Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  He did not know for how long he was unconscious, but after a time, images came to him. He saw his son Al-Salih as a young babe, crawling towards him from the darkness. The baby became a man, holding a golden sword with a wide, curving blade. When he spoke, Al-Salih’s voice was hollow and cold, the voice of a dead man. ‘Vengeance, Father. I will have vengeance.’ He swung his blade, and Yusuf skipped back out of the way. He was in armour now, with a sword in his hand. He met his son’s next blow and turned it aside. Yusuf countered and his blade opened up a gash in Al-Salih’s stomach. No blood appeared.

  Al-Salih attacked again, hacking down. Yusuf sidestepped the blow and impaled his son. Al-Salih laughed, a hollow sound, like bones clacking together. ‘You cannot kill me, Father. I am already dead.’ He reached for Yusuf with his hands, and as they closed around Yusuf’s throat, Al-Salih transformed into his mother, Asimat. Yusuf pushed her away, but she came back, raking at his face with long nails. Her hand closed again on his throat and began to squeeze. Yusuf grabbed her arms and tried to pull her hands away, but her grip was like iron. He was growing desperate for air.

  ‘I know,’ she rasped. ‘I know what you did.’ The flesh of her arms began to decay in his hands. Her face became grey, the skin sloughing off to reveal white bone. ‘I know!’ Her fingers closed tighter and tighter, choking the last air from him. He sank into darkness once more.

  January 1186: Harran

  Yusuf awoke in a dim room. He was lying in a soft bed and above him shadows played on the ceiling, cast there by a candle that flickered on the bedside table. He tried to call for a servant but only produced a strangled croak. His throat was impossibly dry. He made to get up, but sank back into the feather mattress, his head spinning. He heard voices and turned his head, locating the door. It was open. Outside, he saw dim figures speaking in hushed tones.

  ‘He must not be disturbed,’ one of them said. Yusuf did not recognize the man’s voice. ‘He needs rest if he is to recover.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed another strange voice. ‘More hashah to dull the pain and allow him to sleep.’

  ‘He has had sleep enough.’ That was Selim. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be in Aleppo. ‘While my brother lies in bed, men are conspiring to steal his kingdom from him and his children. I must speak with him. You will do whatever it takes to wake him.’

  ‘I dare not,’ one of the doctors protested.

  ‘Let—’ Yusuf managed to rasp. It felt as if the words were clawing their way out of his throat. ‘Let. Him. In.’

  ‘Brother!’ Selim entered and knelt at Yusuf’s bedside. He looked back to the doctors. ‘Bring water at once.’

  One of the doctors entered with a cup. He was a compact man with a beak of a nose and a black beard with a few streaks of grey. He looked familiar, but Yusuf could not place him. It did not matter. He took the cup and drank greedily. When he spoke again, it was easier. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Harran. Your men carried you here four weeks ago.’

  ‘Four weeks? What of Mosul?’

  ‘The siege was abandoned. I came from Aleppo as soon as I could.’

  ‘I heard you talking. What are these conspiracies you speak of?’

  Selim glanced towards the door. ‘It would be best to speak in private. I know a place where we will not be overheard.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘Help me up.’

  Selim put his arm behind Yusuf’s back and helped him to sit. Yusuf looked down at his legs. They were impossibly thin beneath his linen tunic. He raised a bony arm and examined it.

  ‘At first, you could keep nothing down,’ Selim told him. ‘You lost two stones before the doctors managed to feed you a little broth. Do you want food?’

  ‘Later.’ Yusuf tried to rise, but the world was spinning. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and Selim helped him to stand. ‘I wish to speak with Imad ad-Din as well. Have him come with pen and paper.’

  ‘You heard the Malik,’ Selim told the doctors. ‘Fetch his secretary.’

  Selim helped Yusuf down the hall to a windowless room. He eased Yusuf on to a stool. Yusuf sat hunched forward, sipping from the cup of water until Imad ad-Din arrived.

  ‘I am so pleased to see you well, Malik. Allah has answered my prayers.’

  ‘Close the door,’ Selim instructed. He turned back to Yusuf. ‘Rumours of your death have been enough to fray the seams that hold your kingdom together, Brother. Your emirs are scrambling to secure what is theirs or to add to it. Our cousin Nasir ad-Din is the worst. It seems he is not content with Homs. He has made arrangements to take Damascus when you die.’

