by Hight, Jack
Al-Fadil approached from the direction of the steps that led down to the square. ‘It is time, Malik.’
There was a murmur in the crowd when Yusuf came in sight. He walked to the edge of the steps and stopped, his father and Al-Fadil flanking him. His guard spread out behind.
Al-Fadil began to speak in a loud voice. ‘People of Cairo, welcome your new king, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, defender of the faith, the Malik Saladin!’
The mamluks who surrounded the square roared their approval. The people were not quite so enthusiastic, although many did cry out ‘Allah protect you!’ or ‘Allah bless our king!’ When the crowd had quieted, Al-Fadil unrolled a scroll of parchment and began to read, listing Yusuf’s many accomplishments and encouraging him to protect the people, to ensure that the lands thrived, to defend Islam and to act as the scourge of the Franks.
Yusuf’s gaze moved over the crowd but stopped suddenly. There was something familiar about one of the men standing in the second row. Perhaps it was the way he stood, or the set of his shoulders.
‘Malik!’ Al-Fadil had finished his speech and was whispering urgently to get Yusuf’s attention.
Yusuf straightened and took a deep breath as he prepared to address the crowd. ‘My people, I was not born a king,’ he began. ‘Allah has blessed me, but he has also given me a charge, to watch over his lands and his people as the shepherd watches over his flock. I will dispense justice. I will help the lands to thrive. And I will defend Egypt from its enemies. I was not born a king, but I shall rule as one!’ He paused to allow the crowd to cheer but received only quiet applause. They would cheer soon enough.
Yusuf gestured to the palace behind him. ‘A king does not need a home such as this. A king should live a simple life and devote every last fal to the good of the people. That is why I shall remain in the Vizier’s palace. For the palace of the Caliph – Allah grant him peace – does not belong to me. It belongs to you, the people of Cairo, who built it, who paid for its riches with the taxes taken from you. And so I give it back to you; the palace, and all that it contains!’
This time the roar of the crowd was deafening. Yusuf gestured to the men who held the people back, and they stepped aside, allowing the throng to rush forward. Yusuf stood calmly as the people raced up the steps. The crowd parted as it reached him. Grinning faces flashed by on his left and right: dark and light men, old and young, all driven by greed. Then there was a familiar face. Yusuf turned to follow, but he was already lost in the crowd rushing towards the palace.
Yusuf felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘We should return to the palace, Malik. It is not safe here.’
Yusuf nodded. He gave the crowd behind him a final searching glance and then shook his head. Surely John was not here. He had imagined it.
John pulled a fold of his keffiyeh over his mouth and nose as he managed to push his way out of the stream of people and took shelter behind one of the columns of the portico. He looked out from behind the column to where Yusuf was now heading down the steps to the square. John had hardly recognized his friend, dressed in brilliant gold, a jewelled sword at his side and a towering turban atop his head. He thought back to when he had first met Yusuf; he had been a skinny boy, bullied by his older brother. Even then, Yusuf had dreamed of greatness. Now he was a king.
John waited for Yusuf and his men to march from the square and then hurried down the palace steps. He headed north, in the same direction Yusuf had taken. John would have liked nothing more than to follow his friend to his palace, to celebrate this day with him. Instead he turned left down a broad street that led to the mamluks’ barracks. Their commander was now king, and they would be in the mood to celebrate. John would buy a few drinks, and in short order he would know everything there was to know about Yusuf’s rule and the state of his army. Then he would write to Jerusalem. Yusuf was his friend, but Amalric was now his lord. John had taken an oath before God, and he would not betray it.
Part II
The Will of Allah
Saladin was a deeply religious man, but he was not a fanatic, not when I knew him. He respected the Franks, and he believed that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews could share the Holy Land. All of that changed in the desert …
The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashqi
Chapter 13
MAY 1173: CAIRO
Yusuf lay on the floor with his second son, Al-Aziz, on his chest. The boy was a fat-cheeked babe, not yet one year of age. He smiled, and Yusuf grinned back. Yusuf’s first son, Al-Afdal, tottered across the room and shoved his brother off Yusuf’s chest. The babe began to cry. Yusuf lifted him back to his chest and gave Al-Afdal a hard look. ‘Why did you do that?’ The young boy’s lip trembled. He tottered away, tripped and fell. Shamsa scooped him up and began shushing him.
