Eagle (41 page)

‘
Yalla
!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse forward. He pulled
alongside the rearmost knight. The knight slashed at Yusuf, who veered away to avoid the blow. Yusuf urged his horse back towards the knight and thrust out, stabbing the Frank in the side. With a cry of pain, the man slid from the saddle, taking Yusuf’s sword with him.

Yusuf rode on. The king was just ahead now, with two knights flanking him. ‘
Yalla
!
Yalla
!’ Yusuf cried as he surged forward into the narrow gap between the king and the knight on his right. The knight swung for Yusuf’s head, but Yusuf ducked the blow. He jumped from his horse, throwing himself at the king and dragging him from the saddle. Yusuf rolled as he hit the ground and sprang to his feet. A few feet away, the king lay on his back with sword in hand, struggling to rise in his heavy plate armour. The other Frankish knights were galloping away along the Jordan. None turned to come back for their fallen comrade.

Yusuf drew his eagle-hilt dagger and approached the king. The Frank swung at him, but Yusuf jumped the blow. He stepped on the king’s sword arm, pinning it, then kicked the weapon away. Yusuf knelt on the man’s chest and raised his dagger. ‘I yield!’ the knight roared and pushed back his visor. Yusuf blinked in surprise. It was not the Frankish king. It was Reynald.

‘You,’ Yusuf whispered. He raised his dagger to strike.

‘Do not kill me!’ Reynald begged. ‘I am the Prince of Antioch. My ransom will be worth a fortune.’

‘I do not want your gold,’ Yusuf growled as he put his dagger against Reynald’s throat. ‘Only justice for my friend.’

‘What have we here, Yusuf?’ a voice called, and Yusuf froze. He looked up to see Nur ad-Din approaching on horseback.

‘I am the Prince of Antioch!’ Reynald cried. ‘I am your prisoner. I beg your mercy.’

Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘Let him be, Yusuf.’ Reluctantly, Yusuf stepped away and sheathed his dagger. Two mamluks came forward and pulled Reynald to his feet. ‘You shall be our guest
in Aleppo until you are ransomed,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘Take him away.’ The mamluks marched Reynald off to join the other Frankish prisoners. Nur ad-Din turned to Yusuf. ‘You led your men well, Yusuf, and Reynald will be worth his weight in gold.’

‘I had hoped to capture King Baldwin.’

‘In good time, Yusuf. The Frankish army is broken. Baldwin will beg for peace, but I will not grant it. I will drive him and his people into the sea!’

MAY 1157: NEAR ACRE

Two days later, Yusuf was riding beside Nur ad-Din at the head of the army when the walls of Acre came into sight, the city’s citadel rising high above them on its rocky perch. Nur ad-Din reined to a stop. ‘Acre, our first prize, Yusuf: it is the key that will unlock the Frankish kingdom.’

Yusuf grinned, but then his smile faded. Looking past Nur ad-Din, he saw a column of dust rising from the horizon to the north. He pointed. ‘Look! Do you think it is the Franks? Could they have regrouped so fast?’

Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘No, and besides, they fled south. This must be Shirkuh and his men. They have joined us at the perfect time. We will pause here and wait for them.’

Shirkuh arrived shortly, galloping up ahead of his men. He looked to have ridden far without stopping. He was covered in dust, and his horse was wet with sweat. ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing in the saddle.

‘Well met, Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din called, riding over and grasping his friend’s arm. He glanced at Shirkuh’s horse. ‘Your horse can hardly carry you. What have you done to it?’

‘We rode day and night to reach you. I fear I bring bad news.  Manuel, the Roman emperor, is on the march from Constantinople.’

Nur ad-Din’s brow creased. ‘How many men does he bring?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I saw his army with my own eyes. They are only a day behind me.’

‘
Yaha
!’ Nur ad-Din cursed. ‘I was so close.’ He rode a short distance away and sat staring at Acre. Finally he looked away. ‘Yusuf, tell the men to turn around. We are returning to Aleppo.’

‘But why? We can defeat the Romans, too, as we defeated the Franks.’

Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘The Franks will rally now that the Romans are on the march. We cannot fight them both. If we lose, then Aleppo and Damascus will be theirs for the taking. We must make peace.’

‘But the Franks are crushed!’ Yusuf protested. ‘We must strike now.’

‘No, this campaign is over. But never fear, Yusuf. My peace will be with King Baldwin, and he will not live forever.’

