Kingdom (30 page)

‘You have a son. Come and greet him.’

Yusuf followed the woman into Shamsa’s chamber. Her bed was surrounded by nurses and doctors, but Ibn Jumay was absent, busy at the caliph’s palace. The crowd parted as Yusuf approached the bed. Shamsa was pale, her face drawn. In her arms she held a sleeping babe.

‘Leave us,’ she ordered. When the others had left, she patted the bed beside her. Yusuf sat and bent over to kiss her forehead. She held the babe towards him. ‘Our son.’ The child’s face was flushed red. He had dark hair and pinched features.

‘Al-Afdal,’ Yusuf whispered the boy’s name. ‘You have given me an heir, Wife. Ask for anything you wish, and it shall be yours.’

‘Send Faridah away,’ Shamsa replied without hesitation.

Yusuf pulled away from her. ‘Why? She welcomed you to the harem as if you were her own sister.’

‘I am mother of your son now. I should reign in your harem, as you reign in Egypt. But I never will so long as Faridah is here. She rules your harem, Yusuf. She rules you, more than you know.’

‘And you wish to rule me instead?’

‘To help you, if you will let me.’

‘If you wish to help me, then do not ask this of me.’ Yusuf turned away. ‘Faridah has been with me since the beginning. I cannot send her away.’

Shamsa placed a hand on his back. ‘I know it is no small thing that I ask of you, my love. But it is no small thing that I have given you.’ She handed him Al-Afdal.

Yusuf cradled his son awkwardly. The babe twitched and opened his eyes sleepily. Then it shut them again. Yusuf handed him back. ‘Ask anything else of me, Wife. I cannot send Faridah away.’

Shamsa’s face hardened. ‘I wish for nothing else, Husband. If you wish to visit my bed again, you must choose: Faridah, or the mother of your son.’

Yusuf went to the window. A column of black smoke was rising over the caliph’s palace. He knew what it meant. Yusuf felt suddenly nauseous. He left the room, ignoring Shamsa’s calls for him to stay. He strode to his quarters, where he found Ibn Jumay waiting. The Jewish doctor’s face was haggard.

‘It is done, sayyid,’ he said quietly. ‘The Caliph died this morning of a sudden fever.’

‘Did he suffer?’

Ibn Jumay closed his eyes. ‘It was terrible. I am a doctor, dedicated to preserving life—’

‘And you have. You have saved my life, and you have saved Egypt from civil war,’ Yusuf said, although even he felt that his words were hollow.

The doctor shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but I must resign from your service.’ He headed for the door.

‘Ibn Jumay, wait!’ The doctor turned. ‘You only did as I asked. The burden is not yours to bear.’

‘I am the one who had to watch him die. Goodbye, Yusuf.’

That night Yusuf paused at the door to Faridah’s room. He took a deep breath and pushed it open. She sat in bed reading by candlelight, and as Yusuf entered she looked up and smiled. She was as beautiful as ever. Older, yes, with a fuller, softer figure. But beautiful all the same. She set her book aside. ‘My lord, you look as if you are walking to your execution.’ She patted the bed. ‘Sit.’ Yusuf sat at the edge of the bed, and she began to massage his shoulders. ‘Tell me.’

‘The Caliph is dead. I had him killed. What have I become? Ibn Jumay has left my service. He does not wish to attend upon a murderer.’

Faridah stroked his hair. ‘Ibn Jumay is a good man, but he is not a king. You wish to be great, Yusuf, and there is a price to pay for greatness.’

He shook his head. ‘A great king obeys the laws of Allah. He does not slaughter women and children, as I did when I burned the Nubians’ barracks. He does not commit murder.’

‘A good man obeys Allah. A great king does what he must do.’

‘Am I a good man, Faridah?’

‘You are the best I have ever known.’ She kissed him. ‘Go now. There is a coronation to prepare. With the Caliph dead, you will be king.’

Yusuf looked away. ‘I need your council now more than ever. Shamsa—’ Yusuf faltered. He could not find the right words.

‘I knew this day would come,’ Faridah said. He turned back
to
her, and she met his gaze. ‘You are dismissing me, are you not? It is time, my lord. Shamsa is a good wife. She is all that I could have wished for you.’

‘I do not love you any less, Faridah.’

‘You have always been a poor liar, Yusuf.’

He saw only love in her green eyes. He longed to tell her she could stay. Instead he said, ‘You will have a home wherever you wish and servants to tend to you.’

He looked away, tears in his eyes, and she gently turned his head to face her. ‘You have given me more than I could have ever hoped for, Yusuf.’ She kissed him and then welcomed him into her arms. They lay side by side while the candle burned low and was finally snuffed out in a pool of wax.

‘You should go, sayyid,’ Faridah whispered. ‘You have a kingdom to rule.’

‘I love you, Faridah.’

‘Go.’

Yusuf rose reluctantly. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. Faridah had rolled over so that her back was to him. He could see her shoulders shaking. He turned and left, feeling as if he was leaving a part of himself behind. He feared it was the best part, too.

Yusuf stood in the shade of the portico that fronted the caliph’s palace. No, not the caliph’s palace, he reminded himself. It was his palace now. After the caliph had died, Yusuf had placed the rest of Al-Adid’s family under lock and key. He had spent an anxious week under heavy guard in his palace, but there had been no rebellion. His father and Shamsa had been right. He was king of Egypt, and the people who had braved the summer heat to flood the square between the two palaces were his people. Yusuf tugged at his collar. The silk robes of the vizier were no longer appropriate, and he was now dressed in a caftan woven almost entirely of gold thread. It was heavy and hot, and the collar chafed.

Al-Fadil approached from the direction of the steps that led down to the square. ‘It is time, Malik.’

There was a murmur in the crowd when Yusuf came in sight. He walked to the edge of the steps and stopped, his father and Al-Fadil flanking him. His guard spread out behind.

Al-Fadil began to speak in a loud voice. ‘People of Cairo, welcome your new king, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, defender of the faith, the Malik Saladin!’

The mamluks who surrounded the square roared their approval. The people were not quite so enthusiastic, although many did cry out ‘Allah protect you!’ or ‘Allah bless our king!’ When the crowd had quieted, Al-Fadil unrolled a scroll of parchment and began to read, listing Yusuf’s many accomplishments and encouraging him to protect the people, to ensure that the lands thrived, to defend Islam and to act as the scourge of the Franks.

Yusuf’s gaze moved over the crowd but stopped suddenly. There was something familiar about one of the men standing in the second row. Perhaps it was the way he stood, or the set of his shoulders.

‘
Malik
!’ Al-Fadil had finished his speech and was whispering urgently to get Yusuf’s attention.

Yusuf straightened and took a deep breath as he prepared to address the crowd. ‘My people, I was not born a king,’ he began. ‘Allah has blessed me, but he has also given me a charge, to watch over his lands and his people as the shepherd watches over his flock. I will dispense justice. I will help the lands to thrive. And I will defend Egypt from its enemies. I was not born a king, but I shall rule as one!’ He paused to allow the crowd to cheer but received only quiet applause. They would cheer soon enough.

Yusuf gestured to the palace behind him. ‘A king does not need a home such as this. A king should live a simple life and devote every last fal to the good of the people. That is why I shall remain in the Vizier’s palace. For the palace of the Caliph
–
Allah grant him peace – does not belong to me. It belongs to you, the people of Cairo, who built it, who paid for its riches with the taxes taken from you. And so I give it back to you; the palace, and all that it contains!’

This time the roar of the crowd was deafening. Yusuf gestured to the men who held the people back, and they stepped aside, allowing the throng to rush forward. Yusuf stood calmly as the people raced up the steps. The crowd parted as it reached him. Grinning faces flashed by on his left and right: dark and light men, old and young, all driven by greed. Then there was a familiar face. Yusuf turned to follow, but he was already lost in the crowd rushing towards the palace.

Yusuf felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘We should return to the palace, Malik. It is not safe here.’

Yusuf nodded. He gave the crowd behind him a final searching glance and then shook his head. Surely John was not here. He had imagined it.

John pulled a fold of his keffiyeh over his mouth and nose as he managed to push his way out of the stream of people and took shelter behind one of the columns of the portico. He looked out from behind the column to where Yusuf was now heading down the steps to the square. John had hardly recognized his friend, dressed in brilliant gold, a jewelled sword at his side and a towering turban atop his head. He thought back to when he had first met Yusuf; he had been a skinny boy, bullied by his older brother. Even then, Yusuf had dreamed of greatness. Now he was a king.

