Jack Hight: Holy War

‘For saving my life again, amongst other things. You were right, John. You have always been right. For years, I thought of nothing but defeating the Franks. I thought victory would make me great, but it only made me cruel. My wars have ruined the country. The fields have gone unplanted. My subjects are beaten down and confused. The rich are reduced to hunger and the poor to destitution. I fought in the name of Allah, but I was not doing his work. My people do not need victory; they need peace.’

‘I only reminded you of what you once taught me.’

‘I could have used you by my side these many years, John. I have missed you.’

‘And I, you. Though I served other kings, I was always your friend.’

‘I know. What will you do now that war is ended? Will you return home to England?’

‘There is nothing for me there. My home is here. I only joined Richard’s crusade so that I could return. I wish to return to Damascus, if you will permit it.’

Yusuf smiled. ‘Of course. You are welcome at my court.’

‘Thank you, but I have had enough of kings and courts, my friend.’

‘As have I.’ Yusuf’s smile faded and his face resumed its melancholy cast. ‘If you will not accept a post, at least accept my coin, enough to settle you comfortably.’

‘You do not have to-’

‘I insist.’

John placed his hand over his heart and bowed at the waist. ‘Shukran Allah.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘I have many subjects, but few friends, John. You will visit me from time to time?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good.’ Yusuf stood and extended a hand to help John to his feet. ‘Now come. They will be missing us at the feast, and we have much to celebrate, you and I. Do you remember the first time you spoke to me of peace between our people?’ John nodded. ‘I called you a dreamer.’ Yusuf laughed softly. ‘Now, your dream has come true.’

‘Our dream, friend.’

‘Yes, our dream.’ Yusuf put his arm around John, and together they limped from the tent.

After the peace, the Frankish crusaders made their pilgrimage to Jerusalem and then returned home. Richard refused to visit the Holy City, vowing to only set foot inside as a conqueror. He never did. He took ship in October and did not return. I do not know what became of him, though I have heard it told that during his journey to England, he was made a prisoner in Austria by the same Leopold on whose flag he once pissed.

Saladin settled in Damascus with his wife Shamsa at his side, and set himself to doing good works and making up the prayers and days of fasting that he had missed during his long years of war. Allah did not grant him long to enjoy the peace he had crafted. The fire in his belly grew hotter and hotter until it consumed him from within. He died on the twenty-ninth day of Muharram in the five hundred and eighty-ninth year of the Hijra — the fourth day of May in the year 1193. I was by his side at the end, along with Shamsa, Imad ad-Din, Ibn Jumay, Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and his son Al-Afdal. Shamsa also summoned Faridah, Saladin’s first love, from her home in the city. She had become an old, wrinkled woman, but her hair was still fiery red. She held Shamsa while the sultan’s wife wept.

All of Damascus was in tears. The people dressed in black sackcloth. When Saladin’s body was marched around the city, their lamentations were so loud that it was said they could be heard in Jerusalem. I do not know the truth of this, but I know that no man better merited the tears of his people. Saladin was a righteous man, a mighty warrior, a great king. He united his people. He tamed the Lionheart. He retook Jerusalem and opened it to Franks, Saracens and Jews alike. Before he died, he brought peace to a land of war. I am but a poor man. I cannot build a church or endow a school of learning in honour of Saladin. This chronicle is my tribute to the truest friend I have ever known.

And here, I must put down my quill. This chronicle has taken the last ten years of my life. I am old, my hands crooked, and writing does not come as easy as it once did. Soon I will follow Saladin. He is no doubt in Paradise. Perhaps I shall see him there, if God lets me in. I have not lived a holy life. I was raised in England and came to these lands with blood on my head. Here, I have known love and pain and death. I have been called by many names and titles: Iain of Tatewic, John the Saxon, Canon, Archdeacon, Abbot, Priest, and finally, John of Damascus — Yahya al-Dimashqi. I have more than once made a mockery of the vows I took as a priest. But if my life has not been holy, if my actions have not always been honourable, I have always done as I thought best for the good of the Kingdom and its people. I pray that is enough.

The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashqi