Kingdom

Chapter 20

APRIL 1176: ON THE ROAD FROM ACRE TO ANTIOCH

John rode under a banner displaying Raymond’s arms, a golden cross on a field of red. Before him, a long line of Frankish soldiers followed a path that wound its way along cliffs above the Mediterranean Sea. They had marched from Acre just over a week ago and had left Tripoli and Lattakieh behind. John rode at the centre of the column, along with Raymond, Humphrey and William. The regent rode up alongside John.

‘We will reach Antioch the day after next,’ Raymond said. ‘After that we will head inland to rendezvous with the armies of Aleppo and Mosul. Then we will turn south to confront Saladin.’

John nodded but said nothing. Raymond searched his face for a moment. ‘You know Saladin well, John. What sort of man is he?’

John thought for a while. ‘When he was a boy, he suffered fits that robbed him of his breath and left him helpless. His father despised him and considered him unfit to be a warrior. His older brother Turan bullied him. Saladin was a skinny boy. He weighed maybe half as much as Turan. He bided his time and learned to fight. When Saladin was twelve and his brother sixteen, Saladin beat Turan to within an inch of his life. Turan never troubled him again.’

‘A determined man.’

John nodded. ‘When he was aged fourteen he was made Emir of Tell Bashir. He arrived to find the men there still loyal to the previous emir, who had ordered them to turn the fortress over to the Seljuks. The money Saladin had brought to buy their loyalty had been stolen by bandits. Those same bandits nearly killed Saladin, leaving him with no horse and no men. He arrived at Tell Bashir penniless after a two-day trek through the desert. Within two weeks he had driven off the bandits and earned the loyalty of the men of Tell Bashir.’ John met Raymond’s eyes. ‘Saladin is not the strongest of men, nor the bravest, nor even the wisest, but he has greater resolve than any man I have ever known.’

‘And what are his weaknesses?’

John’s forehead creased in thought. ‘Saladin is a religious man. He does not drink, and he has no interest in games of chance.’ John paused. He thought of Yusuf’s affair with Asimat and then of the night that Yusuf had spared him, despite John’s relationship with his sister. ‘But he is perhaps too loyal to his friends. And he has been made a fool by love.’

‘As have we all.’

They rode on in silence while the waves crashed against the rocky shore below and the seagulls shrieked and wheeled overhead. Ahead, the road led down to a broad coastal plain, where sandy beaches gave way to emerald-green fields. Even after all these years John found himself surprised by the beauty of the Holy Land. If only it were not riven by war, it could be a paradise; a kingdom of heaven on earth, as a preacher in England had once described it to him.

John spotted half a dozen riders approaching on the plain. They paused briefly when they reached the front of the army. Then they moved on at a gallop. They pulled up just short of John and Raymond. John blinked in surprise as the lead rider brushed the dust of the road from his face.

‘Bohemond!’ Raymond exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

Bohemond, the prince of Antioch, was supposed to have waited to meet them there. He was breathing heavily after his ride, and it took him a moment to gather himself. ‘I bring evil news,’ he said at last between deep breaths. ‘The armies of Aleppo and Mosul have been crushed. Aleppo will surely fall soon. Saladin is master of Syria.’

‘Are you certain?’ Raymond asked. ‘They outnumbered Saladin’s army nearly two to one.’

‘I received the news from one of Saif ad-Din’s emirs, who was separated from the army and fled to my lands. The Bedouin and caravans from Aleppo support his account. No allies will be waiting for us in Artah. If we wish to face Saladin, we will do it alone.’

Raymond looked to William.

‘If we engage Saladin, we might prevent him from taking Aleppo, but if we lose …’

Raymond’s brow knit. William did not need to tell him what would happen. If they were defeated, the entire Kingdom would be laid bare before Saladin’s armies. The regent looked to John. ‘Can Saladin be trusted? If we make peace, will he keep it?’

John nodded. ‘He will honour any agreement he makes.’

‘Very well. You and William will go to him and sue for peace.’

