Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Siege,’ Yusuf translated into Latin.

  ‘They lay siege. The Franks dashed themselves against the walls of the Holy City, but the mighty walls did not fall. Hunger and thirst plagued the Franks. In desperation, they marched—’

  ‘Barefoot.’

  ‘—barefoot around the walls of the city, calling on God for aid. On the walls, the defenders of Jerusalem also prayed to Allah, asking for victory. But it was not to be. The Franks built tall towers, constructed of wood from the very ships they had used to reach the Holy Land, and used these towers to break through the walls. The Holy City fell.’ John looked up with a grin. ‘I wish I had been there to see it. That was a glorious day.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘Read what comes next.’

  ‘The Fatimid emir fled with his army, and the Franks entered the city. The horror of their deeds will never be forgotten. Men, women, children: all were put to the sword. The slaughter was worst on the Temple Mount, where blood flowed in—in—’

  ‘The blood flowed in torrents,’ Yusuf supplied. He took up the narrative from memory. ‘Women were dragged from their homes and raped. Children were torn from their mothers’ arms and cast into the air to be impaled on the swords of the Franks. The Franks entered the Al-Aqsa mosque and killed all they found there, staining this holiest of places with blood.’ Yusuf’s voice shook with passion. ‘In the Jewish quarter, they forced the Jews into their houses of worship, which they then burned. Those who escaped the flames were cut down by waiting warriors. Smoke hung dark over the city. The cries of sorrow could be heard for miles. The emir, hearing them as he fled, fell down and wept, cursing himself for his failure.’

  John shook his head. ‘The writer is a Saracen. He lies.’

  Yusuf opened the second book that he had brought and read a nearly identical tale of carnage. John interrupted him. ‘What does this prove?’ Yusuf closed the text and handed it to John. ‘Gesta Orientalium Principum,’ John read from the title page. His eyes widened. The author was William of Tyre. ‘I have met this man. He is a priest.’

  ‘A Christian,’ Yusuf agreed.

  John said nothing. He had been told that the taking of Jerusalem was a glorious victory. The priest in Cherbourg who preached the second crusade had referred to the victory again and again, calling on the people of the town to take up the sword and surpass the feats of their forefathers. The priest had not spoken of slaughtered women and children, or of streets flowing with blood.

  ‘That is the nature of your great victory,’ Yusuf said. ‘The Christians are savages, animals.’

  ‘Not all of them. Our faith is one of love and forgiveness. It is Jesus who told us that if our enemy strikes us, we should not strike back, but offer him our other cheek.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘Your Jesus said much of great wisdom. He is counted amongst our prophets. But tell me: do the crusaders follow his teachings? They burn crops, kill women and children. They know nothing of medicine or literature. They do not even know enough to bathe. They are fanatics who blindly follow the Cross. Even you, John, you followed this pagan symbol from your home all the way to these lands. And why? To murder and pillage in the name of God. But your crusades are no business of God. Allah turns his back on such savage deeds.’

  John frowned. Much of what Yusuf said was true. In his months in Ayub’s household, he had learned that the Saracens were nothing like he had been told. They were cultivated, learned and frequently kind, even to their slaves. Compared to Yusuf and his family, the men and women that John had known in Tatewic did seem like dirty savages. And it was true that many of the men who had accompanied John on the crusade to Damascus had fought for spoils or adventure, not for God. Even he had not truly come east to fight for Christ. He had joined the crusade to escape his past. But that did not make him a savage.

  ‘The Christian knights are men of honour,’ he said. ‘Savages have no honour.’

  ‘Honour?’ Yusuf scoffed. ‘Your knights have the honour of men who sell their fellow soldiers for a sack of gold. I was at the emir’s court in Damascus during the siege. The emir paid your men to move from the orchards, and they did. Such men know nothing of honour.’

  John thought of the night long ago when he had seen Reynald in the clearing meeting with the Saracen. He thought of the heavy sack that Ernaut had carried. The facts fell into place. Reynald was the man the emir had bribed. That was why he had sent Ernaut to kill John: to eliminate the only witness to his treachery. John’s jaw clenched in anger.

