Kingdom

Chapter 5

OCTOBER 1164: ALEXANDRIA

John took a deep breath and dunked his head beneath the cold water of Lake Mareotis. The siege was four months old. Autumn had come, but John had not given up his increasingly bracing morning bath. At first, he had come to escape the heat. Now he came seeking the calm that was impossible to find in camp. Behind him, hundreds of Muslims from the Egyptian army knelt along the shore, prostrate in prayer. They, too, came every morning. John found the gentle murmur of their voices comforting. He waited until they had finished and then waded ashore. He glanced to the east as he dressed in his linen tunic and sandals. The rim of the sun was just rising over the horizon. He would be expected at Amalric’s tent soon.

John followed the Egyptian soldiers back towards camp, crossing fields long since picked clean. A range of low hills lay between him and the city. The Egyptian and Frankish armies had set up camp amongst them, with Shawar’s men to the west of the southern gate and Amalric’s men to its east. The level ground between the two camps was usually empty, but as he approached, John saw a crowd gathered there. A dozen Franks were headed by a stout man with small, beady eyes. He was facing a tall Egyptian soldier, backed by twenty mamluks.

‘Puking, onion-eyed, stone-worshipper!’ the Frank was yelling. ‘You’ve been stealing our grain. Admit it!’ He pointed a stubby finger at the Egyptian.

‘Naghil!’ the Egyptian soldier spat back. ‘Kol khara!’

‘What was that, you filthy son of a whore?’ one of the Frank’s companions demanded.

‘Eat shit,’ the Egyptian enunciated carefully in Frankish.

The beady-eyed Frank swung for him. The Egyptian ducked, and one of his friends tackled the Frank from the side. A brawl ensued. John steered well clear of it. Even if he had not been expected at the king’s tent, he doubted that he could do much to stop the fighting. Tensions in camp had run high ever since Shirkuh began raiding the supply caravans from Cairo. The soldiers had taken to pillaging local farms in search of food, but there was never enough. As the siege dragged on, tempers grew short. Fights between the Franks and their Egyptian allies had become an almost daily occurrence.

The guards outside Amalric’s tent nodded to John as he entered. Inside, he found Amalric breakfasting on boiled wheat. ‘Sire,’ John said, and knelt.

Shawar entered just as John was rising. A dark-skinned Egyptian soldier entered behind the vizier.

‘I have bad news,’ Shawar declared cheerfully.

‘Then why are you so damned happy about it?’ Amalric grumbled.

‘I find that good humour is the best antidote to misfortune. Nur ad-Din has invaded the principality of Antioch and scored a crushing victory. Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli have been captured.’

‘What!’ Amalric demanded, red-faced. ‘Are you c-certain?’

‘I am. The news reached Cairo by messenger pigeon two days ago. I learned of it this morning.’

‘By his nails!’ Amalric cursed. ‘With Bohemond and Raymond defeated, there will be no one left to defend the Kingdom’s northern border.’

‘You shall have to return to protect Jerusalem,’ Shawar agreed.

‘Four months of siege wasted,’ Amalric grumbled, then shook his head. ‘No. I’ll not leave empty-handed. I’ll tear down the walls of Alexandria stone by stone, if I must.’

‘Perhaps that will not be necessary.’ Shawar gestured to the Nubian warrior beside him. ‘Jalaal, tell them what you have found.’

The Nubian spoke haltingly, in a deep voice, and John translated. ‘My men and I, we were searching a nearby farmhouse for food. The farmer kept his grain out back in an old stone storeroom — older than old, Vizier, if you take my meaning. The stones were just barely holding together. He said it was empty, but we didn’t believe it, him being a Copt and all. We broke the lock and had a look. The grain was gone, but we found something else. A door.’

‘A door?’ Amalric asked.

‘A door to the catacombs,’ Shawar clarified. ‘Kom el-Shoqafa: the Mound of Shards.’

‘What did you see?’ Amalric asked Jalaal. ‘How far did you go?’

‘Only a few feet, Malik. We didn’t dare go further. There are evil djinn below the earth. Allahu Akbar.’

‘Thank you, Jalaal.’ Shawar turned to Amalric. ‘The catacombs are said to run beneath the city walls. If we can find the passage, then we can enter by night and overrun the defences. The people of the city will pay for their defiance.’

Amalric grinned. John did not share their enthusiasm. Yusuf might be in the city, and regardless, he had other friends amongst the Saracens. They would be slaughtered. Those who fled would be massacred before the city walls. And that would only be the beginning. For once the enemy was dead, the people of Alexandria would suffer.

‘We must explore the catacombs immediately,’ Amalric said.

‘Yes, but quietly,’ Shawar cautioned. ‘I do not doubt that Shirkuh has spies in our camp. If he learns what we have discovered, then he will put his men on guard. The fewer who know of this, the better.’

‘Agreed. You send Jalaal. I will choose a man that I trust. He and Jalaal will report directly to us.’

‘I wish to go,’ John ventured. Amalric frowned. ‘I speak Arabic.’ John looked to Shawar. ‘The catacombs were built under the Romans, were they not?’ The vizier nodded. John turned back to Amalric. ‘I read Latin and Greek. I can help to find the passage into the city.’ He did not add his true reason for wanting to go: if a passage were found, then he wanted to be the one to find it. He had sworn to serve Amalric, but that did not mean he would stand by and let his friends in the city die.

‘Very well,’ Amalric responded, ‘but I will send a sergeant with you. There is no telling what dangers lie beneath the earth. The three of you will go tomorrow, at first light.’

