Kingdom

by Hight, Jack

‘But Caliph!’ Shawar protested.

  Al-Adid looked at him for a moment and then back to Shirkuh. ‘I will see you tonight, after prayers, Emir.’ He waved a hand, and the golden curtain fell.

  Yusuf approached his uncle and spoke in a low voice. ‘Is it wise to remain outside the city?’

  ‘I’ll not stay in Cairo so long as Shawar lives. The man is a snake.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘And the best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head.’

  The afternoon sun shone down pitilessly as Yusuf rode down a narrow lane that wound between the tombstones, domed mausoleums and mosques of the Qarafa al-Sughra, one of the two ancient cemeteries that stood outside Cairo, just beyond the charred remains of Fustat. Shawar rode beside him. The vizier produced a silk tissue and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘By Allah, it is hot,’ he muttered. ‘Why does your uncle insist on meeting here?’

  ‘Shirkuh is on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Al-Shafi,’ Yusuf told him.

  ‘I am the vizier,’ Shawar grumbled. ‘I am not a lackey that jumps at the beck and call of an upstart Kurd.’

  The vizier was clearly trying to pick a fight, but Yusuf was in no mood. They rode on in silence, surrounded by two-dozen mamluks from Shawar’s private guard. Ahead, Yusuf spotted a larger structure amidst the tombs; the shrine that marked the tomb of the great Sunni jurist Al-Shafi, who had helped to create shari’a, the law by which all Muslims lived.

  They dismounted outside the shrine, and Shawar again mopped his forehead. ‘This had best be important.’

  ‘Your men can wait outside,’ Yusuf told him.

  Shawar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Were we not such good friends, I would think that you meant me harm, Saladin. No, my men will accompany me.’ He gestured to four mamluks, who went ahead into the shrine.

  ‘As you wish. Shirkuh is waiting for you.’

  Shawar headed for the entrance. Yusuf was close on his heels, followed by the rest of Shawar’s guard. The doorway was framed by Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub. Yusuf nodded to them as he passed. The interior of the shrine was dim, and Shawar stopped while his eyes adjusted. ‘Where is Shir—’ he began, but the words caught in his throat. The four mamluks he had sent in were lying in their own blood. ‘What is this?’ he cried. ‘Guards!’

  But it was too late. Yusuf had fifty men stationed inside the shrine, and Shawar’s mamluks were still half blind after entering from the bright sunshine. While they were being cut down, Shawar drew his sword and backed away to the centre of the shrine, where he stood in a pool of light that fell from a window above.

  Yusuf drew his sword. ‘It is over, Shawar.’

  Shawar raised his sword to fight and then thought better of it and dropped the blade. He smiled. ‘This is no way to treat a friend, Yusuf.’

  ‘We are not friends. You betrayed me. I nearly starved to death in Alexandria.’

  ‘It was nothing personal. That is the nature of war. Had I not joined with the Franks, how long do you think I would have lasted before your uncle eliminated me?’

  ‘Shirkuh does not deal in murder,’ Yusuf said coldly.

  ‘Yet here you are.’

  Yusuf scowled. He raised his sword, and Shawar paled. ‘Do not kill me!’ the vizier pleaded. Yusuf stepped closer. ‘The Caliph will not stand for this!’

  ‘Shirkuh is with the Caliph now. Al-Adid ordered your death himself.’

  Something seemed to break in Shawar. His shoulders slumped. ‘So this is how it ends. You and your uncle claim to be honourable men, but you are no better than I.’

  ‘We only do the Caliph’s bidding.’

  ‘The Caliph does not piss without someone telling him to. This is your work, Yusuf. I did not expect this of you.’ Shawar knelt on the stone floor. ‘I did not think you a murderer.’

  ‘This is not murder. It is an execution.’ Yusuf held the blade of his sword to the vizier’s neck.

  ‘Do what you must, but remember this: viziers in Egypt have short lives. Your uncle should think of that before he takes my post.’

  The last word was still hanging in the air when Yusuf’s blade struck the back of the vizier’s neck, killing him instantly.

