by Jack Hight
The gate of the fortress of Tell Bashir slammed shut behind John and Yusuf. They carried only their swords and a single waterskin — no more than they had had when they arrived. It was raining a fine rain that showed no sign of letting up, and John’s tunic was already soaked. He looked over at Yusuf. ‘What have you got us into now?’
‘Allah will protect us,’ Yusuf replied. ‘You will see.’ He strode down the hill towards the town. John followed.
The rain had kept the townsfolk inside. They passed only one man, an elderly beggar propped up against the side of the tavern, a cup in his hand. Yusuf dropped his last dinar into the cup as he passed.
‘Why did you do that?’ John asked, his eyes wide.
‘We won’t need it anymore, will we?’
They emerged from town on the road — now little better than a muddy track — and followed it alongside the winding Sajur River. After half a mile, John stopped at a side track that led between fields and towards the low hills on their right. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing out a single rider, who sat atop one of the hills. The rider watched them for a moment, then galloped out of sight over the far side of the hill. ‘They have seen us.’
‘Then let’s not keep them waiting.’
They marched through the fields, the mud sucking at their boots. The track grew wetter and widened before cutting into the hills, running between two sheer slopes. John splashed ahead into the ravine, Yusuf close behind him. They had not gone far when John heard the sound of hooves echoing off the hills around them. He and Yusuf began to run. They rounded a curve, and the narrow trail suddenly opened up into a circular, gravel-strewn wash, surrounded by steep slopes. On the far side of the open area, a narrow passage led further into the hills. They were halfway across the wash when riders started pouring out of the narrow gap. They turned to run, but more riders were emptying out of the ravine behind them.
Two of the bandits rode forward to confront John and Yusuf. Both wore full plate armour and helmets with visors down. ‘What have we here? Two mice in our trap,’ one of the riders said in Frankish. ‘We’ve been waiting for you, Yusuf ibn Ayub,’ he added as he lifted his visor.
‘Reynald!’ John growled.
The man’s forehead creased as he examined John. ‘Do I know you, Saracen?’
‘I am no Saracen.’ John pulled off his turban to reveal his blond hair.
Reynald shrugged. ‘Whoever you are, I have never seen you before in my life.’
‘I was your man, once,’ John snarled. ‘You betrayed me, you bastard! You sent your man to kill me and left me for dead.’
‘Saxon?’ the other Frank said, pushing back his visor to reveal the wide face of Ernaut. ‘I thought I killed you.’
‘Not yet,’ John replied.
‘We will remedy that soon enough,’ Reynald said. ‘Ernaut, finish him.’
Ernaut drew his sword and spurred towards John, who backed away, drawing his weapon. Ernaut had just raised his sword when an arrow struck him in the neck. Wide-eyed, he looked down at the shaft protruding from him. He slumped from the saddle, and three more arrows sank into the ground around him. Another struck Reynald’s horse, and it reared, throwing him. Reynald scrambled to his feet, looking about wildly.
Qaraqush and his men stood high above on the surrounding hills, firing arrows down on the Christians. Reynald turned to run, but more mamluks had filled both the exits from the wash, blocking all escape. Dozens of Frankish bandits were down and screaming in pain. Reynald turned to face Yusuf and John.
Yusuf raised his fist, and the arrows stopped. ‘It seems that you are the one in a trap,’ he said to Reynald in Frankish.
The Frank drew his sword. ‘I will kill you both before I die,’ he growled.
‘No. You will do as I say, and you will live,’ Yusuf said. Reynald paused, lowering his sword. ‘Show me where you have hidden our gold, and you will be given a horse and enough supplies to reach Antioch.’
John grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and spun him around. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded in Arabic. ‘This man is the reason I was sold into slavery. He is a coward and a liar. He deserves to die!’
‘I am sorry, friend. We need that money, and only Reynald can show us to it.’
John looked from Yusuf to Reynald. He had dreamed of killing this Norman bastard for so long that the hatred had become a part of him, but eventually he nodded. ‘Very well.’
Yusuf turned back to Reynald. ‘Do you accept my offer?’
‘Why should I believe you, infidel?’
John stepped forward. ‘I would be only too happy to see you die, Reynald. But I give you my word as a fellow Christian that if you do as he says, you will not be harmed.’
‘Your word as a Christian?’ Reynald spat. ‘You’re one of them now, another sand-devil!’
‘I am a Christian and an Englishman, and I give you my word that you will not be harmed.’
Reynald hesitated a moment longer, then sheathed his sword. ‘Very well, I will do as you ask.’
