by Hight, Jack
Shawar noticed Yusuf’s wide-eyed expression. ‘When I fled Egypt, I did not do so entirely empty-handed.’
Cushions had been spread in a circle, and Shirkuh was already seated and chatting with a man that Yusuf did not recognize. Yusuf sat beside his uncle, and Shawar took a seat across from him. Shawar gestured to the strange Egyptian. The man had darkly tanned skin and unexceptional features, save for his hazel eyes. ‘Al-Khlata is the civilian comptroller in Cairo. He sees that taxes are collected from the populace.’
Yusuf nodded towards him. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’
‘Now, let us eat.’ Shawar clapped his hands and veiled female servants in thin, almost transparent caftans stepped from behind one of the silk curtains. One of them came to Yusuf and placed a gold cup on the small, low table beside him. Yusuf was surprised to see it was filled with water. He had not expected Shawar to be so temperate.
Shirkuh was equally perplexed. ‘No wine?’ he grumbled.
‘Allah forbids alcohol, and as we march in his name, it is best to obey his laws,’ Shawar replied. ‘And besides, in the desert, water is more precious than wine.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Cairo! May we see her soon!’
‘To Cairo!’ the men replied and drank.
The servants entered with food. One brought Yusuf a basket of steaming flatbread and a dip of mashed broad beans. Another brought a green soup with pieces of fried garlic floating in it. Yusuf poked at it with his spoon.
‘It is an Egyptian speciality, made from diced jute,’ Al-Khlata told him.
Shawar nodded. ‘My cook came with me from Cairo. Thanks to him, I can dine as if I am in the caliph’s palace, even while in the desert.’ Shawar tore off a piece of flatbread, dipped it in the soup and ate, a signal for the others to begin.
Yusuf murmured, ‘In the name of Allah,’ and tried some of the bread. It was thicker and coarser than he was used to. The dip was creamy and rich, the soup light but savoury.
Shawar washed down the bread and soup with a swallow of water. ‘Al-Khlata tells me that Beersheba was once a great city.’
The comptroller nodded. ‘There was a great church here, huge buildings. It was once part of the Roman Empire.’
‘And the Kingdom of the Jews before that,’ Yusuf noted. All eyes turned to him. ‘Their first king, Saul, built a great fort here.’
‘How do you know this?’ Shawar asked.
‘It is written in the Franks’ holy book.’ John had given Yusuf a copy of the Bible years ago, and Yusuf had studied it carefully. ‘It says that Abraham visited here. He made a pact with the people of the area, swearing an oath to share the wells. That is why the town is called Beersheba: “oath of the well”.’
Al-Khlata snorted. ‘I do not believe anything written in the books of the Franks. Superstitious nonsense!’
‘Perhaps,’ Yusuf said, ‘but if we wish to defeat our enemies, we must know them.’
‘Indeed,’ Shawar agreed. ‘And since we are discussing our enemies, it is time I tell you something of what awaits us in Egypt. Cairo is a nest of vipers. In my lifetime, no vizier has ruled there for more than a dozen years before being betrayed. I thought I could be the one to finally bring stability to the kingdom, but I was wrong. I was too trusting. I thought Dhirgam was my friend. As young men, we served together as scribes in the Caliph’s court. We rose through the ranks together, and when I became vizier I made him my chamberlain. I did not know that the snake was in the pay of the Franks. While I was in Bilbeis inspecting the citadel, Dhirgam seized control of Cairo. His first act was to make peace with Jerusalem. His second was to send an army to kill me. I fled east to the court of your lord, Nur ad-Din. The rest you know.’ Shawar shook his head, as if to dispel the painful memories. ‘But enough of such sad talk! Let us enjoy ourselves.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring the girls!’
Al-Khlata took this as a sign to depart. A moment later, four serving girls entered, only now they had shed their thin caftans and wore only veils and skirts of diaphanous silk, through which Yusuf could see their toned legs and firm buttocks. They were Egyptian, brown-skinned with wide eyes lined with kohl. A man with a drum came in after the girls. He went to the corner, while the girls moved to the centre of the circle and stood absolutely still, their heads down. As the man began to beat the drum, the girls came to life, swaying their hips to the beat. The drum beat faster and they started to circle, spinning so that their skirts flared up. Yusuf sat back as they flashed past, a kaleidoscope of nubile flesh: long thin arms, finely shaped legs, tight buttocks and dark breasts with darker areoles.