Yusuf chewed on a small piece of flatbread as he strode down Al-Harriyah, the main street of Alexandria. He nodded at the handful of merchants who were setting out their stalls. The men were grim-faced. Food in the city was scarce, and people had little interest in the perfumes and jewels they were selling. Yusuf finished his breakfast, and his stomach grumbled in protest, demanding more. Yusuf ignored it. His men were on half-rations, and so was he. He would not eat again until that evening.

He reached the wall and climbed the stairs to the top of the eastern gate. He nodded to his men, and looked out on the enemy camp. More Franks had arrived from Jerusalem a week ago. The week before that, two hundred Egyptians had joined the army.

Yusuf walked south along the wall, nodding at his men as he passed, exchanging words with those he knew well. He walked the complete circuit of the walls each morning and evening. Seeing him helped to keep the men’s spirits up. And, it allowed Yusuf to get away from the palace, where the citizens of Alexandria besieged him with an endless stream of grievances. They complained about the curfew that Yusuf had set. They complained when he took men and women from the linen and silk factories and set them to making padded armour. Most of all, they complained about the rationing system. But Yusuf had no more food to give. Most of the horses had been eaten at this point.

He was approaching one of the four towers manned by townspeople. There were a dozen men atop the tower; half as many as were required. That was typical. At first, the townspeople had been proud to strut about in their new armour, but before long they were petitioning to avoid guard duty.

‘How goes it?’ Yusuf asked. The Alexandrians glared resentfully. None spoke. ‘Where is your commander?’

‘Inside the tower,’ said an older man with close-cropped hair and a greying beard. The man pulled his cloak more tightly about him in an effort to ward off a chill brought on by hunger.

‘Whipping two men,’ another citizen added darkly. He was tall and must have once been fat. Now, his skin hung in folds from his neck and arms. ‘What gives the bastard the right?’

Yusuf knew that putting his own men in charge of civilians created resentment, but he had no choice. He had heard too many stories of towns that had fallen when locals allowed the besiegers into the city. ‘What did the men do?’ he asked. The citizens shifted uneasily as they stared at the ground, refusing to meet his eye.

‘They had the late watch,’ a boy said at last. He was too small to wield the long, sharpened hoe that he held. ‘They fell asleep on the wall.’

‘But that’s no reason to whip them,’ the man with the baggy skin growled.

‘If you do not want your friends whipped, then do not let them fall asleep,’ Yusuf said. ‘We must remain vigilant. Much worse is in store if the city falls.’

‘Yes, sayyid,’ the old man sneered and spat at Yusuf’s feet.

If the man were a mamluk, Yusuf would have beaten him there on the spot. However, he could not afford to further alienate the people of Alexandria, so he mastered his anger and took the ramp down to the foot of the tower. As he approached the door to the tower’s interior, he heard the crack of a whip and a muffled sob. He stopped in the doorway to watch. Some twenty townsmen were packed inside. Two were standing against the wall, stripped to the waist, angry welts across their backs. Yusuf had placed Saqr in charge of this tower. The young mamluk swung a whip, striking one of the men and eliciting a low moan. Saqr looked as if he would be sick, but he swung again. The townspeople regarded him with murderous eyes.

Saqr gave one final crack of the whip. As he coiled it, he noticed Yusuf standing in the doorway. ‘My lord, Saladin,’ he said and dropped to a knee.

‘Step outside and catch your breath,’ Yusuf told him. ‘And you two-’ He pointed to the whipped men. ‘Find someone to look after your wounds.’

As soon as Saqr was out of the door, Yusuf was confronted with a cacophony of voices. ‘All they did was fall asleep!’ ‘We are free people of Alexandria!’ ‘Bastard doesn’t have any right to whip us!’ ‘How would he like to feel the whip’s bite?’

‘Silence!’ Yusuf roared. The anger that had risen in him when the man spat at his feet now spilled out. He pointed to where the two Alexandrians had just limped from the room. ‘Those men are lucky to be alive. If they were my troops, I would have had them strung up as an example.’ He paused and looked about. Man after man looked away as he met their eyes. ‘You are pathetic! Four months ago, you were so eager to take to the walls, to play at soldier. If you are not willing to act the part, then go back to your homes.’ Yusuf’s voice was rising. ‘Go and huddle with the women in the dark and pray for your rescue. Pray for the real warriors who defend your homes and your families. Go, you cowards!’

‘We are not cowards!’ one of the Alexandrians shouted defiantly. ‘And we will not be insulted!’

‘You won’t?’ Yusuf drew his sword. ‘You hate me, don’t you? You hate my rules? You hate my men? If you hate me so much, then do something about it. Kill me.’ He glared about him. ‘Come on! Kill me! There are twenty of you and only one of me. What are you afraid of? Come on!’ Not a man moved. Some hung their heads in shame. Others looked away.

‘Very well.’ Yusuf’s voice was calm now. ‘Do not question my authority again, or that of my men. I do not tell you how to weave, how to plant and harvest, how to make perfumes. Do not pretend to tell me how to defend this city.’ Yusuf turned on his heel and strode out. Saqr was waiting outside.

‘Thank you, sayyid.’

‘Walk with me.’ Yusuf led the way up the ramp, and paused atop the wall, out of earshot of the Alexandrians gathered on the tower. ‘They are only common men, Saqr, but if you handle them right, they will fight like warriors. You must be firm. Do not pander to them, but listen to their complaints. Address those you can. And talk to them. You must know your men if you wish to lead them.’

‘Yes, sayyid.’

‘You did right to whip those men. Do not doubt yourself.’ Saqr nodded. Yusuf squeezed his shoulder, and continued along the wall.