‘Peace will be hard to come by,’ William warned. ‘Saladin has the upper hand. He will want to press his advantage.’

‘Perhaps, but he will also need time to consolidate his gains. He will accept peace with us so that he can turn his attentions to Aleppo.’

The constable Humphrey frowned. ‘And after that, he will move on us. He controls Egypt and Syria. We are in a vice. He will crush us, sooner or later.’

John shook his head. ‘Saladin does not hate us the way that Nur ad-Din did. I believe a lasting peace is possible.’

‘We will pray that is so,’ Raymond said. ‘In the meantime, I will take the army back to Jerusalem and prepare for the worst.’

JUNE 1176: ALEPPO

John stopped his mount in the shade of a pistachio tree atop a steep hill. In the distance stood the white walls of Aleppo. The city was surrounded by Yusuf’s army. Their tents stretched to within half a mile of where John now sat.

William reined in beside John and whistled in appreciation as he caught sight of the Saracen camp. ‘A mighty force. How many men do you think Saladin has?’

‘Fifteen thousand, at least. He must have received reinforcements from Cairo.’

‘Such a force might take Jerusalem. We must not fail, John.’

William led the way down the far side of the hill. John followed, and their escort of twelve knights trailed after him. They were still some distance from the enemy camp when fifty mamluks rode out to meet them. William called for their escort to halt. ‘Raise the white flag,’ he told John.

They waited while the Saracens galloped up and formed a ring around them. The mamluks rode with bows in hand. If they decided to attack, then it would be a short fight. One of them rode forward from the ranks. It was John’s son, Ubadah.

‘What is your business here?’ Ubadah demanded.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum,’ William replied. He continued in Arabic. ‘We come at King Baldwin’s bidding to speak with your lord, Saladin.’

Ubadah fingered the hilt of his sword. ‘You have trespassed on Muslim lands.’

‘We are peaceful emissaries. Our past treaties with your lord, and with Nur ad-Din before him, give us permission to cross his lands in order to conduct negotiations.’

‘Saladin is leading an army. He has no time for negotiations with Frankish dogs.’

‘Nevertheless,’ John said, ‘perhaps you would do us the honour of informing him of our presence, Ubadah ibn Khaldun.’

Ubadah’s eyes widened in surprise at having been recognized, then narrowed as he examined John more closely. ‘I am called Taqi ad-Din now, John. Who is your companion?’

‘William of Tyre. We are happy to wait here until Saladin decides if he will see us.’

‘That will not be necessary.’ Ubadah turned to one of his men. ‘Take the knights to camp and see that they are fed and their horses watered.’ He looked back to John and William. ‘You come with me.’

Ubadah led them into camp. John knew that Yusuf’s army had arrived outside the city nearly two months previously, having driven Saif ad-Din east across the Euphrates. But Yusuf’s men seemed to have made little progress. The walls of Aleppo showed no sign of damage from catapults or mangonels. Mamluks lounged about, talking or playing games of chance.

John followed Ubadah to the top of a ridge that overlooked the city. Yusuf’s enormous tent had been pitched there. Ubadah led them into a smaller tent in its shade. ‘Wait here.’

‘A most unpleasant young man,’ William muttered when Ubadah had gone. ‘You know him?’

John nodded.

‘Thank God for that. I thought for a moment he was going to order his men to kill us.’ William removed his cloak and shook the dust from it, then laid it on the ground and knelt. ‘Let us pray for the success of our negotiations.’

John knelt beside him, and they bowed their heads. When Ubadah returned, he frowned to see them praying. ‘The Malik will see you now,’ he said. He led them to Yusuf’s tent and motioned them inside.

Yusuf sat on a campstool. He was dressed in spectacular golden armour and flanked on his right by Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Al-Muqqadam. Ubadah joined them. John recognized Imad ad-Din amongst the scribes who stood to Yusuf’s left. Yusuf studied John for a moment, but showed no sign of recognition. John and William approached and bowed.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Yusuf told them. Then he added in French, ‘God grant you joy and health.’