  ‘Your knights are brave,’ Yusuf continued. ‘But it is the bravery of animals, not of men. They fight to satisfy their appetites, not for honour, and certainly not for God.’

  John shook his head. ‘There are men of honour among us.’ He put the book aside and rose, brushing straw from his pants. He stepped past Yusuf and climbed down the ladder.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Yusuf demanded as John headed for the stable door.

  ‘I have had enough for today.’

  John poured water over the back of the last of the five horses that Ayub’s mamluks had taken hunting that day. He had avoided Yusuf for the past week, ever since their lesson in the hayloft. Once Yusuf had come to seek him out early in the day while he was rubbing down one of the horses, but John had ignored him. He was not yet ready to confront Yusuf. His time in Baalbek had opened his eyes to another way of life. It was raising uncomfortable questions about much that he had taken for granted. Yusuf had given voice to those questions, and now all that had been so certain – John’s faith, the righteousness of his cause, the superiority of the Christians – seemed suspect.

  John finished washing the sweat from the horse’s back and proceeded to scrape its coat clean. When he was done, he patted the horse a final time, grabbed his tunic from where it was slung over the stall door, and left the stables. He was passing through the narrow space between the east side of the villa and the outer wall when he heard a high-pitched giggle and froze, his pulse quickening. He looked about and saw Zimat, peeking out through the shutters of one of the rooms in the villa.

  ‘Salaam,’ John said as he hurriedly pulled on his tunic.

  ‘Salaam. I liked you better with your shirt off,’ Zimat added in Arabic. ‘I have never seen a Frank shirtless.’

  John’s eyebrows shot up. He approached the window. ‘Haven’t you?’

  Zimat’s golden cheeks flushed crimson, but she did not move away. ‘You—you speak our tongue,’ she managed. ‘How?’

  ‘I am not a total savage.’

  ‘I never said you were.’

  ‘But it is what you think of us, is it not?’ John insisted. ‘We are fierce warriors, monsters, savages.’

  ‘That is what I thought,’ Zimat admitted. ‘But you are different.’ She met his eyes. ‘You saved me.’

  John looked away. ‘I only did what any knight would do.’

  ‘But you risked your life. You were lucky not to have been executed.’

  ‘I would do it again.’

  ‘I know.’ Zimat turned away. ‘Someone is coming,’ she whispered as she looked back to John. ‘I must go.’ But she did not move. John stared into her dark eyes, and she met his gaze without blinking. He leaned forward to kiss her. Zimat slapped him. ‘How dare you!’ she snapped and slammed the shutters closed.

  John touched his cheek where she had slapped him, and a grin spread across his face. For just before the shutters had slammed shut, he had noticed that Zimat was smiling.

  Yusuf sidestepped a punch from his younger brother Selim and grabbed his arm, spinning Selim around and placing him in a headlock. Selim struggled for a moment, then gave up and went limp. ‘Never over-commit against a larger opponent,’ Yusuf told his brother, then released him. The two boys stood with their hands on their hips, breathing hard. Yusuf wiped the sweat from his forehead as he looked up to the hazy-blue autumn sky, framed by the tall walls of the temple. The sun had sunk behind the west wall. They had been training for well over an hour.

  ‘You did well
today,’ Yusuf told Selim. ‘You can go.’

  ‘You always send me away early,’ Selim pouted. ‘I want to stay.’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘What I do now, I must do alone, Brother.’

  Reluctantly, Selim trudged out of the temple. Yusuf had brought him there every day for the past week. If John would not help him, then Yusuf would find other ways to train. Selim was still only a boy, but sparring with him was better than nothing. And teaching, Yusuf had found, forced him to think more carefully about what he was doing. Together, they practised swordplay and afterwards trained for hand-to-hand combat. Each day after Yusuf sent Selim home, he ended with the hardest exercise of all.