Over the last week, there had been far too many scenes like the one in the tower. The autumn rains had not yet come, and with the canal blocked, water in the city was running short. Men were always troublesome during a long siege, but thirsty, starving men were worse. Yusuf studied the mamluks he passed. Their cheekbones protruded from emaciated faces. And each day they grew thinner. At this rate, they would soon be nothing but bones. His skeleton army.

‘My lord!’ Qaraqush called as Yusuf approached his tower. The formerly stout mamluk’s armour hung from his gaunt frame like clothes on a scarecrow. He forced a smile.

‘How are the men?’ Yusuf asked.

‘They gripe of hunger. Who can blame them?’

‘Can they fight?’

‘They can hold the wall for maybe two weeks more, but if you are thinking of mounting an attack, then we had best do so now.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘We are too few.’

‘We could slip out at night, as Shirkuh did.’

‘And leave the people of Alexandria to suffer for our cowardice? No.’

‘So we stay here to starve.’

‘We stay, old friend.’

‘That’s it.’ Jalaal pointed across a field of rich black earth to a squat structure of dirty white stone, half covered in creeping vines. It looked like any of the other half-ruined buildings that stood near the city. It was perhaps two hundred yards from the south-west corner of the walls, not far from a single column that towered over the nearby fields.

John and Jalaal headed towards the building. They carried lamps, as did the sergeant who would be exploring the catacombs with them. Adenot was a Breton with a strange accent and large eyes that made him look perpetually surprised. He had a bit of a belly, and he looked to be a practical man. He had brought a coil of rope with him.

Jalaal reached the grain shed and kicked the door open. ‘In here!’

John followed the others inside. There was barely room for the three of them. On the far wall was an open doorway, no more than three feet tall. It looked as if it had been half buried. ‘The farmer said he never saw it,’ Jalaal explained, ‘because the shed was always at least half full with grain.’

John took a flint and steel from the pouch at his waist, lit the lamps, and then got down on his hands and knees to peer into the hole. The darkness swallowed up the lamplight after only a few feet. He glanced up at his companions. The Nubian was whispering a prayer, and Adenot was clutching the medallion of the Saint-Sepulchre that hung around his neck.

John crossed himself. ‘I will go first.’ Pushing the lantern before him, he wormed through the hole. The ceiling was low, and he was forced to crawl on his belly along the dirt floor. Ahead, the space illuminated by the lantern slanted downward, curving to the left. As John moved forward, the ceiling grew higher. Soon he was able to crouch and then stand. Beneath him, the dirt floor gave way to widely spaced steps cut into stone. He turned and called to the others. ‘The way is clear! There is a staircase leading down!’

John pulled his wool cloak about him as he waited. It was cold down here, the chill air wet with moisture. Soon, he could see the lamps of Adenot and Jalaal approaching in the darkness.

‘What is this place?’ Adenot asked, his eyes wide.

‘That is what we are here to discover,’ John replied, and led the way down. The stairs ended, and John edged forward through a stone passage and into a round chamber. On the far side of the room, a dark passage led further into the catacombs. Two other passages opened off to the left. John headed for the nearest one. It opened into an empty room. The next room was also empty, save for the bones that littered the floor and cracked underfoot. There was only one passage left to explore. The entrance was more elaborate than the others, topped by stonework carved in the shape of a scallop shell. A broad staircase led into the darkness. John headed down, his footsteps echoing loudly. The air smelled of rock and earth. The staircase split around a dark space and then came back together. At the bottom, he found himself in a small square room with a high ceiling. To either side, passages led into darkness. Before him, two thick columns framed a doorway. The walls on either side of the columns were decorated with dragons coiled around staffs.

When Jalaal arrived behind John, he gasped. ‘Signs of the devil.’

Adenot was gripping the hilt of his sword. ‘This is an evil place.’

‘There is nothing to fear from false idols carved in stone,’ John told Jalaal in Arabic. ‘Explore that side passage.’ When he had reluctantly shuffled off, John turned to Adenot and made the sign of the cross over him. ‘God will protect you. Now go. See what lies in that passage.’

John went to explore the doorway framed by columns. As he entered the room his lantern illuminated a pair of horrifying figures carved into the stone on his left and right. Each was a man in armour with the head of a dog. The one on the left had the tail of a snake instead of legs. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Perhaps Adenot was right. This was an evil place. He took another step into the room, and a human form loomed in the darkness ahead.

‘Christ!’ John cursed. He took a deep breath and edged forward again. His lamp illuminated a life-sized female figure carved from stone. To its right was a statue of a man. Beyond them was an empty room. He left and found Jalaal and Adenot waiting for him.

‘I found nothing,’ Jalaal said in Arabic.

‘Only bones that way,’ Adenot added in French. ‘You?’

‘Another dead end. Let’s leave this place.’ He looked to Jalaal. ‘Yalla.’

Adenot and the Nubian hurried up the stairs. John followed at a slower pace, but then stopped. A glimmer of light flashed in the darkness between the branches of the staircase. He held his lamp over the space and peered down. The lamplight reflected off water far below.

‘Wait!’ he called. ‘Adenot, give me the rope.’

John tied the rope off around one of the columns that held up the ceiling. He tugged hard to make sure it held and then threw it into the hole. He heard a splash as it hit water.

Jalaal was peering into the hole. ‘I am not going down there.’

John looked to Adenot. The sergeant shook his head.

‘Give me your sword,’ John told him. He belted the blade to his waist, took hold of the rope with both hands and positioned himself over the hole. ‘Wait for me,’ he told Adenot. He turned to Jalaal and spoke in Arabic. ‘If you are not here when I return, I will lay a curse on you, and you will spend the afterlife haunting this place.’