‘And may he grant you the same,’ William replied in Arabic. ‘We are honoured to be allowed into your presence, great King. Thank you for seeing us.’

‘And what is it that you want?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Peace between our great kingdoms.’

‘Peace?’ Ubadah scoffed. ‘The eagle does not make peace with the hare.’

Yusuf gestured for him to be silent. ‘I am a man of peace, William, but I fear the regent Raymond is not. Did he not sign a treaty with my enemy Gumushtagin? Did he not gather an army to fight against me?’

‘But he did not fight you, Malik. And that army has been disbanded.’

‘And what of the treaty with Gumushtagin? The friend of my enemy is my enemy.’

‘Jerusalem is no friend to Gumushtagin. Our treaty was with Al-Salih, the rightful ruler of Aleppo.’

‘It was a treaty negotiated by Gumushtagin,’ Yusuf insisted, ‘a treaty that called for a joint attack on my lands.’

‘We wish no harm to your kingdom,’ William assured him. ‘We have come to make peace.’

‘Do not trust them, Malik,’ Al-Maqaddam interjected. ‘They have turned their back on the treaty they made with Gumushtagin. How are we to know they will not do the same to any treaty they sign with us?’

Yusuf raised his eyebrows. ‘A fair question.’

‘Raymond never breaks his word,’ William insisted. ‘As you know, our treaty with Al-Salih called for us to join forces with the armies of Aleppo and Mosul. Those armies were destroyed at Tell al-Sultan. We cannot join with armies that do not exist.’

A smile played at the corner of Yusuf’s mouth. ‘A clever answer, William.’

The priest bowed.

‘It does not matter,’ Ubadah insisted. ‘We have no reason to make peace. Why negotiate with Jerusalem when we could take it?’

‘I think you will find that Jerusalem is not an easy prize,’ William countered. ‘Our armies are strong, as are the walls of Jerusalem and our other cities. And we have the support of the Roman Emperor in Constantinople.’

Qaraqush snorted. ‘Then why have you come begging for peace?’

‘Because peace benefits both our peoples.’ William looked to Yusuf. ‘I am not concerned with battles and glory but with the lives of my flock, just as you, Saladin, are concerned with the lives of your people. War will only bring them death and suffering. Peace will let them prosper.’

Ubadah shook his head. ‘There can be no peace until your kind are driven from our lands.’

Yusuf raised his hand. ‘Enough, Ubadah. You must respect our guests.’

‘He is right, Malik,’ Al-Muqaddam said. ‘We should strike while we have the advantage.’

The other emirs nodded their agreement. Yusuf rubbed his beard and opened his mouth to speak, but John spoke first. ‘May I speak with you in private, Malik?’ He met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Please, friend.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Leave us.’

John waited until the men had filed out. ‘Make peace, Yusuf.’

‘My men are against it.’

‘They are men of war. That is all they know.’

‘And they know it well, John. Qaraqush believes we can defeat the Kingdom.’

‘At what cost? Remember when we spoke of peace after Alexandria? It is possible at last. You are lord of Syria and Egypt. You have no reason to fear the Kingdom, and we would be fools to attack you.’ John waited, but Yusuf said nothing. ‘Make peace,’ John urged again. ‘I do not wish to fight you, Brother.’

‘Has it come to that, John?’ Yusuf sounded tired. ‘I am forced to besiege my son. Must I also do combat with my closest friend? Will you, too, take arms against me?’

‘Not against you. For Baldwin. He is my king. If you invade the Kingdom, I will fight to defend him.’

‘I see.’ Yusuf rested his chin on his hand. He sighed. ‘To tell the truth, I grow tired of war, John. I miss my family. And I have no desire to fight you or your king. I fear such a war would only destroy us both. I will give you your peace, but only for five years. More, I cannot do. The war against the ifranj has cost my people thousands of lives and countless pieces of gold, but it is a necessary evil. Nur ad-Din taught me this: it is only the desire to drive out the Franks that bound his kingdom together. Now that same force binds my kingdom. Peace and prosperity can create new bonds, but it will take time.’

