by Hight, Jack
‘Who does he think he is?’ someone whispered.
‘Little bastard,’ another grumbled.
Yusuf flushed with anger. ‘That’s enough talk!’ he snapped. He marched up to Husam, the gap-toothed, lucky gambler in the first row. ‘Straighten up!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Husam replied and straightened. Yusuf moved on down the line, and as soon as his back was turned, Husam muttered: ‘You little bugger.’
Yusuf whirled around. ‘What was that?’
Husam shrugged, his eyes wide and innocent. ‘What was what, sir?’
Yusuf frowned and turned away. He continued down the line, meeting each man’s eyes, and the men straightened as he passed. He was near the end of the first row when he tripped over someone’s leg, stumbled, and fell to his hands and knees. He rose immediately, glowering at the closest soldiers. ‘You call yourselves warriors?’ Yusuf roared at them. ‘You are a disgrace! The Franks will tear you to pieces!’
‘The little bugger has a temper,’ a voice called from the centre of the ranks.
‘Who said that?’ Yusuf demanded. The men all stared ahead, giving away nothing. The blood started to roar in Yusuf’s temples and his jaw clenched. He pushed his way through the rows of warriors in the direction of the voice.
‘Careful, he is a fearsome warrior,’ another voice sniggered from behind Yusuf.
Yusuf pushed his way back to the front of the ranks and turned to face the men. ‘Who said that? I demand to know who said that! Face me!’ he yelled, his voice breaking at the end.
A huge, muscle-bound man pushed his way forward. He was a head taller than Yusuf, and his neck was easily as thick as Yusuf’s thigh. ‘I said it,’ the man rumbled. ‘What are you going to do about it, little man?’ The other men laughed. Yusuf glanced over his shoulder to Turan. He was laughing, too. Yusuf was red-faced with anger and on the verge of losing control. He closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his breathing. Gradually, the pounding in his temples faded. He opened his eyes and met the gaze of the man before him.
‘What is your name?’
‘Qadir.’
‘You will return to the barracks, Qadir. I will deal with you later.’
‘Make me.’
Yusuf’s jaw tightened. ‘Pardon me?’
‘You heard me. Make me.’
Yusuf nodded to the two men on the front row nearest to Qadir. ‘You two, escort Qadir to the barracks.’ The men did not move. ‘My uncle will not stand for this,’ Yusuf growled.
‘What do you know of Shirkuh?’ Qadir sneered. ‘I have fought beside him for ten years. I saved his life twice. What have you done, little bugger?’
Yusuf reacted without thinking. He lashed out, punching Qadir hard in the gut. It was like hitting a wall. The huge mamluk did not even move. His huge hand clamped over Yusuf’s wrist and twisted, forcing Yusuf to his knees.
‘Let him go, Qadir,’ Turan said. Qadir released Yusuf immediately.
Yusuf rose to his feet. He met Qadir’s eyes, then looked past him to the men. ‘I will not forget this,’ he promised, then turned and strode away towards the palace.
Turan’s voice followed him: ‘Now men, let’s have that drink!’
Yusuf paced the marble-floored antechamber outside Nur ad-Din’s apartments as he waited for his uncle to emerge. The guards before the door watched him, their faces impassive. As he paced, Yusuf thought of what he would tell his uncle, and a smile curled his lips as he imagined the various punishments Shirkuh would devise for his troops. But Yusuf’s legs grew tired from pacing, and still Shirkuh did not appear. Through the arched windows, Yusuf saw the shadow of the citadel lengthen and then deepen as dusk gathered. Finally, the doors to Nur ad-Din’s apartments opened, and Shirkuh emerged. ‘Uncle!’ Yusuf greeted him. ‘I must speak with you.’
Shirkuh examined Yusuf for a moment and then nodded curtly. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf followed him out of the antechamber and down a staircase. ‘Well, Yusuf?’ Shirkuh asked as he descended. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
‘Your men are insolent, and Turan is worse. They must be punished.’
‘Do not tell me how to deal with my men,’ Shirkuh snapped as they entered a long corridor.
‘But they insulted me! They refused to obey.’
‘I know what my men did. Husam told me. You were lucky to avoid a beating.’
