Kingdom (29 page)

John entered to find Amalric seated in a simple wooden chair on the far side of the room. John knelt before him. ‘God grant you joy, sire.’

The king’s mouth was set in a hard line. Visiting with his son always upset him. No matter how often John told the king that leprosy was a disease, Amalric persisted in seeing it as a judgement from God, a judgement against him. ‘William has no doubt told you of our trip to Constantinople. Manuel has offered his fleet to support another invasion of Egypt.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Amalric leaned forward. ‘I want you to go to Cairo, John. I had spies in the caliph’s court, but they are useless now. Saladin has dismissed all the courtiers. He depends only on his own men. I want you to be my eyes in Cairo. Tell me about Saladin’s plans. Let me know how many men he has, and when they are on the move. Find out where Egypt is weak.’

John’s first thought was not of Cairo or Yusuf, but of Agnes. He did not want to leave her. Or Baldwin. He had grown close to the boy. He glanced at William. Was this his doing? ‘Why me, sire?’

‘You speak Arabic like a Saracen. You know their ways. More importantly, you were close to Saladin. You know people at his court, people who can give you information.’

‘And you are a priest,’ William added. ‘The Saracens respect holy men. When you travel, you will say that you are on a pilgrimage to visit the sites where the holy family stopped in Egypt. When you arrive you will join the brothers at a Coptic monastery in Mataria, just outside Cairo. The Coptic bishop in Jerusalem will prepare you a letter of introduction.’

John frowned. ‘I owe Saladin my life, sire. I will not spy on him.’

Amalric was suddenly stern. ‘I am your king. You will do as I command.’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Do not trust your news to messenger pigeons. When you have information, ride to Ascalon and deliver it yourself.’

‘We are particularly interested Saladin’s relations with Nur ad-Din,’ William said. ‘We want you to find ways to drive them apart.’

John shook his head. ‘Saladin will never betray his lord.’

‘He is vizier of Egypt now, John,’ Amalric said. ‘And rulers will do what they must. There is no lord above us but God.’

‘When do I depart?’ John asked. He was thinking of Agnes again. He would need to take his leave of her.

‘Tomorrow,’ William told him. ‘Tonight, you and I will be busy discussing your mission in more detail.’

‘And how long am I to stay in Cairo?’

‘Until we send for you. And that might not be for some years.’

AUGUST 1171: CAIRO

Yusuf sat in his study, a writing desk on his lap, and blinked his tired eyes as he read a report from Selim on the army’s progress in southern Egypt. Yusuf had sent his brother and Qaraqush up the Nile to deal with the remaining Nubians. The campaign was going well. The Nubians were divided amongst themselves, and Selim had been defeating scattered groups one by one. He expected the remaining warriors would soon seek peace.

Yusuf set the report aside and picked up another message. It had come by carrier pigeon from the court in Aleppo. In it, Nur ad-Din ordered Yusuf to instruct the mosques of Cairo that the khutba, a sermon delivered before Friday prayers, was to invoke Allah’s blessing on the Sunni caliph in Baghdad – not the Egyptian caliph, Al-Adid. It was the eighth such letter Yusuf had received since he became vizier, two years previously. He frowned. He was only the vizier, which meant that, technically, he served at Al-Adid’s pleasure. If he broke with the caliph so openly, then Al-Adid would be forced to move against him. There would be a rebellion.

Yusuf had begun to compose a response when there was a soft knock at the door. He looked up to see Shamsa standing in a tight-fitting silk caftan that accented her pregnant belly. The child would be born any day now, and unlike his child by Asimat, this one Yusuf could claim as his own.

Shamsa frowned. ‘You work yourself too hard, my lord.’

‘There are men in the fields who work harder.’

Shamsa crossed the room and took the quill from his hand,
placing
it back in the inkwell. ‘No more work for now. You have a visitor.’

‘Who?’

‘Your father.’

‘What?’ Yusuf stood. ‘I thought he was in Damascus. Why was I not informed of his coming?’

‘It seems he did not want you to know. He has brought your nephew Ubadah with him.’

Yusuf turned his back to her while he struggled with warring emotions: surprise, anger, joy, anxiety. It had been nearly three years since he had last seen his father, during a brief stop in Damascus on the way to Egypt. They had hardly spoken. His relations with Ayub had been frosty ever since Yusuf had refused to serve as his lieutenant in Damascus. Yusuf had been little more than a boy at the time, but he still remembered precisely what he had said when Ayub had told him that if he stayed in Damascus he might govern the city after him:
I wish for more than to govern Damascus, Father. I will be more than a mere wali
. His father had laughed.

