Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Very well.’ Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Saqr!’ The mamluk entered at once. ‘Have John shown to guest quarters and see that he is comfortable. Post guards at his door. He is not to leave without my permission. He will be staying with us for a very long time.’

  Yusuf rode through the camp that sprawled along the Barada River to the south-east of the city. There were thousands of tents: the ordered rows of the mamluks from Egypt; the brightly coloured tents of the emirs who had come with their own mamluks; and the sprawling sheepskin structures of the Bedouin who had joined the army in the hope of spoils. Yusuf could see another tribe of Bedouin on the horizon, kicking up a cloud of dust as they rode towards Damascus. The rainy season was over, and the lands east of the city were once more hard and dry. It would be time to march soon. In Aleppo, Yusuf would meet the rest of his men, including the emirs of Al-Jazirah – Gökböri, Nu’man and Muhammad.

  He reined to a halt before a tent of saffron-yellow silk. Al-Mashtub strode out. The huge warrior smiled broadly, showing teeth that had yellowed with age. He held Yusuf’s stirrup for him to dismount. Yusuf embraced him and kissed his cheeks. ‘I am glad you have come, friend.’

  ‘I would not have missed it. Life in Banyas is dull. The Franks in Hunin have not left their castle in months. I fear they have lost their stomach for battle.’

  Talk of Banyas made Yusuf think of John. They had taken the city together, back when Nur ad-Din ruled. John was still confined to his quarters in the palace. Yusuf had not seen him since he arrived more than two months ago.

  ‘When do we leave for Mosul?’ Al-Mashtub asked.

  ‘In two weeks. Tonight, you will dine with me at the palace.’

  ‘Do you still have that cook you took from Aleppo?’ Yusuf nodded, and Al-Mashtub grinned. ‘Then it will be my pleasure.’

  Yusuf continued on his way, greeting half a dozen more newly arrived emirs and sheikhs before returning to the palace. Imad ad-Din met him in the entryway. ‘A bird has come from Jerusalem, Malik.’ The secretary lowered his voice. ‘King Baldwin is dead.’

  ‘Who rules in Jerusalem now?’

  ‘Baldwin’s young nephew has been crowned king, with Raymond of Tripoli his regent. What will you do, Malik? Will you invade the Kingdom?’

  ‘I will think on it.’

  Yusuf returned to his chambers to find his wife Shamsa waiting for him. She and the children had joined him from Cairo last month.

  ‘You have heard?’ she asked.

  Yusuf nodded. ‘It is no surprise. Baldwin has been ill for years.’

  ‘Some will take it as a sign that he died when you have an army ready at hand. Your men will want to attack Jerusalem.’

  Yusuf knew that tone. ‘But?’

  ‘If you turn away to attack the Kingdom, Izz ad-Din will invade from Mosul. He might take Aleppo.’

  ‘Not with Selim there.’

  ‘Even your brother cannot win against overwhelming odds. I know the news from the north as well as you, Husband. Izz ad-Din has allied with the Seljuk prince Jahan Pahlavan. Together, they have besieged your ally, the emir of Ibril. If you do not oppose them, they will move on to take Mardin and Nisbin, then Saruj and Edessa. The emirs of Al-Jazirah who have pledged their swords to you will join them. Aleppo will be next.’

  Yusuf kissed her on the brow. ‘I have missed you, my clever wife.’

  ‘So you will move on Mosul?’

  ‘Perhaps. The regent, Raymond, will be eager to start his rule with a victory. If I march on Mosul, the Franks will strike at Damascus.’

  ‘Not if you make peace with them.’

  Yusuf scowled. ‘After Montgisard, I swore to drive the Franks from the Holy Land.’

  ‘And you will, in time. But you cannot fight on two fronts, my love. You must put your own house in order before you turn to the Franks.’

  ‘Hmph.’ Yusuf went to the window and stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

  Shamsa came to stand beside him. She touched his chin and gently turned his face towards her. ‘I know you are angry with John, habibi, but do not let your anger cloud your judgement. Would you still resist peace had the Franks sent a diff erent emissary?’

  Yusuf opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. She was right. ‘You know me better than I know myself.’ He kissed her, then pulled away and raised his voice. ‘Saqr! Bring me John.’

