Kingdom

Chapter 7

FEBRUARY 1165: NEAR THE PORT OF SAINT SYMEON

Yusuf stood at the rail of the ship and watched the coast drift past. John and William had offered to travel with him to Aleppo, and Yusuf had gladly accepted. Three days ago they had boarded a ship in Jaffa. Now, as they rounded a rocky spit of land, Yusuf could just make out the mouth of the Orontes River, a low point on the otherwise mountainous coast. The port of Saint Symeon, which served the crusader city of Antioch, lay just up the river.

‘May I join you?’

Yusuf turned to see William approaching. ‘Where is John?’

‘Still below. I fear the sea does not agree with him.’ The priest stood beside Yusuf and leaned his elbows on the rail so that the silver cross about his neck hung out over the water. ‘You enjoyed your visit to Jerusalem?’

Yusuf nodded.

‘I have spoken to Amalric about opening the city to Muslim settlement.’

Yusuf blinked in surprise. ‘And what did Amalric say?’

‘He is not opposed to the idea. The other cities of the Kingdom all have Arab residents. And half the homes in Jerusalem lie empty. Muslim settlers would mean more revenue.’

‘And more taxes means that he can pay more warriors.’

‘True, but that is not why I wish to open the Holy City to your people. I believe that Christians and Muslims can share Jerusalem as they did before the Crusades. I believe that we can learn to respect one another’s faiths.’

‘John says the same.’

‘You should listen to him.’

‘Tell that to your Templars. When I visited Al-Aqsa, one of them accosted me while I prayed.’

‘John told me,’ William said. ‘The Templar was newly arrived in the Holy Land. He may be a savage now, but the East will civilize him. Think of John. He started like that Templar and look at him now.’

‘Now he is a priest,’ Yusuf said with a trace of bitterness. ‘He serves King Amalric.’

‘Yes, but he respects your people, loves them even. He longs for peace.’

‘And what of your king? Is his alliance with the Emperor Manuel meant to bring peace?’

‘Amalric is no fool. He battles with Nur ad-Din because he fears him. This alliance will make the Kingdom secure. Amalric will not need to fight.’

‘But he will want to. I have met your king. He is a warrior, like Nur ad-Din.’

William shrugged. ‘That may be, but it is the responsibility of men like us to guide our kings, Saladin.’

‘No, it is my duty to serve my king.’

‘And what better way to serve him than by offering sage advice? The treaty that was signed in Egypt could be the beginning of a new age of peace. But peace is a fragile flower. We must cultivate it.’

Yusuf said nothing. Ahead, he could see a ship sailing into the mouth of the Orontes. Saint Symeon was located two miles upstream. Yusuf was curious to see it. He knew that the port would have to be taken first if an attacking army hoped to seize Antioch. That is what the Franks had done during the First Crusade. With Saint Symeon in hand, Antioch could be starved into submission. He sighed. His thoughts could not help but run to war. He had been raised from birth to fight the Franks. But he had also been taught that they were savages, and John had showed him that was not true. There were brutes like the Templar guard, but there were also civilized men amongst the Franks, like William. And perhaps, in time, young Baldwin. Under John’s tutelage the prince could become a man of peace, unlike Yusuf’s nephew Ubadah, with his blind hatred of the Franks. Perhaps the obstacle to peace was not the Franks but Yusuf’s own people. Perhaps it was he who needed to change.

Beside him, William stepped away from the rail. ‘Think on what I have said, Saladin.’

As the priest walked away, John passed him to join Yusuf. John’s face was pale, and there was a trace of vomit on the front of his tunic. ‘What were you discussing?’

‘Peace.’

John nodded but said nothing. The two friends watched as the Orontes drew closer. Finally, Yusuf spoke. ‘I do not wish to be your enemy, John. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we can live in peace.’

John smiled. ‘Inshallah.’

FEBRUARY 1165: NEAR ALEPPO

John reined in beside Yusuf and William atop a rocky ridge. They had left Antioch five days ago, travelling with a caravan of Saracen merchants. Now, John could just make out the distant minaret of the citadel of Aleppo. The path leading to it crossed a desolate stretch of sun-baked ground, dotted by villages clustered around wells.

‘We will arrive soon,’ Yusuf said. ‘I will offer the head of the caravan a dinar, as thanks for our safe journey.’

Yusuf spurred down the far side of the ridge, and John and William followed at a slower pace. The priest nodded in the direction of the city. ‘You lived in Aleppo. What is it like?’

