Kingdom (34 page)

‘
Alhamdulillah
!’ Shamsa cried as she rushed forward and embraced him.

The first of the masked men burst into the room. When he saw the mamluks, he turned and ran. A dozen of Yusuf’s men gave chase. Yusuf looked to his brother. ‘Send men to block every exit from the palace. Take them alive if you can.’

‘No, no! Please!
Ya Allah
!
Ya Allah
! Have mercy!’ The assassin squirmed as Al-Mashtub slowly turned one of the screws of the steel vice that encircled his head. The head crusher was a truly terrible instrument. It had two clamps, one putting pressure on the forehead and back of the skull, the other squeezing the victim’s head just above his ears. Al-Mashtub continued turning the screw, putting unbearable pressure on the sides of the man’s skull. ‘
Please
!
Please
!’ the assassin moaned. ‘Make it stop!’

Yusuf forced himself to watch. It was late, only an hour after the assassins’ failed attempt. He was tired and sickened from
watching
men suffer, but he wanted to know who had hired them. He wanted to know, and yet he feared the truth.

The tortured assassin was now screaming incoherently, one long wail of agony. Then he passed out and the room fell silent. Yusuf turned to another assassin who had been tied to a chair and forced to watch his friend suffer. The man’s eyes were wide with fear. ‘Let us try again,’ Yusuf said. ‘Who gave you access to the palace? Who told you where my chambers are?’

The man’s lips curled into a sneer. ‘I will tell you nothing, Sunni dog.’

The man was brave, but Yusuf knew that even brave men could be made to talk if one applied the correct combination of fear, pain and hope that it all might end. The man had called Yusuf a Sunni dog. He would start there.

‘You sought to kill me because I am a Sunni, because I have converted the mosques of Cairo,’ Yusuf suggested. The man did not speak. ‘No, it is something else. You are loyal to the Fatimids, perhaps? You resent their imprisonment. I could have had them killed, you know. I showed them mercy. I will show you mercy as well, if you tell me what I want to know.’ The man shook his head. ‘Very well.’ Yusuf nodded to Al-Mashtub.

The giant mamluk unscrewed the vice from the first victim’s head and pulled it off. It had cracked the sides of the man’s skull, and purplish-black blood had pooled under the skin around his temples and below his ears. Al-Mashtub brought the head crusher towards the second assassin, who began to squirm in his chair, thrashing his head from side to side. A mamluk stepped behind the man and put a leather strap around his neck. He pulled up and back so that the strap dug into the flesh under the man’s chin, holding his head motionless. Al-Mashtub pressed the vice down over his head.

‘
No
!’ the man cried. ‘
Wait
!’

Al-Mashtub tightened one of the screws, just enough so that the man could feel the cold metal pressing against the sides of his head.

‘
Please
!
Stop
!’ The man’s eyes were jerking wildly from side to side. ‘It was Najm ad-Din! He is the one who showed us into the palace!’

Yusuf felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He closed his eyes and gripped the back of the chair, waiting until his breathing returned to normal. He leaned close to the assassin’s face. ‘If you speak false, you shall suffer such pain that you will wish to die, but I will not let you.’

‘I do not lie,’ the man said. ‘It was your father. I swear it.’

‘I want details.’

‘On his way to Cairo from Damascus, Najm ad-Din stopped in Yemen. There are many loyal to the Fatimids there, men who fled Egypt when the Caliph died. He recruited us, brought us to an apartment in Cairo and told us to wait. Then we did not see him for months. We thought he had changed his plans until last week when he came to us. He told us how to enter the palace and where to find you. He said that if we killed you, he would place one of the Fatimids back on the throne.’

Yusuf looked to Al-Mashtub. ‘See that this one dies quickly. Crucify the others outside the northern gate.’ He turned to Saqr, who stood at the door. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf left the torture chamber and crossed the palace to his father’s quarters. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he nodded to Saqr, who pushed the door open.

Ayub sat across from the door, bent over a lap desk as he wrote by the light of a single candle. He looked up as Yusuf entered. Ayub’s face was drawn, his eyes red. He placed his quill aside, took the piece of paper on which he had been writing, and held it to the candle flame. As it began to burn, he rose and dropped it out of the window behind him. Then he turned to face Yusuf.