‘I understand. Five years is a good start. Thank you, Brother.’

‘The men grow tired of waiting, Malik,’ Qaraqush said.

Yusuf nodded but did not reply. They stood on the ridge outside his tent and looked towards Aleppo. Summer had brought a stifling heat that rose from the ground and caused the city to shift and waver like a mirage. The siege had lasted for more than two months now — two months with no fresh supplies — and yet the people still held out.

‘We should attack, Malik,’ Qaraqush urged again. ‘Gumushtagin lost much of his army at Tell al-Sultan. With the reinforcements from Egypt, we have enough men to take the city by storm.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I have not come here to cross swords with Al-Salih’s men.’

‘The men will not be content to roast under the hot summer sun forever, Malik.’

‘It shall not be forever, friend. Aleppo must already be running short on supplies. Eventually the people will turn on Gumushtagin.’

Qaraqush frowned. ‘Yes, Malik.’

‘In the meantime, send men to capture the fortresses north and east of Aleppo: Manjib, Buza’a and Azaz. That will keep the men occupied.’

‘Yes, Malik,’ Qaraqush repeated in a brighter tone.

Yusuf returned to his tent. Imad ad-Din was waiting inside with an armful of papers. ‘Correspondence from Damascus and Cairo, Malik.’

‘Can it wait?

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Yusuf passed through the curtain that led to his bedchamber. He unbuckled the belt that held his sword and dagger and tossed it aside. He removed his helmet and untied his vest of golden armour. He pulled his mail coat over his head and removed his sweat-soaked padded vest last of all. He sighed in relief. ‘Water,’ he called as he pulled on his mail-lined tunic and donned his mail cap and keffiyeh. Yusuf frowned. Where were his servants? He took a seat amongst the cushions on the floor and raised his voice. ‘Water!’

A servant entered carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and a glass. He froze after passing through the curtain. ‘Bring it here,’ Yusuf commanded. As the servant stepped towards him, Yusuf heard the distinctive chink of mail armour. ‘Hashashin!’ he shouted. ‘Guards!’

The Hashashin threw the tray aside and brandished a knife. ‘In the name of the Prophet!’ he roared.

Yusuf started to scramble to his feet, but the Hashashin kicked him in the chest, knocking him sprawling on his back. Yusuf reached for his sword belt, but the Hashashin stepped on his arm and then knelt and brought his knife down towards Yusuf’s chest. Yusuf raised a forearm and managed to deflect the Hashashin’s arm, but the knife continued downward, towards his face. Yusuf jerked his head sideways just before the blade struck him on the side of the head.

‘Yaha!’ the Hashashin cursed. The mail cap beneath Yusuf’s keffiyeh had saved his life. The Hashashin was raising his dagger to strike again when Saqr tackled him from behind. Saqr grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the carpeted ground and then drew a dagger and slit the Hashashin’s throat.

‘Are you injured, Malik?’ Saqr asked.

Yusuf sat up gingerly. He winced as he touched the side of his head where the dagger had struck. A painful bruise was already forming, but there was no blood. ‘I live. Alhamdulillah.’

Saqr bowed his head. ‘I was not here, Malik. I failed you.’

‘You saved my life. Where are the guards who were supposed to guard my tent?’

‘They are dead.’

‘Surely this one man did not kill all of them. We must find the other Hashashin before they flee.’ Yusuf rose and strode from the tent. The five men who had guarded the entrance lay dead. There was no one else in sight. ‘Guards!’ he shouted. ‘Damn them! Where are they? Saqr, I-’

Someone slammed into Yusuf from behind, knocking him down and landing on top of him. He felt a blade dig into his back, but it was stopped by the mail lining that reinforced his tunic. The blade struck again, and this time Yusuf felt a sharp pain as the tip penetrated the mail and dug into his back. He managed to roll over and found himself staring up at one of the Hashashin. Looking past his attacker, Yusuf could see Saqr engaged with another man. The Hashashin straddling Yusuf stabbed down again, but this time Yusuf caught his arm. With his free hand the man drew another knife from his belt and was preparing to attack when an arrow lodged in his neck. He fell to the side, blood gurgling in his throat. Yusuf looked up to see Ubadah running towards him, bow in hand.

