Kingdom

by Hight, Jack

  ‘I-I am God’s deputy,’ Al-Adid replied, his haughty tone undercut by the shaking in his voice. ‘Do not presume to give me orders.’

  ‘Saqr, bring him.’

  Yusuf strode from the chamber, and Saqr followed with the caliph. They passed through luxurious rooms, the thick carpets now wet with blood and littered with dead Nubian warriors. A thousand of Yusuf’s best men had lain in wait in the palace. They had let the Nubians enter before emerging to slaughter them. The carnage was worst in the vaulted entrance hall. Yusuf’s men had sealed off the doors, trapping hundreds of Nubians before raining down arrows from the balconies above. The caliph’s face paled as they passed the bodies that were now stacked three and four deep on either side of the hall. They reached the door leading outside, and Yusuf’s men pulled it open. The square before the palace was packed with Nubian warriors waiting to welcome a victorious Al-Khlata.

  ‘Go and tell the Nubians that I live,’ Yusuf told the caliph. ‘Tell them that if they lay down their arms, their lives will be spared.’

  Al-Adid took a step outside, but then froze. ‘They will not listen. Al-Khlata was right: the Nubians are too many for you to overcome. Surrender, and I will guarantee your life.’

  ‘It is not my life you should be concerned about.’ Yusuf gripped the caliph’s arm and dragged him outside. His men followed and fanned out to form a line five deep atop the steps leading down to the square. ‘Tell them,’ Yusuf insisted, and pushed the caliph through the line.

  ‘The Caliph!’ someone in the square cried. ‘Al-Adid!’ The cry was taken up by other Nubians. ‘Al-Adid! Al-Adid!’

  The caliph raised his arms for silence. ‘Loyal troops!’ he shouted. ‘I know that you are ever faithful to your caliph. I wish for no further bloodshed. Lay down your arms and accept the rule of my appointed vizier, Saladin, and your lives will be spared!’

  At first there was stunned silence. Then one of the Nubians shouted, ‘Saladin is a Sunni dog! Where is Al-Khlata?’

  Yusuf stepped forward. ‘Al-Khlata is dead, as are your commanders! If you do not wish to join them, then you will surrender now!’

  ‘To hell with you!’ one of the Nubians replied. ‘Let’s kill the bastard!’ There was a roar of approval from the dark-skinned warriors, and they rushed up the steps. The caliph ran for the safety of the palace, while Yusuf’s men surged forward. The two lines met with the clash of steel.

  ‘You gave them a chance, sayyid,’ Saqr shouted over the din of battle.

  Yusuf nodded. He raised his voice and called to four mamluk archers who stood around a brazier filled with burning coals. ‘It is time! Signal Qaraqush!’

  The archers each took an arrow, the tips of which had been wrapped in cotton, and touched them to the coals. The arrows burst into flame, and the archers shot them high into the sky.

  Yusuf looked away from the arrows and towards the Nubian barracks, which lay beyond the southern wall. A trace of smoke appeared and hung in the blue sky before the wind swept it away. There was more smoke, then more until the sky south of the city had turned black. Amongst the Nubians there were shouts of consternation. Men from the rear ranks began to slip away, heading for the southern gate. Yusuf’s mamluks started to push the enemy line back down the steps as more and more Nubians fled. And then the enemy line dissolved as all the Nubians turned and ran for their barracks, desperate to save their families from the flames.

  Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Fetch the Caliph.’ When Al-Adid emerged from the palace, Yusuf strode down the steps to where horses had been brought. They rode to the Bab Al-Zuwayla, and Yusuf dismounted and led Al-Adid up the stairs to the walkway above the gate. The Nubian barracks lay a quarter of a mile to the south-west. They consisted of a low wall surrounding dozens of homes, which stood amongst a few large dormitories. All of it was burning. A wind rushed at Yusuf as the fire sucked in air to feed the roaring flames.

  A few hundred Nubians were fleeing south along the Nile. The rest were hurrying through the gate into the barracks, braving the terrible heat in order to save their families. Yusuf’s men closed off the gates behind them. Selim had positioned a hundred men at each gate, and more mamluks surrounded the walls, ready to strike down any who scaled them. The Nubian warriors took their wives and children from their homes, only to find themselves trapped.

