Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  He opened the door and stepped into the dim interior. Two long tables with benches on either side ran the length of the narrow, deep room. The table to the left was crowded with sailors, Italians mostly, judging by their speech. Men in chainmail were seated at the other table. At the far end, a group of Germans were singing loudly. Closer to him, four Hospitallers were playing cards and arguing in Frankish. Nearby, someone with a telltale accent called for another tankard. The man was middle-aged and thickset, with fair skin and dark hair. He wore chainmail and a sword, and a wool bag sat between his feet. One of the serving girls delivered him a tankard, and the man took a long swallow. John sat down opposite him.

  ‘How goes it, friend?’ John asked in English.

  The man lowered his tankard, his eyes wide. ‘By God, a fellow Saxon!’ he roared. He grabbed the arm of a passing serving girl. ‘Another beer for my friend here.’

  ‘My thanks,’ John said. He held out his hand. ‘I am Iain.’

  ‘Aestan,’ the man replied, grasping John’s arm. ‘It’s good to hear the mother tongue again. Nothing but bloody Normans around here.’ He nodded towards the Hospitallers down the table, then took another swallow from his tankard and turned back to John. ‘What brings you to Tripoli, friend?’

  ‘I am a merchant, here to purchase slaves.’

  Aestan put his beer down and squinted at John. ‘You look like a soldier to me.’

  ‘Used to be, I gave it up for more profitable pursuits.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Aestan grunted. ‘I have no skill for such things.’ He patted the sword at his side. ‘My talents lie elsewhere. But there’s not much need for a Saxon with a sword in England these days.’ He spat to the side of the table. ‘The Normans run things now. I came here to make my way.’

  ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘A few days ago. I’ll make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and after that I plan to join the service of whoever will have me. I hear there’s good money to be made in fighting the Saracens.’

  John nodded. His tankard arrived, and he took a sip, grimacing at the taste of the stale beer. ‘Any leads on who is taking on men? Armies always need slaves; maybe I can turn a profit.’

  ‘They say the Prince of Antioch is recruiting. Reynald’s the name.’

  John put his tankard down. ‘Reynald de Chatillon?’

  ‘That’s the one. Know him?’

  ‘I fought for him. Back then, he was a minor noble.’

  ‘Not anymore. No one seems to know how, but he has become rich as a Jew. He seduced the Crown Princess of Antioch, dazzling her with fine gifts. Now they are married and he is a prince. And a right bastard he is, too, from what I hear.’

  ‘Sounds like the Reynald I knew,’ John murmured.

  Aestan took another drink. ‘Still, I’d fight for the devil himself, so long as he pays.’

  John smiled. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He had lifted his tankard to his lips when someone roughly grabbed his shoulder, causing him to spill his drink.

  One of the Hospitallers, a bearded, red-faced man, leaned over the table next to him. His breath stank of cheap wine. ‘What are you two Saxon dogs scheming about?’ the Hospitaller demanded in Frankish.

  ‘Bite your tongue, Norman swine,’ Aestan growled in English. He began to stand, but John reached across the table and placed a hand on his shoulder. He rose and turned towards the Hospitaller, who was backed by three more knights. They were all armed. John wished that he had not left his sword back in Yusuf’s camp.

  ‘I am a slave merchant,’ John said in Frankish. ‘We were discussing business.’

  ‘A merchant, eh?’ the knight slurred. His eyes went to John’s purse. ‘There’s a tax on merchants operating in the port.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m collecting.’ John did not want to make a scene. He reached into his purse and handed the knight a silver dirham. The knight held it up to examine it. Nur ad-Din’s likeness was printed on one side. ‘Saracen money,’ the knight said. ‘This is no good here. What else have you got?’

  ‘That is all I have.’

  The knight looked to his friends and grinned. ‘Well, then, it’s the stocks for you.’ He placed a meaty hand on John’s shoulder.

  John sighed. It seemed the knight was determined to make trouble. ‘Wait,’ John said. ‘I may have a Frankish gold piece.’ The knight’s eyes went wide with greed, and he released John’s shoulder. John placed his hand in his purse, then pulled it out in a fist, which he slammed into the Hospitaller’s face, knocking him sprawling backwards into one of his friends. The other two knights raised their fists.

