Kingdom (44 page)

The mamluk slit the Hashashin’s throat with a single stroke. Yusuf left the tent and Ubadah followed. ‘You heard what he said, Uncle. There are more Hashashin in our camp. And it is said that when Sinan orders a man dead, his men will not stop until that man lies in the grave.’

‘They will stop when they are dead, every last one of them,’ Yusuf replied. ‘It is time this siege ended. Once I am finished with Aleppo, we will march on Masyaf.’

The towers that framed Aleppo’s Qinnarin Gate loomed high above Yusuf and his private guard as they rode into their shadow. Yusuf had been happy to slowly starve the city into submission, hoping to spare his future people bloodshed. But now he did not wish to sit in his tent for another two months, a target for the Hashashin. He had decided to speak to the people of Aleppo himself. He could see men atop the gate, some in caftans, others in mail. There were even a few veiled women. Yusuf reined in his horse only fifty feet from the wall, close enough that the people could hear him but far enough that his armour would stop any arrows, should one of the soldiers dare to shoot.

‘People of Aleppo!’ he shouted. ‘I come to you as a friend. You see my army all around your walls, but they are not here to fight you. I have not come to conquer Aleppo.’ He paused to let the words take effect. He and Imad ad-Din had worked on this speech late into the previous night, and it was carefully crafted, pauses and all. ‘I am a loyal servant of Al-Salih, as are my men. I do not wish to take his kingdom, or to take Aleppo from him. I only wish to see the city flourish as it did under Nur ad-Din. I wish to see it safe from any who would take it from its rightful lord. But I cannot protect Al-Salih while his regent
is
sending Hashashin to murder me, while he is calling on the armies of Mosul and Jerusalem, inviting them into Al-Salih’s kingdom in order to fight me. These are not the acts of a man loyal to Al-Salih. These are the acts of a man who serves only himself.’

Yusuf paused again. The people were listening quietly. That was a good sign. He took a deep breath and continued. ‘I lived in Aleppo for many years while I served at the court of Nur ad-Din. I consider it my home, and I do not wish to destroy its walls or harm its people. I ask for only one thing: Gumushtagin. Deliver him to me, and there will be peace between us. But if you stand with him, then you stand against me. If you do not send him to me, then I will attack in earnest. You have until sunset tomorrow to decide.’

Yusuf rode back to his tent, where his advisers waited for him. Al-Maqaddam spoke first. ‘Do you think they will surrender Gumushtagin?’

‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf said. ‘But we must be prepared for them to resist. Qaraqush, you will be in charge of sapping the walls. Al-Maqaddam, you will build the mangonels. Ubadah, you will lead an attack tomorrow night. We will see if the people of Aleppo are willing to die for Gumushtagin.’

Saqr entered the tent. ‘Malik, a messenger has come from the city.’

‘So soon,’ Al-Maqaddam responded.

‘A good sign. Show him here,’ Yusuf ordered.

‘
Her
, Malik,’ Saqr corrected. ‘The messenger is a woman.’

A moment later, Saqr held the tent flap aside for a veiled woman who wore a violet silk caftan trimmed with silver. Her long chestnut hair flowed down her back from beneath a niqab that covered all but her eyes. Yusuf felt a burning in his stomach as he met those dark eyes.

‘The lady Asimat,’ Saqr declared. ‘Mother of Al-Salih.’

‘Leave us,’ Yusuf said to his men.

When the men had filed out, Asimat removed her veil. Her
skin
was still milky white and smooth, her face long and thin with a small nose and full lips. She had a fragile beauty, but Yusuf knew that she had a will of steel. When they had been lovers, she had been willing to betray her husband Nur ad-Din to put Yusuf on the throne. He had refused and put an end to their relationship. Asimat had not understood. She had scorned him for what she saw as weakness.

‘It has been a long time, Yusuf,’ she said.

Yusuf ignored her use of his informal name. He did not want these negotiations to become personal. ‘You have come to negotiate on behalf of Gumushtagin?’

‘On behalf of Al-Salih.’

‘You know my terms. I want Gumushtagin delivered to me, and a treaty between Aleppo and Damascus. If either is attacked, the other will come to its defence.’

Asimat seemed to be considering his proposal, but when she spoke her response surprised him. ‘I said once that you were too honourable to be great. I was wrong.’

‘I am a man of honour,’ he said stiffly.

‘Is that why you have led your army against Aleppo, against your lord Al-Salih?’

‘I move against Gumushtagin, not Al-Salih.’

