Eagle
Also by Jack Hight
Siege
Book One of the Saladin Trilogy
JACK HIGHT
First published in Great Britain in 2011 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK Company
© Jack Hight 2011
The right of Jack Hight to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Map by Rosie Collins
All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 978-1-84854-511-3
Book ISBN 978-1-84854-297-6
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
For my parents, who let me stay up as late as I wanted,
so long as I was reading.
Eagle
Salah ad-Din, or Saladin as he is known to the Franks, was a Kurd, the son of a despised people, and yet he became Sultan of Egypt and Syria. He united the peoples of Allah, recaptured Jerusalem and drove the Crusaders to the very edge of the sea. He battled, and in the end tamed King Richard of England, who was called the Lionhearted and well deserved his savage name. Saladin was a great man, the greatest man that I ever knew, but when I first met him, he was only a skinny child . . .
The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashq
MARCH 1148: BAALBEK
Y
usuf sat in the saddle, his olive-skinned face mottled red and his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He was having one of his fits, during which the devil himself seemed to grip his lungs and squeeze out all the air. And the faster he breathed, the more elusive the air became. His horse had already recovered from the sprint and was tugging at one of the rare clumps of spring grass that managed to grow on the dusty polo field. On the far side of the pitch, two-dozen boys continued the match without him, the hooves of their horses stirring up a cloud of dust as they swarmed around the kura, a wooden ball made from willow root. Their long mallets waved above the dust, rising and falling as the boys swung at the kura, trying to drive it through the far goal, two half-toppled Roman columns, remnants from some long-vanished structure. A hundred yards past the columns stood the thick city walls of Baalbek, and past them dozens of pale, sandstone buildings clustered around an ancient Roman temple whose tall columns dwarfed the city around it. Over it all loomed the craggy, snow-capped peak of Mount Tallat al Jawzani.
Yusuf closed his eyes and leaned close to the neck of his horse, forcing himself to slow his breathing. He blocked out the whoops and yells of the other boys, concentrating instead on the rapid beat of his heart and the sweet, musky smell of his
horse’s mane. Gradually, his chest stopped heaving and his heart slowed.
‘Yusuf!’ Yusuf sat upright and his eyes snapped open. The kura was bouncing towards him across the uneven ground, and one of his team-mates had called out to warn him. Turan, Yusuf’s older half-brother and opponent in the match, had broken from the pack and was racing after the ball. Turan was tall and thick whereas Yusuf was short and thin. At twelve, he was Yusuf’s senior by two years, and his upper lip already showed the first signs of a man’s beard. His horse was larger and faster, but Yusuf was closer. He would reach the ball first.
Yusuf flicked the reins and kicked the sides of his horse, urging it to a gallop. His eyes locked on the kura, and he raised his mallet high. He had begun to swing down in an arc towards the ball when, just before he made contact, he felt a sharp blow against his side as Turan drove the butt of his mallet handle into his ribs. Yusuf slipped sideways, lost his grip on his mallet, and then toppled from the saddle. He rolled as he hit the ground, as he had been taught, in order to absorb the impact. He sat up just in time to see Turan knock the kura through the goal, another pair of tall Roman columns. Turan let out a whoop of joy. Yusuf rose slowly, clutching his side. Dragging his mallet behind him, he trudged towards his horse, which had found another patch of grass some fifty yards off. Yusuf had only taken a few steps when Turan rode past at a gallop, almost knocking him over. Turan gathered the reins of Yusuf’s horse and led it back to him.
‘You should be more careful, little brother,’ Turan said with a grin as he handed Yusuf the reins. ‘A true warrior never leaves his horse.’
‘A true warrior fights with honour,’ Yusuf muttered as he pulled himself into the saddle.
‘What was that?’ Turan demanded, raising his mallet. He had a dangerous look in his eye. Yusuf wondered if he had been drinking again.
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you sure, little brother?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘Good.’ Turan turned his horse and spurred away to the centre of the field, where the other boys were waiting. Yusuf followed.
‘I have a proposal!’ Turan shouted to the other boys. He pointed to the mountains that lay beyond the city to the east. ‘We will play until the sun disappears behind Mount Tallat al Jawzani. Those who lose will tend the horses and muck out the stalls for the winners.’ The boys on Turan’s team, all older, cheered.
‘But that’s not fair!’ Yusuf’s younger brother, Selim, protested. Selim was only eight, and at first glance a perfect mixture of his two elder brothers – tall like Turan, but thin and wiry like Yusuf. ‘You’re already up two to one.’ Selim shook his head and turned his horse to leave.