‘Alhamdulillah. I am pleased to see you are well, my son.’

‘Are you, Father?’ Yusuf looked to Saqr. ‘Leave us.’ Saqr departed and drew the door closed behind him. Yusuf turned
back
to his father. ‘Were you writing to Nur ad-Din? Congratulating your lord on my death?’

‘I only wished to protect you, Yusuf.’

‘By sending assassins to kill me in the night?’

‘You would have died with your honour intact.’

‘Honour? That is all you care about, Father!’

‘Without honour we would be little better than animals,’ Ayub replied softly. ‘I thought I taught you that much, Yusuf, if nothing else.’

‘You taught me that you care more for Nur ad-Din than for your own family. You taught me that nothing I ever did would be good enough to earn your love!’

‘That is not true.’

Yusuf opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. Across the room a single tear had fallen from his father’s eye to zigzag down his weathered cheek. Yusuf had never seen his father cry. He had not thought him capable of it.

‘I am sorry, Yusuf,’ he said. ‘But loyalty is the most important virtue, even more than love.’

‘And what of your loyalty to me? I am your king.’

‘And I am your father.’ Ayub straightened and some of the old fire returned to his grey eyes. ‘Why would you not do as I asked? You have always been too headstrong.’

Yusuf did not reply. He did not know which he desired more: to forgive his father or to order his death. He was suddenly very tired. He wished only to be gone from here. He turned to leave.

‘Son!’ Ayub called, and Yusuf turned back. ‘I—’ His father met his eyes. ‘I understand what you must do. I only ask that you let me die an honourable death. Do not shame me. And do not let your mother know what I have done.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Yusuf was on his knees, prostrate so that his forehead touched the carpet beneath the domed ceiling of the Al-Azhar mosque.
Morning
prayers had ended, but Yusuf remained, surrounded by members of his private guard. He whispered the same words again and again. ‘Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory. Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory—’

He heard soft footsteps on the carpet and felt someone touch his shoulder. He looked up to see Qaraqush. ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Your father had an accident while hunting. He fell from his horse and broke his neck.’

Yusuf rose. ‘He is dead?’

‘In a coma. The doctor Ibn Jumay does not expect him to live long.’

Yusuf felt a tightening in his chest. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. It was like one of his childhood fits when no matter how much he gasped the air would not come. He had not suffered such a spell in years. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly and steadily. The fit passed, but the heaviness in his chest remained.

Yusuf rode at a gallop back to the palace, where he went straight to his quarters. Shamsa was waiting in the antechamber. Yusuf strode past without a word and went to his bedroom. She began to enter after him, but he turned to block her way.

‘Leave me be! I am not to be disturbed. I want food and water brought to my chambers, but nothing else. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, habîbi.’

Yusuf closed the door and sank to the floor. Tears began to form, but then he thought of something his father had said to him long ago: ‘Do not cry, boy. Only women cry.’ Yusuf shook the thought from his head. He tried to weep, but no tears would come.

Yusuf sat cross-legged in his bedroom. His hair was unkempt and his robe filthy, but he was oblivious to his appearance. A volume of the
Hamasah
lay open before him. He knew all of the
poems
by heart. How many afternoons had he spent in the shade of the lime trees behind his childhood home, lost in tales of love and glory? Yusuf smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of his father, his mouth set in a thin line of disapproval as he watched his son read. Yusuf closed the book and set it aside.

The door to the room creaked open. ‘I said I was not to be disturbed!’ Yusuf snapped.

Shamsa entered. ‘It has been two weeks, Yusuf. You have a kingdom to rule.’

‘I am not fit to rule,’ he muttered.

Shamsa sat across from him. ‘You look tired,’ she said and reached out to touch his hair, which was now flecked with grey.

Yusuf pushed her hand away. ‘Go, Shamsa. I wish to be alone.’

She did not move. ‘You did the right thing, Yusuf.’

‘I do not wish to speak of it.’

‘He tried to have you killed. He had to die.’

Yusuf felt the heaviness settle on his chest again. It was never far away. ‘I told you to go.’ He rose and went to the window, his back to Shamsa. ‘Why will you not leave me in peace?’

