Holy War (13 page)

‘Juwan!’

He turned to see Dhameer, the merchant who had organized the caravan. He was dressed in expensive silks, but his broad shoulders and rough, scar-lined hands spoke of a previous life as a soldier. He smiled and held out his hand palm upwards. John had joined the caravan in Acre, where he had paid Dhameer three deniers. The rest of the fee was due now that they had reached their destination. John took a gold bezant from the pouch at his belt and placed it in Dhameer’s hand.

Dhameer made to give the coin back. ‘I am no thief. This is too much.’

‘Keep it.’ It was no secret that those who paid well were afforded better protection by the caravan guards. ‘Consider it an expression of my thanks for having delivered me safely to Damascus. I trust I will be welcome in your caravan for the return journey?’

‘Of course. We leave in one week’s time.’

‘I will see you then.’ John headed for the gate.

‘Where are you going? Stay with us, Juwan. Tonight we feast our safe arrival.’

‘I have business in Damascus.’

‘You must hurry then. The city gates close at sunset.’

John checked the sun. The lower rim was touching the hills. He left the caravanserai and walked briskly down a path that cut through the orchards. The orange trees were heavy with fruit, and their scent filled the cool evening air. Ahead, he could see the Bab al-Faradis, or gate of paradise. Only the top of it was lit by the setting sun; the lower half was bathed in shadows. In the dim light, and dressed in a dusty caftan and keffiyeh, John looked much like any other Saracen. The guards at the gate hardly spared him a glance. No sooner had John passed through than he heard the creak of it being closed behind him. Muezzins began to chant the call to prayer. ‘Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Ash-hadu an la ilaha illallah!’

The streets were filling with men heading towards the great mosque at the heart of the city. John joined the crowd. The palace lay just beside the mosque. He went straight to the men who guarded the bridge across the moat.

‘What do you want?’ the captain of the guards demanded.

‘I am an emissary of King Baldwin of Jerusalem. I have come on his behalf to speak with Al-Malik al-nasir Saladin.’

‘King Baldwin, eh?’ The guard let out a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Saladin’s next public audience is Tuesday. Come back then.’

John reached into his caftan, and the guards lowered their spears towards him. He slowly took a scroll of paper from the tube around his neck, unrolled it, and handed it to the captain. The scroll was covered in Arabic and bore the king’s seal. The guard’s forehead creased as he squinted at the writing. John guessed he could not read. That was good. The illiterate often had an almost superstitious respect for the written word.

‘It says that I am John of Tatewic, abbot of Mount Sion, archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and councillor to King Baldwin. I come on his behalf to treat with Saladin.’

The captain stared at the paper a moment longer before rolling the scroll and tucking it into his belt. ‘Show him inside. I will inform the Malik.’

John was taken to a small room off the entrance hall of the palace. A servant brought him water and a bowl filled with cubes of watermelon. After that, John saw no one for a long time. He paced the room. Would Yusuf receive him as a friend or as an enemy? Finally, John knelt to pray in order to calm his nerves. The single candle that lit the room had shrunk so that it was guttering in its own wax when the door finally opened. Imad ad-Din stepped inside.

‘John! It is really you.’

John embraced him. He had known Imad ad-Din since the scholar was a young man tutoring Yusuf in history and politics. Now, Imad ad-Din had grey hair and a lined face. ‘It has been too long,’ John told him. ‘Will he see me?’

‘I will take you to him.’

They crossed the palace through marble-clad halls and climbed a stairwell to Yusuf’s private quarters. Saqr stood guard at the door. ‘The Malik is waiting,’ he told John and pulled the door open.

Yusuf sat amidst cushions on the far side of the small audience chamber. John hardly recognized him. Yusuf’s cheeks were hollow, his hair and beard more grey than black. There were dark circles under his eyes.

‘John.’ He sounded weary. ‘Why have you come?’

‘King Baldwin has sent me. He desires peace between our kingdoms.’

‘But why you? He could have sent another emissary.’

‘He chose me, friend.’

‘You are not my friend. You have chosen your side. You made that clear at Montgisard.’

‘I spared your life.’

‘And saved Baldwin’s. This war could have been over.’ Yusuf sighed. ‘Your king and I are enemies, John. So long as you serve him, so are we.’

