by Hight, Jack
John felt a tightness in his chest and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. He forced himself to smile. ‘I understand,’ he managed. Khaldun’s laughter faded as he looked from John to his son. He looked back at John and frowned. John struggled to control his emotions as he met Khaldun’s eyes.
‘Where is my sister?’ Yusuf asked, breaking the tension.
‘She is not well,’ Khaldun said, turning to Yusuf. ‘She asked that you pardon her absence.’
‘It is nothing serious, I hope.’
Khaldun shook his head. ‘A passing indisposition.’ Somewhere nearby, a muezzin took up his strident call. John looked up and saw that the light had faded from the sky, which was now an inky black, speckled with stars. ‘It is time for the isha’a,’ Khaldun said. ‘We will pray here.’ He pointed to a streak of white on the wall of the courtyard. ‘I have marked the direction of Mecca.’ As servants came out from the house with prayer rugs, Khaldun turned to John. ‘You may wait in the gatehouse, if you wish.’
‘I will stay and pray to my God,’ John replied. He stepped back into the shadows near a side door of the house and knelt. He bowed his head but kept his eyes on the men before him.
Yusuf, Khaldun and Ubadah went to the fountain and began to wash their heads, arms and feet in preparation for prayer. They were joined in the ritual ablution by the Muslim servants and mamluks of the household. The men finished washing and stood before their prayer rugs, their backs to John. They began to pray, chanting the first lines of the rak’ah: In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. John knew that the isha’a had four rak’at, taking maybe ten minutes. The men prostrated themselves near the end of the first rak’ah, and he quickly rose and silently slipped through the side door. At the door to Zimat’s room he stopped. He pressed his ear against it, but at first he heard nothing over the chanting outside. Then he made out a faint sound – crying. John opened the door.
Zimat sat in bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. She looked up in surprise as John entered, and he saw that her face was streaked with tears. ‘John,’ she breathed.
‘I feared you would have forgotten me,’ he said as he closed the door.
Without a word, Zimat rose from the bed and ran to him, burying her head in his chest. ‘How could I forget you? I see you every day in our son.’ John held her and stroked her hair. He could feel the knots in his stomach begin to relax. Then Zimat pulled away from him. ‘Why have you come back?’ she demanded. She turned her back to him. ‘Why did you leave me?’
John placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I had to. I could not take you with me to live amongst the Franks. Your son – our son – would have had nothing. You would have had nothing.’
‘I would have had you.’
John gently turned her so that she was facing him. He lifted her chin so that he could look into her dark eyes. ‘You can still have me, if you want me.’
‘You know I do.’ John leaned forward to kiss her, but she put her hand to his lips. ‘But you must promise to never leave me again.’
John took her hand and kissed it. ‘I promise.’ He pulled her against him and kissed her. Her lips were even softer than he had remembered.
The door to the room started to open, and they jumped apart. Their son, Ubadah, stood in the doorway. His eyes widened, and then he screwed up his face and began to cry. ‘Ifranji,’ he bawled, pointing at John. ‘Ifranji!’
Zimat went to him and swept him up into her arms. ‘There, there my sweetness,’ she cooed. ‘He is not an ifranji. He is a friend.’ The boy quieted, and Zimat looked to John. ‘You must go.’
‘But what if—’
‘I will deal with my son and Khaldun. Go!’
John left the room and slipped back out into the courtyard. The men were prostrate, just finishing the final rak’ah. They sat up and murmured in unison:
Greetings to you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessings of Allah. Peace be unto us, and unto the righteous servants of Allah. I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah. And I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.
Each man looked right and whispered, ‘Peace be upon you.’ Then they looked left and repeated the phrase. They rose. Prayers were over. The servants began to gather up the prayer mats while the mamluks headed back to the gatehouse.
The main door to the house opened and Zimat appeared in the doorway. She was still holding Ubadah. ‘Brother!’ she called to Yusuf. ‘Welcome! Come inside and let us feast your arrival.’
John watched as Yusuf went to her and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘It is good to see you, Sister.’ He reached out and tousled Ubadah’s hair. ‘Your son is a handsome little man. He resembles his father.’
