Eagle st-1

by Jack Hight

  ‘Then what?’ John demanded, his jaw clenched. ‘I leave the woman I love? I leave my child to be raised by another man?’

  Faridah nodded. ‘If you truly love Zimat, then you must do what is necessary to protect her and the child.’

  ‘And what about when the child is born? What if it has blue eyes or blond hair?’

  ‘Pray to God that it does not.’

  APRIL 1158: TELL BASHIR

  John stood atop the gatehouse of Tell Bashir, his wet clothes clinging to him and rain running off his nose as he stared out at the road from Aleppo. He held a long strip of leather, which he methodically wrapped and unwrapped around his right hand. The two mamluks on watch were hunkered down under their cloaks. ‘What the devil do you suppose is hounding al-ifranji?’ one of them whispered.

  ‘Maybe he lost at dice.’

  ‘Maybe he has lost his mind.’

  John heard the words, but he paid no more attention to them than he did to the rain. It was seven months since they had left Aleppo and almost nine months since Zimat had told him that she had ceased to bleed, that she was with child. John expected news of her delivery any day, and so he stood here at the gate whenever he could, his eyes fixed on the winding road from Aleppo.

  John thought he saw movement in the distance. He squinted, trying to penetrate the curtain of rain. He could just make out a group of riders at the edge of town. John turned to the men on watch. ‘Someone is coming. Inform the emir and prepare to open the gate.’

  The men scrambled away, and John turned back to watch the riders approach. As they drew closer, he could see that there were five of them. They splashed down the muddy street through the centre of town and up the short ramp to the gate, where the man in the lead pushed back his hood. It was Yusuf’s younger brother, Selim. ‘Open the gates!’ he called. ‘I come with news.’

  John watched as Selim entered and was led into the citadel’s keep. John bowed his head and took a deep breath. ‘Please God,’ he whispered. ‘Let the child have dark eyes.’ Then he descended from the wall and strode across the muddy courtyard to the keep. He went to Yusuf’s chambers and found the door open. Stepping inside, he found Yusuf kissing Selim on each cheek. Turan stood to the side, smiling.

  ‘John!’ Yusuf exclaimed. ‘Selim has brought good news.’

  ‘Yes?’ John asked, barely able to keep his voice from shaking.

  ‘You remember my sister, Zimat? She has given birth to a son!’

  ‘A son,’ John whispered hoarsely. He turned to Selim. ‘You have seen the boy?’ Selim nodded. ‘What is he like?’

  ‘He is a healthy child.’

  ‘And who does he favour?’ John asked urgently. ‘His mother?’ Selim frowned, confused by John’s interest. ‘The boy is only a babe, but he has his father’s eyes.’

  John sighed in relief. ‘Il-Hamdillah,’ he murmured. ‘God be praised.’

  Chapter 17

  OCTOBER 1161: TELL BASHIR

  Yusuf could see his breath steaming in the air as he and John sat in the saddle atop a small rise just outside Tell Bashir. They had ridden out to inspect the harvest. It was autumn, and the fields were covered with golden wheat. Slaves moved between the rows of stalks, their scythes flashing in the sun. The wheat rippled in a sudden breeze, and Yusuf pulled his fur cloak more tightly about him. He thought of the panther he and John had tracked down in the mountains above Baalbek. How long ago was that? Yusuf counted on his fingers.

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ John asked.

  ‘Time. It has been nine years since we left Baalbek.’

  John nodded and gestured to the workers around them. ‘I remember when I was a slave working in your father’s fields. It seems like yesterday.’

  ‘I was fascinated by you,’ Yusuf chuckled. ‘You were so foreign.’

  ‘And I hated you. I hated all Saracens.’ John sighed. ‘We were so young then.’

  ‘We are not so old now.’

  ‘But we grow older.’ John reached into his saddlebag and removed a book bound in finely worked black leather. He held it out to Yusuf.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘A gift. You are twenty-three today.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘It is just another day.’ He tried to hand the book back, but John would not take it.

  ‘Open it.’

  Yusuf opened the book at random. The pages were covered with beautifully drawn Arabic script. He read: ‘If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.’

  ‘It is the New Testament, part of our holy book.’

  A smile tugged at the corner of Yusuf’s mouth. ‘You wish to convert me, John?’