Asimat dismissed his protest with a wave of her hand. ‘Gumushtagin is nothing. The palace guard seized him this afternoon, just after your speech. Al-Salih rules in Aleppo now.’

‘Alhamdulillah. I rejoice to hear it.’

‘Do you? I understand the Caliph in Baghdad has invested you with the government of all Syria.’

‘As regent for Al-Salih. I will not make war against our son.’

‘He is hardly your son,’ she snapped. ‘He has known no father but Nur ad-Din.’

That blow hurt, but Yusuf did not let it show. ‘Nevertheless, I will not move against him. Everything I have done has been to secure his kingdom. What do you suppose would have
happened
had I not defeated Saif ad-Din? Do you think he would have allowed Al-Salih to keep Aleppo?’

Asimat did not reply. She walked to the table at the centre of the tent and poured herself a cup of water. She sipped at it. Then she sat down amidst the silk cushions on the thickly carpeted ground. She met his eyes. ‘You do not care for my son, Yusuf. Do not lie and tell me otherwise.’

Yusuf sat across from her. ‘I have told you. What I have done, I have done for him.’

‘No. Surely you knew what would happen when you refused to fight Nur ad-Din. Gumushtagin revealed our secret to Nur ad-Din. You would have let our son die!’

‘I was willing to die, too.’

She looked at him coldly. ‘I was not. It was I who had Nur ad-Din killed.’ Yusuf recoiled at this. ‘Do not look at me like that. I loved Nur ad-Din. It is you who are responsible for his death, not I.’

‘I was prepared to let him kill me,’ he repeated.

‘Your life is your own to give,’ she hissed, ‘but not mine, and not that of our son!’ She took a deep breath and looked away, collecting herself. When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. ‘The night that Nur ad-Din learned of our affair, he beat me. He promised to have me stoned, but not before he brought me your head on a plate. And he swore that Al-Salih would be tortured and crucified.’ She looked to Yusuf, her dark eyes burning with rage and sadness. He looked away. He did not know what to say. ‘So do not dare tell me that you are loyal to Al-Salih! And do not speak to me of your honour. What sort of honour is it that sacrifices the lives of women and children?’

Her dark eyes dug into him as she waited for him to speak. ‘What do you want of me, Asimat?’ he asked.

‘Our son Al-Salih will remain the ruler of Aleppo. In addition, he will have Azaz and the other towns near Aleppo.’

‘It will be done.’

‘That is not enough. You will marry me and officially adopt
Al-Salih
as your son.’ Yusuf blinked in surprise. ‘Your word is not enough for me, Yusuf, not anymore. Al-Salih must be your son. That is the only way he will be safe.’

Yusuf studied her as he considered her proposal. She was still beautiful, shockingly so. ‘There was a time when I would have given anything to marry you,’ he said softly. ‘Allah works in strange ways.’

‘Do you accept?’

‘Yes. Once Gumushtagin is delivered to my camp in irons, I will marry you.’

Yusuf stood across from Asimat on the grassy field at the centre of the citadel in Aleppo. They were both dressed in white. During the previous day’s henna ceremony, twisting patterns in dark brown had been traced on the little finger of Yusuf’s right hand. Asimat’s hands and feet had been decorated and her dark eyes – the only part of her face not covered by her veil – were outlined with kohl. Imad ad-Din stood between them. He was giving the marriage
khutba
, a brief sermon rejoicing at the marriage and calling Allah’s blessing on the bride and groom. The hundreds of guests waited patiently, the leading emirs of Aleppo mingling with the commanders of Yusuf’s army. Al-Salih stood in the front ranks of the crowd. He was dressed in luxurious robes of silk and gold and his sparse adolescent beard had been filled out with kohl. Shamsa stood with the veiled women. She had arrived the previous day, along with Yusuf’s sons.

Shamsa and Asimat both had wills of iron, and Yusuf had feared that sparks would fly when they met. But Shamsa had surprised him. When she arrived she asked to meet Asimat alone. They spent the night in a locked and guarded room. The next morning Shamsa had told him that she approved of the marriage. ‘Asimat does not love you,’ she had informed him, ‘and she wants no sons by you. She is no threat to me. And she is clever. She will make an excellent wife.’

‘I call on all of you to witness this marriage,’ Imad ad-Din
declared
as he finished the khutba. He turned to Yusuf. ‘Saladin Yusuf ibn Ayub, King of Syria and Egypt, will you take this woman, Asimat bint Mu’in ad-Din Unur?’