Yusuf took one of the dead Hashashin’s daggers and rose to his feet to help Saqr. The Hashashin he was facing backed away. ‘You will learn nothing from me,’ he spat. ‘Your days are numbered, Saladin!’ The man raised his dagger high.

‘Do not let him kill himself!’ Yusuf shouted. The Hashashin began to bring the blade arcing down towards his gut when an arrow sank into his shoulder. He dropped the knife and Saqr tackled him. He knelt on the Hashashin’s chest and pressed his hand to the man’s throat, pinning him to the ground.

‘I heard you call, Uncle,’ Ubadah said breathlessly. He looked at the bodies of the dead guards. ‘What happened?’

‘Hashashin.’ Yusuf knelt beside the man that Saqr held. ‘Who sent you? Gumushtagin?’ The Hashashin spat at Yusuf, who wiped the spittle away and turned to Ubadah. ‘Find Al-Mashtub. Tell him I have a prisoner, and I need answers.’

By the time Al-Mashtub arrived carrying a small trunk, the Hashashin had been taken inside Yusuf’s tent and tied down to a table so that he could not move. Al-Mashtub set the trunk down beside the table and drew a knife from his belt.

‘I am not afraid,’ the Hashashin said. He was a young man with a sparse black beard and a prominent nose. ‘I will tell you nothing.’

Al-Mashtub’s only reply was to begin cutting through the man’s tunic with his knife. He pulled the fabric aside to reveal the mail shirt beneath. He then lifted the bottom of the shirt, exposing the Hashashin’s stomach. He opened the trunk and took out a small cage holding a dirty grey rat and then a bronze pot with a wide opening that narrowed to a thin neck before widening again to a broad base. He set the pot on the table and then opened the cage and grabbed the rat by the tail. The Hashashin’s eyes widened as Al-Mashtub dangled the rat over the table and then dropped it into the pot. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I suggest you talk,’ Al-Mashtub replied.

‘Who sent you?’ Yusuf demanded. ‘Who paid to have me killed?’

The Hashashin shook his head, refusing to talk. Al-Mashtub lifted the pot with both hands and then quickly upended it, placed the opening on the Hashashin’s exposed stomach. He turned to Ubadah. ‘Hold it there.’

Yusuf could hear the claws of the rat scrabbling against the inside of the bronze pot. Sweat was beginning to bead on the Hashashin’s forehead, and his eyes were wide. ‘Who sent you?’ Yusuf asked again, but still the man refused to speak.

Al-Mashtub took a shallow dish from the chest. The bottom of the dish had a lip that fitted over the base of the upturned pot. Next the mamluk took out a tinderbox and removed a scrap of char paper, which he placed in the bottom of the dish. He held up a piece of flint and the fire steel on which he would strike it. Al-Mashtub met the Hashashin’s eyes. ‘Do you know what will happen once I light this fire? The pot will grow hotter and hotter, cooking the rat inside alive. There is only one way for it to escape. It will burrow down, through your gut.’

The Hashashin was trembling in fear, but he clenched his jaw shut and said nothing.

Al-Mashtub struck the flint against the steel. A few sparks landed on the char paper. They smoked for a moment, but the fire did not take. He prepared to strike again. The sound of the rat scratching against the inside of the pot was louder now.

‘Gumushtagin!’ the Hashashin cried out.

‘I knew it,’ Yusuf said. ‘I will have his head.’

‘That will not stop us,’ the Hashashin said. ‘Gumushtagin only paid us for what we would have done regardless. My lord Rashid ad-Din Sinan has sworn that you will die.’

‘The Old Man of the Mountain,’ Ubadah whispered.