  ‘You’ll pay for that, Saxon dog,’ one of them said. He started to throw a punch when Aestan leapt over the table and slammed into the knight, bowling him over.

  ‘Norman pig!’ Aestan roared, his face flushed red and his fists flying.

  The tavern owner – a beefy, native Christian – waded into the melee, separating John from the fourth Hospitaller. ‘That’s enough,’ he roared as he reached down to pull Aestan off the fallen knight. He received a punch in the back from the fourth Hospitaller for his efforts. A moment later, a serving girl slammed a tankard over the knight’s head, dropping him. John took advantage of the chaos to slip outside.

  He set out immediately from the city, the sun setting behind him as he strode along the road beside the Kadisha River. Eventually, he left the river behind, and it was long since dark when he reached the banks of the Orontes. He headed upstream and then waded across the river and into Yusuf’s camp. Yusuf came out to meet him.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ he asked.

  John nodded. ‘The Franks are gathering troops to the north, in Antioch.’

  NOVEMBER 1156: ON THE BORDER OF THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM

  They broke camp that night, and Yusuf led them north along the Orontes River, past the castle of Shaizar and into the lands of the principality of Antioch. This was Frankish territory, and they gave wide birth to the Frankish castles in their path – Apamea, Sarminiqa, Inab and Arzghan. During the day they camped out of sight in the hills that bordered the river. On the third day, as they were making camp in the hills, John pointed out a far-off band of Frankish knights heading east, their plate armour glinting under the morning sun. ‘Where do you think they are headed?’

  Yusuf shrugged. ‘There are not enough to attack a castle. They must be raiders.’

  ‘If they are raiding into Muslim lands, then that would violate the treaty.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘When night falls, we will follow their tracks.’

  They broke camp as the sun was setting, and rode down from the hills. The Franks had left a wide trail, and Yusuf found their tracks easily, even in the dim twilight. They followed the tracks east as the light faded from the sky, and stars emerged above them. They had been riding for several hours when Yusuf saw something in the distance. It looked like a disembodied, turbaned head, floating in the darkness. Yusuf blinked, but the head remained.

  ‘’Sblood,’ John muttered beside him. ‘What sort of devilry is this?’ They rode on, and more floating heads appeared. Yusuf’s horse whinnied nervously.

  ‘We should turn back,’ Turan said, reining in.

  Yusuf shook his head and spurred forward. As he reached the first head, he saw that it was impaled on a spear that had been planted in the ground. The head had belonged to an older man, with a long, greying beard. His mouth was stretched open in anguish, and his eyes had already been pecked out by birds, leaving black holes. Still, Yusuf recognized him.

  ‘Sabir ibn Taqqi,’ he whispered.

  ‘Why would anybody do such a thing?’ John asked as he rode up beside Yusuf.

  ‘It is meant to send a message.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of war.’

  They rode through the forest of heads and came to the bodies. Most were gathered close together where they had fallen, bows and shepherd’s crooks still clutched in their hands. Hyenas moved amongst them, gorging on the dead. They ran off howling as Yusuf an
d his men approached. Yusuf reined in and sat staring at carnage. Then he saw movement amongst the bodies. ‘I think one of them is alive!’ he cried as he slid from his saddle.

  Yusuf approached a pile of bodies, pulling a fold of his turban over his mouth and nose to keep out the foul smell. From under three dead Bedouin, he saw two eyes staring out at him. It was a boy, a knife clutched in his hand. ‘D-don’t come any closer!’ he cried out.

  ‘I am a friend,’ Yusuf said, kneeling a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder towards his men and shouted: ‘Quick, bring water and food!’ John handed him a waterskin, and Yusuf held it out towards the boy.

  Slowly, carefully, the boy crawled out from under the dead. He was thin and dark, with wide eyes and short black hair. His face was covered with dried blood. The boy reached out and snatched the waterskin. He drank greedily. Then he dropped the waterskin and held out his knife. ‘You’re one of them!’ he hissed at John.

  ‘Easy, boy,’ Yusuf said. ‘One of who?’

  ‘The Franks. They came for our herds.’ The boy began to cry. ‘They killed my family – they killed everybody.’

