Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Welcome to Aleppo, Brother,’ Turan sneered as he rode past.

  Yusuf looked past his brother and noticed Nur ad-Din watching him. He gritted his teeth and straightened, then spurred after Turan. A crowd had again formed around the kura, and this time Yusuf headed straight for it. His mount was tiring fast, and Yusuf kicked at its sides, squeezing the last bit of effort from it as he weaved through the other riders towards the centre of the melee, following Turan. Turan reached the kura first, but as he swung at it, Yusuf slammed his horse into Turan’s mount. Turan missed, and Yusuf hit the kura up the field. He saw Nur ad-Din charging for the ball, and Yusuf steered to the right, keeping clear of the other riders. Nur ad-Din reached the kura first, but the crowd was on him instantly. Nur ad-Din managed to hit the ball, but it glanced off a horse and rolled straight to Yusuf. There was no one between him and the goal.

  Yusuf raised his mallet, but then hesitated. He spotted Nur ad-Din alone and sent the kura hurtling towards him. As the ball reached him, Nur ad-Din swung his mallet down and sent it flying through the goalposts. He let out a loud whoop and raised his arms in victory.

  ‘Well done, Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din called as he rode over. ‘You have saved me two dinars, and for that, you shall have the honour of dining with me tonight. You will meet my wife, Asimat, and we shall see if you are as clever with words as you are with a polo mallet. But I warn you: Asimat is harder to impress than I.’

  Yusuf stood at the window of his room – part of Shirkuh’s suite in the palace – and looked out over the city that was now his home. His room faced east, away from the setting sun, whose dying light cast the white-walled buildings of the city below in soft pink. The ululating chant of the muezzins reached Yusuf as they began the call for evening prayer. Below, the streets filled with men and women headed towards the mosques. Yusuf moved from the window and went to the small washbasin in his room to perform the ritual ablution required before prayer. He filled the washbasin from his waterskin and then carefully washed his arms, face and hair, repeating the ritual three times. He dried himself off with a cotton cloth, then unrolled his prayer mat.

  ‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,’ Yusuf began, when he was interrupted by loud knocking. The door swung open to reveal Shirkuh.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time to dine.’

  ‘But what about evening prayers?’

  ‘Allah will wait. Nur ad-Din will not.’

  Yusuf followed his uncle out of the room and down a long, dim hallway. ‘I thought Nur ad-Din was a religious man.’

  ‘Our lord practises religion in his own way. Instead of prayers, he offers victories over the Franks. Which do you think Allah values more?’

  They reached the end of the hallway and ascended a steep staircase. At the top, Yusuf found himself in an open, marble-floored room. To his left, a row of arched windows looked out over the city. Opposite the windows was a large double door guarded by three mamluks. Shirkuh approached and allowed the guards to search him for weapons. Yusuf did the same.

  ‘How are your wives, Marwan?’ Shirkuh asked the man searching him.

  Marwan grimaced. ‘Three wives is three too many.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Shirkuh chuckled. ‘That is why I have none.’

  The search concluded, and the guards pulled the doors open. Yusuf followed Shirkuh into a large room that was a double of the one they had just left, with arched windows on the far wall looking out over the citadel grounds. But this room was not empty. Braziers burned in the corners and a thick rug – saffron-yellow with geometrical designs in blue and crimson – lay spread across the floor. Cushions were stacked in a circle on the rug and low tables had been set up at intervals between the cushions. Nur ad-Din sat across from the door in a caftan of red silk. To his left was the woman who had to be his wife, Asimat. Upon seeing her, Yusuf felt his pulse quicken. She was surprisingly young – perhaps a few years older than Yusuf – and her milky-white skin was flawless. She had wavy, chestnut-brown hair that framed a long, thin face with a delicate nose and full lips. Her dark eyes met Yusuf’s, and she did not look away. Yusuf forced himself to look back to Nur ad-Din.

  ‘Shirkuh! Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din smiled and raised a goblet towards his guests. He gestured to the young woman. ‘This is Asimat.’ Yusuf bowed to her, and she nodded back. ‘Do not be deceived by her beauty, Yusuf. Her tongue is sharp.’

  ‘A wise wife is a great asset, Husband,’ Asimat said quietly.

  ‘True, but a quiet wife is a greater one still,’ Nur ad-Din replied with a laugh. He gestured to the cushions. ‘Please, sit.’ Shirkuh took a seat to Nur ad-Din’s right, and Yusuf sat directly across from Nur ad-Din. As soon as they were seated, servant girls carrying platters of food entered through a side door. One of the servants, a thin girl with skin as black as ebony, placed a tray beside Yusuf. It held steaming flatbread, a bowl of yoghurt dip and a fragrant lamb stew that smelled of mint. Another girl placed a goblet on Yusuf’s table and filled it with red wine. ‘A toast to you, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Welcome to Aleppo and to my table.’ He quaffed his wine, and Shirkuh followed suit. Yusuf lifted his goblet and hesitated, gazing at the crimson contents. He glanced at Asimat, who had not drunk. Then he placed the cup aside.

  ‘You do not drink,’ Nur ad-Din noted. ‘Is it that you are unhappy to be in Aleppo?’ He smiled. ‘Or is it the company you find objectionable?’

  ‘N—no my lord,’ Yusuf stammered. ‘I do not drink wine. Allah forbids it.’

  ‘You are a man of conviction, and you are to be commended for it.’ Nur ad-Din clapped his hands. ‘Servants! Bring water for young Yusuf!’ As a servant hurried in, Nur ad-Din took a piece of bread. ‘In the name of Allah,’ he murmured and scooped up some of the stew. He took a bite and chewed on it thoughtfully, then pointed at Yusuf with what remained of the bread. ‘Yusuf has spent some time in Damascus, Asimat.’

  Yusuf turned towards Nur ad-Din’s wife. ‘You know the city?’ he asked.

  ‘I grew up there. My father was Emir Unur.’

  ‘I met your father during the Christians’ siege. He seemed a good man.’

  ‘That he was,’ Nur ad-Din declared. ‘He was a worthy adversary, may Allah have mercy upon him. Not like the current ruler, Mujir ad-Din.’ Nur ad-Din frowned, then threw back another cup of wine. ‘The snivelling brat.’

  ‘I hear that you know the Hamasah by heart,’ Asimat said to Yusuf, changing the subject. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘It is, my lady.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘You shall entertain us with a poem. There is one I particularly enjoy. It is a story of vengeance, where a man lays waste to the tribe who killed his uncle.’

  ‘The Ritha of Ta’abbata Sharran,’ Yusuf said. ‘I know it well. The tale begins with the death of the uncle:

  On the mountain path that lies below Sal’

  lies a slain man whose blood

  will not go unavenged.

  He left the burden to me and departed;

  I have assumed that burden

  for him.

  Asimat smiled, and Yusuf paused as he felt his throat go suddenly dry. ‘Impressive,’ she said, nodding for him to go on.

  Yusuf swallowed and continued: ‘Bent on vengeance am I, his sister’s son.’ While the others ate, moving through course after course, Yusuf recited the long tale; how the uncle had led raids on the Hudhayl tribe; how the Hudhayl had fallen on him and killed him when he was alone in the mountains; how his nephew had ridden forth and avenged the murder in bloody fashion. As the last dishes were being cleared away, he concluded:

  The hyena laughs over the slain of Hudhayl;

  you see the wolf grinning

  above them.

  At morn the ancient vultures flap about, fat-bellied,

  unable to take flight, they tread

  upon the dead.

  Yusuf fell silent. Asimat applauded, and he flushed red.

  ‘So let it be for all our enemi
es,’ Nur ad-Din declared and drained his goblet of wine. He turned to Asimat. ‘You may go now, Wife. We have business to discuss.’ Asimat rose gracefully, and Yusuf watched her leave. When she was gone, he looked back to Nur ad-Din. He was watching Yusuf carefully. ‘You have impressed my wife, a rare feat. Your uncle spoke true when he praised your learning.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘I have need of wise men around me. I am a warrior, not a thinker. Perhaps you can turn your wits to a problem I am having with one of my emirs, a eunuch named Gumushtagin. It, too, is perhaps a question of vengeance.’

  Yusuf paled. He had only just arrived in Aleppo, and already Nur ad-Din, ruler of Aleppo and Mosul, was asking him for advice. His future might well depend on the quality of his answer. ‘I am your servant,’ Yusuf managed. ‘I shall help as I am able.’

  ‘Good. A little over a year ago, I named Gumushtagin emir of Tell Bashir as a reward for his service. He governed well enough for a time, but recently I have received disturbing news.’

  Shirkuh nodded. ‘My spies tell me that Gumushtagin is in talks with the Seljuk sultan Mas’ud. If Gumushtagin allies himself with the Seljuks, then they will threaten both Mosul and Aleppo.’

  ‘Why not simply remove him?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘It is not so easy,’ Nur ad-Din replied. ‘Gumushtagin is well loved by his men. If he is removed, they might revolt, and an uprising would give the Seljuks an opportunity to invade. I will never be able to fight the Christians if I am constantly having to defend my northern borders.’

  ‘Perhaps Gumushtagin’s loyalty can be bought,’ Yusuf offered.

  ‘He has been paid,’ Shirkuh said. ‘But the Seljuks offered more.’

  ‘Yet something must be done,’ Nur ad-Din said. He leaned forward, his unblinking golden eyes fixed on Yusuf. ‘Tell me: what do you advise?’

  Yusuf looked to Shirkuh. His face remained an impassive mask; there would be no help from that corner. Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘You must make Gumushtagin want to leave Tell Bashir.’

  ‘How?’ Nur ad-Din queried. ‘Explain.’

  ‘Offer him something better, the governorship of Bizaa perhaps.’

  ‘But he is a traitor!’ Shirkuh interjected. ‘And Bizaa is wealthy, with twice the men of Tell Bashir.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘That is why he will accept. More importantly, Bizaa is close to Aleppo, and the people there have no loyalty to Gumushtagin. Once he is there, you can remove him at will if he proves disloyal.’

  ‘And Tell Bashir?’ Nur ad-Din asked. ‘The men that Gumushtagin leaves behind will not welcome a new governor. There could be trouble.’

  ‘Then you must send someone you trust to take command, somebody who can take matters in hand. If he fails, then you have lost nothing. You are back where you started. If he succeeds, then Tell Bashir will be secure.’

  Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘Again, I am impressed.’ He turned to Shirkuh. ‘You did right to bring your nephew to me. He has a bright future before him. I will need men like Yusuf soon enough. The time is coming to drive the Franks from our shores.’ He paused to take a gulp of wine. ‘Keep me informed regarding your nephew, Shirkuh. I am curious to see how he gets along with your men.’

  John sat alone amidst the dark shadows of his room and looked out of the small square window to the bright crescent moon. The chamber – one of several dozen identical rooms located in an outbuilding beside the palace – was only three feet by six, barely large enough for the straw mattress that covered the floor. There was no door for privacy. Shirkuh’s men had shown John to the room in the slaves’ quarters shortly after they arrived and told him that Yusuf would send for him if he was needed. John had waited, alone with his thoughts, while the light faded from the sky. His stomach had begun to growl, and John wondered if he should leave the room to look for food. But where? He had no idea where to go.

  A loud bell began to ring somewhere close by, and John heard the tramp of feet in the hallway. Several men filed past his room. John rose and went to the door just as two black men were walking by – one bald and dark as the night sky, the other a rich brown like freshly turned earth. John noticed that they each carried a clay bowl. ‘What is happening?’ John asked them. ‘Why is the bell ringing?’

  The darker of the two men examined John. ‘Our master has finished dining,’ he said at last. ‘It is the servants’ turn to eat.’

  John followed the two men through low-ceilinged, shadowy hallways to a long room crowded with a bewildering mixture of men – native Christians, Turks, Egyptians, Africans, but no other Franks. They stood with bowls in their hands, waiting to be served from a huge black cauldron that hung from the ceiling on the far side of the room. The room buzzed with conversation, but as John entered, it fell silent. All eyes turned to him.

  A tall, heavy man with a double chin approached John and stood looking down at him. ‘What do you want?’ the man asked in a high, reedy voice. John guessed he was a eunuch.

  ‘To eat.’

  The eunuch chuckled briefly, then his expression hardened, and he spit at John’s feet. ‘You will not eat with us. You are unclean, ifranji. Go.’

  The dark slave that John had followed to the room stepped forward and put a hand on the eunuch’s arm. ‘Leave him be, Zakir.’ He handed John a bowl.

