Imad ad-Din stroked his beard. ‘Very clever, Yusuf.’ Yusuf exhaled in relief, but then Imad ad-Din continued. ‘But this proves nothing. I saw you leave the temple on one horse, but that does not mean that you could not have ridden back from the Bedouin camp on two. And besides, I cannot place your reasoning – no matter how clever – above the word of three men. Do you have anything else to add before I pass judgement?’ Yusuf’s mind raced, but he could think of no way to prove his innocence. ‘Very well,’ Imad ad-Din sighed. ‘Turan, come forward. I am prepared to deliver my verdict.’
Turan rose to join Yusuf. ‘Who is the clever one now, little brother?’ he whispered under his breath.
Imad ad-Din cleared his throat. ‘Yusuf, I find that—’
‘Wait!’ Yusuf interrupted. ‘I have something to add.’ He glanced at Turan. ‘My brother spoke true about one thing: he could not have committed this crime.’
‘What do you mean?’ Imad ad-Din asked, his eyes wide.
Yusuf looked to the floor. ‘I—I cannot say.’
‘Speak!’ Ayub told him. ‘I command it.’
‘Very well.’ Yusuf looked to Waqar. ‘The beauty of your daughter is well known. Turan never would have ridden so far to be with her.’
‘And why not?’ Imad ad-Din asked.
Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I know my brother. He has no feeling for women.’
‘What!’ Turan cried.
‘He might be interested in the goat, yâ sîdi, but not your daughter.’
Turan raised a fist and took a step towards Yusuf. ‘You lie!’
‘I speak the truth,’ Yusuf shouted over his brother. ‘Turan would never have touched her.’
‘You lying bastard!’ Turan shoved Yusuf, knocking him to the ground and stood over him, his hands clenched into fists. ‘I had the girl! More than once! You are the goat-fucker!’
The room fell silent. All eyes fixed on Turan. His face reddened as he realized what he had said. ‘You bastard,’ he growled at Yusuf. ‘You tricked me!’ He lunged for Yusuf, but Ayub’s man Abaan grabbed him from behind and held him back.
As Yusuf rose from the floor, he looked past Turan to his father, who was shaking his head in disgust. ‘Imad ad-Din, what do you say?’ Ayub asked.
‘Turan has admitted his guilt. Let justice be done.’
‘But Father—’ Turan began.
‘Silence!’ Ayub snapped. He rose and everyone in the hall did likewise. Ayub turned to Waqar. ‘We are brothers now. My oldest son will marry your daughter.’ He placed his hands on the shepherd’s shoulders, and kissed him three times on the lips. Waqar nodded, speechless. There were tears of joy in his eyes.
Ayub turned from Waqar and approached Turan. ‘You disappoint me, my son. Maybe marriage will cool your blood.’ He marched out of the hall, leaving Turan red-faced.
Yusuf leaned close to his brother. ‘Congratulations on your marriage, Brother,’ he whispered, then followed his father from the hall.
Yusuf stood shivering in the courtyard of the villa, his ceremonial white-silk caftan pulled close about him. The winter had been long and hard, and even now, in April, the weather was unseasonably cold. The dozens of guests – men on one side of the courtyard and women on the other – looked miserable as
they stamped their feet and blew on their hands while waiting for the wedding ceremony to begin. But none looked more miserable than the groom. Turan stood next to Yusuf, wearing a pure-white caftan, belted with a length of saffron-yellow silk. His turban was also held in place with yellow silk. Last night, at the henna ceremony, the little finger on his right hand had been painted with intricate, swirling patterns in dark brown. His sparse, adolescent beard had been filled out with kohl. He looked every bit the perfect groom, except for the grimace stretched across his face.
A cheer went up from the crowd, and the frown on Turan’s face deepened as his bride-to-be, Sa’ida, rode through the gates of the villa on the back of a camel led by her smiling father, Waqar. Sa’ida was also dressed in white, with only her hands, feet and eyes showing. Her eyes had been outlined with kohl and her hands and feet decorated with henna. Yusuf guessed that she had also used powders to lighten her face, because the skin around her eyes was ghostly pale. Either that or she was simply frightened of what was to come. Indeed, her wide eyes, which were locked on Turan, spoke of something close to terror.