John shrugged. ‘You should ask Saladin. I spent most of my time in the citadel barracks.’

‘Surely you did not spend all your time at the citadel.’ John flinched at the memory of his night-time visits to Zimat. William seemed not to notice. ‘What are the streets like? The markets? Is it a rich town?’

‘The souks bring great wealth to the city. You can buy anything you wish in them. As for the rest: the streets are broad and clean, nothing like Jerusalem. The walls and buildings are of pale stone; that is why they call it the White City.’

‘What was it like to live for so long amongst the infidels?’

‘Surprising. I had been told that they were monsters, but I found them cultured, intelligent, kind even to their slaves, tolerant of the beliefs of others.’

‘I have always found the Saracens to be good company. I am looking forward to our visit.’

John was less eager to reach Aleppo. The closer he got to the city, the more his stomach roiled. What would Zimat think of his decision to join the priesthood? What would she say to him? He attempted to picture her face and found it dissolving into that of Agnes. He tried to drive the latter image from his thoughts, but his mind refused to obey. He could see Agnes sitting in the courtyard of her home, a slight smile on her lips, her golden hair falling down towards her breasts.

‘Are you well, friend?’ Yusuf asked as he rejoined them. ‘You look upset.’

‘Perhaps it is something I ate,’ John murmured. He looked to William. ‘Why did Amalric divorce the Lady de Courtenay? The real reason.’

The priest frowned. ‘Politics. Agnes is the heir to Edessa, a vanished kingdom. It was a good marriage at first, but one with less and less value as it became clear that Edessa would never be recovered from Nur ad-Din. Still, so long as Amalric was only a prince, Agnes was a suitable wife. But when he became king-’ William shook his head. ‘He had to divorce her, even if he did not wish to.’

‘He loved her?’

‘You have met Agnes. What do you think?’

‘She is like a desert flower,’ Yusuf said.

‘Amalric was smitten the moment he saw her. Agnes wanted to wait for her father’s permission; but Joscelin was a prisoner in Aleppo, and Amalric did not wish to wait for a paternal blessing that might never come. He carried Agnes off by force and married her. The divorce wounded him deeply, but not as much as it hurt Agnes. She never forgave him.’

‘But you say he had no choice,’ John said.

‘She does not see it that way,’ William replied. ‘Amalric tried to soften the blow. He made her a countess with income from Jaffa and Ascalon. But he could not give her what she truly wanted: access to her children.’

‘Why not?’

‘There were those at court who feared that she would turn them against Amalric. So the Prince Baldwin is kept in the palace. His older sister, Sibylla, has been sent to the convent of Saint Lazarus where she is being raised by her great-aunt.’

John felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Agnes. Like him, she was kept from her children and her lover by politics. No one could know the pain she felt better than him.

‘You would do best to stop thinking of her, John,’ William said.

‘I was not-’

William held up a hand to stop him. ‘I have seen the effect Agnes can have on men, but it is the allure of a siren, calling men to their doom.’

Yusuf laughed. ‘You make her out to be a monster. I found her a charming woman.’

‘She is that,’ William agreed. ‘Too charming by half.’

They rode on in silence as the pale winter sun climbed into the sky and then began its slow descent. It was hovering just above the horizon, bathing the white stone buildings of Aleppo in rose-coloured light, when they reached the outskirts of the city. The road ran past stone houses set amidst pistachio and olive orchards. They crossed the tiny Quweq River, and the caravan that they had joined headed north to one of the caravanserais located outside the city wall. Yusuf led them east to the Bab Antakeya, an arched gateway framed by tall defensive towers. The gate led to an interior passage that turned sharply to the left and then back to the right. The walls of the passage were lined with men offering water, food and lodging. Yusuf ignored them, and the men paid John and William little notice. They were both dressed in caftans, and with their keffiyeh pulled down over their faces, they were indistinguishable from any of the other travellers.

They emerged from the gate on to a street so old that there were ruts in the stone paving from centuries of wagon traffic. They passed a series of souks on their left, and memories flooded back to John. He remembered walking through those markets, looking for the doctor, Ibn Jumay. He had sought a medicine to abort Zimat’s child, but he had not been able to bring himself to buy it. Soon, he would see that child for the first time in years.

They emerged into Aleppo’s central square. William whistled in appreciation of the citadel, which towered above them on its sheer-sided hill of white rock. At the base of the citadel, a guardhouse protected the bridge that ran across the moat. Three mamluks in chainmail stepped forth, spears extended. One, a thin young man, lowered his spear and grinned. ‘Saladin! You have returned.’