  John’s palms began to sweat as he followed a guard through the halls of the palace. It was the first time he had left his room in months. He had passed the days reading, gazing out of the window and practising his arguments for peace. Hope had begun to fade, but now Yusuf had summoned him.

  They had reached the audience chamber. The guard knocked and pushed the door open. Yusuf sat in the same position as the last time John had been there. ‘Your king is dead,’ he said when John had sat.

  John blinked. ‘What? When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  And he had not been there. John felt as if a great weight were pressing on his chest. He should have returned after Yusuf’s initial refusal. Perhaps he could have done something.

  ‘You chose him over me once, John.’ Yusuf met his eyes. ‘I ask you to choose again. Join my service.’

  John shook his head. ‘I swore an oath.’

  ‘To Baldwin. Baldwin is dead.’

  ‘I am a priest. I swore an oath to God as well.’

  ‘There is only one God, John. I serve him. I fight his battles.’

  ‘War is no business of God. I must return to Jerusalem. Allah yasalmak, friend.’ He rose.

  ‘You said you would not go without peace.’

  John paused at the door. ‘Peace?’ Why now, when the Kingdom was most vulnerable? He searched Yusuf’s face, but found no answer. John’s forehead creased in thought. When Guy took over as regent, he had sent Reynald raiding into the Hijaz. Perhaps Yusuf feared another such attack from Raymond. But why fear a Frankish army, unless . . . ‘You plan to march on Mosul.’

  ‘Perhaps. Tell me of the new king. The truth, John.’

  ‘Young Baldwin is a sickly child. He is not likely to live to his majority.’

  ‘And the regent, Raymond.’

  ‘You have met him. You know him to be a good man.’

  ‘But is he a good soldier?’

  ‘You will not find the Kingdom an easy prize while he rules, if that is what you mean.’

  Yusuf met John’s eyes. ‘One more question, John. Answer me true; your peace depends on it. Can I take Jerusalem?’

  John opened his mouth, prepared to lie, but then thought better of it. He could not deceive Yusuf. They knew one another too well. ‘Yes, you can take it. But it will cost you dearly, and you will not be able to hold it, not if you must send men to protect Aleppo from the emir of Mosul.’

  Yusuf nodded. He held out a sheet of paper.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘A truce, John. Four years.’

  John took the treaty, held it to his heart, and bowed. ‘Shukran allah.’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘Do not thank me. Once Mosul is in my power, there will be nothing to prevent me from turning to the Kingdom. When the four years are up, I am coming for Jerusalem.’

  Chapter 7

  November 1185: Mosul

  Yusuf felt as if his insides were on fire. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he grit his teeth as he squatted over the chamber pot. When he had finished shitting, he stepped outside the private section of his tent and a servant went in to retrieve the pot. As it was carried out, Saqr looked inside and frowned.

  ‘Malik—’

  Yusuf waved away his concern. Mosul was almost his. He could not afford to be weak. ‘It is nothing. Have water brought and help me with my armour.’

  Saqr helped him pull on a shirt of heavy mail and then laced up the vest of golden scale armour that Yusuf wore over it. Yusuf buckled on his sword belt, pulled on his helmet and stepped outside. The morning sun flashed off his golden armour and the gilt crown of his he
lmet. It was important to look the part of a king, no matter how miserable he might feel.

  Yusuf’s tent had been set on a low ridge two miles west of Mosul. The tents of his khaskiya covered the face of the slope before him, and beyond them the camp stretched to within half a mile of the city, on the far side of which the Tigris River flowed past, its waters glittering reddish gold. From here, Mosul’s tall walls – the same dusty brown colour as the land around them – looked small enough to step over. The emir, Izz ad-Din, was trapped behind those walls. His ally, the Seljuk Pahlavan, had fled when Yusuf crossed the Euphrates. After his withdrawal, many of the emirs east of Mosul had gone over to Yusuf’s side. The city was isolated. It held less than half as many men as Yusuf’s army. Yet after five months of siege, it still stood.

  A servant arrived with a cup of water. Yusuf forced himself to drink, though his stomach still burned. Perhaps the water would help to quench the fire. As he sipped, he watched the catapults at work, hurling chunks of rock taken from ruins in the hills across the Tigris. The catapults pounded day and night, but they did little damage. Izz ad-Din had sent out sorties to drive away Yusuf’s sappers before they could get close enough to undermine the walls. Yusuf would have to starve the city into submission. He could well imagine how the people must be suffering. As a young emir, Yusuf had spent four months under siege in Alexandria. He still remembered the gnawing hunger in his gut. It had eventually become so much a part of him that he almost ceased to notice it.

