by Hight, Jack
‘The slopes of Mount Tallat al Jawzani, but I was not the one who slew the beast.’ Yusuf gestured to John. ‘It was John.’
‘Ah, yes. I remember him,’ Shirkuh murmured. ‘A useful man.’
‘My lord is the one who tracked it,’ John said quietly.
Shirkuh slapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Well done, nephew.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘And what brings you to Baalbek, Uncle?’
‘You, Yusuf. You are coming with me to Aleppo. It is time that you begin your service to our lord, Nur ad-Din.’
Ayub stepped forward. ‘Nur ad-Din is a man who values first impressions, Son. If you please him, then you will go far. You can become an emir, perhaps even the commander of his armies, like your Uncle Shirkuh.’
‘Or more,’ Shirkuh added. ‘It is no secret that Nur ad-Din has no son.’ Shirkuh turned to Yusuf. ‘I have told him great things of you, young eagle. Do not disappoint me.’
That night, John lay in the straw of the stable hayloft, Zimat pressed against his side, her head upon his chest. He looked down at her, trying to create a memory that he could carry with him. Zimat had, if possible, grown even more beautiful in the past two years as new curves appeared at her hips and breasts. She propped herself up on her elbow and turned to face John. A tear ran down her face, glistening silver in the moonlight. John gently brushed it away.
‘Do you remember our first kiss,’ he whispered, ‘when you came to me in the stable?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘To thank you. You saved me from Turan.’ A trace of a smile curled her lips. ‘And I was curious. You were so different from any of the men I had known.’
‘More handsome?’ John suggested playfully.
‘No.’ She laid her head back on his chest. ‘It is the way you looked at me. In the kitchen when we first met, you met my eyes and did not look away. My father would have had you whipped had he seen you.’
John stroked her hair. ‘I did not know any better.’
‘It is not just that you did not lower your eyes.’ Zimat looked up and met his gaze. ‘I felt like you saw me, truly saw me, as someone to love, not as something to possess.’
John frowned. ‘I could not possess you if I wished to. You will be married to Khaldun next spring.’
‘No!’ Zimat took his hand. ‘I cannot bear it. We will run away. You will take me far from here.’
John looked away. ‘We cannot.’
‘We can! I know where my father keeps his gold. I can take enough for us to reach Jerusalem.’
‘It is not the money. Your father is a powerful man. No one would take us in. There would be nowhere for us to hide between here and the Frankish lands. We would be caught, and I would be killed.’ John met her eyes. ‘And perhaps you too.’
‘I am not afraid to die. Better that than to lose you, to live as Khaldun’s slave.’
‘I will not be responsible for your death,’ John told her. ‘And there is another reason: your brother.’
‘He is your master. You owe him nothing.’
‘No, he is my friend, and I owe him my life.’
Zimat turned away. ‘You do not love me.’ She began to sob, her shoulders shaking.
John reached out and gently touched her cheek, turning her face towards him. ‘You know I do,’ he said as he welcomed her into his arms. He held her tight, her head against his chest, and they lay in silence for a long time. When Zimat finally pulled away, John’s caftan was wet with her tears.
She met his eyes. ‘I want to lay with you John, as a wife lays with her husband.’
‘But—’
Zimat put a finger to his lips. ‘I do not want my first time to be with Khaldun. I want it to be with you.’
‘Are you sure?’
Zimat nodded and slipped her caftan off her shoulders.
Yusuf stood in the courtyard behind his home and listened to the rhythmic chant of the muezzin calling the faithful to pray. For the first time since his tenth birthday, he would not complete his morning prayers. Shirkuh had declared that they would leave at dawn, and already the sky behind Mount Tallat al Jawzani was brightening, shading from pink to smouldering orange and incandescent white. Yusuf looked away from the mountain and turned slowly, taking in his home one final time. His gaze lingered on the leafy lime trees, under which he had spent so many summer hours reading; on the cell where John had been confined all those years ago; on the door to the kitchen, emanating comforting smells of yeast and spice.
‘Yusuf!’ John called, and Yusuf wiped away tears before turning to watch him approach. John had filled out since Yusuf had first met him. Now twenty, he had a broad chest and thickly muscled arms. ‘Our horses are ready,’ he said. ‘They are waiting for you.’
Yusuf nodded and headed for the front courtyard, followed by John. Their horses – two saddled and two more packed with Yusuf’s possessions – stood near the gate, next to Shirkuh and his men. Yusuf’s family was gathered in front of them.
Yusuf went to Selim, who had screwed up his face in an effort to master his emotions, and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders. ‘I will see you soon, Brother. In two more years, it will be your turn.’ Selim nodded but did not speak. Yusuf embraced him. ‘Allah yasalmak.’
He turned next to Zimat. She would be married soon, and then she would be gone from his life, part of another man’s household. Indeed, this might be the last time they saw one another for many years. Zimat’s eyes were distant, looking past Yusuf, and tears ran down her cheeks.
‘Do not cry for me, Sister,’ Yusuf said.
Zimat flushed red, and her eyes snapped back to Yusuf. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I shall miss you, little brother. May Allah bring you fortune.’
Yusuf moved on to his mother. ‘You will do great things, Yusuf; I know it,’ she said. She bit her lip, holding back tears, then embraced him. ‘Always come back to me, my son.’
‘I will,’ Yusuf murmured, his voice choked with emotion. He faced his father last of all.
Ayub stood with his back straight, his face betraying nothing. He placed his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘Remember, my son: you serve Allah first, our lord Nur ad-Din second, and your family third.’ He withdrew his hand and held out a bundle of folded cloth. ‘You are a man now. This is yours.’
‘What is it?’
‘Look.’ Yusuf unfolded the cloth to reveal a banner, white with a golden eagle in the middle. ‘Always carry it when you ride into battle,’ Ayub said. ‘Do not dishonour it, and do not dishonour your family.’
‘I will make you proud, Father.’
Ayub nodded. He grasped Yusuf’s shoulders and kissed him three times on the lips. ‘Go,’ he said gruffly.
Yusuf turned before his father could see the wetness in his eyes and went to his horse, pulling himself into the saddle. Shirkuh waved farewell and then spurred his horse out of the gate, followed by his men and John, leading the packhorses. Yusuf took one last look at his family, then turned his horse and followed. He did not look back.
NOVEMBER 1152: ALEPPO
John dug his heels into the sides of his horse, urging it up the last few steps of the steep hill. Ahead, the other riders had stopped at the top of the rise. They had ridden far over the past five days, following the winding course of the Orontes River to the city of Hama and then riding north across the dry, barren plains to Aleppo. John’s horse was tired, and it whinnied in protest. ‘Almost there, girl,’ he coaxed, patting the mare’s neck. He tugged on the lead rope that ran from his saddle to the two pack-horses behind him, urging them to keep pace.
As John crested the hill and reined in his horse beside Yusuf, he saw why the other riders had stopped. Aleppo was laid out before them in all its splendour. To the east, the brown desert stretched away to the horizon, the empty waste dotted with the miniscule forms of travellers making their way towards the city. To the west, verdant orchards lay to either side of the sparkling river that flowed p
ast Aleppo. Directly before them, the hill sloped down to a thick wall that towered over an approaching caravan, the heavily packed camels ant-like in its shadow. Beyond the wall rose a city many times the size of Baalbek. White-walled, flat-roofed buildings sat one on top of the other, covering the rolling hills. Here and there, slender minarets rose above them. And looming over it all was the great citadel that crowned the rocky hill at the city’s heart.
‘It is called the white city,’ Shirkuh declared. ‘Not because of its virtue, I assure you. The court is filled with intriguers, and the streets are thick with thieves. But it is a great city, nonetheless.’
‘What has happened to the walls?’ Yusuf asked, pointing to the right, where several long sections of the wall had been reduced to rubble. Looking closer, John saw that the city was littered with half-ruined buildings, their roofs collapsed and walls crumbling. ‘Was there a siege?’