Shamsa put a hand on his back. ‘Look at your silk robes, the jewelled sword at your side. Your father will be impressed, my lord. You are the ruler of Egypt.’

‘That will not matter to him,’ Yusuf muttered. He passed through his bedroom and entered his private audience chamber. It was a small, thickly carpeted room, the walls hung with red silk decorated with geometric designs in silver thread. On one wall a row of open windows looked south towards the caliph’s palace. Ayub and Ubadah stood near the door. Yusuf went to his nephew first and embraced him. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Ubadah!’ He gripped his nephew’s muscular arm. Ubadah was only thirteen and lacked a beard, but he was already tall and broad-shouldered. ‘You are a man now!’

‘Mother sent me,’ he said. ‘You are to teach me the ways of a warrior.’

‘You shall have a place in my army.’ Yusuf gave Ubadah’s
arm
a final squeeze and then turned to his father. Ayub still had the angular features and piercing eyes that Yusuf remembered, but his short-cropped hair had gone completely grey. Yusuf had thought of his father as ageless, but now he realized that he was growing old, nearly sixty. Still, he stood stiff-backed, like a soldier at attention.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Father.’ Yusuf embraced and kissed him.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, my son.’ Ayub frowned as he gestured to Yusuf’s fine robes. ‘What is this frippery?’

Yusuf flinched. ‘They are the robes of the Vizier of Egypt, Father. All is well in Damascus? Nur ad-Din is pleased with your governance of the city?’

‘I am wali no longer. He has sent me here to counsel you. We must talk.’ He glanced at Ubadah. ‘In private.’

‘Of course. But first you must bathe and eat. You must be tired after your long journey.’

‘I am not tired. We will speak now.’

Yusuf’s forehead creased. He did not appreciate being ordered about like a servant in his own palace. Still, Ayub was his father, and Yusuf was curious to know what had brought him to Cairo. ‘Very well.’

When Ubadah had left, Yusuf sat on the low dais that had been set up below the windows. He found forcing his guests to look into the sun did more to establish his authority than any throne. Yusuf gestured for his father to sit on the floor before him. ‘How is Mother?’

Ayub remained standing. ‘I do not have time for trifles, Son. Nur ad-Din has sent me because he is displeased with you.’ Yusuf blinked in surprise. ‘Our lord ordered you to change the khutba to honour the Sunni Caliph in Baghdad. You have not done so.’

‘Egypt is Shiite, and its people are wary of foreigners. I am a Sunni and a Kurd. My rule is far from secure. If I change the prayers, then there will be a rebellion. I have sent letters explaining this to Nur ad-Din.’

‘If there is a rebellion, put it down,’ Ayub said coldly. ‘Nur ad-Din did not send his troops to Egypt so that they would lie idle.’

‘It is not that simple, Father. Most of the emirs that came with us have returned to Syria. The loyalty of the Egyptian troops is the only thing that keeps me in power. I will not risk losing it by forcibly converting Cairo.’

‘Nur ad-Din suspects that is not your only reason.’

Yusuf flushed red with anger. He stood and looked down at his father. ‘What other reason could I have?’ He waited for a response, but Ayub said nothing. He did not need to. Yusuf could guess well enough what his lord was thinking. A few months ago, Nur ad-Din had been confirmed as lord of Egypt by the caliph in Baghdad. But such a declaration meant little so long as the Shia caliph still ruled in Cairo. If Yusuf made Cairo Sunni, then he would be putting Egypt more firmly under Nur ad-Din’s power. More to the point, he would be weakening his own position. Without the caliph in Cairo between him and Nur ad-Din, Yusuf would be expected to answer to any and all of his lord’s demands. If Nur ad-Din called for Yusuf to leave Egypt, then he would have no choice but to comply – or to rebel.

‘I am no traitor, Father,’ Yusuf said sharply.

Ayub’s expression softened. ‘I believe you, Yusuf. You have always been a dutiful son. But you run a great risk. If you continue to disobey Nur ad-Din then he will come to Cairo himself with an army at his back. You will be disgraced. Our family will lose everything.’

‘If I obey him, then we will lose Egypt.’

‘Perhaps there is another way.’ Ayub went to the window and looked out towards the caliph’s palace. ‘The Caliph Al-Adid has no sons. Perhaps it would make matters easier if he were to die.’

