by Hight, Jack
‘You did it!’ Umar spat, pointing his dagger at John.
‘My servant had nothing to do with this,’ Yusuf said. ‘Those same Franks attacked us. They killed ten of my men.’
‘You lie!’ Umar snarled.
‘Silence!’ Sabir roared. He examined John for a moment, then turned to Yusuf. ‘You swear that this man is your servant, that he had nothing to do with the Franks who attacked us?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘By Allah, I swear it.’
‘You would accept the word of this stranger over that of your own son?’ Umar demanded, red-faced. ‘I tell you: I saw this ifranji kill my wife. He must die!’
Sabir looked from his son to John, and then back to Yusuf. ‘There is only one way to prove that what you say is true, young emir. You will undergo the bisha’a.’
The blood drained from Yusuf’s face, leaving him pale, but he nodded. ‘I will.’
‘Then let it be done.’ Sabir drew a dagger from his belt and crouched down beside the fire. He plunged the dagger’s blade into the glowing coals. Women and children came out of the tents and gathered around the fire.
John stepped close to Yusuf. ‘What is going on?’
‘Bisha’a is a trial by fire, an old Bedouin ritual. I will lick the hot blade of the dagger three times. Then the sheikh will examine me. If my tongue is burned, I lie. If it is not, then I tell the truth.’
‘But that is ridiculous!’
‘It is their way,’ Yusuf said and turned back to face the fire.
Umar crouched down with a wet cloth in hand, and pulled the dagger from the fire. ‘The blade is ready!’ he declared, holding it up for all to see. The dagger’s blade glowed red against the night sky.
Umar handed the dagger to Sabir, who brought it to Yusuf. The rest of the tribe pressed close as Sabir held the dagger out before Yusuf’s face. Yusuf could feel the heat radiating from the blade. ‘Now,’ Sabir commanded.
‘Allah protect me,’ Yusuf whispered under his breath. He extended his tongue and pressed it briefly to the glowing blade. The searing pain was excruciating. He thought he could already feel his tongue beginning to blister, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to show no sign of his agony. If he showed pain, it would be clear his tongue was burned. John would die.
‘Again,’ Sabir told him.
Yusuf licked the blade a second time. It felt as if a hundred angry wasps were in his mouth, stinging at his tongue. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. He dug his fingernails into his palms. Yusuf met the eyes of Umar, who was watching him closely, and forced himself to smile. Then, before Sabir even prompted, he licked the blade a final time. He could taste blood in his mouth now and felt himself grow faint. Sabir took his arm, steadying him.
‘Bring him water!’ Sabir shouted.
A woman presented a cup, and Yusuf drank. The cold water only worsened the ache in his tongue. He drained the cup and forced a smile. ‘Shukran,’ he said to the woman who had given him the water.
Umar pressed forward. ‘Examine him, Father. Let us see if he tells the truth.’
Sabir nodded. ‘Back!’ he shouted to the crowd. They retreated several feet, opening up a space around Yusuf and Sabir. Sabir turned to Yusuf. ‘Open.’
‘I do not lie,’ Yusuf whispered to him, then opened his mouth.
Sabir peered inside for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. ‘He speaks the truth!’
‘Impossible!’ Umar protested, rushing forward.
‘I have made my judgement, Son. Yusuf speaks the truth. You will apologize to him.’
Jaw clenched, Umar bowed slightly to Yusuf. ‘Forgive me my error,’ he spat, then turned and strode away into the darkness beyond the firelight.
‘Forgive him,’ Sabir said. ‘The death of his wife has unbalanced him. Now come to my tent. You need food and water.’
Yusuf began to follow Sabir, when John grabbed his arm. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered in Frankish. ‘How did it not burn you?’
‘It did,’ Yusuf replied.
John looked to Sabir, who was standing at the entrance to his tent, beckoning for them to follow. ‘Then why did he lie?’
‘He is a wise man. He knew I told the truth.’
‘Wake up! Wake up!’
John opened his eyes to see Sabir crouched over Yusuf, shaking his arm. The tent flap was open and morning sunlight streamed inside. ‘What is it?’ Yusuf mumbled, his burned and swollen tongue making it painful for him to speak.
