Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  The two men grinned, and their fellows clapped them on their backs as they stepped forward. Each man notched an arrow to his bow. John could hear some in the crowd placing bets as to who would win. ‘In battle,’ Yusuf told them, ‘you must hit a moving target. Let us see how skilled you truly are.’ He tossed the shield high into the air.

  Immediately, Nazam pulled back and let fly. His arrow thudded into the shield before it had even reached its apex. Uwais waited until the shield was frozen at its highest point before shooting, his arrow slamming into the shield. The shield had just begun to fall when Nazam hit it with another arrow. He quickly nocked another and managed to strike the shield once more before it hit the ground. The men cheered his feat, and John gave a low whistle of appreciation.

  Yusuf went to the shield and raised it high. Uwais’s arrow – the shaft decorated in black and blue – protruded from the centre of the shield. Nazam’s three arrows were scattered around it. ‘The winner is Uwais!’ Yusuf declared. He took a coin pouch from his belt and tossed it towards the victorious archer.

  Nazam snapped the pouch out of the air before it reached its intended target. ‘It is not right! I struck the shield three times, and Uwais hit it only once.’

  The mamluks in the courtyard went quiet. Even from high on the wall, John could see the change in Yusuf’s bearing – his back straighter, his shoulders back. He stepped close to Nazam and placed a hand on the mamluk’s shoulder. ‘It is not he who strikes most, but he whose strike is the most telling who wins, Nazam.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I have spoken!’ Yusuf snapped.

  Nazam lowered his head. ‘Yes, qadi.’ He handed the pouch to Uwais.

  John turned away from the scene to gaze out beyond the castle walls. His eyes wandered across the town to the glittering waters of the Sajur River. Two miles off, he saw a cloud of dust rising above the road beside the river. John could just make out the shapes of riders amidst the dust.

  The lookout spotted the men at the same time. ‘Riders approaching!’ he shouted down to Yusuf. ‘Three of them.’

  Yusuf hurried up the stairs to join John atop the wall. The riders were closer now, just entering the outskirts of the town. John could see that two were older warriors, well-muscled and tanned, with full beards. The third was a young man, still beardless. Yusuf squinted as the riders drew closer. ‘The young one, I know him.’ He grinned and slapped John on the back. ‘Come!’

  John followed Yusuf as he hurried down from the wall. ‘Open the gate!’ Yusuf shouted. The gate swung open just as the riders were coming up the ramp towards the citadel. When he saw Yusuf, the young rider slid from the saddle and sprinted forward. The two men embraced and exchanged kisses.

  ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Brother!’ the young man exclaimed.

  ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Selim.’

  Selim? John’s eyebrows rose as he looked more closely. Yusuf’s younger brother had added several inches since John last saw him, and his round, boyish face was now lean.

  ‘You are a man, now,’ Yusuf said, gripping his brother’s shoulder. ‘What brings you to Tell Bashir?’

  ‘Shirkuh has sent me. Nur ad-Din has need of you and your men. He is marching on Damascus.’

  APRIL 1154: ON THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

  Yusuf smelled Nur ad-Din’s camp long before he saw it. The breeze brought him the pungent odours of wood smoke and manure mixed with the musky scent of the thousands of horses, camels and sheep that accompanied the army. As Yusuf neared the top of a low hill, he could hear the snorting and harrumphing of the camels and the bleating of sheep. Then he crested the rise, and the camp lay before him, stretching for a mile along the Orontes River, which blazed red under the setting sun. Thousands of animals grazed at the edge of the camp. Beyond them rose a maze of tents, the sprawling structures of the Bedouin interspersed with the neat, wool triangles of the mamluks. In the centre was Nur ad-Din’s grand pavilion, his banner flying from the top.

  ‘Qaraqush!’ Yusuf called, and the mamluk commander left the column of Yusuf’s warriors – fifty men in all – and rode up beside him. ‘See that the men are quartered. Make sure to camp upwind of the livestock.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Selim and John come with me,’ Yusuf continued. He looked behind him to where Faridah sat on a camel, her face veiled. ‘You too, Faridah.’