JUNE TO SEPTEMBER 1157: ALEPPO

R
ose petals, luminous in the spring sunshine, showered down upon John as he rode through the cheering crowd that filled the central square of Aleppo, pressing close to the long line of riders headed towards the citadel. Nur ad-Din rode at the head of the army, and as he passed the crowd roared ‘
Malik, jazak Allahu khair
!
Jazak Allahu khair
!’ – great king, may Allah reward you.

But not all in the crowd cheered. John rode beside Reynald, who still wore his distinctive plate armour, although his hands were now tied before him. Some in the crowd hissed as Reynald rode past. Others made the sign of the evil eye – bringing the forefinger and thumb together in a circle and shaking their hands. Reynald ignored them, riding with his head held high and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

John reached the far side of the square and rode into the shade of the citadel. The crowd was thickest around the bridge that led across the moat. Mamluk guards struggled to hold the masses back, but as John watched, the people surged towards Nur ad-Din, eager to touch him. After a moment the guards pushed them back, and the convoy continued. John was almost to the bridge when the crowd again surged forward. Turbaned men pressed all around him, shouting insults at Reynald. The guards had begun to push the crowd back when a grey-bearded man, his mouth empty of teeth, stepped past them and spit at
Reynald, catching him in the face. Reynald grimaced in disgust and raised his tied hands to wipe away the spittle. ‘Savages,’ he muttered and turned towards John. ‘How can you fight for these infidels? You have betrayed your crusader’s oath. You will burn in hell.’

‘Then I shall have you there for company,’ John muttered and urged his horse ahead of Reynald’s and across the wooden drawbridge. They rode up the paved causeway and into the citadel grounds. The rest of the convoy had begun to gather around Nur ad-Din, who was addressing his men, inviting the emirs and sheikhs to a feast at his palace. John led Reynald to the right, towards the prison house.

John had not ridden far when Nur ad-Din hailed him. ‘Where are you taking my prisoner?’ he asked as he rode out from the crowd.

‘To his cell, malik.’

‘No, bring him to the feast. And you come, too. You can translate for your countryman.’

‘He is no countryman of mine,’ John grumbled under his breath, but to Nur ad-Din, he nodded and said, ‘Very well, malik.’

‘What did he say?’ Reynald asked as Nur ad-Din rode away.

‘He has invited you to tonight’s feast.’

‘I have no wish to dine with that infidel,’ Reynald sneered.

‘You have no choice.’ As John rode past, he grabbed the reins of Reynald’s horse and pulled it after him towards the barracks.

‘Where are we going now?’ Reynald asked.

‘To the baths.’

Reynald’s nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘A bath? Do you wish to kill me?’

John gave Reynald a hard look. ‘You smell like a pig. I will be sitting beside you, and I wish to enjoy my food. Come.’

The feast was held in the palace’s great hall, a long, rectangular room with a high ceiling held up by two rows of stone columns.
The guests – fifty in all – were seated cross-legged on cushions around a long, low table, with Nur ad-Din at its centre. Nur ad-Din had Reynald seated across from him, and John sat to Reynald’s right, across from Yusuf.

When all the guests were seated, the servants entered. One stood behind each of the guests, and in a simultaneous movement they bent forward and placed a dish before each diner. John’s mouth watered as he breathed in the aroma of the tharîdah – pieces of chicken on the bone in an aromatic sauce of chickpeas, onions, eggs, pounded almonds and cinnamon. He took up his knife and two-pronged fork and carved off a piece of the tender chicken. As he did so, he glanced at Reynald. The Prince of Antioch had picked up a drumstick with his hands and was gnawing the meat straight off the bone as fat dribbled into his beard.

‘You are meant to use the fork,’ John whispered, pointing to the piece of cutlery.

Reynald sucked a last piece of flesh from the drumstick and tossed it on the table. ‘Why should I use a fork when God gave me two hands?’ he asked, wiping his fingers on his caftan and leaving greasy streaks on the white cotton.

‘What are the two of you discussing?’ Nur ad-Din asked, leaning towards John.

‘The Prince of Antioch was marvelling at your use of the fork,’ John explained. ‘He says that he prefers to use the hands that God gave him.’

‘God gave him feet, too,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Perhaps he wishes to eat with those.’ He chuckled at this pleasantry and was joined by the other men at the table.

Reynald flushed red and turned towards John. ‘What did he say? Why is he laughing?’

‘He said that God also gave you feet and suggested that you eat with those.’

