Kingdom

by Hight, Jack

‘I want details.’

  ‘On his way to Cairo from Damascus, Najm ad-Din stopped in Yemen. There are many loyal to the Fatimids there, men who fled Egypt when the Caliph died. He recruited us, brought us to an apartment in Cairo and told us to wait. Then we did not see him for months. We thought he had changed his plans until last week when he came to us. He told us how to enter the palace and where to find you. He said that if we killed you, he would place one of the Fatimids back on the throne.’

  Yusuf looked to Al-Mashtub. ‘See that this one dies quickly. Crucify the others outside the northern gate.’ He turned to Saqr, who stood at the door. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf left the torture chamber and crossed the palace to his father’s quarters. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he nodded to Saqr, who pushed the door open.

  Ayub sat across from the door, bent over a lap desk as he wrote by the light of a single candle. He looked up as Yusuf entered. Ayub’s face was drawn, his eyes red. He placed his quill aside, took the piece of paper on which he had been writing, and held it to the candle flame. As it began to burn, he rose and dropped it out of the window behind him. Then he turned to face Yusuf.

  ‘Alhamdulillah. I am pleased to see you are well, my son.’

  ‘Are you, Father?’ Yusuf looked to Saqr. ‘Leave us.’ Saqr departed and drew the door closed behind him. Yusuf turned back to his father. ‘Were you writing to Nur ad-Din? Congratulating your lord on my death?’

  ‘I only wished to protect you, Yusuf.’

  ‘By sending assassins to kill me in the night?’

  ‘You would have died with your honour intact.’

  ‘Honour? That is all you care about, Father!’

  ‘Without honour we would be little better than animals,’ Ayub replied softly. ‘I thought I taught you that much, Yusuf, if nothing else.’

  ‘You taught me that you care more for Nur ad-Din than for your own family. You taught me that nothing I ever did would be good enough to earn your love!’

  ‘That is not true.’

  Yusuf opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. Across the room a single tear had fallen from his father’s eye to zigzag down his weathered cheek. Yusuf had never seen his father cry. He had not thought him capable of it.

  ‘I am sorry, Yusuf,’ he said. ‘But loyalty is the most important virtue, even more than love.’

  ‘And what of your loyalty to me? I am your king.’

  ‘And I am your father.’ Ayub straightened and some of the old fire returned to his grey eyes. ‘Why would you not do as I asked? You have always been too headstrong.’

  Yusuf did not reply. He did not know which he desired more: to forgive his father or to order his death. He was suddenly very tired. He wished only to be gone from here. He turned to leave.

  ‘Son!’ Ayub called, and Yusuf turned back. ‘I—’ His father met his eyes. ‘I understand what you must do. I only ask that you let me die an honourable death. Do not shame me. And do not let your mother know what I have done.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Yusuf was on his knees, prostrate so that his forehead touched the carpet beneath the domed ceiling of the Al-Azhar mosque. Morning prayers had ended, but Yusuf remained, surrounded by members of his private guard. He whispered the same words again and again. ‘Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory. Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory—’

  He heard soft footsteps on the carpet and felt someone touch his shoulder. He looked up to see Qaraqush. ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Your father had an accident while hunting. He fell from his horse and broke his neck.’

  Yusuf rose. ‘He is dead?’

  ‘In a coma. The doctor Ibn Jumay does not expect him to live long.’

  Yusuf felt a tightening in his chest. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. It was like one of his childhood fits when no matter how much he gasped the air would not come. He had not suffered such a spell in years. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly and steadily. The fit passed, but the heaviness in his chest remained.

  Yusuf rode at a gallop back to the palace, where he went straight to his quarters. Shamsa was waiting in the antechamber. Yusuf strode past without a word and went to his bedroom. She began to enter after him, but he turned to block her way.

  ‘Leave me be! I am not to be disturbed. I want food and water brought to my chambers, but nothing else. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, habîbi.’

  Yusuf closed the door and sank to the floor. Tears began to form, but then he thought of something his father had said to him long ago: ‘Do not cry, boy. Only women cry.’ Yusuf shook the thought from his head. He tried to weep, but no tears would come.

