John dug his heels into the sides of his horse, urging it up the last few steps of the steep hill. Ahead, the other riders had stopped at the top of the rise. They had ridden far over the past five days, following the winding course of the Orontes River to the city of Hama and then riding north across the dry, barren plains to Aleppo. John’s horse was tired, and it whinnied in protest. ‘Almost there, girl,’ he coaxed, patting the mare’s neck. He tugged on the lead rope that ran from his saddle to the two pack-horses behind him, urging them to keep pace.
As John crested the hill and reined in his horse beside Yusuf, he saw why the other riders had stopped. Aleppo was laid out before them in all its splendour. To the east, the brown desert stretched away to the horizon, the empty waste dotted with the miniscule forms of travellers making their way towards the city. To the west, verdant orchards lay to either side of the sparkling river that flowed past Aleppo. Directly before them, the hill sloped down to a thick wall that towered over an approaching caravan, the heavily packed camels ant-like in its shadow. Beyond the wall rose a city many times the size of Baalbek. White-walled, flat-roofed buildings sat one on top of the other, covering the rolling hills. Here and there, slender minarets rose above them. And looming over it all was the great citadel that crowned the rocky hill at the city’s heart.
‘It is called the white city,’ Shirkuh declared. ‘Not because of its virtue, I assure you. The court is filled with intriguers, and the streets are thick with thieves. But it is a great city, nonetheless.’
‘What has happened to the walls?’ Yusuf asked, pointing to the right, where several long sections of the wall had been reduced to rubble. Looking closer, John saw that the city was littered with half-ruined buildings, their roofs collapsed and walls crumbling. ‘Was there a siege?’
‘The crusaders have besieged the city many times,’ Shirkuh replied. ‘But it was not they who did this. In the year of your birth, Yusuf, a mighty earthquake struck the city. Thousands died. The walls are still being rebuilt. Nur ad-Din says the earthquake was a sign of Allah’s anger over the presence of the crusaders. He has vowed to drive them from our lands.’
Shirkuh spurred his horse forward. John followed the others along the well-beaten trail that wound down towards the city. They rode into the long shadow of the walls and towards a gate framed by two bulky towers of unequal height. Scaffolding covered the left-hand tower, and workers scurried over it, placing heavy stones to add to the tower’s height. At the base of the right-hand tower was an arched gateway, wide enough for six men abreast to ride through. Merchants crowded around the entrance, hawking their wares.
‘Sharp blades!’ a lanky man in baggy robes cried. He held up a dagger, the shining blade marked with whirls of darker grey. ‘Of the finest Damascus steel.’
‘Slaves!’ shouted another merchant, whose curly black beard hung down to his plump belly. He pointed to a half-dozen Franks who stood chained together beside the wall, their heads down. The men were shirtless, and their ribs showed clearly on their gaunt frames. The slack-faced, dirty women looked little better off. John’s jaw tightened. The slave merchant mistook his attention for interest and stepped closer. ‘Fancy a Frankish lady to keep your bed warm at night? Only fifty dirhams.’ John spat at the slave merchant’s feet and rode on through the gate.
The gate did not lead through the wall, as John had anticipated, but rather to a square chamber dimly lit by smoky torches set in brackets on the walls. John noticed a grate in the low ceiling, through which boiling oil could be poured on would-be attackers. An arched doorway to the left brought him into a long room with a high ceiling of cross-vaulted stone. The room, which ran parallel to the wall, was lit by high windows on the city side. They cast light on a throng of merchants and travellers whose loud voices echoed off the stone walls and created a deafening roar. John followed the others through the room, then through two smaller chambers before they finally emerged into the city. A crowded dirt road curved away before them, running between close-set, tall houses.
‘The gate has been rebuilt to make attack more difficult,’ Shirkuh was explaining to Yusuf as they rode down the street. ‘If they break through the outer gate, attackers will find themselves in a confined space, attacked from above. They will have to break through three more gateways to enter the city.’
