Kingdom

Chapter 2

MARCH 1164: ALEPPO

Yusuf awoke with a start. The sheets of his bed were damp with sweat. In his dreams he had been on the field of battle. He had run for his life and then turned to watch as John was struck down from behind. The same nightmare had haunted him ever since the defeat at Butaiha six months ago. He rose and crossed the room to throw open the shutters. Soft morning light flooded in, along with the wavering call of the muezzins beckoning the faithful to morning prayers.

From the window of his modest home he could see the citadel, its white stone walls rising sheer from the tall hill on which it stood. Yusuf had told the king, Nur ad-Din, that he was purchasing quarters outside the palace to provide a home for his widowed sister Zimat and her son Ubadah. But that was only part of the reason. The truth was that he wished to be as far away as possible from the palace. At Butaiha, Yusuf had saved the life of the king and earned himself a new name: Saladin, ‘righteous in faith’. He had become one of the king’s most trusted advisers, and yet the more Nur ad-Din confided in him, the more Yusuf was wracked by guilt. For he had betrayed his lord in the worst way imaginable. He had slept with Nur ad-Din’s wife, Asimat. Yusuf broke the relationship off, but not before Asimat became pregnant. She would deliver any day now, and the child was not Nur ad-Din’s. It was his.

‘Uncle!’

Yusuf turned to see his nephew standing in the doorway. Ubadah had the dark eyes of his mother. The arch of his brow, his straight nose and firm jaw, and his sandy brown hair all came from his father, John. But Ubadah would never know that. He thought his father was Khaldun, Zimat’s deceased husband. Now, Yusuf was raising the child as his own.

‘May I accompany you to prayers?’ the boy asked. Ubadah was almost six years old, still too young to attend prayers, but he enjoyed playing outside the mosque while Yusuf prayed. Yusuf guessed that he was simply eager to be away from home. Zimat had been short-tempered and melancholic since John’s death.

‘Very well,’ Yusuf said. ‘Allow me to dress, and I will meet you in the courtyard.’

They walked together to Al-Jami al-Kabir, Aleppo’s great mosque, and entered the courtyard. The sun had not yet risen, and the soot-covered stone of the broken walls was cast in soft pink light. Yusuf washed himself in the fountain at the centre of the courtyard and left Ubadah with strict instructions not to stray beyond the walls. He then entered the mosque, where he remained kneeling in silent prayer long after the other men had rolled up their prayer mats and left. His life had been defined by war with the Franks and service to Nur ad-Din, but now he could not think of battle without remembering John’s death. He could not confront Nur ad-Din without being flooded with shame. He had failed his friend and his lord. ‘Please, Allah,’ he whispered. ‘Grant me a chance at redemption.’

Yusuf rolled his prayer mat and rose. In the courtyard he found Ubadah playing at mock swordplay with the former vizier of Egypt. Shawar had been betrayed by his chamberlain Dhirgam and had fled Cairo with an army at his heels. He had arrived in Aleppo months ago, seeking help to retake his kingdom. He was a tall, thin man with a striking face — glittering eyes and sharp features that looked as if they had been chiselled out of stone. His hair and beard were shaved in mourning. He had vowed to not let them grow until he was once again ruling from Cairo. Ubadah mimicked a lunging blow, and Shawar clasped his hands over his chest as if he had been struck. He staggered backwards, swayed for a moment and toppled to the ground.

Yusuf clapped. ‘Well done, Ubadah!’ The boy grinned.

‘Ah, Saladin!’ Shawar rose and flashed a dazzling smile. Yusuf could not help but smile back. Shawar was a man of unfailing optimism, and Yusuf found his good humour contagious. He was one of the few who could lift Yusuf from his dark moods, and the two had become close friends. They hunted together and often dined at one another’s homes.

‘It is Friday. Why were you not at prayers?’ Yusuf asked Shawar with mock severity. ‘What is your excuse this time?’

‘I longed to come, as Allah is my witness,’ Shawar replied. ‘But I am a Shia, and your mosques are filled with Sunnis. I fear I would not be welcome.’ The Shia and the Sunni Muslims had split over who should lead Islam after the death of Mohammed. Over the centuries these differences had hardened into a mutual animosity that sometimes erupted into war. ‘If you have not breakfasted,’ Shawar continued, ‘then I would like to offer you the pleasure of my company.’

Yusuf laughed. ‘I am sure it is my sister’s company that you seek, but no matter. You are welcome in my home.’

With Ubadah in tow, the two men set out across the broad square at the heart of Aleppo, walking in the shadow of the citadel. Yusuf wove around local merchants and farmers, who were setting up their carts. He stopped at one and paid four fals for two melons, which he gave to Ubadah to carry. They left the square and walked through the narrow lanes to Yusuf’s new home, a two-storey structure with a courtyard that opened on to the street. Zimat was sitting at the courtyard fountain chatting with Faridah, Yusuf’s concubine. Ubadah ran to his mother and began excitedly describing his mock battle with Shawar.

