Kingdom (11 page)

John knew of the rift between the Sunni and Shiites, but he was still surprised. The caliph seemed unconcerned that the Franks were Christians. He hated the Sunni Muslims much more.

Shawar turned to Geoffrey. ‘The Caliph has given his consent to the treaty.’ Shawar went to the table and signed all four copies. He had regained his equanimity, and he smiled as he handed two of the treaties to Geoffrey. ‘There. It is done.’

‘That is not enough,’ Hugh said.

The vizier’s smile faded. ‘Pardon?’

‘A treaty is only a sheet of paper. The Caliph must give me his word, man to man.’

‘But—’ Shawar’s words ended in a gasp. Hugh was striding across the room, his hand extended to shake that of the caliph. The caliph shrank back against his throne. John heard the whisper of steel against leather as several of the mamluks standing along the back wall drew their blades. Shawar held up a hand to stop them. ‘My lord!’ he beseeched Hugh in Frankish. ‘You cannot touch the Caliph!’

Hugh ignored him. He thrust his hand towards the caliph’s
face
. ‘Swear that you will abide by the terms of this treaty.’ He looked to John, who translated.

‘What more does this man want?’ the caliph asked, his voice breaking. ‘I have already given my consent.’

‘You are to clasp his hand.’

The caliph turned towards Shawar. ‘Must I?’

John had not translated these last statements. Hugh looked to him questioningly. ‘Why will he not give his word?’ he demanded. ‘I knew there was treachery afoot.’ John chose not to translate that, either.

Shawar ignored Hugh’s outburst. ‘Yes, Imam. It is necessary.’ The caliph extended a trembling hand.

‘He must remove his glove,’ Hugh insisted. ‘The oath is not valid unless we clasp hands, flesh to flesh.’

Shawar went pale. ‘But that is impossible!’ he cried in Frankish.

‘Then there will be no treaty!’ Hugh declared.

Geoffrey nodded in agreement. ‘We must be certain the alliance will be honoured.’

Shawar looked from one to the other, then to John. ‘Make them understand,’ he said in Arabic. ‘The Caliph cannot take this man’s hand. It is impossible.’

‘Even if it means the failure of the treaty?’ John asked.

‘Even then.’

Hugh was standing with his hands on his hips, his jaw jutting forward belligerently. John doubted he could speak reason with the man. Instead, he looked to the caliph. He approached the throne and knelt, bowing low so that his forehead touched the floor. ‘Representative of God, defender of the faithful,’ he said in Arabic. ‘This man is not worthy to be in your presence. He is an ifranji, a savage, an animal. He is filthy and impure, but he longs for purity. He wishes to embrace the true faith.’

The caliph leaned forward on his throne. ‘Truly?’

Hugh placed a rough hand on John’s shoulder. ‘What are you saying, priest?’

John ignored him. He continued speaking to the caliph. ‘This man has done terrible things. He has defiled his body with the flesh of swine. He has drunk alcohol. He has killed members of the faith. But he believes that if he touches your flesh with the flesh of his hand, it will purify him.’

‘But that is ridiculous!’ the caliph scoffed.

‘It is. But the Franks are like children, Imam. They believe in mysteries and magic. You have no doubt heard that the Franks believe that in their rituals bread and wine are transformed into the very flesh and blood of their god, Jesus. They also believe that the touch of Jesus could cure the sick and raise the dead. To Franks, the touch of a holy man is a miraculous thing. They are like children, and if they embrace the faith, they can only do so as children would do.’

‘Damn it!’ Hugh growled. ‘What are you saying, man? Will he shake my hand or will he not?’

‘I am explaining the terms of the treaty in greater detail,’ John replied tersely. He returned to the caliph. ‘Imam, he says that it would be the great honour of his life to touch your hand, that he would count himself forever blessed.’

‘And he truly wishes to embrace the one true faith?’ the caliph asked in an uncertain voice.

‘Yes.’ John had a flash of inspiration. ‘He wishes to fight against the Sunni army, against the false caliph in Baghdad, who has led so many astray. He wishes your blessing for the coming battle.’

‘Very well,’ the caliph consented. He removed his glove and extended his hand. John could hear the alarmed gasps and urgent whispers of the courtiers lining the walls.

Hugh grabbed the caliph’s manicured hand in his own callused paw. ‘We are sworn to one another, to uphold the treaty signed here today,’ he said as he vigorously shook the caliph’s hand. ‘May God smite you if you break your word.’

