Holy War (2 page)

He returned to the saddle as the final prisoner was brought forward. The man was very handsome, with a trimmed black beard and golden eyes. ‘What did this one do?’

‘Rape, Malik. A glass merchant’s daughter.’

‘There are witnesses?’

Qaraqush gestured to four men in silk caftans. With them was a woman wearing a niqab that hid all but her eyes. ‘Four men, as required by law, Malik.’

The prisoner met Yusuf’s eye without flinching. ‘It was no rape. She wanted it, Malik.’

‘He lies!’ one of the men in silk shouted. ‘Look what he did to my daughter, Malik.’ The woman removed her niqab. Her cheek was bruised, her lip split and bloodied. ‘He has disgraced her. What sort of bride price will I find for her now?’

‘The mamluk will be stoned to death as decreed by law,’ Yusuf declared. ‘You shall be compensated for your loss. A hundred dinars.’

The father was bowing his thanks as Yusuf turned his horse and rode for Cairo with his guard trailing behind. He was cold and wet and in a black mood, as he often was after dispensing justice. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a warm meal, but that was not to be. No sooner had he shed his cloak in the palace entrance hall than Al-Fadil limped towards him. The tiny, hunchbacked secretary was suffering from gout.

‘The birds have brought news,’ Al-Fadil said. Yusuf frowned. ‘It is important, Malik.’

‘Walk with me,’ Yusuf told him and continued on to his chambers.

‘I have a letter from the Barka. The Almohad sultan is said to be preparing his fleet to move on Tripoli, on the African coast.’

Yusuf’s forehead creased. He had sent Ubadah to conquer the coast west of Egypt over a year ago, but his nephew’s victories had brought nothing but trouble. ‘Reduce the size of the garrison. Inshallah, the sultan will take Tripoli from us. It has cost me more to keep the city than it pays in tribute.’

‘Very good, Malik.’ Al-Fadil took another message from one of the pockets that lined his silk robes. ‘News from Alexandria. Two more ships have launched to join your new fleet.’ Yusuf could only nod. He stopped for a moment and clutched at the wall, sweat beading on his brow as the pain twisted like a knife in his gut. ‘Are you well, Malik?’

‘A passing indisposition . . .’ Yusuf straightened and continued down the hall. He could not think of Alexandria without thinking of Turan. Yusuf had sent his older brother to govern the city after his failure during the Montgisard campaign. In a few short months, Turan had run up debts of more than two hundred thousand gold dinars before he died of what was officially declared an excessive use of hashish. Yusuf knew better. It had been justice, but the memory of his brother’s death still pained him.

When they reached Yusuf’s study, Al-Fadil handed him a scrap of paper. ‘I thought it best that you read this in private.’

Yusuf scanned the message, which was written in the minuscule script used for the pigeon post. Al-Salih was dead. The young man had been the ruler of Aleppo, and he was Yusuf’s son, the product of his affair with Asimat when she was still the wife of his lord, Nur ad-Din. Yusuf dropped the message and went to stand at the window. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the ledge. ‘It does not say how he died.’

‘It appears he was murdered, Malik.’

‘And who rules in Aleppo now?’

‘The boy’s cousin, Imad ad-Din. He was given the city by his brother, Izz ad-Din, who rules in Mosul.’

Yusuf turned to face Al-Fadil. ‘That cannot be allowed to stand. You will begin setting aside coin for a campaign.’

‘To Aleppo?’

‘Mosul. Izz ad-Din is the true threat.’ As ruler of Al-Jazirah, the fertile lands between the Tigris and the Euphrates, Izz ad-Din was rich in both money and men. Yusuf had met him when they were both young men at Nur ad-Din’s court. Even then, Izz ad-Din had been ambitious. ‘I cannot take Jerusalem if I must also defend Damascus from Izz ad-Din and his brother. We will march in the spring, when the winter rains have ended. Go now and tell my brother Saif ad-Din to begin gathering arms and provisions.’

‘Very good, Malik.’ Al-Fadil moved to the door, where he paused. ‘One more thing. I have received news that your wife Asimat is on her way here from Aleppo.’

Yusuf had not seen Asimat in years. After their marriage, she had stayed in Aleppo with their son. He did not wish to face her now, but he could hardly refuse. ‘You will make her comfortable when she arrives.’