‘We will be here,’ Jalaal assured him.

‘God keep you, Father,’ Adenot added.

John climbed down the rope into the darkness. He reached the water and lowered himself in. ‘’Sblood, that’s cold.’ His feet touched the bottom. The frigid water came up to his waist. He looked up to Adenot and Jalaal, some fifteen feet above. ‘Pull up the rope,’ he instructed them, ‘then use it to lower my lantern.’

The lantern descended slowly, illuminating the space around John. He was in an octagonal room, the walls decorated with strange figures: a lion with the head of a man; human figures with the heads of dogs and crocodiles. There was only one passage from the room. John untied the lantern. ‘Wait for me!’ he shouted up one final time, then crossed himself and splashed from the room.

A passage opened up on his left and another on his right. John had no idea in which direction the city might lie. He whispered a silent prayer and continued straight ahead, emerging into a square room lined with rows of burial niches. He jumped as something bumped into his waist. It was a human femur, floating on the water. The lower niches in the room had been flooded, and bones floated all around. John whispered a silent prayer and pushed on.

He splashed across the room and through a series of identical square chambers. As he left the last room, he stumbled over something and pitched forward. His lantern hit the water and the flame went out, plunging him into darkness. ‘Christ’s wounds!’ His heart was pounding now. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly. When he opened them, he was surprised to see that the passage ahead was not completely dark. He dropped the lantern and took a cautious step ahead. There were stairs beneath his feet. He climbed a narrow staircase that led up out of the water and into a room with an altar on the far wall. A cross was carved into the stone above the altar, and it was lit by a ray of pale light. John approached and discovered a square shaft, some three feet across, cut into the ceiling above.

He climbed on to the altar, and hoisted himself up into the shaft. The walls were of rough stonework, slick with moisture. With his back against one wall and his feet against the other, he managed to work his way upwards. The mortar that held the stones in place was crumbling. Several times, he felt the stones against his back shift, but they held.

He reached the top and felt the stone ceiling. A thin beam of light filtered through a tiny crack near the edge of the shaft. John drew his sword and worked at the crack with the blade, chipping away at the crumbling mortar. The sword slipped from his hand and fell to land with a crash at the bottom of the shaft. But he had managed to expand the crack so that it was several inches long. He put an ear to it and heard distant, muffled voices.

John placed his shoulders against the stone above and found a solid purchase for his feet on the wall. He pushed and felt the stone move. Reaching out, he felt for the edge. It was no more than two inches thick. With a grunt, he managed to lift it clear of the floor and shove it to the side.

He poked his head through the hole and looked about. He was in what looked to be one of the chapels of a church. Bright light filtered through windows of stained glass. The chapel was open on one side, and the voices were coming from that direction. They were chanting in Arabic.

John pulled himself up out of the shaft. He crept to the edge of the chapel and peered around the corner to his right. Prostrate on the floor were several hundred men, their backs to him. ‘Oh Allah forgive me; have mercy upon me,’ they murmured as they sat back on their heels. John spotted the grizzled head of Qaraqush in the front row. Beside him was Yusuf. John ducked back around the corner. His heart was pounding in his chest. He had found a way into the city.

He slipped back inside the shaft and managed to pull the flagstone over the hole, leaving only a thin crack. He climbed down and leaned against the altar, his mind racing. It was his duty to tell Amalric. John’s father had taught him that without honour, a man was little better than a beast. But what of friendship? John turned and knelt before the altar. He clasped the cross that hung from his neck in both hands. ‘Guide me, Lord.’ He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, but no divine revelation came. He opened his eyes. The sword he had dropped lay just beside him. It was a sign.

He took the sword and then climbed atop the altar and used the blade to pry stones loose. One fell away, then another. Dirt began to shower down on him. He heard the grate of stone upon stone and scrambled off the altar just before the shaft caved in. Dust filled the room, and then it plunged into absolute darkness as the light at the top of the shaft was blocked. No one would get through that way now.

John’s satisfaction was short-lived. He had sworn to serve Amalric, but he had failed him. He was an oath breaker, as Heraclius had claimed. Shame flooded through him, but it soon gave way to fear. He could not see his hand in front of his face, and he was shivering with cold. He would have to find his way back in the dark. He stumbled down the stairs and into the water. He splashed ahead, his hands held out before him. He could feel bones floating all around. He came to a wall and groped his way along it until he found the doorway leading to the next room. He had passed through three rooms when he saw light ahead. It grew in brightness as he approached. He quickened his pace, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the rope.

‘Who’s there?’ a voice called from above. John looked up to see Adenot peering down into the darkness.

‘It’s me. Pull me up.’

John wrapped the rope around his waist, and grabbed hold of it with trembling hands. Adenot and Jalaal hauled him dripping from the water. They grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out to lie shivering on the stone stairs.

‘What did you find?’ Jalaal asked.

‘N-nothing,’ John managed through chattering teeth. ‘An-n-other dead end,’ he added in French.

Adenot pulled John to his feet. ‘Let’s go. I never want to see this place again.’

They hurried up the ramp and crawled out to find that Amalric and Shawar had come to wait for them.

‘Did you find anything?’ the king asked.

‘Nothing but bones, sire,’ Adenot replied.

‘You are sure?’ Shawar pressed. ‘Nothing?’

‘We explored every inch, Vizier,’ Jalaal said.

John met Amalric’s eyes. ‘It is an unholy place, sire. Seal it up and forget it.’

‘By the d-devil’s black beard!’ the king cursed.

‘All is not lost,’ Shawar said. ‘I have been in communication with Shirkuh.’

Amalric’s eyebrows shot up at this, but he said nothing.