  ‘Are you sure of this?’ Yusuf rasped. He knew that Nasir ad-Din was given to excess, but he had not thought him a traitor.

  ‘It seems he resents you. I am told that he said you treated him worse than the lowest of your emirs.’

  ‘I spared his life when I could have had him hanged,’ Yusuf growled. ‘Tell me of this plot of his.’

  ‘One of the men he sought to buy told Al-Muqaddam, who informed me. The plan was for the emirs of Damascus to take your son Al-Aziz hostage. Nasir ad-Din would then rule as regent. The boy was to be disposed of before he came of age.’

  ‘My own family turns against me.’ Yusuf shook his head and looked to Imad ad-Din. ‘Write to Al-Muqaddam in Damascus. Have him distribute alms in celebration of my recovery. Five thousand dinars should be enough to remind the people who their rightful ruler is. Selim, you will return to Cairo.’

  ‘But Brother—’

  ‘You have done enough in the north. If Damascus is restive, Cairo will be as well. Egypt is the key to my kingdom. I need you there. On your way south, you will deal with Nasir ad-Din. Our nephew has a fondness for wine. That will lead to his death, if he is not careful.’

  ‘I understand, Brother.’

  ‘Good. Now go; you both have much to do. Have food brought for me and send in Al-Mashtub, Gökböri and Nu’man. I must prepare to return to Mosul.’

  Imad ad-Din frowned. ‘So soon, Malik?’

  ‘My enemies and allies alike will think me weak after my illness. If I do not show them otherwise, the emirs of Al-Jazirah will start to shift their allegiance back to Izz ad-Din. Mosul would slip through our fingers. That must not happen. I will ride within a fortnight. A show of force may be enough to bring peace.’

  ‘Peace, Brother? I thought you had determined to take Mosul.’

  ‘And Allah has shown me my error. Izz ad-Din’s wife said I was a godless man, and Allah struck me down. I am done fighting my Muslim brothers. It is time to turn to the kingdom of the Franks. Now go.’

  Imad ad-Din opened the door. Selim let him leave, then closed the door and turned back to Yusuf. ‘I have one last thing to tell you. Your wife Asimat was involved in the conspiracy to put Nasir ad-Din on the throne of Damascus.’

  An image sprang into Yusuf’s mind: Asimat as a corpse, her cold hands clasped around his throat. He shuddered. ‘Are you certain?’

  Selim nodded. ‘She claims you killed her son.’

  Yusuf’s stomach began to burn. He had told her that Izz ad-Din killed Al-Salih. How had she discovered the truth? The Hashashin were sworn to secrecy. Yusuf sat up straight. The doctor! He remembered where he had seen that face. ‘The doctor who attended me, the one with the beaked nose, bring him to me.’

  ‘If you feel ill, perhaps you should lie down, Brother.’

  ‘I am fine. Do as I say.’

  The doctor entered and shut the door behind him. ‘Malik.’

  ‘Rashid ad-Din Sinan,’ Yusuf greeted him, and the head of the Hashashin bowed. ‘You are far from Masyaf. Are you so concerned for my health?’

  ‘I am, Malik. You have been a good friend to my people, but that is not what brought me here. I came to apologize.’

  ‘Asimat.’

  Sinan nodded.

  ‘How did she learn the truth?’

  ‘She is a stubborn woman. She tortured and bribed the palace guards until she found the man responsible.
He had been serving as one of Al-Salih’s private guards.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘The Hashashin are sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Yes, but we are only men. My fidai would never have given in to torture, but Asimat is a beautiful woman. She can be most convincing.’

  ‘I see. Where is this man now?’

  ‘Dead. As for your wife . . . That is why I am here, to learn your will.’

  Yusuf met the assassin’s dark eyes. ‘You will visit her yourself. Traitors must be punished.’

  March 1186: Mosul

  Yusuf sat in his tent eating a bowl of boiled wheat. That and a thin chicken broth were all that Ibn Jumay allowed him. The doctor had arrived from Damascus two weeks ago. He had also forced Yusuf to cease making his twice-daily rounds of the men on watch. So Yusuf had to be content to wait in his tent while his army besieged Mosul. He turned to Imad ad-Din, who sat across from him sorting through the correspondence they had received that day.