  ‘No. I want you to know your enemy.’

  Yusuf looked at the book for a moment longer, then placed the palm of his right hand over his heart and bowed his head. ‘Thank you.’ He slipped the book into his saddlebag. ‘I accept your gift.’

  They left the fields behind and rode back to the citadel. In the courtyard a dozen young mamluks were training under the supervision of Qaraqush. Yusuf paused to watch them. The boys rode in a circle around the courtyard, firing arrows at a target that hung from one of the walls. Only one arrow had struck home so far, but the boys would improve with time. They were no older than ten, slaves newly taken from the distant Turkish steppes. By the time they reached eighteen and were freed, they would be skilled warriors.

  Yusuf dismounted and handed his reins to John. ‘I will see you at dinner after evening prayers,’ he said, then entered the citadel’s keep and went to his quarters. When Yusuf opened the door, his eyes widened. Faridah lay naked on his bed, her entire body covered with swirling patterns drawn with henna. She was well past thirty now and more voluptuous than when Yusuf had first met her, with wider hips and a softer body. But her hair was the same fiery red and her face unlined. She was, Yusuf thought, even more beautiful. ‘Id milad sa’id,’ she purred. Happy birthday.

  ‘I am not a Frank, Faridah. To my people, the day of our birth is but another day.’

  Faridah arched an eyebrow. ‘Then you do not wish to receive your present?’ She pulled a blanket over herself.

  Yusuf went to the bed and pulled the blanket back. With his forefinger, he lightly traced the swirling patterns of henna, his finger moving down her stomach to between her legs. Faridah gasped, and Yusuf smiled. ‘Allah has told us the greatest joy is in giving.’ He began to kiss her when there was a knock on the door. Faridah rose and passed into her own quarters. Yusuf turned to the door. ‘Enter!’

  Turan came into the room, a letter in his hand. ‘This has come from Aleppo.’ Yusuf took the letter and went to the window, where he broke the seal. ‘Is it from Nur ad-Din?’ Turan asked.

  Yusuf nodded. ‘King Baldwin is dying. Nur ad-Din has called me back to Aleppo to help him prepare his campaign against the Franks.’

  ‘Then you must go. I will tell Qaraqush and John to prepare our departure.’ Turan headed for the door.

  ‘Wait, Brother,’ Yusuf called. ‘I admit that I had doubts when I made you my second-in-command, but you have served me well these last few years. Now I have another, greater service to ask of you.’

  ‘Name it, Brother.’

  ‘The campaign against the Franks may last for many years. I want you to stay here, to rule Tell Bashir while I am gone.’

  Turan frowned. ‘I would rather fight by your side.’

  ‘I know, but I need you here to make certain that my lands flourish.’

  Turan hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He had changed greatly since Nadhira’s death. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Thank you, Brother.’ Turan left and Faridah re-entered the room. Her lips were pressed in a thin line of worry. ‘Nur ad-Din has called for me,’ Yusuf told her.

  ‘I heard.’ She met his eyes. ‘And Asimat?’

  Yusuf smiled to reassure her. ‘You need not worry. She means nothing to me.’

  NOVEMBER 116
1: ALEPPO

  Upon his arrival in Aleppo, Yusuf went straight to Nur ad-Din’s apartments to present himself. He met Shirkuh in the antechamber, just leaving the king’s quarters. ‘Yusuf!’ Shirkuh beamed and embraced him. As they exchanged kisses, Yusuf noticed for the first time that he was now taller than his uncle. ‘How have you been, young eagle?’

  ‘My lands flourish. And you, Uncle?’

  Shirkuh frowned. ‘Nur ad-Din has me riding across his kingdom and beyond to purchase more mamluks.’ He shook his head. ‘Our king is a man possessed. Gumushtagin has convinced him that Allah will not give him an heir until he rids our lands of the Franks. Nur ad-Din speaks of nothing but defeating them. He works without stopping. He has not left his study for days.’

  ‘Surely Allah will favour such devotion.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ Shirkuh grumbled. ‘Try to get him to rest, if you can.’ He placed a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘You must come to Khaldun’s to meet your nephew. I will see you there tonight.’

