by Hight, Jack
‘No. She—she was not half so beautiful as you.’
A smile played at the corner of Zimat’s mouth. ‘You are not so terrible yourself,’ she said and kissed John. Her lips were soft and dry. Without thinking, John put his arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. He held her for a long moment, and then she pulled away.
‘I should not have done that,’ Zimat said, her eyes now wide with fear. She looked down at her white caftan, stained brown where John had held her. ‘My caftan—what will I tell Mother?’
John reached out to comfort her and left a brown smudge on her cheek. ‘I—I’m sorry,’ he mumbled as he wiped his hand again on his tunic.
‘I should leave,’ Zimat said as she pulled her veil over her face.
‘You don’t have to go.’ John stepped closer, but she slipped past him and out of the stall. Perhaps it was for the best, John thought as he watched her hurry from the stable. Then, he closed his eyes and touched his lips. Despite the risk, he longed to see her again.
‘Lighter armour is better,’ Yusuf insisted. He was sitting across from John in the hayloft. The book they had been reading – another history of the first crusade – had been laid aside. ‘Our warriors can fire arrows from horseback as well as fight with sword or lance. They can attack and retreat swiftly. Your knights are slow and clumsy.’
‘But they are also strong,’ John replied. ‘Your arrows cannot penetrate their armour. And when the knights charge as a group, nothing can stand up to them.’
‘Then why stand?’
‘But if you retreat, you are lost.’
‘Not necessarily.’ An idea struck Yusuf, and he leaned forward, gesturing excitedly. ‘Our warriors are more mobile. What if they retreat before your charge, then circle back around on each side, outflanking you?’
John said nothing, his forehead creased in thought. ‘It might work,’ he grumbled.
‘It will work!’
‘Yusuf!’ They both looked to the stable entrance. Ayub was standing there, holding his horse by the bridle. Turan stood behind him, along with half a dozen mamluks. They had returned from Aleppo. ‘What are you doing with that slave?’ Ayub demanded. ‘Come down here, both of you!’ The two boys scrambled down the ladder and stood straight-backed before Ayub. He glared at Yusuf for a moment, then turned his hard grey eyes on John. ‘You have neglected your duties, slave. You will be whipped, but first, care for our horses.’ He handed the bridle to John, who led the horse into its stall and began to unsaddle it. The mamluks also led their horses into their stalls, leaving Yusuf to face Ayub and Turan.
‘Please, Father’ Yusuf started. ‘It was I who took the slave from his duties.’
Ayub turned towards his son. ‘And why was that? What were you doing in the loft with that slave?’ Behind Ayub, Turan snickered.
‘He is teaching me to fight. In return, I am teaching him to read and speak Arabic.’
‘Teaching him to read?’ Ayub asked, his eyes wide. ‘He is a slave, and a dangerous one at that. You should not even speak to him! Go to your room and stay there until I decide what is to be done with you.’ Yusuf began to leave, but had hardly stepped out of the stables when Ayub’s voice called him back. ‘Wait! Come back here!’ Yusuf returned to stand in front of his father. ‘You say the slave is teaching you to fight?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘You will show me.’
Ayub turned to his men. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered. ‘You too, Turan.’ He looked to John. ‘Come here, slave! You will fight my son. Fight to the best of your ability. If I suspect you are holding back, then I shall whip you.’
‘Yes, m’allim,’ John said. He turned to face Yusuf and dropped into a fighting crouch. Ayub backed away, and Yusuf and John began to circle a few feet apart, their fists raised. The space was tight, a square of hard-packed earth ten feet by ten, with stalls close on either side. Yusuf knew the close confines would give his larger opponent an edge. If John got a hold of him, then the fight would be over before it began.
John sprang forward and threw a vicious left hook at Yusuf’s head. Yusuf ducked the blow and circled away to his right, but John anticipated the move. He stepped sideways, mirroring Yusuf’s movement, and delivered another punch. Yusuf just had time to flex his stomach before John’s fist slammed into his gut. Yusuf took the blow with a grunt. He snapped off a jab that caught John on the chin and spun away.
