Eagle (17 page)

Yusuf rose, slung the waterskin over his shoulder, and left the temple, skipping down the stone steps. He dodged through the crumbled remains of the temple complex and entered the street leading to his home. There, he slowed his pace, enjoying the perfect weather. The heat of summer was gone, but the winter rains had not yet come. It was the best of seasons, and the street was filled with men working outdoors and women in veils chatting as they kneaded dough or sewed. Yusuf weaved between them as he walked up the hill to his home. The guard at the front gate nodded as he entered.

Yusuf passed through to the inner courtyard of the villa, where he washed his head, face and arms in the shallow pool. Then he went to his room to collect the book of poetry that sat beside his bed. There was still time for some reading beneath the lime trees before evening prayers. He headed down a shadowy hallway and into the kitchen, where he sneaked a piece of khubz – hot flatbread – from the kitchen slave, who complained half-heartedly. Yusuf popped the warm bread in his mouth and stepped out into the courtyard. John, was waiting just outside the kitchen door.

‘What do you want?’ Yusuf asked as he brushed past without stopping.

John fell in behind Yusuf. ‘I wish to apologize. It was the truth in your words about my people that angered me, not you.’

Yusuf stopped and turned to face John. ‘Then why did you avoid me?’

‘I did not wish to hear what you had to say, but ignoring you will not change the truth: many of my people are indeed savage, as you say. But I will show you that some of us have honour.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Very well, come with me. I was just going to read from the
Hamasah
.’ Yusuf held up the thick book and smiled. ‘It will be an ideal lesson. There is nothing less savage than poetry.’

Yusuf led the way to the stable and up into the hayloft. He opened the
Hamasah
and leafed through the pages. ‘I will read,’ he said. ‘Listen carefully and tell me what the poems mean to you. This one is called the “Song of Maisuna”. She was a queen who married young. Listen.’ He turned to the book:

The russet suit of camel’s hair,

With spirits light, and eye serene,

Is dearer to my bosom far

Than all the trapping of a queen.

The humble tent and murmuring breeze

That whistles thro’ its fluttering wall,

My unaspiring fancy please

Better than towers and splendid halls.

The rustic youth unspoilt by art,

Son of my kindred, poor but free,

Will ever to Maisuna’s heart

Be dearer, pamper’d fool, than thee.

Yusuf looked up. ‘What does this mean to you?’

‘The queen is unhappy. She misses the simplicity of her home, of her people. She despises the luxurious life of her husband, the king. She feels trapped.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘This poem is famous amongst my people because it speaks of a truth: luxury makes one weak. The simplicity of the nomad, with only his tent and his camels, is honoured above the wealth of princes.’

‘Yet your princes live in great palaces.’

‘Yes, because such things are necessary to rule, but the wise ruler lives as a nomad within his grand halls.’

‘I am sure,’ John laughed. ‘And do nomads recite poetry?’

‘Of course, what better way to pass the cold nights in the desert?’ Yusuf flipped through the pages of the book. ‘Ah, this is one of my favourites. A love poem to ward off the chill desert night’:

Leila, whene’er I gaze on thee

My altered cheek turns pale,

While upon thine, sweet maid, I see

A deep’ning blush prevail.

Leila, shall I the cause impart

Why such a change takes place?

The crimson stream deserts my heart,

To mantle on thy face.

Yusuf looked up to see that John’s tanned face had flushed crimson. Yusuf laughed. ‘John! You’re blushing.’

‘I am not,’ John said, looking away.

‘You are, my friend. Has some maid captured your heart?’

John refused to meet Yusuf’s eye. ‘I am a slave,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Slaves may marry if their master approves. And perhaps one day you will be free.’ He leaned closer to John and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Tell me. Who is it? A slave girl?’ John shook his head. ‘A girl from town, then,’ Yusuf said, grinning. ‘You must be careful, John. Her father will not take kindly to the attentions of a Frankish slave.’

But John shook his head once more. ‘It is not a girl from the village.’

The smile fell from Yusuf’s face. ‘I see.’ There was only one free woman in the villa who might have captured John’s heart. ‘Zimat,’ Yusuf said, his brow furrowed. ‘She is promised to a friend of mine, Khaldun. They will be married in three years, when he is a man.’

‘I did not know.’