  ‘You will have a new family now,’ Yusuf told him. ‘You will come with us to Aleppo, as a mamluk. You will learn to fight, and someday you will have your revenge against the Franks.’ Yusuf rose and turned towards John.

  ‘If the Franks did this,’ John said. ‘Then the treaty is broken, and that means—’

  ‘War,’ Yusuf finished for him.

  ‘There’s more,’ the boy said from behind them. Yusuf turned. The boy had dried his tears and once more gripped his knife in his hand. ‘I heard the name of their leader.’ He spat into the dust. ‘Reynald.’

  Chapter 15

  MAY 1157: ALEPPO

  John jerked upright in bed, his heart pounding. The room was dark and the house quiet. He looked over at Zimat, who lay beside him. She stirred, blinking away sleep. ‘What is it?’ She yawned. ‘Another nightmare?’

  John nodded. ‘I dreamt you were being stoned.’

  ‘It was only a dream,’ Zimat murmured, gently stroking his arm. ‘I am safe, here with you.’

  John pulled away and moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. ‘In my dream, Yusuf cast the first stone.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Your brother trusts me. Every time I come to you, I betray him.’

  Zimat’s lips pressed together in a hard line. ‘I do not wish to have this discussion again. Either we betray my brother, or we betray our love. We have made our choice.’

  ‘It is not that simple,’ John muttered. He rose and began to dress.

  Behind him, Zimat sat up in bed. ‘Do not go, not yet.’

  ‘It will be dawn soon,’ John replied as he laced up his boots. ‘The army leaves just after sunrise. I must help Yusuf organize the men.’

  ‘Yusuf’s shadow,’ Zimat said bitterly. She turned away from him. ‘You love him more than me.’

  John sat beside her. ‘I owe Yusuf my life.’ He reached out and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘But you are the reason that I remain in the East. In Tripoli, I could have taken a ship for England. I stayed because of you. I love you, Zimat.’

  ‘I know.’ She turned to John, and he kissed her, pulling her close to him. Finally she pulled away. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘I do not know when we will return.’

  Zimat looked away, blinking back tears. John kissed her forehead, then rose. He went to the door and put his head against it, listening to make sure the hallway was empty before cracking the door open.

  ‘John,’ Zimat called softly. He turned. ‘Come back to me.’

  ‘I will,’ John whispered, and left.

  MAY 1157: NEAR BAALBEK

  ‘O Allah, have mercy upon me,’ Yusuf murmured. He knelt on his prayer rug, which he had laid out on the sand beside the Orontes River, facing south-east towards Mecca. Men knelt all around him. As Yusuf prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Nur ad-Din, who knelt a few feet to his left. Beyond the malik were thousands more men, stretching for over a mile along the banks of the river, all facing Mecca and all with their foreheads to the ground. Only John stood out. He was kneeling nearby under a tree on the riverbank, praying in his own way.

  Yusuf sat back on his heels, and as he spoke the final words of the magrhib – the evening prayer – he looked across the river at the green fields, which stretched away to craggy mountains, their peaks lit golden red by the setting sun. The last time Yusuf had visited those mountains, he and John had tracked and killed the panther that Yusuf now wore as a winter cloak. That seemed so long ago. They had left Aleppo over a week ago, and tomorrow they would pass through Baalbek on the way south to the Frankish stronghold of Banyas. And then the war against the Franks would begin.

  Yusuf finished his prayers and began to roll up his mat. All around him men were heading up the gentle rise that separated the riverbank from their camp. Yusuf stood and began to follow them.

  ‘Yusuf!’ It was Nur ad-Din. A servant had taken his prayer mat, and he was standing alone beside the river, his shoulders slumped. ‘Come here.’ Yusuf walked over, his boots crunching softly on the wet sand. Nur ad-Din turned to face him. ‘We will reach Banyas soon. Do you think the men ready?’

  ‘Yes, malik.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Nur ad-Din murmured. He sighed and turned to look out over the river. The glow had left the distant mountains, and the fields beneath them were now grey in the darkness. A single locust in one of the trees along the riverbank began its song, and a moment later the evening was full of their sound. Yusuf noticed that Nur ad-Din had closed his eyes. Yusuf opened his mouth to speak, but Nur ad-Din spoke first. ‘Asimat miscarried last night. It was a boy. I should not have brought her with me on this campaign.’