Again, however, John was on him instantly, charging forward with his shoulder lowered. Yusuf did not have time to avoid him. He levelled a straight jab that caught John square in the nose. John stumbled back, blood running down his face, and Yusuf charged, planting his shoulder in John’s chest. John went down, and Yusuf landed on top of him. He rolled free immediately, springing to his feet before John could grab him. John rose more slowly, wiping the blood from his nose and leaving a red smear on the back of his hand. He raised his fists and again moved towards Yusuf.
‘That is enough!’ Ayub called. The two boys lowered their hands and turned to face him. He studied Yusuf for a long time, then nodded and turned to face John. ‘Remind me: what is your name, slave?’
‘John.’
‘No more stable work for you, Juwan. You will be my son’s servant. Attend to him at all times.’
‘Yes, m’allim.’
Ayub nodded again, then turned and walked away. Yusuf smiled. It was as much praise as he had ever received from his father.
Chapter 7
NOVEMBER 1149 TO APRIL 1150: BAALBEK
‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ The penetrating voice of the muezzin woke John. He rolled over on his straw mattress and reached up to pull open the wooden shutter. Only a faint predawn light filtered into his tiny room. As Yusuf’s private slave, John was entitled to a thicker blanket, the straw mattress and his own room – spare and small, but all his. However, he still had to wash with the other slaves. As the muezzin continued his call – ‘Al-salatu khayru min an-nawm’, prayer is better than sleep – John rose and headed for the baths. Taur was already there, and he greeted John with a grin. ‘Look who decided to get up. Did you get your beauty sleep, Saxon?’
‘Obviously, you didn’t get yours,’ John replied as he pulled off his tunic and took a clay jug from the wall. The other slaves stepped respectfully out of John’s way, allowing him access to the water. He filled his jug and dumped it over his head. ‘’Sblood, that’s cold!’ he exclaimed. At least the bathing chamber was heated; a small fire in another chamber ran heat through clay pipes beneath the tile floor.
‘What’s your master got you up to today?’ Taur asked.
‘The usual: more studies, more sword practice. You?’
‘I can’t say.’ John raised his eyebrows, but Taur offered no elaboration. John shrugged. It was none of his business anyway. He tried to avoid Turan as much as possible.
John finished washing and towelled dry. Still, he shivered as he stepped outside. Autumn had come, and a chill mountain air had moved down to blanket the town. He entered the villa and headed along the hallway to Yusuf’s room. The door was open. Inside, Yusuf knelt on a prayer rug, facing a mark on the wall that showed the direction of Mecca. John leaned against the doorframe and watched. Yusuf placed his palms on the ground before him and bent forward until his forehead touched the prayer rug. After a moment, he sat back on his heels. All the time, he quietly murmured the words of the rak’ah, the Muslim prayer ritual. ‘Surely you are the most praiseworthy, the most glorious,’ Yusuf concluded in a louder voice. He turned his head to the right and although he was looking directly at John, he seemed not to notice him. ‘As-salaamu alaykum,’ Yusuf whispered. Peace be with you. He turned to the left and repeated, ‘As-salaamu alaykum.’ Then he began to roll up his prayer rug. ‘Greetings, John,’ he said as he rose and placed the rug in the corner.
‘Morning.’ John pointed to the rug. ‘Do you ever grow tired of that?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of all that bowing and scraping?’
‘Do the Christians not kneel and bow th
eir heads to pray?’
‘We kneel, yes, but we do not grovel before our God.’
‘He is not your God, John,’ Yusuf corrected. ‘There is only one God. And when I prostrate myself before Him, it is not to grovel or beg for favours. It shows my submission to His will. That is my faith.’ Yusuf tilted his head in thought. ‘From what you tell me, your religion requires you to submit to the will of priests of whom you must beg forgiveness. If one must grovel, as you say, is it not better to grovel before God than before other men?’
‘Perhaps,’ John grumbled.
Yusuf grinned triumphantly. ‘I will make a true believer of you yet. Now come. We have much to do today.’
‘And what sort of God do you think was worshipped here?’ Imad ad-Din asked. Yusuf and John had met him on the steps of the temple late that afternoon after practising swordplay. Only twenty-four, Imad ad-Din was already a learned imam – a poet, scholar, legal expert and private secretary to Yusuf’s father, Ayub. Recently, he had also taken over from Ibn Jumay as tutor of Ayub’s children. He was a handsome man with a thick beard, sharp cheekbones and an aquiline nose that gave him a hawk-like appearance. The resemblance was heightened when, as now, he fixed his intense brown eyes on his two pupils.