Yusuf slid from the saddle and embraced the man. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saqr. I have brought an old friend.’ He gestured to John, who pulled his keffiyeh down to reveal his face.

‘Al-ifranji?’ Saqr asked, his eyes wide. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘As you can see, I am alive and well. I come with this man, William of Tyre, on behalf of the Frankish king.’

‘You are expected,’ Saqr said. ‘Come.’

They followed Saqr up the causeway and through the citadel’s main gate. At the palace, servants came forth to take their horses. Gumushtagin met them in the entrance hall. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Saladin,’ the eunuch said with his faint lisp.

John noticed that Yusuf flinched slightly before he nodded in greeting.

Gumushtagin turned to John and William. ‘Welcome, distinguished visitors. Nur ad-Din is expecting you.’ He led them to a set of double doors, where the guards searched them before pulling open the doors to reveal Nur ad-Din’s audience chamber. At the far side of the room, the king was seated cross-legged on a low, wide throne with a short back. Members of his court sat to either side on stools. John recognized Shirkuh and Selim amongst them. Yusuf approached and bowed low.

‘Saladin!’ Nur ad-Din greeted him. ‘Welcome home. Your uncle told me that you volunteered to stay with the Franks as a hostage. That was noble of you.’

‘King Amalric was a gracious host.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Nur ad-Din looked past Yusuf to William and John. He waved them forward. ‘You are welcome at my court, William of Tyre. And I am pleased to see you again, John.’ John was surprised that Nur ad-Din remembered him, but then realized that he had also greeted William by name, and the two men had never met. John reflected on what Yusuf had told him about Nur ad-Din’s spies at the court in Jerusalem. Nur ad-Din had probably been informed the moment they set out for Aleppo.

‘We thank you for your kind welcome,’ William replied, ‘and we greet you on behalf of King Amalric of Jerusalem, who desires only peace and friendship between our two kingdoms.’

Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘You are no doubt weary after your long journey. I have set aside a suite for you in my palace. Retire there and refresh yourselves. Tomorrow, you will dine at the home of Saladin, where your countrymen who are enjoying my hospitality will join you. Now, my man will take you to your rooms.’ He gestured to a servant; a corpulent black man in a white caftan.

‘You are most kind, Malik,’ William said.

He and John bowed again and followed the servant out of the hall. ‘Why did he dismiss us so quickly?’ William asked John in a low voice. ‘What of the negotiations?’

‘They have already begun,’ John said. ‘Nur ad-Din wishes to show us the value of his captives. That is the purpose of tomorrow’s dinner. He has selected Saladin as his chief negotiator, hence the meal at his home. We will discuss the terms of ransom there.’

‘No, we will not. The Emperor Manuel’s cousin Constantine has been captured, and Bohemond is Manuel’s brother-in-law. Nur ad-Din will be eager to ransom them, so as to avoid any tension with Constantinople. That is to our advantage. We must show that we are willing to bide our time. We will wait for him to come to us with an offer.’

‘Nur ad-Din is a patient man. I fear we will be waiting a very long time.’

The next evening Yusuf stood at the window of his room as he waited for his Frankish guests to arrive. In the courtyard below the fountain burbled in the gathering dusk and Saqr and Al-Mashtub chatted by the gate. Prayers had finished only moments before, and the city had fallen quiet as the populace headed inside for their evening meals. The silence was broken by the clip-clop of approaching horses’ hooves. A moment later the gate swung open. A mamluk rode through, followed by John and the priest William. They dismounted and William headed straight for the entrance to Yusuf’s home. John hesitated for a moment before following.

The newly captured Frankish prisoners arrived next. Yusuf recognized them easily enough from Nur ad-Din’s descriptions. The first man was thickly set with straw-blond hair and florid cheeks covered in pale fuzz. That would be the young Prince of Antioch, Bohemond. Yusuf identified the next guest as Constantine Kalamanos, an olive-skinned young man in an elaborate caftan of blue silk. Raymond of Tripoli came next. He too was in his mid twenties, but he looked older due to his commanding presence. He was slender and straight-backed, with dark hair, a swarthy complexion and an aquiline nose that dominated his face. He reminded Yusuf of his father. Hugh of Lusignan entered last of all, followed by a mamluk with sword drawn. Hugh was an older man, his tanned face deeply lined.