‘You baby him too much,’ Yusuf told her. ‘He will never learn to be a warrior.’
‘Then he shall live longer.’
Yusuf smiled at his wife. Since he became king two years ago, he had spent most of his time in the courts, in council meetings or training his troops. The pain in his gut had grown worse, and he often could not sleep at night. He treasured these rare moments with his family. Al-Aziz had ceased crying. He gurgled. Then he was sick on Yusuf’s chest. A nurse took the child and patted its back. A servant girl brought a wet cloth and wiped the vomit from Yusuf’s silk caftan. He smiled again. He might be a king, but here in the harem he was definitely not in charge. It was a nice feeling.
‘Saladin.’ It was Ayub, standing in the doorway. He held out a roll of paper. ‘A message from Nur ad-Din.’
Yusuf took the paper and went to the window to read. His brow furrowed.
‘What is it, Husband?’ Shamsa asked.
‘The Frankish king has taken men north to join the Emperor Manuel in a campaign in Cilicia. The Kingdom of Jerusalem is only weakly defended, and Nur ad-Din is planning an invasion. He will march from Damascus in one month. He has ordered me to attack from the south at the same time. Our first objective is Kerak.’ Yusuf scowled. ‘I had hoped the peace with the Franks would last.’
‘Then stay,’ Shamsa said. ‘You are no mere emir to come at Nur ad-Din’s beck and call. You paid back the two hundred thousand dinars he gave Shirkuh for the invasion of Egypt. You owe him nothing.’
Ayub glared at her and then turned back to Yusuf. ‘You should teach your wife to hold her tongue. Nur ad-Din made our family what it is. We owe him everything.’
Shamsa opened her mouth to retort, but Yusuf raised a hand, cutting her off. ‘My father is right. Nur ad-Din is my lord.’
‘He is a man obsessed with defeating the Franks. You have said so yourself. You do not need to sacrifice the happiness of your people to his bloodlust.’
Privately, Yusuf agreed. Still, Nur ad-Din was his king. ‘It is not your decision to make, Wife. If Nur ad-Din calls on my army, then we shall march.’
‘Shall I send messengers to gather the emirs in Cairo?’ Ayub asked.
‘I shall do it myself.’ Yusuf rose and went to the door. He looked back to his children. He would not have time to see them again until after the campaign. He went to Al-Aziz and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Allah yasalmak, young prince.’ He knelt and kissed Al-Afdal. ‘Be good, my son.’ Then, he rose and turned to his father. ‘Come. There is much to do.’
‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,’ John murmured as he knelt on the stone floor of his cell in the monastery in Mataria. He performed his morning prayers here instead of with the monks, who prayed in Coptic, a tongue he did not understand. John kissed the cross that hung from his neck and then rose and went to the window. Fifty mamluks were riding past the monastery on the way to Cairo. Men had been pouring into the city all week, joining the growing army camped along the Nile.
He went to his bed and flipped over the straw mattress. Monks in the monastery were not allowed private possessions, and although as a visiting priest he was given some dispensations, his mattress had to do for the rest
. He reached through the hole he had cut in the cotton covering and felt in the straw for a moment before pulling out a leather-bound notebook and his dagger. He belted the dagger about his waist and carried the notebook to his desk, where he began to sharpen a quill.
John had spent the previous night at his window counting the campfires of the Egyptian army. He added the number of men who had arrived today to his estimates and then dipped the quill in ink and marked the total: eight thousand men. Egypt was preparing for war. John would ride that day for Ascalon to send a message to Amalric. But first he needed to know where the army was headed.
He tucked the notebook into his saddlebag, which he slung over his shoulder. He left his room and walked through dim hallways to the quarters of the abbot, who sat reading at his desk. He looked up, and his eyes moved to John’s saddlebag. ‘You are leaving us, Father John?’ he asked in Arabic. John nodded. ‘I hope you found your stay profitable.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Father Abbot.’