Yusuf had heard of Sinan, of course. He ruled over sixty thousand fanatically faithful Hashashin from his mountain stronghold in Masyaf, some twenty-five miles west of Hama. ‘I am no enemy of Sinan’s,’ Yusuf said. ‘Why does he want me dead?’

‘You are Sunni.’ The Hashashin spat. ‘You ended the Fatimid Caliphate. You had the Caliph poisoned.’ Ubadah’s eyes widened at this.

‘How do you know that?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Nothing you do escapes Sinan. He has men everywhere.’

‘In my camp?’ The man nodded. ‘If you name them, I will let you live.’

‘Never!’

‘I thought not. Al-Mashtub, see that he does not suffer.’

The mamluk slit the Hashashin’s throat with a single stroke. Yusuf left the tent and Ubadah followed. ‘You heard what he said, Uncle. There are more Hashashin in our camp. And it is said that when Sinan orders a man dead, his men will not stop until that man lies in the grave.’

‘They will stop when they are dead, every last one of them,’ Yusuf replied. ‘It is time this siege ended. Once I am finished with Aleppo, we will march on Masyaf.’

The towers that framed Aleppo’s Qinnarin Gate loomed high above Yusuf and his private guard as they rode into their shadow. Yusuf had been happy to slowly starve the city into submission, hoping to spare his future people bloodshed. But now he did not wish to sit in his tent for another two months, a target for the Hashashin. He had decided to speak to the people of Aleppo himself. He could see men atop the gate, some in caftans, others in mail. There were even a few veiled women. Yusuf reined in his horse only fifty feet from the wall, close enough that the people could hear him but far enough that his armour would stop any arrows, should one of the soldiers dare to shoot.

‘People of Aleppo!’ he shouted. ‘I come to you as a friend. You see my army all around your walls, but they are not here to fight you. I have not come to conquer Aleppo.’ He paused to let the words take effect. He and Imad ad-Din had worked on this speech late into the previous night, and it was carefully crafted, pauses and all. ‘I am a loyal servant of Al-Salih, as are my men. I do not wish to take his kingdom, or to take Aleppo from him. I only wish to see the city flourish as it did under Nur ad-Din. I wish to see it safe from any who would take it from its rightful lord. But I cannot protect Al-Salih while his regent is sending Hashashin to murder me, while he is calling on the armies of Mosul and Jerusalem, inviting them into Al-Salih’s kingdom in order to fight me. These are not the acts of a man loyal to Al-Salih. These are the acts of a man who serves only himself.’

Yusuf paused again. The people were listening quietly. That was a good sign. He took a deep breath and continued. ‘I lived in Aleppo for many years while I served at the court of Nur ad-Din. I consider it my home, and I do not wish to destroy its walls or harm its people. I ask for only one thing: Gumushtagin. Deliver him to me, and there will be peace between us. But if you stand with him, then you stand against me. If you do not send him to me, then I will attack in earnest. You have until sunset tomorrow to decide.’

Yusuf rode back to his tent, where his advisers waited for him. Al-Maqaddam spoke first. ‘Do you think they will surrender Gumushtagin?’

‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf said. ‘But we must be prepared for them to resist. Qaraqush, you will be in charge of sapping the walls. Al-Maqaddam, you will build the mangonels. Ubadah, you will lead an attack tomorrow night. We will see if the people of Aleppo are willing to die for Gumushtagin.’

Saqr entered the tent. ‘Malik, a messenger has come from the city.’

‘So soon,’ Al-Maqaddam responded.

‘A good sign. Show him here,’ Yusuf ordered.

‘Her, Malik,’ Saqr corrected. ‘The messenger is a woman.’

A moment later, Saqr held the tent flap aside for a veiled woman who wore a violet silk caftan trimmed with silver. Her long chestnut hair flowed down her back from beneath a niqab that covered all but her eyes. Yusuf felt a burning in his stomach as he met those dark eyes.

‘The lady Asimat,’ Saqr declared. ‘Mother of Al-Salih.’

‘Leave us,’ Yusuf said to his men.

