Kingdom (19 page)

Beside him, William stepped away from the rail. ‘Think on what I have said, Saladin.’

As the priest walked away, John passed him to join Yusuf. John’s face was pale, and there was a trace of vomit on the front of his tunic. ‘What were you discussing?’

‘Peace.’

John nodded but said nothing. The two friends watched as the Orontes drew closer. Finally, Yusuf spoke. ‘I do not wish to be your enemy, John. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we can live in peace.’

John smiled. ‘Inshallah.’

FEBRUARY 1165: NEAR ALEPPO

John reined in beside Yusuf and William atop a rocky ridge. They had left Antioch five days ago, travelling with a caravan of Saracen merchants. Now, John could just make out the distant minaret of the citadel of Aleppo. The path leading to it crossed a desolate stretch of sun-baked ground, dotted by villages clustered around wells.

‘We will arrive soon,’ Yusuf said. ‘I will offer the head of the caravan a dinar, as thanks for our safe journey.’

Yusuf spurred down the far side of the ridge, and John and William followed at a slower pace. The priest nodded in the direction of the city. ‘You lived in Aleppo. What is it like?’

John shrugged. ‘You should ask Saladin. I spent most of my time in the citadel barracks.’

‘Surely you did not spend all your time at the citadel.’ John flinched at the memory of his night-time visits to Zimat. William seemed not to notice. ‘What are the streets like? The markets? Is it a rich town?’

‘The souks bring great wealth to the city. You can buy anything you wish in them. As for the rest: the streets are broad and clean, nothing like Jerusalem. The walls and buildings are of pale stone; that is why they call it the White City.’

‘What was it like to live for so long amongst the infidels?’

‘Surprising. I had been told that they were monsters, but I found them cultured, intelligent, kind even to their slaves, tolerant of the beliefs of others.’

‘I have always found the Saracens to be good company. I am looking forward to our visit.’

John was less eager to reach Aleppo. The closer he got to the city, the more his stomach roiled. What would Zimat think of his decision to join the priesthood? What would she say to him? He attempted to picture her face and found it dissolving into that of Agnes. He tried to drive the latter image from his thoughts, but his mind refused to obey. He could see Agnes sitting in the courtyard of her home, a slight smile on her lips, her golden hair falling down towards her breasts.

‘Are you well, friend?’ Yusuf asked as he rejoined them. ‘You look upset.’

‘Perhaps it is something I ate,’ John murmured. He looked to William. ‘Why did Amalric divorce the Lady de Courtenay? The real reason.’

The priest frowned. ‘Politics. Agnes is the heir to Edessa, a vanished kingdom. It was a good marriage at first, but one with less and less value as it became clear that Edessa would never be recovered from Nur ad-Din. Still, so long as Amalric was only a prince, Agnes was a suitable wife. But when he became
king
—’ William shook his head. ‘He had to divorce her, even if he did not wish to.’

‘He loved her?’

‘You have met Agnes. What do you think?’

‘She is like a desert flower,’ Yusuf said.

‘Amalric was smitten the moment he saw her. Agnes wanted to wait for her father’s permission; but Joscelin was a prisoner in Aleppo, and Amalric did not wish to wait for a paternal blessing that might never come. He carried Agnes off by force and married her. The divorce wounded him deeply, but not as much as it hurt Agnes. She never forgave him.’

‘But you say he had no choice,’ John said.

‘She does not see it that way,’ William replied. ‘Amalric tried to soften the blow. He made her a countess with income from Jaffa and Ascalon. But he could not give her what she truly wanted: access to her children.’

‘Why not?’

‘There were those at court who feared that she would turn them against Amalric. So the Prince Baldwin is kept in the palace. His older sister, Sibylla, has been sent to the convent of Saint Lazarus where she is being raised by her great-aunt.’

John felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Agnes. Like him, she was kept from her children and her lover by politics. No one could know the pain she felt better than him.

‘You would do best to stop thinking of her, John,’ William said.

‘I was not—’

William held up a hand to stop him. ‘I have seen the effect Agnes can have on men, but it is the allure of a siren, calling men to their doom.’

Yusuf laughed. ‘You make her out to be a monster. I found her a charming woman.’

‘She is that,’ William agreed. ‘Too charming by half.’