Yusuf watched as Reynald galloped away, then he turned back to the camp, which Qaraqush and his men were busy ransacking. Several men were rounding up the dozens of sheep that the bandits had stolen. Others were dragging rolls of fine silk from a tent. Two mamluks dragged the money chest to the centre of camp; Reynald had shown them where it had been buried, not far from his tent. Yusuf watched as a grinning warrior hacked the lock off the chest with his sword. The man threw back the lid and gold coins spilled out. The men cheered, and Yusuf smiled. He would not be sold as a hostage. He would be emir of Tell Bashir, and he would send the Seljuk Sultan’s men back to their master. But if he were to be emir, then he would need a banner to fly above the gate of the citadel.
Yusuf strode into Reynald’s tent. The floor was covered with sheepskins and a pile of weapons lay in one corner. In the other corner, Yusuf found the saddlebags that he had brought from Aleppo. He rooted through them and pulled out the banner that his father had given him, white with a golden eagle in the middle.
As Yusuf left the tent, Qaraqush approached and clapped him on the back. ‘Well done, Yusuf! There is wealth enough here to put the Seljuk Sultan’s offer to shame. You are a brave man, and you have Allah’s favour.’ He knelt at Yusuf’s feet. ‘I will follow wherever you lead. I am your man, Yusuf ibn Ayub.’ The other mamluks gathered around and also knelt. John joined them.
Yusuf extended his hand and pulled Qaraqush to his feet. ‘You will not regret your decision. This is just the beginning.’
That night, Yusuf stood at the window of his chamber in the keep of Tell Bashir and looked down on his men, their figures lit by a celebratory bonfire in the centre of the courtyard. Some drank, passing around wineskins and recounting their roles in the day’s battle. Others had already spent their spoils on women, whom they pulled away towards the barracks. Still others were dancing around the bonfire while their fellows stood to the side with instruments in hand. Yusuf spied Qaraqush amongst these last, smiling as he beat out a rapid tattoo on his drum. Al-Mashtub, the giant of a man that Yusuf had fought less than two days ago, stood beside him, his flute toylike in his massive hands. The tune they were playing floated up to Yusuf. It was an old Turkish folk-song, the drums quick under the plaintive notes of the flute.
On the far side of the courtyard the gate opened, and Yusuf saw John enter, his chainmail glimmering red in the firelight. He was followed by a figure whose face was hidden in the shadows of a black cloak. They crossed the courtyard towards the keep, and the mamluks stepped aside to let them pass. A moment later there was a knock on Yusuf’s door.
‘Enter,’ he called, turning from the window. John opened the door and stood aside to allow his companion to enter. She pushed aside her hood. It was Faridah.
‘Good evening, my lord,’ she said and bowed.
Yusuf nodded to her, then turned to John. ‘Go and join the men. Celebrate. You have earned it.’ John left, closing the door behind him.
‘I am honoured that y
ou sent for me, my lord,’ Faridah said as she untied her cloak and allowed it to drop to the floor. She was wearing a tight-fitting caftan of red silk. It complemented her hair, which cascaded loose around her shoulders. Her green eyes, ringed with kohl, fixed on Yusuf. His heart began to pound.
‘We defeated the Frankish raiders,’ he told her. ‘They were waiting for me as you said.’
‘And their leader, Reynald? He is dead?’
‘I let him go.’
‘Why?’ Faridah demanded. ‘He deserved to die.’
Yusuf went to her and touched her arm. Up close, she smelled of jasmine. ‘I had to free him,’ he told her. ‘I gave him my word.’ Faridah frowned. ‘Why do you hate him?’
‘It is nothing,’ Faridah murmured. She reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from Yusuf’s face, then pressed her body against his. Yusuf put his arms around her waist and tentatively kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm. She opened her mouth and kissed him back passionately. Her mouth tasted sweet, like melon.
Faridah smiled. ‘Help me with my caftan,’ she whispered.
Yusuf undid the first button, then the second and third. The caftan spread open to reveal the gentle curves of her breasts. Yusuf’s hands began to tremble as he fumbled with the fourth button.
‘Let me,’ Faridah told him. She quickly unfastened the rest of the buttons and shrugged off the caftan to stand naked before Yusuf. ‘Now, it is your turn, my lord.’ She unfastened Yusuf’s belt, then pulled his tunic over his head. She knelt down as she lowered his loose cotton pants. Yusuf gasped as she took his zib in her mouth.
‘By the Prophet!’
Faridah looked up at him. ‘Do you wish me to stop, my lord?’
‘N-no,’ he managed. ‘Do not stop.’