‘The crusaders have besieged the city many times,’ Shirkuh replied. ‘But it was not they who did this. In the year of your birth, Yusuf, a mighty earthquake struck the city. Thousands died. The walls are still being rebuilt. Nur ad-Din says the earthquake was a sign of Allah’s anger over the presence of the crusaders. He has vowed to drive them from our lands.’
Shirkuh spurred his horse forward. John followed the others along the well-beaten trail that wound down towards the city. They rode into the long shadow of the walls and towards a gate framed by two bulky towers of unequal height. Scaffolding covered the left-hand tower, and workers scurried over it, placing heavy stones to add to the tower’s height. At the base of the right-hand tower was an arched gateway, wide enough for six men abreast to ride through. Merchants crowded around the entrance, hawking their wares.
‘Sharp blades!’ a lanky man in baggy robes cried. He held up a dagger, the shining blade marked with whirls of darker grey. ‘Of the finest Damascus steel.’
‘Slaves!’ shouted another merchant, whose curly black beard hung down to his plump belly. He pointed to a half-dozen Franks who stood chained together beside the wall, their heads down. The men were shirtless, and their ribs showed clearly on their gaunt frames. The slack-faced, dirty women looked little better off. John’s jaw tightened. The slave merchant mistook his attention for interest and stepped closer. ‘Fancy a Frankish lady to keep your bed warm at night? Only fifty dirhams.’ John spat at the slave merchant’s feet and rode on through the gate.
The gate did not lead through the wall, as John had anticipated, but rather to a square chamber dimly lit by smoky torches set in brackets on the walls. John noticed a grate in the low ceiling, through which boiling oil could be poured on would-be attackers. An arched doorway to the left brought him into a long room with a high ceiling of cross-vaulted stone. The room, which ran parallel to the wall, was lit by high windows on the city side. They cast light on a throng of merchants and travellers whose loud voices echoed off the stone walls and created a deafening roar. John followed the others through the room, then through two smaller chambers before they finally emerged into the city. A crowded dirt road curved away before them, running between close-set, tall houses.
‘The gate has been rebuilt to make attack more difficult,’ Shirkuh was explaining to Yusuf as they rode down the street. ‘If they break through the outer gate, attackers will find themselves in a confined space, attacked from above. They will have to break through three more gateways to enter the city.’
Shirkuh continued talking, but John lost track of his words amidst the din of the crowd. He turned his attention to the people he was passing. To his right, a Bedouin shepherd with staff in hand was driving four bleating sheep towards market. Past him was the first in a long line of heavily laden camels, all slowly chewing their cuds as they plodded forward under the prodding whips of their drivers. Beyond the camels, John noticed two men standing in a doorway, passing a smoking pipe between them. In the window of the floor above them, a veiled woman was beating out a rug. John caught her eye, and she retreated inside, banging the shutters closed behind her.
The road they were following curved to the left and entered a broad square. Everywhere men crowded around carts, haggling over a dizzying variety of wares: fresh fruits; vibrant blue, red and yellow rugs covered in geometric designs; even vials containing a home-made elixir that the seller promised would cure all ills. To the right, the covered alleyways of a souk, opened on to the square. Each alleyway specialized in a particular good, from gold to cotton cloth to spices. Yusuf had told John that the souk of Aleppo was famed throughout the East. It was said that anything one desired could be purchased there.
A sudden commotion ahead drew John’s attention away from the market. A swarm of young, half-naked children appeared from out of the crowd and pressed around the horses, forcing them to stop.
‘Fresh fruit, yâ sîdi?’ one of them yelled at John, holding up a mango.
Another pushed a waterskin towards him. ‘Cool water?’
Others simply begged, holding out their hands and repeating: ‘Money, yâ sîdi? Money?’
One of the boys tried to slip his hand into John’s saddlebags, and John caught his wrist. The child cringed, his eyes wide with fright. John released him, and the would-be thief scurried off into the crowd. He was instantly replaced by another child.