‘Even if she were not promised, you could never be with
her.’ Yusuf’s voice was hard. ‘It is forbidden. Put her from your mind. If you so much as touch my sister, you will die.’ He met John’s eyes. ‘I will kill you myself.’

‘I understand.’

‘Good. Let us continue. You read the next one.’ Yusuf handed the heavy book to John, who bent close to the page, biting his lip as he puzzled out the words of a poem about the incompatibility of pride and achieving true glory. Yusuf feared that John would not heed his warning. He was headstrong, and Zimat, well, she had always been unmanageable, unwilling to stay in her place as a woman. Yusuf had heard Ayub say more than once that he could not wait to marry her off so that protecting her honour would no longer be his concern. Yusuf feared she would do something foolish, and it would cost John his life.

John scooped up a shovelful of manure and trampled straw from the stall floor and dumped it in a wheelbarrow. Yusuf had taken his friend Khaldun and several mamluks on a hunt, leaving John to muck out the stables. He added another shovelful to the wheelbarrow and paused for a break, leaning forward on the shovel.

‘Salaam.’

John turned to see Zimat, dressed in a loose white caftan and wearing a veil. ‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered, looking past her to make sure that they were alone. ‘You should go.’

Zimat did not move. ‘You are a fickle man,’ she said as she ran one of her slender fingers along the edge of the stall next to her. ‘You did not seem so eager to be rid of me the last time we met.’

‘I mean it,’ John insisted, setting aside the shovel and wiping his grimy hands on his tunic. ‘If we are seen together, then I will be beaten, or worse.’

‘Then we had best not be seen.’ Zimat stepped past John and
inside the empty stall that he had been cleaning. John hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

‘Are you mad?’ he hissed. ‘Yusuf has forbidden me to see you.’

‘I will not be ruled by my brother.’

‘And what of your father?’

Zimat frowned. ‘My mother says that men are all the same. They use us for their pleasure and expect us to serve them. They never think of our desires. My father is that way. He cannot wait for me to be married so that he can strengthen an alliance and obtain my bride wealth. He cares nothing for my feelings.’

‘Then you do not wish to marry the man to whom you have been promised?’

‘I have never met Khaldun, but he is a man like any other. He will treat me as property. But you are different.’ She met John’s eyes. ‘I never thanked you properly for saving me from Turan.’

‘I told you, I need no thanks.’

‘But I wish to thank you nonetheless.’ Zimat raised her veil and smiled shyly, her eyes downcast. She took a step towards him, close enough so that John could smell her sweet, spicy scent. The hair rose on the back of his neck. He knew he should walk away. Yusuf could return at any moment. But John did not move.

‘Have you ever kissed a woman?’ Zimat whispered.

John felt himself flush red. ‘There—there was a girl in England . . .’

‘Did you love her?’ Zimat pouted.

‘No. She—she was not half so beautiful as you.’

A smile played at the corner of Zimat’s mouth. ‘You are not so terrible yourself,’ she said and kissed John. Her lips were soft and dry. Without thinking, John put his arms around her waist and pulled her towards him. He held her for a long moment, and then she pulled away.

‘I should not have done that,’ Zimat said, her eyes now wide with fear. She looked down at her white caftan, stained brown where John had held her. ‘My caftan—what will I tell Mother?’

John reached out to comfort her and left a brown smudge on her cheek. ‘I—I’m sorry,’ he mumbled as he wiped his hand again on his tunic.

‘I should leave,’ Zimat said as she pulled her veil over her face.

‘You don’t have to go.’ John stepped closer, but she slipped past him and out of the stall. Perhaps it was for the best, John thought as he watched her hurry from the stable. Then, he closed his eyes and touched his lips. Despite the risk, he longed to see her again.

‘Lighter armour is better,’ Yusuf insisted. He was sitting across from John in the hayloft. The book they had been reading – another history of the first crusade – had been laid aside. ‘Our warriors can fire arrows from horseback as well as fight with sword or lance. They can attack and retreat swiftly. Your knights are slow and clumsy.’

‘But they are also strong,’ John replied. ‘Your arrows cannot penetrate their armour. And when the knights charge as a group, nothing can stand up to them.’

‘Then why stand?’

‘But if you retreat, you are lost.’