‘But Turan—’
‘Turan is the least of your worries.’ Shirkuh stopped and turned to face his nephew. ‘There will always be men in the ranks like Turan. You must learn to deal with them.’
‘But how? The troops would not listen to me. They laughed at me.’
‘Then let them laugh. You cannot expect to command their respect instantly. They are hardened warriors. Some of them were fighting for me before you were born. You must earn their respect, and you cannot do so by insulting and threatening them.’
‘What then?’ Yusuf grumbled. ‘Should I buy them drink, like Turan?’
‘Forget Turan! He is a drunkard who wants the men to love him. He will never be great. But I expect more from you, Yusuf. Today you lost control. You must never lose control before your men. They will never respect you if you do.’ Shirkuh paused and took a deep breath. ‘Nur ad-Din has asked me to send you back to Baalbek.’
Yusuf lowered his head. He had only just arrived and already he had failed. He thought of the men’s laughter as he had walked away. They seemed to be mocking Yusuf’s dreams of greatness. He clenched his jaw as he fought back tears. ‘I am sorry, Uncle.’
Shirkuh gripped his shoulder. ‘Do not be too hard on yourself, young eagle. Leaders are created, they are not born. I reminded our lord that he was no better when he was your age, and I have persuaded him to give you a second chance. He has agreed that you are to command the citadel at Tell Bashir.’
‘Tell Bashir? But that is the property of the eunuch Gumushtagin.’
‘Not any more. He has been given Bizaa as you suggested. But the men he left behind in Tell Bashir remain loyal to him. Nur ad-Din fears that they will open the city to the Seljuks. It is your task to ensure that this does not happen.’
Yusuf straightened and met Shirkuh’s eye. ‘I will not fail you, Uncle.’
‘You had best not. I gave Nur ad-Din my word that you would succeed in Tell Bashir. If you fail, you will disgrace both of us.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. You leave tomorrow.’ Shirkuh grasped Yusuf’s shoulders with both hands. ‘Remember, Yusuf. Always remain in control. Never show weakness. Most importantly, treat your troops as men. And never forget: you must be one of them before you can lead them.’
Chapter 10
NOVEMBER 1152: ON THE ROAD TO TELL BASHIR
Slate-grey clouds hung low in the sky as John rode out of Aleppo through the Bab al-Yahud – the Jew’s gate. John was happy to leave the city behind; he had never felt more foreign and alone than he had in the slaves’ quarters of the citadel. Perhaps Tell Bashir would be better. At least Yusuf would be in charge there. John glanced to where his friend rode beside him, his head held high. They followed a Bedouin guide named Sa’ud, and behind them came three men leading pack-horses, then six mamluks surrounding a mule that carried an iron-bound chest. John knew that the key to the chest’s heavy lock hung around Yusuf’s neck. Back at the citadel, he had allowed John to look inside. The chest contained two thousand golden dinars, enough to buy John’s freedom many times over – surely enough to ensure the loyalty of the men at Tell Bashir.
Ahead, the road was little more than a beaten track, the wind whipping up swirling plumes of sand. John pulled down one of the folds of his turban to cover his face and keep out the dust. The trail sloped down to run parallel with the tiny Quweq River, which wound its way north through broad plains. They passed orchards, the trees heavy with oranges and limes. Beyond them were fields of harvested wheat – black earth dotted with the yellow stubs of cut stalks – and also fragrant fields of bright-yellow saffron. Past the fields, the
rocky desert stretched away to the horizon, where a sheet of rain fell from the dark sky. As the storm came closer, John could see the rain sweeping down the river, disturbing its placid surface. He unwound his turban as the first cool drops hit him. A moment later, the skies opened up, soaking his tunic and turning the road to mud. John turned to Yusuf and grinned.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘The rain will slow us. You won’t be smiling if we don’t make it to the inn and have to sleep in the open.’
‘That’s why we have tents. Besides, we can’t get any wetter.’
‘It’s not getting wet that worries me; it’s the bandits. There are only twelve of us. That is enough to fight off most raiders, but the rain will dampen sound and make it hard to see. It will make us an easier target.’
