Eagle (37 page)

Nur ad-Din grinned. ‘The Frankish army will no doubt leave the Kadisha and march to relieve Acre. When they reach the city, my forces will engage them, and Shirkuh’s army will then attack them from behind.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘They will be crushed between us.’

‘A brilliant plan, malik,’ the eunuch Gumushtagin said.

‘We will be rid of the Franks once and for all,’ Usama agreed.

Yusuf frowned. ‘But we cannot violate our treaty with the Frankish king based on rumours alone.’

‘No, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din agreed. ‘We need more than rumours. That is why I am sending you to Frankish lands to find the truth of the matter. You will leave tomorrow.’

Yusuf bowed at the waist. ‘I am honoured to serve you, malik. With your permission, I will go now to prepare my men.’

‘Take no more than a dozen mamluks, not enough to attract attention,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘And do not take the Frank, Juwan.’

‘But he is captain of my khaskiya. It is his duty to protect me at all times.’

Nur ad-Din frowned. ‘I know you think him loyal, but he is an ifranji. He will cut your throat and run to the Franks at the first opportunity.’ Several of the emirs nodded their agreement.

Yusuf met Nur ad-Din’s eyes. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but you do not know John as I do. I trust him with my life. He will come with me.’

Nur ad-Din said nothing. His golden eyes bore into Yusuf. Finally, the malik nodded. ‘Very well, but watch him close. You may go.’ Yusuf rose and opened the door. ‘Wait,’ Nur ad-Din called, and Yusuf turned to face him. ‘Do not fail me, Yusuf. Bring me my war.’

NOVEMBER 1156: ON THE BORDER OF THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM

John rode beside Yusuf and Turan, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust from the dry road. Behind them trailed two dozen mounted mamluks, Qaraqush at their head. They rode alongside the Orontes River, which marked the boundary between the Frankish kingdom of Jerusalem and Nur ad-Din’s lands. On the eastern side were the Muslim strongholds of Shaizar, Hama and Homs. Some way off, on the opposite side of the river, stood the crusader castles of Montferrand and Krak des Chevaliers. In between was a no-man’s-land roamed only by the Bedouin, who knew no lords, neither Frankish nor Muslim. Across the river and near the horizon, John spied a group of Bedouin on foot, driving a flock of sheep towards the water. He pointed to them. ‘Perhaps they will know something.’

‘Perhaps,’ Yusuf agreed. After nearly three months of riding up and down the border from Shaizar to as far south as Banyas, they had still found no sign of Frankish troops or raiders. Yusuf looked to Turan. ‘Wait here with the men. John and I will speak with the Bedouin.’

Turan frowned. ‘I should come with you, not the ifranji.’ Yusuf’s jaw set. He locked eyes with his brother, and eventually Turan lowered his gaze. ‘Let it be as you say, Brother,’ he murmured. John could hardly believe his ears.

Yusuf turned to John. ‘Come.’ He turned into the river, and John followed, his horse’s hooves kicking up a spray that sparkled in the bright sunlight. The river was deep here, and soon their horses were swimming, the cold water coming up to John’s waist. They crossed to the far side without incident, and their mounts climbed up the bank, water streaming off them. Yusuf looked over to John and grinned. ‘I’ll race you,’ he said and kicked at his horse’s sides, sending it galloping over the hard-baked earth towards the Bedouin.

John spurred after him, standing in the saddle and leaning
forward, his head low against his horse’s neck. He came up alongside Yusuf, grinned at him, and then shot past. He pulled up in a cloud of dust upon reaching the shepherds. Yusuf joined him a moment later. The Bedouin’s sheikh – a wrinkled old man with a shepherd’s crook in his hand – stepped forward and stared at them impassively. Behind him, several of the shepherds had taken bows from their backs and were stringing them. John blinked in surprise. He had seen the sheikh before.

‘Sabir ibn Taqqi!’ Yusuf exclaimed. It was the same sheikh who had given them food and water years ago during their harrowing trip to Tell Bashir. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum.’

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Yusuf son of Ayub,’ Sabir replied. ‘When I saw you last, I did not number your days long in this world. And now I find you again in great danger. There is a Frankish fortress not far from here.’ He pointed towards the horizon. ‘Qal’at al-Hisn – Krak des Chevaliers, the Franks call it. We passed through its shadow yesterday.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual? More men? Preparations for war?’

‘We kept our distance. I saw nothing.’

‘Have you heard of Frankish raids against the Bedouin?’

