Kingdom

Chapter 3

APRIL 1164: JERUSALEM

John sat with his eyes closed, submerged to his chin in the steaming waters of the bath house. A low murmur of voices surrounded him, echoing off the domed ceiling. Most spoke in French, but John also heard German, Provencal, Latin and Catalan. He ignored the sound and let his mind drift. This was his morning ritual, before he went to the church to learn to chant and lead Mass from the prayer book, and then to the palace to work for William or tutor prince Baldwin. It was a time when he could be at peace and forget that he was a man without a country, as cut off from his childhood home of England as he was from his friends in Aleppo. He belonged nowhere, and perhaps that is why he felt at home in Jerusalem. It was a city of immigrants — pilgrims from Europe and native Christians from all over Syria. A city where it was easy to leave one’s past behind and fashion a new life.

John rose from the warm waters and headed for the next room, where he was scrubbed down by an attendant before being doused in cold water. He slipped into his caftan in the changing room and stepped out of the bath house into the paved courtyard of the Hospitaller complex. All around him rose tall buildings — churches, hospitals built to house sick pilgrims and barracks for the knights who served the order. The air, which would be as hot as a furnace by midday, was comfortably warm. John glanced at the sun, whose deep red rim was just rising above the tall buildings that lined the eastern side of the courtyard. There was time for a short walk and a little breakfast.

His nose wrinkled as he walked out of the complex and into a dusty street. Across the way stood the pool of the patriarch, which took up most of a city block. In the winter it was full, but now it was mostly stinking mud and refuse. In the centre of the muck, a pool of water glittered under the morning sun. A system of buckets and pulleys had been built to draw the water up to a raised channel, which crossed the street to provide water for the bath house. A beggar slept against the wall in the tiny patch of shelter underneath the channel. He stirred at the sound of John’s footsteps.

‘Money for a poor pilgrim far from home,’ he begged in a high, plaintive whine. He had a bulbous, red nose and sunken cheeks covered with white stubble. ‘Money to return to my wife and children. They need me.’

It was a story John had heard again and again from beggars all over the city. Sometimes it was even true. Plenty of men exhausted their funds during the long pilgrimage to Jerusalem and were unable to return. Plenty more had no wish to go back. Some were running away from a crime or an unwanted family. Others preferred the easy customs of the East. And others still fell in love with drink, gambling, women, or all three. From the look of him, John guessed that any money this old man got would go to drink. He tossed him a copper anyway.

He walked south and turned left on to David Street. It angled steeply uphill, and John mounted a series of steps as he passed the shops built into the southern wall of the Hospitaller complex. ‘Sacred oil, my good sir?’ one of the merchants called to John in French, mistaking him for a pilgrim. He held out a lead flask decorated with images of the saints on one side, and the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem on the other. ‘It will bring you luck. No? A reliquary pendant, perhaps? It contains a splinter of the true cross! Or perhaps a pilgrim’s badge to commemorate your visit to the Holy City?’ John kept walking, and the merchant turned his attention to another passer-by.

Past the shops, John reached the square where David Street intersected with Zion Street and paused. To his left, moneychangers sat before their scales, framed by imposing armed men. A few pilgrims were changing their ducats, livres, siliquae, perperi and obols for the bezants and deniers of the Kingdom. Opposite the moneychangers, labourers loitered on the southern edge of the square, hoping to be hired for some menial task. Ahead, the dome of the Templum Domini rose above the city, its gold-clad surface glinting in the morning light. The sight of it always made John smile. The priests told pilgrims that it was the Lord’s Temple from the days of Christ, but Father William had confided to John that this new temple had been built by the Saracens a half-millennium ago.

John’s musings were interrupted by a rumble from his hungry stomach. He walked north into the Street of Herbs, a narrow lane covered over with vaulted stonework and lined with shops selling spices and fresh fruits. The pilgrims who had spent the night asleep on the stone benches between the shops were just rising. Native Christian servants hurried from shop to shop, purchasing food for their masters’ households. Robed priests and knights in armour stood out amongst them. John shouldered his way through the crowd to the stall of an olive-skinned native Christian who was busy placing out baskets of figs, apples and mangos.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Tiv,’ he greeted him in Arabic.

The merchant smiled, showing yellowing teeth. ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, John. What can I do for you?’

‘These mangos look good.’

‘The best in all Jerusalem. Only two fals.’

John handed over the copper coins and plucked a mango from one of the baskets. He took a bite of the golden, pulpy fruit and grunted in satisfaction as the juice ran down his chin. He gestured to the overflowing baskets. ‘Expecting a crowd, Tiv?’

‘In four days it will be the feast of liberation, celebrating the capture of Jerusalem by the Frankish dogs.’ Tiv spat to the side as he placed another basket of fruit on the table. ‘The festivities, may God piss on them, always bring a crowd.’

‘May you profit from them.’ John moved on, eating his mango as he walked. He left the covered street and strolled through an open square filled with clucking chickens and feathers floating on the morning breeze. The powerful smell of fish filled his nose as he entered the fish market, which sat in the shade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. John was pushing his way through the crowd when he spotted a dark-haired woman at a stall just ahead of him. From behind, with her long hair hanging to her waist and her petite, voluptuous figure, she looked just like Zimat. She was dressed in a close-fitting white caftan and niqab, a veil which covered all her face but for her eyes. John caught a glimpse of her hands as she passed money to the merchant; they were the golden colour of the sands north of Damascus, just like Zimat’s. John felt his pulse quicken. Then the woman turned and their eyes met. It was not Zimat. The woman lowered her gaze and walked away.

John cursed himself for a fool as he continued on his way. Of course it had not been Zimat. No Saracens were allowed in the city. And why would she come? She did not even know he was alive. He wondered where she was now, if she had married again, but shook the thoughts from his mind. It did not matter. He would be made a priest that very morning.

A trickle of sweat ran down John’s back as he knelt on the stone floor of the sanctuary of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and listened to the patriarch pray. The church was hot due to the dense crowd that had come to hear Sunday Mass, and the priestly garments that John wore offered no relief. His alb, a loose white tunic of linen, was belted at his waist with a cord of red silk. Over it was his chasuble, a sleeveless, suffocating garment of heavily embroidered white silk. A rectangle of linen covered his head and fell to his shoulders on either side. Over his left shoulder hung a stole of red silk with white crosses embroidered at the ends. The priest’s maniple, a band of red silk embroidered with gold, was tied to his left forearm. It seemed strange, sacrilegious even, to wear the priestly vestments. Yet in only a few moments he would be a priest. More than that, he would be a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the most sacred place in all Christendom, built on the site where Jesus had been buried and risen again.