When the men had filed out, Asimat removed her veil. Her skin was still milky white and smooth, her face long and thin with a small nose and full lips. She had a fragile beauty, but Yusuf knew that she had a will of steel. When they had been lovers, she had been willing to betray her husband Nur ad-Din to put Yusuf on the throne. He had refused and put an end to their relationship. Asimat had not understood. She had scorned him for what she saw as weakness.

‘It has been a long time, Yusuf,’ she said.

Yusuf ignored her use of his informal name. He did not want these negotiations to become personal. ‘You have come to negotiate on behalf of Gumushtagin?’

‘On behalf of Al-Salih.’

‘You know my terms. I want Gumushtagin delivered to me, and a treaty between Aleppo and Damascus. If either is attacked, the other will come to its defence.’

Asimat seemed to be considering his proposal, but when she spoke her response surprised him. ‘I said once that you were too honourable to be great. I was wrong.’

‘I am a man of honour,’ he said stiffly.

‘Is that why you have led your army against Aleppo, against your lord Al-Salih?’

‘I move against Gumushtagin, not Al-Salih.’

Asimat dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand. ‘Gumushtagin is nothing. The palace guard seized him this afternoon, just after your speech. Al-Salih rules in Aleppo now.’

‘Alhamdulillah. I rejoice to hear it.’

‘Do you? I understand the Caliph in Baghdad has invested you with the government of all Syria.’

‘As regent for Al-Salih. I will not make war against our son.’

‘He is hardly your son,’ she snapped. ‘He has known no father but Nur ad-Din.’

That blow hurt, but Yusuf did not let it show. ‘Nevertheless, I will not move against him. Everything I have done has been to secure his kingdom. What do you suppose would have happened had I not defeated Saif ad-Din? Do you think he would have allowed Al-Salih to keep Aleppo?’

Asimat did not reply. She walked to the table at the centre of the tent and poured herself a cup of water. She sipped at it. Then she sat down amidst the silk cushions on the thickly carpeted ground. She met his eyes. ‘You do not care for my son, Yusuf. Do not lie and tell me otherwise.’

Yusuf sat across from her. ‘I have told you. What I have done, I have done for him.’

‘No. Surely you knew what would happen when you refused to fight Nur ad-Din. Gumushtagin revealed our secret to Nur ad-Din. You would have let our son die!’

‘I was willing to die, too.’

She looked at him coldly. ‘I was not. It was I who had Nur ad-Din killed.’ Yusuf recoiled at this. ‘Do not look at me like that. I loved Nur ad-Din. It is you who are responsible for his death, not I.’

‘I was prepared to let him kill me,’ he repeated.

‘Your life is your own to give,’ she hissed, ‘but not mine, and not that of our son!’ She took a deep breath and looked away, collecting herself. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. ‘The night that Nur ad-Din learned of our affair, he beat me. He promised to have me stoned, but not before he brought me your head on a plate. And he swore that Al-Salih would be tortured and crucified.’ She looked to Yusuf, her dark eyes burning with rage and sadness. He looked away. He did not know what to say. ‘So do not dare tell me that you are loyal to Al-Salih! And do not speak to me of your honour. What sort of honour is it that sacrifices the lives of women and children?’

Her dark eyes dug into him as she waited for him to speak. ‘What do you want of me, Asimat?’ he asked.

‘Our son Al-Salih will remain the ruler of Aleppo. In addition, he will have Azaz and the other towns near Aleppo.’

‘It will be done.’

‘That is not enough. You will marry me and officially adopt Al-Salih as your son.’ Yusuf blinked in surprise. ‘Your word is not enough for me, Yusuf, not anymore. Al-Salih must be your son. That is the only way he will be safe.’

Yusuf studied her as he considered her proposal. She was still beautiful, shockingly so. ‘There was a time when I would have given anything to marry you,’ he said softly. ‘Allah works in strange ways.’

‘Do you accept?’

‘Yes. Once Gumushtagin is delivered to my camp in irons, I will marry you.’

