by Hight, Jack
‘And now you serve these savages?’
‘We cannot all choose our masters.’
At that moment a servant boy entered with a tray upon which sat a pitcher of water, two cups and a bowl filled with cubes of mango. The boy placed the tray on the floor between them and retreated, closing the door behind him. Neither man spoke as John poured the water and handed a cup to Al-Khlata. The Egyptian took a sip and placed the water aside. John held out the bowl of mango, but Al-Khlata waved it off.
‘I did not choose to serve my master, either,’ the Egyptian said. ‘My father was a Turcoman, born far from these lands. I do not remember him, whether he was a baker, merchant or warrior. I was bought as a child and sent to the Caliph’s palace in Cairo, where I was taught to write, to recite poetry, to keep accounts.’
‘Then we are not so different.’
Al-Khlata nodded. ‘Tell me of your new master, the King.’
‘He is a good man, honest and intelligent.’
‘I have heard that he is given to drink and women.’
John shrugged. ‘He is a king.’
Al-Khlata met John’s eyes. ‘I have heard that he is mad.’
‘Far from it, but—’ John’s forehead creased as he hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was low. ‘But he is odd. He sometimes laughs suddenly for no reason. You should not be offended. He is not mocking you.’
‘I see.’
‘And what of your vizier, Shawar?’
Al-Khlata looked amused. ‘Like your king, a good man.’
John heard the door creak open behind him and looked to see the spare, straight-backed seneschal Guy standing there, with William close behind. ‘Come,’ Guy said in Latin. ‘The King will see you now.’
William translated for Al-Khlata, who rose and followed Guy out of the door. John and William fell in behind them.
‘Can he be trusted?’ William whispered.
John shook his head. ‘He did not eat the fruit he was offered. This is a great insult in their culture; it shows that he does not trust our hospitality. And a man who does not trust us cannot be trusted.’
William nodded. ‘I was right about you, John. God did send you to us for a reason. Did you learn anything else? Why is he here?’
‘I did not ask.’
‘By Christ! Why not?’
John shrugged. ‘You said to make him comfortable. It would not have been polite.’
‘Very well,’ William grumbled. ‘We shall find out soon enough.’
‘G-God grant you joy, Al-Khlata. Welcome to J-Jerusalem, and to my c-court,’ Amalric declared in a voice too loud for the size of his private audience chamber. He sat upon a simple wooden throne, flanked by the seneschal Guy and the constable Humphrey on one side, and on the other by Gilbert and Bertrand, masters of the Hospitallers and Templars, respectively. Amalric was dressed in full regalia: the royal robe of ermine upon his shoulders, the crown of Jerusalem upon his brow, and a sceptre grasped in his right hand. He looked the part of a king, but even from the shadows at the rear of the room, John could tell that Amalric was nervous. It was not just the return of his childhood stutter; the king was also stroking his thick blond beard. John had been at court long enough to learn that this was as agitated as Amalric ever became.
Al-Khlata put his hand to his heart and bowed. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, Malik,’ he began in Arabic. William translated. ‘I am honoured by your kind welcome. I am sure that the Caliph and Vizier Shawar will be equally pleased.’
Amalric tugged more doggedly at his beard. ‘P-perhaps they will be less pleased when they hear what I have to say. If you have come to seek p-p—’ The king’s face reddened, he took a deep breath and started again. ‘If you have come to seek our friendship, then you must know that cannot be. You have allied with Nur ad-Din. You have allowed his army into C-Cairo itself. There can be no peace between our p-peoples so long as his men remain in your lands.’
‘Of course. That is precisely why Shawar has sent me. He needs your help to drive Nur ad-Din’s army from Egypt.’
John could hardly believe his ears. Shawar had only just signed a treaty with Nur ad-Din. William seemed equally surprised. He stood with his mouth open, although he had not yet translated Shawar’s words.
‘Well?’ Amalric demanded. He looked from William to John. ‘What did he say?’
John cleared his throat. ‘He asked us to invade Egypt, sire. Shawar wants us to drive out Nur ad-Din.’
‘By Christ’s wounds,’ murmured the Templar, Bertrand. ‘We can open the holy sites to pilgrimage: where Moses crossed the Red Sea; where Joseph and Mary rested during their flight from Bethlehem.’