  Yusuf stood in the shadows of the colonnade that fronted the caliph’s palace, searching for threats in the crowd that filled the square. He saw only a mixture of curiosity and impatience as the Egyptians waited for a glimpse of the new vizier. Shirkuh was with the caliph, who was investing him with the symbols of his office: robes of scarlet silk interlaced with gold, a white turban with gold stitching at the edges, and the vizier’s sword, a golden blade with the ivory hilt encrusted in precious jewels. Soon, Shirkuh would emerge to have his office proclaimed in a speech by Al-Khlata, the city’s chief official now that Shawar was dead. It would be the perfect time for one of the Hashashin to strike. Yusuf had posted a line of mamluks to keep the populace back, but there were thousands of men in the square. Any one of them could hold a dagger or a crossbow.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Yusuf turned to see his uncle. Shirkuh was dressed in his new finery, and it ill-suited him. The luxurious robes were too long for his squat frame, and the tip of the ceremonial sword nearly touched the ground. Yusuf suppressed a smile as Shirkuh tugged irritably at the stiff, gold-laced collar of his tunic. ‘I am told the Egyptians would be sorely disappointed if I did not wear this frippery,’ he grumbled.

  ‘You look very distinguished, Uncle.’

  ‘Ha! You will never make a good courtier, Yusuf. You have no talent for lying,’ Shirkuh nodded towards the crowd. ‘All is well?’

  ‘The crowd is larger than I anticipated. We should have more men.’

  ‘Stop fretting, Yusuf.’

  ‘Someone has paid the Hashashin to kill you, Uncle. You know their reputation. They will not stop until you are dead.’

  Shirkuh placed one of his callused hands on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We must defy our enemies, Yusuf, or they will have defeated us without even striking a blow.’ A blast of trumpets drowned out his last words. He clapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Come. It is time.’

  The crowd cheered as Shirkuh strode down the palace steps to a platform crowded with Egyptian officials. Yusuf followed and stood at the edge of the platform as Al-Khlata began to address the crowd. Yusuf did not trust the Egyptian, who had been a confidant of Shawar, but Shirkuh had decided that he should keep his post as civilian comptroller. He knew Egypt as none of Shirkuh’s men did, and could be sure that every last dinar in taxes was paid. Al-Khlata was speaking in flattering tones, telling the crowd of the new vizier’s many qualities: he was the blessed of Allah, a great warrior, the father of his people, the commander of the faithful, the child of jihad, scourge of the Franks.

  Yusuf was only half listening. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the front row of the crowd, only thirty feet away. Al-Khlata said something in a loud voice and the crowd roared, raising their hands and cheering. All except one man just behind the front row. His eyes were focused on Shirkuh. His right hand was clutching something inside his caftan. Yusuf kept his eyes on the man as he stepped down from the platform to where Qaraqush stood. ‘That man,’ Yusuf said and nodded. That was all that was needed. Qaraqush disappeared into the crowd, and Yusuf returned to his place.

  The suspicious man had edged forward so that he was now in the front row. He was just beside a mamluk, but the guard was paying little attention to him. The crowd cheered again, and Yusuf looked away from the man to see that his uncle was now addressing the people. Yusuf watched in alarm as Shirkuh jumped down from the platform and into the square. He stepped towards the crowd, allowing the people to reach out and touch him. Yusuf’s eyes swung back as the man, now only a dozen feet from Shirkuh, removed his hand from his caftan. Yusuf saw the glint of steel. Then the man’s eyes widened. Qaraqush held a knife to this throat and pulled him backwards into the crowd, just as Shirkuh passed the place where the Hashashin had stood. Yusuf breathed a sigh of relief.

  Shirkuh finished greeting the cro
wd and mounted the steps to the platform. He was grinning, clearly pleased with the impression that he had made. As he reached Yusuf, Shirkuh slapped his nephew on the shoulder. ‘See, young eagle. Nothing to fear!’

  MARCH 1169: CAIRO

  ‘You lying, camel-faced bastard! You owe me!’ the Egyptian spat, showing brown teeth. Iqbal was a thickly bearded, broad-shouldered man in a homespun caftan. He had the erect bearing of an ex-soldier. He lunged towards the man he was addressing, but the courtroom guards held him back.

  Shirkuh had made Yusuf the governor of Cairo, and as part of his duties Yusuf sat in judgement every Monday and Thursday. He had already heard some two-dozen cases that day and was weary of the never-ending procession of petty complaints. Nevertheless, it was his duty to provide impartial justice. Without law, a kingdom could not stand. He looked to the defendant, a merchant named Qatadah.

  Qatadah spread his hands, on which he wore several gold rings. ‘I told Iqbal that the investment was a risk.’