‘You return to Jerusalem?’
John shrugged. Once he had delivered his message, he would wait in Ascalon for further orders. He might be called to Jerusalem or sent back to Cairo.
The abbot reached into a drawer in his desk and removed a stack of letters. ‘These are for the Coptic Bishop in Jerusalem. Will you see that they are delivered?’
‘Of course.’ John put the letters in a pocket of his saddlebag.
‘I wish you a safe journey. God be with you.’
‘May God grant you peace, Father Abbot.’
John left the monastery on a dusty path that cut through green fields before turning south to follow the Nile. The sun had just risen in the east, but the fishermen were already at work. John watched as a nearby boat pulled up a net where a dozen silver fish thrashed and squirmed. The road was also busy. Farmers called encouragement to the donkeys and mules that pulled their carts. Long lines of camels shuffled alongside the river, their drivers taking advantage of the morning cool to cover the last distance to Cairo. The tall white walls of the city were just visible in the distance.
By the time John reached the Al-Futuh gate the sun had risen, and the day had grown warm. ‘Morning, Father,’ said one of the guards, a thin man with a gold tooth.
‘Morning, Halif.’ John had passed through this gate every morning for nearly two years, and he knew most of the guards by name. ‘Will you be joining the army when it goes to war?’
‘No. I am stuck here on guard duty.’
‘My condolences. I hear the army is heading for the Kingdom,’ John guessed. ‘You shall miss your chance to enjoy the Frankish women.’
Halif shrugged. ‘I have three wives; women enough for one man.’
‘My condolences again,’ John said and continued into the city. So the army was headed for the Kingdom. But where? He meandered along narrow streets towards the north-west corner of the city, where Yusuf’s mamluks were quartered in a collection of buildings built around a square where they trained. The square was empty at this early hour. John stopped in the shade of a tree on the far right edge, near some merchants who were setting up stalls to sell fruit and water to the training men. John approached a merchant he knew well. Shihab was a bald man with ropey arms and an enormous potbelly over which hung a crucifix, identifying him as a Copt. ‘Salaam,’ John greeted him.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Ifranji.’
John selected a mango from Shihab’s cart and gave him two fals.
‘Three fals,’ Shihab corrected. John arched an eyebrow. ‘I am sorry, friend, but our lord Saladin, in his infinite wisdom, has raised the tax on all goods entering Cairo. The extra fal goes not to me but to him, to fund his war.’
John handed over the extra copper piece. It was a small price to pay for information. ‘Do you know where the army is headed?’ he asked. ‘I have family in Jerusalem. I fear for their safety.’
‘They are safe enough,’ Shihab replied. He lowered his voice. ‘A merchant friend of mine says the army will march on Kerak. It sits near the route from Damascus to Egypt, and Frankish raiders from the castle prey on the caravans. With it in our power, communication between Cairo and Damascus will be secured.’ Shihab smiled, revealing the broad gap between his front teeth. ‘Trade will prosper. Fortunes will be made.’
John handed him a piece of silver. ‘Thank you, friend.’ He had just started to walk away when two dozen mamluks entered the square. They wore protective leather vests and paired off to spar. John stopped to watch. He was particularly interested in the two mamluks who faced off only a few yards from him. One of the fighters looked to be about fifteen. He had only the beginnings of a beard, but he already had the broad chest and muscular arms of a man. His sandy-brown hair was light for a Saracen. His opponent was older and had the thick beard of a grown man. He was short and stocky.
The two mamluks were circling one another. Suddenly the younger man sprang forward. He slashed down, and his opponent parried the blow. The young mamluk kicked out, catching the bearded warrior in the gut. He stumbled backwards, and his younger opponent was on him immediately. The bearded warrior parried, but the light-haired mamluk spun and lashed out, catching him on the side. The older fighter backed away, clutching his ribs and holding his sword with one hand. His adversary attacked furiously, hacking down until he knocked his injured opponent’s sword from his hand. The young mamluk reared back to strike his now defenceless foe, but his sword arm was caught at the last second by Qaraqush.