William stepped closer to the throne. ‘An invasion will cost money, sire.’
‘The Egyptians have untold wealth,’ Gilbert noted.
Amalric stroked his beard. ‘Ask him what Shawar offers in return for our assistance.’ William translated the request.
‘Caliph al-Adid will recognize you as his overlord,’ Al-Khlata replied, ‘and pay you four hundred thousand dinars.’
The seneschal paled. ‘That is nearly equivalent to our annual revenue, sire.’
‘King of Jerusalem and lord of Egypt,’ Amalric murmured. ‘I could hire enough men to take Damascus. Succeed where my brother failed.’ The king’s forehead creased and his lips began to tremble. He burst out laughing, and Al-Khlata took a step back. The lords around the throne shifted uncomfortably. The fit subsided, and Amalric resumed his impassive expression. He looked to William. ‘Offer m-my apologies to Al-Khlata. And tell him that I accept his offer.’
‘Perhaps it would be wise to reflect before accepting, sire,’ Guy said. ‘We know nothing of this Al-Khlata. Can we trust him? Or his master? Why would Shawar turn his back on his fellow Saracens to ally with us?’
John stepped forward. ‘They are Saracens, sire, but they are not the same.’
‘What do you mean?’ Amalric asked.
‘The Egyptians are Shiites. They look to the Fatimid caliph in Cairo. Nur ad-Din and his men are Sunni, under the caliph in Baghdad.’
‘They are all Mohammedans,’ the seneschal said.
‘Just as they consider the English and French to all be Franks,’ John said, ‘whereas we know that they are in fact quite different.’
‘I see,’ Amalric said. ‘What do you say to this, William?’
‘I council caution, sire. If Shawar is willing to betray Nur ad-Din, then what is to say that he will not betray us in turn?’
Bertrand nodded. ‘William is right.’
‘Very well,’ Amalric said. ‘Tell him that we need time to c-consider.’
William opened his mouth to translate, but Al-Khlata spoke first. ‘Shawar is a man of his word,’ he said in accented but correct French. ‘It is Nur ad-Din who has broken his oath. His general, Shirkuh, has designs on Cairo. He sits in Giza, like a hawk poised to strike. Shawar needs your aid to remove him, and he needs it now. Your answer cannot wait.’
Amalric looked to William, who frowned and shook his head. The king turned to the constable. Humphrey commanded the king’s army in the field, and his word had weight. He nodded. Amalric turned back to Al-Khlata. ‘You will leave tomorrow for Cairo to tell Shawar that he has my support.’
Al-Khlata bowed low. ‘Thank you, Malik.’
Amalric nodded, and a servant entered to lead the Egyptian to his quarters. William frowned as he watched him go. ‘I do not trust him,’ he muttered.
Amalric rose from the throne and put a hand on William’s shoulder. ‘Nor do I, friend. But this is an opportunity we cannot ignore. Write to Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli. They will need to defend our northern border while I am gone.’ Amalric looked to the constable. ‘Gather the army, Humphrey. We leave in two weeks’ time.’
APRIL 1164: GIZA
Yusuf set his quill down and rubbed his temples. He had just finished another letter to Gumushtagin, written in ghubar, the tiny Arabic script used for the pigeon post. He had told the
eunuch of the consideration that Shawar had shown them, how he had kept the army well provisioned and invited Yusuf to dine with him each night. He had also written of the increasing tension between the vizier and Yusuf’s uncle. Shirkuh was angry that Shawar had delivered only a fraction of the tribute that was due to Nur ad-Din. Shawar resented the presence of Shirkuh, who had informed the vizier that he planned to winter the army in Egypt. Yusuf had been forced to intervene more than once to prevent an open break between the two. All of this was information that Gumushtagin would eventually learn from Shirkuh’s dispatches to Nur ad-Din. Nevertheless, each letter that he wrote left Yusuf with a nagging sense of guilt.
He rolled the scroll and slid it into a tiny tube. He wrote Gumushtagin’s name on a scrap of paper and then wound it around the tube, affixing it with a dab of glue. He left his tent and strode across camp to where the hawadi were kept. The mail pigeons sat in their cages, cooing softly. ‘For the palace in Aleppo,’ Yusuf told the keeper, a stooped mamluk, too old to fight. The man nodded and went to one of the cages. He took out the pigeon and carefully tied the tube to its leg. Then he stepped outside and released the bird. It circled once and flew away, heading north-east.