‘I fear he dealt me a mortal blow,’ Shawar proclaimed with a smile. He bowed low. ‘My ladies,’ he said, although he looked only at Zimat. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum. It is an unexpected pleasure to see you today.’

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Zimat murmured and managed a small smile. She liked Shawar, that much was clear. The occasions when Yusuf had invited the former vizier to dinner were some of the few times in the last months that Yusuf had seen his sister smile. He had even considered offering her to Shawar in marriage.

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Faridah said.

Shawar nodded at her and turned back to Zimat. ‘Your brother has invited me to breakfast. I hope my presence will not be too burdensome.’

‘Brother! You should have consulted me!’ Zimat complained. Faridah rolled her eyes. It was obvious that Zimat was not truly angry. ‘I have nothing prepared that is fit for a guest.’

‘I purchased melons.’ Yusuf nodded to the fruits Ubadah carried.

‘I will see what can be done. Come, Faridah.’ Zimat took the fruits, and the two women headed for the kitchen. Ubadah followed.

Yusuf led Shawar inside. They sat amidst cushions and Yusuf poured tea. Shawar sipped at it before clearing his throat. ‘When do you think Nur ad-Din will respond to my request for aid?’

Yusuf shrugged. ‘I have presented your case to him many times. He gives no answer.’

Shawar sighed. ‘As much as I enjoy your hospitality, friend, I long to return to Egypt. It is a paradise. The fields are green. The air is warm.’ He winked. ‘The women are beautiful. You would like it. Faridah is a beauty, but she grows old. You could use another woman.’

Yusuf thought of Asimat and frowned.

‘I did not mean to offend, Yusuf,’ Shawar hurried to assure him. ‘But I can see that you are unhappy here. You need a fresh start. Help me to retake Egypt, and I will offer you a place at my court. I could use a man of your vision and experience.’

‘I would gladly follow you to Egypt, friend, but the choice is not mine to make. I serve at Nur ad-Din’s pleasure. I will go if he commands me.’

‘Surely he will!’ Shawar declared and launched into a speech that Yusuf had heard many times. ‘I will make Nur ad-Din the overlord of Egypt and give him a third of the kingdom’s revenue, if only he helps me retake Cairo. He must act. Every day he waits, the traitor Dhirgam grows stronger, and his allies the Franks with him. I ask only-’

He fell silent as Zimat entered, followed by two servants carrying trays loaded with dishes of sliced melon, steaming flatbread, olives, dates, soft cheeses, broad beans in garlic, boiled eggs and apricot jam. Zimat sat while the servants placed the dishes on the ground before Yusuf and Shawar.

‘Such a feast!’ Shawar exclaimed. ‘You have outdone yourself, Zimat.’

‘It is nothing.’

‘You are too modest. Such a meal would put to shame the chefs of the Egyptian caliph himself.’

Zimat blushed and busied herself pouring more tea. Yusuf could see that his sister was pleased. Perhaps if Yusuf went to Egypt, she could come with him and marry Shawar. She would like that.

‘Tell my sister what you told me about the pyramids,’ Yusuf suggested to Shawar.

‘They are a marvel!’ Shawar described the incredible structures while they breakfasted. Yusuf was sure he was exaggerating, but Zimat listened wide-eyed.

They were finishing breakfast when one of Nur ad-Din’s mamluks arrived. ‘You are wanted at the palace, Emir,’ he told Saladin. ‘Asimat has given birth to a son.’

‘A son?’ Yusuf murmured. His son. He suddenly felt dizzy and placed a hand on the floor to steady himself.

‘Are you well, friend?’ Shawar asked.

‘Of course.’ Yusuf forced a smile. ‘The kingdom has an heir, Allah be praised.’

‘Perhaps now that Allah has blessed him, Nur ad-Din will listen to my request.’

‘I will ask him.’

‘Shukran,’ Shawar said and bowed, a hand over his heart. ‘You are a true friend, Saladin.’

Yusuf entered the antechamber to Nur ad-Din’s apartments to find that his uncle Shirkuh and the eunuch Gumushtagin had arrived before him. Shirkuh was handing his sword and dagger over to the guards who protected the king. Gumushtagin saw Yusuf first.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saladin,’ he said. Yusuf nodded curtly.

‘Young eagle!’ Shirkuh cried. He embraced Yusuf and kissed him three times, the appropriate greeting between male relatives. ‘Have you heard the news? An heir to the kingdom! Perhaps this will finally dispel the dark cloud our lord has been living under.’

‘Inshallah, Uncle.’

Yusuf removed the belt that held his sword and handed it to one of the guards. Another guard pushed the door open and waved them inside. ‘The Malik is in his study.’