The girls stopped circling. One stood just before Yusuf. She sank to her knees and arched backwards so the back of her head touched the floor. She began to rhythmically raise her hips, thrusting up with the beat of the drum. She sat straight once more, leaned forward and reached out, caressing Yusuf’s cheek. She moved on to his lap and kissed him, her mouth open. Her hand moved down to caress his rock-hard zib. He ran his hands down her sides and grasped her firm buttocks. She giggled, pushed him away and stood. She took his hand and led him towards one of the screened-off rooms.
Yusuf glanced back before entering. Shirkuh was occupied with two girls. Shawar had sent the fourth girl away and sat alone. He met Yusuf’s gaze and winked. ‘Enjoy yourself!’
The girl was tugging on Yusuf’s arm. ‘Come,’ she said and led him into the room.
When Yusuf awoke the next morning, he and the servant girl were still naked and tangled together. She was sleeping, her head on his chest and a half-smile on her face. For a moment, she reminded him of Asimat. The thought made Yusuf feel sick. He dressed quickly and stepped outside. The morning air was cool after the closeness of the tent. He breathed deeply and headed for the latrine. On the way he passed Al-Khlata, leading a horse. Where was he off to so early in the day, Yusuf wondered.
Yusuf reached the ditch and had begun to urinate when Shawar stepped up beside him. ‘A long night?’ he asked as he too began to piss. Yusuf felt himself redden. ‘There is nothing to be ashamed of, friend. I am glad you enjoyed yourself. When we reach Cairo, you will have a dozen more women like her.’
‘I do not wish for—’
‘Think nothing of it. What is mine is yours.’ Shawar finished and clapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Now come. Cairo awaits!’
MARCH 1164: CAIRO
‘Medinat al-Qahira!’ Shawar exclaimed and gestured to the horizon. ‘The greatest city in all the world!’
Yusuf squinted but could make out only a distant smudge. Nearer, feluccas and dhows glided along the Nile under triangular sails, and beyond them loomed the massive pyramids of Giza. Shawar’s description had not done them justice. They dwarfed anything that Yusuf had ever seen, even the massive Roman temple in his childhood home of Baalbek.
Shirkuh pointed to a grove of palms situated along the river. ‘Yusuf, have a hundred men begin building rams and siege towers.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ Shawar assured him. ‘The people will open the gates to us. They are loyal to me. That is why they fled before us outside Bilbeis.’ The day before, they had confronted an army twice their size, but the Egyptians had run almost before the battle began.
‘Let us hope you are right, or we will regret letting so many escape,’ Shirkuh grumbled.
‘I could hardly let you butcher them,’ Shawar replied. ‘They are my people. Soon enough they will fight for me.’
Shirkuh grunted sceptically.
As they rode closer, the city rapidly took shape. The tall walls were studded with towers. The buildings were flat-roofed and built of the same white limestone as the walls. Beyond Cairo rose a dozen tall shapes that Yusuf initially took for minarets. Soon, he saw that they were actually massive, rectangular buildings, many storeys high.
‘That is Fustat, just south of the city,’ Shawar said, answering Yusuf’s unasked question. ‘It was founded centuries before Cairo. It is still the commercial heart of the city, famed for its pottery and crystal. It is there th
at the wealth of Egypt is created.’
They rode on, and soon Yusuf could see soldiers atop the walls, their armour glinting in the late afternoon sun. Shawar led the army towards an arched gate framed by two squat round towers of pale stone. Warriors with bows in hand were crowded atop the gate. Shawar seemed not to notice them.
‘Perhaps we should halt beyond bow range,’ Yusuf suggested.
‘There is no need,’ Shawar replied. He pointed to the gate where the soldiers were disappearing.
‘Where are they going?’ Shirkuh asked.
‘The rats are abandoning the ship. I know the people of Cairo. They served Dhirgam well enough when he was strong, but now that an army is at their walls, they will turn on him. Come! The day’s ride has spurred my appetite. We shall dine in the Caliph’s palace.’
Shawar urged his horse to a canter, leaving Yusuf and Shirkuh behind. They exchanged a glance and then Shirkuh shrugged. ‘Let us hope he knows what he is doing.’ He raised his voice. ‘Guards! Ride with me. The rest of the army will make camp beside the Nile.’ He spurred after Shawar.
