed, but that was the extent of his disapproval. He began shouting orders to the men of Yusuf’s private guard, and they quickly formed a column.

Yusuf swung into the saddle. Qaraqush was galloping from well to well, shouting and waving his sword. Men were running everywhere, getting in one another’s way as they searched for their horses. The camels and mules of the baggage train were still being loaded. If they lost them, then the campaign would be over. They would have to return to Damascus to gather fresh supplies.

Yusuf looked to the ridge, which was now covered with thousands of warriors, their helmets glinting in the sunlight.

‘What are they waiting for?’ Saqr asked.

‘Perhaps they were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Inshallah, they will continue to wait.’

Yusuf led his personal guard through an orange grove and then across a field of brilliant green wheat that brushed his horse’s chest. They reached the edge of the irrigated land, and the wheat gave way to hard, dry ground. ‘We will hold here!’ Yusuf shouted.

His men spread out in a line one hundred yards across and five rows deep. With so few men they had no chance of stopping a charge, but they could perhaps delay it long enough to give the rest of the army a chance to regroup. Yusuf took his curved bow from his saddle and strung it. He then tucked the bamboo shaft of his light spear under his right leg, where it would be ready when he needed it. On the ridge a single rider was galloping along the enemy lines, waving a sword above his head.

‘They will come soon!’ Yusuf shouted to his men. ‘Arrows when they come in range, then spears. We will feint forward and then retreat!’ Yusuf took his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow while his message was relayed down the line. His horse nickered and flicked its ears. It could sense his tension.

There was a loud cry from atop the ridge, then another, and then a wall of noise as ten thousand men shouted at once. A wave of riders poured down from the ridge. Yusuf picked out a target and stretched his bow taught. To either side he could hear the twang of bowstrings as his men began to shoot. Yusuf let out his breath and then released. His arrow joined dozens of others, all black against the blue sky. Before his arrow reached its apex Yusuf had already nocked another and let fly. He shot again and again as all around him his men’s bowstrings sang. Dozens of enemy riders fell to be trampled by their comrades, but thousands more galloped on, closing rapidly. Yusuf slid his bow into his saddle and slipped his small, circular shield on to his left forearm. He looked back to the wells. His men were now all in the saddle, and the first of the camels were loaded and lumbering away.

Yusuf raised his voice. ‘We must hold them until the army is safely away. Now, men! Make those sons of whores eat dust!’

He spurred forward and his men fell in behind him. They surged across the plain like a spear tip driving towards the centre of the oncoming army. The men in the enemy ranks were close enough now for Yusuf to make out their faces. He picked out an older man with a greying beard and then rose in the stirrups and hurled his spear. It caught the man in the chest, knocking him from the saddle. Yusuf drew his sword just before he reached the enemy line. An enemy warrior thrust a spear towards his chest, and Yusuf veered away and raised his shield. The spear glanced off of it, but the blow was enough to knock him back in the saddle. He straightened and lashed out at the next rider, catching him in the throat and filling the air with a spray of blood. There were enemy warriors all around now, and Yusuf’s horse slowed as it weaved between oncoming attackers. He deflected blows with his shield and hacked to the left and right, while his men followed close behind to finish off those he missed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the enemy flanks turning inward to encircle them. They had stood their ground long enough. ‘Back, men!’ he shouted. ‘Retreat!’

Yusuf reined in, and he and his men wheeled their horses as if one. His guard allowed him to ride to their centre, and then they dug in their spurs and galloped away across the hard ground. Yusuf could hear the thunder of hooves behind him as the enemy gave chase. Arrows soon began to fall around Yusuf and his men. One hit Saqr in the shoulder, but the mamluk rode on as if unaware, crouching above the saddle, his head forward beside his horse’s neck.

They galloped back across the green fields around the wells and out on to the dusty plain beyond. In the distance Yusuf could see the mound where his army was gathering. Beneath him, his horse was beginning to labour, its breath coming in explosive bursts. Yusuf glanced over his shoulder. The enemy riders were so close they had begun hurling spears. One of his men was struck in the back and fell from the saddle. Yusuf flicked the reins. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ he cried, urging a last burst of speed from his tiring mount. Ahead, his men had formed a battle line before the mound. They drew back their bows and a cloud of arrows filled the sky, arcing over Yusuf and his men to fall amongst the enemy. Yusuf heard cries of pain. He looked back and saw that his pursuers were falling back.

He slowed his horse and trotted to the line. Qaraqush came out to meet him. ‘Subhan’allah!’ the grizzled mamluk said. ‘You live.’ He noticed the arrow protruding from Saqr’s shoulder. ‘Bring a doctor!’