  ‘He owes me one hundred and ten dinars!’ Iqbal insisted.

  ‘You took this money from him?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘I am no thief, Your Excellency,’ Qatadah replied. ‘Iqbal gave me five silk carpets, which I told him that I would sell in Acre. I paid him twenty dinar up front, and was to pay the rest upon the return of my ship, after the carpets had been sold.’

  Iqbal pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘And he did not pay!’

  Yusuf gestured for silence. ‘Why not, Qatadah?’

  ‘The ship was attacked by pirates. All the cargo was lost. I, too, have suffered from this, Your Excellency. I have no money with which to pay Iqbal.’

  Yusuf doubted that. Besides the gold rings on his fingers, Qatadah wore a rich silk caftan with jewels at the collar. Yusuf looked from him to Al-Fadil, the Egyptian scribe who Yusuf had selected as his private secretary. Al-Fadil sat with a writing desk on his lap and the contract that Qatadah had brought held between his ink-stained fingers. Other scribes sat behind him, ready to record Yusuf’s judgement.

  Al-Fadil set the document aside. ‘The terms of the contract are clear,’ he said, speaking quietly so that the litigants could not hear. ‘Qatadah has no legal obligation to pay.’

  Yusuf frowned. Iqbal was an ex-soldier, probably a mamluk who had invested his meagre savings in the carpet business. For such a man, one hundred and ten dinars was the difference between a comfortable living and poverty. To Qatadah, such a sum was nothing.

  Al-Fadil guessed what Yusuf was thinking. ‘If you make Qatadah pay, you will see a hundred such cases daily. Worse, merchants will cease to carry cargo, afraid that if they suffer losses then they will be forced to pay the difference. Commerce will dry up. Trade will go elsewhere.’

  Yusuf still hesitated.

  ‘Tax revenues will fall, my lord. Your uncle will not like that.’

  ‘Very well,’ Yusuf muttered. Then, in a louder voice: ‘This case is dismissed.’

  Qatadah grinned. Iqbal spat in his direction and then stormed from the room.

  Yusuf rose. ‘That is enough for today.’ He started to leave and then turned back to Al-Fadil. ‘See that Iqbal is given a position in the palace.’

  ‘As what, Emir?’

  ‘He looks to be an ex-mamluk, so he will be familiar with horses. Give him a position in the stables.’

  Yusuf left the chamber, but his work for the day was not yet done. There was correspondence to read in his private study. Saqr accompanied him on the short walk from the caliph’s palace to that of the vizier. Yusuf entered his apartments and froze, his mouth dropping open. Standing before him were four naked women, beauties all. The one on the far right was Nubian, as black as night and with full lips and an angular face. The second was a Frank, blonde and with a voluptuous figure. The next was an Egyptian with flawless, golden skin. The last woman was a Turk with dark eyes, a narrow face and wavy chestnut hair that hung down to a pair of enormous breasts.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Yusuf demanded.

  ‘I bought them for you,’ Faridah said as she entered from the next room. ‘They do not please you, my lord?’

  ‘I am busy.’ Yusuf rubbed his temples. When he had sent his brother Selim to bring Faridah and Ibn Jumay from Aleppo, he had not expected anything like this.

  ‘You work yourself too hard, Yusuf.’ Faridah approached and put a hand on his arm. ‘You need a woman.’

  He reached out to push a strand of red hair back from her face. ‘I have a woman.’

  Faridah shook her head. ‘I am old, Yusuf.’

  It was true that she was no longer young. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and fine wrinkles around her mouth, and Yusuf had seen her carefully plucking strands of grey from her long red hair. But he did not mind. ‘You are still beautiful.’

  ‘In only a few years I will be fifty years of age. You no longer seek my bed as you once did.’ Yusuf opened his mouth to protest, but Faridah placed a finger on his lips. ‘I am not angry, Yusuf. You have given me more than I could have hoped for. You saved me from a terrible life. But now you need a younger woman. You need someone who can bear you a son.’ She pointed to the blonde Frankish woman. ‘What about that one?’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘The Turk, then?’

  Yusuf met the woman’s dark eyes. Something in the way she met his gaze reminded him of Asimat. He felt a sudden pain in his gut as he thought of his former lover and their son. ‘I do not want any of them,’ he said and strode into his study.