Yusuf awoke when he felt Faridah stir in the bed beside him. She kissed his cheek, and he smiled sleepily. He had never before tasted such pleasure as she had shown him, and he was still glowing from the experience. He reached out and pulled her towards him.
‘I must go, my lord,’ she whispered in his ear and pulled away. She rose and began to dress. ‘My master will be angry if I do not return soon.’
Yusuf sat up in bed. ‘Your master?’
‘Zarif, the tavern owner. I am his slave.’
‘Not anymore. You are free.’
‘Do not jest of such things,’ Faridah scowled.
‘I do not jest.’
Faridah shook her head. ‘And what would I do with freedom? I have no family. No man will have me.’ She turned her back to him as her eyes grew moist. ‘Zarif is good to me, better than most.’
Yusuf approached her from behind and put his arms around her waist. ‘I will protect you now,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If you must serve a master, then let it be me.’
Faridah turned to face him. ‘You do not want me, my lord,’ she protested, tears in her eyes. ‘I will never bear you children. I cannot.’
Yusuf wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I do want you. And you may call me Yusuf.’
Faridah smiled. ‘Very well, Yusuf.’
‘Now, I wish to know more about the woman who will share my bed. Where are you from?’
Faridah pulled away. ‘I do not wish to speak of it. I am here now. That is all that matters.’
Yusuf gently touched her arm. ‘If I am to take a Frankish concubine, then I must know everything about you.’
Faridah nodded, then went to the window and looked out into the darkness. ‘I grew up in Edessa,’ she said. ‘My father was a Frankish lord and my mother an Armenian Christian. They died when the city fell to Nur ad-Din’s father, Zengi. My father was killed at the walls. My mother-’ she looked away. ‘My mother was raped and murdered. I was sold as a slave.’
‘And?’
‘And I would rather not speak of it. Those days are past.’
Yusuf went to her and held her close, stroking her hair. ‘I am sorry,’ he murmured. ‘You must hate my people.’
‘No. I grew up amongst Saracens in Edessa. I wore the same clothes, spoke the same language, ate the same food. I never knew I was different until the city fell.’
‘And afterwards, surely you must have thought of revenge?’
Faridah shook her head sadly. ‘Where would my dreams of revenge get me? Women exercise power through love, Yusuf, not hate. We leave that to men.’
Chapter 12
MARCH 1154: TELL BASHIR
John stood on the wall of the citadel of Tell Bashir and watched the men gathered in the courtyard below. Six mamluks stood in a line, each with a bow in hand and a quiver slung over his shoulder. Yusuf was thirty paces away, hanging a small, round shield from the inside of the citadel wall. When the shield was in place, he turned to face the archers and the men crowded behind them. ‘You know the rules,’ he called out as he walked towards the line of archers. ‘Each archer will fire one arrow. The two men who come closest to the centre of the shield will then compete for the prize: six dinars.’ The crowd of mamluks cheered. Some of the archers smiled, thinking what they would do with the money — two month’s pay. Others glanced at their competition. One man — the bald warrior, Nazam — checked the tautness of his bowstring.
Yusuf had been holding these contests every Sunday since he and John had come to Tell Bashir, over a year ago. One week it was archery, the next horsemanship, the next swordplay. The men’s skills had improved dramatically as they sought to win the weekly prize. John watched the games each week, but he never participated. As the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya — his private guard — John had earned the respect of the men, but he would never be one of them. To them he would always be alifranji, the Frank, a man apart. He had a different past, different memories. John thought of the brilliant green fields of England and then of Zimat. He frowned. She would be married by now, and as unreachable as his home country.
‘Ready!’ Yusuf called, drawing John’s attention back to the courtyard. Yusuf had stepped behind the line of archers, each of whom now reached back and, in a fluid motion, drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. The crowd quieted in anticipation, and John could hear the bows creak as the archers drew them taught. ‘Rama!’ Yusuf shouted, and the men let fly. The arrows hissed through the air, and all six found their target, thudding into the leather shield.
Yusuf took the shield from the wall, and as he walked back towards the archers, he pulled out the arrows, starting with the ones furthest from the centre. ‘Manzur!’ he called after examining the colours painted on the shaft of the arrow. He tossed the shaft aside. ‘Rakin! Akhtar! Liaqat!’ He dropped the last arrow as he came to a stop before the archers. ‘Your aim was true, but not true enough. The Frankish armour is thick. It is not enough to hit them, for if you hit their chest, your arrows are wasted. You must strike their neck where the armour is thin.’ He wrested the remaining two arrows from the shield. ‘Nazam and Uwais, you have come closest to the mark. Ready yourselves.’
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.
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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?’