‘The Frankish bandits have followed you. You must go quickly. If they find you here, then we will suffer.’
Yusuf rose immediately. ‘I understand.’
John and Yusuf followed Sabir outside. He pointed to the horizon, where a plume of dust rose high above the desert floor. ‘There. They are only a few miles off.’ He handed them each a full waterskin. ‘Take these and head east.’ He pointed in the opposite direction of the Franks, to where John could just make out a line of low hills on the horizon. ‘The Sajur River is just over those hills. Once you reach it, Tell Bashir is not far. If you move fast, you may make it.’
‘Thank you, sheikh,’ Yusuf told him. ‘You have saved our lives.’
‘Not if you do not hurry. Go!’
Yusuf kissed Sabir on both cheeks, then slung the waterskin over his shoulder and loped out of camp. John joined him, jogging at his side. ‘The Franks already have our gold. Why would they follow us?’ John huffed between breaths.
‘Perhaps it is not our gold that they are after.’
‘What then?’
‘Me. If they know who I am, then they know my father will pay for my ransom.’
John glanced back at the cloud of dust. It already seemed much closer. ‘Then we had best hurry,’ he said and picked up the pace.
They ran on in silence, conserving their breath. John’s legs burned with fatigue after the previous day’s march across the desert, and painful blisters had formed on his heels. He gritted his teeth and pressed on. The sun rose from behind the hills ahead, and John was soon soaked in sweat. When they finally reached the shade cast by the hills, they stopped to drink. As he tilted back his waterskin, John looked back to the cloud of dust thrown up by their pursuers.
‘’Sblood,’ he cursed. ‘They’re close.’
‘Only a few miles back,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘And closing fast.’ He placed the stopper back in his waterskin. ‘Come on.’
To save time, they avoided the twisting paths that ran at the base of the hills and headed straight east, slogging up and down hill after hill. Sweat ran down John’s face, stinging his eyes, and his muscles screamed with agony. But he forced himself to keep going, trudging up the face of the hill before him. Yusuf ran ahead, seemingly tireless. He was already halfway up the next hill, and when he reached the top, he let out a whoop of joy. John staggered up after him and stood bent over, hands on his knees. ‘Thank God,’ he managed between breaths.
Before them, the hill sloped down towards carefully tended fields that ran up to the edge of a broad river, its slow-moving waters sparkling silver. A road alongside the river snaked to the north, and there, rising high above the valley on a lone hill, was the fortress of Tell Bashir, with the houses of the town scattered around it. It was no more than a mile off.
Yusuf clapped John on the back. ‘We made it!’
‘Not yet.’ John pointed behind them. The dust from the hooves of the bandits’ horses was rising up from the hills just behind them.
‘We’ll have to run,’ Yusuf said. ‘Are you up to it?’ John grimaced, but nodded. ‘Come on, then!’ Yusuf sprinted down the hill, and John followed.
They reached the bottom of the slope and tore across a field of saffron, leaving a haze of yellow pollen hanging in the air behind them. They crashed through a spinach patch and out on to the road. Despite his burning lungs, John kept going, straining to keep up with Yusuf. As they raced down the road, the fortress loomed closer and closer. It was of Roman construction, its thick walls showing bands of red brick separ
ated by a mixture of concrete and rough stone. John could see three soldiers standing above the gatehouse, bows in hand.
As they passed the first house on the outskirts of town, John began to slow. ‘We’re almost there!’ Yusuf called back in encouragement, but John could go no further. He stumbled to a stop, bent over and vomited. Looking back, he saw the Frankish bandits sitting astride their horses atop the distant hills. The bandits thundered down the hill after them. With a groan, John straightened and ran on, stumbling down the main street. Houses were built close on either side, but nobody was out. The doors were all closed and the windows shuttered.
They reached the hill on which the fortress sat and John gritted his teeth, forcing himself up the sloping road after Yusuf. The two staggered to a stop before the closed gate and John fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Behind him, the bandits were galloping along the road towards them. They would reach the fortress in minutes.
Yusuf pounded on the closed gate. ‘Open up! Open the gate!’
A grill slid open, revealing a man’s face. His square jaw was clean-shaven, indicating that he was a mamluk, and he had dark, penetrating eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want?’