Each canon received a monthly stipend, and in return they were to live in the dormitory, eat in common and pray the canonical hours: Matins, which took place some three hours before dawn; Lauds shortly before sunrise; Prime in the early morning hours; Terce, Sext, and None over the course of the day; Vespers at sunset; and Compline just before bed. John would live at the church, but William had told him that he would have a vicar to take his place at prayers. Most of the canons did. John would thus be free to continue his work at the palace. There were only two rules that he absolutely had to obey: he must attend the services during Advent and Lent; and he must not be absent from the church for more than three months at a time without dispensation from the patriarch.

John had met the patriarch — called Amalric, like the king — in person for the first time only a few days previously. It was the patriarch’s duty to interview any candidate to become a canon. Amalric was one of the four men who had condemned John to crucifixion when he first arrived in Jerusalem, but the patriarch seemed to have no recollection of him. He had been seated at a small table in his private quarters, carving bites of meat from a roasted shoulder of pork.

‘I am John of Tatewic, Your Beatitude,’ John had declared.

The patriarch had not looked up from his dinner. ‘Hmmm?’

‘The candidate to be named to the vacant canon’s seat, Your Beatitude.’

Amalric had put down his knife and fork and squinted at John. ‘Come forward.’

John had crossed the room, knelt before the patriarch and kissed his ring. Amalric waved John to his feet. After examining him for a moment, the hollow-cheeked old man had gone back to his dinner. ‘How old are you?’ he asked between bites.

‘Thirty-three.’

‘And of good blood?’

‘My father was a thane — a lord — in England, as was his father and his father before him.’

‘And why do you wish to be a priest?’

‘To serve God, Your Beatitude.’

‘Hmmm.’ The patriarch made a sucking sound as he worked at the bits of meat stuck between his teeth. ‘I owe the King a favour, and William speaks well of you. That is enough for me. I will see that the Chapter approves you, John of Tatewic.’

John had kissed the patriarch’s ring and departed.

His attention returned to the cathedral. Amalric was still reading from the prayer book held open by an attendant. ‘O God … holiness … pour … this servant of yours … the gift of your blessing.’ He skipped entire paragraphs, reading only a word here and a phrase there. John could not tell if Amalric was simply ignorant of Latin, like so many churchmen, or if he were deliberately rushing through the service. Such things were common enough. After all, most of the congregation knew no Latin. They would not know the difference.

Amalric droned on, but John paid little attention. His scalp had begun to itch where it had been tonsured — a patch the size of a communion wafer shaved off. It was all he could do not to reach up and scratch it. He forced himself to focus on something else and found himself thinking of Zimat. Even as his hands were anointed with oil and bound, even as he stood beside the patriarch and helped him to celebrate Mass, his thoughts kept returning to her, her dark eyes and hair, the soft curve of her cheek. He had told Amalric that he was joining the priesthood to serve God, and he was. But more than that, he was joining for Zimat, so that he would not have to marry another.

When the Eucharist had been celebrated and the Creed recited, the patriarch returned to his throne, and John knelt before him. This was the key moment of the ceremony. John placed his folded hands between those of the patriarch, who spoke in a low voice: ‘Do you promise me and my successors reverence and obedience?’

John hesitated. If he agreed, he would become the patriarch’s man, just as he had once been Yusuf’s man, and Reynald’s before that. He swallowed, and said loudly, ‘I promise.’

‘As canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, do you promise to live a life of chastity, consecrated to God and without private property?’

‘I promise.’

The patriarch, still holding John’s hands in his own, leaned forward and kissed John on the right cheek. ‘The peace of the Lord be always with you, my son.’

‘Amen.’

‘My dear son, ponder well the order you have taken and the burden laid on your shoulders. Strive to lead a holy and devout life, and to please almighty God, that you may obtain His grace. May He in His kindness deign to bestow it on you.’

The patriarch released his hands. John rose and went to sit in his choir stall as a full member of the chapter of canons. He had come to the Holy Land years ago searching for redemption, and surely he had found it. His life now belonged to God.

John sat in the chancellery, a small room dominated by an oak desk covered in scrolls. He unrolled one of them. It was a list of tax revenues from the town of Ramlah. Keeping track of taxes and landholdings was not so interesting as John’s work tutoring Prince Baldwin, but he had proved adept at it. He picked up a quill with ink-stained fingers. He dipped it and began to enter numbers from the scroll into a leather-bound register. He heard the slap of sandals on the stone floor and looked up to see William enter.

John arched an eyebrow. ‘I thought you were with Baldwin.’

‘I have been called to audience with the King. You will tutor the Prince.’

‘Shall I teach him swordplay?’ John asked hopefully.

William shook his head. ‘Arabic.’

John found Prince Baldwin in his quarters, playing with two wooden figures under the watchful eyes of a nurse. The prince was three, the same age John’s son Ubadah had been the last time John had seen him. Like Ubadah, Baldwin was a handsome child, with fat cheeks and straight, sandy-brown hair. But Baldwin’s eyes were green, not dark. Though hardly more than a babe, he had already shown himself to be a clever boy. John spent several hours a day with him, and the boy was absorbing Arabic with surprising rapidity.

‘It is time for the Prince’s lesson,’ John said. The nurse departed, and John sat on the floor across from Baldwin. ‘Arabic today. Let us begin by seeing how much you remember. Sword.’

‘Saif,’ Baldwin repeated in Arabic.

‘Good. Lamp.’

‘Chiragh.’

‘Very good!’ But the child had ceased paying attention. A clatter of horses’ hooves had come through the open window. Baldwin flew to it, and John also rose to look down on the paved courtyard. Four knights in mail were dismounting. With them was a darker man in a white caftan.

‘A Saracen?’ Baldwin asked. Muslims were forbidden in the city, and this might well have been the first one the prince had ever seen.

John nodded. He watched until the men entered the palace, then returned to his place on the floor. ‘Come, Prince. We should continue.’

Baldwin crossed his arms over his chest. ‘No!’