  Yusuf sat cross-legged in his bedroom. His hair was unkempt and his robe filthy, but he was oblivious to his appearance. A volume of the Hamasah lay open before him. He knew all of the poems by heart. How many afternoons had he spent in the shade of the lime trees behind his childhood home, lost in tales of love and glory? Yusuf smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of his father, his mouth set in a thin line of disapproval as he watched his son read. Yusuf closed the book and set it aside.

  The door to the room creaked open. ‘I said I was not to be disturbed!’ Yusuf snapped.

  Shamsa entered. ‘It has been two weeks, Yusuf. You have a kingdom to rule.’

  ‘I am not fit to rule,’ he muttered.

  Shamsa sat across from him. ‘You look tired,’ she said and reached out to touch his hair, which was now flecked with grey.

  Yusuf pushed her hand away. ‘Go, Shamsa. I wish to be alone.’

  She did not move. ‘You did the right thing, Yusuf.’

  ‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

  ‘He tried to have you killed. He had to die.’

  Yusuf felt the heaviness settle on his chest again. It was never far away. ‘I told you to go.’ He rose and went to the window, his back to Shamsa. ‘Why will you not leave me in peace?’

  She approached and gently touched his shoulder. This time, Yusuf did not push her away. She wrapped her arms around him, embracing him from behind.

  ‘What sort of man am I, Shamsa?’

  ‘A great man.’

  ‘I do not wish to be great.’

  ‘You have no choice. Allah has chosen you.’

  ‘I wish he would choose someone else.’ Yusuf stared out of the window for a long time. Finally he turned to face Shamsa. ‘He was my father.’ Yusuf’s lip trembled. He could feel himself losing control. ‘I—I wish—’ Words failed him, and he buried his face in her shoulder and began to sob. It was the first time he had cried since his father’s death. Shamsa held him and gently stroked his hair.

  Finally the tears stopped flowing. ‘To rule, you must make painful decisions,’ Shamsa whispered in his ear. ‘It is the price for greatness, Yusuf.’

  Yusuf stepped back from her. The weight on his chest had vanished, and now he stood straight. ‘Some prices are too high. I should not have killed him. I am a warrior, not an assassin.’

  ‘You are a king.’

  ‘And I shall rule as a virtuous king, or I shall fall.’

  She gazed into his eyes for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, but first you must have a bath.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You are filthy.’

  Yusuf looked down at his soiled robes. Was it really two weeks since he had bathed, since he had left his apartments?

  ‘And afterwards you will hold court,’ Shamsa continued. ‘Turan and Selim are worried. We receive news daily that Nur ad-Din is gathering more troops. The emirs need you to reassure them.’

  ‘Have my councillors gather in the council chamber,’ Yusuf told her. ‘But first, bring me Ibn Jumay.’

  Yusuf had bathed. His hair had been oiled and his beard trimmed. He sat in a clean robe when Ibn Jumay entered his study. The doctor bowed. ‘Saladin.’

  Yusuf motioned for him to sit. ‘Thank you for coming, my friend. You are well?’

  ‘My practice
is busy.’

  ‘I hope you have time for one more patient.’

  Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘I cannot, Yusuf.’

  ‘I promise you that I will not sacrifice virtue for power. Not again.’

  ‘And what of Nur ad-Din? The rumour in the streets has it that he is marching on Egypt, and he means to have your head.’

  ‘If he wants me dead, then so be it. I merit death for what I have done.’

  Ibn Jumay’s eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘You taught me that there are more important things than power, than life even. If I die, Nur ad-Din will unify Egypt and Syria. The Franks will be forced to make peace, and if they do not, he will defeat them and drive them from Jerusalem. If I fight, then I will bring nothing but suffering to my own people. Peace will be impossible.’ Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I will present myself to Nur ad-Din and submit to his judgement.

  ‘He will have you killed.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘I fear I will not have need of your services for long. What do you say, old friend? Will you stand by me in my last days?’

  Ibn Jumay bowed. ‘It would be my honour.’