‘I am Yusuf ibn Ayub. I have been sent by Nur ad-Din to take command of this fortress. Open the gate.’
The man frowned. ‘And why should I do that?’
‘I told you!’ Yusuf shouted, exasperated. ‘I have been sent by Nur ad-Din. I am your lord, and I command you to open the gate!’ While Yusuf shouted, John glanced behind them. The bandits had now reached the outskirts of the town.
‘Gumushtagin is my lord,’ the man behind the gate replied. ‘He commanded me to hold this fort until the Seljuks arrive. They are bringing us a fortune in gold.’ He eyed Yusuf’s ragged clothing. ‘What do you bring?’
Yusuf’s face was beginning to turn red, and John could tell he was on the point of exploding in anger. John placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘We cannot afford to anger him.’ He glanced back to the bandits, who were only two hundred yards away.
Yusuf nodded. ‘What is your name, mamluk?’ he asked in a more even voice.
‘Baha’ ad-Din Qaraqush.’
‘I bring only myself, Qaraqush, but that is enough to make you rich.’
Qaraqush laughed. ‘You are only a child.’
Yusuf’s jaw clenched, but his voice remained calm. ‘You are right. I am a child. I am no threat to you and your men. I humbly request your hospitality. Please let us into the citadel.’ Qaraqush’s brow creased, and he hesitated. To deny a traveller hospitality was a terrible breach of honour, and Yusuf in his dirty, torn tunic certainly did not look threatening. ‘Please, man,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘We have walked for miles through the desert. I am tired, hungry and in no mood to argue. All I ask is shelter, food and drink. We will leave in the morning.’ Qaraqush examined Yusuf for a moment longer, then the grill slammed shut.
‘’Sblood!’ John cursed. The Frankish bandits were racing up the main street, bows in hand. One let fly, and an arrow hit the gate next to John with a thud. Then the gate behind them creaked open, just enough for Yusuf and John to slip through. They hurried inside, and the gate slammed shut behind them.
Qaraqush stood before them. He was short but powerfully built, with a thick neck and arms. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to Tell Bashir.’
Chapter 11
NOVEMBER 1152: TELL BASHIR
Yusuf sat on the dirt floor of the small cell, his knees drawn up to his chest in an attempt to ward off the evening chill. John was slumped against the opposite wall, his head hanging between his knees, his blond hair lit by a stream of light slanting in through the barred window. As soon as they had been admitted to the citadel, they had been marched to this cell. They had seen no one since.
John raised his head. ‘What do you think they will do with us?’
‘They will not kill us,’ Yusuf replied, ‘not after inviting us in. That would shame them.’
‘What then?’
Yusuf shrugged. ‘I do not know.’ There was the rasp of metal on metal as the door’s bolt slid back, and he got to his feet. The cell door swung open to reveal four mamluk soldiers in chainmail. One of them, a slender young man with a shaved head, stepped inside and held out his hand. ‘Your weapons.’ Yusuf hesitated. ‘They will be returned to you,’ the mamluk promised. Yusuf handed over his weapons, and John did the same. The young mamluk tucked Yusuf’s sheathed sword and dagger into his belt and handed John’s sword to one of the other men. ‘Come with us,’ he said. ‘Qaraqush requests your presence at dinner.’
Yusuf and John followed the young mamluk out of the cell, and the other guards fell in behind them. They crossed the courtyard to the citadel’s keep, a thick-walled, three-storey building. They stepped through the arched doorway and into a dimly lit entrance chamber. A staircase opposite led to the next floor. Yusuf and John headed for it, but one of the mamluks grabbed John’s arm, stopping him.
‘Your slave will eat in the kitchen,’ the soldier said, gesturing to a door to the right.
‘He is not a slave,’ Yusuf replied.
‘He is a Frank,’ the bald mamluk spat.
Yusuf’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but John put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is all right, Yusuf. Go ahead. I will be fine.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf grumbled. The guards led John away, and Yusuf followed the young mamluk up the stairs and into a thickly carpeted room, well lit with candlelight. Opposite the door, Qaraqush sat on a cushion before a low table. He was dressed simply in a tunic of white cotton. He extended his hand, indicating that Yusuf should sit on the cushion opposite him.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Yusuf said as he sat. ‘You saved my life today. I am in your debt.’