‘I will.’ Yusuf stepped to a table that sat between him and Asimat and signed the marriage contract. It specified the
mahr
, or bride gift – fifty thousand dinar and the towns of Menbij and Bizaa – and it officially declared Al-Salih to be Yusuf’s adopted son.

Imad ad-Din turned to Asimat. ‘Will you accept this man, Saladin?’

‘I will,’ she said loudly. She too signed the marriage contract.

‘May Allah bless your union,’ Imad ad-Din declared.

The crowd roared its approval. Yusuf went to Al-Salih first and kissed the boy on both cheeks. ‘I am your father now,’ he said, ‘but you remain my lord.’ He knelt before Al-Salih.

The boy’s face twisted into a scowl. He turned his back on Yusuf and walked away. Yusuf rose. He could understand Al-Salih’s anger. To him, Yusuf was a stranger and a rival. It was bad enough that he had been forced to sign a treaty with him; it was a further insult that Yusuf had married his mother. The boy no doubt hated him. Yusuf hoped that would change in time.

It was time for the marriage feast. The men would meet in the great hall of the palace, while the women would celebrate with food and dance in the harem. But first there was one more task. Yusuf turned to Qaraqush. ‘Bring him.’

Qaraqush nodded to a mamluk, who hurried away. A moment later the crowd parted as Gumushtagin was pulled forward, shackles around his wrists and neck. He had been brought to Yusuf’s camp shortly after the meeting with Asimat, but Yusuf had refused to see him. He had entered Aleppo and ordered Gumushtagin thrown in the palace dungeon. After four weeks Gumushtagin looked a broken man, walking with his head down and his shoulders stooped. He was pushed forward to stand before Yusuf.

‘I swore that I would kill you if we ever met again,’ Yusuf told him. ‘I am a man of my word.’ He took the sword that Qaraqush handed him. The guards pulled on the chain that led from Gumushtagin’s neck, forcing him to kneel.

The eunuch straightened, and a trace of his old arrogance returned as he met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘The Hashashin never fail. You can kill me, but you will join me soon enough. I will—’

Gumushtagin’s eyes widened as Yusuf drove the point of his sword into his gut. The eunuch fell forward on to his hands and knees, moaning in pain and spitting blood. Yusuf raised his sword and brought it down on the back of Gumushtagin’s neck. He wiped the blade on the eunuch’s tunic and handed it back to Qaraqush. Then he raised his voice to address the crowd. ‘Come. We have much to celebrate.’

Chapter 21

JULY 1176: JERUSALEM

A
fat bee buzzed through the air and landed on the sleeve of John’s tunic. Its antennae wavered and then it flew off, back towards the herbs and flowers at the centre of the small cloister of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In the belfry tower on the far side of the church the bells began to toll, calling the faithful to Sunday Morning Mass. John stepped back into the deep shadows of the colonnade that surrounded the cloister. The stone was cold beneath his bare feet.

A vicar on his way to the sanctuary entered the cloister and passed John without noticing him. Two canons followed. John’s stomach tensed and he tightened his grip on the dagger in his hand. He was waiting for Heraclius. William had forbidden John to go to Caesarea, but now Heraclius had come to him. The archbishop was in town, staying in the patriarch’s palace. He would pass through the cloister on his way to Mass.

John heard the approach of booted feet. Four knights of the Holy Sepulchre stepped into the cloister, trailed by the patriarch and Heraclius. John let them pass and then followed, moving silently on his bare feet. He need not have taken the precaution of removing his sandals, for the bells were still ringing, their tolling drowning out all other sound. He crept after Heraclius into a shadowy hallway. On the right-hand wall was a narrow staircase; the night stair, which gave the canons easy access to
the
sanctuary for late night prayers. The guards marched up the stair in single file, followed by the patriarch. Heraclius had just put a foot on the bottom stair when John grabbed him from behind, clamped a hand over his mouth and slammed the butt of his dagger into Heraclius’s temple. The archbishop went limp, and John slung him over his shoulder and carried him from the room.

He hurried as he crossed the paved courtyard of the central cloister and slipped into the canon’s dormitory. He passed the vicars’ beds – pallets of straw, separated by wooden screens – and took a narrow staircase down to a long underground hallway with rooms opening off on either side. He stepped into a small square chamber, the only furniture a trunk and a chair lit by light filtering through a window high on the far wall. John placed Heraclius in the chair. He shut the door and then took rope from the trunk and tied Heraclius down at the wrists and ankles. John retrieved a bucket of water from the corner of the room and poured it on the archbishop’s head.