‘Easy, Ubadah! You have won.’
Qaraqush released him, and Ubadah made the smallest of bows to his injured opponent, who threw down his practice sword and hurried from the square. He was clearly embarrassed, but there was no shame in losing to Ubadah. John had seen Ubadah defeat dozens of older warriors. He was speaking quietly with Qaraqush now, and John edged forward to hear.
‘You are a natural swordsman, Ubadah,’ Qaraqush said, ‘but you must learn patience.’
‘I won,’ the boy replied.
‘This time, yes. But the Franks are clever warriors, they will turn your aggression against you.’
‘I do not fear them. None have bested me yet.’
Qaraqush walked over to the practice sword the other mamluk had discarded and picked it up. ‘Then perhaps it is time.’
Ubadah laughed. ‘Are you jesting, greybeard? I do not wish to hurt you.’
Qaraqush did not reply. He swung the sword from side to side to test its balance and then stood straight, the weapon held casually in his right hand with its tip towards the earth. The mamluks nearby stopped fighting and turned to watch.
Ubadah raised his sword and began to circle Qaraqush. He feinted forward and then jumped back, but the old warrior did not so much as blink. Ubadah feinted several more times. Only Qaraqush’s eyes moved as he tracked his opponent. Ubadah circled behind Qaraqush, and this time he attacked in earnest, lunging for the small of Qaraqush’s back.
Qaraqush moved quickly, pivoting to his right and swinging his sword up to knock aside the attack. Ubadah spun left and brought his blade arcing towards his opponent, but Qaraqush stepped back so that the blade passed inches from his chest. Then he moved inside Ubadah’s guard and punched the boy hard in the shoulder. Ubadah was already off balance from his spin, and the blow toppled him. He rolled away and sprang to his feet, sword at the ready. But Qaraqush had not followed up his attack.
‘In a true battle you would now be dead,’ the grizzled mamluk said.
Ubadah’s forehead creased and his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. He attacked, his sword moving with blinding speed, hacking, lunging, slashing. Few could have withstood such an attack, but Qaraqush was a seasoned warrior. He made small movements of his blade, just enough to steer Ubadah’s attacks aside, and gave ground as he waited for his opponent to make a mistake. Then it came. Qaraqush was back-pedalling, and Ubadah lunged at his chest, overextending himself. Qaraqush brought his sword up, knocking Ubadah’s blade above his head. The boy bro
ught his sword slashing back down, but Qaraqush sidestepped and slammed his practice blade into Ubadah’s side. The boy cried out as he stumbled back holding his ribs. Qaraqush sprang forward and brought his blade down on the boy’s forearm.
‘Yaha!’ Ubadah cried as he dropped his sword. The blades were blunted but the blow still stung.
‘As I said, you must learn patience,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘There is no prize for dispatching your opponent quickly. Dead is dead, no matter how long it takes.’
‘My Uncle Saladin says I am the best young swordsman he has ever seen,’ Ubadah pouted as he gingerly touched his side. The protective leather jerkin would have softened the blow, but John guessed a deep bruise was already forming. ‘Better than him, even.’
‘You are just good enough to get yourself killed. That is enough for today.’
Qaraqush walked away, and the other mamluks went back to sparring. Ubadah stood red-faced, rubbing his sore wrist. The boy was upset, although John was not sure if it was because of his defeat or because Qaraqush had dressed him down before the other men. But Qaraqush was right. Ubadah was too aggressive. He fought as if he wished to prove something. The songs of poets were filled with tales of such men, of their glorious victories and their early deaths.
Ubadah looked up, and his eyes settled on John. Looking at the boy’s face was like looking into a mirror. He had the same arch of the brow as John, the same square jaw, the same thin nose. John turned away and casually asked for a cup of water from one of the merchants. From the corner of his eye he could see that Ubadah was still watching him. Surely the boy did not recognize him. It was nearly seven years since Ubadah had last seen him.