  Zakir shrugged off the other slave’s hand, then slapped the bowl from John’s hand so that it shattered on the floor. He met John’s eyes. ‘I said go.’

  John could feel the eyes of every man in the room on him. He knew that he could not back down. If he showed weakness, then he would have no peace so long as he was in Aleppo. He sighed and spread his hands. ‘I want no trouble.’

  The eunuch sneered and reached out to shove John from the room. John moved quickly, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting it behind his back. As Zakir spun around to relieve the pressure on his shoulder, John wrapped his free arm around the eunuch’s throat and pulled tight, choking him. The other slaves watched silently as Zakir thrashed and clawed at John’s forearm to no avail. Finally, the eunuch fell still, and John released him, letting him slump to the floor unconscious. No one moved.

  John stepped forward, and the other slaves parted as he made his way to the cauldron. The slave with the ladle looked at John for a moment, then filled a bowl with steaming stew and handed it to him.

  ‘Thank you, Brother,’ John told him, then turned and left. He would eat in his room. Alone.

  The next morning Yusuf, dressed in chainmail and with his sword at his side, followed Shirkuh out on to the expansive lawn that had served as a polo field the day before. Turan had already drawn up fifty mamluks in ranks to form a large square. The men wore identical armour of hardened black leather and conical steel helmets. They had bows and quivers slung over their shoulders and held long spears in their right hands. Although bought as slaves, each mamluk was freed at age eighteen, when they entered the service of their lord as warriors. They occupied a place of honour within the citadel. Those who fought well could hope to become emirs in their own right. All hoped someday to earn enough money to settle and raise a family of their own.

  Yusuf trailed behind his uncle as he walked between the ranks, starting at the back row. The men straightened as Shirkuh passed, and he nodded to each of them. He spoke to a few, commiserating over injuries, praising their exploits in recent raids, or joking about their luck with women. Near the end of the final row, he stopped before a slump-shouldered, thin man with a sallow complexion.

  ‘I hear you won at the tables last night, Husam,’ Shirkuh said.

  ‘That I did, sir.’ Husam grinned, showing a smile missing several teeth.

  ‘You have not yet spent all of it on women and drink, I hope.’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Good. Then tonight you shall come to the palace and give me a chance to win some of your fortune from you.’

  ‘Gladly, sir, but only if we use my dice.’ The men around Husam chuckled.

  ‘You use your dic
e, and I will use mine,’ Shirkuh said with a wink, and the men all laughed. Shirkuh moved away and stood with Yusuf and Turan flanking him. ‘Men, this is my nephew, Yusuf ibn Ayub!’ Shirkuh’s deep voice carried to the furthest ranks. ‘You will treat him with respect. He has come from Baalbek to serve as one of my commanders. He is already a fearsome warrior; cross him at your own risk.’ Several of the men smiled at this. Shirkuh turned to Yusuf and spoke more softly. ‘I am needed at the palace today, Yusuf. I am leaving you in charge.’ He winked. ‘Take it easy on them.’ Shirkuh turned to Turan. ‘Show your brother how we do things.’

  Shirkuh strode away, leaving Yusuf and Turan to face the troops. The mamluks were grown men, many old enough to be Yusuf’s father. He swallowed, then opened his mouth to speak, but Turan spoke first. ‘You heard what Shirkuh said,’ he shouted. ‘Take it easy on my little brother. No laughing behind his back. No calling him names.’ He winked and grinned. ‘Pipsqueak, son of a donkey, man-whore, bastard, bugger: I don’t want to hear any of that.’ There was scattered laughter amongst the men. ‘When he drills you, you will do exactly as he says. But before we train, I say we go to Sakhi’s for a round of wine. I’m paying!’ The men roared their approval, and Turan grinned. The carefully ordered ranks dissolved as men headed for the gates.

  ‘Wait!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Halt!’ The men reluctantly shuffled to a stop. Yusuf glared at Turan. ‘Shirkuh said we were to train, not drink. And besides, alcohol is forbidden.’ There were threatening grumbles amongst the men at this. ‘There will be plenty of time for drink later, after training,’ Yusuf amended.

  Turan smiled. ‘Very well, Brother, if that is what you wish, then go ahead. Train them.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘All right, men! Back in your ranks!’ The mamluks filed sullenly past Yusuf and lined up in sloppy, uneven lines.