  Yusuf rode down the hill, and Selim and John followed, riding on either side of Faridah. They passed through a herd of camels chewing impassively at their cuds as they watched the riders pass. At the edge of the tents, two mamluk sentries were waiting for them. ‘Halt, friend,’ one of them called. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I am Yusuf ibn Ayub, emir of Tell Bashir,’ Yusuf replied as he and the others dismounted. ‘I have come at Nur ad-Din’s request.’ He handed his reins to one of the sentries. ‘Take care of our horses,’ he said and walked past.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the sentry called after him.

  Yusuf led the way between the Bedouin’s ramshackle tents – sprawling structures that held entire clans. Hard-faced men in patchwork leather armour lounged outside, chatting or tending their cooking fires. The Bedouin’s bravery was legendary, as was their greed. They had been known to put down their arms in the midst of battle in order to strip the bodies of the dead, friend and foe alike.

  Past the Bedouin, Yusuf entered amongst the tents of the vassal lords who served Nur ad-Din. These tents were more luxurious: tall, round structures with several rooms, each surrounded by the tents of the emir’s men. Yusuf spotted Shirkuh’s standard fluttering in the distance, but lost sight of it as he wove his way through the maze of tents. He stopped when he came to a fire surrounded by a dozen men who he recognized as Shirkuh’s soldiers. They were eating, scooping boiled wheat out of a common pot.

  ‘I am looking for Shirkuh,’ Yusuf said to them. ‘Where is he?’

  The men looked up from their food. One of them, a tall, muscle-bound man, grinned. It was Qadir, the man who had confronted Yusuf all those years ago on the practice grounds of Aleppo.

  ‘Look here, boys,’ Qadir said. ‘It’s the little bugger himself, all grown up.’

  Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘What did you say?’

  Qadir rose, towering over Yusuf. ‘You heard me, bugger.’

  Yusuf smiled, then turned his back on the man. ‘John,’ he called.

  Without a word, John stepped forward and punched Qadir hard in the groin. The huge mamluk grabbed his crotch and fell to his knees, eyes bulging. John hit him with an uppercut that snapped his head back, then a hard right to the chin. Qadir toppled into the dust, unconscious. John wiped his hands and stepped away.

  Yusuf noticed that Selim was watching him wide-eyed. He winked at his brother, then turned back to the men around the fire. ‘Let us try again. Where is my uncle?’

  A grey-haired man rose. ‘I will take you to him, my lord.’

  Yusuf was approaching Shirkuh’s tent when Turan stormed out, scowling. He stopped short when he saw Yusuf and the others.

  ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Brother,’ Yusuf called as he approached. He embraced Turan stiffly, and the two exchanged kisses.

  ‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Turan replied. His eyebrows rose as he noticed Faridah. ‘What’s this you’ve brought with you, Brother? She is delicious.’

  Yusuf’s hand went to the eagle-hilt dagger that he always wore at his belt. ‘If you touch her, I will kill you.’

  Turan’s smile faded. ‘I see you have not changed, Yusuf.’

  ‘Nor have you, Turan.’ The two brothers locked gazes.

  ‘Is that Yusuf I hear?’ Behind Turan, the tent flaps parted and Shirkuh emerged. He stepped past Turan and embraced Yusuf. ‘Welcome, young eagle!’ he said, and they exchanged kisses.

  ‘Salaam, uncle.’

  Shirkuh turned to Selim and again exchanged kisses. ‘I am glad to see you returned safely.’ He looked to Turan. ‘What are you still doing here? I gave you an order.’


  ‘Yes, Uncle.’ Turan strode away.

  Shirkuh turned back to Yusuf. ‘We have much to discuss, nephew. Selim, see that his servants are taken care of. Now come.’ He placed his arm around Yusuf’s shoulders. ‘Let us walk.’

  Shirkuh did not speak as he led Yusuf past a few tents and up the gentle rise that bordered the river. He stopped at the top and looked out over the waters, which ran dark silver now that the sun had set. ‘I have heard good things of you, Yusuf,’ he began. ‘The caravans move without fear through your lands, and you have increased your tribute.’

  ‘The land is rich, and I have good men.’

  ‘If they are good, it is because you have made them so. When Nur ad-Din sent you to Tell Bashir, I feared the worst.’ Shirkuh lowered his voice. ‘I received your letter about Gumushtagin. You say he hired Franks to kill you.’ Yusuf nodded. ‘You should not trust such things to paper, Yusuf. Messengers too often go missing.’