‘Sit!’ John snapped, and Baldwin began to cry, his angelic face twisted into an ugly mask of anguish. ‘Stop it. Men do not cry,’ John scolded, but this only seemed to make matters worse. Baldwin began to wail. Desperate for some way to distract the child, John removed the gold cross from around his neck and set it on the floor before Baldwin. ‘Look at the pretty gold.’ The boy quieted instantly. He reached for the cross but froze, his eyes fixed on the door.

‘Good day, young Prince.’

John turned to see a woman standing in the open doorway. She was about John’s age. Her tunic fit snugly at the waist, revealing an athletic figure. Judging from the rings on her fingers and her elaborate white tunic, heavily embroidered with gold thread, she was a lady of some importance, yet John had never seen her at court.

‘My lady,’ he said as he replaced the cross about his neck and stood. The woman stepped into the room and pushed up her veil. She had a pleasant oval face, green eyes and full lips. A strand of hair the colour of barley escaped from her headdress to fall in curls down to her bosom. Her attention was fixed upon Baldwin, but then she noticed John staring and smiled. Her teeth were even and white.

‘We have not met, Father,’ the lady said in the accented French of someone who had been raised in the Holy Land. ‘You are new at court?’

‘Yes, my lady. My name is John of Tatewic, canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and secretary to the chancellor William.’ John bowed.

‘Tatewic?’ The lady arched a thin eyebrow. ‘You are English? How do you come to be at the king’s court, in the company of the king’s son?’

‘Amalric has instructed me to teach the boy Arabic and the ways of the Saracens.’

The lady smiled slyly. ‘You only answered half my question, John of Tatewic. Never mind. I am sure you have your reasons.’ She looked beyond him to Baldwin, who had wandered away to play, and suddenly it was as if John did not exist. She stepped past him and gathered her long tunic up with one hand as she sat before the boy. He ignored her, busy playing with a knight and a mamluk, both carved from wood.

‘Do you recognize me, Baldwin?’ she asked. The prince did not look up from his toys. ‘Is that a knight? Your father perhaps?’ Baldwin’s only response was to turn his back to the lady.

‘I am sorry,’ John told her. ‘He is sometimes shy around strangers.’ This was a lie. Baldwin was a gregarious child, always curious and quick to smile. John had never seen him act this way.

‘He shall have to overcome that. After all, he will be king one day.’ The lady stood and turned towards John. For a moment she looked upset — her lips pressed together and lines radiating from the corners or her mouth. Then the lines vanished. ‘Tell me, John, what do you think of King Amalric?’

‘He is a good man.’

‘Yes, he tries to be.’

John frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

The lady did not answer. She bent down and placed a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. The boy froze. She gently kissed him on the top of his head and went to the door. She stopped and looked back. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, John of Tatewic. I hope to see you again.’

‘As you wish, my lady. But tell me, what is your name?’

‘Agnes.’ Her eyes flicked to Baldwin and then back to John. ‘Agnes de Courtenay.’ And with that, she was gone.

A moment later William entered the room. ‘Who was that? You are a priest now, John,’ he said with mock severity. ‘You are not to entertain strange women.’

‘She is a lady. Agnes de Courtenay.’

‘Agnes?’ William’s eyes opened wide.

‘You know her?’

‘She is the King’s former wife.’ William lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Baldwin’s mother. What was she doing here? Did she come to see the child?’ John shrugged. William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful of her, John.’

‘She seemed pleasant enough.’

‘She has been forbidden from seeing Baldwin, and for good reason.’

John raised his eyebrows, but William did not elaborate.

‘Now come. We have important business.’ William raised his voice. ‘Nurse!’ The nurse entered, and William led John from the room. ‘An ambassador has come from Egypt,’ William said as they headed across the palace.

‘What does he want?’

‘That is for you to find out.’

‘Me?’

‘You know their ways better than any of us, John. I want you to make him feel comfortable.’ William stopped before a wooden door. ‘And I need to know if he can be trusted.’

William pushed the door open to reveal a small room. A single window looked out on the courtyard of the palace, and through it streamed sunlight, illuminating a broad oak table with four chairs. The Egyptian ambassador had ignored the chairs and sat cross-legged on the thick carpet. He was simply dressed, his white cotton caftan contrasting with his dark skin, the same deep-brown colour as the table. John saw at once that he was no warrior: his face was soft and his hands plump. He rose as John entered.

John inclined his head. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, sayyid.’

‘Wa-salaam alaykum,’ the ambassador replied. His voice was soft and his Egyptian accent strange.

John placed his hand on his chest. ‘My name is John-Juwan,’ he added, giving it the Arabic pronunciation.

‘I am Al-Khlata, secretary to Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’

John gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit. King Amalric has asked me to ensure that you are comfortable.’

‘I have everything I need,’ Al-Khlata said as he sat on the carpet.

‘You shall have fruit and cool water. I insist.’ John looked to William, who nodded and hurried off. John sat on the carpet across from Al-Khlata. ‘You must have travelled far.’

‘Across Al-Naqab,’ Al-Khlata agreed. His hazel eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘How do you come to speak our language so well?’

‘I spent several years at the court of Nur ad-Din.’

‘And now you serve these savages?’

‘We cannot all choose our masters.’

At that moment a servant boy entered with a tray upon which sat a pitcher of water, two cups and a bowl filled with cubes of mango. The boy placed the tray on the floor between them and retreated, closing the door behind him. Neither man spoke as John poured the water and handed a cup to Al-Khlata. The Egyptian took a sip and placed the water aside. John held out the bowl of mango, but Al-Khlata waved it off.

‘I did not choose to serve my master, either,’ the Egyptian said. ‘My father was a Turcoman, born far from these lands. I do not remember him, whether he was a baker, merchant or warrior. I was bought as a child and sent to the Caliph’s palace in Cairo, where I was taught to write, to recite poetry, to keep accounts.’

‘Then we are not so different.’

Al-Khlata nodded. ‘Tell me of your new master, the King.’

‘He is a good man, honest and intelligent.’

‘I have heard that he is given to drink and women.’

John shrugged. ‘He is a king.’

Al-Khlata met John’s eyes. ‘I have heard that he is mad.’

‘Far from it, but-’ John’s forehead creased as he hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was low. ‘But he is odd. He sometimes laughs suddenly for no reason. You should not be offended. He is not mocking you.’

‘I see.’

‘And what of your vizier, Shawar?’

Al-Khlata looked amused. ‘Like your king, a good man.’

John heard the door creak open behind him and looked to see the spare, straight-backed seneschal Guy standing there, with William close behind. ‘Come,’ Guy said in Latin. ‘The King will see you now.’