The four captives had been shown inside when the final guest arrived. Yusuf had not seen Reynald de Chatillon in nearly three years. He had the same close-cropped black hair and beard, but his sharp features were now rounded. He looked to have gained a stone or two. Yusuf had not wanted to invite Reynald, but Nur ad-Din had insisted. The king was eager to see him ransomed at last. Reynald looked around the courtyard and his gaze settled on the dark window where Yusuf stood. Yusuf stepped back into his room.

There was a knock at the door, and Faridah entered. ‘Your guests are waiting.’ She crossed the room and straightened the belt of red silk that held his caftan.

Yusuf went downstairs and paused outside the dining-room, pressing his eye to a spyhole in order to examine his guests a final time. The Franks had been served wine and were talking amongst themselves. The half-dozen silent mamluks lining the walls were the only indication that some of the guests were also captives. Yusuf stepped away from the spyhole and entered.

‘My lords and honoured guests,’ he declared in Frankish, ‘God keep you all and grant you health and joy. Welcome to my home. I am Saladin, Emir of Tell Bashir.’ Reynald scowled, but the other men all stepped forward to greet him, telling him their names and murmuring formulaic replies of ‘God keep you’ or ‘And may health and joy be granted you by God’. Yusuf was pleased to see that he had guessed correctly regarding their identities.

He gestured to the circle of cushions that surrounded a low, round table in the middle of the room. ‘Please be seated.’ Yusuf allowed his guests to sit where they wished. He ended up between William and Raymond. Bohemond and Constantine sat to Raymond’s left, while John and Hugh sat to the right of William. Reynald sat directly opposite. When they were all seated, servants entered with steaming flatbread and a large bowl of badinjan muhassa, an aromatic dip of baked eggplant, ground walnuts and raw onions. Yusuf spooned a bit of the dip on to his plate and then scooped it up with a piece of bread. ‘In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful,’ he murmured, but paused with the bread halfway to his mouth. None of the Franks were eating.

‘Excuse me,’ William said. ‘May I say grace?’

‘Of course.’

William cleared his throat, and the Franks at the table bowed their heads. ‘Benedicite,’ the priest began in Latin as he made the sign of the cross over the food. ‘The Lord, merciful and compassionate, has perpetuated the memory of His wonders. He has given food to them that fear Him.’

‘Amen,’ the men murmured and began to spoon the dip on to their plates.

William took a bite and sighed with satisfaction. ‘You Saracens have a way with food that we Christians have not yet mastered. Thank you for having me in your home.’

‘After the welcome your king gave me, it is the least I can do.’

William chuckled. ‘I know the King’s cooks, and I believe I have the better end of the bargain.’

‘What are you saying?’ Constantine called from the left side of the table. He spoke French only poorly. William translated the discussion into Greek, and he and the governor of Cilicia began to speak across the table.

Yusuf was content to ignore William. Nur ad-Din had instructed him to act as if he were in no hurry to ransom the prisoners. He turned to Raymond. ‘I would love to hear about your part in the battle at Harim, if you are willing to tell the story.’

‘Of course,’ the Count of Tripoli replied. ‘Although I fear my role in the events was none too glorious. Your king, Nur ad-Din, led us on a merry chase. Then, just when we thought we had him-’ Raymond clapped his hands together ‘-the trap closed on us.’ As the meal progressed, Raymond described the encounter in more detail. While he talked, Yusuf kept an eye on the other guests. John was quiet and kept looking to the door leading upstairs. Yusuf felt for his friend, so close to Zimat and yet unable to see her. Last night, Yusuf had told his sister that John lived and that he was here in Aleppo. She had asked to see him and then retired to her room in tears. He had not seen her since.

Beside John, William was engaged in an animated conversation with Constantine and Bohemond. Hugh and Reynald spoke quietly. Yusuf noticed that when the roasted lamb with chickpeas arrived, Hugh ate with his hands, but Reynald used a fork. He had learned some manners during his time in Aleppo.

Raymond was concluding his story as the final dish was cleared away. ‘And so after nearly twenty miles of riding, I found myself stuck in that foul swamp with muck up to my horse’s chest. Our cavalry was useless and our infantry even worse off. Meanwhile, the Saracens rained arrows down on us. It was a bad end to a bad day, but it could have been worse. I am alive, and the good Lord has seen fit to teach me an important lesson. The next time I face the Saracens and they retreat, I will not come rushing after them.’

On the opposite side of the table, Hugh leaned forward. ‘The next time? And when might that be? We are prisoners here, if you have not forgotten, Raymond.’