They found Nur ad-Din bent over his broad desk, lost in thought as he studied an architect’s rendering. The king had changed much in the six months since his defeat at Butaiha. His black hair was now peppered with grey, his once tanned face was sallow and he had dark circles under his eyes. Deep lines of worry creased his forehead. Nur ad-Din was not yet fifty, but he looked like an old man.

‘Malik,’ Gumushtagin said. ‘We have come at your bidding.’

Nur ad-Din straightened. ‘Friends!’ Yusuf saw that the fire had returned to his bright, golden eyes. The king grinned, and his tired face seemed suddenly youthful again. He rounded the table and embraced first Shirkuh and then Yusuf. ‘I have a son! I have named him Al-Salih. Allah has blessed me! From this day, I shall redouble my efforts to serve Him. The great mosque shall be rebuilt, and I shall establish a madras in Aleppo, a school of learning greater than any the world has ever known.’

‘What of the war against the Franks?’ Shirkuh asked.

Nur ad-Din’s expression darkened. ‘I have a score to settle with King Amalric. Come summer, I will strike the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the north.’

‘And Egypt?’ Yusuf asked. ‘What of Shawar’s offer?’

‘Egypt is not my concern. I need my men with me to fight the Franks.’

‘But my lord, we must do something,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘The Frankish king has allied with the current vizier, Dhirgam. Egypt pays Amalric tribute, money he will use to purchase mercenaries. By helping Shawar retake Egypt, you will weaken the Franks.’

‘And strengthen your own position, Malik,’ Gumushtagin added. Yusuf was surprised to find the eunuch on his side. ‘You would be overlord of Egypt.’

Nur ad-Din’s brow furrowed as he considered their arguments. ‘Can this Shawar be trusted?’

‘He is my friend,’ Yusuf said. ‘His word is true.’

‘And what does the Egyptian caliph think of him, I wonder.’ Nur ad-Din went to the window, where he stood looking out for a long time. ‘I will let Allah decide,’ he said at last. He took a bound copy of the Quran from a bookshelf that lined the back wall of the room. He handed the book to Yusuf. ‘Open it.’

‘Where, Malik?’

‘Wherever your hand falls.’

Yusuf placed a finger in the middle of the book and flipped it open.

‘Read,’ Nur ad-Din told him.

Yusuf cleared his throat. ‘And those who disbelieve are allies of one another, and if the faithful do not join together to make Islam victorious, there will be chaos and oppression on earth, and a great mischief and corruption.’

Shirkuh’s eyes widened, and he touched his nose with his right forefinger, indicating that the answer was right in front of him. ‘Allah has spoken, and his meaning is clear. He wants you to unite the faithful of Egypt and Syria. We must help Shawar.’

‘There is no denying the meaning of the passage,’ Gumushtagin agreed.

Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘Very well. Shirkuh, you will go to Egypt and place this Shawar back on the vizier’s throne.’

Shirkuh touched his palm to his chest and bowed. ‘As you wish, Malik.’

‘I will go, too,’ Yusuf said.

‘No, Saladin. I need you here to help prepare my campaign against the Franks.’

Yusuf’s chest tightened at the thought of another year in Aleppo. ‘I am a warrior, Malik. I best serve you on the field of battle. Once Egypt is ours, I will return for your campaign against the Franks.’

Nur ad-Din sighed. ‘As you wish. At least I can count on Gumushtagin to stay and advise me.’ The eunuch bowed. Nur ad-Din looked back to Shirkuh. ‘You will gather your army at Damascus and ride from there to Egypt. Do not fail me. I cannot afford another defeat.’

‘I will not fail, Malik. I will bring you a kingdom.’

Shirkuh left to begin gathering the army, but Yusuf remained at the palace late into the afternoon, discussing with Nur ad-Din and Gumushtagin the number of men that would be needed in Egypt and the taxes required to fund the expedition. Finally, when the sun dipped below the horizon and the muezzins began the call for evening prayers, Nur ad-Din dismissed them.

Yusuf passed through the antechamber to the dim, spiral stairwell that led to the ground floor of the palace. He was halfway down when Gumushtagin caught up with him. ‘Wait, Saladin. I wish to speak with you.’

Yusuf examined the eunuch with distaste. ‘What do you want?’

‘Only to help you. We are bound to one another, you and I. You saved my life, Yusuf. And I know your secret.’ Gumushtagin lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Asimat’s child-your child-will be king when Nur ad-Din dies.’

Yusuf felt his stomach twist. Gumushtagin was as dangerous as a snake, and he was the only one who knew the truth. ‘What do you want from me?’

Gumushtagin smiled. ‘I ask little. Go to Egypt with your uncle. Keep me informed. Each week, send me a report via pigeon post. When the time is right, I will let you know what to do. If you do as I ask, then you will be vizier of Egypt, and your son will be king.’