‘The god of war?’ Yusuf hazarded. Imad ad-Din shook his head.
‘The god of love?’ John suggested.
Imad ad-Din smiled. ‘No again. Come, I will show you.’ Their teacher led them to the back wall and pointed to the faint remains of a mosaic, barely visible in the dim light that managed to penetrate the clouds gathering overhead. Yusuf had noticed it before, but had thought little of it. The mosaic of red and gold tiles pictured a man in a short tunic – or perhaps a leopard skin, it was difficult to say – lounging in the shade of a tree. He was crowned with leaves and held a shepherd’s crook in one hand and a goblet in the other.
‘Bacchus,’ Imad ad-Din declared. ‘The god of wine. The lewd rites associated with his cult took place right where we stand. Here his followers would re-enact the life, death and resurrection of Bacchus, before sharing wine in his name.’ He turned to John. ‘Not unlike how you Christians worship Jesus.’
John frowned. ‘Bacchus is a pagan god. It’s not the same.’
‘At first, the Romans considered your Jesus to be a pagan god,’ Imad ad-Din mused. ‘But you are right: the ceremonies are not precisely the same. For it is written that after they had become drunk on wine, the worshippers of Bacchus engaged in wild orgies, where every possible perversion was committed.’
‘The bacchanalia,’ John said. ‘It is a Latin word that remains with us.’
‘Indeed.’ Imad ad-Din shook his head. ‘Is it any wonder that the Roman Empire fell?’ He turned away from the mosaic and led them back towards the front of the temple. ‘What do you take from this, Yusuf?’
‘To beware of the dangers of wine and women. The Prophet was wise in this. He forbids drink to the faithful and sought to tame the lustful hearts of women.’
‘Excess is a dangerous thing,’ Imad ad-Din agreed. ‘But life would be only half as sweet without women and wine. What do you think, John?’
They had reached the front steps, and John gestured back to the temple. ‘We can build nothing so magnificent today. The Romans may have been depraved, but their empire was the greatest the world has ever known.’
‘But they fell,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘Their glory did not last.’
‘No, it did not,’ Imad ad-Din agreed. ‘But what was the cause of their fall? Was it their depravity, or was the Romans’ lack of honour perhaps the reason for their greatness? After all, their empire did last for over four hundred years.’
‘Virtue counts for little amongst men,’ John said. ‘I have seen honest men hanged from the gallows, while liars and scoundrels rule over kingdoms.’ His hand went to his side, where Ernaut had stabbed him long ago at Damascus. ‘I have seen traitors paid in gold, and brave men made slaves.’
‘But no kingdom can last like this,’ Yusuf countered. ‘A king who bases his rule on treachery will find himself betrayed. The righteous ruler will create a kingdom that endures.’
‘Tell me, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din said. ‘Do you believe an empire can be created that lasts forever?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘I do.’
‘And how would you keep this empire together?’
‘When I am king—’
‘When?’ Imad ad-Din chuckled. Yusuf only nodded. ‘You are a Kurd, Yusuf,’ Imad ad-Din cautioned. ‘You must know your place.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘If I were king, I would rule with justice and moderation, and I would enforce the laws of Islam. This will prevent the perversions that undermined the Romans.’
‘And what if the leader himself becomes perverted? Or if his heirs are unjust?’
‘Only the greatest of men should rule, and he must pick his heirs carefully.’
‘The Greek Plato believed something similar,’ Imad ad-Din noted. ‘You truly believe such a man can exist?’
‘I know it.’
Imad ad-Din stroked his beard. ‘Perhaps. But history shows that one great man rarely follows another. What happens to your empire after the king dies?’
‘Maybe empires are not meant to last,’ John offered. ‘Perhaps greatness in one’s own time is all that can be hoped for.’
‘Indeed,’ Imad ad-Din approved. His words were punctuated by the roar of thunder. As Yusuf looked up to the dark sky, a drop hit him, splashing off his nose. Another hit and then another. Lightning flashed across the sky, and an instant later rain began to pour down. Yusuf and Imad ad-Din hurried to take shelter in a corner of the temple, where a portion of the roof remained. John remained standing in the rain, his face turned towards the heavens.