‘He is a holy man, Father. I will not be party to his assassination.’

‘I said nothing of assassination. He should die of—natural causes.’

Yusuf’s expression hardened. ‘This conversation is over, Najm ad-Din.’

‘Yusuf—’

‘You may call me Saladin.’ Yusuf turned away and entered his apartments. Shamsa was waiting for him in the next room. He strode past her without stopping and entered his study, slamming the door behind him. He sat down to his papers, but could not concentrate. He found himself thinking of the time, years ago, when his father had used treachery to deliver Damascus to Nur ad-Din. Ayub had spread rumours about the ruler of Damascus, even paid a male prostitute to sleep with him. Yusuf wanted nothing to do with such foul tricks. He wondered if Nur ad-Din was aware of Ayub’s plotting. He had thought the malik above such things.

The door swung open, and Yusuf looked up to see Shamsa. Without speaking, she moved behind him and began to rub his shoulders. Yusuf sighed. He had not realized how tense he was.

‘What has upset you, my lord? It is your father?’

‘He treats me as a child, Shamsa. He no sooner arrives than he begins to issue me orders.’

‘He is your father. You will always be a child to him. And he does respect you. That is why he wanted to speak in private, so as not to embarrass you before your men.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘Perhaps.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

Shamsa leaned close to his ear. ‘Tell me, my lord. It is a wife’s duty to relieve her husband’s burdens.’

‘He—he wishes for me to have Al-Adid murdered.’

Shamsa continued to massage him in silence. ‘He is right,’ she said at last.

Yusuf pulled away. ‘No. The Caliph is my lord.’

She moved to sit across from him, lowering herself with great care. ‘Your father only wants what is best for you, Yusuf.’

‘My father serves Nur ad-Din first and his family second. He cares nothing for me. He never has.’

‘You are wrong. Think, my lord! So long as the Caliph sits in his palace in Cairo, your rule will never be secure. He appointed you, and if you displease him, he will remove you. He has already conspired against you once. You know that he was in league with Al-Khlata.’

‘He denied it.’

‘You know better. The Caliph resents you. He will seek to turn the Egyptian troops against you, and eventually he will succeed. After all, they were raised to serve him.’

Yusuf frowned. He knew she was right.

Shamsa touched his arm. ‘Al-Adid has no heir. If he dies you can declare yourself king. But if you wait until he has a son, it will be too late. You must act now.’

Yusuf rose and went to the window, which looked out over an interior courtyard. Rose bushes bloomed and fat bees buzzed between the flowers. Watching them, Yusuf was reminded of his youth. How many days had he spent in Baalbek under the lime trees in bloom, watching bees chart their course amongst the flowers? He scowled. He had thought then that honour was what made a ruler great. He turned from the window to face Shamsa. ‘Bring me Ibn Jumay.’

The Jewish doctor was staying in the palace in order to be on hand for Shamsa’s birth. He was shown in a moment later. Yusuf’s childhood tutor was nearly fifty now, but his appearance was largely unchanged. He had the same kind brown eyes, the same close-cropped beard and curling sidelocks. Only his small paunch showed his advancing age.

Ibn Jumay bowed. ‘Are you well, sayyid?’

‘I am not the one who needs your ministrations, friend. The Caliph is unwell. I do not number long his days in this world.’

‘I have heard nothing of it.’

‘Nevertheless, it is so. I want you to go to him. Take away his pain. You have drugs that will ease his passage to the next life?’

Ibn Jumay opened his mouth to reply, then frowned. ‘What are you asking me, sayyid?’

‘I need your help, friend. Nur ad-Din will invade if I do not convert Egypt to Sunni Islam. And yet, if I do so and go against the Caliph’s wishes there will be a rebellion. I would lose everything. But if the Caliph were to die a natural death—’ Yusuf let the words hang in the air.

‘I am no murderer, Yusuf.’

‘You are a doctor, and now it is the state itself that needs your care. You would be sacrificing one life to save thousands.’ Yusuf met Ibn Jumay’s eyes. ‘If you do not help me, then I will die.’

After a moment the doctor dropped his gaze to the floor and whispered, ‘I understand, sayyid.’

‘A son, my lord!’

Yusuf blinked at the midwife. Shamsa had entered labour shortly after his meeting with Ibn Jumay. The delivery had been long, stretching into the next day. Yusuf had not slept, and now he was groggy, his thoughts slow.