‘May Allah give you strength in your battle against the infidel Sunni,’ the caliph replied in Arabic. Hugh released his hand,
and
the caliph wiped his own on his caftan before slipping on his glove.

‘Shukran,’ Shawar said to John. Then he took Hugh by the arm and led him away from the throne. ‘Are you satisfied now, Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Vizier. We are allies, and we shall drive Nur ad-Din’s armies from your lands.’

Chapter 4

MAY 1164: CAIRO

J
ohn’s horse trotted into the Nile, kicking up water that shone silver in the moonlight. He could just see the king ahead of him, urging his horse across the river, while all around he could hear the splashing of men and horses, visible only as dim shapes in the darkness. John looked upstream. A bright spot on the horizon told him where Cairo lay. His horse was swimming now, and the warm water of the Nile came up to John’s waist. A moment later, his mount climbed up a sandy bank on to a low island. Knights were all around him, their horses nickering in the darkness. John was the only one amongst them not in armour. He had come in his role as a priest and translator, to offer his services after the battle.

After nearly a month of facing Shirkuh’s army across the Nile, each side unable to attack, Shawar had devised a plan to surprise the enemy. He had provided one hundred members of the Egyptian army’s Armenian cavalry, elite troops who fought for the caliph despite the fact that they were Christian. They had joined four hundred Frankish knights and snuck north under the cover of darkness, riding downstream while a slender crescent moon climbed across the sky. Finally, when the moon stood at its apex, their Egyptian guide had stopped at the riverbank and pointed to where an island split the river in two, making crossing on horseback possible.

John crossed the island and urged his horse into the water
again
. He emerged on the far bank where the men were forming a column five riders wide. He rode to the rear. At the front, Amalric rose in his stirrups to address his troops. ‘Tonight, we ride for God, to drive the Saracen scourge from these lands!’ he shouted. ‘Ride hard and ride fast, men, and when we reach their camp, show no mercy! Fill the Nile with the blood of these arse-faced, stone-worshipping bastards! For Christ!’

‘For Christ!’ the men roared back, and the army moved out at a trot. The sounds of hooves pounding on the sandy road and the jangle of tack joined the chorus of frogs along the banks of the Nile. The frogs went silent as the sky began to lighten, revealing broad green fields on either side of the river. In the distance, John could see the pyramids and the village of Giza huddled at their foot. South of the city, hundreds of cooking fires glimmered in the dawn light.

‘For Christ!’ Amalric roared and spurred to a gallop. The men surged after him, their horses kicking up plumes of sand. John slowed his mount to a walk, content to let the knights race ahead. They galloped into the enemy camp, and John heard screaming. But these were not cries of surprise or pain, but of disappointment. As John reached the camp, he saw why. The smouldering cooking fires were the only remaining trace of the enemy army. They had left before the Franks arrived.

John heard more shouting; cries of pain mixed with the terrified screams of women. He looked to see smoke rising above Giza. Finding the camp empty, the knights had moved on to sack the town. A particularly piercing wail rose above the other cries, and John winced. He thought of Zimat, of what he would do if a Frankish knight raped her.

John was riding towards Giza when he came across Humphrey, who was kicking angrily at one of the smouldering cooking fires. ‘The currish maggot-ridden bastards!’ the constable sputtered. ‘God-cursed infidels! Onion-eyed donkey cocks!’

‘Pardon, my lord,’ John said, interrupting the stream of curses. ‘Perhaps you should restrain the men.’

‘Let them have their fun. Their blood is up, and they need some sport.’

‘The Egyptians are our allies. The caliph will not look kindly on our men raping and pillaging his people.’

‘The people of Giza gave shelter to the enemies of Egypt. They made their own bed.’

John frowned. The people of Giza could hardly have refused to supply and house Shirkuh’s army. As he turned away in disgust, he spotted Amalric kneeling on the sandy shore, his hands clasped before him. John cantered over and dismounted. The king rose. ‘The craven bastards,’ he muttered and then yawned. ‘I sacrificed a night’s sleep for nothing.’ The king noticed John’s expression. ‘You look as if you had lost a friend, John. What has happened?’

‘The men are pillaging Giza.’

‘So they are.’

‘It is unholy work, sire.’