  Chapter 15

  MARCH 1174: JERUSALEM

  John pulled his cloak tight about him as he stepped into the chill air atop one of the towers of the palace of Jerusalem. Winter had passed but the mornings were still cold. John could see the breath of Cephas – a stooped Syrian Christian with a curly grey beard – as he pottered about the cages of the royal dovecote. He had explained to John that the pigeons could cover more than five hundred miles in a single day and find their way home from as far off as Constantinople.

  ‘Twelve today,’ Cephas said as handed John a box filled with capsules, each of which John knew held a tiny scroll of paper.

  ‘Thank you, Cephas.’ John carried the box to the palace chancellery. Baldwin was already seated at the table. Ever since John had returned from Kerak last July, Baldwin had been helping him sift through the correspondence that came to the palace. William felt that it was a good way for him to learn statecraft. John handed him six of the capsules and then sat on the opposite side of the table and unrolled a scroll. He squinted as he read the minuscule Arabic script.

  It was a detailed report from one of the Kingdom’s spies in Damascus. The spy provided the exact number of pack animals the army had gathered; the most accurate predictor of the size of an army. ‘Nur ad-Din has raised an army of ten thousand,’ John said to Baldwin.

  Baldwin looked up from the report he was reading. The young prince’s disease had advanced. He now had small red lesions on his forehead, and his eyelashes and eyebrows had fallen out, giving him a strange appearance. Other than that, he looked like a thinner version of his blond, square-jawed father. ‘Such a force could threaten Jerusalem,’ the prince noted.

  ‘Jerusalem is not its target. Our source says that Nur ad-Din is headed for Egypt.’

  Baldwin frowned. ‘That is odd.’ The prince held up a scroll. ‘I have a report from Cairo here. The Egyptians are making no preparations for war. Indeed, Saladin has recently sent five thousand of his best men out of the country.’ He glanced at the parchment he had been reading. ‘They appear to be headed to Yemen under the command of his brother, Turan.’

  It was John’s turn to frown. He took the paper from Baldwin’s hand. The prince had not misread it. ‘Why would Saladin do such a thing?’

  ‘It is disappointing indeed. My father had hoped that the war between Nur ad-Din and Saladin would be long and bloody. While they battled both Egypt and Syria would have been ours for the taking.’ The prince bit at his thumbnail while he thought. ‘Perhaps we can still take Damascus while Nur ad-Din is on campaign in Egypt.’ He made a note on one of the papers before him and then cursed as he mishandled the quill and a blob of ink marred the page. The numbness in his hands made writing difficult. In anger, he snapped the quill in two. John handed him another, but the prince waved it away. ‘It is not the quill that troubles me,’ he said peevishly. ‘I cannot concentrate today.’

  ‘Why?’ John asked, although he could guess the reason well enough.

  ‘She is here.’

  John did not need to ask who ‘she’ was. Baldwin’s mother, Agnes de Courtenay, had arrived in Jerusalem the previous day. It was her first visit to the city since John’s return from Egypt.

  ‘I wish to see her,’ Baldwin said.

  John shook his head. ‘Your father would not approve.’

  ‘That did not stop you before.’

  ‘You were a child then, and disobedience in a child is easily forgiven. You are thirteen now, Baldwin. I can no longer allow you to flout your father’s commands.’ That was only part of the truth. He had departed Jerusalem without a word to Agnes, and she was not the sort of woman to suffer such a slight lightly.

  Baldwin rose. ‘I am a prince, John. I do not need your permission.’

  John watched the prince leave and then turned back to the report he had been reading. The curving Arabic letters swam before his eyes. He could not help but think of Agnes, of her green eyes and her high musical laugh. While in Egypt, he had missed her more than he cared to admit. He rose and hurried after Baldwin, catching up with the prince as he exited the palace grounds.

  Baldwin grinned. ‘I knew you would want to see her.’

  ‘It is my duty to look after you, my lord.’

  Baldwin continued grinning, but said nothing. They walked in companionable silence to the Syrian quarter. The door to Agnes’s home opened before John even knocked. The same sallow, thin manservant stood in the doorway. He bowed when he saw Baldwin. ‘My lord.’ He nodded to John. ‘Father.’