Vizier of Egypt. Yusuf had dreamed of ruling a kingdom since he was a child, and for a moment he felt a surge of his old ambition. Then he shook his head. ‘Shawar is to be vizier. He is my friend.’

The eunuch’s smile faded, and when he spoke again his voice had a dangerous edge. ‘You have committed treason, Saladin. If you oppose me, it will cost you your life.’

Yusuf rubbed his beard, unsure what to say. It would be easy enough to keep Gumushtagin informed, but where would it end? Yusuf knew the eunuch well enough to know that the next service he demanded would not be so easy.

‘It is not just your own life that is at stake, Saladin,’ Gumushtagin insisted. ‘Think of Asimat, of Al-Salih. They will die if Nur ad-Din learns the truth.’

‘Very well,’ Yusuf said reluctantly. ‘I will do as you ask.’

A week later, after the supplies and men needed for the expedition had been gathered, Yusuf again strode through the halls of the palace. He had come straight from the dry plain outside the city, where the troops were preparing to depart, and his dark-grey mail was covered in a layer of dust. He stopped before the door to the harem. The two eunuch guards lowered their spears towards his chest. ‘The lady Asimat has summoned me,’ he told them.

One of the guards nodded. ‘Follow me.’ He led Yusuf down a long corridor. It was not the first time Yusuf had visited the harem. Several years ago, after Asimat miscarried, Nur ad-Din himself had encouraged Yusuf to visit her, hoping that he could cheer her. That meeting had led to others, and then to a passionate affair. But Yusuf had put an end to things months ago. He had been in bed with Asimat when the great earthquake struck, and he did not doubt that it was a sign from Allah. The last time they had met, Yusuf had lied to Asimat: he had told her that he did not love her. She had slapped him and called him a coward. He had thought he would never see her again. Why had she called for him now? Did she miss him? Did she want him? Yusuf pushed the thoughts from his mind. It did not matter. He would not betray his lord again. He had just formed this resolution when they reached the door to her apartments, and the eunuch guard pulled it open.

‘My lady,’ the eunuch announced in his high-pitched voice. ‘Saladin.’

Asimat entered from another room, walking stiffly. This was the only sign that she had given birth only a week ago, for she was even more beautiful than Yusuf remembered. Her wavy brown hair was pinned up, revealing her long, graceful neck, the skin milky-white. She wore a white silk caftan, and as she approached, the sun struck her from behind, illuminating her form beneath the loose fabric. Yusuf felt his pulse quicken, despite his resolution to remain aloof. She nodded to the guard, who stepped outside the door. Yusuf knew that he would remain there, watching them through a spyhole.

‘You wished to see me, khatun?’ Yusuf searched her features for some indication of why she had called for him, but her face was a frozen mask, beautiful but emotionless.

‘Sit.’ She gestured to cushions that lay on the floor. Then she sat across from him. ‘It is not on my account that I have asked you here. It is for my son.’

Yusuf lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Our son.’

Asimat’s jaw clenched and her nostrils flared. For a moment, Yusuf thought that her cold facade was about to crumble, but then her features hardened once more. ‘You have spoken with Gumushtagin?’ she demanded, also keeping her voice low.

Yusuf blanched. If someone had overheard his whispered conversation in the stairwell, he was as good as dead. ‘How do you know?’

‘It does not matter. What did he say to you?’

‘He asked me to keep him informed of our progress in Egypt. He told me that he would ask more of me when the time is right.’ Yusuf shrugged. ‘I do not understand the game he is playing.’

‘Is it not obvious? He wishes to kill Nur ad-Din and to place my son, Al-Salih, on the throne.’

‘Isn’t that what you want, too?’ Yusuf asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice. ‘You will do anything to see your son made king.’

‘Not anything, Yusuf. I want Al-Salih to rule, not to serve as Gumushtagin’s pawn. The eunuch would rule Nur ad-Din’s kingdom as vizier until the boy comes of age. But many will oppose him. That is why Gumushtagin needs you. He will make you powerful, so that you may protect him.’

Yusuf scowled. ‘I want no part in such a scheme. I will not betray my-’

‘Do not be a fool, Yusuf!’ Asimat hissed. ‘Your honour will count for nothing if you are dead, if our child is dead.’ Her dark eyes met his. ‘Come, you should meet him.’ She led the way to her bedroom. It had been transformed since Yusuf last visited. Heavy curtains now hung over the windows; a candelabra on a table by the door shed a dim light. The floor was deeply carpeted and scattered with cushions. A maidservant sat amongst them, cradling a child in her arms. Asimat took the child and brought the babe to Yusuf, who had not moved from the doorway.

‘This is Al-Salih,’ Asimat whispered as she handed him the sleeping child. ‘Careful, do not wake him.’

The babe had a thatch of brown hair and a chubby face. His smooth, almost luminescent skin was lighter than Yusuf’s olive hue, though he was not quite so pale as Asimat. The boy stretched in his sleep and opened his eyes. They were deep-set and light brown, like Yusuf’s, but the resemblance was not marked. Al-Salih could easily have been another man’s child.

