Kingdom (22 page)

Gumushtagin stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘But you could be king!’

That gave Yusuf pause. Egypt was the greatest prize in Arabia, perhaps in all the world. ‘Explain yourself,’ he told Gumushtagin.

‘The Caliph has invited us to Egypt. That means the Vizier is no longer in favour. When our men arrive, Shawar will be put to death.’

‘I would happily do the deed. The man is a snake.’

‘Shirkuh will no doubt replace Shawar as vizier,’ Gumushtagin continued. ‘If he should die—’

Yusuf was moving before he had time to think. He grabbed Gumushtagin by the throat and pushed him backwards until the eunuch slammed into the wall. ‘Shirkuh is my uncle!’ he growled.

‘Unhand me,’ Gumushtagin choked out.

‘Why?’ Yusuf leaned close. The eunuch’s face was turning bright red as he struggled for air. ‘I should kill you now. Asimat and my son will have nothing to fear.’

‘Don’t—’ Gumushtagin rasped, ‘throw—your life—away—’

Yusuf held the eunuch a moment longer and then released him. Gumushtagin bent over, gasping for breath. After a moment, he straightened. ‘I am not asking you to betray your uncle, or Nur ad-Din. All I ask is that you do nothing. Let events unfold.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I will not let you kill him. You may
well
hold my fate in your hands, Gumushtagin, but I warn you: I am not afraid to die.’

‘Do not be a fool, Yusuf. If you cross me, then I will see Asimat stoned and your son hanged.’

Yusuf’s hands balled into fists. He took a step towards the eunuch, who shrank back against the wall. ‘Not if I kill you first, you ball-less shit!’

Gumushtagin drew himself up straight. ‘I have taken precautions. If I die, Nur ad-Din will still learn the truth. I do not fear you,’ he added in a quavering voice.

‘Then you are a fool.’ Yusuf spat at Gumushtagin’s feet and then turned and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Yusuf stopped at one of the narrow windows that looked out from the spiral staircase leading up to the council chamber. Was it the last time he would see the sky? He had been a fool to let his anger get the better of him in his meeting with Gumushtagin that morning. Before the day ended, he could be dead.

He forced himself to continue to the top of the tower. The guard at the door to the council chamber waved him through. Nur ad-Din stood in the centre of the room. The king had turned fifty earlier that year, but although his black hair was now streaked with silver, he seemed a new man ever since the birth of his son and his victory at Harim. He stood straight-backed and moved with a warrior’s ease. Shirkuh, Gumushtagin and Usamah were with him. Yusuf’s stomach twisted with worry at the sight of Gumushtagin in whispered conversation with the king.

Nur ad-Din frowned. ‘Are you well, Saladin? You look as if you have drunk donkey piss. Perhaps you have received some unpleasant news?’

Yusuf felt the blood drain from his face. The king knew. He was sure of it. Yusuf looked to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I am well, Malik.’

‘Good! I need you healthy for what is to come.’ Nur ad-Din paused to look at each of the men present. ‘The Franks are invading Egypt, and the Caliph has called on us for help. Shirkuh, you will drive the Franks back to Jerusalem.’

‘Inshallah, Malik,’ Shirkuh said.

‘I will not make another peace with that snake Shawar. Once the Franks are defeated, you will dispose of him and have yourself declared Vizier of Egypt.’

Shirkuh grinned. ‘I like the sound of that.’

Nur ad-Din clapped the rugged warrior on the back and then turned to Yusuf. ‘And you, young eagle, what shall we do with you?’

Yusuf swallowed. But he straightened and met his king’s eyes. He had known this day would come. He would not cower. ‘I am your servant, Malik. You must use me as you see fit.’

Nur ad-Din’s golden eyes studied Yusuf, and then he smiled. ‘You shall serve as Shirkuh’s second in command, and when Cairo falls, you shall assume the government of the city.’

Yusuf blinked in surprise. He looked from Nur ad-Din to Gumushtagin. ‘It is a great honour the King bestows upon both of you,’ the eunuch said. His eyes met Yusuf’s. ‘A reward for your incomparable loyalty.’ The message was clear. Gumushtagin was giving him a second chance. Next time, he would not be so generous.

‘Very well, Malik,’ Yusuf murmured.

‘Do not look so glum, Nephew!’ Shirkuh said. He gripped Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We will be rulers of Egypt! And we shall finally have our revenge on that two-faced bastard, Shawar.’

