by Hight, Jack
‘I do not like this,’ John told Yusuf. ‘Those orchards are a deathtrap. In the crusade, we lost a quarter of our men taking them.’
‘We have no choice. We will follow orders and trust in Allah to lead us through.’
The column of men moved forward with Nur ad-Din riding at its head, and Yusuf and John just behind. John rode with his hand on his sword hilt, his eyes searching the low mud walls to either side for signs of warriors hidden behind them. He saw only the fronds of date trees shimmering in the breeze, and heard only the chirruping of birds over the rumble of the horses’ hooves. ‘Something is not right,’ he whispered. ‘Where are Mujir ad-Din’s men?
‘Perhaps he has kept them within the walls to better defend the city,’ Yusuf suggested.
Ahead, the walls of Damascus loomed larger and larger. They were headed for the Bab al-Faradis, or Gate of Paradise, which led into the city from the orchards. It was a massive structure, twice as high as the walls around it. Many of the men crowded atop the gate had bows in hand. John nervously fingered the hilt of his sword as Nur ad-Din led them on. In only a few more feet, they would be within bow shot of the walls.
‘What is Nur ad-Din doing?’ John grumbled. ‘He’s going to get us killed.’
‘Emir Mujir ad-Din would not dare let his men shoot at Nur ad-Din,’ Yusuf said. ‘They will speak, first. Then we will fight.’
Nur ad-Din finally reined in his horse only thirty feet from the gate. ‘People of Damascus!’ he called loudly. ‘Your emir has betrayed you. He has refused to join me in my fight against the Christians. He has betrayed his oath to me in order to make peace with the Franks. He does not deserve your service.’ He paused, gathering breath, then roared: ‘Open the gates to me! I have come for Damascus!’
There was silence, broken only by the nickering of horses and the distant call of birds. None of the men on the wall moved. Then the gate opened inward, groaning on its hinges. A man rode out, unarmed and dressed in a ceremonial silk caftan. As he came closer, John recognized him as Yusuf’s father, Ayub. Behind him came four armed men on foot, leading a prisoner in chains. The prisoner was a young man, with fat cheeks and a carefully trimmed beard. The procession stopped before Nur ad-Din.
‘Greetings, my lord,’ Ayub said and bowed in the saddle. ‘The city is yours. The leading nobles of Damascus have come to pay homage to you.’ He gestured to the man in chains. ‘And they have brought the emir, Mujir ad-Din.’
‘Bring him to me,’ Nur ad-Din said. Ayub waved, and the emir was pulled forward.
‘Allah bless you, my lord,’ Mujir ad-Din said, bowing awkwardly due to the chains about his wrists. He straightened, licking his lips nervously. ‘You are welcome in my city.’
‘It is not your city any more.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You were wrong to oppose me,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘But I am a generous man. You shall have Homs and its lands to rule as emir, and you shall join me in my war against the Franks.’
Mujir ad-Din bowed again. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Release him,’ Nur ad-Din commanded, and the noble removed the emir’s chains. ‘Now, let us enter my city.’ He spurred forward, riding towards the open gate. Ayub fell in beside him, while Yusuf and John trailed behind. Atop the wall, the people began to cheer, and white rose petals were cast from the top of the gate.
‘The nobles of Damascus expect to be paid from the treasury for betraying their lord,’ Ayub said to Nur ad-Din. ‘And it would be wise to distribute money to the mamluk troops to ensure their loyalty.’
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘You have done well, my friend. You shall be my governor, wali of Damascus.’
‘Thank you, malik.’
‘Malik? I am no king, Ayub, only a servant of Allah.’ Despite his modest words, John saw that Nur ad-Din wore a smile as he passed through the gentle shower of rose petals and into the city.
That evening Yusuf attended a celebratory feast in the domed chamber at the heart of the palace of Damascus. He had last visited the palace as a child, during the Franks’ failed siege. Now, as then, he and Turan sat together, just to the left of the emir’s dais. Yusuf had been in awe of the emir then. Now, his father sat on the dais, nodding at Nur ad-Din’s lords and generals as they entered and took their seats around the edge of the circular chamber.
Nur ad-Din entered last of all, and all the men stood. As he strode into the open circle at the centre of the room, Nur ad-Din gestured to Ayub. ‘Please, friend, remain seated. You have earned it.’