‘Prisoner is a harsh word,’ Yusuf replied. ‘It is true that you may not leave the city, but while you are here, you shall be treated as honoured guests.’

‘Guests?’ Hugh snorted. ‘I would not have come to this dinner had I not been walked through the streets with a sword at my back. That is hardly the way one treats a guest.’

‘And one does not invite prisoners to dinner,’ Yusuf countered.

‘Nur ad-Din has been most generous,’ Raymond agreed in a conciliatory tone. ‘We lack for nothing; neither servants nor food nor books. And we are allowed to explore the city in the company of a guard. Compared to Aleppo, I fear that Tripoli seems a provincial town.’

Yusuf appreciated Raymond’s tact. ‘I have never been to Tripoli.’

‘It is not so busy or as prosperous as Aleppo, but it has its charms. It sits on a peninsula that curves out into the Mediterranean. That is one thing that I do miss: the smell of the sea.’ Raymond looked across the table to William. ‘Hopefully I will not have cause to miss it for long.’

‘I pray not,’ William agreed.

‘You p-pray?’ Bohemond slapped the table. Yusuf saw now why he was called Bohemond the Stammerer. ‘You are here to do m-more than pray, priest. When-’ He froze, his jaw tight and the veins in his neck bulging as he struggled to speak. ‘When will I be freed?’

‘Do not hold your breath,’ Reynald grumbled. ‘I have been here for nearly eight years.’

Constantine was sipping his wine, watching the conversation without fully understanding it. Bohemond whispered something to him, and the Roman’s lip curled in a sneer as he looked towards Reynald. He turned back to Bohemond. ‘Do not fear,’ he said in Greek. ‘We are too valuable to remain here long. Emperor Manuel will ransom us.’

‘What is that?’ Reynald demanded.

‘He said nothing to offend you,’ William said and quickly translated Constantine’s words.

Reynald sat up straighter. ‘And am I not valuable?’ He pointed to Bohemond. ‘I was Prince of Antioch before this stuttering fool stole my throne!’

William began to translate, but Constantine held up a hand to stop him. ‘I understood that well enough.’ He looked down his long nose at Reynald and switched to accented French. ‘I am a cousin of the Roman Emperor, and Bohemond is his brother-in-law. You are a nobody.’

The bulging veins in Reynald’s temples revealed his building anger. ‘I had hoped to be ransomed at last,’ he growled. He looked to Yusuf. ‘Now I see that you have only invited me here to insult me.’

‘It is not I who has insulted you, Reynald.’

‘Have you not? You invite me here in the company of this usurping idiot. I know full well that Amalric will never ransom me, not so long as this boil-brained clot pole lives, and yet I must sit and watch the negotiations for his freedom.’ He paused and pointed a thick finger at John. ‘Worse yet, I must do so while this arse-licking Saxon, your Sodomite friend, looks on. And you say you have not insulted me!’

William’s gasp was audible. Yusuf glanced at John, whose knuckles showed white around the ceramic cup he clenched. He looked back to Reynald, who was taking a long drink of wine. ‘I shall have to ask you to leave, Reynald,’ Yusuf said quietly.

‘Why?’ Reynald smirked. ‘Have I offended you? Hit too close to the mark? You wouldn’t want your guests to know about your ungodly doings with this-’ Before Reynald could finish, John leaped to his feet, stepped straight across the table and smashed the cup into the side of his head. The cup shattered and blood ran from a cut just over Reynald’s ear. The heavy-set man sat stunned for a moment, then shook his head and, with a roar, lunged for John. Two mamluks rushed forward and pulled him away.

‘Get your cursed hands off me!’ Reynald shouted as Yusuf’s men dragged him from the room.

John had stepped down from the table. ‘My apologies,’ he murmured and then dropped the remains of the cup and followed Reynald into the courtyard.

‘Well then,’ William said, brushing crumbs from his white robe as he stood. ‘Perhaps we should all depart. It grows late, and we do not wish to intrude upon your hospitality.’

Yusuf rose as well. ‘I thank you all for coming. May God guide you and bring you honour and health. Ma’a as-salaama.’

‘Allah yasalmak,’ William replied and headed for the door. The other men added their goodbyes in a mixture of French, Greek and Arabic before also taking their leave. Yusuf followed them into the courtyard, where he found John standing in the dark shadows cast by the left-hand wall.