William translated for Al-Khlata, who rose and followed Guy out of the door. John and William fell in behind them.

‘Can he be trusted?’ William whispered.

John shook his head. ‘He did not eat the fruit he was offered. This is a great insult in their culture; it shows that he does not trust our hospitality. And a man who does not trust us cannot be trusted.’

William nodded. ‘I was right about you, John. God did send you to us for a reason. Did you learn anything else? Why is he here?’

‘I did not ask.’

‘By Christ! Why not?’

John shrugged. ‘You said to make him comfortable. It would not have been polite.’

‘Very well,’ William grumbled. ‘We shall find out soon enough.’

‘G-God grant you joy, Al-Khlata. Welcome to J-Jerusalem, and to my c-court,’ Amalric declared in a voice too loud for the size of his private audience chamber. He sat upon a simple wooden throne, flanked by the seneschal Guy and the constable Humphrey on one side, and on the other by Gilbert and Bertrand, masters of the Hospitallers and Templars, respectively. Amalric was dressed in full regalia: the royal robe of ermine upon his shoulders, the crown of Jerusalem upon his brow, and a sceptre grasped in his right hand. He looked the part of a king, but even from the shadows at the rear of the room, John could tell that Amalric was nervous. It was not just the return of his childhood stutter; the king was also stroking his thick blond beard. John had been at court long enough to learn that this was as agitated as Amalric ever became.

Al-Khlata put his hand to his heart and bowed. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, Malik,’ he began in Arabic. William translated. ‘I am honoured by your kind welcome. I am sure that the Caliph and Vizier Shawar will be equally pleased.’

Amalric tugged more doggedly at his beard. ‘P-perhaps they will be less pleased when they hear what I have to say. If you have come to seek p-p-’ The king’s face reddened, he took a deep breath and started again. ‘If you have come to seek our friendship, then you must know that cannot be. You have allied with Nur ad-Din. You have allowed his army into C–Cairo itself. There can be no peace between our p-peoples so long as his men remain in your lands.’

‘Of course. That is precisely why Shawar has sent me. He needs your help to drive Nur ad-Din’s army from Egypt.’

John could hardly believe his ears. Shawar had only just signed a treaty with Nur ad-Din. William seemed equally surprised. He stood with his mouth open, although he had not yet translated Shawar’s words.

‘Well?’ Amalric demanded. He looked from William to John. ‘What did he say?’

John cleared his throat. ‘He asked us to invade Egypt, sire. Shawar wants us to drive out Nur ad-Din.’

‘By Christ’s wounds,’ murmured the Templar, Bertrand. ‘We can open the holy sites to pilgrimage: where Moses crossed the Red Sea; where Joseph and Mary rested during their flight from Bethlehem.’

William stepped closer to the throne. ‘An invasion will cost money, sire.’

‘The Egyptians have untold wealth,’ Gilbert noted.

Amalric stroked his beard. ‘Ask him what Shawar offers in return for our assistance.’ William translated the request.

‘Caliph al-Adid will recognize you as his overlord,’ Al-Khlata replied, ‘and pay you four hundred thousand dinars.’

The seneschal paled. ‘That is nearly equivalent to our annual revenue, sire.’

‘King of Jerusalem and lord of Egypt,’ Amalric murmured. ‘I could hire enough men to take Damascus. Succeed where my brother failed.’ The king’s forehead creased and his lips began to tremble. He burst out laughing, and Al-Khlata took a step back. The lords around the throne shifted uncomfortably. The fit subsided, and Amalric resumed his impassive expression. He looked to William. ‘Offer m-my apologies to Al-Khlata. And tell him that I accept his offer.’

‘Perhaps it would be wise to reflect before accepting, sire,’ Guy said. ‘We know nothing of this Al-Khlata. Can we trust him? Or his master? Why would Shawar turn his back on his fellow Saracens to ally with us?’

John stepped forward. ‘They are Saracens, sire, but they are not the same.’

‘What do you mean?’ Amalric asked.

‘The Egyptians are Shiites. They look to the Fatimid caliph in Cairo. Nur ad-Din and his men are Sunni, under the caliph in Baghdad.’

‘They are all Mohammedans,’ the seneschal said.

‘Just as they consider the English and French to all be Franks,’ John said, ‘whereas we know that they are in fact quite different.’

‘I see,’ Amalric said. ‘What do you say to this, William?’

‘I council caution, sire. If Shawar is willing to betray Nur ad-Din, then what is to say that he will not betray us in turn?’

Bertrand nodded. ‘William is right.’

‘Very well,’ Amalric said. ‘Tell him that we need time to c-consider.’

William opened his mouth to translate, but Al-Khlata spoke first. ‘Shawar is a man of his word,’ he said in accented but correct French. ‘It is Nur ad-Din who has broken his oath. His general, Shirkuh, has designs on Cairo. He sits in Giza, like a hawk poised to strike. Shawar needs your aid to remove him, and he needs it now. Your answer cannot wait.’

Amalric looked to William, who frowned and shook his head. The king turned to the constable. Humphrey commanded the king’s army in the field, and his word had weight. He nodded. Amalric turned back to Al-Khlata. ‘You will leave tomorrow for Cairo to tell Shawar that he has my support.’

Al-Khlata bowed low. ‘Thank you, Malik.’

Amalric nodded, and a servant entered to lead the Egyptian to his quarters. William frowned as he watched him go. ‘I do not trust him,’ he muttered.

Amalric rose from the throne and put a hand on William’s shoulder. ‘Nor do I, friend. But this is an opportunity we cannot ignore. Write to Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli. They will need to defend our northern border while I am gone.’ Amalric looked to the constable. ‘Gather the army, Humphrey. We leave in two weeks’ time.’

APRIL 1164: GIZA

Yusuf set his quill down and rubbed his temples. He had just finished another letter to Gumushtagin, written in ghubar, the tiny Arabic script used for the pigeon post. He had told the eunuch of the consideration that Shawar had shown them, how he had kept the army well provisioned and invited Yusuf to dine with him each night. He had also written of the increasing tension between the vizier and Yusuf’s uncle. Shirkuh was angry that Shawar had delivered only a fraction of the tribute that was due to Nur ad-Din. Shawar resented the presence of Shirkuh, who had informed the vizier that he planned to winter the army in Egypt. Yusuf had been forced to intervene more than once to prevent an open break between the two. All of this was information that Gumushtagin would eventually learn from Shirkuh’s dispatches to Nur ad-Din. Nevertheless, each letter that he wrote left Yusuf with a nagging sense of guilt.