‘That is enough for today,’ Imad ad-Din shouted over the rain. ‘The emir in Damascus has sent for me, and it will be a long ride in this storm. I will return in two days, and we will resume your studies. Until then, think well on what we have said today.’
‘Aiwa, ustadh,’ the Yusuf replied. Yes, teacher.
Yusuf went to John, who grinned at him. ‘Just like home!’
Yusuf shook his head in wonder at his strange friend. ‘Come!’ he shouted. ‘We must return home. There will be feasting tonight to celebrate the first rains of the year.’
The two boys sprinted out of the temple. Yusuf pulled himself into the saddle of his horse and gestured for John to mount behind him. They rode off at a canter, the horse’s hooves splashing in the ankle-deep water flowing down the streets. By the time they arrived at the villa, dusk had fallen. They stabled the horse and headed straight for the kitchen and its warm fires. Inside, preparations for the feast were already underway. Pots hung over the fire releasing mouth-watering smells. Bread was baking in the oven. And people were everywhere: kneading dough at the long table in the middle of the room, chopping vegetables, carrying pails of goat’s milk in from the pantry and adding wood to the fire. Basimah stood in the middle of it all, her hands on her hips as she issued orders. When she noticed Yusuf and John, she frowned.
‘What are you two doing there dripping on my kitchen floor?’ she demanded. ‘The governor of Baalbek is coming tonight. Go and make yourselves presentable.’
John stood against the wall in the dining room, directly behind Yusuf. The low table was crowded with food: crisp, freshly baked flatbread; a steaming vegetable stew; and whole, roasted partridges that had been marinated in a mixture of yoghurt, mint and garlic. John’s mouth watered, but he would have to eat later with the other servants. For now, his role was to stand silent behind his master, ready to do anything he was asked.
Half a dozen of Ayub’s mamluks, led by Abaan, sat at the foot of the table. Yusuf and Selim sat near the table’s head across from Khaldun, the eldest son of Mansur ad-Din, the governor of Baalbek. John studied Khaldun with special interest, for he was to be Zimat’s husband. She had met him for the first time that evening, before the men went to the dining room and t
he women retired to the harem – the section of the house forbidden to visiting men. Khaldun was thin, with long black hair and pinched features. His father was a plump man with an exceptionally long, curly beard. He sat to the left of his son, and to his left, at the head of the table, was Ayub. The space between Ayub and Yusuf was empty. Turan had not yet arrived.
Ayub frowned as he looked towards the door for at least the tenth time. ‘I apologize again for my son’s tardiness,’ he said to the governor. There were footsteps in the hall, and Ayub’s face brightened. ‘Ah, this must be him.’
But it was not Turan. The doctor Ibn Jumay entered, followed by a Frank in dark priest’s robes. The priest was thin and tan, with a narrow face and brown, tonsured hair. John’s eyes widened in recognition. It was the same priest that he had met his first day in the Holy Land, all those months ago.
Ibn Jumay bowed towards Ayub. ‘Greetings Najm ad-Din. And to you, Mansur ad-Din. I apologize for my late arrival. The rains slowed my return from Jubail, and I did not learn of your invitation until I reached home. I came straightaway.’
‘You are welcome at my table, Ibn Jumay,’ Ayub said. He looked to the priest and scowled. ‘And who is this that you have brought with you?’
‘I am William of Tyre,’ the Frank declared in passable Arabic.
‘I met him in Jubail,’ Ibn Jumay explained. ‘He is a priest and my guest at my home in Baalbek.’
‘If he is your guest, then he is welcome here,’ Ayub said, although his gravelly voice sounded far from welcoming. ‘Sit, both of you.’ The mamluks made room at the centre of the table, and William and Ibn Jumay sat down across from one another.
Ayub held up a piece of round flatbread. ‘We shall begin without Turan. We feast tonight to thank Allah for the rains He has sent us.’ He broke the bread in half. ‘To Allah! And may our crops grow tall and our livestock fat under this rain.’ He dipped his bread in the stew and ate. The others at the table followed suit.
Mansur ad-Din was toying with his beard as he examined the Frankish priest. ‘Tell, me. What brings you to my lands, William of Tyre?’