‘I am honoured, my lord,’ Ayub said as he sat. Nur ad-Din joined him on the dais. He waived to his vassals, who also sat.
Yusuf frowned. His father had opened the city through treachery and bribes. Such tactics hardly deserved praise. He caught Ayub watching him and turned away.
The feast lasted for hours and featured dozens of courses. Yusuf and Turan ate in silence, each avoiding the other’s gaze. As the meal drew to a close, Ayub stood, holding up his hands for silence. ‘Friends, I welcome you all, and especially our lord Nur ad-Din, emir of the great cities of Aleppo, Mosul and Damascus, a kingdom greater than that of the Seljuk Sultan himself. He has accomplished his father’s dream. He has unified our lands, and today I greet him as malik, emir amongst emirs, King of Syria. May Allah continue to bless him!’ The men showed their approval, slapping the floor with their palms and shouting ‘Malik! Malik! Malik!’
Nur ad-Din gestured for quiet and then rose. All present stood as he descended the dais and walked to the centre of the circular chamber, where he turned, looking at the men around him. ‘Malik,’ he said and smiled. ‘So be it. But it is not I who deserves this praise, but Allah. For surely it is Allah’s will that all Muslims be united against the Franks. Ayub, my faithful servant, has delivered Damascus to me without shedding a drop of blood. Could he have performed such a miracle without the blessing of Allah? And why, my friends, has Allah helped us? For one reason alone: He wishes us to free the holy city of Jerusalem and to drive the Frankish invaders into the sea. My father began this task when he conquered the Christians’ kingdom of Edessa. Now that we are united, I shall complete his work!’
The men stomped the floor with their feet, and Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘As ever, you have my thanks for your service, and you shall each be rewarded from the treasury of Damascus. Now go. Take your men back to their lands. But be ready for my call. For I promise you that soon enough, we shall drive the Christians from our shores!’
Nur ad-Din strode from the room amidst a loud chorus of cheers. The emirs began to file out after him, but as Yusuf headed for the door, his father called to him. ‘Come with me, Yusuf. I wish to speak.’
Yusuf followed his father out of the back of the chamber and into a small, square room bare of furniture. Through the single window Yusuf could see the great mosque of Damascus, its towering minarets and great dome shining silvery under the light of the moon.
Ayub turned to face Yusuf. ‘You are displeased with me, my son?’
Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘No, Father.’
‘Yes, you are. You think I have acted dishonourably in turning Mujir ad-Din’s people against him and negotiating his surrender. You would have preferred a contest of arms?’
‘Yes!’ Yusuf met his father’s gaze and held it. ‘Where is the glory in bribing men to turn against their ruler? I hear that you even spread a rumour that Mujir ad-Din had slept with another man.’
‘He did.’
‘How could you know such things?’
‘Because I paid the man, an Egyptian prostitute, to sleep with him.’
Yusuf’s face wrinkled in disgust. ‘I do not understand why our lord Nur ad-Din honours you so,’ he said. ‘You disgust me.’
Ayub raised his hand as if to slap Yusuf, but then lowered it. He sighed. ‘You are young, Yusuf, so I will forgive you your anger. And you are right: intrigue is distasteful. Do not think that I enjoy it. But shedding the blood of our Muslim brothers is still more distasteful. You heard Nu
r ad-Din. He wishes to drive the Franks from our lands. He will need all our people to do so.’ Ayub placed a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We will speak no more of it. I have a place for you here in Damascus, my son. I need someone that I trust to serve as my deputy.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I must return to govern my lands and to train my men. When Nur ad-Din marches on the Franks, I must be ready to join him.’
‘Then go to him when he calls. Until then, your place is here with me.’
‘And what of Turan?’ Yusuf asked. ‘He is the oldest.’
‘Your brother will return with Nur ad-Din to Aleppo. He hopes to be made emir of Baalbek.’ Ayub sighed. ‘Turan is brave, but he does not have your wisdom. Shirkuh told me how you handled Tell Bashir. I need you to do the same here. Mujir ad-Din’s family has ruled Damascus for decades. Many of the men here are still loyal to him.’
‘I am sure you can pay them,’ Yusuf sneered. ‘You seem to be good at that.’
Ayub slapped him. ‘I am your father! You will show me respect.’