  Yusuf took a drink from the waterskin, then walked to the centre of the temple and sat cross-legged on the worn stone floor. ‘Amânt-Allah,’ he whispered as he closed his eyes. God protect me. The first time he had tried this exercise, he triggered an attack that left him gasping on the floor of the temple until he lost consciousness. His other efforts had been only slightly more successful. Still, he would keep trying until he conquered his weakness. Yusuf closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. He counted silently: ‘Wahad, tnain, tlâti, arb’a, khamsi.’ As he used up the air in his lungs, he felt the familiar panic. He could hear the thumping of his pulse in his temples and his heart began to race. He kept counting, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘Tlâtîn!’ he whispered as he reached thirty and allowed himself to breath. But he did not gasp for air, even though his lungs burned as if he were suffocating. He forced himself to breath slowly and evenly. Gradually the feeling of suffocation faded. Yusuf grinned in triumph. For the first time, he had fought off one of his attacks.

  Yusuf rose, slung the waterskin over his shoulder, and left the temple, skipping down the stone steps. He dodged through the crumbled remains of the temple complex and entered the street leading to his home. There, he slowed his pace, enjoying the perfect weather. The heat of summer was gone, but the winter rains had not yet come. It was the best of seasons, and the street was filled with men working outdoors and women in veils chatting as they kneaded dough or sewed. Yusuf weaved between them as he walked up the hill to his home. The guard at the front gate nodded as he entered.

  Yusuf passed through to the inner courtyard of the villa, where he washed his head, face and arms in the shallow pool. Then he went to his room to collect the book of poetry that sat beside his bed. There was still time for some reading beneath the lime trees before evening prayers. He headed down a shadowy hallway and into the kitchen, where he sneaked a piece of khubz – hot flatbread – from the kitchen slave, who complained half-heartedly. Yusuf popped the warm bread in his mouth and stepped out into the courtyard. John, was waiting just outside the kitchen door.

  ‘What do you want?’ Yusuf asked as he brushed past without stopping.

  John fell in behind Yusuf. ‘I wish to apologize. It was the truth in your words about my people that angered me, not you.’

  Yusuf stopped and turned to face John. ‘Then why did you avoid me?’

  ‘I did not wish to hear what you had to say, but ignoring you will not change the truth: many of my people are indeed savage, as you say. But I will show you that some of us have honour.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘Very well, come with me. I was just going to read from the Hamasah.’ Yusuf held up the thick book and smiled. ‘It will be an ideal lesson. There is nothing less savage than poetry.’

  Yusuf led the way to the stable and up into the hayloft. He opened the Hamasah and leafed through the pages. ‘I will read,’ he said. ‘Listen carefully and tell me what the poems mean to you. This one is called the “Song of Maisuna”. She was a queen who married young. Listen.’ He turned to the book:

  The russet suit of camel’s hair,

  With spirits light, and eye serene,

  Is dearer to my bosom far

  Than all the trapping of a queen.

  The humble tent and murmuring breeze

  That whistles thro’ its fluttering wall,

  My unaspiring fancy please

  Better than towers and splendid halls.

  The rustic youth unspoilt by art,

  Son of my kindred, poor but free,

  Will ever to Maisuna’s heart

  Be dearer, pamper’d fool, than thee.

  Yusuf looked up. ‘What does this mean to you?’

  ‘The queen is unhappy. She misses the simplicity of her home, of her people. She despises the luxurious life of her husband, the king. She feels trapped.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘This poem is famous amongst my people because it speaks of a truth: luxury makes one weak. The simplicity of the nomad, with only his tent and his camels, is honoured above the wealth of princes.’

  ‘Yet your princes live in great palaces.’

  ‘Yes, because such things are necessary to rule, but the wise ruler lives as a nomad within his grand halls.’

  ‘I am sure,’ John laughed. ‘And do nomads recite poetry?’

  ‘Of course, what better way to pass the cold nights in the desert?’ Yusuf flipped through the pages of the book. ‘Ah, this is one of my favourites. A love poem to ward off the chill desert night’:

  Leila, whene’er I gaze on thee

  My altered cheek turns pale,

  While upon thine, sweet maid, I see

  A deep’ning blush prevail.