‘Your message will arrive tonight, Sayyid,’ the keeper told him.
Yusuf was heading back to his tent when Selim hailed him. ‘Brother! There you are!’ Selim was breathless. He looked to have run the length of the camp.
‘What is it?’
‘Shirkuh needs you. It is the Franks. They are here.’
Yusuf entered Shirkuh’s tent to find him speaking with a bow-legged Egyptian who smelled of fish. ‘You are certain?’ Shirkuh was asking him.
‘I was fishing north of here, in the eastern branch of the Nile, when I saw them; maybe five thousand men. They are no more than four days’ march from Cairo.’
Shirkuh handed the fisherman a sack of coins. ‘Keep me informed of their movements. There is more where this came from if your information proves useful.’
‘Shukran, Emir. Shukran Allah!’ The fisherman bowed repeatedly as he backed from the tent.
When he had gone, Shirkuh turned to Yusuf. ‘What do you make of this, young eagle?’
‘The Frankish king is no fool. He knows that if Nur ad-Din and Egypt are allied, he is in grave danger. He must be marching to drive us out.’
The lines on Shirkuh’s forehead deepened. ‘If he is no fool, tell me why he has come to Egypt with only five thousand men. That is not enough to face us and the Egyptians. I do not like this.’
‘We should speak with Shawar,’ Yusuf suggested.
‘Yes, he is clever. Perhaps he will know what the Frankish king plans.’
Accompanied by a dozen members of Shirkuh’s private guard, they took a barge north to Al-Maks, the port of Cairo. From there they rode to the northern gate, the Bab al-Futuh. As they approached, Yusuf saw that the gate was closed. Soldiers stood atop it with spears in hand. Atop each spear was a head. Yusuf felt a burning in his stomach as he recognized those heads. They belonged to the garrison of mamluks that Nur ad-Din had left in Cairo.
Shirkuh flushed red with anger. He reined to a stop before the gate and shouted up to the guards. ‘What is the meaning of this? Open the gate immediately! I wish to speak with Shawar.’
‘I am sorry, Atabeg,’ one of the guards called down. ‘The Vizier has ordered the city closed to you.’
‘Surely there is a misunderstanding,’ Yusuf said to his uncle. He raised his voice to speak to the guards. ‘Inform Shawar that we will wait here until he arrives.’
They did not have to wait long before Shawar appeared atop the gate. ‘Shirkuh! Yusuf! I deeply regret that we find ourselves in this awkward situation.’
‘You see, it is a misunderstanding,’ Yusuf told his uncle. ‘Open the gate, friend,’ he called up to Shawar. ‘Let us in so we may talk.’
‘I am afraid I cannot do that. As you can see—’ he gestured to the heads ‘—your men are no longer welcome in Cairo.’
‘I will gut you, you two-faced bastard!’ Shirkuh roared.
Yusuf put a hand on his uncle’s arm to calm him. ‘This is no time for a falling out,’ he called to Shawar. ‘The Frankish army is only days away. We must discuss how we will repel them.’
‘But I have no wish to repel them. It is I who invited them here.’
The burning in Yusuf’s stomach grew worse. ‘Why?’
‘I wish to be master of Egypt,’ Shawar replied. ‘I never shall be, so long as your army is here.’
‘But we are your allies! I am your friend.’
‘Yes, we are good friends, aren’t we?’ Shawar smiled. ‘It pains me to turn my back on a friend such as you, Yusuf, but my personal feelings do not matter. I must do what is in the best interest of Egypt.’
Yusuf could hardly believe what he was hearing. This man was nothing like the Shawar he had come to know. That smile, which Yusuf had once found so charming, now appeared false. How could Yusuf have been so blind?
‘Damn your seventh grandfather, you deceitful bastard!’ Shirkuh shouted. He had drawn his sword and was waving it up at Shawar. ‘I will tear down the walls of Cairo stone by stone. I will cut off your head and piss down your throat!’
‘You are welcome to try,’ Shawar replied brightly. ‘But I must warn you that if you do not leave now, my men will deal with you. I am afraid that this is the last time we will speak. Farewell, my friends.’
‘Son of a donkey!’ Shirkuh spluttered. ‘Whore’s twat!’