‘We do not have to be.’

‘You are wrong.’

‘Perhaps.’ John decided to try a different tack. ‘You need peace with us in order to deal with Mosul.’ He waited for a reply, but Yusuf did not speak. ‘I have my orders, Yusuf. I will not leave without peace.’

‘Very well.’ Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Saqr!’ The mamluk entered at once. ‘Have John shown to guest quarters and see that he is comfortable. Post guards at his door. He is not to leave without my permission. He will be staying with us for a very long time.’

Yusuf rode through the camp that sprawled along the Barada River to the south-east of the city. There were thousands of tents: the ordered rows of the mamluks from Egypt; the brightly coloured tents of the emirs who had come with their own mamluks; and the sprawling sheepskin structures of the Bedouin who had joined the army in the hope of spoils. Yusuf could see another tribe of Bedouin on the horizon, kicking up a cloud of dust as they rode towards Damascus. The rainy season was over, and the lands east of the city were once more hard and dry. It would be time to march soon. In Aleppo, Yusuf would meet the rest of his men, including the emirs of Al-Jazirah – Gökböri, Nu’man and Muhammad.

He reined to a halt before a tent of saffron-yellow silk. Al-Mashtub strode out. The huge warrior smiled broadly, showing teeth that had yellowed with age. He held Yusuf’s stirrup for him to dismount. Yusuf embraced him and kissed his cheeks. ‘I am glad you have come, friend.’

‘I would not have missed it. Life in Banyas is dull. The Franks in Hunin have not left their castle in months. I fear they have lost their stomach for battle.’

Talk of Banyas made Yusuf think of John. They had taken the city together, back when Nur ad-Din ruled. John was still confined to his quarters in the palace. Yusuf had not seen him since he arrived more than two months ago.

‘When do we leave for Mosul?’ Al-Mashtub asked.

‘In two weeks. Tonight, you will dine with me at the palace.’

‘Do you still have that cook you took from Aleppo?’ Yusuf nodded, and Al-Mashtub grinned. ‘Then it will be my pleasure.’

Yusuf continued on his way, greeting half a dozen more newly arrived emirs and sheikhs before returning to the palace. Imad ad-Din met him in the entryway. ‘A bird has come from Jerusalem, Malik.’ The secretary lowered his voice. ‘King Baldwin is dead.’

‘Who rules in Jerusalem now?’

‘Baldwin’s young nephew has been crowned king, with Raymond of Tripoli his regent. What will you do, Malik? Will you invade the Kingdom?’

‘I will think on it.’

Yusuf returned to his chambers to find his wife Shamsa waiting for him. She and the children had joined him from Cairo last month.

‘You have heard?’ she asked.

Yusuf nodded. ‘It is no surprise. Baldwin has been ill for years.’

‘Some will take it as a sign that he died when you have an army ready at hand. Your men will want to attack Jerusalem.’

Yusuf knew that tone. ‘But?’

‘If you turn away to attack the Kingdom, Izz ad-Din will invade from Mosul. He might take Aleppo.’

‘Not with Selim there.’

‘Even your brother cannot win against overwhelming odds. I know the news from the north as well as you, Husband. Izz ad-Din has allied with the Seljuk prince Jahan Pahlavan. Together, they have besieged your ally, the emir of Ibril. If you do not oppose them, they will move on to take Mardin and Nisbin, then Saruj and Edessa. The emirs of Al-Jazirah who have pledged their swords to you will join them. Aleppo will be next.’

Yusuf kissed her on the brow. ‘I have missed you, my clever wife.’

‘So you will move on Mosul?’

‘Perhaps. The regent, Raymond, will be eager to start his rule with a victory. If I march on Mosul, the Franks will strike at Damascus.’

‘Not if you make peace with them.’

Yusuf scowled. ‘After Montgisard, I swore to drive the Franks from the Holy Land.’

‘And you will, in time. But you cannot fight on two fronts, my love. You must put your own house in order before you turn to the Franks.’

‘
Hmph
.’ Yusuf went to the window and stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

Shamsa came to stand beside him. She touched his chin and gently turned his face towards her. ‘I know you are angry with John, habibi, but do not let your anger cloud your judgement. Would you still resist peace had the Franks sent a diff erent emissary?’

