by Hight, Jack
‘I would gladly follow you to Egypt, friend, but the choice is not mine to make. I serve at Nur ad-Din’s pleasure. I will go if he commands me.’
‘Surely he will!’ Shawar declared and launched into a speech that Yusuf had heard many times. ‘I will make Nur ad-Din the overlord of Egypt and give him a third of the kingdom’s revenue, if only he helps me retake Cairo. He must act. Every day he waits, the traitor Dhirgam grows stronger, and his allies the Franks with him. I ask only—’
He fell silent as Zimat entered, followed by two servants carrying trays loaded with dishes of sliced melon, steaming flatbread, olives, dates, soft cheeses, broad beans in garlic, boiled eggs and apricot jam. Zimat sat while the servants placed the dishes on the ground before Yusuf and Shawar.
‘Such a feast!’ Shawar exclaimed. ‘You have outdone yourself, Zimat.’
‘It is nothing.’
‘You are too modest. Such a meal would put to shame the chefs of the Egyptian caliph himself.’
Zimat blushed and busied herself pouring more tea. Yusuf could see that his sister was pleased. Perhaps if Yusuf went to Egypt, she could come with him and marry Shawar. She would like that.
‘Tell my sister what you told me about the pyramids,’ Yusuf suggested to Shawar.
‘They are a marvel!’ Shawar described the incredible structures while they breakfasted. Yusuf was sure he was exaggerating, but Zimat listened wide-eyed.
They were finishing breakfast when one of Nur ad-Din’s mamluks arrived. ‘You are wanted at the palace, Emir,’ he told Saladin. ‘Asimat has given birth to a son.’
‘A son?’ Yusuf murmured. His son. He suddenly felt dizzy and placed a hand on the floor to steady himself.
‘Are you well, friend?’ Shawar asked.
‘Of course.’ Yusuf forced a smile. ‘The kingdom has an heir, Allah be praised.’
‘Perhaps now that Allah has blessed him, Nur ad-Din will listen to my request.’
‘I will ask him.’
‘Shukran,’ Shawar said and bowed, a hand over his heart. ‘You are a true friend, Saladin.’
Yusuf entered the antechamber to Nur ad-Din’s apartments to find that his uncle Shirkuh and the eunuch Gumushtagin had arrived before him. Shirkuh was handing his sword and dagger over to the guards who protected the king. Gumushtagin saw Yusuf first.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saladin,’ he said. Yusuf nodded curtly.
‘Young eagle!’ Shirkuh cried. He embraced Yusuf and kissed him three times, the appropriate greeting between male relatives. ‘Have you heard the news? An heir to the kingdom! Perhaps this will finally dispel the dark cloud our lord has been living under.’
‘Inshallah, Uncle.’
Yusuf removed the belt that held his sword and handed it to one of the guards. Another guard pushed the door open and waved them inside. ‘The Malik is in his study.’
They found Nur ad-Din bent over his broad desk, lost in thought as he studied an architect’s rendering. The king had changed much in the six months since his defeat at Butaiha. His black hair was now peppered with grey, his once tanned face was sallow and he had dark circles under his eyes. Deep lines of worry creased his forehead. Nur ad-Din was not yet fifty, but he looked like an old man.
‘Malik,’ Gumushtagin said. ‘We have come at your bidding.’
Nur ad-Din straightened. ‘Friends!’ Yusuf saw that the fire had returned to his bright, golden eyes. The king grinned, and his tired face seemed suddenly youthful again. He rounded the table and embraced first Shirkuh and then Yusuf. ‘I have a son! I have named him Al-Salih. Allah has blessed me! From this day, I shall redouble my efforts to serve Him. The great mosque shall be rebuilt, and I shall establish a madras in Aleppo, a school of learning greater than any the world has ever known.’
‘What of the war against the Franks?’ Shirkuh asked.
Nur ad-Din’s expression darkened. ‘I have a score to settle with King Amalric. Come summer, I will strike the Kingdom of Jerusalem in the north.’
‘And Egypt?’ Yusuf asked. ‘What of Shawar’s offer?’
‘Egypt is not my concern. I need my men with me to fight the Franks.’
‘But my lord, we must do something,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘The Frankish king has allied with the current vizier, Dhirgam. Egypt pays Amalric tribute, money he will use to purchase mercenaries. By helping Shawar retake Egypt, you will weaken the Franks.’