Yusuf turned back towards his younger brother Selim and the mamluk commander Qaraqush. Qaraqush was a thick-necked bull of a man. His hair had begun to grey, but he was just as fearsome a warrior as when Yusuf had first met him twelve years ago. As for Selim, he was a man now. With his dark hair and beard, wiry build and deep brown eyes, he looked like a younger, slightly taller version of Yusuf, so much so that the men had taken to calling him Al-Azrar: ‘the younger’.
‘If we do not return by evening prayers,’ Yusuf told them, ‘lay siege.’
Qaraqush nodded. ‘I will not leave a stone standing.’
Yusuf spurred after Shirkuh and Shawar. As they approached the city gate, a small man in an elegant caftan of blue silk embroidered with gold came out to meet them. As he came closer, Yusuf saw that his back was crooked and hunched. His narrow face, though, was pleasant enough, with a dark beard that reached past his chest. In his hands he held a cushion upon which sat a human head.
The man stopped just short of them and bowed. ‘Salaam, Shawar. I come on behalf of the Caliph to invite you to his palace. And, I bring a gift.’
‘What is this?’ Shirkuh demanded, gesturing to the head. It was grotesque: the face bruised and swollen, the eyes and tongue removed.
Shawar took the head and gazed at it for a moment. ‘It is the head of the traitor, Dhirgam.’ He looked to the man who had brought the grisly gift. ‘What happened to him, Al-Fadil?’
‘The people of Cairo turned on him. They tore him to pieces.’
‘Such a pity,’ Shawar murmured. ‘I would have liked to kill him myself.’ He tossed the head aside. ‘Come. The Caliph awaits.’
Shawar spurred through the gate, and Yusuf and Shirkuh followed, accompanied by two-dozen mamluks from Shirkuh’s private guard. A silent crowd lined the wide street. ‘My people!’ Shawar seemed oblivious to their lack of enthusiasm. They rode on into a broad square situated between the two halves of the palace – a dizzying collection of colonnaded porticos, domes and towers of white stone. ‘The east palace is occupied by courtiers,’ Shawar explained. ‘The Caliph lives on the west side.’
Shawar led them that way. They dismounted and climbed the broad stairs to the portico. ‘Your men should wait here,’ Shawar told them. Shirkuh hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Shawar led him and Yusuf inside into a high-ceilinged reception hall lined with guards. Yusuf and Shirkuh followed Shawar across the hall and through a series of luxurious rooms. The walls were hung with brightly coloured silks decorated with swirling patterns woven in gold and studded with jewels. The floors were covered in thick carpets of soft goat hair, which swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Finally, they reached the audience chamber, which was divided in the middle by a curtain of golden cloth.
‘Your swords,’ Shawar told them. ‘It is customary to lay them before the Caliph.’
Shirkuh drew his sword and laid it on the ground before him. Yusuf did the same.
‘Now kneel,’ Shawar said, ‘and bow three times.’
Yusuf and Shirkuh did as they were told. Shawar joined them, prostrating himself before the golden curtain. It rose to reveal the boy-caliph, sitting cross-legged on a gilt throne. Not one inch of the caliph’s flesh was visible. He wore a white silk caftan, the hem and collar of which were heavy with jewels. A veil hid his face, and gloves of red silk covered his hands. On his feet were jewelled slippers. A dozen mamluk warriors stood along the wall behind the throne, and richly dressed courtiers lined the walls to the left and right.
Shawar addressed him. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, God’s deputy, defender of the faithful, I have returned to serve you.’
‘Welcome back to Cairo, Shawar,’ Al-Adid said in an adolescent warble. ‘You have been missed.’
‘Not as much as I have missed serving you, Caliph.’
‘Then you may serve me again. I am in need of a new vizier.’
‘It would be my honour, Caliph.’
‘Then it is done. Rise.’
Shawar rose, and Yusuf and Shirkuh did likewise. Al-Adid gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward holding a red silk cushion on which lay a magnificent, gold-bladed sword with an ivory hilt encrusted with jewels. Its sheath, which lay beside it, was of gold and also covered in precious stones. ‘The sword of the vizier,’ the caliph said. ‘It is yours.’
The courtier belted the sword about Shawar’s waist. ‘Shukran, great Caliph,’ the vizier said and bowed.