The camel stopped, and Waqar helped his daughter to dismount. He took her arm and led her towards Turan. She stopped before him, and Turan presented her with a necklace of beaten gold, his bride gift. The rest of her bride price – fifty fleeces, ten sheep, two fine horses and ten dinars – had already been delivered. Turan placed the necklace around Sa’ida’s neck, and Yusuf noticed that she flinched when his hands touched her. The two then turned to face Ayub.
‘I call on all of you to witness this marriage,’ Ayub called out to the crowd. He turned to his son. ‘Turan, will you take this woman, Sa’ida bint Waqar?’
Turan nodded. ‘Yes.’
Ayub turned to Waqar. ‘Waqar, will your daughter accept my son, Turan, in marriage?’ Sa’ida looked positively terrified.
Her hands shook, and her wide eyes scanned the crowd as if looking for help.
‘Yes!’ Waqar bellowed. ‘She gladly accepts.’ The crowd cheered, and Waqar grinned.
‘Let us have feasting and celebration!’ Ayub shouted. The crowd cheered again and servants rushed forward to serve the men. The women retreated to behind the villa, where they would have their own celebration.
Yusuf stepped forward and took Sa’ida’s trembling hands. She was crying. ‘You are welcome in our family,’ he said, then lowered his voice. ‘If you need a friend, you may come to me.’ She nodded her thanks, and Yusuf turned to Turan. He grasped him by the shoulders and kissed him three times on the lips. ‘Congratulations.’
Turan did not thank him. Leaning close, he whispered in Yusuf’s ear: ‘You will pay for this, Brother.’
JULY AND AUGUST 1150: BAALBEK
‘
B
y God it’s hot,’ John grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow. He and Yusuf rode along the dusty path that ran east from the city of Baalbek and into the foothills of the mountains. John turned in the saddle and looked back to where Yusuf’s brother Selim rode, followed by the women – Zimat, Turan’s new wife Sa’ida and four female slaves, all veiled. Abaan and two other mamluks brought up the rear, leading a packhorse. Behind them, the retreating walls of Baalbek shifted and wavered as heat rose from the parched earth. John turned forward again and rewrapped his turban, covering his face to protect it from the sun.
‘You look a proper Muslim, now,’ Yusuf told him.
‘Anything to keep that cursed sun off. It feels as if it could burn straight through my skin.’
‘We will be at the spring soon enough. It is a paradise. You will forget all about the sun.’
The road sloped gently upwards towards the mountains, and they began to pass ruins on their right-hand side – huge arches of stone, built one on top of another, supporting what looked like a road high above the ground. There were frequent gaps where the columns had collapsed into jagged piles of rubble.
‘What is that?’ John asked.
‘An aqueduct. The Romans built it to carry water from the spring into town.’
‘A road for water,’ John murmured in wonder. They left the aqueduct behind as the path swung sharply uphill and entered the shadows cast by towering cedars. After a few minutes the road levelled out, and they entered a shadowy clearing carpeted with lush green grass. At the far end of the meadow a half-fallen wall and a few marble columns – the crumbled remains of an ancient temple – stood beside the dark waters of a spring-fed pool.
‘Come on!’ Yusuf shouted. He slid from the saddle and ran towards the water. When he reached it, he leapt through the air with a whoop of joy and landed with a splash. Selim followed close behind, hurling himself head over heels into the pool. John dismounted, gathered up the reigns of the horses, and led them across the clearing. The women followed, giggling over Yusuf and Selim’s antics.
John tethered the horses to a column and left them to crop at the lush grass that grew up between the stones of the ruined temple. He turned to see Yusuf emerging from the spring, his dripping tunic clinging to his thin but muscular frame. Behind him, Zimat, Sa’ida and the other women were standing at the edge of the pool, gasping as they dipped their feet in the water. Yusuf shook himself, sending water flying at the girls, who shrieked and retreated.
Yusuf turned back to John. ‘What are you waiting for?’
John looked at Yusuf’s clinging tunic, then glanced over to where Zimat stood watching. He shook his head. ‘Later, maybe.’
‘At least take a drink,’ Yusuf insisted.
John approached the pool and knelt down. As he bent forward to drink, Yusuf shoved him from behind, and John tumbled into the pool. The shock of the freezing water took his breath away, and he broke the surface gasping. As he pulled himself out of the pool, he noticed Zimat staring.
Yusuf approached, grinning. ‘Not hot anymore, are you? Come on. Let’s eat.’