‘Not necessarily.’ An idea struck Yusuf, and he leaned forward, gesturing excitedly. ‘Our warriors are more mobile. What if they retreat before your charge, then circle back around on each side, outflanking you?’

John said nothing, his forehead creased in thought. ‘It might work,’ he grumbled.

‘It will work!’

‘Yusuf!’ They both looked to the stable entrance. Ayub was standing there, holding his horse by the bridle. Turan stood behind him, along with half a dozen mamluks. They had
returned from Aleppo. ‘What are you doing with that slave?’ Ayub demanded. ‘Come down here, both of you!’ The two boys scrambled down the ladder and stood straight-backed before Ayub. He glared at Yusuf for a moment, then turned his hard grey eyes on John. ‘You have neglected your duties, slave. You will be whipped, but first, care for our horses.’ He handed the bridle to John, who led the horse into its stall and began to unsaddle it. The mamluks also led their horses into their stalls, leaving Yusuf to face Ayub and Turan.

‘Please, Father’ Yusuf started. ‘It was I who took the slave from his duties.’

Ayub turned towards his son. ‘And why was that? What were you doing in the loft with that slave?’ Behind Ayub, Turan snickered.

‘He is teaching me to fight. In return, I am teaching him to read and speak Arabic.’

‘Teaching him to read?’ Ayub asked, his eyes wide. ‘He is a slave, and a dangerous one at that. You should not even speak to him! Go to your room and stay there until I decide what is to be done with you.’ Yusuf began to leave, but had hardly stepped out of the stables when Ayub’s voice called him back. ‘Wait! Come back here!’ Yusuf returned to stand in front of his father. ‘You say the slave is teaching you to fight?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘You will show me.’

Ayub turned to his men. ‘Leave us,’ he ordered. ‘You too, Turan.’ He looked to John. ‘Come here, slave! You will fight my son. Fight to the best of your ability. If I suspect you are holding back, then I shall whip you.’

‘Yes, m’allim,’ John said. He turned to face Yusuf and dropped into a fighting crouch. Ayub backed away, and Yusuf and John began to circle a few feet apart, their fists raised. The space was tight, a square of hard-packed earth ten feet by ten, with stalls close on either side. Yusuf knew the close confines would give his larger opponent an edge. If John got a hold of him, then the fight would be over before it began.

John sprang forward and threw a vicious left hook at Yusuf’s head. Yusuf ducked the blow and circled away to his right, but John anticipated the move. He stepped sideways, mirroring Yusuf’s movement, and delivered another punch. Yusuf just had time to flex his stomach before John’s fist slammed into his gut. Yusuf took the blow with a grunt. He snapped off a jab that caught John on the chin and spun away.

Again, however, John was on him instantly, charging forward with his shoulder lowered. Yusuf did not have time to avoid him. He levelled a straight jab that caught John square in the nose. John stumbled back, blood running down his face, and Yusuf charged, planting his shoulder in John’s chest. John went down, and Yusuf landed on top of him. He rolled free immediately, springing to his feet before John could grab him. John rose more slowly, wiping the blood from his nose and leaving a red smear on the back of his hand. He raised his fists and again moved towards Yusuf.

‘That is enough!’ Ayub called. The two boys lowered their hands and turned to face him. He studied Yusuf for a long time, then nodded and turned to face John. ‘Remind me: what is your name, slave?’

‘John.’

‘No more stable work for you, Juwan. You will be my son’s servant. Attend to him at all times.’

‘Yes, m’allim.’

Ayub nodded again, then turned and walked away. Yusuf smiled. It was as much praise as he had ever received from his father.

NOVEMBER 1149 TO APRIL 1150: BAALBEK

‘
A
llahu akbar! Allahu akbar!’ The penetrating voice of the muezzin woke John. He rolled over on his straw mattress and reached up to pull open the wooden shutter. Only a faint predawn light filtered into his tiny room. As Yusuf’s private slave, John was entitled to a thicker blanket, the straw mattress and his own room – spare and small, but all his. However, he still had to wash with the other slaves. As the muezzin continued his call – ‘Al-salatu khayru min an-nawm’, prayer is better than sleep – John rose and headed for the baths. Taur was already there, and he greeted John with a grin. ‘Look who decided to get up. Did you get your beauty sleep, Saxon?’