‘You are my father, but you are not my lord.’ Yusuf glared at him. ‘I will go to my lands until Nur ad-Din calls for me.’ He began to leave, but Ayub grabbed his arm.
‘You are my son, Yusuf. If you stay in Damascus, then the city will be yours to govern when I die. Think on that.’
Yusuf shrugged off his father’s hand. ‘I wish for more than to govern Damascus, Father. I will be more than a mere wali.’
Ayub’s eyebrows rose. ‘What then? You would dare challenge our lord?’
‘No, but there are other kingdoms, Father. Cilicia. Egypt.’
‘Ha! You are no pharaoh, my son. You are a Kurd. Do not forget your place. I am lucky to have risen so high. We owe everything to Nur ad-Din.’
‘I do not owe him my honour, and I will not stay in Damascus if it means that I must serve you.’ Yusuf locked eyes with his father, and the two faced one another in silence. Finally, Ayub looked away.
‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Return to your lands. Perhaps it is for the best.’
Chapter 13
MARCH AND APRIL 1156: ALEPPO
Yusuf ’s breath hung in the air as he rode across white fields towards Aleppo, its distant walls dusted with snow that shone pink under the morning sun. Yusuf had spent the past year and more in Tell Bashir, collecting tribute and training his men. Now, Nur ad-Din had called for him. The malik was gathering his emirs in preparation for war. Eager to arrive for the campaign season, Yusuf had left as soon as the first tender green shoots had appeared in the wheat fields. He had ridden fast, keeping only John, Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub for company and leaving the rest of his mamluks and Faridah to follow at a slower pace. The snows had hit them on their first day out of Tell Bashir.
‘This weather does not bode well,’ Qaraqush murmured. ‘A bad harvest will mean little money for the campaign season.’
‘It’s only a dusting,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Inshallah, the crops will not suffer.’ He glanced at John, who rode with his eyes fixed on the distant walls. He had been quiet throughout the trip from Tell Bashir. ‘Come,’ Yusuf said. ‘The sooner we’re inside and before a fire, the better.’ He spurred his horse to a trot, and the others followed.
Yusuf nodded to the guards as they passed through the Jew’s Gate and into the narrow streets. The city was quiet, and Yusuf could clearly hear the crunch of their horses’ hooves in the snow. They crossed the deserted square at the heart of the city and clattered across the drawbridge that spanned the moat at the base of the citadel. They rode up the steep causeway, and as they approached the gate, the guards stepped aside for Yusuf.
The oval field that lay at the centre of the citadel grounds was crowded with mamluks on horseback, training on a course that had been set up near the periphery of the turf. Yusuf watched one of the riders gallop past, bow in hand. The rider jumped a low wooden barrier and, without slowing, drew an arrow from the quiver on his back and fired it at a suit of stuffed chainmail, complete with false head and helmet. The arrow hit the mannequin in the shoulder, and the mamluk galloped past, whooping victoriously.
‘Not bad,’ John said.
‘Hmph,’ Qaraqush snorted. ‘I never saw an enemy killed by a blow to the shoulder.’
As Yusuf spurred his horse past the crowd of mamluks, he noticed that one of them was staring at him. The man was lean, his black hair and beard worn short. Yusuf looked more closely and blinked in recognition. ‘Khaldun!’
‘Yusuf!’ Khaldun rode over Yusuf and clasped his arm. ‘It has been too long, old friend.’
‘Too long, indeed. You look well.’
Khaldun grinned. ‘And I am the newly appointed Emir of Baalbek.’ His smile faded suddenly. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf. I know that Turan wanted the post.’
‘It is no less than you deserve.’
Khaldun placed his right hand over his heart and bowed slightly to signal his thanks for the compliment. Then he gestured towards John. ‘This is the ifranji who leads your personal guard, the one they call Yusuf’s shadow?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘His name is John.’
Khaldun rode forward and clasped John’s arm. ‘I have heard much about you.’
‘We met once before,’ John said quietly. ‘In Baalbek.’ Khaldun’s forehead creased; he clearly did not remember. ‘There is no reason for you to remember me. I was a slave then.’
‘Tell me about your wife,’ Yusuf said to Khaldun. ‘How is my sister?’
‘Zimat is here in Aleppo, and she is well,’ Khaldun replied, then scowled. ‘She has borne me two girls.’
