Kingdom (23 page)

Yusuf knew his uncle could take care of himself, so he busied himself with his own shelter. If he did not get it up soon, his horse would choke in the sand-thick air. Already the animal was huffing and snorting. ‘La-taht,’ Yusuf ordered as he pulled on the reins to make it lie down. The horse lay on the edge of the tent cloth; he would weigh it down against the wind. Yusuf drove a long pointed stick into the sand beside the horse and then crouched and pulled the sheet over them. Outside, the sand hissed and the wind howled. There was the sudden crash of thunder, and his horse’s eyes rolled. ‘Hudû, hudû,’ Yusuf murmured and stroked the beast’s neck. As the thunder faded, he thought he heard someone shouting over the fury of the storm. His horse’s ears twitched. It had heard it, too.

Yusuf crawled to the edge of his shelter and looked out. He could see nothing but dust and grit, thick in the air. Then a gust of wind ripped the curtain of sand aside. He saw that his uncle had disappeared into his own tent, only a dozen feet away. Sand was already piling up on the windward side. Beyond, dozens of other shelters dotted the valley between the tall dunes. Yusuf saw two men making their way between the shelters. At first he thought that they were two of Shirkuh’s men, coming to make certain that their lord had found shelter. Then he saw the mamluks lying crumpled on the ground behind them, swords in their hands. The wind shifted, and the two men disappeared in a cloud of swirling sand. Yusuf’s eyes were watering, irritated by the fine dust thrown up by the wind. He blinked away the grit and peered again into the storm. He caught glimpses of the men. One wore a brown robe, the other white with dark mail showing beneath it. In their hands they held curving swords, the metal dull in the dim light. They were headed for Shirkuh’s tent.

Yusuf ducked back into his shelter and blew sand from his nose. He had no doubt that the two men had come to kill
Shirkuh
. The storm offered the perfect opportunity. No one would see them. No one would stop them. Yusuf thought of what Gumushtagin had told him: he only had to do nothing. If he stayed in his tent, Shirkuh would die and he would become commander of the army, then vizier of Egypt.

Yusuf forced the thought from his head. He tore two strips of linen from the tunic he wore under his chainmail and wrapped them around his hands to protect them from the stinging sand. Then he drew his blade and stepped out into the storm. He staggered against the force of the wind, which grasped at the folds of his keffiyeh, pulling it askew and exposing the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth as the sand drove into his skin. It felt as if hundreds of ants were biting at him. Yusuf had heard that if skin were left exposed for too long in a powerful sandstorm, it could be stripped from the body. He had no desire to see if the tales were true. He quickly covered his neck as he looked about. He could not see three feet in front of him. There was no sign of the two men with swords.

‘
Help
!’ he shouted. ‘Shirkuh is in danger!’ But the howling wind whipped the words away, and they were lost in the storm.

Yusuf held up a hand to shield his eyes and staggered in what he thought was the direction of Shirkuh’s shelter. He took ten steps, then twenty. He stopped. Surely he had gone too far. He had begun to turn around when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and raised his sword. A blade glanced off it, and Yusuf glimpsed the man in the brown robe, a curved sword in hand and a dagger tucked into his belt. His face was hidden behind his keffiyeh. Yusuf slashed at his throat. The man jumped back to avoid the blow and disappeared into the storm.

Yusuf rose and pivoted, his sword held out before him. His heart was pounding, and he felt a hollow pain in his stomach. That was fear. Not fear of fighting, but fear of an opponent he could not see, of a knife in the back. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and spun around. There was only the swirling,
impenetrable
sand, so thick that he could not see the tip of his sword. The whistling wind suddenly dropped and the space around cleared. Ten paces ahead and to his left stood the man in the white robe. He was only a dozen paces from Shirkuh’s shelter. But where was the other man? Yusuf turned, searching for him. He saw the man in the brown robe at the same moment the man saw him. They were little more than a sword’s length apart. Yusuf swung for the man’s head. Their swords met with the ring of steel upon steel.

Yusuf’s adversary moved fast. He kicked at Yusuf’s right knee, and at the same time slashed down towards his head. Yusuf sidestepped the kick, parried the blow and then swung backhanded for the man’s chest. The man brought his sword sweeping back to turn Yusuf’s attack aside. Then, just as Yusuf’s adversary was preparing a counterattack, the storm blew up again and Yusuf lost sight of him. He guessed where the man would strike next and dropped to one knee. He caught a glimpse of steel as his enemy’s sword flashed over his head. Yusuf sprang to his feet and charged, lowering his shoulder. He slammed into the man, and Yusuf’s momentum knocked them both over. He tried to rise but the man had grabbed hold of him. Together, they rolled over several times, and the man ended up on top of Yusuf. His keffiyeh obscured his face but for his glazed, bloodshot eyes. This was a Hashashin, Yusuf realized, one of the cult of trained killers who sometimes smoked hashish to increase their bravery.