John’s smile faded. He looked at the road stretching across the empty plain ahead and saw only a distant camel train. ‘Are bandits really such a danger?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘There is an old saying: the companions chosen are more important than the route taken. Only fools travel alone, and even large groups are sometimes attacked. When my mother was young, she was part of a caravan of over forty that was raided.’
‘Why doesn’t Nur ad-Din do something about it?’
‘There is little he can do. The raiders often attack far from where they live. Some are Franks from the Christian lands. Most are Bedouin. After their raids, they vanish into the great desert. None dares follow them there.’
They rode on in silence, following the course of the river. John was more alert now, scanning the road ahead for potential ambushes. When they came to a small settlement – a few single-room homes mixed with tents – he gripped the hilt of his sword as they passed, ready in case bandits burst forth. The rain slackened, then stopped, and a few rays of sun broke through the clouds. Around noon, they came to a larger settlement, built where two tributaries flowed into the Quweq from the north. The village had a mosque, and John led the horses to the river to drink while the others went inside to perform their afternoon prayers. Afterwards, they ate a simple meal of flatbread and goat’s cheese, then crossed the Quweq over a rickety wooden bridge. They left the river behind, following one of its tributaries north-west. The tributary, dry most of the year, was now full of muddy, turbulent water, which had cut a deep channel in the sandy soil. Desert grasses and wild flowers grew near the channel, but there were no crops. After a time, they left the tributary behind and rode across barren desert.
‘How does our guide know the way?’ John asked Yusuf.
‘The desert is the Bedouin’s home. They can read its signs, see things we cannot.’
They saw no trace of human life until just before sunset, when they heard the familiar, wavering cry of a muezzin calling the evening prayer. A moment later, they crested a small rise and saw a u-shaped building built around a well. It was a funduq – an inn that served caravans. Yusuf’s shoulders relaxed visibly when he saw it. ‘We made it,’ he said and spurred his horse through the gate. John followed and found himself in a courtyard lined with wooden stalls on the right. Most of them were occupied by a horse or camel. A murmur of conversation – punctuated by a woman’s loud laughter – came from a door to the left. It opened, and out stepped a dark-skinned man with a bright smile and large, gold loops in his ears.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, travellers,’ he said, giving a small bow.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Yusuf replied as he dismounted. John also dismounted and took the reins of Yusuf’s horse.
‘I am Habil, and you are welcome at my funduq,’ the man said. ‘You can stable your horses here. Beds are through that door behind you. There is food and drink in the tavern.’ He waved to the door through which he had just come. ‘Three fals each for a bed and horse stall. Food and drink are extra.’
Yusuf took a dinar from the pouch at his belt and tossed it to Habil, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the gold piece. ‘That should be sufficient for me and my men.’
‘Yes, yes!’ Habil bowed again. ‘You can have all the food and wine you want.’
‘I do not desire wine. Where is the mosque?’
‘Yes, of course, the mosque. It is that way.’ Habil pointed to a door at the far end of the courtyard.
Yusuf nodded curtly. ‘You may go now.’ Habil bowed and re-entered the tavern, and Yusuf turned to John. ‘Care for my horse,’ he said, then spoke to the mamluks. ‘You will take turns guarding the gold. I want two men with that chest at all times. We will leave after morning prayers.’ Yusuf crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the mosque. Shirkuh’s men led their horses into the stalls and unsaddled them. Most of the men headed into the tavern, but two stayed behind in the fading light. They carried the chest into one of the stalls and sat on the straw-covered floor while John groomed Yusuf’s horse in the next stall along.
John took a comb, hoof pick and cloth from one of the saddlebags and then removed the saddle. He slid his hand down the horse’s right foreleg, squeezing just above the hoof, and murmured ‘fauq’ – up. The horse lifted its leg, and John carefully picked out the pebbles and grit that had gathered in the sole of its hoof. When he had finished with the hooves, he used the cloth to wipe the dirt from the horse’s face and ears. Then he took up the brush and began to scrape the dirt from the horse’s coat. He was nearly done when he heard a voice from the next stall.
‘What do you say, Nathir? Do you think he’d notice if we took a few dinars for ourselves?’ one of the mamluks said.
‘The chest is locked, Jareh.’
‘I could pick it. My father was a locksmith. He showed me how.’