Saqr waved away his concern. ‘It barely penetrated the armour.’

Qaraqush turned back to Yusuf and handed him a waterskin. ‘When you charged into their lines, I thought you were a dead man. But we needed the time you bought us.’

Yusuf rinsed the dust from his mouth and spat. ‘Had they attacked sooner, they would have routed us.’

‘We were lucky. Allah favours us.’

Yusuf looked back to where Saif ad-Din’s army was occupying the wells and beginning to water their horses. He grinned. ‘He does, Qaraqush. We have found them at last!’

Yusuf stared up at the star-strewn sky. He located the constellations Al-Hirba’ and Al-A’sad: the Chameleon and the Lion. It had been a long time since he traced their shapes, but tonight he could not sleep. He had awoken with his heart racing after a particularly vivid dream. He could not remember its particulars, only that it had involved Asimat. It had been years since he saw her last. If he defeated Saif ad-Din’s army tomorrow, then he would see her again soon, in Aleppo. If he lost, he might well never see her again. He would lose Damascus, and Cairo would be next.

A gentle breeze blew from the west, bringing with it the sound of a distant drum beating a rapid tattoo beneath the merry notes of a flute. He could see the enemy campfires from where his tent had been pitched atop the tall mound called Tell al-Sultan. His own camp was quiet, the campfires long since extinguished. Those who could manage sleep were in their tents. Others sat awake, sharpening their swords and checking their armour ahead of tomorrow’s battle. Some, like Yusuf, stared up at the heavens and wondered if they would soon be joining their forefathers there, in paradise.

‘Uncle?’

Yusuf turned to see Ubadah approaching. He was a man now, and Yusuf had given him lands and a new name: Taqi ad-Din, ‘Strong of Faith’. He hoped it would remind his headstrong nephew of his duty. This was Ubadah’s first campaign, and Yusuf had placed him in charge of over a thousand men. He stopped beside Yusuf and looked out towards the enemy camp. Yusuf saw that he held a twig, which he rolled back and forth between his forefinger and thumb. The boy was nervous.

‘I often have trouble sleeping before a battle,’ Yusuf told him.

Ubadah nodded. ‘My eagerness to fight has robbed me of my sleep,’ he boasted. Then after a moment he asked in a quieter voice, ‘How many men will we face?’

‘More than ten thousand.’

‘And we have only half so many.’ Ubadah licked his lips nervously.

‘Does the wolf run from the sheep, simply because he is outnumbered?’

‘Sheep do not carry swords, Uncle.’

‘Even if they did, they would still be sheep.’ Yusuf clapped his nephew on the back. ‘And we are wolves!’

Ubadah nodded, but he continued to roll the twig back and forth. Then he tossed it aside and turned to face his uncle. ‘Why did you lead the rearguard today? You could have sent me.’

Yusuf smiled. His nephew was so eager to prove himself. He, too, had been like that once. ‘There will be opportunity enough for you to win glory tomorrow. Today I had to act fast, and my khaskiya was ready to ride when the rest of the army was not.’

‘But you could have died.’

‘A good leader must be willing to risk his life for his men.’ Yusuf placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Get some sleep, Ubadah. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

Ubadah walked away, and Yusuf returned to his tent. He eventually drifted into a restless sleep, only to be woken what seemed moments later by Saqr. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya told him. Yusuf performed his prayers, and then Saqr helped him into his armour. He wore leather leggings and a padded vest, over which he pulled on a mail shirt that hung to just below his waist, and over that his suit of golden jawshan, which laced up at the side. Last of all, Saqr attached a mail collar that would protect Yusuf’s neck and then handed him a pointed steel helmet with a crossbar that ran down before his nose. Saqr wrapped a piece of white cloth around the helmet to keep the sun from turning the metal into an oven.

Yusuf stepped outside into the grainy light of early dawn. He found Qaraqush, Al-Maqaddam and Ubadah waiting for him.

‘A good morning, Malik,’ Al-Maqaddam said.

‘Did you hear their camp last night?’ Qaraqush asked. ‘Sounded like a tavern.’

‘Let us hope they are feeling the effects of their merrymaking,’ Yusuf said, and proceeded to give his instructions for the battle, keeping them short and simple. He had found that the more complex the plans a commander laid out, the more likely they were to go astray. ‘We will form the battle line and march at sunrise. Taqi ad-Din, you will command the left, Al-Maqaddam the right. Qaraqush, you will be in the centre. I will keep my guard of five hundred men in reserve. We advance at the sound of my horn and charge at its second sounding. Once battle is joined, you must each hold the line. When I detect a weakness in their ranks, I will strike. At the trumpet’s third blast, you will all advance together and drive them from the field. Understood?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Allah yasalmak.’