‘I am sorry,’ he said as Yusuf approached. ‘I fear I have insulted your hospitality.’

‘Nonsense. I wanted to hit the bastard myself.’

William walked over from the gate, where he had been seeing Reynald and the others off. ‘Allow me to apologize for John. He has much to learn as a diplomat.’

‘And Reynald?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Unfortunately, he is correct. Amalric has no desire to ransom him. The treasury in Jerusalem is low-’ He let the words hang in the air.

‘That is a matter to discuss another time.’ Yusuf turned to John. ‘Can you return tomorrow? I would like to speak with you.’ He lowered his voice so that only John could hear. ‘Zimat also wishes to see you.’

William spoke before John had a chance. ‘He would be happy to return.’

‘Tomorrow then, after morning prayers. Ma’a as-salaama.’

John examined his features in the bronze mirror in his chamber. He had woken early that day and gone to the baths, where a barber had cut his hair short and shaved him. What would Zimat think of the lines that creased his forehead and ran down either side of his mouth, of the grey hairs at his temples? There was a knock at the door, and John stepped away from the mirror and straightened his stole.

William entered. ‘Morning prayers have ended, John. It is time.’

‘Perhaps you should come with me. You are the King’s ambassador, not I.’

‘No. This is precisely why I asked Amalric to send you. My negotiations will take weeks, even months. God willing, you can move faster. Find out how much Nur ad-Din wants for Bohemond and Constantine.’

‘And Raymond and Hugh? Reynald?’

‘They are of no importance, but do not let Saladin know that. Show great interest in their ransom. Now go. You do not want to keep your friend waiting.’

John had no trouble retracing the path to Yusuf’s home. The gate was open. John entered the courtyard to find Ibn Jumay seated at the fountain, and beside him a boy of about seven years. John recognized him instantly as Ubadah. He had John’s straight, narrow nose and square chin, but he had his mother’s dark-brown eyes and fine, high cheekbones. Ibn Jumay was asking him something. The boy looked about as if searching for an answer, and his eyes settled on John. Ubadah spoke to Ibn Jumay, who looked over and smiled.

‘John! Welcome! As-salaamu ‘alaykum!’ Ibn Jumay had aged since John had last seen him. The Jewish doctor’s long beard and side locks were now flecked with grey. But he stood straight and moved with a young man’s ease as he approached.

The two men exchanged kisses on the cheeks. ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ John said. ‘It has been too long, friend. You are well?’

‘Yes, God be praised. I have my practice here in town, and Yusuf has me teaching young Ubadah. But what of you? How is life amongst the Franks?’

‘I miss my old friends.’

‘And you are missed. Wait here. I will inform Yusuf you have arrived.’ Ibn Jumay looked to the boy. ‘Ubadah, greet our guest.’

Ubadah scowled, but then rose and extended his right hand, grasping John’s with a firm grip. ‘Welcome to my home,’ he said in Frankish. ‘I am Ubadah ibn Khaldun.’

Ibn Khaldun. John felt a pain in his chest. His child called another man father — Khaldun, who had died in an earthquake two years ago. That was also the last time John had seen his son. ‘May God bless you and grant you joy and health,’ he told Ubadah, trying to keep the sadness from his voice. He switched to Arabic. ‘You speak French well.’

Ubadah shrugged. ‘Uncle Yusuf makes me practise.’

‘You do not like it?’

‘It is a filthy language, spoken by a filthy people,’ the boy said with surprising vehemence.

John took a step back, as if he had been struck. When he had recovered, he spoke in Arabic. ‘There are good men amongst the Franks, Ubadah.’

The boy glared at John. ‘I remember you.’ He spat at John’s feet and walked away.

Yusuf passed Ubadah as he entered the courtyard. ‘John!’ he called. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum.’

‘And upon you, peace,’ John replied as the friends embraced.

‘I see that you have already greeted Ubadah.’

John nodded. He was still upset from the encounter.

‘Good,’ Yusuf said. ‘Come inside.’

John followed Yusuf into the large reception room where they had dined the previous night. ‘Do you wish to discuss the ransoms?’ he asked. ‘King Amalric is willing to pay a high price for Raymond and Hugh of Lusignan.’

‘Is he? I thought that the coffers of Jerusalem were bare.’ Yusuf smiled. ‘I have known you long enough to see when you are lying, John. The King is not interested in Raymond or Hugh. He must ransom Bohemond and Constantine if he wishes to maintain his alliance with Constantinople.’

John’s forehead creased. ‘Am I that easy to read?’