He rolled the scroll and slid it into a tiny tube. He wrote Gumushtagin’s name on a scrap of paper and then wound it around the tube, affixing it with a dab of glue. He left his tent and strode across camp to where the hawadi were kept. The mail pigeons sat in their cages, cooing softly. ‘For the palace in Aleppo,’ Yusuf told the keeper, a stooped mamluk, too old to fight. The man nodded and went to one of the cages. He took out the pigeon and carefully tied the tube to its leg. Then he stepped outside and released the bird. It circled once and flew away, heading north-east.

‘Your message will arrive tonight, Sayyid,’ the keeper told him.

Yusuf was heading back to his tent when Selim hailed him. ‘Brother! There you are!’ Selim was breathless. He looked to have run the length of the camp.

‘What is it?’

‘Shirkuh needs you. It is the Franks. They are here.’

Yusuf entered Shirkuh’s tent to find him speaking with a bow-legged Egyptian who smelled of fish. ‘You are certain?’ Shirkuh was asking him.

‘I was fishing north of here, in the eastern branch of the Nile, when I saw them; maybe five thousand men. They are no more than four days’ march from Cairo.’

Shirkuh handed the fisherman a sack of coins. ‘Keep me informed of their movements. There is more where this came from if your information proves useful.’

‘Shukran, Emir. Shukran Allah!’ The fisherman bowed repeatedly as he backed from the tent.

When he had gone, Shirkuh turned to Yusuf. ‘What do you make of this, young eagle?’

‘The Frankish king is no fool. He knows that if Nur ad-Din and Egypt are allied, he is in grave danger. He must be marching to drive us out.’

The lines on Shirkuh’s forehead deepened. ‘If he is no fool, tell me why he has come to Egypt with only five thousand men. That is not enough to face us and the Egyptians. I do not like this.’

‘We should speak with Shawar,’ Yusuf suggested.

‘Yes, he is clever. Perhaps he will know what the Frankish king plans.’

Accompanied by a dozen members of Shirkuh’s private guard, they took a barge north to Al-Maks, the port of Cairo. From there they rode to the northern gate, the Bab al-Futuh. As they approached, Yusuf saw that the gate was closed. Soldiers stood atop it with spears in hand. Atop each spear was a head. Yusuf felt a burning in his stomach as he recognized those heads. They belonged to the garrison of mamluks that Nur ad-Din had left in Cairo.

Shirkuh flushed red with anger. He reined to a stop before the gate and shouted up to the guards. ‘What is the meaning of this? Open the gate immediately! I wish to speak with Shawar.’

‘I am sorry, Atabeg,’ one of the guards called down. ‘The Vizier has ordered the city closed to you.’

‘Surely there is a misunderstanding,’ Yusuf said to his uncle. He raised his voice to speak to the guards. ‘Inform Shawar that we will wait here until he arrives.’

They did not have to wait long before Shawar appeared atop the gate. ‘Shirkuh! Yusuf! I deeply regret that we find ourselves in this awkward situation.’

‘You see, it is a misunderstanding,’ Yusuf told his uncle. ‘Open the gate, friend,’ he called up to Shawar. ‘Let us in so we may talk.’

‘I am afraid I cannot do that. As you can see-’ he gestured to the heads ‘-your men are no longer welcome in Cairo.’

‘I will gut you, you two-faced bastard!’ Shirkuh roared.

Yusuf put a hand on his uncle’s arm to calm him. ‘This is no time for a falling out,’ he called to Shawar. ‘The Frankish army is only days away. We must discuss how we will repel them.’

‘But I have no wish to repel them. It is I who invited them here.’

The burning in Yusuf’s stomach grew worse. ‘Why?’

‘I wish to be master of Egypt,’ Shawar replied. ‘I never shall be, so long as your army is here.’

‘But we are your allies! I am your friend.’

‘Yes, we are good friends, aren’t we?’ Shawar smiled. ‘It pains me to turn my back on a friend such as you, Yusuf, but my personal feelings do not matter. I must do what is in the best interest of Egypt.’

Yusuf could hardly believe what he was hearing. This man was nothing like the Shawar he had come to know. That smile, which Yusuf had once found so charming, now appeared false. How could Yusuf have been so blind?

‘Damn your seventh grandfather, you deceitful bastard!’ Shirkuh shouted. He had drawn his sword and was waving it up at Shawar. ‘I will tear down the walls of Cairo stone by stone. I will cut off your head and piss down your throat!’

‘You are welcome to try,’ Shawar replied brightly. ‘But I must warn you that if you do not leave now, my men will deal with you. I am afraid that this is the last time we will speak. Farewell, my friends.’

‘Son of a donkey!’ Shirkuh spluttered. ‘Whore’s twat!’

The men atop the walls drew back their bows. Yusuf grabbed his uncle’s arm. ‘Come, Uncle. We must go. We shall have our revenge later.’

APRIL 1164: CAIRO

John tugged at the rough collar of his cloak of dark brown wool. It was fastened with a brooch at the centre of the chest, in the clerical style. Laymen fastened their cloaks at their right shoulder so as to leave their sword arm unencumbered. Another advantage of placing the clasp at the shoulder, John had discovered regretfully, was that it distributed the weight of the cloak in such a way that it did not chafe. He tugged at the cloak again, pulling it away from his raw neck. If it were up to him, he would have worn a simple burnoose and keffiyeh, but William had insisted that as a priest and adviser to the king he must travel in tunic and cloak, with his long stole hanging about his neck. Even in April the Egyptian heat was oppressive, and his tunic was soaked with sweat.

‘What I wouldn’t give to be in England right now,’ he murmured.

‘England?’ Amalric asked as he came alongside. The two men rode near the head of a column of nearly five thousand warriors. There were just under four hundred mounted knights, each equipped with a thick mail shirt, lance, sword and shield. Surrounding the knights were three thousand sergeants; foot-soldiers who mostly wore leather jerkins and fought with spears and bows. The rearguard was composed of native cavalry, Christians who had lived in the Holy Land for generations and had more in common with the Saracens than the Franks. They wore light, padded armour and carried bamboo spears and compact, curved bows.

‘I was born and raised in the Holy Land,’ the king continued. ‘I have never been to England, although I have heard it described often enough. The pilgrims never cease to speak of it. Fields of green, woods, water in abundance … I have often wondered why, if it is so lovely, so many men leave to come here.’