They rode on in silence as the pale winter sun climbed into
the
sky and then began its slow descent. It was hovering just above the horizon, bathing the white stone buildings of Aleppo in rose-coloured light, when they reached the outskirts of the city. The road ran past stone houses set amidst pistachio and olive orchards. They crossed the tiny Quweq River, and the caravan that they had joined headed north to one of the caravanserais located outside the city wall. Yusuf led them east to the Bab Antakeya, an arched gateway framed by tall defensive towers. The gate led to an interior passage that turned sharply to the left and then back to the right. The walls of the passage were lined with men offering water, food and lodging. Yusuf ignored them, and the men paid John and William little notice. They were both dressed in caftans, and with their keffiyeh pulled down over their faces, they were indistinguishable from any of the other travellers.

They emerged from the gate on to a street so old that there were ruts in the stone paving from centuries of wagon traffic. They passed a series of souks on their left, and memories flooded back to John. He remembered walking through those markets, looking for the doctor, Ibn Jumay. He had sought a medicine to abort Zimat’s child, but he had not been able to bring himself to buy it. Soon, he would see that child for the first time in years.

They emerged into Aleppo’s central square. William whistled in appreciation of the citadel, which towered above them on its sheer-sided hill of white rock. At the base of the citadel, a guardhouse protected the bridge that ran across the moat. Three mamluks in chainmail stepped forth, spears extended. One, a thin young man, lowered his spear and grinned. ‘Saladin! You have returned.’

Yusuf slid from the saddle and embraced the man. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Saqr. I have brought an old friend.’ He gestured to John, who pulled his keffiyeh down to reveal his face.

‘Al-ifranji?’ Saqr asked, his eyes wide. ‘I thought you were dead.’

‘As you can see, I am alive and well. I come with this man, William of Tyre, on behalf of the Frankish king.’

‘You are expected,’ Saqr said. ‘Come.’

They followed Saqr up the causeway and through the citadel’s main gate. At the palace, servants came forth to take their horses. Gumushtagin met them in the entrance hall. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Saladin,’ the eunuch said with his faint lisp.

John noticed that Yusuf flinched slightly before he nodded in greeting.

Gumushtagin turned to John and William. ‘Welcome, distinguished visitors. Nur ad-Din is expecting you.’ He led them to a set of double doors, where the guards searched them before pulling open the doors to reveal Nur ad-Din’s audience chamber. At the far side of the room, the king was seated cross-legged on a low, wide throne with a short back. Members of his court sat to either side on stools. John recognized Shirkuh and Selim amongst them. Yusuf approached and bowed low.

‘Saladin!’ Nur ad-Din greeted him. ‘Welcome home. Your uncle told me that you volunteered to stay with the Franks as a hostage. That was noble of you.’

‘King Amalric was a gracious host.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Nur ad-Din looked past Yusuf to William and John. He waved them forward. ‘You are welcome at my court, William of Tyre. And I am pleased to see you again, John.’ John was surprised that Nur ad-Din remembered him, but then realized that he had also greeted William by name, and the two men had never met. John reflected on what Yusuf had told him about Nur ad-Din’s spies at the court in Jerusalem. Nur ad-Din had probably been informed the moment they set out for Aleppo.

‘We thank you for your kind welcome,’ William replied, ‘and we greet you on behalf of King Amalric of Jerusalem, who desires only peace and friendship between our two kingdoms.’

Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘You are no doubt weary after your
long
journey. I have set aside a suite for you in my palace. Retire there and refresh yourselves. Tomorrow, you will dine at the home of Saladin, where your countrymen who are enjoying my hospitality will join you. Now, my man will take you to your rooms.’ He gestured to a servant; a corpulent black man in a white caftan.

‘You are most kind, Malik,’ William said.

He and John bowed again and followed the servant out of the hall. ‘Why did he dismiss us so quickly?’ William asked John in a low voice. ‘What of the negotiations?’

‘They have already begun,’ John said. ‘Nur ad-Din wishes to show us the value of his captives. That is the purpose of tomorrow’s dinner. He has selected Saladin as his chief negotiator, hence the meal at his home. We will discuss the terms of ransom there.’

‘No, we will not. The Emperor Manuel’s cousin Constantine has been captured, and Bohemond is Manuel’s brother-in-law. Nur ad-Din will be eager to ransom them, so as to avoid any tension with Constantinople. That is to our advantage. We must show that we are willing to bide our time. We will wait for him to come to us with an offer.’