‘To me you are. That is no doubt why William sent you. The priest is a clever man. He hopes for direct talk between us, not diplomacy.’

‘Then I shall be direct: how much for Bohemond and Constantine?’

‘Three hundred thousand dinars each.’ John gave a low whistle of appreciation. ‘But I did not ask you here to discuss their ransom. Zimat wishes to see you.’

John’s mouth went dry. ‘Does she know I am a priest?’

‘I told her.’ Yusuf placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘She is not the same woman you remember. When she thought you dead, it changed her, John. I will leave you two to talk. I am sure I can trust the honour of a priest.’

John nodded. ‘Thank you, friend.’

Yusuf left the room, and a moment later, Zimat entered. Her long, lustrous black hair had not changed, nor had her slim waist, but the curves at her hips and breasts were fuller. Her face was pale, her eyes red from crying. They faced one another across the room, and neither moved. John’s heart was pounding so loudly that he was sure she could hear it.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she said.

‘I thought I would never see you again.’ He approached, but she backed away.

‘No-I cannot.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I cannot give myself to you, John. Not again. Not after what you have done.’

‘But I-’

‘Sit.’ She gestured to the cushions on the floor. John sat, and she settled herself across from him. He could smell the sweet fragrance of her oiled hair. He had not realized how much he missed it.

‘What happened to you at Butaiha?’ she asked. ‘Yusuf said he saw you struck down.’

‘I was. But not killed. I was taken to Jerusalem, where I was to be burned as a heretic and a traitor. The King pardoned me in return for my service.’

‘I see.’ She met his eyes. ‘Has there been anyone else? Another woman?’

‘Of course not. I became a priest so that I would not have to marry another.’

‘Then why did you not return?’ There was a plaintive note in her voice. ‘You said you would never leave me.’

‘I had no choice. I gave my word to King Amalric. I owe him my life.’

‘You owe me your love. You promised you would return.’

‘I am here now.’

She shook her head. ‘It is too late. I have asked Yusuf to find me a new husband.’

‘You were promised to another before, when we first met in Baalbek.’

‘We are no longer children, John. I have a son now.’

‘He is my son, too.’

‘He believes that Khaldun is his father. He would only despise you more if he knew the truth. Instead of the son of an emir, he would be an ifranji, the very thing he despises most. He would hate himself, and hate you the more for it.’

John’s mouth set in a hard line. He was angry, but not at Zimat. It was the bitter truth of her words that stung him. ‘Why did you wish to see me?’ he asked.

Zimat looked away, but not before John saw the tears in her eyes. ‘I thought you dead, only to have you appear in Aleppo. How could I not see you? I–I wanted to say farewell.’ She rose, and he did likewise. He began to cross to her, but once again she backed away.

‘Let me hold you,’ he said. ‘I know you still love me, Zimat.’

She shook her head. ‘I cannot.’ She turned and began to climb the stairs.

‘Zimat!’ John called, but she did not stop. She disappeared up the stairs without looking back.

AUGUST 1165: ALEPPO

Yusuf sat in the saddle and squinted against the sun as he followed the flight of his bazi. Beside him, John and Ubadah were doing the same. The hunting falcon was a magnificent creature, steel grey with a brown head and white chest. Its wingspan was more than four feet across. From this distance Yusuf could just hear the tinkle of the tiny bells attached to its ankle. On the ground below the falcon a pair of lean salukis were creeping towards a patch of brush where Ubadah had spotted a rabbit. Suddenly they lunged, and the rabbit bolted. The falcon made its sharp call — kiy-ee, kiy-ee — and dived, plunging from the sky at incredible speed. It pulled up at the last second, the rabbit in its claws. It flapped away a distance and settled down with its prey.

Ubadah spurred towards the falcon. Yusuf and John followed at a slower pace. When they arrived, Ubadah was holding up the rabbit. ‘Look, Baba!’ he called to Yusuf.

Baba. Father. The boy seemed not to have noticed the slip. Yusuf turned to John. He looked as if he had been slapped.

‘Bring it here,’ Yusuf told Ubadah. He tied the rabbit to his saddle alongside three others, then called the falcon. It landed on his gloved arm. He attached the jesses so that the bird would not fly off, and then slipped a hood over its head. ‘Come. It is time we returned to the city.’