The men atop the walls drew back their bows. Yusuf grabbed his uncle’s arm. ‘Come, Uncle. We must go. We shall have our revenge later.’
APRIL 1164: CAIRO
John tugged at the rough collar of his cloak of dark brown wool. It was fastened with a brooch at the centre of the chest, in the clerical style. Laymen fastened their cloaks at their right shoulder so as to leave their sword arm unencumbered. Another advantage of placing the clasp at the shoulder, John had discovered regretfully, was that it distributed the weight of the cloak in such a way that it did not chafe. He tugged at the cloak again, pulling it away from his raw neck. If it were up to him, he would have worn a simple burnoose and keffiyeh, but William had insisted that as a priest and adviser to the king he must travel in tunic and cloak, with his long stole hanging about his neck. Even in April the Egyptian heat was oppressive, and his tunic was soaked with sweat.
‘What I wouldn’t give to be in England right now,’ he murmured.
‘England?’ Amalric asked as he came alongside. The two men rode near the head of a column of nearly five thousand warriors. There were just under four hundred mounted knights, each equipped with a thick mail shirt, lance, sword and shield. Surrounding the knights were three thousand sergeants; foot-soldiers who mostly wore leather jerkins and fought with spears and bows. The rearguard was composed of native cavalry, Christians who had lived in the Holy Land for generations and had more in common with the Saracens than the Franks. They wore light, padded armour and carried bamboo spears and compact, curved bows.
‘I was born and raised in the Holy Land,’ the king continued. ‘I have never been to England, although I have heard it described often enough. The pilgrims never cease to speak of it. Fields of green, woods, water in abundance … I have often wondered why, if it is so lovely, so many men leave to come here.’
John was not sure how to reply. He noticed that Amalric was worriedly fingering the fragment of the true cross that he wore on a chain about his neck. He hoped that Amalric was not seeking religious consolation. John still felt uncertain in his role as a priest. He wished William were here, but the chancellor was away on a mission to the Roman court in Constantinople.
‘I had to leave,’ John said at last. ‘I killed my brother.’ Amalric did not speak, so John continued. ‘He betrayed my father and several other Saxon lords to the Norman king in return for more land.’
‘The Norman king?’ Amalric asked. ‘England has been ruled by the Angevin line for nea
rly a hundred years. Surely Stephen is as English as you.’
‘The Normans speak French and the common people, English. And in the north we have long memories. My grandfather was a child when William the Bastard’s army butchered our people. He passed the story of the Harrowing on to my father, who passed it on to me.’
‘I see.’ Amalric continued to finger his cross. They were riding alongside a branch of the Nile delta, making their way from Bilbeis towards Cairo. John watched a low skiff with a triangular sail gliding upstream, mirroring their progress. A man in the prow was fishing with a bamboo rod and line. He had been at it for an hour but had caught nothing. John suspected he was a spy for Shirkuh, more interested in the Frankish army than fish.
‘Bernard of Clairvaux visited me last night,’ Amalric said suddenly.
John’s eyebrows shot up. He cleared his throat. ‘Is he not dead, sire?’
The corner of Amalric’s mouth twitched, then he burst into high-pitched, shrill laughter. ‘In a dream, John. He came to me in a dream. He said that I am a poor Chri—a poor Chri—’ The king’s face was reddening as he struggled to get his words out. His stutter was always worse when he was upset. ‘He said that I am not a worthy king.’
‘But that is not true, sire.’
‘Perhaps.’ Amalric sighed. ‘I have my faults, John. I divorced my wife and have since lived in sin with many women. Many women. To lie with a woman outside of marriage is a wicked sin, is it not, John?’
‘It is to be expected. You are a king, sire.’
‘That is hardly the appropriate answer of a man of the cloth!’
‘I fear I am a poor priest.’
‘Hmph. William tells me that a king should have a wife.’ Amalric held up the piece of cross around his neck. ‘Saint Bernard t-told me that I will be unw-worthy of wearing the cross unless I am a better Christian.’
‘So you shall marry, sire?’
Amalric shrugged. ‘Or p-perhaps I should simply cease wearing the true cross.’ He took the chain from around his neck and placed it in a pouch at his waist. He grinned. ‘Yes, that feels better.’ The king spurred ahead, leaving John to ride alone.