John was not sure how to reply. He noticed that Amalric was worriedly fingering the fragment of the true cross that he wore on a chain about his neck. He hoped that Amalric was not seeking religious consolation. John still felt uncertain in his role as a priest. He wished William were here, but the chancellor was away on a mission to the Roman court in Constantinople.

‘I had to leave,’ John said at last. ‘I killed my brother.’ Amalric did not speak, so John continued. ‘He betrayed my father and several other Saxon lords to the Norman king in return for more land.’

‘The Norman king?’ Amalric asked. ‘England has been ruled by the Angevin line for nearly a hundred years. Surely Stephen is as English as you.’

‘The Normans speak French and the common people, English. And in the north we have long memories. My grandfather was a child when William the Bastard’s army butchered our people. He passed the story of the Harrowing on to my father, who passed it on to me.’

‘I see.’ Amalric continued to finger his cross. They were riding alongside a branch of the Nile delta, making their way from Bilbeis towards Cairo. John watched a low skiff with a triangular sail gliding upstream, mirroring their progress. A man in the prow was fishing with a bamboo rod and line. He had been at it for an hour but had caught nothing. John suspected he was a spy for Shirkuh, more interested in the Frankish army than fish.

‘Bernard of Clairvaux visited me last night,’ Amalric said suddenly.

John’s eyebrows shot up. He cleared his throat. ‘Is he not dead, sire?’

The corner of Amalric’s mouth twitched, then he burst into high-pitched, shrill laughter. ‘In a dream, John. He came to me in a dream. He said that I am a poor Chri-a poor Chri-’ The king’s face was reddening as he struggled to get his words out. His stutter was always worse when he was upset. ‘He said that I am not a worthy king.’

‘But that is not true, sire.’

‘Perhaps.’ Amalric sighed. ‘I have my faults, John. I divorced my wife and have since lived in sin with many women. Many women. To lie with a woman outside of marriage is a wicked sin, is it not, John?’

‘It is to be expected. You are a king, sire.’

‘That is hardly the appropriate answer of a man of the cloth!’

‘I fear I am a poor priest.’

‘Hmph. William tells me that a king should have a wife.’ Amalric held up the piece of cross around his neck. ‘Saint Bernard t-told me that I will be unw-worthy of wearing the cross unless I am a better Christian.’

‘So you shall marry, sire?’

Amalric shrugged. ‘Or p-perhaps I should simply cease wearing the true cross.’ He took the chain from around his neck and placed it in a pouch at his waist. He grinned. ‘Yes, that feels better.’ The king spurred ahead, leaving John to ride alone.

The sun had reached its zenith when the ruins of ancient Heliopolis — only a few miles north-east of Cairo — appeared on the horizon. The first thing John saw was a tall column that came to a point, like a needle reaching towards the sky. As they rode closer, he could make out the remains of the city’s wall of crude brick, now crumbling to dust. Beyond the wall, blocks of dark granite stood here and there, the obelisk towering over them. Its sides were decorated with strange symbols; John identified snakes, cranes and ploughs, and men in what looked to be skirts. An ornate tent of red silk stood beyond the obelisk. Surrounding the tent were ranks of Egyptian warriors holding long shields and lances.

Amalric held up a fist to signal a halt. ‘Have the men take water and food,’ he told the constable Humphrey. ‘But be prepared for trouble.’ He waved John forward.

‘Yes, sire?’

‘You will come with me to interpret. Fulcher and De Caesarea, you come as well,’ he called to two of the nobles. Geoffrey Fulcher was an older man with greying hair and a pleasant face. He wore the dress of a Templar knight: a white surcoat with red cross and a white mantle about his shoulders. He had returned not long ago from a mission to the court of France. Hugh de Caesarea was a hot-blooded young man, but he was reputed to have a silver tongue.

The four of them rode down an ancient street with occasional paving stones protruding from the dust. As they neared the tent the ranks of soldiers parted and a man strode out to meet them. He wore fabulous robes of red silk decorated with a swirling pattern of roses picked out in gold and silver. A jewelled sword hung from his waist. The man was tall and thin with a trimmed beard and very short black hair. He had an arresting face — sharp cheekbones and full lips that stretched back in a dazzling smile. ‘God keep you, King Amalric,’ the man called in Frankish. He then switched to Arabic, and John translated his next words. ‘I am Shawar, vizier to the Caliph. Welcome to Heliopolis, ‘Ayn Sams, as my people call it: “Well of the Sun”.’

‘God grant you joy,’ Amalric replied as he dismounted. He clasped Shawar’s arms and kissed him on the cheeks in the Saracen style.

Shawar stood rigidly, as if he were being kissed by a leper. But he recovered his composure quickly, and when the king stepped away, Shawar was smiling. ‘I am so pleased that you have come! Step inside my tent, you and your men.’ The tent was a grand affair, large enough to hold a hundred men. Scribes were seated cross-legged on the floor, writing desks on their laps. Shawar went to a table that held several glasses of water. He handed them to Amalric and the others. John noticed that the glass was cold, beads of moisture forming on the outside. Cold water in the desert; he wondered how the vizier had managed that. ‘Drink!’ Shawar said. ‘You must be thirsty after your journey.’

Amalric took a gulp, then set his glass down. ‘Where is Nur ad-Din’s army?’

‘They are camped at Giza, on the far side of the Nile.’

‘Have you sought to dislodge them?’

‘To leave the walls of Cairo to confront such a powerful foe seemed foolish.’ Shawar again flashed a toothy smile. It reminded John of a cat toying with its prey. ‘But now that you are here, we outnumber Nur ad-Din’s forces nearly two to one. Together, we will drive his army from Egypt!’

‘Together?’ Amalric asked when John had translated. ‘There is a matter of a treaty to sign first.’

‘It is all arranged. You will be well rewarded for your assistance. Four hundred thousand dinars, as was agreed.’

‘And when will we see this money?’

‘Half will be paid now and half once you have driven Shirkuh from Egypt.’

John spoke for Amalric before the king could reply. ‘And the Caliph will agree to this?’

Shawar blinked as if surprised. He examined John for a moment. ‘Of course. I speak for the Caliph.’

Hugh spoke now. ‘That is not good enough. The Caliph must witness the treaty himself. He must swear to its provisions.’