Shirkuh continued talking, but John lost track of his words amidst the din of the crowd. He turned his attention to the people he was passing. To his right, a Bedouin shepherd with staff in hand was driving four bleating sheep towards market. Past him was the first in a long line of heavily laden camels, all slowly chewing their cuds as they plodded forward under the prodding whips of their drivers. Beyond the camels, John noticed two men standing in a doorway, passing a smoking pipe between them. In the window of the floor above them, a veiled woman was beating out a rug. John caught her eye, and she retreated inside, banging the shutters closed behind her.
The road they were following curved to the left and entered a broad square. Everywhere men crowded around carts, haggling over a dizzying variety of wares: fresh fruits; vibrant blue, red and yellow rugs covered in geometric designs; even vials containing a home-made elixir that the seller promised would cure all ills. To the right, the covered alleyways of a souk, opened on to the square. Each alleyway specialized in a particular good, from gold to cotton cloth to spices. Yusuf had told John that the souk of Aleppo was famed throughout the East. It was said that anything one desired could be purchased there.
A sudden commotion ahead drew John’s attention away from the market. A swarm of young, half-naked children appeared from out of the crowd and pressed around the horses, forcing them to stop.
‘Fresh fruit, ya sidi? ’ one of them yelled at John, holding up a mango.
Another pushed a waterskin towards him. ‘Cool water?’
Others simply begged, holding out their hands and repeating: ‘Money, ya sidi? Money?’
One of the boys tried to slip his hand into John’s saddlebags, and John caught his wrist. The child cringed, his eyes wide with fright. John released him, and the would-be thief scurried off into the crowd. He was instantly replaced by another child.
Ahead, Shirkuh threw a shower of glinting coppers off to the side, and the children raced towards them, shouting with excitement as they scrambled on the ground, wrestling one another for the coins. John urged his horse past them, following the others out of the square and into the shade of the citadel. High above, he could see guards walking the limestone walls, which were set with towers at regular intervals. The walls rose directly from steeply sloped, bare white rock. At the base of the hill, the dark waters of a moat some twenty feet across added another layer of defence. Four guards in chainmail and pointed helmets, spears in hand, stood blocking the drawbridge across the moat. They stepped aside as Shirkuh approached. ‘Morning, men,’ Shirkuh called as he rode past, the hooves of his horse sounding loud on the wooden bridge. Yusuf came next, nodding towards the guards. He was followed by Shirkuh’s three men and then John, to whom the guards gave a hard look. John ignored them, urging his horse up the brick causeway that led to a large gatehouse, only half built and still covered in scaffolding. At the top, four more guards stepped aside to let the group pass, and John followed the others into the citadel.
What he found there surprised him. He was facing an oval-shaped expanse of flat land, easily three hundred yards long and one hundred yards wide. A maze of verdant orchards and gardens covered the expanse to his left. Off to his right, an enormous palace was built against the far wall. Other buildings – barracks, stables, kitchens, storerooms – were built into the walls that surrounded the space. And in the middle of it all was an expanse of closely cropped, green grass where two-dozen riders were thundering back and fourth in pursuit of a wooden ball. John recognized the game they were playing as polo. He had seen Yusuf play it in Baalbek.
John reined in his horse just behind Yusuf and watched as one of the players brought his mallet down and with a loud crack, sent the wooden kura hurtling towards the left-hand goalposts. Several riders spurred after the ball, but two outraced the rest, galloping close to John and the others. One was tall and thickly built, light-skinned and with a thick chestnut-brown beard. The other was darker, tall and thin, with only a few wispy black hairs on his chin and cheeks. The riders were neck and neck as they galloped towards the kura, their mallets raised high. At the last second, the dark-skinned rider pushed ahead and veered his horse towards the other man, cutting him off. He then brought his mallet down with a triumphant yell and sent the ball hurtling through the goalposts.
‘Who is that?’ Yusuf asked.
Shirkuh smiled. ‘That is our lord, Nur ad-Din.’ He kicked his heels and trotted on to the field. The others followed, John bringing up the rear.