Al-Fadil bowed and left. Yusuf returned to the window. He thought of those nights long ago in Aleppo, when he had snuck through the window of Asimat’s chambers to be with her. They had risked everything. They had made a child together. And now that child was dead.

The door behind Yusuf creaked open, and he turned to see Shamsa enter. His first wife was no longer the beauty she had been when he met her. Age had left fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and had sharpened her features, making her cheekbones more prominent. But he still saw that enticing mixture of challenge and invitation in her dark eyes. She smiled, showing straight white teeth. Then, her smile faded. ‘You are not well, habibi.’

‘I am fine.’

She came to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘You work yourself too hard. Come. We must get you out of these wet clothes.’ She began to untie the lacing that secured his vest of golden jawshan armour.

Yusuf gently pushed her away. ‘There is work to be done, Wife. We will have war in the north.’ He sat and placed a portable desk on his lap. He reached for a quill, but Shamsa plucked it from his hand.

‘Surely that can wait until after you have had a bath. The roads will not be passable for some months.’

Yusuf picked up another quill. He did not want to bathe. He wanted to lose himself in work, to drive away his thoughts of Turan and Al-Salih and the man he had ordered stoned today. ‘And we must be ready to ride when they are. I cannot allow Imad ad-Din time to build his strength in Aleppo.’ Yusuf picked up a sheet of paper. His brow furrowed in concentration as he began composing a message to Al-Muqaddam, his governor in Damascus.

Shamsa watched him for a moment. ‘You are not alone, habibi,’ she said softly. ‘You should share your burdens with me.’

‘No.’ Yusuf feared she would not call him her beloved if she knew all he had done. ‘I am the king, Shamsa. They are not your burdens to bear.’

February 1182: Cairo

Yusuf’s face was an expressionless mask as he waited in the entrance hall of the palace. Asimat would arrive any moment, and despite his calm demeanour, Yusuf could feel sweat trickling down his spine. He had dressed in his kingly garb: robes of heavy gold thread, a tall white turban, and a jewelled sword at his side. Selim and Shamsa stood just behind him, along with his children. Al-Afdal and his brother Al-Aziz were ten and nine now, almost old enough to be given lands of their own. They both fidgeted, unable to contain their boyish energy. Az-Zahir, who was Al-Aziz’s junior by two years, stood motionless, a mirror image of his father. The younger children – Ishaq, Mas’ud, Yaqub and Da’ud – were off to the side with their nurses and Yusuf’s six daughters. Yusuf noticed the budding breasts on his oldest daughter, Halima, the child of a slave girl. He would have to find her a husband soon.

The doors to the hall opened, and Yusuf squinted against the bright sunshine. Asimat strode forward out of the light, followed by an entourage of guards and courtiers. They knelt while Asimat continued towards Yusuf. She seemed to have aged immensely in the five years since he had last seen her. Her skin was still milky white and smooth, but now her cheeks were hollow and there were dark circles under her eyes. Her long black hair was touched with grey.

‘Wife,’ Yusuf greeted her.

‘Husband.’ She bowed. Her gaze moved from him to Shamsa, and then to the children. She blinked away tears. ‘I wish to speak with you alone.’

‘Of course. I will show you to your quarters. Selim, see that her retinue is made comfortable.’

They did not speak as Yusuf led her across the palace to the harem. ‘These will be your quarters,’ Yusuf said as they entered a comfortable suite of rooms, the floors covered with thick goat-hair carpets and the walls decorated with silks. The windows looked out on a courtyard filled with fragrant rose bushes.

Asimat hardly spared a glance for her new home. ‘It will do.’ She met his eyes. ‘You do not seem happy to see me, Husband.’

‘Why have you come? You could have stayed in Aleppo.’

‘With the men who murdered my son? He did not die a natural death. He was poisoned.’

‘I know.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You know?’ She seized his arm. ‘Who did it? Tell me.’

‘Izz ad-Din.’

‘But he is Al-Salih’s cousin.’

‘He is an ambitious man. Now he rules from Mosul and his brother sits on the throne of Aleppo. With Al-Salih dead, they are the heirs to Nur ad-Din’s kingdom. They will look to Damascus next.’