  Yusuf lowered his cup as he noticed a flurry of activity atop the nearest gate. Helmets flashed in the sun as more men joined the guards that were there. A horn sounded from amongst the men Yusuf had posted to watch the gate. A moment later, the gate opened. Yusuf’s men quickly formed a line to blunt the charge of any sortie. Below Yusuf, the camp sprang to life as men dropped their breakfast to reach for swords and spears. Al-Mashtub galloped up the ridge and slid from the saddle before Yusuf.

  ‘Malik, the gate!’

  ‘So I see,’ Yusuf replied calmly. ‘Inshallah, Izz ad-Din will be fool enough to attack. You will lead the Egyptian regiments against him. When the enemy charges, hold fast in the middle and send your flanks to cut them off from the city.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  ‘And make sure the guards at the other gates stay alert. This may be only a feint before he attacks in force elsewhere.’

  Al-Mashtub climbed into the saddle and galloped away shouting orders. Yusuf turned his attention back to the gate. If it was a sortie, Izz ad-Din’s men were taking their time about it. Any element of surprise had long since past. Finally, two dozen men rode out. Even from this distance, Yusuf could see that the three men at the centre were not soldiers. They wore no armour, which would have reflected the morning sun. Emissaries. The gates swung shut behind them.

  Yusuf turned to one of the dozen messengers who attended him. They were young mamluks, selected for the speed with which they rode and their ability to accurately remember his instructions. ‘Tell Al-Mashtub to keep a careful watch,’ Yusuf told him. ‘This may be some trick.’ The man nodded and sprinted for his horse. ‘You four, have Gökböri, Nu’man, Muhammad and Imad ad-Din attend me in my tent. And you, see that Izz ad-Din’s messengers are shown here. Saqr, have food and drink prepared for our guests.’

  Yusuf entered his tent and seated himself on a camp-stool. Imad ad-Din came in first and the emirs arrived shortly thereafter. Gökböri was still chewing on a roasted chicken leg. Muhammad was dressed immaculately in silk robes of emerald green decorated with a floral motif in silver. Nu’man waddled in last of all, wearing the hard leather and stained mail that never seemed to leave his back. The three men joined Imad ad-Din at either side of Yusuf’s stool.

  ‘You think they have had enough, Malik?’ Gökböri asked.

  ‘Inshallah,’ Muhammad said. ‘Sieges are a tiresome business.’

  ‘And expensive,’ Imad ad-Din added. ‘Each day costs thousands of dinars in food and pay for your mamluks, Malik. Even the coffers of Egypt will run dry at some point.’

  ‘Izz ad-Din’s treasury is filled with gold,’ Nu’man said. ‘We will have all we need when the city falls.’

  ‘Malik.’ Saqr stepped inside. ‘Izz ad-Din has sent his wife, the khatun Asma umm Arslan, and her two eldest daughters.’

  Saqr held the flap aside, and the women entered. The two daughters were dressed in caftans of white – a symbol of purity indicating that they were virgins – and wore niqabs that covered all but their eyes. Izz ad-Din’s wife Asma wore robes of yellow silk and her face was uncovered. She was an attractive woman, with brilliant golden eyes that had the beginnings of crow’s feet at their corners. Her hair showed no trace of silver and her face was round. She, at least, had not suffered from a lack of food during the siege. She met Yusuf’s gaze boldly.

  ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Yusuf welcomed them. He gestured to the food that had been set out. It was the hospitality due any guest. ‘Sit. Eat and drink.’

  ‘Shukran Allah, Malik,’ Asma said. ‘Your welcome honours us.’ She sat first, followed by her daughters. They each took a small bite of bread and a sip of water, then set the food aside.

  ‘After months surrounded by only warriors,’ Yusuf told Asma, ‘it is a joy to look upon beauty such as you and your daughters possess. It is like finding an oasis in the desert.’ Yusuf was more concerned with their message than their looks, but certain formalities had to be observed.

  ‘I see your reputation for courtesy is as well earned as your reputation in war, Malik. I hope to find that your reputation for mercy is equally well founded.’