‘ Ho! Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din roared as they approached. ‘Well met!’ Close up, John saw that Nur ad-Din had brilliant, golden eyes and a full-toothed, bright smile. John looked past him and was surprised to see that the rider who had contested him for the kura was none other than Turan. While Nur ad-Din rode up to Shirkuh and grasped his arm, Turan guided his horse towards Yusuf.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Yusuf,’ Turan said, greeting his brother formally.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Brother,’ Yusuf replied stiffly, and the two leaned across their saddles and exchanged the ritual kisses.
‘ Ah!’ Nur ad-Din turned his gaze upon Yusuf. ‘So this is the young eagle that you told me of, Shirkuh? He doesn’t look like much.’
‘Nor did you at his age.’
‘True enough. Tell me: do you play polo, Yusuf?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘Then we shall see if you merit the praise your uncle has given you. You will play on my team.’ Nur ad-Din raised his voice so that all those on the field could hear him. ‘Two gold dinars to whoever scores the next goal!’ The men cheered, and Nur ad-Din turned back towards Yusuf. ‘Let us see what you are made of, young eagle.’
Yusuf sat astride his horse, mallet in hand, and watched as the crowd of riders surged up the pitch towards the far goal. He held back, keeping free of the melee and saving his horse’s strength. It had already carried him thirty miles that day, and Yusuf knew his mount would only be good for one or two short bursts. So he stayed near his own goal and watched as the other riders jostled against one another in the fight for the kura. Nur ad-Din forced his way alongside the ball and swung, but missed. There was a loud crack as an opposing player hit the kura, sending it out of the crowd. Turan was waiting for it. He slammed the ball downfield towards Yusuf and galloped after it.
Yusuf ignored his brother; his eyes were fixed on the kura. He spurred towards it and hit the ball smoothly, sending it bouncing back up the field. A split second later, the handle of Turan’s mallet slammed into his gut. Yusuf grabbed his horse’s mane and managed to stay in the saddle. He reined in and sat doubled over, gasping for breath.
‘Welcome to Aleppo, Brother,’ Turan sneered as he rode past.
Yusuf looked past his brother and noticed Nur ad-Din watching him. He gritted his teeth and straightened, then spurred after Turan. A crowd had again formed around the kura, and this time Yusuf headed straight for it. His mount was tiring fast, and Yusuf kicked at its sides, squeezing the last bit of effort from it as he weaved through the other riders towards the centre of the melee, following Turan. Turan reached the kura first, but as he swung at it, Yusuf slammed his horse into Turan’s mount. Turan missed, and Yusuf hit the kura up the field. He saw Nur ad-Din charging for the ball, and Yusuf steered to the right, keeping clear of the other riders. Nur ad-Din reached the kura first, but the crowd was on him instantly. Nur ad-Din managed to hit the ball, but it glanced off a horse and rolled straight to Yusuf. There was no one between him and the goal.
Yusuf raised his mallet, but then hesitated. He spotted Nur ad-Din alone and sent the kura hurtling towards him. As the ball reached him, Nur ad-Din swung his mallet down and sent it flying through the goalposts. He let out a loud whoop and raised his arms in victory.
‘Well done, Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din called as he rode over. ‘You have saved me two dinars, and for that, you shall have the honour of dining with me tonight. You will meet my wife, Asimat, and we shall see if you are as clever with words as you are with a polo mallet. But I warn you: Asimat is harder to impress than I.’
Yusuf stood at the window of his room – part of Shirkuh’s suite in the palace – and looked out over the city that was now his home. His room faced east, away from the setting sun, whose dying light cast the white-walled buildings of the city below in soft pink. The ululating chant of the muezzins reached Yusuf as they began the call for evening prayer. Below, the streets filled with men and women headed towards the mosques. Yusuf moved from the window and went to the small washbasin in his room to perform the ritual ablution required before prayer. He filled the washbasin from his waterskin and then carefully washed his arms, face and hair, repeating the ritual three times. He dried himself off with a cotton cloth, then unrolled his prayer mat.
‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,’ Yusuf began, when he was interrupted by loud knocking. The door swung open to reveal Shirkuh.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time to dine.’
‘But what about evening prayers?’
‘Allah will wait. Nur ad-Din will not.’