‘It’s not worth it. Yusuf will have you’re hands if he catches you.’
‘Then we won’t let him catch us, will we?’
John stopped brushing. In the silence, he could just hear the sound of metal scraping on metal. He tossed the brush aside and walked over to stand in the entrance of the next stall. Jareh was on his knees, his back to John as he probed at the lock with his dagger and a needle. Nathir stood over him, watching. He looked up, and his face paled. He tapped Jareh’s shoulder.
‘What?’ Jareh asked. Nathir pointed, and the other mamluk looked over his shoulder. He sat on the chest and met John’s eyes. ‘What do you want, ifranji?’ John returned the man’s stare, but said nothing. ‘Yusuf’s watchdog,’ Jareh grumbled.
‘Careful, Brother,’ John told him.
‘I am not your brother, ifranji,’ the mamluk spat. He tapped the blade of his dagger against his open palm. ‘If you speak of this to Yusuf, you are a dead man.’
John shrugged. ‘I only wished to warn you: Yusuf knows the precise number of coins in the chest. If even one goes missing, he will know.’
‘I told you!’ Nathir slapped the back of Jareh’s head, then looked to John. ‘Shukran.’
John nodded and walked out into the courtyard, which was all dark shadows now that the sun had set. Yusuf was still at his prayers, and the sounds of revelry from the tavern had grown louder. Looking through one of the tavern windows, John saw a mamluk grab a buxom young woman – a prostitute, no doubt – and pull her on to his lap. He kissed the girl, and John turned away, battling bittersweet memories of his last night with Zimat. He went to a small door that he guessed led to the sleeping hall. But when he pushed it open, he found himself in a small candlelit chapel, a wooden cross hanging from the far wall. Two benches sat before an altar, and on one of them was seated a priest in brown robes. The priest turned, and John saw that he was very old, the skin of his face mottled and wrinkled. His eyes were covered with a milky film, and he looked towards John without seeing him.
‘Greetings, Son,’ the priest said in Latin.
‘Hello, Father.’ John closed the door and crossed the room to sit beside the old man, who stared ahead, saying nothing. ‘What are you doing here?’ John asked.
The priest smiled, revealing a mouth in which only a few teeth had survived. ‘This is my church.’
John feared the old man mi
ght be crazy. ‘But these are Muslim lands.’
‘Yes, but they were not always so. I came here more than fifty years ago, with the first King Baldwin. We conquered these lands and made a new kingdom for God. I have been here ever since. When the Saracens retook these lands, I stayed. I was old and blind; too much trouble for my fellow Christians to bother taking with them, and not worth the effort for the Saracens to kill.’
‘The Saracens treat you well, then?’
‘They let me be. There are native Christians and Franks who pass through with the caravans. Just yesterday, two-score Franks stopped at the inn. I prayed with them, offered them confession and absolution. Do you wish me to pray with you?’ The priest held out a wooden cup. A few copper coins rattled in the bottom. John added another. ‘Bless you, Son. Do you wish to confess your sins?’
John shook his head. ‘It has been a long time, Father.’
‘It is never too late to find forgiveness.’ The priest placed a hand on John’s back. ‘Tell me.’
John lowered his head and looked at his hands. For a moment, it seemed as if he could still see them covered with blood. ‘I do not wish to be forgiven for what I have done.’
‘And why is that?’
‘I killed my brother.’
‘Why?’
John’s jaw clenched as long-buried memories came to the surface. ‘He sold my father to the Normans. They strung him up as a traitor. I watched him die . . .’ John felt tears in his eyes and wiped them away.
‘It was vengeance, then.’
‘Yes. But it was not justice.’
The priest nodded. ‘I understand. I too killed someone I loved.’ John looked up, surprised. The priest smiled. ‘I was not always the old man you see now. Once I was young, with a beautiful wife.’ He sighed. ‘I found her in bed with my closest friend. I killed them both, with these hands.’ He held up his hands, gnarled and wrinkled. ‘I stabbed them to death, and then I ran away. I entered the priesthood and ended up here.’ The priest turned his blind eyes upon John. ‘I hated myself. I wanted to die. But hating myself did not bring them back. And it will not help you, either. God does not want our hate, but our love. It took me a long time to learn that. Too long.’