  ‘What do you have for me?’

  Imad ad-Din held up two letters. ‘A letter from your brother and another from the Hashashin’s leader, Rashid ad-Din Sinan.’

  ‘Start with my brother.’

  Imad ad-Din broke the seal and scanned the letter. ‘Your cousin Nasir ad-Din is dead. Apparently, he died of an excess of drink.’ Yusuf knew better. As per his instructions, Selim had drowned Nasir ad-Din in a barrel of wine. ‘His son – a boy named Shirkuh, like your uncle – is to succeed him.’

  Yusuf set his bowl aside. He found no pleasure in vengeance. It had taken his appetite. He held out his hand. ‘I will read the letter from the Old Man of the Mountain myself.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  Imad ad-Din handed over the letter. Yusuf broke the seal and read: Greetings Al-Malik al-nasir from your friend and ally Rashid ad-Din Sinan. I regret to inform you that your wife, Asimat, has died of a heart attack. She died quickly. There was no pain. Yusuf stopped reading. He felt a sudden burning in his chest and tasted bile. I only did what I must, he reminded himself. He dropped the letter in the brazier of coals that had been set beside him for warmth. He watched it burn before turning to Imad ad-Din. ‘Asimat has died. Distribute alms in her memory, and see that her tomb is suitably splendid. Spare no expense. That is all for now.’

  Imad ad-Din departed without a word. Yusuf rose and began to pace his tent. His legs felt weak. Was that an effect of his long illness? Or was it Asimat’s death? He tried to remember her face as he had first seen it, when he was a young boy just come to the court of Nur ad-Din. But he could only see her as a corpse, as she had come to him in the dream.

  ‘Malik!’ Imad ad-Din called as he re-entered the tent.

  ‘What is it?’ Yusuf snapped.

  ‘Izz ad-Din. He wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘He is here?’

  ‘He waits before the walls of the city.’

  Yusuf stepped outside and looked to Mosul. Outside the western gate, a rider sat surrounded by forty soldiers on foot. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘My horse! Saqr, prepare the guard.’

  Yusuf rode from camp at the centre of fifty mamluks. He signalled for them to halt when they were still a hundred yards from Izz ad-Din. ‘I will ride on alone.’

  Yusuf’s men parted, and he rode through. Izz ad-Din came forward to meet him. The two men stopped only a few feet apart. Izz ad-Din was ten years Yusuf’s junior and was a handsome man with sharp features and not a trace of grey in his long hair. He smiled, showing even white teeth.

  ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saladin. I am pleased to meet with you at last.’

  ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam.’

  Izz ad-Din’s eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf more closely. ‘I understand you were ill, Malik. I thank Allah for your recovery.’

  ‘I have not come to exchange flatteries and platitudes, Izz ad-Din. Say what you have come to say.’

  ‘Very well. The war between us has cost us both much. How much more are you willing to lose to take Mosul?’

  Izz ad-Din was a proud man. Admitting that Mosul would eventually fall was as close to an offer of peace as Yusuf was likely to receive. ‘It is your men I want,’ he told the emir of Mosul, ‘not your city. Acknowledge me as your overlord, pay tribute and send your men to fight with me against the Franks, and you shall keep Mosul.’

  ‘Mosul and the lands to its north and east.’

  Yusuf nodded.

  ‘Then I am your man, Malik.’ The emir of Mosul dismounted and took hold of Yusuf’s stirrup.

  Yusuf dismounted and embraced him, exchanging the ritual kisses. ‘We are brothers, Izz ad-Din. Now, the Franks will tremble before us.’

  Chapter 8

  April 1186: Jerusalem

  John set the sheet of parchment back on the table and rubbed his eyes. He had arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre before sunrise after a late night at the Abbey of Mount Sion. The abbey’s cellarer – a wiry, toothless old man who had been at the abbey long before any of the other brothers arrived – had died in mid verse during lauds. Selecting a new cellarer had proven no easy task. The prior, the treasurer and the sacristan all had their own candidates. John knew better than to choose amongst them. That would only make enemies of the men whose candidates had been rejected. In the end, he had chosen the kitchener. He was an honest man and a terrible cook. By making him cellarer, John would spare the brothers his cooking.