  Leila, shall I the cause impart

  Why such a change takes place?

  The crimson stream deserts my heart,

  To mantle on thy face.

  Yusuf looked up to see that John’s tanned face had flushed crimson. Yusuf laughed. ‘John! You’re blushing.’

  ‘I am not,’ John said, looking away.

  ‘You are, my friend. Has some maid captured your heart?’

  John refused to meet Yusuf’s eye. ‘I am a slave,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘Slaves may marry if their master approves. And perhaps one day you will be free.’ He leaned closer to John and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Tell me. Who is it? A slave girl?’ John shook his head. ‘A girl from town, then,’ Yusuf said, grinning. ‘You must be careful, John. Her father will not take kindly to the attentions of a Frankish slave.’

  But John shook his head once more. ‘It is not a girl from the village.’

  The smile fell from Yusuf’s face. ‘I see.’ There was only one free woman in the villa who might have captured John’s heart. ‘Zimat,’ Yusuf said, his brow furrowed. ‘She is promised to a friend of mine, Khaldun. They will be married in three years, when he is a man.’

  ‘I did not know.’

  ‘Even if she were not promised, you could never be with her.’ Yusuf’s voice was hard. ‘It is forbidden. Put her from your mind. If you so much as touch my sister, you will die.’ He met John’s eyes. ‘I will kill you myself.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Let us continue. You read the next one.’ Yusuf handed the heavy book to John, who bent close to the page, biting his lip as he puzzled out the words of a poem about the incompatibility of pride and achieving true glory. Yusuf feared that John would not heed his warning. He was headstrong, and Zimat, well, she had always been unmanageable, unwilling to stay in her place as a woman. Yusuf had heard Ayub say more than once that he could not wait to marry her off so that protecting her honour would no longer be his concern. Yusuf feared she would do something foolish, and it would cost John his life.

  John scooped up a shovelful of manure and trampled straw from the stall floor and dumped it in a wheelbarrow. Yusuf had taken his friend Khaldun and several mamluks on a hunt, leaving John to muck out the stables. He added another shovelful to the wheelbarrow and paused for a break, leaning forward on the shovel.

  ‘Salaam.’

  John turned to see Zimat, dressed in a loose white caftan and wearing a veil. ‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered, looking past her to make sure that they were alone. ‘You should go.’

  Zimat did not move. ‘You are a fickl
e man,’ she said as she ran one of her slender fingers along the edge of the stall next to her. ‘You did not seem so eager to be rid of me the last time we met.’

  ‘I mean it,’ John insisted, setting aside the shovel and wiping his grimy hands on his tunic. ‘If we are seen together, then I will be beaten, or worse.’

  ‘Then we had best not be seen.’ Zimat stepped past John and inside the empty stall that he had been cleaning. John hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he hissed. ‘Yusuf has forbidden me to see you.’

  ‘I will not be ruled by my brother.’

  ‘And what of your father?’

  Zimat frowned. ‘My mother says that men are all the same. They use us for their pleasure and expect us to serve them. They never think of our desires. My father is that way. He cannot wait for me to be married so that he can strengthen an alliance and obtain my bride wealth. He cares nothing for my feelings.’

  ‘Then you do not wish to marry the man to whom you have been promised?’

  ‘I have never met Khaldun, but he is a man like any other. He will treat me as property. But you are different.’ She met John’s eyes. ‘I never thanked you properly for saving me from Turan.’

  ‘I told you, I need no thanks.’

  ‘But I wish to thank you nonetheless.’ Zimat raised her veil and smiled shyly, her eyes downcast. She took a step towards him, close enough so that John could smell her sweet, spicy scent. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He knew he should walk away. Yusuf could return at any moment. But John did not move.

  ‘Have you ever kissed a woman?’ Zimat whispered.

  John felt himself flush red. ‘There—there was a girl in England . . .’

  ‘Did you love her?’ Zimat pouted.