‘I hear you won at the tables last night, Husam,’ Shirkuh said.
‘That I did, sir.’ Husam grinned, showing a smile missing several teeth.
‘You have not yet spent all of it on women and drink, I hope.’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Good. Then tonight you shall come to the palace and give me a chance to win some of your fortune from you.’
‘Gladly, sir, but only if we use my dice.’ The men around Husam chuckled.
‘You use your dice, and I will use mine,’ Shirkuh said with a wink, and the men all laughed. Shirkuh moved away and stood with Yusuf and Turan flanking him. ‘Men, this is my nephew, Yusuf ibn Ayub!’ Shirkuh’s deep voice carried to the furthest ranks. ‘You will treat him with respect. He has come from Baalbek to serve as one of my commanders. He is already a fearsome warrior; cross him at your own risk.’ Several of the men smiled at this. Shirkuh turned to Yusuf and spoke more softly. ‘I am needed at the palace today, Yusuf. I am leaving you in
charge.’ He winked. ‘Take it easy on them.’ Shirkuh turned to Turan. ‘Show your brother how we do things.’
Shirkuh strode away, leaving Yusuf and Turan to face the troops. The mamluks were grown men, many old enough to be Yusuf’s father. He swallowed, then opened his mouth to speak, but Turan spoke first. ‘You heard what Shirkuh said,’ he shouted. ‘Take it easy on my little brother. No laughing behind his back. No calling him names.’ He winked and grinned. ‘Pipsqueak, son of a donkey, man-whore, bastard, bugger: I don’t want to hear any of that.’ There was scattered laughter amongst the men. ‘When he drills you, you will do exactly as he says. But before we train, I say we go to Sakhi’s for a round of wine. I’m paying!’ The men roared their approval, and Turan grinned. The carefully ordered ranks dissolved as men headed for the gates.
‘Wait!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Halt!’ The men reluctantly shuffled to a stop. Yusuf glared at Turan. ‘Shirkuh said we were to train, not drink. And besides, alcohol is forbidden.’ There were threatening grumbles amongst the men at this. ‘There will be plenty of time for drink later, after training,’ Yusuf amended.
Turan smiled. ‘Very well, Brother, if that is what you wish, then go ahead. Train them.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘All right, men! Back in your ranks!’ The mamluks filed sullenly past Yusuf and lined up in sloppy, uneven lines.
‘Who does he think he is?’ someone whispered.
‘Little bastard,’ another grumbled.
Yusuf flushed with anger. ‘That’s enough talk!’ he snapped. He marched up to Husam, the gap-toothed, lucky gambler in the first row. ‘Straighten up!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Husam replied and straightened. Yusuf moved on down the line, and as soon as his back was turned, Husam muttered: ‘You little bugger.’
Yusuf whirled around. ‘What was that?’
Husam shrugged, his eyes wide and innocent. ‘What was what, sir?’
Yusuf frowned and turned away. He continued down the line, meeting each man’s eyes, and the men straightened as he passed. He was near the end of the first row when he tripped over someone’s leg, stumbled, and fell to his hands and knees. He rose immediately, glowering at the closest soldiers. ‘You call yourselves warriors?’ Yusuf roared at them. ‘You are a disgrace! The Franks will tear you to pieces!’
‘The little bugger has a temper,’ a voice called from the centre of the ranks.
‘Who said that?’ Yusuf demanded. The men all stared ahead, giving away nothing. The blood started to roar in Yusuf’s temples and his jaw clenched. He pushed his way through the rows of warriors in the direction of the voice.
‘Careful, he is a fearsome warrior,’ another voice sniggered from behind Yusuf.
Yusuf pushed his way back to the front of the ranks and turned to face the men. ‘Who said that? I demand to know who said that! Face me!’ he yelled, his voice breaking at the end.
A huge, muscle-bound man pushed his way forward. He was a head taller than Yusuf, and his neck was easily as thick as Yusuf’s thigh. ‘I said it,’ the man rumbled. ‘What are you going to do about it, little man?’ The other men laughed. Yusuf glanced over his shoulder to Turan. He was laughing, too. Yusuf was red-faced with anger and on the verge of losing control. He closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his breathing. Gradually, the pounding in his temples faded. He opened his eyes and met the gaze of the man before him.
‘What is your name?’
‘Qadir.’
‘You will return to the barracks, Qadir. I will deal with you later.’
‘Make me.’
Yusuf’s jaw tightened. ‘Pardon me?’