She approached and gently touched his shoulder. This time, Yusuf did not push her away. She wrapped her arms around him, embracing him from behind.

‘What sort of man am I, Shamsa?’

‘A great man.’

‘I do not wish to be great.’

‘You have no choice. Allah has chosen you.’

‘I wish he would choose someone else.’ Yusuf stared out of the window for a long time. Finally he turned to face Shamsa. ‘He was my father.’ Yusuf’s lip trembled. He could feel himself losing control. ‘I—I wish—’ Words failed him, and he buried his face in her shoulder and began to sob. It was the first time he had cried since his father’s death. Shamsa held him and gently stroked his hair.

Finally the tears stopped flowing. ‘To rule, you must make painful decisions,’ Shamsa whispered in his ear. ‘It is the price for greatness, Yusuf.’

Yusuf stepped back from her. The weight on his chest had vanished, and now he stood straight. ‘Some prices are too high. I should not have killed him. I am a warrior, not an assassin.’

‘You are a king.’

‘And I shall rule as a virtuous king, or I shall fall.’

She gazed into his eyes for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, but first you must have a bath.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You are filthy.’

Yusuf looked down at his soiled robes. Was it really two weeks since he had bathed, since he had left his apartments?

‘And afterwards you will hold court,’ Shamsa continued. ‘Turan and Selim are worried. We receive news daily that Nur ad-Din is gathering more troops. The emirs need you to reassure them.’

‘Have my councillors gather in the council chamber,’ Yusuf told her. ‘But first, bring me Ibn Jumay.’

Yusuf had bathed. His hair had been oiled and his beard trimmed. He sat in a clean robe when Ibn Jumay entered his study. The doctor bowed. ‘Saladin.’

Yusuf motioned for him to sit. ‘Thank you for coming, my friend. You are well?’

‘My practice is busy.’

‘I hope you have time for one more patient.’

Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘I cannot, Yusuf.’

‘I promise you that I will not sacrifice virtue for power. Not again.’

‘And what of Nur ad-Din? The rumour in the streets has it that he is marching on Egypt, and he means to have your head.’

‘If he wants me dead, then so be it. I merit death for what I have done.’

Ibn Jumay’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘You taught me that there are more important things than power, than life even. If I die, Nur ad-Din will unify Egypt and Syria. The Franks will be forced to make peace, and if they do not, he will defeat them and drive them from Jerusalem. If I fight, then I will bring nothing but suffering to my own people. Peace will be impossible.’ Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I will present myself to Nur ad-Din and submit to his judgement.

‘He will have you killed.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I fear I will not have need of your services for long. What do you say, old friend? Will you stand by me in my last days?’

Ibn Jumay bowed. ‘It would be my honour.’

Chapter 15

MARCH 1174: JERUSALEM

J
ohn pulled his cloak tight about him as he stepped into the chill air atop one of the towers of the palace of Jerusalem. Winter had passed but the mornings were still cold. John could see the breath of Cephas – a stooped Syrian Christian with a curly grey beard – as he pottered about the cages of the royal dovecote. He had explained to John that the pigeons could cover more than five hundred miles in a single day and find their way home from as far off as Constantinople.

‘Twelve today,’ Cephas said as handed John a box filled with capsules, each of which John knew held a tiny scroll of paper.

‘Thank you, Cephas.’ John carried the box to the palace chancellery. Baldwin was already seated at the table. Ever since John had returned from Kerak last July, Baldwin had been helping him sift through the correspondence that came to the palace. William felt that it was a good way for him to learn statecraft. John handed him six of the capsules and then sat on the opposite side of the table and unrolled a scroll. He squinted as he read the minuscule Arabic script.

It was a detailed report from one of the Kingdom’s spies in Damascus. The spy provided the exact number of pack animals the army had gathered; the most accurate predictor of the size of an army. ‘Nur ad-Din has raised an army of ten thousand,’ John said to Baldwin.

Baldwin looked up from the report he was reading. The
young
prince’s disease had advanced. He now had small red lesions on his forehead, and his eyelashes and eyebrows had fallen out, giving him a strange appearance. Other than that, he looked like a thinner version of his blond, square-jawed father. ‘Such a force could threaten Jerusalem,’ the prince noted.