‘And strengthen your own position, Malik,’ Gumushtagin added. Yusuf was surprised to find the eunuch on his side. ‘You would be overlord of Egypt.’
Nur ad-Din’s brow furrowed as he considered their arguments. ‘Can this Shawar be trusted?’
‘He is my friend,’ Yusuf said. ‘His word is true.’
‘And what does the Egyptian caliph think of him, I wonder.’ Nur ad-Din went to the window, where he stood looking out for a long time. ‘I will let Allah decide,’ he said at last. He took a bound copy of the Quran from a bookshelf that lined the back wall of the room. He handed the book to Yusuf. ‘Open it.’
‘Where, Malik?’
‘Wherever your hand falls.’
Yusuf placed a finger in the middle of the book and flipped it open.
‘Read,’ Nur ad-Din told him.
Yusuf cleared his throat. ‘And those who disbelieve are allies of one another, and if the faithful do not join together to make Islam victorious, there will be chaos and oppression on earth, and a great mischief and corruption.’
Shirkuh’s eyes widened, and he touched his nose with his right forefinger, indicating that the answer was right in front of him. ‘Allah has spoken, and his meaning is clear. He wants you to unite the faithful of Egypt and Syria. We must help Shawar.’
‘There is no denying the meaning of the passage,’ Gumushtagin agreed.
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘Very well. Shirkuh, you will go to Egypt and place this Shawar back on the vizier’s throne.’
Shirkuh touched his palm to his chest and bowed. ‘As you wish, Malik.’
‘I will go, too,’ Yusuf said.
‘No, Saladin. I need you here to help prepare my campaign against the Franks.’
Yusuf’s chest tightened at the thought of another year in Aleppo. ‘I am a warrior, Malik. I best serve you on the field of battle. Once Egypt is ours, I will return for your campaign against the Franks.’
Nur ad-Din sighed. ‘As you wish. At least I can count on Gumushtagin to stay and advise me.’ The eunuch bowed. Nur ad-Din looked back to Shirkuh. ‘You will gather your army at Damascus and ride from there to Egypt. Do not fail me. I cannot afford another defeat.’
‘I will not fail, Malik. I will bring you a kingdom.’
Shirkuh left to begin gathering the army, but Yusuf remained at the palace late into the afternoon, discussing with Nur ad-Din and Gumushtagin the number of men that would be needed in Egypt and the taxes required to fund the expedition. Finally, when the sun dipped below the horizon and the muezzins began the call for evening prayers, Nur ad-Din dismissed them.
Yusuf passed through the antechamber to the dim, spiral stairwell that led to the ground floor of the palace. He was halfway down when Gumushtagin caught up with him. ‘Wait, Saladin. I wish to speak with you.’
Yusuf examined the eunuch with distaste. ‘What do you want?’
‘Only to help you. We are bound to one another, you and I. You saved my life, Yusuf. And I know your secret.’ Gumushtagin lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Asimat’s child—your child—will be king when Nur ad-Din dies.’
Yusuf felt his stomach twist. Gumushtagin was as dangerous as a snake, and he was the only one who knew the truth. ‘What do you want from me?’
Gumushtagin smiled. ‘I ask little. Go to Egypt with your uncle. Keep me informed. Each week, send me a report via pigeon post. When the time is right, I will let you know what to do. If you do as I ask, then you will be vizier of Egypt, and your son will be king.’
Vizier of Egypt. Yusuf had dreamed of ruling a kingdom since he was a child, and f
or a moment he felt a surge of his old ambition. Then he shook his head. ‘Shawar is to be vizier. He is my friend.’
The eunuch’s smile faded, and when he spoke again his voice had a dangerous edge. ‘You have committed treason, Saladin. If you oppose me, it will cost you your life.’
Yusuf rubbed his beard, unsure what to say. It would be easy enough to keep Gumushtagin informed, but where would it end? Yusuf knew the eunuch well enough to know that the next service he demanded would not be so easy.
‘It is not just your own life that is at stake, Saladin,’ Gumushtagin insisted. ‘Think of Asimat, of Al-Salih. They will die if Nur ad-Din learns the truth.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf said reluctantly. ‘I will do as you ask.’
