Jack Hight: Holy War

‘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.