The sheikh shook his head. ‘I hear little. We have been travelling the desert from oasis to oasis. We have not visited a town in months.’

‘Thank you for your help, sheikh.’ Yusuf untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to Sabir. The Bedouin sheikh looked inside and whistled in appreciation.

‘What is this for?’

‘You saved my life. It is yours.’

Sabir shook his head. ‘I only gave you hospitality as our laws dictate.’ He pocketed a silver dirham and tossed the pouch back to Yusuf.

‘You will always be welcome at my home,’ Yusuf told the man.

Sabir nodded, then turned back towards the other Bedouin
and made a clicking noise. The tribe moved on, herding their sheep past John and Yusuf.

Yusuf shook his head. ‘We are wasting our time out here,’ he muttered.

‘We could find out more in the Frankish towns,’ John suggested.

‘I cannot enter uninvited. It would violate the treaty.’

John smiled. ‘You cannot, but I can.’

NOVEMBER 1156: TRIPOLI

John pulled a fold of his turban down around his mouth and nose to keep out the dust as he walked behind a long line of heavily laden camels. Outside Akkar, he had joined a caravan of dusky Indians bringing spices from the East. He had followed them as they marched alongside the Kadisha River, winding their way through green fields dotted here and there with distant villages or farmhouses. The local peasants – a mix of native Christians and Saracens were outside, preparing the soil for the spring planting. Beside the river to John’s left, a peasant yelled encouragement to a bony ox as it pulled a plough through the rich earth.

‘Tripoli!’ one of the Indians ahead in the caravan shouted, and John squinted into the distance, trying to pick out the city. On the horizon, he could make out the sea, golden under the late-afternoon sun. The walls of the city were just visible as a dark smudge against the glittering water. As they drew closer, the city began to take on a definite shape. A massive castle stood at the eastern end of the city wall, which stretched for a mile to the west, where it was anchored by a squat, round tower. Behind the wall lay Acre, built on a peninsula that curved out into the Mediterranean. John could make out the peaked roof of a church and two soaring minarets – now converted into bell towers.

The caravan entered the shadow of the white stone walls and headed for a wide gate flanked by guards wearing the distinctive black surcoats with white crosses that distinguished the Knights Hospitaller. The Indian merchant at the head of the camel train handed one of the guards a silver piece, and the caravan passed through with no interference. John stayed close to the last of the heavily laden camels, but as he entered the shadow of the gatehouse one of the guards stepped forward to block his way.

‘You, Saracen!’ the guard barked. ‘What’s your business here?’

John unwrapped his turban to reveal his blond hair and beard. He turned his blue eyes on the guard. ‘I’m no Saracen, friend. As for my business, I am a slave merchant, here for the market.’

The guard studied him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Go on then.’

John strode into the densely packed city, a network of narrow alleyways running between tall buildings huddled one on top of the other inside the tight space within the walls. He headed right into a dark alleyway, his boots squishing in the muck, a nauseous mixture of emptied chamberpots and refuse, all slowly draining away to the sea. It was a far cry from the cleanliness of Aleppo. He passed a doorway where an emaciated man with glazed eyes stood staring vacantly out into the alleyway – an opium addict. Ahead, the alleyway divided, running either side of a narrow building. A young prostitute, wearing a gauzy robe that revealed her budding breasts stood at the crossroads. ‘Fancy a good time?’ she asked in Frankish, then Latin and Arabic. John stopped, and her reddened lips stretched back in a leer.

John held up a copper. ‘Which way to the port?’

The prostitute frowned. ‘That way,’ she said, pointing to her right.

John flipped her the coin and continued, following the narrow, twisting street in the direction she had indicated. As he  neared the port, he heard the cries of seagulls wheeling
overhead. The street broadened, and the houses lining it grew more luxurious, tall buildings of white stone replacing the wood and mud constructions nearer the walls. John entered a square and found himself facing a massive, domed church. He skirted the building and came to a broad street that ran down towards the gate that led out to the port. Carts were crowded around the gate, and merchants were loudly hawking their wares, preying on new arrivals to the Holy Land. John saw wine for sale, swords of Damascus steel and a collection of half-starved Saracen slaves. He strode passed and out into the port.

John headed left down the harbour, breathing deeply of the tangy ocean air to rid his nose of the rank smell of the city. To his right, ships were tied up along the pier, which curved out into the glittering blue sea, forming a natural breakwater that sheltered the port. Just ahead, a dozen wide-eyed, filthy pilgrims, their possessions slung over their shoulders in cloth bags, were stepping off one of the ships. John paused to watch them, thinking back to his arrival in the Holy Land.