The babe closed his eyes sleepily. Asimat took him back. She glanced at the maidservant and then spoke in a whisper. ‘He is your child, Yusuf. If Gumushtagin betrays us, we will die, all three of us. You must do anything to prevent that.’

‘I will not do his bidding forever. At some point we must stop him or else we will all become his pawns.’

‘I will deal with Gumushtagin, but now is not the time. Do as he says for now. Our son’s life depends on it.’

MARCH 1164: ON THE ROAD TO EGYPT

Yusuf sat astride his horse on a high outcrop of dark-brown stone that flaked and crumbled under his mount’s stamping hooves. Below him, mamluk troops rode four abreast into the shadowy mouth of a wadi — a dry riverbed lined with sand and gravel — which cut its way between the rocky hills. The long column of troops stretched away across the sandy plain Yusuf had just traversed, all the way to the shores of Al-Bahr al-Mayyit, the Dead Sea, whose rainbow waters glistened under an incandescent morning sun. Near the shore, the sea was rust-coloured from the algae that bloomed in the salty waters. Further out, the red mixed with pale whites and bright blue-greens. The army had been riding along the eastern shore for two days, keeping the sea’s waters between them and the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It had been nine days since they left Damascus.

A horse nickered behind Yusuf, and he turned to see Shirkuh and Shawar approaching, their mounts picking their way across the broken ground. ‘I have spoken with our Bedouin guides,’ Shirkuh said as he reined in beside Yusuf. ‘The land we must cross is unforgiving. The Bedouin call it Al-Naqab, the dry place. There will be no water until Beersheba. We will have to ride all day without stopping if we hope to reach it by evening.’

Shawar was looking to the sun. Now well above the horizon, it was baking the rocky soil, which radiated heat so intense that it had a physical presence. He wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Is there no easier way?’

‘No. Not if we wish to stay clear of the Franks in Ascalon.’

‘Very well.’ Shawar straightened and flashed his winning smile. ‘A kingdom is worth a little suffering.’ He tapped his heels against the sides of his horse, which began to pick its way back down from the outcrop. Yusuf and Shirkuh followed.

They rode at the head of the army along the floor of the wadi. At times, the ravine was so narrow that they had to ride two abreast, the rock rising sheer on either side. At other times, it widened into washes that were broad and long enough to accommodate most of their army of seven thousand men. The trail they followed forked again and again, but always their Bedouin guides pushed on without hesitation. How they kept their bearings in this strange place, where every path looked exactly the same, Yusuf had no idea.

They rode in silence, stupefied by the heat, while the shadows that stretched across the wadi shrank to nothing and then stretched out again to cover the ravine, bringing blessed relief from the scorching sun. Finally, just as the sun was setting before them, they emerged from the hills on to a broad plain of coarse sand, which crunched under their horses’ hooves. A few miles later the ruined city of Beersheba came into view. The short stretches of wall that still stood were half buried in sand. A few Bedouin tents had been erected in their lee. At the sight of the approaching army, the Bedouin quickly rolled up their tents. They were gone long before Yusuf arrived.

A well sat at the centre of the town, and Shirkuh set men to work hauling up water for the horses. Yusuf left his mount with one of his men and walked away from the camp and up a sandy hill. He knelt to pray. Since he had no water, he rubbed his hands, feet, and face with sand. Then he spread out his prayer carpet and began the isha’a, the nightly prayer. By the time he finished, the tents of the army had sprouted all across the plain. As he walked back to camp he passed a dozen men digging a latrine for the army. Just beyond, he was hailed by Shawar.

‘Yusuf! I have found you at last. You must come and dine in my tent.’

‘I should see to my men first,’ Yusuf replied, although in truth, he had been planning to write his first report to Gumushtagin.

‘Your men will survive without you for one night. I, on the other hand, am in desperate need of good company. Come. Your uncle is already in my tent.’ Shawar saw that Yusuf still hesitated. The Egyptian winked. ‘Food is not the only delicacy on offer.’

Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘Very well.’ Gumushtagin could wait.

Shawar’s tent was impossibly luxurious. Yusuf had been sceptical when Shawar told him that he required twelve camels to transport his personal effects, but now he saw why. The low, sprawling tent was large enough to seat a hundred men. Lamps hung from the tent posts, illuminating deep carpets and shimmering screens of silk that separated off parts of the huge space. In the corner, two men were fitting together a polished wardrobe, which split in half for transport.

Shawar noticed Yusuf’s wide-eyed expression. ‘When I fled Egypt, I did not do so entirely empty-handed.’

Cushions had been spread in a circle, and Shirkuh was already seated and chatting with a man that Yusuf did not recognize. Yusuf sat beside his uncle, and Shawar took a seat across from him. Shawar gestured to the strange Egyptian. The man had darkly tanned skin and unexceptional features, save for his hazel eyes. ‘Al-Khlata is the civilian comptroller in Cairo. He sees that taxes are collected from the populace.’