John waited for Yusuf and his men to march from the square and then hurried down the palace steps. He headed north, in the same direction Yusuf had taken. John would have liked nothing more than to follow his friend to his palace, to celebrate this day with him. Instead he turned left down a broad street that led to the mamluks’ barracks. Their commander was now king, and they would be in the mood to celebrate. John
would
buy a few drinks, and in short order he would know everything there was to know about Yusuf’s rule and the state of his army. Then he would write to Jerusalem. Yusuf was his friend, but Amalric was now his lord. John had taken an oath before God, and he would not betray it.

Part II

The Will of Allah

Saladin was a deeply religious man, but he was not a fanatic, not when I knew him. He respected the Franks, and he believed that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews could share the Holy Land. All of that changed in the desert
…

The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashqi

Chapter 13

MAY 1173: CAIRO

Y
usuf lay on the floor with his second son, Al-Aziz, on his chest. The boy was a fat-cheeked babe, not yet one year of age. He smiled, and Yusuf grinned back. Yusuf’s first son, Al-Afdal, tottered across the room and shoved his brother off Yusuf’s chest. The babe began to cry. Yusuf lifted him back to his chest and gave Al-Afdal a hard look. ‘Why did you do that?’ The young boy’s lip trembled. He tottered away, tripped and fell. Shamsa scooped him up and began shushing him.

‘You baby him too much,’ Yusuf told her. ‘He will never learn to be a warrior.’

‘Then he shall live longer.’

Yusuf smiled at his wife. Since he became king two years ago, he had spent most of his time in the courts, in council meetings or training his troops. The pain in his gut had grown worse, and he often could not sleep at night. He treasured these rare moments with his family. Al-Aziz had ceased crying. He gurgled. Then he was sick on Yusuf’s chest. A nurse took the child and patted its back. A servant girl brought a wet cloth and wiped the vomit from Yusuf’s silk caftan. He smiled again. He might be a king, but here in the harem he was definitely not in charge. It was a nice feeling.

‘Saladin.’ It was Ayub, standing in the doorway. He held out a roll of paper. ‘A message from Nur ad-Din.’

Yusuf took the paper and went to the window to read. His brow furrowed.

‘What is it, Husband?’ Shamsa asked.

‘The Frankish king has taken men north to join the Emperor Manuel in a campaign in Cilicia. The Kingdom of Jerusalem is only weakly defended, and Nur ad-Din is planning an invasion. He will march from Damascus in one month. He has ordered me to attack from the south at the same time. Our first objective is Kerak.’ Yusuf scowled. ‘I had hoped the peace with the Franks would last.’

‘Then stay,’ Shamsa said. ‘You are no mere emir to come at Nur ad-Din’s beck and call. You paid back the two hundred thousand dinars he gave Shirkuh for the invasion of Egypt. You owe him nothing.’

Ayub glared at her and then turned back to Yusuf. ‘You should teach your wife to hold her tongue. Nur ad-Din made our family what it is. We owe him everything.’

Shamsa opened her mouth to retort, but Yusuf raised a hand, cutting her off. ‘My father is right. Nur ad-Din is my lord.’

‘He is a man obsessed with defeating the Franks. You have said so yourself. You do not need to sacrifice the happiness of your people to his bloodlust.’

Privately, Yusuf agreed. Still, Nur ad-Din was his king. ‘It is not your decision to make, Wife. If Nur ad-Din calls on my army, then we shall march.’

‘Shall I send messengers to gather the emirs in Cairo?’ Ayub asked.

‘I shall do it myself.’ Yusuf rose and went to the door. He looked back to his children. He would not have time to see them again until after the campaign. He went to Al-Aziz and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Allah yasalmak, young prince.’ He knelt and kissed Al-Afdal. ‘Be good, my son.’ Then, he rose and turned to his father. ‘Come. There is much to do.’

‘
In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti
,’ John murmured as he knelt on the stone floor of his cell in the monastery in Mataria. He performed his morning prayers here instead of with the monks, who prayed in Coptic, a tongue he did not understand. John kissed the cross that hung from his neck and then rose and went to the window. Fifty mamluks were riding past the monastery on the way to Cairo. Men had been pouring into the city all week, joining the growing army camped along the Nile.

He went to his bed and flipped over the straw mattress. Monks in the monastery were not allowed private possessions, and although as a visiting priest he was given some dispensations, his mattress had to do for the rest. He reached through the hole he had cut in the cotton covering and felt in the straw for a moment before pulling out a leather-bound notebook and his dagger. He belted the dagger about his waist and carried the notebook to his desk, where he began to sharpen a quill.