‘Fine then!’ Turan called after him. ‘The next goal wins.’ Selim turned back towards the others. ‘But the losers will tend the victors’ horses for a full week.’
Selim shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Yusuf cut him off. ‘Agreed.’
The other boys on Yusuf’s team looked at him wide-eyed, surprise mingled with anger. They were all older than Yusuf, and they were Turkish, part of the elite warrior class that ruled over the local Arabs. Two years ago, while Yusuf’s father was governor of Baalbek, the other boys would have been forced to go along with him. But after the Emir of Damascus conquered Baalbek, Yusuf’s father had lost his post, and the boys’ respect had turned to scorn. Now when his family visited from Damascus to oversee their remaining lands, Yusuf was just another Kurd, an outsider. The local boys followed Turan because they were afraid of him, but no one feared Yusuf.
Haytham, the oldest boy on Yusuf’s team, rode up beside him and gripped his arm painfully. ‘What are you doing, Kurd?’ he hissed. ‘You know we’ve never beaten them.’
The son of the local emir, Khaldun, put a hand on Haytham’s
shoulder. ‘Peace, Haytham.’ He gestured to the sun, which hung huge and molten red just above the mountains. ‘We only have to hold on a little longer for the tie.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘No, we only have a little longer to win.’
Khaldun chuckled. ‘You’re not so bad, for a Kurd.’ He turned to Turan. ‘We accept your bet.’
Turan grinned. ‘Then let’s play.’ He raised his mallet high and swung down in a loop, hitting the wooden kura with a crack and sending it bouncing towards the weathered columns on Yusuf’s side of the field. The boys spurred after it, swarming around the ball. Yusuf and Selim kept free of the crowd, circling around to defend their goal. They played better in open space, where their superior horsemanship was to their advantage. The other boys always mocked Yusuf for hanging back, refusing to join the scrum for the ball. They claimed he lacked bravery, but Yusuf did not care what others said, so long as he won.
The mob of riders surged back and forth across the field, now closer to Yusuf and the goal he guarded, now further away. The thick dust surrounding the riders prevented Yusuf from making out what was happening in the melee, but it was clear that Turan was dominating the game, using his superior size to knock other riders aside and get at the ball. Yusuf looked past the players to the mountain behind Baalbek. The sun had just touched its peak, and shadows were already racing across the city, swallowing up the Roman temple and the houses around it. The match was almost over. If he wanted to win, then he had to act soon.
Yusuf looked back to the action around the ball just in time to see Turan rise up amongst the other riders and knock the ball hurtling towards the goal to Yusuf’s left. Yusuf responded instinctively, turning his horse with his knees and kicking its flanks to urge it forward. He reached the ball just in time, slamming his mallet into the ground and blocking the rolling kura. Turan’s cry of victory died on his lips.
‘Selim!’ Yusuf yelled as he swung his mallet, sending the ball bouncing to his right, towards his brother. The rest of the boys followed the kura, but Yusuf headed to the left of the crowd. When the ball reached Selim, he sent it bouncing back across the field, past the other riders, to where Yusuf sat alone on his horse. The boys in the crowd turned their horses, but it was too late. There was no one between Yusuf and the far goal.
Yusuf slammed the kura up the field and galloped after it. He was halfway across the field when he reached it, and, without slowing, swung his mallet in an easy loop, striking the ball with a loud crack and driving it on towards the goal. The boys giving chase were still far back, except for Turan. He had broken free of the crowd and was gaining quickly. Yusuf kicked his horse’s sides, leaning close to its neck as he raced for the ball. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Turan closing fast. There was something odd about the way he was riding. He held his mallet at a funny angle, and his eyes were fixed not on the kura, but on Yusuf. Yusuf felt a shiver of fear run through him as he realized that he was Turan’s target.
Yusuf was almost to the ball, and now he could hear the pounding hooves of Turan’s horse. He took his eye off the kura, focusing instead on Turan’s mallet. He would have to time this just right. Yusuf raised his mallet as if he were about to strike the ball. At the same time, he let go of the reins with his left hand, grabbed his horse’s mane and slipped his left foot from the stirrup. Turan rode closer and closer, and then his mallet was in motion, arcing down towards Yusuf’s head. Yusuf dropped his own mallet and dodged to the right, swinging out of the saddle and gripping the mane of his horse as he clung to its side, one foot in the stirrup. Turan’s mallet landed with a thud on the saddle. Yusuf grabbed it, and pulled hard. Turan was off balance after missing Yusuf. He let go of his mallet, but too late. ‘
Yaha
!’ he cried out as he tumbled from the saddle and landed in a cloud of dust.