‘Nur ad-Din is a patient man. I fear we will be waiting a very long time.’

The next evening Yusuf stood at the window of his room as he waited for his Frankish guests to arrive. In the courtyard below the fountain burbled in the gathering dusk and Saqr and Al-Mashtub chatted by the gate. Prayers had finished only moments before, and the city had fallen quiet as the populace headed inside for their evening meals. The silence was broken by the clip-clop of approaching horses’ hooves. A moment later the gate swung open. A mamluk rode through, followed by John and the priest William. They dismounted and William headed straight for the entrance to Yusuf’s home. John hesitated for a moment before following.

The newly captured Frankish prisoners arrived next. Yusuf recognized them easily enough from Nur ad-Din’s descriptions. The first man was thickly set with straw-blond hair and florid cheeks covered in pale fuzz. That would be the young Prince of Antioch, Bohemond. Yusuf identified the next guest as Constantine Kalamanos, an olive-skinned young man in an elaborate caftan of blue silk. Raymond of Tripoli came next. He too was in his mid twenties, but he looked older due to his commanding presence. He was slender and straight-backed, with dark hair, a swarthy complexion and an aquiline nose that dominated his face. He reminded Yusuf of his father. Hugh of Lusignan entered last of all, followed by a mamluk with sword drawn. Hugh was an older man, his tanned face deeply lined.

The four captives had been shown inside when the final guest arrived. Yusuf had not seen Reynald de Chatillon in nearly three years. He had the same close-cropped black hair and beard, but his sharp features were now rounded. He looked to have gained a stone or two. Yusuf had not wanted to invite Reynald, but Nur ad-Din had insisted. The king was eager to see him ransomed at last. Reynald looked around the courtyard and his gaze settled on the dark window where Yusuf stood. Yusuf stepped back into his room.

There was a knock at the door, and Faridah entered. ‘Your guests are waiting.’ She crossed the room and straightened the belt of red silk that held his caftan.

Yusuf went downstairs and paused outside the dining-room, pressing his eye to a spyhole in order to examine his guests a final time. The Franks had been served wine and were talking amongst themselves. The half-dozen silent mamluks lining the walls were the only indication that some of the guests were also captives. Yusuf stepped away from the spyhole and entered.

‘My lords and honoured guests,’ he declared in Frankish, ‘God keep you all and grant you health and joy. Welcome to my home. I am Saladin, Emir of Tell Bashir.’ Reynald scowled, but the other men all stepped forward to greet him, telling him
their
names and murmuring formulaic replies of ‘God keep you’ or ‘And may health and joy be granted you by God’. Yusuf was pleased to see that he had guessed correctly regarding their identities.

He gestured to the circle of cushions that surrounded a low, round table in the middle of the room. ‘Please be seated.’ Yusuf allowed his guests to sit where they wished. He ended up between William and Raymond. Bohemond and Constantine sat to Raymond’s left, while John and Hugh sat to the right of William. Reynald sat directly opposite. When they were all seated, servants entered with steaming flatbread and a large bowl of badinjan muhassa, an aromatic dip of baked eggplant, ground walnuts and raw onions. Yusuf spooned a bit of the dip on to his plate and then scooped it up with a piece of bread. ‘In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful,’ he murmured, but paused with the bread halfway to his mouth. None of the Franks were eating.

‘Excuse me,’ William said. ‘May I say grace?’

‘Of course.’

William cleared his throat, and the Franks at the table bowed their heads. ‘Benedicite,’ the priest began in Latin as he made the sign of the cross over the food. ‘The Lord, merciful and compassionate, has perpetuated the memory of His wonders. He has given food to them that fear Him.’

‘Amen,’ the men murmured and began to spoon the dip on to their plates.

William took a bite and sighed with satisfaction. ‘You Saracens have a way with food that we Christians have not yet mastered. Thank you for having me in your home.’

‘After the welcome your king gave me, it is the least I can do.’

William chuckled. ‘I know the King’s cooks, and I believe I have the better end of the bargain.’

‘What are you saying?’ Constantine called from the left side of the table. He spoke French only poorly. William translated
the
discussion into Greek, and he and the governor of Cilicia began to speak across the table.