Yusuf stood across from Asimat on the grassy field at the centre of the citadel in Aleppo. They were both dressed in white. During the previous day’s henna ceremony, twisting patterns in dark brown had been traced on the little finger of Yusuf’s right hand. Asimat’s hands and feet had been decorated and her dark eyes — the only part of her face not covered by her veil — were outlined with kohl. Imad ad-Din stood between them. He was giving the marriage khutba, a brief sermon rejoicing at the marriage and calling Allah’s blessing on the bride and groom. The hundreds of guests waited patiently, the leading emirs of Aleppo mingling with the commanders of Yusuf’s army. Al-Salih stood in the front ranks of the crowd. He was dressed in luxurious robes of silk and gold and his sparse adolescent beard had been filled out with kohl. Shamsa stood with the veiled women. She had arrived the previous day, along with Yusuf’s sons.

Shamsa and Asimat both had wills of iron, and Yusuf had feared that sparks would fly when they met. But Shamsa had surprised him. When she arrived she asked to meet Asimat alone. They spent the night in a locked and guarded room. The next morning Shamsa had told him that she approved of the marriage. ‘Asimat does not love you,’ she had informed him, ‘and she wants no sons by you. She is no threat to me. And she is clever. She will make an excellent wife.’

‘I call on all of you to witness this marriage,’ Imad ad-Din declared as he finished the khutba. He turned to Yusuf. ‘Saladin Yusuf ibn Ayub, King of Syria and Egypt, will you take this woman, Asimat bint Mu’in ad-Din Unur?’

‘I will.’ Yusuf stepped to a table that sat between him and Asimat and signed the marriage contract. It specified the mahr, or bride gift — fifty thousand dinar and the towns of Menbij and Bizaa — and it officially declared Al-Salih to be Yusuf’s adopted son.

Imad ad-Din turned to Asimat. ‘Will you accept this man, Saladin?’

‘I will,’ she said loudly. She too signed the marriage contract.

‘May Allah bless your union,’ Imad ad-Din declared.

The crowd roared its approval. Yusuf went to Al-Salih first and kissed the boy on both cheeks. ‘I am your father now,’ he said, ‘but you remain my lord.’ He knelt before Al-Salih.

The boy’s face twisted into a scowl. He turned his back on Yusuf and walked away. Yusuf rose. He could understand Al-Salih’s anger. To him, Yusuf was a stranger and a rival. It was bad enough that he had been forced to sign a treaty with him; it was a further insult that Yusuf had married his mother. The boy no doubt hated him. Yusuf hoped that would change in time.

It was time for the marriage feast. The men would meet in the great hall of the palace, while the women would celebrate with food and dance in the harem. But first there was one more task. Yusuf turned to Qaraqush. ‘Bring him.’

Qaraqush nodded to a mamluk, who hurried away. A moment later the crowd parted as Gumushtagin was pulled forward, shackles around his wrists and neck. He had been brought to Yusuf’s camp shortly after the meeting with Asimat, but Yusuf had refused to see him. He had entered Aleppo and ordered Gumushtagin thrown in the palace dungeon. After four weeks Gumushtagin looked a broken man, walking with his head down and his shoulders stooped. He was pushed forward to stand before Yusuf.

‘I swore that I would kill you if we ever met again,’ Yusuf told him. ‘I am a man of my word.’ He took the sword that Qaraqush handed him. The guards pulled on the chain that led from Gumushtagin’s neck, forcing him to kneel.

The eunuch straightened, and a trace of his old arrogance returned as he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘The Hashashin never fail. You can kill me, but you will join me soon enough. I will-’

Gumushtagin’s eyes widened as Yusuf drove the point of his sword into his gut. The eunuch fell forward on to his hands and knees, moaning in pain and spitting blood. Yusuf raised his sword and brought it down on the back of Gumushtagin’s neck. He wiped the blade on the eunuch’s tunic and handed it back to Qaraqush. Then he raised his voice to address the crowd. ‘Come. We have much to celebrate.’