Yusuf followed his uncle out of the room and down a long, dim hallway. ‘I thought Nur ad-Din was a religious man.’
‘Our lord practises religion in his own way. Instead of prayers, he offers victories over the Franks. Which do you think Allah values more?’
They reached the end of the hallway and ascended a steep staircase. At the top, Yusuf found himself in an open, marble-floored room. To his left, a row of arched windows looked out over the city. Opposite the windows was a large double door guarded by three mamluks. Shirkuh approached and allowed the guards to search him for weapons. Yusuf did the same.
‘How are your wives, Marwan?’ Shirkuh asked the man searching him.
Marwan grimaced. ‘Three wives is three too many.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Shirkuh chuckled. ‘That is why I have none.’
The search concluded, and the guards pulled the doors open. Yusuf followed Shirkuh into a large room that was a double of the one they had just left, with arched windows on the far wall looking out over the citadel grounds. But this room was not empty. Braziers burned in the corners and a thick rug – saffron-yellow with geometrical designs in blue and crimson – lay spread across the floor. Cushions were stacked in a circle on the rug and low tables had been set up at intervals between the cushions. Nur ad-Din sat across from the door in a caftan of red silk. To his left was the woman who had to be his wife, Asimat. Upon seeing her, Yusuf felt his pulse quicken. She was surprisingly young – perhaps a few years older than Yusuf – and her milky-white skin was flawless. She had wavy, chestnut-brown hair that framed a long, thin face with a delicate nose and full lips. Her dark eyes met Yusuf’s, and she did not look away. Yusuf forced himself to look back to Nur ad-Din.
‘Shirkuh! Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din smiled and raised a goblet towards his guests. He gestured to the young woman. ‘This is Asimat.’ Yusuf bowed to her, and she nodded back. ‘Do not be deceived by her beauty, Yusuf. Her tongue is sharp.’
‘A wise wife is a great asset, Husband,’ Asimat said quietly.
‘True, but a quiet wife is a greater one still,’ Nur ad-Din replied with a laugh. He gestured to the cushions. ‘Please, sit.’ Shirkuh took a seat to Nur ad-Din’s right, and Yusuf sat directly across from Nur ad-Din. As soon as they were seated, servant girls carrying platters of food entered through a side door. One of the servants, a thin girl with skin as black as ebony, placed a tray beside Yusuf. It held steaming flatbread, a bowl of yoghurt dip and a fragrant lamb stew that smelled of mint. Another girl placed a goblet on Yusuf’s table and filled it with red wine. ‘A toast to you, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Welcome to Aleppo and to my table.’ He quaffed his wine, and Shirkuh followed suit. Yusuf lifted his goblet and hesitated, gazing at the crimson contents. He glanced at Asimat, who had not drunk. Then he placed the cup aside.
‘You do not drink,’ Nur ad-Din noted. ‘Is it that you are unhappy to be in Aleppo?’ He smiled. ‘Or is it the company you find objectionable?’
‘N-no my lord,’ Yusuf stammered. ‘I do not drink wine. Allah forbids it.’
‘You are a man of conviction, and you are to be commended for it.’ Nur ad-Din clapped his hands. ‘Servants! Bring water for young Yusuf!’ As a servant hurried in, Nur ad-Din took a piece of bread. ‘In the name of Allah,’ he murmured and scooped up some of the stew. He took a bite and chewed on it thoughtfully, then pointed at Yusuf with what remained of the bread. ‘Yusuf has spent some time in Damascus, Asimat.’
Yusuf turned towards Nur ad-Din’s wife. ‘You know the city?’ he asked.
‘I grew up there. My father was Emir Unur.’
‘I met your father during the Christians’ siege. He seemed a good man.’
‘That he was,’ Nur ad-Din declared. ‘He was a worthy adversary, may Allah have mercy upon him. Not like the current ruler, Mujir ad-Din.’ Nur ad-Din frowned, then threw back another cup of wine. ‘The snivelling brat.’
‘I hear that you know the Hamasah by heart,’ Asimat said to Yusuf, changing the subject. ‘Is this true?’
‘It is, my lady.’