NOVEMBER 1168: BILBEIS

John stepped over dead bodies and through the splintered remains of the southern gate of Bilbeis. Acrid black smoke hung
in
the air. Beside the gate a Saracen warrior sat moaning in pain, his bowels spilled out on the ground before him. A knight slit his throat and then yanked the gold chain from around the dead man’s neck. John looked away. A line of chained women pulled along by two knights emerged from the smoky haze. One of them, a thin young woman with large brown eyes and a purplish bruise on her cheek, called out to John. ‘Please, Father, help me! I am a Christian!’

One of the knights slapped her. ‘Quiet, bitch!’

John’s hands clenched into fists, and he glared at the man. He was one of the Duke of Nevers’s men. They were newcomers to the Holy Land. Their arrival had encouraged Amalric to set out for Cairo early, before William returned from Constantinople with the emperor’s fleet. The knight returned John’s gaze. ‘What are you looking at, priest?’

John took a step towards him, but a hand on his shoulder restrained him. It was Amalric. There was blood on the king’s surcoat, and his face was pale. He smiled wanly. ‘We have won the day, John. Tonight, you will celebrate a victory Mass.’

‘Victory? This was a slaughter.’

‘It is unfortunate, but n-necessary,’ the king stuttered. ‘Cairo will n-not dare to resist once they hear the f-fate of Bilbeis. The people will open the gates to us. Egy-Egy—the Kingdom of the Nile will be ours. Jerusalem will be secure for all time.’

John said nothing. He watched the line of sobbing women as they shuffled through the gate; they would be used by the men of the army before being sold at the markets in Acre or Tyre. John felt sick.

Amalric pulled on his shoulder. ‘Come away, John. This is no place for a priest.’

John shrugged off the king’s hand and strode into the city. Dead bodies were strewn across the main street, and the cobblestones were slick with blood. The city, only a day’s march from Cairo, had fallen after a siege of three days. Once the defences were overrun, the people of Bilbeis had no hope of
saving
themselves from the slaughter that followed. It had started with the knights from Nevers. While the men of the city were being rounded up, a woman had spat at one of the troops and made the sign of the evil eye. The knight had cut the woman down, and the crowd of citizens panicked and ran. The men of Nevers gave chase, and once the blood started to flow, it was impossible to stop.

John heard a high-pitched cry coming from an alleyway to his right. The screaming grew louder as he turned into the narrow passage. ‘No!’ a woman was shouting in Arabic. ‘Allah help me! No!’ Then she fell silent. John quickened his pace, then stopped as he passed an open doorway. A dark-haired Egyptian woman was pinned to the floor beneath a pale-skinned Frank. The man had removed his armour and wore only a tunic, pushed up above his waist. Another Frank was just removing his mail. His surcoat was black with a white cross in the middle: the sign of the knights Hospitaller.

The woman on the floor screamed and tried to squirm free, but to no avail. The man atop cuffed her backhanded. Blood ran from her nose. She looked about in panic, and her dark eyes settled on John.

The Hospitaller who had just removed his mail looked up. ‘Leave us, priest. This is not your affair.’

John did not move.

The Hospitaller raised a fist and took a step towards him. ‘Are you deaf, priest?’ John still did not move, and the Hospitaller’s expression changed suddenly. He dropped his fists. ‘You want a piece of her too, don’t you, priest? A little taste of Egypt, eh?’

John removed the cross from about his neck, and the Hospitaller leered. John grasped the gold crucifix in his fist so that the top protruded between his fingers. He slammed it into the Hospitaller’s grinning face. The man crumpled to the floor.

‘What in God’s name—!’ the other man cried as he rose to his knees. Before he could stand, John grabbed him by his long hair and pulled him off the woman. She scrambled into a corner,
where
she drew her knees to her chest and sobbed. The man had pulled free from John’s grip and now turned to face him. ‘Whoreson!’ he growled and stepped forward with fists raised. He swung. John caught his arm and slammed the cross into the side of his head. The man’s knees buckled and he slumped to the ground. John dropped the cross and knelt on the man’s chest. ‘Wait—’ the man murmured as he came to and saw John’s fist raised above him. John punched him and felt a crunch as the man’s nose broke. The man’s eyes glazed over, and he fell back unconscious. John raised his fist again.

‘John! What have you done?’ It was Amalric.

John picked up his cross and wiped the bloody top on his tunic before hanging it about his neck. ‘They were raping her.’