  Yusuf felt ill, but he did not turn away. He was the ruler of Egypt now. He must show no weakness. He looked to the caliph, who had removed his veil and was retching over the side of the wall. It was the first time Yusuf had seen Al-Adid’s face. He was ghostly pale, a sparse beard covering fleshy cheeks.

  ‘Al-Khlata said you had an agreement, Caliph,’ Yusuf said. ‘Tell me true: did you have anything to do with this uprising?’

  Al-Adid’s eyes grew wide with fear. ‘No,’ he said, wiping traces of vomit from his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. He drew himself up, trying to recover his dignity. ‘How dare you accuse me!’

  ‘You were not contacted by Al-Khlata?’

  ‘I told you I had nothing to do with this sordid business.’

  ‘You swear it?’ Yusuf gripped the caliph’s arm and turned him towards the fire. ‘Look at that. Look, damn you! This is the price of treachery. The blood of those women and children is not on my head. It is on the heads of those who betrayed me.’

  The caliph looked away from the fire. ‘Let me go.’ His voice was small, childlike and pleading.

  Yusuf released him. ‘Take him back to the palace.’

  A mamluk led the caliph away, and a moment later Qaraqush joined Yusuf atop the gate. Together, they watched the barracks burn. Men and women were fleeing over the walls. They were cut down by waiting mamluks as soon as their feet hit the ground. Yusuf gripped the rough stone battlements as he listened to the terrified cries of women and children. Finally, he could bear it no longer. ‘That is enough. Qaraqush, tell Selim to allow the remaining Nubians to flee through the southern gate.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Do you want the blood of those children on your head?’

  ‘No, sayyid.’

  ‘Then go, and ride fast.’ Qaraqush hurried from the wall and then galloped out of the gate. Yusuf looked back to the fire and whispered: ‘Allah forgive me.’

  Yusuf stood at the window of his bedroom and looked out over the roofs of the city. Night had fallen, but the barracks still smouldered, turning the sky to the south red. Shamsa approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. She was naked but she walked with no shame, as if unaware that he could see her shapely legs and her small, firm breasts. They had been married that evening. Selim and Faridah had been the only witnesses. Yusuf had expected Faridah to be upset, but she seemed pleased that Yusuf had finally taken a wife. After the marriage contract had been signed, Yusuf had taken Shamsa back to his bedroom and made love to her with an urgency that surprised him. He had sought to lose himself in her, to drive the images of earlier that day from his mind.

  ‘Come back to bed,’ Shamsa told him. Yusuf did not move. ‘Are you well, Malik?’

  ‘I am your husband. You may call me Yusuf.’

  She stood beside him, her head against his shoulder, and together they watched the glowing sky to the south. ‘You did the right thing,’ she said at last.

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘The Nubians will never rise against you again, and the Franks are returning to Jerusalem.’

  ‘But the people will hate me.’

  ‘They will forgive you. The wants of the common people are simple: low taxes, justice, security. Give them that, and they will love you. I know. I was one of them once.’

  Yusuf glanced at her in surprise. He had supposed she had been raised in the home of an emir, surrounded by tutors and servants. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘My parents were farmers near Alexandria. They were killed five years ago, during the Frankish siege of the city. I had only just become a woman. I was to be married, but after the Franks—’ She broke off, and when she continued her voice was harder. ‘Afterw
ards I was not wanted for marriage.

  ‘I came to Cairo. An attractive young woman can make her living here easily enough. I won the heart of one of my—admirers. He was a mamluk, and he offered to marry me, despite my past. We were engaged only a short while before he introduced me to his commander. The commander wanted me for his own, but he did not have me long before Al-Khlata took note of me. I became his lover.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘You speak of it without shame.’

  ‘I did not choose my fate. Men can lose their honour and win it back in battle. A disgraced woman cannot. She must make her own way. I was nothing, and now I am a queen. What do I have to be ashamed of?’

  ‘You are no queen, Shamsa. I am not a king.’

  ‘You will be.’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘I am a Kurd and a Sunni, and hence doubly despised. Besides, viziers in Egypt do not last long, and the security and prosperity you spoke of take time.’