They rode back in silence. The negotiations had dragged on for several months. William mostly ignored Yusuf, spending his time with Raymond of Tripoli, who had taken advantage of his captivity to start a library. He had asked for William’s assistance, and the two of them spent many an afternoon searching for books in the souk. John spent most of his days with Yusuf, though he had not seen Zimat again. John and Yusuf seldom mentioned the negotiations. Yusuf knew that it was a waiting game. When both sides were desperate then the talks would begin in earnest, and they would go quickly indeed.

The city gates were less than a mile off now. Yusuf took the rabbits from his saddle and handed them to Ubadah. He had hoped that spending time with John would help the boy overcome his hatred of Franks, but Ubadah had refused to even acknowledge John’s presence. ‘Ride ahead and give these to your mother,’ Yusuf said.

When the boy had cantered off, Yusuf turned to John. ‘You should put Zimat from your mind, friend.’

John started. ‘How did you know I was thinking of her?’

‘It is written on your face. You must try to forget her. You are a priest, and she is to be married next month.’ Yusuf could see that the news pained his friend.

‘Who is the husband?’

‘His name is Al-Muqaddam. He is an emir. A brave warrior and a good man. It is a kindness on his part to marry Zimat. She is no longer young.’

‘I still love her, Yusuf.’

Yusuf placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘My uncle told me once that to be great, a man must learn to rule his passions.’

‘I do not wish to be great,’ John murmured and spurred ahead, into the city.

‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ John stood in the central square of Aleppo in the dim dawn light and listened as the strident call of the muezzins came from all parts of the city. A few men and women crossed the square on the way to the mosque. Beggars sat around the periphery, some sleeping and some requesting alms from the passers-by. Half a dozen farmers had arrived from the countryside and were setting up stalls to sell their produce. But the part of the cobbled square that John had sought out was empty. Almost ten years ago he had stood in the same place and watched as Zimat’s now dead husband, Khaldun, stoned one of his wives to death for infidelity. Zimat had run that risk once to be with him. She had loved him with a passion that had surprised him.

John left the square and wandered at random through the streets, so foreign and yet so familiar. Negotiations had been concluded the previous day. Amalric would pay one hundred and fifty thousand dinars for Bohemond. Constantine was released for only a hundred and fifty silk robes. Yusuf had confided that Nur ad-Din would have let him go for free in order to win the goodwill of the Emperor Manuel, but paying no ransom would have insulted Constantine’s stature. Reynald had not been ransomed, nor had Raymond or Hugh. William explained that Amalric was in no hurry for Raymond to return, because with him gone, the king would rule Tripoli as regent.

Their work done, John and William were to leave the following day. John would not go without Zimat, not again. Long ago, she had begged him to take her away with him to Frankish lands, and he had refused. He would not make the same mistake twice.

He arrived at the gate to Yusuf’s home and knocked. The gate swung open, and Saqr waved him inside. ‘Saladin is at the citadel,’ the mamluk told him.

‘I will wait for him inside.’

‘Are you certain? He may not return for some time.’

‘I will wait.’

John sat amidst the cushions in the dining-room and a servant brought him tea. No sooner had she left than he rose and climbed the stairs to the next floor. He opened the first door he came to, and found an otherwise empty room dominated by a loom. The next room was an empty bedchamber, as was the next. He opened the final door on the hall to find Zimat sitting on her bed.

‘John!’ she gasped. She stood. ‘You should not be here!’

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘I will not leave you, Zimat. Not again.’

‘You must go!’

‘Marry me instead of Al-Muqaddam. I can take you away to Frankish lands. We can be together!’

‘Ubadah would have no future. What would he become? A merchant? A priest like you?’ She said the word priest with scorn.

‘We do not have to go. I will stay. I will serve Yusuf.’

She shook her head. ‘It cannot be, John. Do you not understand? Al-Muqaddam is an emir. With him as his father, Ubadah can become a great lord. You could never give him that.’

‘But I am his father.’

‘That is why you must go,’ she said, her voice beginning to break. ‘You must do what is best for our son.’

‘But I love you.’ He crossed the room and took her face in his hands. He kissed her gently, and she kissed him back, tentatively at first and then hard. His hands slid down to her waist, and he pulled her to him.

‘No.’ She pushed him away, tears in her eyes. ‘I must think of Ubadah. You must go, before we are discovered.’ He nodded and went to the door. ‘John,’ she called, stopping him. ‘I–I do love you.’

John could find no words to reply. His heart ached as if it were bruised. He turned and left to return to Jerusalem, to his solitary life as a priest, to a people that were more foreign to him than the Saracens.