A week later, after the supplies and men needed for the expedition had been gathered, Yusuf again strode through the halls of the palace. He had come straight from the dry plain outside the city, where the troops were preparing to depart, and his dark-grey mail was covered in a layer of dust. He stopped before the door to the harem. The two eunuch guards lowered their spears towards his chest. ‘The lady Asimat has summoned me,’ he told them.
One of the guards nodded. ‘Follow me.’ He led Yusuf down a long corridor. It was not the first time Yusuf had visited the harem. Several years ago, after Asimat miscarried, Nur ad-Din himself had encouraged Yusuf to visit her, hoping that he could cheer her. That meeting had led to others, and then to a passionate affair. But Yusuf had put an end to things months ago. He had been in bed with Asimat when the great earthquake struck, and he did not doubt that it was a sign from Allah. The last time they had met, Yusuf had lied to Asimat: he had told her that he did not love her. She had slapped him and called him a coward. He had thought he would never see her again. Why had she called for him now? Did she miss him? Did she want him? Yusuf pushed the thoughts from his mind. It did not matter. He would not betray his lord again. He had just formed this resolution when they reached the door to her apartments, and the eunuch guard pulled it open.
‘My lady,’ the eunuch announced in his high-pitched voice. ‘Saladin.’
Asimat entered from another room, walking stiffly. This was the only sign that she had given birth only a week ago, for she was even more beautiful than Yusuf remembered. Her wavy brown hair was pinned up, revealing her long, graceful neck, the skin milky-white. She wore a white silk caftan, and as she approached, the sun struck her from behind, illuminating her form beneath the loose fabric. Yusuf felt his pulse quicken, despite his resolution to remain aloof. She nodded to the guard, who stepped outside the door. Yusuf knew that he would remain there, watching them through a spyhole.
‘You wished to see me, khatun?’ Yusuf searched her features for some indication of why she had called for him, but her face was a frozen mask, beautiful but emotionless.
‘Sit.’ She gestured to cushions that lay on the floor. Then she sat across from him. ‘It is not on my account that I have asked you here. It is for my son.’
Yusuf lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Our son.’
Asimat’s jaw clenched and her nostrils flared. For a moment, Yusuf thought that her cold facade was about to crumble, but then her features hardened once more. ‘You have spoken with Gumushtagin?’ she demanded, also keeping her voice low.
Yusuf blanched. If someone had overheard his whispered conversation in the stairwell, he was as good as dead. ‘How do you know?’
‘It does not matter. What did he say to you?’
‘He asked me to keep him informed of our progress in Egypt. He told me that he would ask more of me when the time is right.’ Yusuf shrugged. ‘I do not understand the game he is playing.’
‘Is it not obvious? He wishes to kill Nur ad-Din and to place my son, Al-Salih, on the throne.’
‘Isn’t that what you want, too?’ Yusuf asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice. ‘You will do anything to see your son made king.’
‘Not anything, Yusuf. I want Al-Salih to rule, not to serve as Gumushtagin’s pawn. The eunuch would rule Nur ad-Din’s kingdom as vizier until the boy comes of age. But many will oppose him. That is why Gumushtagin needs you. He will make you powerful, so that you may protect him.’
Yusuf scowled. ‘I want no part in such a scheme. I will not betray my—’
‘Do not be a fool, Yusuf!’ Asimat hissed. ‘Your honour will count for nothing if you are dead, if our child is dead.’ Her dark eyes met his. ‘Come, you should meet him.’ She led the way to her bedroom. It had been transformed since Yusuf last visited. Heavy curtains now hung over the windows; a candelabra on a table by the door shed a dim light. The floor was deeply carpeted and scattered with cushions. A maidservant sat amongst them, cradling a child in her arms. Asimat took the child and brought the babe to Yusuf, who had not moved from the doorway.
‘This is Al-Salih,’ Asimat whispered as she handed him the sleeping child. ‘Careful, do not wake him.’
The babe had a thatch of brown hair and a chubby face. His smooth, almost luminescent skin was lighter than Yusuf’s olive hue, though he was not quite so pale as Asimat. The boy stretched in his sleep and opened his eyes. They were deep-set and light brown, like Yusuf’s, but the resemblance was not marked. Al-Salih could easily have been another man’s child.