Ahead, Shirkuh threw a shower of glinting coppers off to the side, and the children raced towards them, shouting with excitement as they scrambled on the ground, wrestling one another for the coins. John urged his horse past them, following the others out of the square and into the shade of the citadel. High above, he could see guards walking the limestone walls, which were set with towers at regular intervals. The walls rose directly from steeply sloped, bare white rock. At the base of the hill, the dark waters of a moat some twenty feet across added another layer of defence. Four guards in chainmail and pointed helmets, spears in hand, stood blocking the drawbridge across the moat. They stepped aside as Shirkuh approached. ‘Morning, men,’ Shirkuh called as he rode past, the hooves of his horse sounding loud on the wooden bridge. Yusuf came next, nodding towards the guards. He was followed by Shirkuh’s three men and then John, to whom the guards gave a hard look. John ignored them, urging his horse up the brick causeway that led to a large gatehouse, only half built and still covered in scaffolding. At the top, four more guards stepped aside to let the group pass, and John followed the others into the citadel.
What he found there surprised him. He was facing an oval-shaped expanse of flat land, easily three hundred yards long and one hundred yards wide. A maze of verdant orchards and gardens covered the expanse to his left. Off to his right, an enormous palace was built against the far wall. Other buildings – barracks, stables, kitchens, storerooms – were built into the walls that surrounded the space. And in the middle of it all was an expanse of closely cropped, green grass where two-dozen riders were thundering back and fourth in pursuit of a wooden ball. John recognized the game they were playing as polo. He had seen Yusuf play it in Baalbek.
John reined in his horse just behind Yusuf and watched as one of the players brought his mallet down and with a loud crack, sent the wooden kura hurtling towards the left-hand goalposts. Several riders spurred after the ball, but two outraced the rest, galloping close to John and the others. One was tall and thickly built, light-skinned and with a thick chestnut-brown beard. The other was darker, tall and thin, with only a few wispy black hairs on his chin and cheeks. The riders were neck and neck as they galloped towards the kura, their mallets raised high. At the last second, the dark-skinned rider pushed ahead and veered his horse towards the other man, cutting him off. He then brought his mallet down with a triumphant yell and sent the ball hurtling through the goalposts.
‘Who is that?’ Yusuf asked.
Shirkuh smiled. ‘That is our lord, Nur ad-Din.’ He kicked his heels and trotted on to the field. The others followed, John bringing up the rear.
‘Ho! Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din roared as they approached. ‘Well met!’ Close up, John saw
that Nur ad-Din had brilliant, golden eyes and a full-toothed, bright smile. John looked past him and was surprised to see that the rider who had contested him for the kura was none other than Turan. While Nur ad-Din rode up to Shirkuh and grasped his arm, Turan guided his horse towards Yusuf.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Yusuf,’ Turan said, greeting his brother formally.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Brother,’ Yusuf replied stiffly, and the two leaned across their saddles and exchanged the ritual kisses.
‘Ah!’ Nur ad-Din turned his gaze upon Yusuf. ‘So this is the young eagle that you told me of, Shirkuh? He doesn’t look like much.’
‘Nor did you at his age.’
‘True enough. Tell me: do you play polo, Yusuf?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘Then we shall see if you merit the praise your uncle has given you. You will play on my team.’ Nur ad-Din raised his voice so that all those on the field could hear him. ‘Two gold dinars to whoever scores the next goal!’ The men cheered, and Nur ad-Din turned back towards Yusuf. ‘Let us see what you are made of, young eagle.’
Yusuf sat astride his horse, mallet in hand, and watched as the crowd of riders surged up the pitch towards the far goal. He held back, keeping free of the melee and saving his horse’s strength. It had already carried him thirty miles that day, and Yusuf knew his mount would only be good for one or two short bursts. So he stayed near his own goal and watched as the other riders jostled against one another in the fight for the kura. Nur ad-Din forced his way alongside the ball and swung, but missed. There was a loud crack as an opposing player hit the kura, sending it out of the crowd. Turan was waiting for it. He slammed the ball downfield towards Yusuf and galloped after it.
Yusuf ignored his brother; his eyes were fixed on the kura. He spurred towards it and hit the ball smoothly, sending it bouncing back up the field. A split second later, the handle of Turan’s mallet slammed into his gut. Yusuf grabbed his horse’s mane and managed to stay in the saddle. He reined in and sat doubled over, gasping for breath.