Reynald’s jaw clenched. ‘Who is this infidel to mock me? Ask him what sort of people scorn pork and wine?’

John translated, and the laughter at the table died away. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him, has told us to avoid these things,’ Nur ad-Din said sternly, his voice loud in the silence. ‘If your Pope told you to forgo wine, would you not do so?’

‘Fat chance of that,’ Reynald snorted when he had heard John’s translation. ‘The Pope drinks like a fish.’

John turned to Nur ad-Din. ‘He says, “no”.’

‘Do you not respect the words of your prophets, then?’ Nur ad-Din asked. All eyes turned to Reynald.

‘What are priests good for?’ Reynald asked, picking up the drumstick and waving it to emphasize his point. ‘They sit in their churches with their gold and their wine while the real men do the fighting.’

‘Do your priests not pray for you, like our sûfis?’

‘
Hmph
, I have no need of their prayers, so long as they give me money when I ask. And if they do not—’ he snapped the chicken bone in half ‘—then I take it.’

When John translated, Nur ad-Din’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You do violence to your Holy Men? Kill them, even?’

‘It is forbidden to kill a man of God, and I am no savage.’ Reynald paused. ‘But I have other ways of persuading priests to do as I ask. When the Patriarch of Antioch refused to fund my expedition against Cyprus, I had him stripped naked, covered in honey and tied down on the roof of the citadel. After four hours in the sun, with ants and bees crawling all over him, he became more amenable to reason.’

Nur ad-Din turned towards John. ‘And this patriarch is like an imam?’

‘Yes, only more powerful, almost like a caliph.’ The emirs grumbled at this.

‘Do you not fear the wrath of God?’ Nur ad-Din asked Reynald.

‘I have taken up the cross and fought to keep the Saracens at bay. It is because of men like me that Jerusalem is Christian, its
churches filled with priests instead of infidels. I do not fear God. He has need of me.’

Nur ad-Din’s face wrinkled in disgust. ‘Men like this are why we must drive the Franks from our lands,’ he declared loudly enough for all at the long table to hear. The emirs and sheikhs nodded and thumped the table to show their approval. ‘Take him away. He is spoiling my appetite.’

John rose and pulled Reynald up beside him. ‘Shall I place him in the prison?’

‘No,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘We are not savages like him. Give him a house in town and slaves to serve him as befits his station. The sooner he is ransomed, the better. I do not wish to see him again.’

‘Yes, malik.’ John grabbed Reynald’s arm and guided him from the room.

‘What did he say?’ Reynald asked as they passed through the palace entrance hall and out to the citadel grounds.

‘You will be given you own house and slaves until you are  ransomed. And he remarked that your customs are very different from theirs.’

‘Damn right. I have nothing in common with those heathen savages.’

‘Indeed,’ John murmured.

The next day Yusuf stood before the mirror in his chamber, dressed in his finest caftan of red silk. He smiled and leaned close to the mirror to be certain there was nothing caught between his teeth. He straightened his caftan one final time, and satisfied, left his room and headed to the harem. The entrance was framed by two eunuch guards. ‘I have come to see Asimat,’ Yusuf said.

‘You are expected,’ one of the eunuchs replied. He led Yusuf down a long hallway, dimly lit by burning tapers. As they approached the door to Asimat’s chambers, Yusuf was surprised to see Gumushtagin exit her rooms. When the bald eunuch saw Yusuf, he smiled ingratiatingly.

‘Salaam, Yusuf.’

‘Salaam, Gumushtagin. What brings you to the harem?’

‘One of the few advantages of being a eunuch: I have free access to Nur ad-Din’s apartments.’ Gumushtagin gave Yusuf a hard look. ‘But you are not a eunuch.’

‘I am here to visit Asimat.’

‘You spend a great deal of time with Nur ad-Din’s wife.’

‘At his bidding.’

Gumushtagin’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, of course. Ma’a as-salaama, Yusuf.’ Gumushtagin gave a small bow and stepped past him.

‘Allah yasalmak,’ Yusuf replied to the retreating figure, then turned and waited while one of the eunuch guards entered Asimat’s chamber and announced him.

‘You may enter,’ the guard told Yusuf.

Yusuf stepped into the room to find Asimat seated in one of the windows, half a melon in one hand and a spoon in the other. She was wearing a simple, white cotton caftan. One of her maidservants sat on a cushion at her feet, reading from a book. The servant stopped reading when Yusuf entered.