Yusuf nodded towards him. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’

‘Now, let us eat.’ Shawar clapped his hands and veiled female servants in thin, almost transparent caftans stepped from behind one of the silk curtains. One of them came to Yusuf and placed a gold cup on the small, low table beside him. Yusuf was surprised to see it was filled with water. He had not expected Shawar to be so temperate.

Shirkuh was equally perplexed. ‘No wine?’ he grumbled.

‘Allah forbids alcohol, and as we march in his name, it is best to obey his laws,’ Shawar replied. ‘And besides, in the desert, water is more precious than wine.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Cairo! May we see her soon!’

‘To Cairo!’ the men replied and drank.

The servants entered with food. One brought Yusuf a basket of steaming flatbread and a dip of mashed broad beans. Another brought a green soup with pieces of fried garlic floating in it. Yusuf poked at it with his spoon.

‘It is an Egyptian speciality, made from diced jute,’ Al-Khlata told him.

Shawar nodded. ‘My cook came with me from Cairo. Thanks to him, I can dine as if I am in the caliph’s palace, even while in the desert.’ Shawar tore off a piece of flatbread, dipped it in the soup and ate, a signal for the others to begin.

Yusuf murmured, ‘In the name of Allah,’ and tried some of the bread. It was thicker and coarser than he was used to. The dip was creamy and rich, the soup light but savoury.

Shawar washed down the bread and soup with a swallow of water. ‘Al-Khlata tells me that Beersheba was once a great city.’

The comptroller nodded. ‘There was a great church here, huge buildings. It was once part of the Roman Empire.’

‘And the Kingdom of the Jews before that,’ Yusuf noted. All eyes turned to him. ‘Their first king, Saul, built a great fort here.’

‘How do you know this?’ Shawar asked.

‘It is written in the Franks’ holy book.’ John had given Yusuf a copy of the Bible years ago, and Yusuf had studied it carefully. ‘It says that Abraham visited here. He made a pact with the people of the area, swearing an oath to share the wells. That is why the town is called Beersheba: “oath of the well”.’

Al-Khlata snorted. ‘I do not believe anything written in the books of the Franks. Superstitious nonsense!’

‘Perhaps,’ Yusuf said, ‘but if we wish to defeat our enemies, we must know them.’

‘Indeed,’ Shawar agreed. ‘And since we are discussing our enemies, it is time I tell you something of what awaits us in Egypt. Cairo is a nest of vipers. In my lifetime, no vizier has ruled there for more than a dozen years before being betrayed. I thought I could be the one to finally bring stability to the kingdom, but I was wrong. I was too trusting. I thought Dhirgam was my friend. As young men, we served together as scribes in the Caliph’s court. We rose through the ranks together, and when I became vizier I made him my chamberlain. I did not know that the snake was in the pay of the Franks. While I was in Bilbeis inspecting the citadel, Dhirgam seized control of Cairo. His first act was to make peace with Jerusalem. His second was to send an army to kill me. I fled east to the court of your lord, Nur ad-Din. The rest you know.’ Shawar shook his head, as if to dispel the painful memories. ‘But enough of such sad talk! Let us enjoy ourselves.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring the girls!’

Al-Khlata took this as a sign to depart. A moment later, four serving girls entered, only now they had shed their thin caftans and wore only veils and skirts of diaphanous silk, through which Yusuf could see their toned legs and firm buttocks. They were Egyptian, brown-skinned with wide eyes lined with kohl. A man with a drum came in after the girls. He went to the corner, while the girls moved to the centre of the circle and stood absolutely still, their heads down. As the man began to beat the drum, the girls came to life, swaying their hips to the beat. The drum beat faster and they started to circle, spinning so that their skirts flared up. Yusuf sat back as they flashed past, a kaleidoscope of nubile flesh: long thin arms, finely shaped legs, tight buttocks and dark breasts with darker areoles.

The girls stopped circling. One stood just before Yusuf. She sank to her knees and arched backwards so the back of her head touched the floor. She began to rhythmically raise her hips, thrusting up with the beat of the drum. She sat straight once more, leaned forward and reached out, caressing Yusuf’s cheek. She moved on to his lap and kissed him, her mouth open. Her hand moved down to caress his rock-hard zib. He ran his hands down her sides and grasped her firm buttocks. She giggled, pushed him away and stood. She took his hand and led him towards one of the screened-off rooms.

Yusuf glanced back before entering. Shirkuh was occupied with two girls. Shawar had sent the fourth girl away and sat alone. He met Yusuf’s gaze and winked. ‘Enjoy yourself!’

The girl was tugging on Yusuf’s arm. ‘Come,’ she said and led him into the room.