‘Very well.’ Shawar replied tersely. It was clear that he did not like the idea. He went to one of the scribes and held up a sheet of paper, fresh with ink. He handed it to Amalric. ‘Here is the treaty. The Caliph will confirm it this very night.’

‘Then it is settled.’ Amalric extended his hands to embrace the vizier, but Shawar was already bowing and backing away.

‘Al-Khlata will show you to your camp. I have selected a suitable location beside the Nile, just north of the city. This evening I will send a man to guide your envoys to the palace. Now, I must hurry to the city to prepare the Caliph for their arrival. Ma’a as-salaama, King Amalric.’

The vizier stepped from the tent and Al-Khlata, the messenger who had come to Jerusalem, stepped forward. He bowed to Amalric. ‘If you please, great King, I will show you and your men to your camp.’

Al-Khlata led the army down a dirt track between black fields dotted by bright green sprigs of sprouting wheat. Ahead loomed the pyramids of Giza. Amalric slowed his mount to put ten paces between himself and Al-Khlata. He began to speak in a low voice to Gilbert d’Assailly, the Hospitallers’ grand master. John spurred forward, just close enough to hear. ‘Four hundred thousand dinars!’ the king was saying. ‘How many chests do you think it will take to carry such a sum?’

‘But what happens once we have driven off Nur ad-Din’s army?’ Gilbert said darkly. ‘Shawar will have no more use for us. What if he refuses to pay the rest of the gold?’

‘Then we will take it.’

‘And if we cannot? Cairo is not an easy nut to crack, and if we spend too much time here then Nur ad-Din will attack our lands in the Kingdom.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘We leave a garrison in Cairo. Shawar will see that they are housed and fed. They will take charge of the city’s gates.’

‘But he will never agree to such a thing.’

‘How can he not? If he refuses, we leave him to face Shirkuh alone. And besides, he can hardly haggle over the details of the treaty before the Caliph.’ Amalric said nothing. He was tugging at his long blond beard. ‘Just think, sire, with a garrison in Cairo we will win more than gold. We can force Shawar to do as we wish. He will be vizier, but you will be master of Egypt.’

Amalric was nodding. ‘Make it so, Gilbert. Have the scribes draw up a new treaty.’

‘How many men do they have?’ John asked, pointing across the Nile to Shirkuh’s distant camp, where hundreds of campfires blazed in the evening twilight.

‘Something like six thousand, all mounted,’ Al-Qadi al-Fadil said. The Egyptian official was a small, hunchbacked man with thin, ink-stained fingers. He had been sent to guide Amalric’s envoys to the caliph. Amalric had again selected Geoffrey Fulcher and Hugh de Caesarea, and John as translator.

‘And they have made no move to attack the city?’ John asked.

‘To attack across the river would be suicide. We would cut them to pieces as they emerged from their boats.’

‘That means we cannot attack them either,’ John pointed out.

‘Not directly,’ Al-Fadil agreed.

John gazed at the camp across the Nile. Yusuf would be there. John wondered what his friend would think if he saw John now. For the occasion of meeting the caliph, John had put on his full priestly regalia: the heavy, gold-embroidered chasuble over his white tunic, the long stole around his neck, the band of decorated silk tied to his left arm and the amice draped over his head. He carried copies of the treaty in a tube that hung from a leather cord around his neck. He was sure he looked impressive, but the outfit was damnably hot, even in the relative cool of the evening.

Ahead, the torch-lit walls of Cairo stood out in the gathering darkness. The path they followed led to a gate, but Al-Fadil turned away. ‘Why do we not enter the city?’ Hugh asked, and John translated.

‘Your presence might upset the people,’ Al-Fadil explained. ‘We will enter directly into the palace.’

Al-Fadil led them to a narrow strip of land that ran between a canal and the city’s western wall. Hugh whistled in appreciation as he gazed up at the battlements. ‘How tall do you think those walls are?’

‘Thirty feet, maybe,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘Of solid workmanship.’

A gate framed by burning torches appeared in the darkness ahead. ‘Bab al-Kantara,’ Al-Fadil declared. The enchanted gate. The Egyptian led the way up a ramp and across a short drawbridge to a wooden double door some ten paces wide. It swung inward and they rode into a low-ceilinged room, the walls of which were lined with guards. As John dismounted he noticed that a few of them were making the sign of the evil eye — forming a circle with the thumb and forefinger of their right hand and shaking it at the Franks. Shawar entered at the far end of the room, and the soldiers stopped gesturing.

‘As-salaamu ’alaykum, friends,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘The Caliph is eager to see you, but first, I must ask that you leave your weapons here.’

When John translated, Hugh frowned, but he removed his sword belt nonetheless and handed it to one of the guards. Geoffrey did the same.

‘They will be returned to you when you leave,’ Shawar reassured them. ‘My men will polish and sharpen them, so that they are better than new. Now come, the Caliph awaits.’

The vizier led them through a second room and out into a colonnaded courtyard in which dozens of rose bushes bloomed, releasing their sweet scent into the evening air. As John entered the next courtyard, a caged panther hissed and roared at him. There were other animals that looked like something out of a dream: a horse covered in white and black stripes; a strange, deerlike creature with spindly legs and an impossibly long neck; and a huge lion with golden eyes.

From the menagerie, they passed through a series of luxurious rooms before arriving in a larger chamber, divided in the middle by a curtain of golden silk. ‘You should kneel,’ Shawar told them.

John dropped to one knee, but neither Geoffrey nor Hugh moved. ‘It will help our cause,’ John told them. ‘It would be impolitic to refuse.’

Geoffrey reluctantly knelt, but Hugh remained standing. ‘I kneel before my king and before God,’ he grumbled, ‘not this infidel.’

‘It means nothing,’ John assured him. Hugh looked doubtful.

‘Please,’ Shawar said. ‘You must kneel if you are to see the Caliph.’

‘Then I will not see him.’

John chose not to translate that. ‘My lord,’ he said to Hugh, ‘as a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I tell you that God knows the difference between a knee taken to honour and a knee taken under duress. Kneeling means nothing.’

‘You are sure, priest?’

John nodded. Hugh hesitated for a moment longer and then knelt. Shawar placed his jewelled sword on the ground and prostrated himself so that his forehead touched the floor. After his third bow the curtain was raised. John’s first impression of the caliph was that he was a statue or carving. He was covered from head to toe in jewelled silks and where his face should have been was a mesh veil that created the impression that his features had been erased. He reminded John of one of the statues of the saints that adorned the great portal of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The illusion was spoiled when the caliph’s hand moved in a gesture for them to rise.