Shawar held up a piece of paper. ‘He has agreed to terms. Shirkuh will leave Egypt, if you also withdraw.’

Amalric tugged at his beard for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. A few more days in Egypt will not cost me Jerusalem, and I’ll not leave this place without a fight. The defenders are few and starving. We can take the city. Shirkuh will be forced to leave then, and on my terms. Will you fight beside me, Vizier?’

Shawar grinned his cat-like smile. ‘The people of Alexandria need to be taught a lesson. My men will join yours, King Amalric.’

Yusuf stood above Alexandria’s southern gate and looked out on the enemy army, the front ranks of which were just visible in the dawn light. The Egyptian soldiers had gathered to the south; it was the Frankish troops who were massed on the plain before him. Thousands of foot-soldiers formed a curving line that mirrored the path of the wall. Behind them stood a row of archers. At the centre of the line was a huge battering ram constructed of several tree trunks bound together with bands of iron and capped with steel. Bronze wheels carried the ram’s weight, and carpenters had built a roof over it to protect the men who would roll it to the walls. Frankish knights sat ready to charge if the ram opened a way into the city. Yusuf spotted Amalric’s flag amidst the knights’ standards, all flapping in a wet wind blowing in off the Mediterranean.

A piercing horn sounded, and the line of Frankish foot-soldiers surged forward, thousands of men shouting war cries: ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’ Yusuf turned towards the dozen mamluks gathered atop the gate. Their faces — lit red by a fire that simmered beneath a cauldron of hot sand — were gaunt but grimly determined. These were Yusuf’s very best men, warriors like Al-Mashtub who had stood beside him for years. He had stationed them here at the gate, where he expected the fighting to be most intense. He wished he had Qaraqush and his brother Selim beside him as well, but Qaraqush was at the western wall and Selim the east. They each commanded three hundred mamluks, leaving Yusuf with four hundred trained warriors and another five hundred citizens to defend nearly a mile of wall against an army of thousands.

Yusuf addressed his men, shouting in order to be heard over the cries of the Franks. ‘Our foes are many! But Allah will give us strength. Fight like lions, men! Fight to the death! Fight for Allah!’

‘For Allah! Allah! Allah!’ his men shouted back. They fell silent as shields went up. Yusuf turned to see that the Franks had stopped two hundred yards from the wall. Their archers loosed a cloud of arrows, which fell hissing towards the walls. Yusuf raised his shield and crouched behind the battlement just before the arrows began to rain down. Most shattered against the wall or flew over, but Yusuf heard cries of agony as a few struck home. Beside him, Al-Mashtub grunted in pain. Yusuf looked to see an arrow protruding from the mamluk’s left shoulder.

‘Save your speech, sayyid,’ Al-Mashtub said before Yusuf even opened his mouth. The mamluk grabbed the arrow shaft and snapped it in half. ‘I am not going anywhere.’

His last words were drowned out by another roar from the Franks. The foot-soldiers were rushing forward again. They carried ladders — four men to a side — with their shields held up for protection.

‘Archers!’ Yusuf yelled as he rose, now heedless of the arrows falling around him. ‘Archers!’ he cried again, pulling the man next to him to his feet. ‘Let fly!’ Yusuf took his own bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow. He picked a target: one of the front men carrying a ladder. Yusuf held his breath and let fly. His arrow struck the man in the groin, just below his shield. The man fell and those behind tripped over him and dropped the ladder. They had only just picked it up when Yusuf shot again, dropping another Frank.

But most of the Franks were making it to the wall. Only a dozen yards to Yusuf’s right, four Franks raised a ladder while another four spread out, firing crossbow bolts up at the defenders. The ladder made contact with the wall and a mamluk began to push it off, only to receive a crossbow bolt in the throat. Below, two men held the ladder while two more Frankish soldiers began to climb. The first carried a shield before him. The second came close behind, holding a spear. As they neared the top of the ladder, another mamluk tried to push the ladder away, but the man with the spear picked him off the wall.

‘Use the rope!’ Yusuf shouted as he shouldered his bow and ran to the ladder. He picked up a coil of rope that had been placed there for just this purpose, and looped it around the end of the ladder. He began to walk along the wall, dragging the top of the ladder sideways. The ladder tilted and then fell back. The Franks screamed as they hit the earth.

All along the wall, ladders were going up and being dragged down. Yusuf’s mamluks shot arrows into the Franks below, while the Alexandrians hurled stones down on them. But there were too few defenders to hold off all the Franks. On the far side of the southern gate a Frank forced his way on to the wall and began to lay about with his sword, scattering Alexandrians. He was joined by another, then another. Soon half a dozen Christians were clustered atop the wall.

‘Al-Mashtub! Follow me!’ Without waiting for a reply, Yusuf drew his sword and sprinted towards the Franks. The wall was wide enough for four men to face Yusuf at once. They levelled their spears at his chest. At the last second, Yusuf dropped his sword and hurled himself forward on the ground, rolling beneath the spears and taking out the legs of the four men. One of them tumbled off the inside of the wall, dying instantly as he landed headfirst on the cobblestones below. The others fell across Yusuf, who found himself on his back, pinned beneath them. One of the Franks, a fat man with a thick blond beard, drew a dagger and reared back to strike. He collapsed in a spray of blood as Al-Mashtub’s sword struck him in the neck. The huge mamluk impaled a second Frank and grabbed the third, hurling him from the wall. More mamluks rushed past to engage the remaining Christians. At close quarters, their swords were more effective than the Franks’ spears, and the mamluks quickly cut them down.