A smile tugged at the corner of Zimat’s mouth. She looked past Yusuf and her eyes met John’s. ‘I know,’ she replied.
‘She is my lord’s wife. She is my lord’s wife,’ Yusuf whispered under his breath as he approached the harem. At the entrance, the eunuch guards barred his way. ‘I have come to see Asimat at Nur ad-Din’s bidding,’ Yusuf told them.
One of the guards nodded. ‘Follow me.’ The guard led him to Asimat’s room and showed him inside. On the far side of the room, Asimat sat on a cushion across from one of her servants. They were bent over a games board, and stepping closer, Yusuf saw that they were playing shatranj. Asimat moved her horse – two spaces forward and one to the side – to threaten the servant’s shah. She did not greet Yusuf.
‘My lady,’ Yusuf said and bowed.
Asimat looked up and frowned. ‘It is you.’ The servant rose silently, and Yusuf took her place. He could feel the servant’s eyes on him as she went to stand by the door.
‘Nur ad-Din says that you have not been well,’ Yusuf said. Indeed, now that he was sitting across from Asimat he noticed dark circles under her eyes. Her hair, usually carefully combed, now fell unkempt about her shoulders. She was still beautiful, but damaged somehow.
‘There is no mystery. I grow old and I have no son. That is all that ails me.’
‘You are still young, Khatun.’ He smiled. ‘You will have a son.’
‘By who? Nur ad-Din?’ She laughed bitterly. ‘He does not come to my bed any longer. He plants his seed in younger women. Who, then, will give me a child?’ Yusuf looked away. ‘Who?’ Asimat snapped loudly.
‘I only wished to cheer you,’ Yusuf murmured.
‘There is nothing you can do for me.’ She met his eyes. ‘You are a coward.’ Yusuf blinked in surprise at the insult. ‘I offered you everything, and you fled,’ Asimat hissed, her voice low so her servant would not overhear. ‘You will never be anything but the Emir of Tell Bashir, a god-forsaken fort in the middle of nowhere. You do not have the courage to be more.’
Yusuf felt his face flush red. ‘I have courage, Khatun,’ he said between clenched teeth. ‘But I have honour, too.’
Asimat’s eyes narrowed, and she searched his face for a long time. ‘You have too much honour,’ she said at last. ‘That is why you will never be great.’ She turned her attention back to her game and dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘You may go now.’
Late that night, Yusuf stood with his back pressed against the stone wall of the palace, his bare feet clinging to a thin ledge of stone no more than six inches wide. He looked down to the ground far below, where white rocks at the base of the cliff that fell away from this side of the palace gleamed in the moonlight. He had crawled out of his window in the palace and was now making his way along the ledge towards Asimat’s chambers. He inched his right foot further along the wall. As he did so, the piece of ledge beneath his left foot gave way. Yusuf teetered, his heart hammering in his chest, but managed to stay upright. Below him, the chunk of ledge clattered off the wall and disappeared into the darkness far below. ‘By Allah,’ Yusuf whispered to himself. ‘What am I doing?’
He clung to the wall while his heart slowed. He knew he should turn back, but he could not. Asimat’s words had stung and festered in his
heart: ‘You are a coward . . . That is why you will never be great.’ He had to speak to her, if only to show her that she was wrong. He was no coward, and he would be more than the Emir of Tell Bashir. Much more.
Yusuf continued along the wall until he came to a window. He knew this was Shirkuh’s chamber. It was dark. Yusuf slipped past and continued on his way. He traversed three more dark windows without incident and then came to a row of brightly lit, arched windows, which stretched along the wall for thirty feet. Yusuf peered inside and saw three guards on the far side of the room standing at attention beside a pair of double doors and facing out towards the window. Yusuf crouched down, trying to get below the windows, but it was impossible on the narrow ledge. ‘Yaha!’ he cursed under his breath. There was no way to pass without being seen.
Or was there? Yusuf turned himself around so that his cheek was pressed firmly against the stone wall. Then he bent down until he could grip the rough stone of the ledge with his hands. ‘Allah protect me,’ he whispered and slid his feet off the ledge, lowering himself so that he hung from his hands, his body dangling over the rocks below.