The Hashashin had lost his sword in the tumble. With one hand he pinned Yusuf’s sword arm to the ground, while with the other he reached to his belt and drew the curved dagger. Yusuf managed to catch the assassin’s arm by the wrist, but the man leaned forward, using his body weight to press the dagger towards Yusuf’s throat. The dagger inched closer, close enough that Yusuf could see the intricate Arabic script carved into the silver hilt.

In a last, desperate effort, Yusuf released his sword and jerked
his
hand free. He tore his attacker’s keffiyeh away before the Hashashin grabbed Yusuf’s arm and pinned it back down. The man grimaced as the biting sand struck his face, but he did not release Yusuf. He pressed the blade of his dagger so close that Yusuf felt it begin to cut into his skin. The Hashashin’s face was growing red, showing minuscule drops of blood as if he had scraped it against a rough stone. Even drugged by hashish, the pain was too much. With a cry he released Yusuf’s right hand in order to raise his keffiyeh. Yusuf found his sword and brought it up. The blade sank into the Hashashin’s neck, splattering Yusuf with blood.

Yusuf shoved the man off him. He rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. He was just in time, for a sword was slicing towards his face. He managed to parry the blow, but then a booted foot caught him in the chest, knocking him sprawling on his back. The other Hashashin stood over Yusuf, his form just visible through the sand. The assassin raised his sword high. The wind howled, and his form was obscured by a cloud of sand. Yusuf was waiting for the blow when he felt hot blood spatter on his face. The wind fell, and Yusuf saw Shirkuh standing where the Hashashin had been only a moment before. He offered Yusuf a hand and pulled him to his feet.

‘Uncle!’ Yusuf shouted over the wind and thunder. ‘You saved my life!’

‘No, young eagle,’ Shirkuh shouted back. ‘You saved mine!’

They managed to stumble back to Shirkuh’s shelter and crawled inside. Yusuf began to cough, spitting up brown phlegm.

‘Do you know who they were?’ Shirkuh asked.

‘Hashashin.’

‘I thought as much. Who do you think sent them?’

Yusuf was sure it was Gumushtagin, but if he told his uncle, then Asimat and their son might suffer for his indiscretion. He shrugged to indicate that he did not know.

‘Maybe Shawar. Or Amalric,’ Shirkuh speculated grimly.
‘Seems
like everyone wants me dead. Without you, Yusuf, they would have killed me before I even knew they were there. Shukran, young eagle.’ Shirkuh kissed Yusuf on each cheek and then grinned fiercely. ‘I do not care if it was Shawar or Amalric who sent the assassins. I will grind them both into the dust.’

Chapter 9

JANUARY 1169: CAIRO

J
ohn stood beside the king and his retinue on a low rise near the walls of Cairo and looked across the dark waters of the Nile to where the sun was rising behind the pyramids of Giza. It marked the start of the seventh week of the siege. The people had not opened the city gates to them as Amalric had hoped. The massacre at Bilbeis had made them all the more determined to resist.

There was a loud clanking just behind John as the mangonel lever was released. He turned to watch the catapult in action. A basket filled with heavy stones fell, and the long arm of the device snapped upwards. The leather sling trailing from the arm swung in an arc and hurled a heavy rock – stone taken from one of the nearby pyramids. John watched as the rock crashed into the northern wall of the city, producing a shower of debris. A rock from another mangonel hit the wall a few feet away, and a chunk of stone fell loose. The wall was pitted and cracked, but it held.

The king was pulling at his beard. ‘How much longer until we open a breach?’

Humphrey of Toron shrugged. ‘It may be a week; less maybe.’

‘Or longer,’ John added.

Humphrey nodded. ‘Maybe.’

‘By the devil’s beard!’ Amalric cursed.

‘We can still take the city, sire,’ Grand Master Gilbert said. ‘All we need is a single breach. Once Egypt is in our power, we can laugh at the armies of Nur ad-Din. No one will be able to stand against us.’

‘But Egypt is not in our power, sire,’ John insisted. ‘And Shirkuh’s army is close.’