Al-Mashtub had just helped Yusuf to his feet when there was a loud boom. The wall shook beneath them. The Franks had rolled the battering ram up to the southern gate. Yusuf’s men hurled stones down on it, but they clattered off the peaked roof. A shower of burning naphtha followed the stones. The liquid engulfed the ram in flames for a moment, but the roof had been covered in wet hides. The fire burned out without catching. The ram slammed into the gate again, and Yusuf heard a loud crack as one of the three thick beams that barred the gate started to give way. The Franks manning the ram began to roll it back from the wall, so that they could build momentum before striking the gate again.

Yusuf turned to Al-Mashtub. ‘We must take the ram.’ He raised his voice to shout at the men at the gate, who were still hurling stones down on the ram. ‘Men! Follow me!’

Yusuf led ten men down the ramp to the base of the wall. Two-dozen mamluks were gathered before the gate with spears pointing, ready to meet the Frankish assault if the ram broke through. Yusuf noticed Saqr amongst them. ‘Open the gate,’ he told the men.

They did not move.

‘Are you mad?’ Al-Mashtub demanded. ‘We will be overrun!’

The ram hit the gate again. The top beam splintered in the middle. The two other beams holding the gate shut were sagging inward.

‘We must do something!’ Yusuf pointed to four of the men with spears. ‘You four. Prepare to open the gate.’ He selected another six men. ‘You will take the ram and roll it inside. The rest of us will hold off the Franks.’ Yusuf looked to the four men who were now standing with their shoulders braced against one of the beams barring the gate. ‘Now!’

The men strained as they lifted the heavy beam from its brackets. They dropped it to the side and put their shoulders to the next beam. Yusuf raised his sword. ‘Ready!’ he shouted as the men removed the second beam and pulled the doors of the gate inward. ‘For Islam!’ He charged through the opening.

The soldiers manning the ram had their heads down as they strained against the bars protruding from its side, struggling to push it towards the wall. Yusuf impaled one and slashed across the face of another before the rest realized what was happening. They fled, and the six men Yusuf had selected went to the bars. But before they had even begun to push, dozens of Franks came rushing towards them from either side.

‘Get the ram inside!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Form a line, men! Stay together!’

The mamluks had just enough time to form a semicircle around the ram before the Franks struck. Yusuf sidestepped a spear thrust and plunged his sword into his enemy’s gut. A sword blade slashed towards his face. He knocked the blow aside with his shield and then brought the shield up to smash the attacker’s face. He spun away from another spear and lunged, dropping a fourth man. More Franks joined the attack, and they surged forward, pushing back the line of mamluks. Yusuf found himself separated from his men and surrounded by Franks on all sides. He ducked a slashing blow, but as he rose, a spear struck him in the back. The blow was turned aside by his mail, and Yusuf spun and slashed down, snapping the spear shaft in half. He impaled his attacker, but a moment later a sword rang off the back of his helmet. He staggered forward. Another Frankish foot-soldier was standing before him. The man grinned, and instinctively Yusuf stepped to the side. A spear thrust past him and impaled the grinning Frank. Yusuf spun and cut down the man with the spear.

Out of the corner of his eye, Yusuf saw a sword flashing towards his face. He ducked, but another blade was thrusting towards him. It was blocked at the last moment. Yusuf looked to see Saqr standing beside him. The young mamluk turned the sword aside and slashed across the leg of the Frank who held it. The man dropped to one knee, and Saqr drove his sword into his throat. He parried a spear, and Yusuf dispatched the attacker. Together, they fought their way back towards the line of mamluks. Saqr was quick as a snake, his sword darting through his enemies’ defences and leaving them crying in agony. Yusuf blocked and lunged, parried and countered again and again, but the ranks of Franks seemed endless. Then someone grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and pulled him backwards. Yusuf spun, ready to strike.

‘Easy there!’ It was Al-Mashtub. He had pulled Yusuf back behind the line of mamluks. Behind him, the ram was rolling, picking up speed.

‘Fall back!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Fall back!’

The ram rolled inside the gate, and Yusuf and his men began to retreat, moving backwards in step. They reached the gate and spread across the opening in a double line. Only twenty mamluks remained now, facing over a hundred Franks, with more arriving all the time. A horn began to sound, and Yusuf heard the rumble of hooves over the sound of battle. That would be the Frankish knights charging for the gate.

‘Close it!’ he shouted. ‘Close it!’

As the mamluks began to push the gates closed, Yusuf’s men fell back. The space between the two doors was small enough now that it could be defended by only three men: Yusuf, Al-Mashtub and Saqr. ‘Close the gate!’ Yusuf repeated as he fought desperately. But try as his men might, they could not force the gate closed against the press of Franks. As more and more Christians joined the attack, the doors of the gate began to swing wider. Now there were six men standing alongside Yusuf. And the thunder of hooves was louder. The knights were close.

Yusuf looked to Al-Mashtub. ‘The sand.’ Al-Mashtub nodded and left the line. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Follow me, men. One last push!’

He led his men forward. They pushed the Franks back a few feet before their charge stalled. Beyond the heads of the enemy foot-soldiers, Yusuf could see the standards of the approaching knights.

‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Inside the gate!’

His men rushed back inside. Yusuf was close behind. With a roar the Franks charged after them. But their cries of triumph turned into screams of agony as a shower of red-hot sand poured down from above. Some Franks fell to the ground, clawing at their armour, which trapped the burning grains of sand against their skin. Others ran screaming. Yusuf’s men were able to push the gate closed, and the first crossbar dropped into place with a loud thump. The second followed a moment later.

Yusuf ran up the ramp to the top of the wall. The battle was still raging. Thousands of Franks swarmed the length of the walls, but his men were holding. He joined the fight and soon lost track of the number of ladders he toppled, of the number of men he killed. And all the time, Saqr stayed by his side, silent but ruthlessly efficient. Finally, as the sun began to set, a horn in the enemy camp sounded three short blasts. The attack slackened. The three blasts repeated and soon the Franks were in full retreat, carrying their wounded with them.

Yusuf slumped against the battlement. Al-Mashtub came striding along the wall towards him. ‘You crazy bastard. I thought you were dead for sure when we went to seize the ram.’

‘I would have been, if not for Saqr.’ Yusuf looked to the young mamluk, who was still at his side. ‘You saved my life.’

‘I only did my duty, Emir.’

‘You did well. I need a new commander for my private guard. You shall lead my khaskiya.’

‘Shukran, Emir.’

Al-Mashtub spat towards the retreating Franks. ‘May you rot in hell!’ Then he grinned. ‘Look! Three men under a flag of truce. They wish to parley.’

‘Let us hope they seek peace,’ Yusuf said. The excitement of the battle was fading and the gnawing hunger in his gut had returned. ‘Have a list of our dead drawn up, Al-Mashtub. And have the wounded taken to the hospital. Saqr, you come with me. We shall meet with our enemy.’

John had stopped just beyond the edge of the Christian camp, behind Shawar and King Amalric. In the gathering dusk, he could just make out the southern gate of Alexandria. The gate opened enough to allow two figures to emerge.

‘Here they come,’ Shawar said.

‘I understand their commander’s name is Saladin,’ Amalric said. ‘What do you know of him, John?’

‘I have never heard the name.’

‘I am surprised at that,’ Shawar said. ‘He is Shirkuh’s most trusted adviser.’

John shrugged. The two men had stopped halfway between the Christian camp and the wall.

‘Come,’ Amalric said. ‘Let us meet him.’

As John approached, he saw that one of the two men was leaning on the other. John got the impression that he would have collapsed without the support. Having stopped only a few feet away, it still took John a moment to recognize the man as Yusuf. He looked terrible. His cheeks were sunken, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His mail hung loosely from his thin frame.

Amalric spoke first. ‘Greetings, Saladin. Peace be upon you.’

‘And upon you, King Amalric,’ Yusuf replied in flawless French. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’

Amalric tugged at his beard. ‘You speak our tongue well.’

‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Yusuf’s expression hardened as he turned to Shawar. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Vizier.’

‘A pleasure to see you again as well, Saladin,’ the Egyptian replied in Arabic.

As Yusuf turned to face John, his eyes widened and the blood drained from his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.

‘Are you well, Emir?’ Amalric asked.

Yusuf pulled away from the young man supporting him. He stepped to John and embraced him. There were tears in his eyes as he kissed John on both cheeks. ‘I cannot believe it! I saw you struck down. I thought you dead, John.’

‘And I thought you were someone else: Saladin, righteous in faith.’

‘Nur ad-Din gave me the name after the battle at Butaiha.’

Amalric’s forehead was creased. He had not been able to follow any of this. ‘You know this man, John?’

‘Saladin was called Yusuf ibn Ayub when I knew him. He was my lord amongst the Saracens.’

‘Indeed?’ Amalric’s eyebrows rose. ‘The two of you must speak, later. Now, we have important matters to discuss.’ He looked to Yusuf. ‘The siege is over.’

‘I will not surrender,’ Yusuf replied.

‘You have no choice in the matter. Shirkuh has negotiated a truce.’

Yusuf looked to John. ‘Is this true?’

John nodded. He produced the treaty from a pouch at his waist and handed it to Yusuf.

Yusuf frowned as he read. ‘Both Shirkuh and Amalric will withdraw from Egypt,’ he murmured. ‘It will be left to Shawar. Why would Shirkuh agree to such a thing?’

Shawar smiled. ‘Your uncle is not entirely unreasonable. I will pay him fifty thousand dinars.’

‘You will pay the Franks too,’ Yusuf said as he continued to scan the treaty. ‘And they will be allowed to garrison troops in Cairo.’

‘They are my allies,’ Shawar said. ‘That is why the treaty favours them.’

‘You and your uncle will be given free passage to Damascus,’ John said. ‘That is what matters.’

‘And the people of Alexandria?’ Yusuf asked. ‘I have sworn to protect them.’

Shawar scowled. ‘They must be punished for their treachery.’

‘Then this meeting is at an end. I will not surrender the city if it means their slaughter.’

‘But your uncle has already signed the treaty,’ Shawar protested.

Yusuf straightened and looked down his nose at the vizier. ‘I have a duty to Allah greater than my duty to my uncle. I will fight if I must.’

‘Saladin is right,’ Amalric said. ‘The people must be spared.’

Shawar’s brow creased. ‘But-’

‘It is a small enough thing to bring this war to an end,’ Amalric told him. ‘There will be no reprisals, Shawar. Swear it.’

‘Very well,’ the vizier muttered.

‘What good is his word?’ Yusuf demanded.

‘It will have to be good enough,’ Amalric replied. ‘Or you can continue to defend the city, and the people will starve. It is your choice.’

‘I will honour the treaty,’ Yusuf said reluctantly.

‘There is one more provision,’ Amalric said. ‘As part of the agreement, we will take a hostage. He will stay with us until Shirkuh’s army has left Egypt. Your uncle suggested that you send your brother, Selim.’

‘No, I will come. I will stay with your army so that I may see the people of Alexandria are not harmed.’

‘Very well. We have an agreement.’ Amalric stuck out his hand.

