by Hight, Jack
‘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 aw
ay 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.