Amalric looked from John to the two unconscious Hospitallers. The king nodded towards the woman huddled in the corner. ‘What will become of her now? Will she stay here, alone in this ruined city? How long do you think she will last before she starves to death, or someone else takes her for his own?’

‘I could not stand by and do nothing.’

‘It is the way of war, John.’ Amalric’s expression softened as he looked back to the girl. ‘Ask her what her name is.’

‘Halima,’ the woman replied when John asked.

‘Halima,’ Amalric mused. ‘She is pretty enough. Have her brought to my tent.’ John opened his mouth to protest, but the king cut him off. ‘I will treat her well, John, better than those knights would have.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Now, come. Cairo awaits.’

DECEMBER 1168: THE SINAI

Yusuf gazed into the cloudless sky as he tilted his head back to drink from his waterskin. He allowed himself only a single
mouthful
. He lowered the skin and replaced the stopper. He stood atop an enormous sand dune that it had taken precisely three hundred and seventeen steps to climb. Behind him, men were zigzagging up hill, the sand spilling away from their feet. The slope was too steep to ride up, so they led their horses behind them. Far away, at the bottom of the dune, those just starting to climb looked like toy figures. The column stretched along the valley between two dunes and then over another dune and another after that. There were nearly six thousand men in all. Two thousand were Nur ad-Din’s own mamluks from Aleppo, Damascus and Mosul. Another thousand mamluks, including Yusuf’s own contingent of two hundred men, had come with the dozen emirs who had joined the campaign. The remaining three thousand were Bedouin and Turcoman warriors – Arab and Turkish nomads who had joined the army in hope of collecting spoils. They had gathered the men in Damascus and left two weeks ago.

‘A storm is coming,’ their guide said from where he sat with his legs folded. Mutazz was a
badawi
, a traveller of the desert. He had a thin, weathered face, like the craggy stone floor of Al-Niqab, the rocky expanse they had crossed to reach the dune sea. While Yusuf and Shirkuh had struggled up the dunes, Mutazz strode ahead of them, never showing any sign of fatigue. Yusuf had wondered at how the badawi found his way among the towering dunes. When he asked, Mutazz had told him that the dunes spoke to him. Yusuf had smiled, thinking that Mutazz was joking, but the Bedouin was serious. ‘The hiss of the sand sliding across the slopes,’ he said, ‘the slant of the shadows across their face, these things tell me where I am.’

Mutazz stood and pointed in the direction they were headed. Huge waves of sand stretched to the horizon. ‘There. A sandstorm.’

Yusuf could just make out a brown smudge in the distance.

‘When will it hit us?’ Shirkuh asked.

The Bedouin shrugged. ‘Hard to say. Storms are like wild
horses
; they move at their own pace, sometimes a walk, sometimes a gallop.’

‘Before nightfall?’

Mutazz shrugged again.

‘We will press on,’ Shirkuh decided. ‘I’d rather face a sandstorm than spend another day among these cursed dunes without fresh water.’

‘Yes, yâ sîdi.’ The guide took the reins of his horse and led it down the far side of the dune. Yusuf wetted his keffiyeh – that would help to keep out the fine dust during a sandstorm – and checked his saddlebags to make certain that the tent cloth he would use as a shelter was to hand. Finally, he tugged at his horse’s reins and led it down the dune, following in Mutazz’s footsteps.

They continued west as noon came and went. Yusuf was walking in the shadows of a dune when he heard shouting from the men high on the hill behind them. They were pointing ahead. Yusuf noticed that the light was starting to dim, as if the sun had set.

Mutazz had stopped. ‘Listen!’ he said. There was a hissing sound, like steel being drawn across leather. It was growing louder. The badawi took a white tent cloth from his saddlebag. ‘La-taht,’ he called to his mount, which immediately lay down. He looked to Shirkuh. ‘The storm is almost upon us. It is moving fast.’

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a cloud of swirling brown sand appeared at the top of the dune before them. Yusuf pulled his keffiyeh down over his mouth and nose just before the storm hit with a shock of cold wind followed by stinging sand. Ahead, Yusuf saw that Mutazz had disappeared, drawing his tent sheet over him and his horse. A short piece of wood poked up in the middle to form a makeshift tent. Yusuf went to his saddlebag and took out his own tent cloth. Behind him, Shirkuh was shouting to the men. ‘Take shelter! Take shelter!’ Suddenly the full force of the storm hit them and
Shirkuh
disappeared, obscured by the thick cloud of swirling sand.