‘You heard me. Make me.’
Yusuf nodded to the two men on the front row nearest
to Qadir. ‘You two, escort Qadir to the barracks.’ The men did not move. ‘My uncle will not stand for this,’ Yusuf growled.
‘What do you know of Shirkuh?’ Qadir sneered. ‘I have fought beside him for ten years. I saved his life twice. What have you done, little bugger?’
Yusuf reacted without thinking. He lashed out, punching Qadir hard in the gut. It was like hitting a wall. The huge mamluk did not even move. His huge hand clamped over Yusuf’s wrist and twisted, forcing Yusuf to his knees.
‘Let him go, Qadir,’ Turan said. Qadir released Yusuf immediately.
Yusuf rose to his feet. He met Qadir’s eyes, then looked past him to the men. ‘I will not forget this,’ he promised, then turned and strode away towards the palace.
Turan’s voice followed him: ‘Now men, let’s have that drink!’
Yusuf paced the marble-floored antechamber outside Nur ad-Din’s apartments as he waited for his uncle to emerge. The guards before the door watched him, their faces impassive. As he paced, Yusuf thought of what he would tell his uncle, and a smile curled his lips as he imagined the various punishments Shirkuh would devise for his troops. But Yusuf’s legs grew tired from pacing, and still Shirkuh did not appear. Through the arched windows, Yusuf saw the shadow of the citadel lengthen and then deepen as dusk gathered. Finally, the doors to Nur ad-Din’s apartments opened, and Shirkuh emerged. ‘Uncle!’ Yusuf greeted him. ‘I must speak with you.’
Shirkuh examined Yusuf for a moment and then nodded curtly. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf followed him out of the antechamber and down a staircase. ‘Well, Yusuf?’ Shirkuh asked as he descended. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
‘Your men are insolent, and Turan is worse. They must be punished.’
‘Do not tell me how to deal with my men,’ Shirkuh snapped as they entered a long corridor.
‘But they insulted me! They refused to obey.’
‘I know what my men did. Husam told me. You were lucky to avoid a beating.’
‘But Turan—’
‘Turan is the least of your worries.’ Shirkuh stopped and turned to face his nephew. ‘There will always be men in the ranks like Turan. You must learn to deal with them.’
‘But how? The troops would not listen to me. They laughed at me.’
‘Then let them laugh. You cannot expect to command their respect instantly. They are hardened warriors. Some of them were fighting for me before you were born. You must earn their respect, and you cannot do so by insulting and threatening them.’
‘What then?’ Yusuf grumbled. ‘Should I buy them drink, like Turan?’
‘Forget Turan! He is a drunkard who wants the men to love him. He will never be great. But I expect more from you, Yusuf. Today you lost control. You must never lose control before your men. They will never respect you if you do.’ Shirkuh paused and took a deep breath. ‘Nur ad-Din has asked me to send you back to Baalbek.’
Yusuf lowered his head. He had only just arrived and already he had failed. He thought of the men’s laughter as he had walked away. They seemed to be mocking Yusuf’s dreams of greatness. He clenched his jaw as he fought back tears. ‘I am sorry, Uncle.’
Shirkuh gripped his shoulder. ‘Do not be too hard on yourself, young eagle. Leaders are created, they are not born. I reminded our lord that he was no better when he was your age, and I have persuaded him to give you a second chance. He has agreed that you are to command the citadel at Tell Bashir.’
‘Tell Bashir? But that is the property of the eunuch Gumushtagin.’
‘Not any more. He has been given Bizaa as you suggested. But the men he left behind in Tell Bashir remain loyal to him. Nur ad-Din fears that they will open the city to the Seljuks. It is your task to ensure that this does not happen.’
Yusuf straightened and met Shirkuh’s eye. ‘I will not fail you, Uncle.’
‘You had best not. I gave Nur ad-Din my word that you would succeed in Tell Bashir. If you fail, you will disgrace both of us.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. You leave tomorrow.’ Shirkuh grasped Yusuf’s shoulders with both hands. ‘Remember, Yusuf. Always remain in control. Never show weakness. Most importantly, treat your troops as men. And never forget: you must be one of them before you can lead them.’