  Yusuf lowered his head. ‘I thought it important that you know, Uncle.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Shirkuh grunted. ‘That is the least of Gumushtagin’s crimes. He is cunning, that one. And now he has our lord’s ear.’

  ‘But I thought Gumushtagin had been sent to Bizaa in disgrace.’

  ‘He was, but he has since earned Nur ad-Din’s trust. As a eunuch, Gumushtagin has access to the harem. He discovered an emir sleeping with one of Nur ad-Din’s concubines. Our lord was very grateful, but I am not so sure that Gumushtagin did not encourage the emir, only to betray him.’

  ‘What happened to the man?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘He was bound, and his privates cut off and stuffed in his mouth. Then Nur ad-Din took a rod and beat him to death.’ Shirkuh sighed. ‘The emir was a good man.’

  ‘But he betrayed our lord.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’ Shirkuh turned to face Yusuf. ‘There is something we must discuss before you go to Nur ad-Din’s tent. I have heard that you have begun to frequent a Frankish whore.’

  Yusuf flushed red. ‘Faridah? She is no whore. She is my concubine. I freed her.’

  ‘Once a whore, always a whore,’ Shirkuh grumbled.

  Yusuf met his uncle’s eyes. ‘I am not concerned with her past. I – I love her.’

  Shirkuh sighed. ‘Sit beside me, boy.’ They sat on the sandy dune, facing back towards the camp. ‘Look at all of this.’ Shirkuh waved to the thousands of tents before them. ‘As Nur ad-Din’s atabek, I have thousands of warriors at my command. And do you know why Nur ad-Din trusts me? Because I have learned to control my passions, because I know that if I give in to them, all of this –’ he gestured towards the camp ‘– could be gone in a night.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Before you were born, your father and I lived in Tikrit. Ayub was governor of the city. Did he ever tell you why we left?’ Yusuf shook his head. Shirkuh sighed. ‘It was my fault. I was eighteen, only a little older than you are now. I fell for the wife of the commander of the castle gate. Her husband found out and beat her to death. I was furious. I confronted the man and killed him.’

  ‘And you were right to do so.’

  ‘No. I should have gone to your father. He was the governor. He would have had the man brought to justice. But I loved her, and so I did not think. I killed him.’ Shirkuh lowered his head. ‘The man was a nephew of the sultan. Your father and I were cast out of Tikrit as exiles. We lost everything. We were lucky that Nur ad-Din’s father took us on. Otherwise, we would have died in the desert.’ Shirkuh met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Do not let your passions blind you as I did, Yusuf. You must govern your heart if you wish to rule men.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. Now go. You should greet our lord, Nur ad-Din.’

  John held aside the flap of Yusuf’s tent and gestured for Faridah to enter. She ducked inside, and he followed. Several lamps hung from the ceiling, shedding a dim light. Carpets had been spread over the grassy ground and cushions were scattered about. A low table held Yusuf’s writing implements. Faridah strode to the centre of the tent and removed her veil and head covering. With a sigh of relief, she shook out her long, auburn hair.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ John asked.

  Faridah shook her head, and John began to leave. ‘John, wait,’ she called. ‘I wish to speak with you.’

  John turned and met her dark eyes for a second, then looked away. ‘I should not stay,’ he mumbled and headed towards the tent flap.

  ‘I do not understand you,’ Faridah said. John paused. ‘You are a free man, now. Why do you still serve Yusuf?’

  John looked back at her. ‘Why do you?’

  ‘I am a woman. I am nothing without Yusuf – worse than nothing, a whore. But you are a man, a warrior. You could have a place of honour amongst the Franks.’

  John shrugged. ‘Yusuf is my friend.’

  ‘He is a good man, but that does not change things. You will always be an ifranji to them. You will never be truly accepted here.’

  ‘I was not accepted amongst the Normans, either,’ John said bitterly. ‘I have no place amongst the Franks.’

  She met his eyes. ‘And do you not wish for a woman? A wife?’

  John held her gaze. ‘What are you asking me?’

  ‘We are the same, you and I,’ she whispered. ‘We could comfort one another.’

  John felt his heart beat faster. It had been long since he held a woman. He found himself staring at the curve of Faridah’s large breasts beneath her tight caftan. He took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘He loves you, Faridah. I will pretend that I did not hear what you have just said.’