Abaan and his men had unpacked food and laid blankets on the ground in the centre of the clearing. They all enjoyed a meal of fresh peaches, bread and goat’s cheese, washed down with cold water from the spring. When they had finished, the men left the clearing to allow the women to bathe. Yusuf posted Abaan and the other mamluks on the road to protect their privacy. He left Selim with them and took John aside. ‘Come with me. I have something to show you.’
John followed him along a narrow animal track that ran uphill to the west of the clearing. The shouts and laughter of Zimat, Sa’ida and their slave girls faded as John and Yusuf headed deeper into the forest, pushing through the branches that crowded the trail. Finally, Yusuf stopped at the edge of a sunlight-dappled glade. The golden light played upon a throne of white marble, streaked black here and there by time and weather. On either side of the throne lay two bulls sculpted from stone, and upon the throne was seated a statue of a bearded man, naked but for a crown of leaves. His nose was missing, but the face was still stern and strong, with a square jaw and thick eyebrows. John’s eyes widened. The man on the throne looked just like the depiction of God painted on the stained-glass windows of his church back in Tatewic.
‘Who is it?’ John whispered.
‘Zeus,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Or Baal, as the local Phoenicians called him. Imad ad-Din says that this spring was sacred to the Phoenicians long before the Romans arrived. They built the temple and left this statue as well.’
John stepped forward and touched the weathered stone of the statue’s face. He looked up as a peel of high-pitched laughter penetrated the clearing. Peering through the trees beyond the statue, John caught a glimpse of long, athletic legs and then a firm bottom, framed between two tree trunks. Yusuf must have led them in a circle around the clearing, which they had then reapproached through the woods to the west of the pool. John flushed red and glanced at Yusuf. His eyes were fixed upon the
distant trees. John looked back, and the figure was gone. More scantily clad forms flitted past. Then there was a splash and high, loud laughter. A second later, a face appeared, staring back at them from between the distant trees. It was Sa’ida, a dark bruise on her cheek. A moment later, Zimat’s face joined hers. Her eyes met John’s.
‘We should go,’ Yusuf said as he grabbed John’s arm and pulled him away.
John followed Yusuf back down the path, cursing as he stumbled over a root. His mind was still back in the clearing, filled with images of long limbs, that perfectly shaped bottom and Zimat’s face. He was still thinking of her when they reached the road where Selim and the mamluks were waiting. John stopped short when he saw that Zimat and the other women were also there. Zimat had not dried thoroughly, and her caftan clung to her left side, revealing the outline of her breast. John stared dumbly at her, and she returned his gaze. He felt himself turning red.
‘It grows late,’ Yusuf said, giving John a hard look. ‘We must return to Baalbek.’
The party returned to the clearing, where Abaan and his men packed up their supplies. Yusuf helped Sa’ida into the saddle, and John hurried to help Zimat. As he took her foot and lifted her up, she leaned over and whispered, ‘Meet me tonight, in the stable loft.’
John lay in his small room and stared out of the open window at the night sky, strewn with innumerable stars. He had stayed awake, his mind busy with thoughts of Zimat, while one by one the sounds of the villa had faded. Now, only the song of the cicadas could be heard. John took a deep breath and threw off his blanket. He was fully dressed. He went to the door and opened it, wincing as the hinges creaked. He froze, his heart pounding in his chest, and peeked out. No one had stirred. Relieved, he slipped outside, carefully shutting the door behind
him. He paused to cross himself, and then crept towards the stables, keeping to the dark shadows thrown by the wall.
One of the tall double-doors to the stable was slightly ajar. John slipped through the crack into the inky darkness. ‘Hello?’ he whispered. He listened, but heard only the hum of the cicadas and the nickering of a horse, lost in a dream. ‘Zimat?’ There was no reply.
John tiptoed forward, his hand held out before him as he groped his way towards the ladder that led to the loft. He found it and climbed up, pausing at the top. He saw only the dim outline of the piles of hay. Then he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. ‘Zimat?’
‘John?’ It was her voice.
‘It’s me,’ John said as he clambered into the loft. Zimat moved towards him and in the darkness they collided, their foreheads knocking together with an audible crack.
‘Akh laa!’ Zimat cried out as she fell back.
‘Are you hurt?’ John whispered as he moved forward to comfort her, only to trip over her legs and fall on top of her. He quickly rolled off and began to apologize, then stopped as Zimat burst out laughing. Her mirth proved contagious, and John found himself laughing with her, laughing so hard that his eyes watered. Finally, they fell silent, sitting side by side and gasping for breath.