NOVEMBER 1152: ON THE ROAD TO TELL BASHIR
S
late-grey clouds hung low in the sky as John rode out of Aleppo through the Bab al-Yahud – the Jew’s gate. John was happy to leave the city behind; he had never felt more foreign and alone than he had in the slaves’ quarters of the citadel. Perhaps Tell Bashir would be better. At least Yusuf would be in charge there. John glanced to where his friend rode beside him, his head held high. They followed a Bedouin guide named Sa’ud, and behind them came three men leading pack-horses, then six mamluks surrounding a mule that carried an iron-bound chest. John knew that the key to the chest’s heavy lock hung around Yusuf’s neck. Back at the citadel, he had allowed John to look inside. The chest contained two thousand golden dinars, enough to buy John’s freedom many times over – surely enough to ensure the loyalty of the men at Tell Bashir.
Ahead, the road was little more than a beaten track, the wind whipping up swirling plumes of sand. John pulled down one of the folds of his turban to cover his face and keep out the dust. The trail sloped down to run parallel with the tiny Quweq River, which wound its way north through broad plains. They passed orchards, the trees heavy with oranges and limes. Beyond them were fields of harvested wheat – black earth dotted with the yellow stubs of cut stalks – and also fragrant fields of bright-yellow saffron. Past the fields, the rocky desert stretched away to the horizon, where a sheet of rain fell from the dark sky. As
the storm came closer, John could see the rain sweeping down the river, disturbing its placid surface. He unwound his turban as the first cool drops hit him. A moment later, the skies opened up, soaking his tunic and turning the road to mud. John turned to Yusuf and grinned.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘The rain will slow us. You won’t be smiling if we don’t make it to the inn and have to sleep in the open.’
‘That’s why we have tents. Besides, we can’t get any wetter.’
‘It’s not getting wet that worries me; it’s the bandits. There are only twelve of us. That is enough to fight off most raiders, but the rain will dampen sound and make it hard to see. It will make us an easier target.’
John’s smile faded. He looked at the road stretching across the empty plain ahead and saw only a distant camel train. ‘Are bandits really such a danger?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘There is an old saying:
the companions chosen are more important than the route taken
. Only fools travel alone, and even large groups are sometimes attacked. When my mother was young, she was part of a caravan of over forty that was raided.’
‘Why doesn’t Nur ad-Din do something about it?’
‘There is little he can do. The raiders often attack far from where they live. Some are Franks from the Christian lands. Most are Bedouin. After their raids, they vanish into the great desert. None dares follow them there.’
They rode on in silence, following the course of the river. John was more alert now, scanning the road ahead for potential ambushes. When they came to a small settlement – a few single-room homes mixed with tents – he gripped the hilt of his sword as they passed, ready in case bandits burst forth. The rain slackened, then stopped, and a few rays of sun broke through the clouds. Around noon, they came to a larger settlement, built where two tributaries flowed into the Quweq from the north. The village had a mosque, and John led the horses to the river
to drink while the others went inside to perform their afternoon prayers. Afterwards, they ate a simple meal of flatbread and goat’s cheese, then crossed the Quweq over a rickety wooden bridge. They left the river behind, following one of its tributaries north-west. The tributary, dry most of the year, was now full of muddy, turbulent water, which had cut a deep channel in the sandy soil. Desert grasses and wild flowers grew near the channel, but there were no crops. After a time, they left the tributary behind and rode across barren desert.
‘How does our guide know the way?’ John asked Yusuf.
‘The desert is the Bedouin’s home. They can read its signs, see things we cannot.’
They saw no trace of human life until just before sunset, when they heard the familiar, wavering cry of a muezzin calling the evening prayer. A moment later, they crested a small rise and saw a u-shaped building built around a well. It was a funduq – an inn that served caravans. Yusuf’s shoulders relaxed visibly when he saw it. ‘We made it,’ he said and spurred his horse through the gate. John followed and found himself in a courtyard lined with wooden stalls on the right. Most of them were occupied by a horse or camel. A murmur of conversation – punctuated by a woman’s loud laughter – came from a door to the left. It opened, and out stepped a dark-skinned man with a bright smile and large, gold loops in his ears.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, travellers,’ he said, giving a small bow.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Yusuf replied as he dismounted. John also dismounted and took the reins of Yusuf’s horse.
‘I am Habil, and you are welcome at my funduq,’ the man said. ‘You can stable your horses here. Beds are through that door behind you. There is food and drink in the tavern.’ He waved to the door through which he had just come. ‘Three fals each for a bed and horse stall. Food and drink are extra.’
Yusuf took a dinar from the pouch at his belt and tossed it to Habil, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the gold piece. ‘That should be sufficient for me and my men.’