  ‘You can buy time. Look at that.’ She pointed across the room to an ornate table of dark wood. The top was inlaid with ivory in the shape of storks, horses and crocodiles. The sides were lined with gleaming gold. Yusuf had hardly noticed it before. ‘It is worth one hundred, perhaps two hundred dinars. The palace has hundreds as fine, if not finer. Give them to the people. Let each man in Cairo carry away as much as he is able.’

  ‘And what will I be left with?’

  ‘Your life. Every man who takes something from the palace will have a stake in your rule. What better way to ensure their loyalty?’

  Yusuf looked at her more closely. ‘I begin to think that Allah sent you to me for a reason, Shamsa.’

  ‘It was not Allah. I came to you on my own. You have greatness in you, yet you are noble, too. Al-Khlata would not have lost a moment of sleep over the fate of the Nubians. You are different.’ She kissed him on the cheek and then took him by the hand and pulled him away from the window. ‘Now come. Let us to bed.’

  Chapter 12

  JUNE 1171: JERUSALEM

  The loud crack of wooden sword blades knocking together sounded in the courtyard of Agnes’s home. John parried the thrust of young Baldwin, stepped inside the prince’s guard, and pressed the edge of his practice sword against his opponent’s neck.

  ‘You are dead, my lord.’

  ‘But you fought well,’ Agnes called from where she watched under a canopy.

  Baldwin scowled. In the two years since the debacle at Damietta, he had grown like a desert flower after the rain. He was ten now, and was tall and ungainly. He wore only breeches, and as he struggled to catch his breath, his ribs were visible under his pale skin. He showed no signs of his sickness, other than a half-dozen scars on his hands and forearms. His leprosy was slowly robbing him of feeling in his hands, and it made him prone to accidents. It also made handling a sword difficult, but Baldwin was determined to become a warrior. He and John practised several times a week. They had been meeting in Agnes’s home for the past two months, ever since Amalric and William left for Constantinople. The Emperor Manuel had been furious after he sent his fleet to Damietta, only for Amalric to withdraw when the Nubian uprising failed. Amalric needed his support more than ever now the Saracens held Egypt and Syria.

  ‘Again,’ Baldwin said.

  John wiped sweat from his brow. They had been training for nearly an hour, and at almost forty years of age John found the exercise was not as easy as it once had been, particularly in the morning when his old injuries ached. He rolled his stiff shoulders. ‘Perhaps you should rest, my lord.’

  Baldwin’s jaw clenched. John knew that the prince hated nothing more than when people made allowances for him because of his illness. The boy dealt with the many at court who shunned him because of his disease with surprising grace, but he could not abide being pitied. ‘Again,’ he repeated.

  John nodded and raised his wooden practice sword. Baldwin attacked immediately, lunging at John’s chest. John knocked the prince’s blade aside, and Baldwin spun left and brought his sword arcing towards John’s side. John parried and countered, swinging for the prince’s head. Baldwin knelt to duck the blow and then slashed upwards. John jumped backwards, but the tip of the wooden blade caught him high on his right side.

  ‘You are touched!’ Baldwin grinned. ‘I have won!’

  John felt his side. There would be a wicked bruise there tomorrow. He took a deep breath and forced himself to ignore the pain. ‘Your foes will be wearing mail,’ he told Baldwin. ‘They will hardly notice such a blow.’ He resumed his fighting stance.

  Baldwin’s knuckles whitened where he gripped his sword. He lunged again at John’s chest. This time, John sidestepped the blow and chopped at the prince’s side. Baldwin just managed to parry. John reversed his sword, swinging high. Baldwin ducked, and John brought his sword down to tap the prince’s head.

  ‘You are dead again, my lord.’

  Baldwin frowned as he rubbed his head. Then he grinned. ‘In battle, I will be wearing a steel helmet. I will hardly notice such a blow.’ The prince attacked with a series of quick lunges and John gave ground. Then Baldwin overextended himself. John sidestepped the blow and brought his wooden blade down on the back of the prince’s sword hand. Baldwin jumped back and raised his blade, ready to fight. But John had lowered his sword.

  ‘Why do you stop?’ the prince demanded.

  ‘My lord, you are bleeding.’