After a moment’s hesitation, Yusuf clasped it. ‘My men will leave the city tomorrow,’ he said. He looked to John. ‘I will see you again soon, friend.’

Yusuf was the last of his men to leave the city. He rode in the dust kicked up by the long column of soldiers, most of whom walked on foot, their horses long since eaten. The people of Alexandria crowded about them on either side, shouting insults and making the sign of the evil eye. They called Yusuf khayin: traitor. They had trusted him to defend their city, and he had failed. Yusuf knew that there would be little he could do once he left Egypt to prevent the vizier from punishing the citizens of Alexandria. The people knew it, too.

‘You will roast in hell!’ a final voice called after Yusuf. Egyptian troops lined both sides of the road outside the gate. After Yusuf’s men had filed between them, they entered the city. Yusuf watched for a moment and then turned away. His men continued east, marching to join Shirkuh and the rest of the army where they waited near the city of Tell Tinnis. Yusuf rode south into the Frankish camp. He was stopped at the perimeter and led to the king’s tent. Amalric and John were waiting for him. Shawar was there, too.

‘Saladin!’ Amalric rose to greet him. ‘God grant you good day. It is a pleasure to see you again.’

Yusuf gave a short bow. ‘King Amalric.’ He did not greet Shawar.

‘My army will begin the journey to Jerusalem tomorrow,’ Amalric said. ‘Until I receive news that Shirkuh has left Egypt, you will travel with us as my guest. John will show you to your quarters.’

Yusuf followed John to a nearby tent. The floor was thickly carpeted. The camp bed looked comfortable enough. There was even a lap desk with paper and ink.

‘I trust you will be comfortable,’ John said.

Yusuf nodded. The two friends stood in awkward silence. So much had happened since that day at Butaiha when John had saved Yusuf’s life. Yusuf had hated himself for abandoning his friend to die. But John was alive.

‘How did you come to be at the court of the Frankish king?’ Yusuf asked at last.

‘I was to be executed as a traitor, but King Amalric spared me.’

There was another silence, during which John poured them each a cup of water. He handed one to Yusuf. ‘How are the men? Qaraqush? Al-Mashtub?’

‘The same as ever, only thinner.’

‘You look half starved yourself. I shall find you some food.’

Yusuf nodded. He had been hungry for so long that he had grown accustomed to ignoring the dull ache in his belly. But now, faced with the prospect of eating, his stomach awoke with a growl. John returned with a loaf of hot bread and some lentil stew. Yusuf tore into the bread and drank straight from the bowl.

John managed a smile. ‘You eat like a wolf after a long winter.’

Yusuf finished the soup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I eat like a starved man after a long siege.’

‘Was it very hard?’ John asked.

Yusuf nodded. ‘I am glad to be done with Egypt. I hope I never see these lands again.’ He could not keep the bitterness from his voice. It was not just the hardships he had suffered during the siege. Shawar’s betrayal had wounded him. ‘What of you, friend?’ He gestured to John’s vestments and the cross hanging from his neck. ‘You are a priest now?’

‘Yes.’

Yusuf shook his head in wonder. ‘Why?’

‘It was that or marry.’

John did not need to say more. Yusuf knew he had become a priest because of Zimat, because he would not marry another. ‘I have taken Zimat and Ubadah into my household. I am raising him as my own son.’

‘Thank you, brother.’ John hesitated for a moment. ‘How is Zimat?’

‘After Butaiha, she thought you dead. She hardly spoke for months. She is better now. I have begun to look for a new husband for her.’

John’s face registered not pain but rather a despairing resignation. Yusuf had seen that expression before on men he had killed, the moment they realized that they would die. ‘That is good,’ John managed, although his broken voice belied his words. ‘She should forget me. It is for the best.’

‘She will never forget you.’ John winced, and Yusuf saw that his words of comfort had only hurt more. He searched for a way to change the topic. ‘What is Jerusalem like?’

‘A strange city. The Franks have driven out all the Jews and Muslims, and now it is half empty. Beautiful but empty.’

‘I would love to see it.’

‘Perhaps you shall, one day.’

‘No, sooner. I do not relish the thought of riding to Damascus alone once I am freed. Do you think Amalric will allow me to accompany the Christian army as far as Jerusalem?’

‘I am sure of it.’ John smiled. ‘It will be good to travel with you again, brother. Like old times. Do you remember our first trip to Tell Bashir, all those years ago?’

‘How could I forget? You saved my life.’ Yusuf met John’s eyes. ‘You could have come back to us at the beginning of the siege, John. I would have welcomed you.’

‘I have given my word to Amalric, and to God.’

‘I understand. I will not ask you to break your oath.’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘It is strange to see you in a priest’s garb, strange that we are now enemies.’

John placed a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We do not have to be. Perhaps I can best serve you here, with the Christians. I can help bring peace between our people.’

‘Your king, Amalric, does not strike me as a man of peace, John. He brought his army to Egypt readily enough. And Nur ad-Din has vowed vengeance for the defeat he suffered at Butaiha.’

‘Perhaps we can change their minds. If we can be friends, then who is to say all the Franks and Saracens cannot learn to share the Holy Land.’

Yusuf smiled. ‘You have become a dreamer, John. Your people hate my people. Nothing can change that.’

‘I pray that you are wrong.’ John met his eyes. ‘I have sworn an oath to Amalric, but I do not wish to be your enemy, Yusuf.’

‘Nor I yours.’ Yusuf forced a laugh. ‘Such weighty talk! I am simply glad we are together.’

John’s forehead creased. For a moment Yusuf thought he would say something more about the awkward position in which they found themselves, but then John smiled. ‘Me, too, brother,’ he said. ‘Me, too.’