  ‘Tonight,’ Yusuf agreed. Shirkuh left, and Yusuf stepped forward so that the guards could search him. They took his sword and dagger, then led him into Nur ad-Din’s quarters. Yusuf followed the mamluk through the first room, where he had dined before, and into Nur ad-Din’s study. A massive desk dominated the room, covered with papers and maps. More papers had spilled on to the floor. Nur ad-Din leaned over the desk and marked an x on one of the maps. Yusuf noticed that the tips of his fingers were ink-stained.

  ‘My lord,’ Yusuf said quietly.

  Nur ad-Din looked up and his face brightened. ‘Yusuf! You have returned.’ He waved Yusuf forward. ‘Come, look at this.’

  The map before Nur ad-Din showed the Frankish lands. ‘What are these?’ Yusuf asked, pointing to one of the dozens of x s that had been marked on the map.

  Nur ad-Din grinned. ‘I have sent scouts into the Frankish lands. These are places where the terrain will give us an advantage. At that one, Hattin, our enemy will be exposed and without water. If we can lure them to one of these spots, then the battle will be half won.’ Nur ad-Din stood straight and clapped his hands together with satisfaction. ‘The time has almost come. Usama has been to the court in Jerusalem. He reports that Baldwin will die any day now.’

  ‘Then we attack in the spring?’ Yusuf asked eagerly.

  ‘No. Baldwin’s brother Amalric is said to be half mad, an idiot who stutters and laughs at nothing. The longer he reigns, the weaker the Franks will become. And I must be sure that the emperor in Constantinople will not intervene. We will wait a year, and in the meantime I will prepare an army the likes of which the world has never seen. That is why I have called you here. I want you to work with Gumushtagin to collect a special tax to help fund the coming war.’

  Yusuf frowned. ‘I will of course serve as it pleases you, my lord, but perhaps my talents could be better used elsewhere.’

  Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘I prize your honesty, Yusuf. I need you to make sure that every fal collected makes it into my coffers. Gumushtagin is clever with money, but I do not trust him as I do you.’

  Yusuf placed his hand over his heart and nodded. ‘Thank you, malik. I will not fail you.’

  ‘Good,’ Nur ad-Din murmured as he turned his attention back to the map. He dismissed Yusuf with a wave of his hand. Yusuf was at the door when Nur ad-Din called out to him: ‘Wait, Yusuf. There is one more thing. I want you to visit Asimat.’

  Yusuf felt a sudden tightness in his chest. ‘Asimat, my lord?’

  ‘She suffered another miscarriage recently.’ Nur ad-Din sighed and massaged his temples. ‘She has been impossible these last months, and you always seem to cheer her.’

  Yusuf swallowed hard. ‘Very well, my lord. I shall do my best.’

  John wiped nervous sweat from his forehead as he waited outside the gate to Khaldun’s home. He and Yusuf had left the citadel after evening prayers, and the air had cooled with the setting of the sun. Still, John’s caftan was soaked and his stomach was tying itself in knots. He had never been this nervous, not even on the eve of battle.

  ‘How old do you think Khaldun’s son is now?’ Yusuf mused. ‘He must be nearing his third year.’

  ‘Three years and seven months,’ John said quietly.

  Yusuf glanced at him sharply, then smiled. ‘Is that so? You never cease to impress me, John.’

  The gate swung open, and they stepped into the courtyard, which was lit by torches burning in brackets on the walls. At the far end, Khaldun was striding out from his home to greet them. A young boy trailed behind him.

  ‘Yusuf!’ Khaldun called as he approached. The two men met near the fountain in the centre of the courtyard and exchanged kisses. Khaldun gestured to the boy, who was peeking out from behind his legs. ‘This is my son. Ubadah, greet your uncle.’

  The boy stepped out from behind Khaldun and bowed. ‘Salaam ‘Alaykum, Uncle,’ he said shyly.

  Yusuf lifted Ubadah from the ground and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Wa ‘Alaykum as-Salaam, little man.’ The boy giggled, and Yusuf set him down. ‘I am glad to meet you at last, Ubadah.’

  John had not moved from the gate. His body felt leaden, beyond his control. Ubadah had dark brown eyes, but other than that his resemblance to John was remarkable: the same straight, narrow nose; the same arch of the brow; the same square chin. The boy’s hair was sandy brown — light for a Saracen. There was no doubt in John’s mind; Ubadah was his child.