Qaraqush waved away his thanks. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessing of Allah be upon him, commands us to welcome friend and enemy alike with open arms.’
‘I hope you shall count me as a friend.’
Qaraqush frowned. He clapped his hands, and two servants entered carrying bowls of hot water and towels. When Yusuf had washed his hands, more servants entered, and a bowl of steaming lamb stew, a plate of fresh flatbread, and a dish of cool cucumber yoghurt were placed on the low table before Yusuf. His stomach rumbled loudly.
‘You are hungry,’ Qaraqush said. ‘Eat.’
Yusuf eagerly tore off a piece of the soft flatbread and scooped up some of the lamb stew. ‘In the name of Allah,’ he murmured and ate, closing his eyes to savour the taste. He tore off another piece of bread.
‘Eat well,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘Tomorrow morning you leave.’
Yusuf lowered the bread. ‘You know that if you send us away, we will die. The Frankish raiders are waiting for us.’
‘That is no concern of mine.’
‘On the contrary. You know of my uncle, Shirkuh?’
Qaraqush’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Shirkuh?’ His eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf more closely. ‘Of course I know of him. He is Nur ad-Din’s greatest general.’
Yusuf met Qaraqush’s eyes. ‘If I am killed, my uncle will not rest until he sees you dead.’
Qaraqush thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I am afraid you are wrong. Why should Shirkuh seek vengeance against me, when it is Frankish bandits who will have killed you?’
‘I see,’ Yusuf murmured.
‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but it seems we are not destined to be friends. Tomorrow you will leave. What happens after that is in Allah’s hands.’ Qaraqush clapped, and servants entered with the next course.
Yusuf had lost his appetite, and he ate little for the remainder of the meal. Qaraqush was content to dine in silence. When the last course had been consumed, he bid Yusuf farewell. ‘Ma’a as-salaama, Yusuf. The guards will show you out.’
The door opened and the bald mamluk guard entered. Yusuf rose to leave, but then stopped at the door. ‘Wait,’ he said, turning back to face Qaraqush. ‘I have a propos
ition for you.’
‘A proposition?’
‘A challenge: I will fight your strongest man in hand-to-hand combat. If I win, we stay.’
‘You against my strongest man?’ Qaraqush chuckled. ‘You are brave, Yusuf, but you are little more than a boy.’
‘Then you should have no fear of my winning.’
‘Hmph,’ Qaraqush snorted. ‘And why should I accept your challenge? What do I have to gain?’
‘My dagger.’ Yusuf gestured to the weapon tucked into the bald mamluk’s belt. ‘The man who defeats me will have it. And you, Qaraqush, shall have my sword.’
Qaraqush beckoned to the guard, who handed the two weapons over. Qaraqush took the dagger – the one that Shirkuh had given Yusuf – and whistled in appreciation as he fingered the eagle intricately carved into the hilt. Then he drew the sword and ran his finger along its curving blade. ‘Damascus steel,’ he noted. ‘A fine piece of craftsmanship.’ He sheathed the blade and smiled. ‘I like you, boy. You have spirit. I accept your challenge, but your victory will not win your Frank’s freedom.’
‘John is my friend,’ Yusuf protested. ‘I will not leave without him.’
‘Then he shall have to fight for himself. My men will enjoy watching him beaten.’
‘I am sure,’ Yusuf said, a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘I accept.’
‘Then we have a deal.’ The two men clasped shoulders and kissed one another’s cheeks to seal the agreement. ‘But even if you win, you will only be postponing the inevitable,’ Qaraqush warned Yusuf. ‘The Seljuk Sultan’s men will arrive in two weeks. My lord, Gumushtagin, has ordered me to turn the citadel over to them, and you will go with it. The sultan will pay good money for the nephew of Shirkuh, and I fear he will not treat you as generously as I have.’
‘You will not turn the fortress over to the sultan.’
‘No?’ Qaraqush’s eyebrows rose. ‘And why is that?’
‘Gumushtagin is no longer your lord. I am. Nur ad-Din has decreed it.’