Yusuf began to move slowly along the wall, shifting his hands over a few inches at a time. Looking up, he could see bright torchlight spilling out from the windows above. He was only a quarter of the way across, and already his fingers were beginning to burn with fatigue. Yusuf grit his teeth and kept moving. He glanced up – halfway there. He began to move faster. His hands were in agony now; his knuckles felt as if they were on fire. He reached his left hand a bit too far along the wall and it slipped off, leaving him hanging by one hand. He felt his grip slipping and looked down to the ground far below. Grunting with the effort, he swung his left hand back up to the ledge. He closed his eyes against the pain and forced himself to keep moving, one hand after the other. When he opened his eyes, the arched windows were behind him. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself upwards, his legs scrabbling against the wall, until he managed to get one foot up on the ledge. He stood slowly, pressing himself into the wall. He stayed there for a moment, panting and flexing his hands. When his pulse finally steadied, he moved on.
Asimat’s window was the second one he came to. Yusuf peered inside, but could see nothing in the darkness. He hesitated for a moment, then squeezed through the narrow opening. He froze, his heart beating violently. To his left, he could make out a washbasin, and to his right, Asimat’s bed. He crept towards it. Asimat was asleep, lying on her back. It was a hot night, and she had kicked off her covers. She wore a nightgown of almost transparent silk, through which Yusuf could see the outline of her side, the gentle curves of her breasts and her nipples, dark against her pale skin. Her hair lay over half her face. She looked peaceful. Then she opened her eyes and screamed. ‘Help! Guards!’
Yusuf knelt beside her and clapped his hand over her mouth. ‘It is me, Yusuf,’ he whispered.
Her eyes went wide. She pulled his hand away. ‘What are you doing here?’ she hissed. She looked away to the door; the sound of footsteps was coming along the hall. ‘You must hide. Now!’
Yusuf ran back to the window and slipped through just as the door banged open. He pressed himself against the wall, out of sight. He could hear several eunuch guards troop into the room.
‘What is it, Khatun?’ one of the guards asked. ‘What has happened?’
‘It was nothing, a nightmare,’ Asimat replied. Yusuf glanced through the window and saw that she had risen from her bed and was confronting half a dozen guards. He ducked back out of sight.
‘Are you sure, my lady?’ the guard insisted. ‘I can leave a guard here if that will make you more comfortable.’
‘That will not be necessary. You may go.’
Yusuf heard the guards march out and the door close behind them. A moment later, Asimat leaned out the window. ‘Are you mad?’ she demanded. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘I came to see you. I thought—’
‘You thought what, you fool! Nur ad-Din will kill us both if the guards find you here.’
‘I am sorry. I will go.’ Yusuf began to edge away.
‘No. The guards will be more alert now. You should wait. Come in.’ Asimat disappeared back into her room.
Yusuf moved to the window and swung inside. Asimat was standing beside her bed, slipping a silk robe over her more revealing nightgown. ‘Well?’ she whispered as she tied the robe closed. ‘Now that you are here, what did you come for?’
Yusuf moved closer. ‘You said once that you would help me if I helped you.’ He looked into her eyes – two black pools in the darkness. ‘What did you mean?’
‘You know what I meant.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘No. I must hear you say it.’
‘Then you are not the man I hoped you were.’ Asimat turned her back to him. ‘There are some things that cannot be said. They are too dangerous.’ She stood silently, her long black hair illuminated by the soft moonlight falling through the window. Yusuf’s eyes moved from her shoulders to the curve of her hips beneath her silk robe, and down to her bare calves.
He swallowed, then moved to her and put his hand on her side. He gently turned her so that she was facing him. ‘I am the man you hoped for,’ he whispered and kissed her. Her mouth opened to his. He moved his hand to the small of her back and pulled her close against him so that he could feel her stomach and breasts against him. After a moment, he pulled away. ‘I will give you a child,’ he told her.
Her only answer was to reach out and run her hand through his hair. Then she pulled his head down towards her and kissed him, running her tongue lightly over his lips. While they kissed, she took his hand and placed it on her breast. Her nipple was hard. Yusuf’s breathing quickened, and he felt himself stiffen. He kissed her harder while untying her robe and pulling it from her shoulders. He put his hands under her nightgown, encircling her thin waist, and then running them up her sides to grasp her breasts. She slipped her hand inside his caftan, and he gasped with pleasure as she grasped his zib. She moaned softly as he began to greedily kiss the long curve of her neck. He felt her breath hot in his ear. ‘Give me a son,’ she whispered, ‘and I will give you a kingdom.’