The babe closed his eyes sleepily. Asimat took him back. She glanced at the maidservant and then spoke in a whisper. ‘He is your child, Yusuf. If Gumushtagin betrays us, we will die, all three of us. You must do anything to prevent that.’
‘I will not do his bidding forever. At some point we must stop him or else we will all become his pawns.’
‘I will deal with Gumushtagin, but now is not the time. Do as he says for now. Our son’s life depends on it.’
MARCH 1164: ON THE ROAD TO EGYPT
Yusuf sat astride his horse on a high outcrop of dark-brown stone that flaked and crumbled under his mount’s stamping hooves. Below him, mamluk troops rode four abreast into the shadowy mouth of a wadi – a dry riverbed lined with sand and gravel – which cut its way between the rocky hills. The long column of troops stretched away across the sandy plain Yusuf had just traversed, all the way to the shores of Al-Bahr al-Mayyit, the Dead Sea, whose rainbow waters glistened under an incandescent morning sun. Near the shore, the sea was rust-coloured from the algae that bloomed in the salty waters. Further out, the red mixed with pale whites and bright blue-greens. The army had been riding along the eastern shore for two days, keeping the sea’s waters between them and the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It had been nine days since they left Damascus.
A horse nickered behind Yusuf, and he turned to see Shirkuh and Shawar approaching, their mounts picking their way across the broken ground. ‘I have spoken with our Bedouin guides,’ Shirkuh said as he reined in beside Yusuf. ‘The land we must cross is unforgiving. The Bedouin call it Al-Naqab, the dry place. There will be no water until Beersheba. We will have to ride all day without stopping if we hope to reach it by evening.’
Shawar was looking to the sun. Now well above the horizon, it was baking the rocky soil, which radiated heat so intense that it had a physical presence. He wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Is there no easier way?’
‘No. Not if we wish to stay clear of the Franks in Ascalon.’
‘Very well.’ Shawar straightened and flashed his winning smile. ‘A kingdom is worth a little suffering.’ He tapped his heels against the sides of his horse, which began to pick its way back down from the outcrop. Yusuf and Shirkuh followed.
They rode at the head of the army along the floor of the wadi. At times, the ravine was so narrow that they had to ride two abreast, the rock rising sheer on either side. At other times, it widened into washes that were broad and long enough to accommodate most of their army of seven thousand men. The trail they followed forked again and again, but always their Bedouin guides pushed on without hesitation. How they kept their bearings in this strange place, where every path looked exactly the same, Yusuf had no idea.
They rode in silence,
stupefied by the heat, while the shadows that stretched across the wadi shrank to nothing and then stretched out again to cover the ravine, bringing blessed relief from the scorching sun. Finally, just as the sun was setting before them, they emerged from the hills on to a broad plain of coarse sand, which crunched under their horses’ hooves. A few miles later the ruined city of Beersheba came into view. The short stretches of wall that still stood were half buried in sand. A few Bedouin tents had been erected in their lee. At the sight of the approaching army, the Bedouin quickly rolled up their tents. They were gone long before Yusuf arrived.
A well sat at the centre of the town, and Shirkuh set men to work hauling up water for the horses. Yusuf left his mount with one of his men and walked away from the camp and up a sandy hill. He knelt to pray. Since he had no water, he rubbed his hands, feet, and face with sand. Then he spread out his prayer carpet and began the isha’a, the nightly prayer. By the time he finished, the tents of the army had sprouted all across the plain. As he walked back to camp he passed a dozen men digging a latrine for the army. Just beyond, he was hailed by Shawar.
‘Yusuf! I have found you at last. You must come and dine in my tent.’
‘I should see to my men first,’ Yusuf replied, although in truth, he had been planning to write his first report to Gumushtagin.
‘Your men will survive without you for one night. I, on the other hand, am in desperate need of good company. Come. Your uncle is already in my tent.’ Shawar saw that Yusuf still hesitated. The Egyptian winked. ‘Food is not the only delicacy on offer.’
Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘Very well.’ Gumushtagin could wait.
Shawar’s tent was impossibly luxurious. Yusuf had been sceptical when Shawar told him that he required twelve camels to transport his personal effects, but now he saw why. The low, sprawling tent was large enough to seat a hundred men. Lamps hung from the tent posts, illuminating deep carpets and shimmering screens of silk that separated off parts of the huge space. In the corner, two men were fitting together a polished wardrobe, which split in half for transport.