  He sat on a low divan and placed a writing desk on his lap. In the other room, he could hear Faridah addressing the women. ‘You, stay. The rest of you may go.’ Yusuf wondered who she had picked for him. He quickly dismissed the thought. He took up a sheaf of papers, messages from all parts of Egypt. They were all alike. A farmer or a merchant or a bath attendant claimed to have seen one of the Hashashin, but the claims invariably proved false. That was why the sect was so dangerous. The Hashashin blended in, taking up positions as merchants or soldiers, looking no different than any other man … until they struck.

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Go away, Faridah,’ Yusuf said without looking up. ‘I am working.’

  ‘Excuse me, Saladin.’ It was the Egyptian Al-Khlata.

  ‘Pardon my rudeness. What is it?’

  ‘Your uncle—’

  ‘Does he need me?’

  ‘He is dead.’

  ‘What? How?’

  But Yusuf did not wait for an answer. He sprinted across the palace to Shirkuh’s apartments. In the reception room he found the huge mamluk Qadi – one of Shirkuh’s most trusted men – leaning against the wall and weeping. Yusuf continued into the bedroom, where Shirkuh lay motionless, his eyes staring sightless at the ceiling. Selim stood with the doctor Ibn Jumay. Yusuf went to his uncle and touched his hand. It was already cold. He felt tears forming and blinked them away. He looked to Ibn Jumay. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was eating his supper and—he had a seizure. I did all I could—’ The doctor’s head fell.

  Yusuf placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘If anyone could have saved him, it was you.’ He looked back to his uncle and suddenly remembered Shawar’s final words: ‘Viziers in Egypt have short lives.’

  ‘The seizure,’ he said to Ibn Jumay. ‘Could it have been poison?’

  ‘It is impossible to say.’

  Al-Khlata had entered behind Yusuf. ‘We must inform the Caliph,’ he said. ‘He will need to choose a new vizier.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Selim, you will prepare our uncle for burial. I will tell the Caliph myself.’

  ‘As for the jihad, thou art the nursling of its milk and the child of its bosom. Gird up therefore the shanks of spears to meet it and to plunge on its service into a sea of sword points.’

  Yusuf stood before the caliph’s palace, on the same platform where his uncle had stood not long ago, and listened as Al-Fadil presented him to the people of Cairo. They were his people now, for at the age of thirty, Yusuf was ruler of Egyp
t. He wore the tall white turban, the red silk robes and the jewelled sword of the vizier. Yet his mood was dark. It was only three days since his uncle had died. Yusuf had been summoned to the caliph’s palace the previous day and had been told that he would succeed Shirkuh. From the dismissive way the young caliph had addressed him, Yusuf had gained the impression that he was not expected to last long in his new role.

  Al-Fadil was now discussing Yusuf’s exemplary righteousness. It should have been Al-Khlata speaking, but the comptroller had excused himself, claiming an illness. Yusuf doubted that was the true reason. The comptroller had hoped to be made vizier himself, although that was hardly possible with Nur ad-Din’s army still sitting a short distance outside Cairo. Yusuf would have to keep an eye on Al-Khlata. Resentful men could be dangerous.

  Al-Fadil finished speaking and the crowd cheered. The applause was not quite as enthusiastic as it had been for Shirkuh. The people were still taking Yusuf’s measure. He knew what was expected of him now. Shirkuh had left the platform to greet the people, and Yusuf must do the same. He jumped down, landing lightly on his feet. He started at the left edge of the crowd, walking slowly, allowing the people to greet him, to touch his robes.

  ‘Allah guard you!’ an old man with a curly, grey beard shouted.

  ‘Bless you, King!’ another man cried as he tugged at the sleeve of Yusuf’s robe.

  ‘Go back to Syria, Kurd!’ a bald man spat. A mamluk shoved him back into the crowd.

  Yusuf kept his face expressionless. His heart, however, was pounding. He could not shake off the suspicion that Shirkuh had been murdered. Viziers in Egypt have short lives. He finally allowed himself to smile when he reached the end of the row of people. He stepped back as his troops parted the crowd, creating a path to the vizier’s palace. Two-dozen mamluks from Yusuf’s khaskiya surrounded him and he set off, waving to the populace as he walked.

  His brother Selim was waiting in the entrance hall. ‘Congratulations, sayyid,’ he said and bowed.

  Yusuf frowned. ‘I am your brother, not your lord.’

  Selim bowed again. ‘You are both now, Yusuf.’ He held out a tightly rolled scrap of paper. ‘A message has come from Aleppo.’