Shawar addressed the caliph. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, God’s deputy, defender of the faithful, may I present the Frankish envoys.’ John translated quietly for Geoffrey and Hugh.

‘As-salaamu ’alaykum,’ the caliph said, his voice high at the beginning before breaking at the end. ‘Welcome to my court.’

Geoffrey took a step forward. ‘Great Caliph, I am Geoffrey Fulcher, Preceptor of the Temple in Jerusalem. God bless you and grant you joy, health and fortune.’

‘And I am Hugh of Caesarea. God keep you, Caliph.’

John translated for both.

‘We have brought the treaty, signed by King Amalric,’ Geoffrey said.

John removed four copies of the treaty from the tube around his neck and unrolled the parchments. He stepped forward to hand them to the caliph.

‘Wait!’ Shawar ordered. He held out a hand, and John gave him the treaties. Shawar read quickly. His face remained expressionless, but his cheeks tinged red. ‘We did not agree to your quartering troops in Cairo,’ he hissed in a low voice that the caliph could not hear.

‘It is for your protection, Vizier,’ Geoffrey replied once John had translated.

‘We can protect ourselves.’

Hugh smirked. ‘In that case, we shall take our army back to Jerusalem.’

Shawar’s face reddened further. The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Is there a problem, Vizier?’

‘No, Imam,’ Shawar replied. ‘All is well. Al-Ifranj will help us to drive the Sunni invaders from our lands.’

‘That is good. Sign the treaty.’ When the boy caliph spoke again, his voice was harsh. ‘We must teach the infidels a lesson.’

John knew of the rift between the Sunni and Shiites, but he was still surprised. The caliph seemed unconcerned that the Franks were Christians. He hated the Sunni Muslims much more.

Shawar turned to Geoffrey. ‘The Caliph has given his consent to the treaty.’ Shawar went to the table and signed all four copies. He had regained his equanimity, and he smiled as he handed two of the treaties to Geoffrey. ‘There. It is done.’

‘That is not enough,’ Hugh said.

The vizier’s smile faded. ‘Pardon?’

‘A treaty is only a sheet of paper. The Caliph must give me his word, man to man.’

‘But-’ Shawar’s words ended in a gasp. Hugh was striding across the room, his hand extended to shake that of the caliph. The caliph shrank back against his throne. John heard the whisper of steel against leather as several of the mamluks standing along the back wall drew their blades. Shawar held up a hand to stop them. ‘My lord!’ he beseeched Hugh in Frankish. ‘You cannot touch the Caliph!’

Hugh ignored him. He thrust his hand towards the caliph’s face. ‘Swear that you will abide by the terms of this treaty.’ He looked to John, who translated.

‘What more does this man want?’ the caliph asked, his voice breaking. ‘I have already given my consent.’

‘You are to clasp his hand.’

The caliph turned towards Shawar. ‘Must I?’

John had not translated these last statements. Hugh looked to him questioningly. ‘Why will he not give his word?’ he demanded. ‘I knew there was treachery afoot.’ John chose not to translate that, either.

Shawar ignored Hugh’s outburst. ‘Yes, Imam. It is necessary.’ The caliph extended a trembling hand.

‘He must remove his glove,’ Hugh insisted. ‘The oath is not valid unless we clasp hands, flesh to flesh.’

Shawar went pale. ‘But that is impossible!’ he cried in Frankish.

‘Then there will be no treaty!’ Hugh declared.

Geoffrey nodded in agreement. ‘We must be certain the alliance will be honoured.’

Shawar looked from one to the other, then to John. ‘Make them understand,’ he said in Arabic. ‘The Caliph cannot take this man’s hand. It is impossible.’

‘Even if it means the failure of the treaty?’ John asked.

‘Even then.’

Hugh was standing with his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting forward belligerently. John doubted he could speak reason with the man. Instead, he looked to the caliph. He approached the throne and knelt, bowing low so that his forehead touched the floor. ‘Representative of God, defender of the faithful,’ he said in Arabic. ‘This man is not worthy to be in your presence. He is an ifranji, a savage, an animal. He is filthy and impure, but he longs for purity. He wishes to embrace the true faith.’

The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Truly?’

Hugh placed a rough hand on John’s shoulder. ‘What are you saying, priest?’

John ignored him. He continued speaking to the caliph. ‘This man has done terrible things. He has defiled his body with the flesh of swine. He has drunk alcohol. He has killed members of the faith. But he believes that if he touches your flesh with the flesh of his hand, it will purify him.’

‘But that is ridiculous!’ the caliph scoffed.

‘It is. But the Franks are like children, Imam. They believe in mysteries and magic. You have no doubt heard that the Franks believe that in their rituals bread and wine are transformed into the very flesh and blood of their god, Jesus. They also believe that the touch of Jesus could cure the sick and raise the dead. To Franks, the touch of a holy man is a miraculous thing. They are like children, and if they embrace the faith, they can only do so as children would do.’

‘Damn it!’ Hugh growled. ‘What are you saying, man? Will he shake my hand or will he not?’

‘I am explaining the terms of the treaty in greater detail,’ John replied tersely. He returned to the caliph. ‘Imam, he says that it would be the great honour of his life to touch your hand, that he would count himself forever blessed.’

‘And he truly wishes to embrace the one true faith?’ the caliph asked in an uncertain voice.

‘Yes.’ John had a flash of inspiration. ‘He wishes to fight against the Sunni army, against the false caliph in Baghdad, who has led so many astray. He wishes your blessing for the coming battle.’

‘Very well,’ the caliph consented. He removed his glove and extended his hand. John could hear the alarmed gasps and urgent whispers of the courtiers lining the walls.

Hugh grabbed the caliph’s manicured hand in his own callused paw. ‘We are sworn to one another, to uphold the treaty signed here today,’ he said as he vigorously shook the caliph’s hand. ‘May God smite you if you break your word.’

‘May Allah give you strength in your battle against the infidel Sunni,’ the caliph replied in Arabic. Hugh released his hand, and the caliph wiped his own on his caftan before slipping on his glove.

‘Shukran,’ Shawar said to John. Then he took Hugh by the arm and led him away from the throne. ‘Are you satisfied now, Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Vizier. We are allies, and we shall drive Nur ad-Din’s armies from your lands.’