‘Then surely a boy will be next.’
‘Inshallah,’ Khaldun said. ‘You must come to visit her. I have invited Nur ad-Din to my home tomorrow night to thank him for granting me Baalbek. Turan will be there, too. You should come. It will be just like old times.’
Yusuf smiled. ‘I will be there.’
The sun was just setting the next day when Yusuf left the citadel, John riding at his side. Khaldun had sent a mamluk for them, and they followed the man down the long causeway and out into Aleppo’s main square, which was dotted here and there with farmers packing up their carts. They left the square on a street that dead-ended after a hundred yards. The mamluk headed right, into a narrow alleyway with tall walls rising on either side. As Yusuf and John entered, the gate that protected the homes in the alleyway from thieves swung shut behind them. They rode past several wooden gates before coming to one that was open. The mamluk led them through into a courtyard with a fountain at the centre and tall palms growing around the edges. Turan had entered ahead of them and was dismounting his horse.
‘Greetings, Turan,’ Yusuf said as he slid from the saddle.
Turan nodded back. ‘Brother.’
Their mamluk guide gestured to a room built against the outer wall of the villa. ‘Your servant can wait there.’ John nodded and headed that way.
Yusuf and Turan followed the mamluk across the courtyard and into Khaldun’s home. They found themselves in a large, thickly carpeted room lit by braziers burning in the corners. Nur ad-Din was already there, seated on cushions across from the doorway. To his left sat Khaldun and a man that Yusuf did not recognize. The man had handsome features: a strong jaw, dark eyes, a smallish nose, and a carefully groomed brown beard. To Nur ad-Din’s left sat Asimat, and beside her Zimat and another woman, short and plump with broad hips, large breasts and brown skin the colour of desert sands after rain.
‘Yusuf!’ Zimat exclaimed when she saw her brother. She rose and crossed the room to embrace him. There were tears in her eyes.
‘Greetings, Sister. You are well?’
‘I am glad to see you. That is all.’
Yusuf gently extricated himself from her embrace. He bowed to Nur ad-Din. ‘Malik,’ he said, then turned to Khaldun. ‘Thank you for inviting me, my friend.’
‘Malik,’ Turan murmured, also bowing to Nur ad-Din.
‘Yusuf, this is Usama bin Munqidh, the emir of Shaizar,’ Khaldun
said, gesturing to the man beside him.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Yusuf said.
‘And you,’ Usama replied. ‘I have heard much about you.’ ‘And this,’ Khaldun gestured to the woman beside Zimat, ‘is my second wife, Nadhira.’
‘My lord,’ she whispered, nodding in Yusuf’s direction.
‘Now, please sit,’ Khaldun said, waving them to their places. Yusuf sat across from Nur ad-Din, beside Usama. Turan sat to his left, beside Nadhira.
Servants entered and placed steaming bread and a dip of roasted eggplant and ground walnuts on the small tables next to each guest. ‘In the name of Allah,’ the diners murmured as they each tore off a piece of bread and began to eat. As he dipped his bread, Yusuf stole a sidelong glance at Asimat. Their eyes met, and he looked quickly away. He glanced at Turan, who was talking to Nadhira in hushed tones. Yusuf looked away as Nur ad-Din began to speak.
‘Usama has recently returned from a trip to the Frankish court in Jerusalem,’ he said.
‘What was it like?’ Yusuf asked.
‘A nest of vipers,’ Usama replied. ‘King Baldwin’s mother seeks to rule despite her son. A few years ago, he had to lead an army against Jerusalem to reclaim his throne from her. Still, her faction intrigues. And that is just within the king’s family. The Templars and the Hospitallers, Tripoli, Antioch and Jerusalem, all are at odds with one another. King Baldwin is at his wit’s end, and in his case, he did not have very far to go to get there. His brother Amalric has all the brains, but the man is cursed with a stutter and fits of laughter.’
‘We should move against them,’ Turan said. ‘They are divided and weak.’
‘But we have a treaty with the Frankish king, Baldwin,’ Yusuf noted.
Nur ad-Din frowned. ‘Yes, and I will honour my word. But the Franks, if all goes well, will not honour theirs. That is why Usama visited Jerusalem. One of the reasons,’ he concluded with a wink.
Usama spread his hands. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I visited Jerusalem only to serve you, my lord.’