‘Izz ad-Din,’ Asimat murmured. ‘I should have known.’ All strength seemed to suddenly go from her, and she sank into a pile of cushions on the floor. She sat with her head cradled in her hands for a moment; then she met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘I am the one who found him. He was alone in his chamber when he died. His cup of wine had fallen from his hand. His face was blue as if he had been strangled, but there was no sign of a struggle. I should have been there. I should have protected him.’

Yusuf knelt beside her and took her hands in his. ‘You did all you could.’

‘No. There is one last thing I must do for my son. I must give him vengeance.’ She clutched his hands. ‘If you ever loved me, Yusuf, then avenge me. Avenge our son. March on Mosul. Kill those who took my child from me. Kill that bastard Izz ad-Din.’

Yusuf looked away, unable to bear the sight of her grief. His stomach was burning and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. ‘Those who killed Al-Salih will suffer,’ he told her. ‘You have my word.’

November 1182: Mosul

A long stretch of the imposing sandstone wall of Mosul was sheathed in flames that licked up from the battlements towards a sky that threatened rain. The fires were the last trace of the burning naphtha that the defenders had poured down on Yusuf’s men, leading him to call off the attack. The breeze had brought Yusuf the stench of burning flesh. Now, it carried him the catcalls of the city’s defenders, who mocked his men as they limped back to camp, carrying their dead and wounded. Stones and other objects hurled from catapults soon joined the insults. Yusuf’s fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into the palms of his hands.

His army had arrived a week ago. Yusuf had deployed his troops around the city and begun a bombardment, but with winter coming, he did not have time for a long siege. He had hoped that a show of force would hurry the decision of the caliph in Baghdad. Yusuf had written to him to request that he be given rule of Mosul. After today, he feared the reply he would receive. Yusuf was still watching his army limp back into camp when Qaraqush galloped up and dismounted. His face was spattered with blood, and part of his caftan had been burned away. He gingerly held a boot in his calloused hands.

‘Casualties?’ Yusuf asked him.

‘A hundred men, give or take. Ubadah’s men took the worst of it. They were the ones hit by the fire.’ Qaraqush shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Malik. Izz ad-Din has too many men for us to storm the city. They fight like devils. Look at this.’ He held out the boot.

Yusuf took it carefully. It was filled with nails, some of which protruded from the sides. They were wet with blood.

‘They are hurling buckets full of them with their cursed catapults,’ Qaraqush explained, shaking his head. ‘This one hit the man beside me in the face.’

Yusuf studied the boot for a moment before tossing it aside. ‘They will stop soon enough, else they will run out of shoes.’

‘It is no laughing matter. I shudder to think what they will send us next.’ Qaraqush scratched his beard. ‘Our catapults have hardly put a dent in their walls, Malik, and the wet weather makes mining impossible. Forgive my bluntness, but we are wasting our time here.’

Yusuf knew Qaraqush spoke for the rest of his men, and he was no doubt sparing him the worst. He forced himself to smile. ‘We will sit before the fires in the palace of Mosul soon enough, old friend. I expect the Caliph’s messenger any day. Once Al-Nasir grants me lordship over Mosul, Izz ad-Din will be forced to admit my lordship and welcome us into the city.’

‘And if the Caliph does not do as you hope?’

‘He will. I sent him gifts worth many thousands of dinars: a valuable Koran, musk, amber necklaces, aloe, balm of Judea, a hundred bows, seven hundred arrows of the best quality, and twenty horses with fine saddles.’

‘Izz ad-Din no doubt sent him gifts as well.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘I cannot take Jerusalem while the men of Mosul sit poised like a dagger at my back. Even the Caliph must see that.’

‘Inshallah.’

‘I must see to the wounded. Speak to the emirs, Qaraqush. Tell them what I have told you.’

A light rain began to fall as Yusuf made his way down the hill with Saqr at his heels. Yusuf had made the young man the head of his private guard years ago, after Saqr saved his life during the siege of Alexandria, and he had never had cause to regret the decision. The men called Saqr ‘Saladin’s Shadow’, because he was always at Yusuf’s side. They walked past the ordered tents of the mamluks to where a sprawling tent had been set up at the centre of the camp. Inside, shaded lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a dim light on dozens of injured men. This was the dark side of glory, the side the poets never spoke of. The wounded sat close together, some moaning in pain, others staring forward in grim-faced silence. Most of these men would live. They had suffered minor cuts or small burns. Those who were worse off were kept at the centre of the tent, in a section screened off  from the rest. Yusuf headed there first.