The emirs left to organize their men. Yusuf stood outside his tent and breakfasted on a bowl of boiled wheat as he watched his men form the line: eight men deep and stretching across the plain for two ghalvas — over a quarter of a mile. The men busied themselves stringing their bows and checking their armour. In the distance the enemy line was forming on the plain east of the wells. The men and their horses were tiny at this distance. Yusuf turned to study the sky behind him. It was coloured soft pink and there was a bright spot on the horizon where the sun would soon rise. He handed his bowl to a servant and turned to Saqr. ‘My horse.’

Yusuf rode down from the mound and through the ranks of the reserve force. He nodded in greeting to those he knew well: Liaqat and Manzur, who had been young men when Yusuf first met them, and were now hardened warriors with streaks of grey in their long beards; Uwais, a deadly archer; and Nazam, the bald-headed warrior who Yusuf had fought once long ago upon his arrival at Tell Bashir.

Yusuf reached the front of the reserve force. Ahead, the line of the army stretched far to either side, the men’s helmets glinting orange-red as the sun crept above the horizon behind them. It was time. Yusuf raised his voice and shouted, ‘For Islam!’

‘For Islam!’ the men behind him roared back, echoed by the mamluks all along the line.

Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Signal the advance.’

Saqr held a curved ram’s horn to his lips and blew. The piercing sound drowned out the nicker of horses and the jingle of tack. The front line rode ahead at a walk. Yusuf led the reserve force into the dust they kicked up. A series of horn blasts sounded from across the field, and through the dust ahead Yusuf could see that the enemy army was on the move. Those at the centre of their line wore mail and those at the edges were dressed in the leather or quilted armour favoured by the Bedouin. The horn sounded again, and the enemy line accelerated, their horses moving at a trot. The gap between the two lines was closing fast. A few men amongst the enemy let loose arrows, and the shafts shattered on the hard ground ahead of Yusuf’s army.

‘Signal the charge!’ Yusuf called to Saqr, who immediately sounded the horn. The line spurred their mounts to a trot and then a canter, quickly pulling away from Yusuf’s reserve force. The opposing army had continued to gain speed. The drumming of their horses’ hooves sounded like thunder. They shot arrows as they rode, and Yusuf’s men shot back, aiming directly into the line of advancing horsemen. Yusuf reined in and raised his bow to signal the men behind him to begin shooting. He nocked an arrow and aimed high, shooting over his men. His arrow joined dozens of others arcing towards the enemy line. He saw a man in the front ranks of the enemy fall from the saddle with an arrow in the gut. He was lost in the dust, trampled by the horses behind him. The armies raced closer and closer and then slammed together. It was difficult for Yusuf to make out what was happening in the deadly fighting that followed. There were screams of pain, terror and rage. Swords flashed in the light of the morning sun. A horse whinnied loudly. A spray of blood filled the air as one of Yusuf’s men was nearly decapitated.

Gradually it became clear that Yusuf’s men were falling back under the weight of the enemy’s greater numbers. He could hear Qaraqush’s deep voice raised over the din of the battle. ‘Hold the line, men! Damn you, hold the line!’ The enemy advance slowed and then stopped.

As Yusuf scanned the line of battle from right to left he quickly recognized Saif ad-Din’s strategy. His army had thrown its greatest numbers against Yusuf’s right flank, but Al-Muqaddam and the men of Damascus were holding. On the left, Ubadah faced what looked to be a weaker force. But Yusuf knew better than to charge there. Saif ad-Din had kept several thousand men in reserve, and already they were drifting that way. Saif ad-Din had shown his hand too early. He was hoping to lure Yusuf into a charge on the left. His men would retreat to draw Yusuf’s mamluks after them, and then Saif ad-Din would send his men pouring in to cut them off. It was a classic strategy, of the sort one learned in books.

Yusuf turned towards the reserve force and raised his voice. ‘We will strike the middle of their line and split their forces in two. Then we will turn left, striking their reserve force in the flank.’ Saif ad-Din would find himself caught in his own trap, pinched between Yusuf and Ubadah’s men.

Yusuf opened his mouth to signal the charge but the words died on his lips. Ubadah was leading the left flank forward. Saif ad-Din’s men fled before them, and then, as Yusuf had foreseen, the reserve force swept in, cutting Ubadah’s men off from the rest of the army. The enemy warriors, who had been retreating only moments before, turned to fight. Ubadah’s men were surrounded, and Yusuf’s left flank was completely exposed.