‘Do not listen to him,’ Gilbert snapped. ‘He cares for the infidel Saracens more than his own kind. Remember what he did to my men at Bilbeis!’ Gilbert pointed a long, thin finger at John. ‘He is a traitor!’

Humphrey put a hand on the Hospitaller’s arm. ‘Easy, Gilbert. We are all of us friends here. And the priest is right. If we are here when Shirkuh arrives, it will be a disaster.’

Amalric looked to John. ‘Pray with me, Father.’ They walked a few steps towards the river and knelt. Amalric held the piece of the true cross that he wore about his neck to his lips. Behind them the mangonel fired again, and another rock slammed into the wall with a loud crack. ‘I have prayed for victory each night,’ the king said softly. ‘Sometimes I fear the Lord does not want us to succeed.’

‘God does not always answer our prayers in the way we hope, sire. Perhaps leaving Egypt is for the best.’

Amalric frowned. ‘Are you mad, John? If Nur ad-Din controls Egypt, then Jerusalem itself will be in danger. I will have no choice but to seek a permanent peace.’

‘Maybe that is your destiny: to bring peace to the Holy Land.’

‘I would rather have been a great conqueror, like my grandfather, like the first crusaders. I was so close,’ Amalric sighed. ‘But you are right, John. I would be a fool to stay. I will not sacrifice the lives of my men in the pursuit of my dreams.’ He rose and raised his voice to address Gilbert and the others. ‘I have made my decision. We will return to Jerusalem.’

‘Allah will reward you!’ ‘Allah bless you!’ ‘All praise to Nur ad-Din!’ The crowd of Egyptians shouted their praise as Yusuf
rode
beside his uncle through the Bab al-Futuh – the Gate of Conquest. And they were conquerors. The Frankish army had fled at their approach, and the gates of Cairo had opened to welcome them. It had been easy, so easy that Yusuf feared something was amiss. He rode with his hand on his sword hilt.

Shirkuh grinned at him, showing his crooked teeth. ‘You look as if you have lost a friend, young eagle. Smile! Egypt is ours!’ Yusuf forced a smile, but he kept his hand on his sword hilt. ‘That is better,’ Shirkuh said. ‘Look about us.’ He gestured to the cheering crowd and to the city beyond. ‘All of this is now ours!’

They rode into the large square situated between the two halves of the caliph’s palace. Egyptian mamluks held back the populace, creating a path to the western palace. Shawar approached along the path and flashed his brilliant smile. ‘Welcome, Shirkuh! Saladin! All Cairo rejoices at your arrival.’

Yusuf and his uncle dismounted. Shirkuh walked past Shawar to the secretary Al-Fadil, who stood in the ranks of officials behind the vizier. ‘Take me to the Caliph.’

Al-Fadil looked to Shawar. ‘I am the Vizier,’ Shawar said.

‘The Caliph speaks through me.’

Shirkuh rounded on him. ‘It is the Caliph who asked us to come to Egypt, not you.’ He turned back to Al-Fadil. ‘Take me to him.’

Al-Fadil nodded. ‘Yes, yâ sîdi.’

The secretary led them to the caliph’s audience chamber, where Shirkuh and Yusuf both removed their swords and knelt. Yusuf noticed Shawar enter the room behind them. He looked forward again as the curtain rose to reveal the veiled caliph. He was noticeably taller, and fatter, than when Yusuf had first met him, nearly five years ago.

Shawar stepped forward. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, defender of the faithful, may I present Shirkuh and Saladin, commanders of Nur ad-Din’s army.’

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum,’ the caliph declared. ‘You are welcome
in
my city.’ He made a motion with his hand and two fat eunuchs stepped forward carrying a chest. They placed it before the throne and opened it. Gold coins glimmered in the light from the candles that lined the walls. ‘A reward for your aid.’

Shirkuh rose and bowed. ‘Many thanks, Caliph. We are honoured to have been able to offer you assistance against the ifranj. I only regret that they fled before we could defeat them.’

‘Yes,’ Shawar said. ‘You have arrived a little too late. It appears your army is no longer needed.’

Shirkuh glared at the vizier and then looked back to the caliph. ‘We are here at your request, Defender of the Faithful. If you wish us to leave Egypt, then we shall go. But we are prepared to stay to protect God’s deputy from his enemies—’ he shot a glance at Shawar ‘—both within and without. There are men who would sell Egypt to the infidel in order to keep power. Men who in the past welcomed the ifranj into Egypt, who betrayed their fellow Muslims, who burned their own cities. If you wish it, I will drive these traitors from Cairo.’