  John picked up the parchment again and squinted at the rows of figures. They recorded the church’s monthly revenues: sheep, wool and grain from their land holdings; coin donated by worshippers or earned by the sale of pilgrims’ badges; more gold and silver from the shops, mills, ovens and markets that the church owned in Jerusalem; and money sent by pious overseas rulers who could not come to the Holy Land themselves. With Heraclius gone, John had charge of the church. There would be no more money wasted on silk robes and fine perfumes. He looked to the treasurer seated across from him. He was a portly man with sagging jowls and eyebrows like hedgerows.

  ‘Only forty-seven sheep?’

  ‘It has been a brutal summer, Archdeacon. The shepherds had to slaughter much of their flocks, or lose them.’

  ‘I see.’ John gave the figures a final glance and set them aside. ‘Store the grain. Set ten sheep aside for the Feast of the Assumption. Sell the rest at market, and the wool, too. Half the coin should be used to buy provisions. The cellarer may use his discretion, but I want foodstuffs that will last. The rest should go to hiring more sergeants.’ The Holy Sepulchre owed a thousand men to the king’s service, but it had not provided that number for some years. John would remedy that.

  The treasurer’s forehead creased, bringing his bushy grey eyebrows together. ‘What of the canons, Archdeacon? Their monthly prebends are due.’

  John scowled. The canons would have little enough use for that money if they were dead. But he knew better than to withhold their pay. He might wake with a knife in his belly. ‘Pay them.’

  ‘The roof of the chapel of Saint Helen is leaking.’

  ‘We will deal with it later.’

  ‘Two plates were broken last week in the refectory, and two spoons are missing from—’

  ‘Later. All of it later. We need soldiers, not spoons. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, Archdeacon.’

  ‘Then you are dismissed.’

  John pulled on his cloak and preceded the treasurer out the door. He left the archdeacon’s residence and stepped into the street south of the church just as the sun rose above the gilt roof of the Templum Domini. John walked the other way, past the pig market and south to the palace. The guards at the gate stepped aside for him. He entered and went to the chancellery, a large room dominated by an oak desk. The shelves lining the walls were bowed under the weight of papers and tomes. John sat in a wooden chair, its seat well worn from use. A stack of correspondence had been placed on the table. John checked the pigeon post first. He unrolled a letter from Tripoli that reported Bedouin raids in the countryside. The next message was f
rom Ascalon. Guy was hiring mercenaries; building an army. John reached for another of the tightly rolled scraps of paper. This one was from a spy in Aleppo. John read it, then left immediately for the king’s chambers.

  ‘Is the King receiving?’ he asked the guard at the door.

  The guard nodded. ‘The regent Raymond is with him.’

  John strode through the receiving room to the king’s bedroom. Morning sunshine slanted through an open window to illuminate young Baldwin, who lay abed under a thin linen sheet. The king was nine years old and small for his age. He was as pale as freshly shorn wool, with feverish cheeks. Baldwin had always been sickly, and he had only grown worse since becoming king a little over a year ago. The doctors feared he would not see his tenth birthday. On their advice, he would soon move his residence to Acre. It was hoped the wet sea air would quench the fire in his lungs.

  Raymond sat on a stool beside the bed. The regent’s brow was creased and his back hunched, as if he carried the weight of the Kingdom. John was about to make that burden even heavier. He handed Raymond the message. The regent’s lips moved as he read.

  ‘By his wounds,’ Raymond whispered. He crumpled the paper in his hand. ‘Now it begins.’

  ‘What—’ Baldwin was stopped short by a fit of coughing. He clenched the sheets in his fists as his chest shook. The coughing subsided, and Baldwin spit bloody phlegm on to a cloth. ‘What begins, Uncle?’

  ‘Izz ad-Din, the emir of Mosul, has bent the knee to Saladin. The Saracen kingdoms are united.’

  And we are not. Guy and Sibylla were gathering an army in Ascalon to seize the throne when Baldwin died. Balian of Ibelin and Reginald of Sidon were marshalling their own troops in order to press the claim of Sibylla’s sister Isabella and her husband Humphrey. Civil war was on the horizon.

  Young Baldwin was wide-eyed. ‘What will we do, Uncle?’

  ‘I will deal with this, Your Grace. You must rest. You will need your strength in the days to come.’ Raymond rose and drew the curtains.