  The servant led them through the tiled entryway and into the courtyard. Agnes met them there. She was nearly forty now, but she had lost none of her beauty. Her tight-fitting blue silk caftan displayed her slim figure to advantage, and the golden hair that fell down below her shoulders showed not a trace of grey.

  ‘My son!’ she cried as she embraced Baldwin. Then she held him at arm’s length. ‘You are so tall! Like your father. And John!’

  Agnes approached as if to embrace him, but John bowed and kissed her hand. ‘My lady.’

  The corners of her eyes crinkled in a way that John knew meant she was amused. ‘So good to see you again, Father,’ she said. ‘You must tell me all about your adventures in Egypt.’

  ‘There is little to tell, my lady.’

  ‘I am sure that is not true.’ Agnes went back to Baldwin and put her arm around him. ‘You are a man now, my son.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘And strong. You must be a fierce warrior.’

  Baldwin blushed. ‘I am adequate.’

  ‘I am sure you are more than that.’

  ‘My hands—’

  Agnes pressed her lips together in a thin line. ‘I’ll hear none of that. The battlefield is no place for excuses.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  She smiled, all good cheer again. ‘Perhaps you can show me later. I have kept your practice swords. Now come inside. I wish to hear of your studies, your training, and—’ she winked ‘—your loves.’

  Baldwin flushed scarlet. ‘Mother!’

  ‘Ah, I see that you do have something to tell.’

  John followed them inside and sat quietly while Agnes talked with her son, plying him with questions, flattering him, offering advice. The boy had not seen her in three years, yet he fell under her spell immediately. She had that power over men. Her attention was like the sun, and they longed to bask in its warmth.

  Finally, Agnes sent Baldwin away to retrieve the wooden practice swords and turned her green eyes on John. ‘You have been very quiet, John.’

  ‘I have little to say, my lady.’

  She pouted playfully. ‘You could say that you have missed me, that you are overjoyed to see me again.’

  ‘I have, and I am.’

  ‘You do not look it. You look as if you are frightened of me.’

  ‘I am that, too.’

  She gen
tly touched his arm. ‘There is no need to be frightened.’

  John could feel the hairs on his arm stand up as she ran her fingers lightly from his elbow to his hand. ‘What brings you to Jerusalem, my lady?’

  She smiled slyly. ‘Would you believe me if I said it was you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That is what I missed most about you, John. You are so refreshingly blunt, so unlike the other men in my life. My husband Reginald is a bore.’ Her smile faded, and she became serious. ‘Baldwin will be of age soon. That is why I am here, to help him become king.’

  ‘Why should he need your help? He is Amalric’s son and heir.’

  ‘Amalric does not plan for Baldwin to rule. He believes him to be cursed by God. Baldwin’s sister Sibylla is almost of an age to marry. It is her child that will take the throne, not Baldwin.’

  John frowned. ‘But William—’

  ‘William agrees with Amalric.’ Agnes met his eyes. ‘We both want what is best for Baldwin, John. William does not. When Amalric is gone, you will have to decide whose side you are on. You could go far, if you would let me help you. You could be patriarch, even.’

  ‘Amalric is younger than I. He will be king for many years yet.’

  ‘Even kings die.’ Agnes cocked her head at the sound of Baldwin’s footsteps approaching down the hall. ‘Say nothing of this to him. The boy does not know.’ She clapped her hands with pleasure as Baldwin entered. ‘Ah! You have found the swords. Come, John. You must show me what my son has learned.’

  MAY 1174: CAIRO

  Yusuf paced back and forth before the window in his bedroom, a crumpled scrap of paper in his hand. The message had been sent by pigeon from one of his spies in Damascus. Nur ad-Din’s army had left the city two days ago. Yusuf had hoped to stay in Cairo until Shamsa delivered, but he could delay no longer. He would leave tomorrow to meet his fate.

  ‘Please, stop pacing and sit down,’ Shamsa said as she patted the bed beside her. She lay propped up by pillows. Her loose silk robe was untied in front, leaving her swollen belly exposed. Yusuf came and sat beside her. He could see movement under the skin of her stomach. This child had been more active than the others. He – Yusuf already thought of him as another son – seemed eager to enter the world.