Yusuf opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of it. She was right. ‘You know me better than I know myself.’ He kissed her, then pulled away and raised his voice. ‘Saqr! Bring me John.’

John’s palms began to sweat as he followed a guard through the halls of the palace. It was the first time he had left his room in months. He had passed the days reading, gazing out of the window and practising his arguments for peace. Hope had begun to fade, but now Yusuf had summoned him.

They had reached the audience chamber. The guard knocked and pushed the door open. Yusuf sat in the same position as the last time John had been there. ‘Your king is dead,’ he said when
John had sat.

John blinked. ‘What? When?’

‘Yesterday.’

And he had not been there. John felt as if a great weight were pressing on his chest. He should have returned after Yusuf’s initial refusal. Perhaps he could have done something.

‘You chose him over me once, John.’ Yusuf met his eyes. ‘I ask you to choose again. Join my service.’

John shook his head. ‘I swore an oath.’

‘To Baldwin. Baldwin is dead.’

‘I am a priest. I swore an oath to God as well.’

‘There is only one God, John. I serve him. I fight his battles.’

‘War is no business of God. I must return to Jerusalem. Allah yasalmak, friend.’ He rose.

‘You said you would not go without peace.’

John paused at the door. ‘Peace?’ Why now, when the Kingdom was most vulnerable? He searched Yusuf’s face, but found no answer. John’s forehead creased in thought. When Guy took over as regent, he had sent Reynald raiding into the Hijaz. Perhaps Yusuf feared another such attack from Raymond. But why fear a Frankish army, unless . . . ‘You plan to march on Mosul.’

‘Perhaps. Tell me of the new king. The truth, John.’

‘Young Baldwin is a sickly child. He is not likely to live to his majority.’

‘And the regent, Raymond.’

‘You have met him. You know him to be a good man.’

‘But is he a good soldier?’

‘You will not find the Kingdom an easy prize while he rules, if that is what you mean.’

Yusuf met John’s eyes. ‘One more question, John. Answer me true; your peace depends on it. Can I take Jerusalem?’

John opened his mouth, prepared to lie, but then thought better of it. He could not deceive Yusuf. They knew one another too well. ‘Yes, you can take it. But it will cost you dearly, and you will not be able to hold it, not if you must send men to protect Aleppo from the emir of Mosul.’

Yusuf nodded. He held out a sheet of paper.

‘What is this?’

‘A truce, John. Four years.’

John took the treaty, held it to his heart, and bowed. ‘Shukran allah.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘Do not thank me. Once Mosul is in my power, there will be nothing to prevent me from turning to the Kingdom. When the four years are up, I am coming for Jerusalem.’

C
hapter 7

November 1185: Mosul

Yusuf felt as if his insides were on fire. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he grit his teeth as he squatted over the chamber pot. When he had finished shitting, he stepped outside the private section of his tent and a servant went in to retrieve the pot. As it was carried out, Saqr looked inside and frowned.

‘Malik—’

Yusuf waved away his concern. Mosul was almost his. He could not afford to be weak. ‘It is nothing. Have water brought and help me with my armour.’

Saqr helped him pull on a shirt of heavy mail and then laced up the vest of golden scale armour that Yusuf wore over it. Yusuf buckled on his sword belt, pulled on his helmet and stepped outside. The morning sun flashed off his golden armour and the gilt crown of his helmet. It was important to look the part of a king, no matter how miserable he might feel.

Yusuf’s tent had been set on a low ridge two miles west of Mosul. The tents of his khaskiya covered the face of the slope before him, and beyond them the camp stretched to within half a mile of the city, on the far side of which the Tigris River flowed past, its waters glittering reddish gold. From here, Mosul’s tall walls – the same dusty brown colour as the land around them – looked small enough to step over. The emir, Izz ad-Din, was trapped behind those walls. His ally, the Seljuk Pahlavan, had fled when Yusuf crossed the Euphrates. After his withdrawal, many of the emirs east of Mosul had gone over to Yusuf’s side. The city was isolated. It held less than half as many men as Yusuf’s army. Yet after five months of siege, it still stood.