  ‘Is she well?’

  Nur ad-Din glanced at him sharply, then nodded. ‘She is alone in her tent. She has sent away the doctors, the midwife, even her servants.’

  Yusuf placed his right hand on Nur ad-Din’s shoulder. ‘It is not your fault, malik. Such matters are in the hands of Allah.’

  Nur ad-Din shrugged off Yusuf’s hand. ‘Then why has Allah cursed me?’ he demanded, his voice rising. ‘I have built mosques to glorify Him. I have given to the poor. I have launched this campaign against the Franks in His name. What more must I do before He gives me a son?’ He glared at Yusuf, who shifted uncomfortably, uncertain of what to say. Nur ad-Din sighed and turned back to the river. When he spoke again his voice was soft. ‘Perhaps when I have driven the Franks from our lands, then Allah will bless me. Inshallah.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf echoed.

  They stood in silence, listening to the locusts and the gentle burble of the river. Finally, Nur ad-Din turned to face Yusuf. ‘I did not call you here to burden you with my troubles. I want you to go to Asimat. She refuses to speak with me, and besides, I have little talent for gentle words.’ He placed a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘She likes you. Make sure she is well. Comfort her for me, if you are able.’

  ‘Yes, malik.’

  ‘Good.’ Nur ad-Din released Yusuf and straightened, all sign of weakness suddenly gone. He nodded curtly. ‘Now go. Her guards will be expecting you.’

  Yusuf walked up the sandy hill that bordered the river. At the top, he looked back. Nur ad-Din was still standing alone on the riverbank. Yusuf turned and headed down the far side of the hill. Before him, the plain was dotted with hundreds of white tents, like flowers after a rain. He headed for Nur ad-Din’s huge tent, which was easy to find. Asimat’s smaller tent sat beside it, guarded by a dozen eunuch soldiers. As Yusuf approached, their captain gestured for him to enter and then followed, taking up a position just inside the door.

  The tent’s interior was brightly lit by two oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. Thick carpets covered the floor, and a screen of thin cloth divided the tent in half. Beyond the screen, Yusuf could make out the dark outline of a hammock slung
between two tent posts, and standing beside the hammock, the form of Asimat. She moved to the flap in the middle of the screen and passed through. Her eyes were red and her face pale, but she managed to smile when she saw Yusuf.

  ‘Salaam, Yusuf. I am glad that you came. Sit.’ She took a seat amidst silk cushions, and Yusuf sat across from her. ‘I have news for you. I have found you a wife.’

  Yusuf’s eyebrows shot up. He had not expected this. ‘A wife?’

  ‘As I promised. She is Usama’s daughter – a good match. She is beautiful, and healthy. She will bear—’ Asimat faltered, looking away to hide her tears. ‘She will bear you many children.’

  ‘Are you well, Khatun?’ Yusuf asked softly. ‘Your child—’

  ‘I do not wish to speak of it,’ Asimat snapped and angrily wiped away her tears. ‘I am fine, as well as can be expected while travelling with an army.’

  ‘You did not wish to come?’

  ‘No. I do not like war. I have never understood this eagerness of men to kill one another.’

  ‘But the Franks have broken their treaty with us. They have slaughtered innocent Bedouin.’

  ‘So we shall slaughter them in turn?’

  ‘We only return in kind the suffering that they visited upon us when they took our lands. They do not belong here.’

  ‘They do not belong?’ Asimat laughed, a hollow sound with no merriment in it. ‘Tell me, Yusuf. Do you remember a time when the Franks were not here?’

  ‘No, my lady. They arrived before I was born.’

  ‘And your father?’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘If the Franks have held their kingdom for longer than you or your father have been alive, then what gives you more of a right to the land than they? The Romans held these lands before us. Perhaps the Franks feel that they, too, have merely reclaimed lands that were once theirs.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘But it is our duty to fight them.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Asimat murmured. ‘But I have had enough of death.’ She looked away, her hand on her stomach.