Al-Adid waved away his thanks and turned to Shirkuh and Yusuf. ‘Who are these men, Shawar?’
‘Emirs from Syria. They came at the behest of Nur ad-Din to help me dispose of the traitor Dhirgam.’
‘Then they have my thanks.’
Shawar cleared his throat. ‘Nur ad-Din has been promised a third of our annual revenue as tribute.’
‘Very well,’ the caliph said in a tired voice. He seemed bored by these details. ‘Is there anything else?’
Shirkuh stepped forward. ‘My lord instructs me to thank you for welcoming us to Cairo. So long as I am in Egypt, I will serve you as I would serve him. To better protect you from any reprisals from Dhirgam’s men, I would like to station a garrison inside the city.’
The caliph shifted on his throne. ‘This is my city,’ he said sharply. ‘I will not turn it over to foreign troops.’
‘But Shawar agreed—’
Shirkuh stopped short as Shawar shot him a warning glance. ‘These are of course only suggestions, Caliph,’ the vizier said in a soothing tone. ‘Shirkuh is a reasonable man. He will understand that it is not possible to garrison his troops within the city.’ He turned to Shirkuh and spoke in a low voice, so the caliph would not hear. ‘We must not anger the caliph. If he speaks against you, I will have a riot on my hands.’
‘I can put down a riot,’ Shirkuh grumbled.
‘Yes. But swords close markets, and dead men pay no taxes. The treasury is low, and Dhirgam will have emptied it further to pay his troops. If you want the tribute that is owed to Nur ad-Din, then your army must leave the city. They need not go far. They can stay in Giza, just across the Nile.’
Shirkuh looked as if he had just taken a sip of sour wine, but finally he nodded. ‘I will move my army to Giza. But I will leave a garrison of one hundred men to take charge of the city gates.’
‘Agreed.’ Shawar flashed his most winning smile. ‘Now come, friends. You will be guests at the Caliph’s table. Let us celebrate the alliance between our two great kingdoms.’
Chapter 3
APRIL 1164: JERUSALEM
John sat with his eyes closed, submerged to his chin in the steaming waters of the bath house. A low murmur of voices surrounded him, echoing off the domed ceiling. Most spoke in French, but John also heard German, Provençal, Latin and Catalan. He ignored the sound and let his mind drift. This was his morning ritual, before he went to the church to learn to chant and lead Mass from the prayer book,
and then to the palace to work for William or tutor prince Baldwin. It was a time when he could be at peace and forget that he was a man without a country, as cut off from his childhood home of England as he was from his friends in Aleppo. He belonged nowhere, and perhaps that is why he felt at home in Jerusalem. It was a city of immigrants – pilgrims from Europe and native Christians from all over Syria. A city where it was easy to leave one’s past behind and fashion a new life.
John rose from the warm waters and headed for the next room, where he was scrubbed down by an attendant before being doused in cold water. He slipped into his caftan in the changing room and stepped out of the bath house into the paved courtyard of the Hospitaller complex. All around him rose tall buildings – churches, hospitals built to house sick pilgrims and barracks for the knights who served the order. The air, which would be as hot as a furnace by midday, was comfortably warm. John glanced at the sun, whose deep red rim was just rising above the tall buildings that lined the eastern side of the courtyard. There was time for a short walk and a little breakfast.
His nose wrinkled as he walked out of the complex and into a dusty street. Across the way stood the pool of the patriarch, which took up most of a city block. In the winter it was full, but now it was mostly stinking mud and refuse. In the centre of the muck, a pool of water glittered under the morning sun. A system of buckets and pulleys had been built to draw the water up to a raised channel, which crossed the street to provide water for the bath house. A beggar slept against the wall in the tiny patch of shelter underneath the channel. He stirred at the sound of John’s footsteps.
‘Money for a poor pilgrim far from home,’ he begged in a high, plaintive whine. He had a bulbous, red nose and sunken cheeks covered with white stubble. ‘Money to return to my wife and children. They need me.’
It was a story John had heard again and again from beggars all over the city. Sometimes it was even true. Plenty of men exhausted their funds during the long pilgrimage to Jerusalem and were unable to return. Plenty more had no wish to go back. Some were running away from a crime or an unwanted family. Others preferred the easy customs of the East. And others still fell in love with drink, gambling, women, or all three. From the look of him, John guessed that any money this old man got would go to drink. He tossed him a copper anyway.