‘Excellent,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘You shall entertain us with a poem. There is one I particularly enjoy. It is a story of vengeance, where a man lays waste to the tribe who killed his uncle.’
‘The Ritha of Ta’abbata Sharran,’ Yusuf said. ‘I know it well. The tale begins with the death of the uncle: On the mountain path that lies below Sal’ lies a slain man whose blood will not go unavenged. He left the burden to me and departed; I have assumed that burden for him.
Asimat smiled, and Yusuf paused as he felt his throat go suddenly dry. ‘Impressive,’ she said, nodding for him to go on.
Yusuf swallowed and continued: ‘Bent on vengeance am I, his sister’s son.’ While the others ate, moving through course after course, Yusuf recited the long tale; how the uncle had led raids on the Hudhayl tribe; how the Hudhayl had fallen on him and killed him when he was alone in the mountains; how his nephew had ridden forth and avenged the murder in bloody fashion. As the last dishes were being cleared away, he concluded: The hyena laughs over the slain of Hudhayl; you see the wolf grinning above them. At morn the ancient vultures flap about, fat-bellied, unable to take flight, they tread upon the dead.
Yusuf fell silent. Asimat applauded, and he flushed red.
‘So let it be for all our enemies,’ Nur ad-Din declared and drained his goblet of wine. He turned to Asimat. ‘You may go now, Wife. We have business to discuss.’ Asimat rose gracefully, and Yusuf watched her leave. When she was gone, he looked back to Nur ad-Din. He was watching Yusuf carefully. ‘You have impressed my wife, a rare feat. Your uncle spoke true when he praised your learning.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘I have need of wise men around me. I am a warrior, not a thinker. Perhaps you can turn your wits to a problem I am having with one of my emirs, a eunuch named Gumushtagin. It, too, is perhaps a question of vengeance.’
Yusuf paled. He had only just arrived in Aleppo, and already Nur ad-Din, ruler of Aleppo and Mosul, was asking him for advice. His future might well depend on the quality of his answer. ‘I am your servant,’ Yusuf managed. ‘I shall help as I am able.’
‘Good. A little over a year ago, I named Gumushtagin emir of Tell Bashir as a reward for his service. He governed well enough for a time, but recently I have received disturbing news.’
Shirkuh nodded. ‘My spies tell me that Gumushtagin is in talks with the Seljuk sultan Mas’ud. If Gumushtagin allies himself with the Seljuks, then they will threaten both Mosul and Aleppo.’
‘Why not simply remove him?’ Yusuf asked.
‘It is not so easy,’ Nur ad-Din replied. ‘Gumushtagin is well loved by his men. If he is removed, they might revolt, and an uprising would give the Seljuks an opportunity to invade. I will never be able to fight the Christians if I am constantly having to defend my northern borders.’
‘Perhaps Gumushtagin’s loyalty can be bought,’ Yusuf offered.
‘He has been paid,’ Shirkuh said. ‘But the Seljuks offered more.’
‘Yet something must be done,’ Nur ad-Din said. He leaned forward, his unblinking golden eyes fixed on Yusuf. ‘Tell me: what do you advise?’
Yusuf looked to Shirkuh. His face remained an impassive mask; there would be no help from that corner. Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘You must make Gumushtagin want to leave Tell Bashir.’
‘How?’ Nur ad-Din queried. ‘Explain.’
‘Offer him something better, the governorship of Bizaa perhaps.’
‘But he is a traitor!’ Shirkuh interjected. ‘And Bizaa is wealthy, with twice the men of Tell Bashir.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘That is why he will accept. More importantly, Bizaa is close to Aleppo, and the people there have no loyalty to Gumushtagin. Once he is there, you can remove him at will if he proves disloyal.’
‘And Tell Bashir?’ Nur ad-Din asked. ‘The men that Gumushtagin leaves behind will not welcome a new governor. There could be trouble.’
‘Then you must send someone you trust to take command, somebody who can take matters in hand. If he fails, then you have lost nothing. You are back where you started. If he succeeds, then Tell Bashir will be secure.’
Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘Again, I am impressed.’ He turned to Shirkuh. ‘You did right to bring your nephew to me. He has a bright future before him. I will need men like Yusuf soon enough. The time is coming to drive the Franks from our shores.’ He paused to take a gulp of wine. ‘Keep me informed regarding your nephew, Shirkuh. I am curious to see how he gets along with your men.’
John sat alone amidst the dark shadows of his room and looked out of the small square window to the bright crescent moon. The chamber – one of several dozen identical rooms located in an outbuilding beside the palace – was only three feet by six, barely large enough for the straw mattress that covered the floor. There was no door for privacy. Shirkuh’s men had shown John to the room in the slaves’ quarters shortly after they arrived and told him that Yusuf would send for him if he was needed. John had waited, alone with his thoughts, while the light faded from the sky. His stomach had begun to growl, and John wondered if he should leave the room to look for food. But where? He had no idea where to go.
A loud bell began to ring somewhere close by, and John heard the tramp of feet in the hallway. Several men filed past his room. John rose and went to the door just as two black men were walking by – one bald and dark as the night sky, the other a rich brown like freshly turned earth. John noticed that they each carried a clay bowl. ‘What is happening?’ John asked them. ‘Why is the bell ringing?’
The darker of the two men examined John. ‘Our master has finished dining,’ he said at last. ‘It is the servants’ turn to eat.’
John followed the two men through low-ceilinged, shadowy hallways to a long room crowded with a bewildering mixture of men – native Christians, Turks, Egyptians, Africans, but no other Franks. They stood with bowls in their hands, waiting to be served from a huge black cauldron that hung from the ceiling on the far side of the room. The room buzzed with conversation, but as John entered, it fell silent. All eyes turned to him.
A tall, heavy man with a double chin approached John and stood looking down at him. ‘What do you want?’ the man asked in a high, reedy voice. John guessed he was a eunuch.
‘To eat.’
The eunuch chuckled briefly, then his expression hardened, and he spit at John’s feet. ‘You will not eat with us. You are unclean, ifranji. Go.’
The dark slave that John had followed to the room stepped forward and put a hand on the eunuch’s arm. ‘Leave him be, Zakir.’ He handed John a bowl.
Zakir shrugged off the other slave’s hand, then slapped the bowl from John’s hand so that it shattered on the floor. He met John’s eyes. ‘I said go.’
John could feel the eyes of every man in the room on him. He knew that he could not back down. If he showed weakness, then he would have no peace so long as he was in Aleppo. He sighed and spread his hands. ‘I want no trouble.’
The eunuch sneered and reached out to shove John from the room. John moved quickly, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting it behind his back. As Zakir spun around to relieve the pressure on his shoulder, John wrapped his free arm around the eunuch’s throat and pulled tight, choking him. The other slaves watched silently as Zakir thrashed and clawed at John’s forearm to no avail. Finally, the eunuch fell still, and John released him, letting him slump to the floor unconscious. No one moved.
John stepped forward, and the other slaves parted as he made his way to the cauldron. The slave with the ladle looked at John for a moment, then filled a bowl with steaming stew and handed it to him.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ John told him, then turned and left. He would eat in his room. Alone.
The next morning Yusuf, dressed in chainmail and with his sword at his side, followed Shirkuh out on to the expansive lawn that had served as a polo field the day before. Turan had already drawn up fifty mamluks in ranks to form a large square. The men wore identical armour of hardened black leather and conical steel helmets. They had bows and quivers slung over their shoulders and held long spears in their right hands. Although bought as slaves, each mamluk was freed at age eighteen, when they entered the service of their lord as warriors. They occupied a place of honour within the citadel. Those who fought well could hope to become emirs in their own right. All hoped someday to earn enough money to settle and raise a family of their own.
Yusuf trailed behind his uncle as he walked between the ranks, starting at the back row. The men straightened as Shirkuh passed, and he nodded to each of them. He spoke to a few, commiserating over injuries, praising their exploits in recent raids, or joking about their luck with women. Near the end of the final row, he stopped before a slump-shouldered, thin man with a sallow complexion.
‘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.’