  Faridah looked away, her cheeks reddening. ‘I only wanted you to know that I understand what it means to be a stranger in this land. If you need a friend, I am here.’

  John nodded and left the tent.

  Yusuf stepped into Nur ad-Din’s spacious tent to find the emir seated on the thickly carpeted floor, a map of Damascus laid out before him. Yusuf was surprised to see the emir’s wife, Asimat, seated to his left. A bald, fat-faced man in an elaborate caftan of scarlet silk sat to his right.

  Nur ad-Din looked up and smiled. ‘Yusuf! I am glad that you have come. I can use your keen mind. Sit.’ He waved to a place opposite him. ‘You know my wife, Asimat. She insisted on returning with me to her childhood home, and to tell the truth, I am happy to have her. She knows Damascus better than any of us.’

  ‘My lady,’ Yusuf murmured with a nod in her direction.

  ‘And I believe you have not yet met the Emir of Bizaa,’ Nur ad-Din continued, gesturing to the portly man beside him. ‘Yusuf ibn Ayub, this is Gumushtagin.’

  ‘I am honoured to meet you.’ Yusuf met the eunuch’s eyes. ‘I have heard so much about you.’

  ‘And I you,’ Gumushtagin replied, his voice high-pitched. ‘I have long desired to meet my successor in Tell Bashir. I hope that you did not encounter too much trouble when you arrived.’

  ‘A few Frankish bandits, that is all. I captured their leader easily enough.’

  Gumushtagin’s eyes widened. ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘He had an interesting story to tell.’ Yusuf turned back towards Nur ad-Din. ‘Where is my father? I expected to find him with you.’

  Gumushtagin answered for Nur ad-Din. ‘He is in Damascus, at the court of Emir Mujir ad-Din.’

  ‘On my orders,’ Nur ad-Din added.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Gumushtagin agreed. ‘But we have not heard from him in weeks. Only Allah knows what has become of him.’

  Yusuf swallowed hard. ‘Do you think he is dead?’

  ‘Or a traitor,’ Gumushtagin said evenly, his green eyes fixed on Yusuf.

  ‘You dare insult my family’s honour?’ Yusuf reached for his dagger, but then realized that it had been removed by the guard outside.

  ‘Peace, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘We are here to punish Mujir ad-Din for his refusal to join in the fight against the Christians. We should not waste our energy squabbling amongst ourselves.’ He turned to Gumushtagin
. ‘There is no man I trust more than Yusuf’s father. Apologize.’

  ‘My apologies,’ Gumushtagin said with an insincere smile.

  ‘Good,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Now, let us turn back to the business at hand. My clever wife, Asimat, says that we should establish ourselves in the orchards to the west of the city.’ He pointed to their location on the map. ‘I agree. This is where we shall conduct our siege.’

  APRIL 1154: DAMASCUS

  John rode beside Yusuf at the head of a column of men that stretched for miles over the arid, rolling hills. Ahead, spread out below them, was the city of Damascus, its thick walls rising up from the verdant orchards and gardens that surrounded it. Squinting, John could make out men atop the walls, their chainmail and iron helmets glinting in the sunshine. His hands tightened on the reins as he thought back to his first trip to Damascus, as part of the doomed crusade.

  ‘She is beautiful, is she not?’ Yusuf said, pointing to the city.

  ‘You will find the view less inspiring when you stand in the shadow of her walls,’ John replied. ‘Damascus is not an easy prize.’

  ‘But with the army Nur ad-Din has assembled, how can she resist?’

  John’s forehead creased. ‘That is what the crusaders thought.’

  They rode on in silence, following Nur ad-Din and Shirkuh. Turan rode beside them, but kept his distance from Yusuf. At the foot of the hill Nur ad-Din reined in his horse. ‘We will divide the army into columns and seize the orchards,’ he told them. ‘Tonight, we will camp before the walls.’

  As the army trooped down the hill, the men were separated into columns, lined up before the many paths into the orchards. Shirkuh and Turan each rode off to take the lead of a column, but Yusuf’s men were selected to ride with Nur ad-Din. As John watched them form into a column four across, a memory flashed into his mind: One-Eye, the Frank, eating a mango when a spear burst from his chest.