‘It is the way of war, John.’ Amalric began to walk away.

John bit back a choice curse. Then he had a sudden inspiration. ‘This is precisely why Bernard visited you, sire!’

Amalric stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Bernard said you are a poor Christian. He is right, but it is not because of what you do in the bedroom, much though that may displease God. No, it is because of moments like this, sire. When you let innocents perish by the sword, you make yourself unworthy to wear the true cross.’

Amalric’s brow knit. ‘Perhaps you are right. Humphrey! Humphrey!’

The constable strode over. ‘Sire?’

‘Go to Giza and bring the men to order. Tell them that any man who so much as touches a citizen of Giza will lose their head.’

‘But sire—’

‘Tell them!’

The king watched as Humphrey departed. Soon, the cries emanating from Giza ceased.

‘You have done God’s work today,’ John told Amalric.

‘
Hmph
.’ The king took the chain with the piece of the true cross from the pouch at his belt and hung it around his neck. ‘Look here, John!’ he cried as he spotted a barge surging across the Nile under the power of twin banks of oars. Shawar stood in the stern. ‘Come. You will translate for me.’

They met the barge where it ran ashore. Shawar stepped from the ship, a cup of wine in hand. ‘God grant you good day, King Amalric! I am sure you are parched after your long ride.’ He handed the king the cup.

Amalric drained it, wine dribbling from the sides of his mouth to stain his blond beard violet. ‘The craven bastards escaped our trap.’

‘Indeed. My lookouts say that Shirkuh’s army began to leave a few hours after midnight. They headed upstream, into Upper Egypt.’

‘We must follow them. How long until you can have your army across the Nile?’

‘By tomorrow afternoon.’

Amalric frowned. ‘Can they not move faster?’

‘There is no hurry, King,’ Shawar assured him with a smile. ‘Shirkuh has made a fatal blunder. He is headed south into desert lands. If he leaves the Nile, his men will die of thirst. We can follow in our own good time. He cannot escape us now.’

JUNE 1164: AL-BABEIN

John wiped sweat from his brow and rewrapped the strip of cloth that kept the harsh sunlight off his head. They had been pursuing Shirkuh’s army for three weeks, and summer had arrived in full force. A mile ahead, the hilltop town of Al-Babein
shifted
and wavered in the heat. It was mostly ruins, half-buried stones rising from the hillside like the bleached bones of some giant beast.

‘A bunch of arse-faced pignuts!’ Amalric cursed nearby, speaking to no one in particular. The king’s face was bright red. ‘Every time we get close, they flee. Why will the cowards not stand and fight!’

The reason was not hard to guess. John glanced back to the combined Frankish and Egyptian army marching behind them. Ranks of foot-soldiers four deep formed moving squares with cavalry riding in the middle. There were ten squares in all, comprising well over two thousand knights and eight thousand infantry.

‘Shirkuh is no coward, sire,’ John said. ‘But nor is he a fool. We outnumber his forces nearly two to one.’

Amalric grunted sceptically.

‘My lord!’ It was the constable Humphrey, pointing upstream.

They were rounding a curve in the river, and ahead John could see that Shirkuh’s army had formed a long battle line that stretched west away from the river.

A broad grin spread over Amalric’s face. ‘Praise God!’ he roared. ‘A fight at last! Constable, have the army form a line. I want my knights and infantry in the middle. Put the Armenians and Egyptian cavalry on our flanks, and hold the native cavalry in reserve.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Humphrey rode away and began shouting orders.

Amalric turned to John. ‘What do you say, Father? Does God favour us?’

‘God does not speak to me, sire.’

‘But you are a priest.’

‘I do not believe that God decides the battles of men, sire.’

Amalric frowned. ‘We cannot be too sure, though, can we?’ He kissed the fragment of the true cross that hung about his neck and then closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer.

‘Sire!’ John shouted. ‘Look!’ The Saracen ranks were dissolving as first dozens, then hundreds of men turned and galloped upstream. Within seconds, Shirkuh’s entire army was in flight.

‘God damn them, not again!’ Amalric cursed. ‘The milk-livered, craven—’ He stopped short and took a deep breath. ‘No. They will not escape this time.’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘Constable!
Constable
!’

‘Yes, sire?’ Humphrey called as he cantered back to join the king.

‘We will leave the infantry behind and give chase.’

‘Are you certain, sire? They will outnumber us.’