  ‘Come, John,’ Yusuf called. ‘Introduce yourself to my nephew.’

  John approached woodenly and knelt before the boy. His mouth was dry, and it was all he could do to speak. ‘Salaam, little one. I am pleased to meet you.’

  Ubadah stood wide-eyed, then his lower lip began to quiver. ‘Ifranji! Ifranji!’ he bawled and ran to Khaldun, who lifted him up and held him close.

  ‘I am sorry, John,’ Khaldun said, laughing. ‘I fear I may have told my son one too many stories about the terrible Franks.’

  John felt a tightness in his chest and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. He forced himself to smile. ‘I understand,’ he managed. Khaldun’s laughter faded as he looked from John to his son. He looked back at John and frowned. John struggled to control his emotions as he met Khaldun’s eyes.

  ‘Where is my sister?’ Yusuf asked, breaking the tension.

  ‘She is not well,’ Khaldun said, turning to Yusuf. ‘She asked that you pardon her absence.’

  ‘It is nothing serious, I hope.’

  Khaldun shook his head. ‘A passing indisposition.’ Somewhere nearby, a muezzin took up his strident call. John looked up and saw that the light had faded from the sky, which was now an inky black, speckled with stars. ‘It is time for the isha’a,’ Khaldun said. ‘We will pray here.’ He pointed to a streak of white on the wall of the courtyard. ‘I have marked the direction of Mecca.’ As servants came out from the house with prayer rugs, Khaldun turned to John. ‘You may wait in the gatehouse, if you wish.’

  ‘I will stay and pray to my God,’ John replied. He stepped back into the shadows near a side door of the house and knelt. He bowed his head but kept his eyes on the men before him.

  Yusuf, Khaldun and Ubadah went to the fountain and began to wash their heads, arms and feet in preparation for prayer. They were joined in the ritual ablution by the Muslim servants and mamluks of the household. The men finished washing and stood before their prayer rugs, their backs to John. They began to pray, chanting the first lines of the rak’ah: In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. John knew that the isha’a had four rak’at, taking maybe ten minutes. The men prostrated themselves near the end of the first rak’ah, and he quickly rose and silently slipped through the side door. At the door to Zimat’s room he stopped. He pressed his ear against it, but at first he heard nothing over the chanting outside. Then he made out a faint sound — crying. John opened the door.

  Zimat sat in bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. She looked up in surprise as John entered, and he saw that
her face was streaked with tears. ‘John,’ she breathed.

  ‘I feared you would have forgotten me,’ he said as he closed the door.

  Without a word, Zimat rose from the bed and ran to him, burying her head in his chest. ‘How could I forget you? I see you every day in our son.’ John held her and stroked her hair. He could feel the knots in his stomach begin to relax. Then Zimat pulled away from him. ‘Why have you come back?’ she demanded. She turned her back to him. ‘Why did you leave me?’

  John placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I had to. I could not take you with me to live amongst the Franks. Your son — our son — would have had nothing. You would have had nothing.’

  ‘I would have had you.’

  John gently turned her so that she was facing him. He lifted her chin so that he could look into her dark eyes. ‘You can still have me, if you want me.’

  ‘You know I do.’ John leaned forward to kiss her, but she put her hand to his lips. ‘But you must promise to never leave me again.’

  John took her hand and kissed it. ‘I promise.’ He pulled her against him and kissed her. Her lips were even softer than he had remembered.

  The door to the room started to open, and they jumped apart. Their son, Ubadah, stood in the doorway. His eyes widened, and then he screwed up his face and began to cry. ‘Ifranji,’ he bawled, pointing at John. ‘Ifranji!’

  Zimat went to him and swept him up into her arms. ‘There, there my sweetness,’ she cooed. ‘He is not an ifranji. He is a friend.’ The boy quieted, and Zimat looked to John. ‘You must go.’

  ‘But what if-’

  ‘I will deal with my son and Khaldun. Go!’

  John left the room and slipped back out into the courtyard. The men were prostrate, just finishing the final rak’ah. They sat up and murmured in unison: Greetings to you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessings of Allah. Peace be unto us, and unto the righteous servants of Allah. I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah. And I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.