When Yusuf awoke the next morning, he and the servant girl were still naked and tangled together. She was sleeping, her head on his chest and a half-smile on her face. For a moment, she reminded him of Asimat. The thought made Yusuf feel sick. He dressed quickly and stepped outside. The morning air was cool after the closeness of the tent. He breathed deeply and headed for the latrine. On the way he passed Al-Khlata, leading a horse. Where was he off to so early in the day, Yusuf wondered.

Yusuf reached the ditch and had begun to urinate when Shawar stepped up beside him. ‘A long night?’ he asked as he too began to piss. Yusuf felt himself redden. ‘There is nothing to be ashamed of, friend. I am glad you enjoyed yourself. When we reach Cairo, you will have a dozen more women like her.’

‘I do not wish for-’

‘Think nothing of it. What is mine is yours.’ Shawar finished and clapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Now come. Cairo awaits!’

MARCH 1164: CAIRO

‘Medinat al-Qahira!’ Shawar exclaimed and gestured to the horizon. ‘The greatest city in all the world!’

Yusuf squinted but could make out only a distant smudge. Nearer, feluccas and dhows glided along the Nile under triangular sails, and beyond them loomed the massive pyramids of Giza. Shawar’s description had not done them justice. They dwarfed anything that Yusuf had ever seen, even the massive Roman temple in his childhood home of Baalbek.

Shirkuh pointed to a grove of palms situated along the river. ‘Yusuf, have a hundred men begin building rams and siege towers.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ Shawar assured him. ‘The people will open the gates to us. They are loyal to me. That is why they fled before us outside Bilbeis.’ The day before, they had confronted an army twice their size, but the Egyptians had run almost before the battle began.

‘Let us hope you are right, or we will regret letting so many escape,’ Shirkuh grumbled.

‘I could hardly let you butcher them,’ Shawar replied. ‘They are my people. Soon enough they will fight for me.’

Shirkuh grunted sceptically.

As they rode closer, the city rapidly took shape. The tall walls were studded with towers. The buildings were flat-roofed and built of the same white limestone as the walls. Beyond Cairo rose a dozen tall shapes that Yusuf initially took for minarets. Soon, he saw that they were actually massive, rectangular buildings, many storeys high.

‘That is Fustat, just south of the city,’ Shawar said, answering Yusuf’s unasked question. ‘It was founded centuries before Cairo. It is still the commercial heart of the city, famed for its pottery and crystal. It is there that the wealth of Egypt is created.’

They rode on, and soon Yusuf could see soldiers atop the walls, their armour glinting in the late afternoon sun. Shawar led the army towards an arched gate framed by two squat round towers of pale stone. Warriors with bows in hand were crowded atop the gate. Shawar seemed not to notice them.

‘Perhaps we should halt beyond bow range,’ Yusuf suggested.

‘There is no need,’ Shawar replied. He pointed to the gate where the soldiers were disappearing.

‘Where are they going?’ Shirkuh asked.

‘The rats are abandoning the ship. I know the people of Cairo. They served Dhirgam well enough when he was strong, but now that an army is at their walls, they will turn on him. Come! The day’s ride has spurred my appetite. We shall dine in the Caliph’s palace.’

Shawar urged his horse to a canter, leaving Yusuf and Shirkuh behind. They exchanged a glance and then Shirkuh shrugged. ‘Let us hope he knows what he is doing.’ He raised his voice. ‘Guards! Ride with me. The rest of the army will make camp beside the Nile.’ He spurred after Shawar.

Yusuf turned back towards his younger brother Selim and the mamluk commander Qaraqush. Qaraqush was a thick-necked bull of a man. His hair had begun to grey, but he was just as fearsome a warrior as when Yusuf had first met him twelve years ago. As for Selim, he was a man now. With his dark hair and beard, wiry build and deep brown eyes, he looked like a younger, slightly taller version of Yusuf, so much so that the men had taken to calling him Al-Azrar: ‘the younger’.

‘If we do not return by evening prayers,’ Yusuf told them, ‘lay siege.’

Qaraqush nodded. ‘I will not leave a stone standing.’

Yusuf spurred after Shirkuh and Shawar. As they approached the city gate, a small man in an elegant caftan of blue silk embroidered with gold came out to meet them. As he came closer, Yusuf saw that his back was crooked and hunched. His narrow face, though, was pleasant enough, with a dark beard that reached past his chest. In his hands he held a cushion upon which sat a human head.

The man stopped just short of them and bowed. ‘Salaam, Shawar. I come on behalf of the Caliph to invite you to his palace. And, I bring a gift.’

‘What is this?’ Shirkuh demanded, gesturing to the head. It was grotesque: the face bruised and swollen, the eyes and tongue removed.

Shawar took the head and gazed at it for a moment. ‘It is the head of the traitor, Dhirgam.’ He looked to the man who had brought the grisly gift. ‘What happened to him, Al-Fadil?’