  Baldwin looked down at his right hand. There was a red welt on the back with blood trickling from it. His brow furrowed. ‘So I am,’ he murmured.

  Agnes hurried forward and took Baldwin’s injured hand in hers. ‘My dear, we must get this bandaged.’

  ‘It is nothing.’ Baldwin pulled his hand away.

  Agnes gripped his arm tightly. ‘It is not nothing. Bernard!’ Baldwin stood impatiently while a servant rubbed his wound with a sulphurous ointment and then wrapped a strip of linen around his hand.

  ‘You fought well today, Baldwin,’ John told him.

  ‘I lost,’ the prince replied, a bit petulantly.

  ‘Lady de Courtenay,’ a man called, and John turned to see a thin fellow dressed in expensive silk step into the courtyard. John recognized him as one of the courtiers in Agnes’s pay.

  Baldwin gave the man a haughty stare. The prince had little patience for such men. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

  ‘It is your father, Prince. The King has returned from Constantinople.’

  ‘How was your trip?’ John asked William. They stood in the waiting-room outside the king’s private audience chamber. Prince Baldwin was inside with his father.

  William rolled his eyes. ‘You have never seen such foolish luxury: dances in the hippodrome, luxury barges on the Bosporus, endless feasts, women whose lewd actions matched their ill-repute. It was no place for a priest.’

  John smiled. ‘And how do you know so much about these women’s lewd actions?’

  ‘Amalric would not stop boasting of them. He—’ William stopped short as he realized what John was implying. ‘I am offended, John. I am a priest, dedicated to Christ.’ He gave John a hard look. ‘We are not all of us slaves to earthly passions.’

  John did not want to start another argument about Agnes. ‘And how did the negotiations progress?’

  ‘The Emperor Manuel will send troops in the event that Nur ad-Din invades. And he has agreed to another joint attack on Egypt.’ William nodded to the doors to the chamber. ‘How is my pupil, Baldwin?’

  ‘Stubborn, tenacious, wilful. He will make a good king.’

  William met John’s eyes. ‘And Agnes?’ John looked away, and William lowered his voice so that the guards by the door would not hear him. ‘I told you to stop seeing her. She has married again, John.’

  John winced. Agnes had married Reginald of Sidon last year, but it had not changed anything between them. She said it was a mere formality, and indeed, she spent little enough time in Sidon.

  William sighed. ‘I suppose it does not matter. Her dalliance with you will be at an en
d soon enough. You are leaving Jerusalem.’

  Before John could question William, the doors to the audience chamber opened and the seneschal Miles stepped out. ‘Father John, the King wishes to speak with you. William, your presence is also requested.’

  John entered to find Amalric seated in a simple wooden chair on the far side of the room. John knelt before him. ‘God grant you joy, sire.’

  The king’s mouth was set in a hard line. Visiting with his son always upset him. No matter how often John told the king that leprosy was a disease, Amalric persisted in seeing it as a judgement from God, a judgement against him. ‘William has no doubt told you of our trip to Constantinople. Manuel has offered his fleet to support another invasion of Egypt.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  Amalric leaned forward. ‘I want you to go to Cairo, John. I had spies in the caliph’s court, but they are useless now. Saladin has dismissed all the courtiers. He depends only on his own men. I want you to be my eyes in Cairo. Tell me about Saladin’s plans. Let me know how many men he has, and when they are on the move. Find out where Egypt is weak.’

  John’s first thought was not of Cairo or Yusuf, but of Agnes. He did not want to leave her. Or Baldwin. He had grown close to the boy. He glanced at William. Was this his doing? ‘Why me, sire?’

  ‘You speak Arabic like a Saracen. You know their ways. More importantly, you were close to Saladin. You know people at his court, people who can give you information.’

  ‘And you are a priest,’ William added. ‘The Saracens respect holy men. When you travel, you will say that you are on a pilgrimage to visit the sites where the holy family stopped in Egypt. When you arrive you will join the brothers at a Coptic monastery in Mataria, just outside Cairo. The Coptic bishop in Jerusalem will prepare you a letter of introduction.’

  John frowned. ‘I owe Saladin my life, sire. I will not spy on him.’

  Amalric was suddenly stern. ‘I am your king. You will do as I command.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’