Chapter 18
MARCH TO APRIL 1162: ALEPPO
Yusuf sat in the council chamber, his eyes on the carpet before him. Nur ad-Din was talking, but Yusuf found it harder and harder to meet his lord’s eye. Indeed, he hardly heard a word the king said. Yusuf’s mind kept drifting back to thoughts of Asimat: the feel of her body as it moved under him, their whispered promises. He had visited her many times in the past months. Each time he swore to himself it would be the last. But always he returned. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.
‘Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din called. Yusuf looked up. He met Nur ad-Din’s eyes, then quickly looked away. ‘I was speaking to you.’
‘I am sorry, my lord. I did not hear.’
‘I see.’ Nur ad-Din studied Yusuf for a moment. ‘You look as if you had a long night, my young friend. Gumushtagin tells me that he visited you to discuss collection of the tax from Homs, but you were not in your chamber.’
Yusuf felt himself redden. Did Gumushtagin suspect something? Yusuf looked to the eunuch, seated beside Nur ad-Din. Gumushtagin returned his gaze impassively, revealing nothing. ‘I—I—’ Yusuf began.
‘With a woman, were you?’ Nur ad-Din suggested. Yusuf nodded. ‘Ah ha! So you are human after all. I am glad to hear it. Your Faridah is beautiful, but one woman is not enough for a young man. You should enjoy yourself, just so long as you don’t create any mischief. Stick to whores and virgins.’
‘Yes, malik.’
‘Now, I was asking you about Baalbek. Gumushtagin tells me they have sent seven thousand dinars in payment. He says they could send more.’
Next to Yusuf, Khaldun, who was Emir of Baalbek, spoke up. ‘That is all we have, my lord. I told Gumushtagin—’
Nur ad-Din raised his hand to stop him. He looked to Yusuf. ‘You were raised in Baalbek, Yus
uf. Can they pay more?’
Yusuf glanced at Khaldun, then nodded. ‘Ten thousand.’
‘Good,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘I need every fal I can find to put our army in the field.’ He paused and looked around the room at his emirs. ‘War is coming. King Baldwin is dead.’ There was a murmur of excitement. ‘We will gather our men and watch the new king, Amalric. When he makes a mistake, we shall strike!’ The men pounded the floor to show their approval. ‘Now go,’ Nur ad-Din told them, ‘and bring me more men.’
Yusuf began to leave, but Nur ad-Din called for him to remain. ‘I have a special task for you, Yusuf. It concerns our Frankish prisoner, Reynald.’
‘He is still here?’
‘His subjects do not seem eager to pay his ransom, and I begin to see why. I have had disturbing reports of his behaviour. It is said that he beats his servants, has raped one of them even. You speak Frankish. I want you to speak with him.’
‘And what shall I tell him, my lord?’
‘Tell him that I have treated him as a guest, but if he continues to spit upon my hospitality, then I will be happy to treat him as a prisoner.’ Yusuf nodded. ‘And Yusuf, take this opportunity to observe Reynald. He may be a savage, but he is a powerful man amongst the Franks. Find out what drives him, how he thinks. I wish to know as much about my enemy as possible.’
Yusuf reined to a halt outside the gate of a nondescript house, one of over a dozen sandwiched together on this narrow street not far from the citadel. A gap-toothed, blind beggar sat next to the gate, singing softly to himself. Yusuf looked to John.
‘This is it,’ John said as he slid from the saddle.
Yusuf dismounted and pounded on the gate. ‘Open up!’ he shouted. He knocked again, then stepped back to wait.
The blind man had stopped singing. He looked towards Yusuf with white, milky eyes. ‘That is an evil place,’ he lisped. ‘I hear things at night, horrible things.’
The gate creaked open, and Yusuf turned away from the old man. A mamluk guard stood in the gateway, blocking the entrance to the home’s courtyard. Yusuf nodded in greeting. ‘We are here to see Reynald.’