‘The people of Cairo turned on him. They tore him to pieces.’

‘Such a pity,’ Shawar murmured. ‘I would have liked to kill him myself.’ He tossed the head aside. ‘Come. The Caliph awaits.’

Shawar spurred through the gate, and Yusuf and Shirkuh followed, accompanied by two-dozen mamluks from Shirkuh’s private guard. A silent crowd lined the wide street. ‘My people!’ Shawar seemed oblivious to their lack of enthusiasm. They rode on into a broad square situated between the two halves of the palace — a dizzying collection of colonnaded porticos, domes and towers of white stone. ‘The east palace is occupied by courtiers,’ Shawar explained. ‘The Caliph lives on the west side.’

Shawar led them that way. They dismounted and climbed the broad stairs to the portico. ‘Your men should wait here,’ Shawar told them. Shirkuh hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Shawar led him and Yusuf inside into a high-ceilinged reception hall lined with guards. Yusuf and Shirkuh followed Shawar across the hall and through a series of luxurious rooms. The walls were hung with brightly coloured silks decorated with swirling patterns woven in gold and studded with jewels. The floors were covered in thick carpets of soft goat hair, which swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Finally, they reached the audience chamber, which was divided in the middle by a curtain of golden cloth.

‘Your swords,’ Shawar told them. ‘It is customary to lay them before the Caliph.’

Shirkuh drew his sword and laid it on the ground before him. Yusuf did the same.

‘Now kneel,’ Shawar said, ‘and bow three times.’

Yusuf and Shirkuh did as they were told. Shawar joined them, prostrating himself before the golden curtain. It rose to reveal the boy-caliph, sitting cross-legged on a gilt throne. Not one inch of the caliph’s flesh was visible. He wore a white silk caftan, the hem and collar of which were heavy with jewels. A veil hid his face, and gloves of red silk covered his hands. On his feet were jewelled slippers. A dozen mamluk warriors stood along the wall behind the throne, and richly dressed courtiers lined the walls to the left and right.

Shawar addressed him. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, God’s deputy, defender of the faithful, I have returned to serve you.’

‘Welcome back to Cairo, Shawar,’ Al-Adid said in an adolescent warble. ‘You have been missed.’

‘Not as much as I have missed serving you, Caliph.’

‘Then you may serve me again. I am in need of a new vizier.’

‘It would be my honour, Caliph.’

‘Then it is done. Rise.’

Shawar rose, and Yusuf and Shirkuh did likewise. Al-Adid gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward holding a red silk cushion on which lay a magnificent, gold-bladed sword with an ivory hilt encrusted with jewels. Its sheath, which lay beside it, was of gold and also covered in precious stones. ‘The sword of the vizier,’ the caliph said. ‘It is yours.’

The courtier belted the sword about Shawar’s waist. ‘Shukran, great Caliph,’ the vizier said and bowed.

Al-Adid waved away his thanks and turned to Shirkuh and Yusuf. ‘Who are these men, Shawar?’

‘Emirs from Syria. They came at the behest of Nur ad-Din to help me dispose of the traitor Dhirgam.’

‘Then they have my thanks.’

Shawar cleared his throat. ‘Nur ad-Din has been promised a third of our annual revenue as tribute.’

‘Very well,’ the caliph said in a tired voice. He seemed bored by these details. ‘Is there anything else?’

Shirkuh stepped forward. ‘My lord instructs me to thank you for welcoming us to Cairo. So long as I am in Egypt, I will serve you as I would serve him. To better protect you from any reprisals from Dhirgam’s men, I would like to station a garrison inside the city.’

The caliph shifted on his throne. ‘This is my city,’ he said sharply. ‘I will not turn it over to foreign troops.’

‘But Shawar agreed-’

Shirkuh stopped short as Shawar shot him a warning glance. ‘These are of course only suggestions, Caliph,’ the vizier said in a soothing tone. ‘Shirkuh is a reasonable man. He will understand that it is not possible to garrison his troops within the city.’ He turned to Shirkuh and spoke in a low voice, so the caliph would not hear. ‘We must not anger the caliph. If he speaks against you, I will have a riot on my hands.’

‘I can put down a riot,’ Shirkuh grumbled.

‘Yes. But swords close markets, and dead men pay no taxes. The treasury is low, and Dhirgam will have emptied it further to pay his troops. If you want the tribute that is owed to Nur ad-Din, then your army must leave the city. They need not go far. They can stay in Giza, just across the Nile.’

Shirkuh looked as if he had just taken a sip of sour wine, but finally he nodded. ‘I will move my army to Giza. But I will leave a garrison of one hundred men to take charge of the city gates.’

‘Agreed.’ Shawar flashed his most winning smile. ‘Now come, friends. You will be guests at the Caliph’s table. Let us celebrate the alliance between our two great kingdoms.’