‘Yaha!’ he cursed. ‘The young fool!’ He held his sword aloft and raised his voice. ‘To the left, men! Follow me!’ He spurred his horse to a gallop, and his men thundered after him. The left flank was only two hundred yards away, but it seemed to take an eternity to cover the distance. Ahead, some of Saif ad-Din’s men had turned from Ubadah’s forces and were striking the exposed flank of Yusuf’s line. The centre began to give ground under the pressure. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse to greater speed.

Saif ad-Din’s men were just ahead now. One of them turned, and his eyes opened wide in shock just before the curved blade of Yusuf’s sword caught him in the face. Yusuf galloped past without glancing back to see the man fall. He slashed another warrior across the back. Behind them, the rest of the reserve force was cutting through the enemy. Yusuf pushed on into a crowd of riders. He parried a thrust and countered, dropping a man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sword slicing towards his face, but it was blocked at the last second by Saqr’s blade. Yusuf chopped the man down. Suddenly something slammed into the back of his helmet, and he slumped in the saddle as the world dimmed around him. He jerked back to consciousness just in time to knock aside a thrust aimed at his heart. Saqr slashed the attacker across the face, and Yusuf turned his horse to face the man who had struck him from behind. But his attacker was dead, having been dispatched by one of his khaskiya. More of Saif ad-Din’s men lay dead around him, and the rest were beginning to flee. The flank was secure, but Ubadah and his men were still surrounded and fighting an increasingly desperate battle.

‘Saqr! Signal for the line to advance.’ Saqr blew the horn, and Yusuf waved his sword over his head. ‘For Islam!’

‘For Saladin!’ his men shouted back.

The line surged forward, Yusuf and his men now on the left flank. They drove into the men surrounding Ubadah’s force. The enemy now found themselves caught between Ubadah and Yusuf’s men. They held for a moment and then panicked and fled, led by Saif ad-Din himself, his banner waving above him as he galloped from the field. Yusuf turned right to attack the centre of Saif ad-Din’s line, but they too were in full retreat. Yusuf continued riding until he reached the end of the line, where Saif ad-Din had initially committed most of his men. They were still fighting, and Yusuf and his men encircled them from behind. A horn began to blow repeatedly, calling them from the field, but it was too late. Some two thousand of Saif ad-Din’s men were surrounded, unable to retreat. They began to throw down their weapons and surrender.

Yusuf sheathed his sword and removed his helmet. There was a large dent on the back. Had the blow struck only a little lower, he would be dead.

‘Subhan’allah!’ Ubadah shouted as he rode up alongside Yusuf. ‘We are victorious!’

‘We were lucky,’ Yusuf snapped. ‘Your foolishness nearly lost us the battle.’

The grin fell from Ubadah’s face. ‘You said a leader must not be afraid to lead his men into battle.’

‘I told you to hold the line! An emir must obey the commands of his lord. Hundreds of my men died because of you. Men with families.’

‘I-’

Yusuf did not wish to hear the excuses. He turned his horse and rode away. He had no doubt that Ubadah was brave, but he feared it was a reckless bravery that would some day get him killed.

As he rode towards the deserted enemy camp, Qaraqush came up alongside him. ‘A great victory, Malik!’ The mamluk general grinned. ‘Did you see them run?’

Yusuf could not bring himself to share Qaraqush’s enthusiasm. He had a dull headache and felt nauseous. He touched the back of his head and found an egg-sized bump.

‘Are you well, Malik?’

‘Well enough,’ Yusuf replied tersely. ‘Move our camp to the wells and see that the horses are watered.’

‘And the prisoners? We have captured hundreds.’

‘Release them.’ Yusuf noticed the look of surprise on Qaraqush’s face. ‘Harsh measures will only make them hate us all the more. Mercy will rob them of the desire to fight. It will make peace that much easier to achieve.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Qaraqush spurred away, and Yusuf rode on to the enemy camp. Some of his men were already there, searching through the tents and baggage that had been left behind. The booty would be distributed amongst Yusuf’s men. He saw a mamluk laughing as he picked at a lute that he had found. Another man emerged from a tent, his long brown beard stained violet. ‘Wine!’ he roared and then fell silent as he noticed Yusuf.

‘You saw how their army fought?’ Yusuf demanded.

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘That is how men drunk on wine fight. See that it is poured out, all of it.’

The mamluk bowed and went into the tent. Yusuf watched while he rolled out a barrel and removed the stopper so that the wine poured out to stain the dry ground red. He looked up at the sound of a strange bird call. The mamluk Uwais was emerging from another tent with a cage that held two parrots. Another man followed with a cage containing nightingales.

‘What do we do with these, Malik?’ Uwais asked.

‘Have them sent back to Saif ad-Din with this message: tell him to play with his birds and leave war to men.’