  That was well done. This Asma was clever. ‘Those who admit their faults and accept my judgement will find me ever merciful,’ he told her.

  ‘Then I beg mercy for the people of Mosul. They have done nothing to offend you, yet it is they who suffer most from this siege. Grain is worth its weight in gold. Men have been murdered over a loaf of bread. Hundreds of starving children beg in the streets. Be merciful, Malik. If you will not lift your siege, at least send food for our people.’

  Food that would no doubt go to feed Izz ad-Din’s soldiers. ‘If your people want food, they have only to open the gates to me.’

  Asma shook her head. ‘Our people are loyal before all else. They will never betray Izz ad-Din.’

  ‘We shall see, khatun. It is said that a hungry belly knows no loyalties.’

  Asma’s eyes narrowed. When she spoke again, there was an angry edge to her voice. ‘You claim to be the servant of Islam, Malik. Why, then, are you here in the east fighting your brothers when the enemy lies far to the west in Jerusalem?’

  ‘You know well enough why I am here. I cannot fight the Franks so long as I fear a knife in my back the moment it is turned.’

  ‘You use clever words to hide your ambition. If all you seek is to secure your borders, then make peace with Mosul. Do not destroy it.’

  Finally, they had reached the heart of the matter. Yusuf nodded for her to continue.

  ‘Izz ad-Din offers a ten-year truce. My daughters will marry your sons. You will free the emirs east of Mosul of their oaths to you. In return, Izz ad-Din will allow you to keep the lands to the west.’

  Yusuf arched an eyebrow. ‘He will allow me? He cannot stop me. I do not seek a truce, khatun. I have come for Mosul, and it will be mine.’

  One of the daughters sniffled. She began to weep loudly. The other joined in. Yusuf almost smiled, the ploy was so transparent. Asma herself made as if to wipe away a tear. ‘You would leave us with nothing?’ she demanded, her voice quaking. ‘You would kill your Muslim brothers? You would condemn my daughters to a life of squalor, make them the whores of your soldiers? I see that the legend of your piety is false. You are no man of God.’

  Yusuf smiled gently. He, too, could play this game. ‘I do not wish any harm to your good daughters, khatun.’

  ‘Then you will make peace?’

  ‘If Izz ad-Din kneels before me as my subject, then I wil
l grant him his life and spare his men and the people of Mosul. I will give your husband the province of Sinjar to rule.’

  ‘Sinjar?’ Asma said the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. She rose, and her daughters did likewise. ‘Izz ad-Din is the descendant of the great Imad ad-Din Zengi. He will never bow before a Kurd such as you.’

  ‘Then he will die and Mosul will fall. When that day comes, not even your daughters’ tears will save you. Go and tell your husband that.’

  Yusuf hunched beneath his cloak as he rode out from camp for his evening inspection of the men on guard. The siege had reached seven months and winter had come. Heavy wet snow collected on the hood of his cloak and his horse kicked up mud, spattering Yusuf’s legs. They might be starving in Mosul, Yusuf reflected, but at least they had roofs over their heads. He could hardly remember the last time he was warm. The winter chill seemed to have got into his bones. And the ache in his stomach was worse than ever. Today was the last day of Ramadan; perhaps when the daily fasting was through, he would feel better. He glanced at Saqr who rode straight-backed, his head uncovered. He seemed to not notice the cold. Ah, to be young again.

  Through the snow ahead, Yusuf spied ranks of mamluks. The guards stationed outside Mosul’s northernmost gate stood to attention as he approached. He knew the men were worse off than he. Some were shaking with cold as they clutched their spears. They knelt in the mud as he passed.

  ‘Saqr,’ Yusuf called. ‘Send a messenger back to camp. Have the cooks prepare a hot soup and see that it is brought to the men on guard.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  Yusuf continued on towards the next watch. The fire in his belly was growing worse. He felt a sudden, sharp stab of pain, like a hot poker thrust into his gut. He dismounted and fell to his hands and knees in the mud as he retched violently. His vomit was red with blood.

  Saqr was at his side immediately. ‘Are you well, Malik? I will call the doctors.’

  Yusuf waved him away. ‘Leave me be.’ He tried to rise, but his head was spinning and his legs weak. He collapsed and rolled on to his back. The last thing he remembered was the touch of the wet snow on his hot cheeks. And then the world went black . . .