‘You there!’ a sailor called to John from the deck of the ship. ‘Do you seek passage? We sail for Cherbourg at week’s end. A silver piece will see you on board.’

John hesitated for only a moment, then shook his head. ‘I have business here,’ he told the sailor and continued on down the harbour. To his left, a series of warehouses and taverns had been built against the city wall. He headed for the first tavern he saw, a rickety, two-storey building that leaned into the structure next to it. Over the door hung a sign depicting a fighting cock standing over a tankard of beer. From inside, John could hear a steady din of loud voices, overlaid occasionally by shouted curses or loud laughter.

He opened the door and stepped into the dim interior. Two long tables with benches on either side ran the length of the narrow, deep room. The table to the left was crowded with sailors, Italians mostly, judging by their speech. Men in chainmail were seated at the other table. At the far end, a group of
Germans were singing loudly. Closer to him, four Hospitallers were playing cards and arguing in Frankish. Nearby, someone with a telltale accent called for another tankard. The man was middle-aged and thickset, with fair skin and dark hair. He wore chainmail and a sword, and a wool bag sat between his feet. One of the serving girls delivered him a tankard, and the man took a long swallow. John sat down opposite him.

‘How goes it, friend?’ John asked in English.

The man lowered his tankard, his eyes wide. ‘By God, a fellow Saxon!’ he roared. He grabbed the arm of a passing serving girl. ‘Another beer for my friend here.’

‘My thanks,’ John said. He held out his hand. ‘I am Iain.’

‘Aestan,’ the man replied, grasping John’s arm. ‘It’s good to hear the mother tongue again. Nothing but bloody Normans around here.’ He nodded towards the Hospitallers down the table, then took another swallow from his tankard and turned back to John. ‘What brings you to Tripoli, friend?’

‘I am a merchant, here to purchase slaves.’

Aestan put his beer down and squinted at John. ‘You look like a soldier to me.’

‘Used to be, I gave it up for more profitable pursuits.’

‘
Hmph
,’ Aestan grunted. ‘I have no skill for such things.’ He patted the sword at his side. ‘My talents lie elsewhere. But there’s not much need for a Saxon with a sword in England these days.’ He spat to the side of the table. ‘The Normans run things now. I came here to make my way.’

‘When did you arrive?’

‘A few days ago. I’ll make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and after that I plan to join the service of whoever will have me. I hear there’s good money to be made in fighting the Saracens.’

John nodded. His tankard arrived, and he took a sip, grimacing at the taste of the stale beer. ‘Any leads on who is taking on men? Armies always need slaves; maybe I can turn a profit.’

‘They say the Prince of Antioch is recruiting. Reynald’s the name.’

John put his tankard down. ‘Reynald de Chatillon?’

‘That’s the one. Know him?’

‘I fought for him. Back then, he was a minor noble.’

‘Not anymore. No one seems to know how, but he has become rich as a Jew. He seduced the Crown Princess of Antioch, dazzling her with fine gifts. Now they are married and he is a prince. And a right bastard he is, too, from what I hear.’

‘Sounds like the Reynald I knew,’ John murmured.

Aestan took another drink. ‘Still, I’d fight for the devil himself, so long as he pays.’

John smiled. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He had lifted his tankard to his lips when someone roughly grabbed his shoulder, causing him to spill his drink.

One of the Hospitallers, a bearded, red-faced man, leaned over the table next to him. His breath stank of cheap wine. ‘What are you two Saxon dogs scheming about?’ the Hospitaller demanded in Frankish.

‘Bite your tongue, Norman swine,’ Aestan growled in English. He began to stand, but John reached across the table and placed a hand on his shoulder. He rose and turned towards the Hospitaller, who was backed by three more knights. They were all armed. John wished that he had not left his sword back in Yusuf’s camp.

‘I am a slave merchant,’ John said in Frankish. ‘We were discussing business.’

‘A merchant, eh?’ the knight slurred. His eyes went to John’s purse. ‘There’s a tax on merchants operating in the port.’ He held out a hand. ‘I’m collecting.’ John did not want to make a scene. He reached into his purse and handed the knight a silver dirham. The knight held it up to examine it. Nur ad-Din’s likeness was printed on one side. ‘Saracen money,’ the knight said. ‘This is no good here. What else have you got?’