John rode beside Yusuf at the head of a column of men that stretched for miles over the arid, rolling hills. Ahead, spread out below them, was the city of Damascus, its thick walls rising up from the verdant orchards and gardens that surrounded it. Squinting, John could make out men atop the walls, their chainmail and iron helmets glinting in the sunshine. His hands tightened on the reins as he thought back to his first trip to Damascus, as part of the doomed crusade.
‘She is beautiful, is she not?’ Yusuf said, pointing to the city.
‘You will find the view less inspiring when you stand in the shadow of her walls,’ John replied. ‘Damascus is not an easy prize.’
‘But with the army Nur ad-Din has assembled, how can she resist?’
John’s forehead creased. ‘That is what the crusaders thought.’
They rode on in silence, following Nur ad-Din and Shirkuh. Turan rode beside them, but kept his distance from Yusuf. At the foot of the hill Nur ad-Din reined in his horse. ‘We will divide the army into columns and seize the orchards,’ he told them. ‘Tonight, we will camp before the walls.’
As the army trooped down the hill, the men were separated into columns, lined up before the many paths into the orchards. Shirkuh and Turan each rode off to take the lead of a column, but Yusuf’s men were selected to ride with Nur ad-Din. As John watched them form into a column four across, a memory flashed into his mind: One-Eye, the Frank, eating a mango when a spear burst from his chest.
‘I do not like this,’ John told Yusuf. ‘Those orchards are a deathtrap. In the crusade, we lost a quarter of our men taking them.’
‘We have no choice. We will follow orders and trust in Allah to lead us through.’
The column of men moved forward with Nur ad-Din riding at its head, and Yusuf and John just behind. John rode with his hand on his sword hilt, his eyes searching the low mud walls to either side for signs of warriors hidden behind them. He saw only the fronds of date trees shimmering in the breeze, and heard only the chirruping of birds over the rumble of the horses’ hooves. ‘Something is not right,’ he whispered. ‘Where are Mujir ad-Din’s men?
‘Perhaps he has kept them within the walls to better defend the city,’ Yusuf suggested.
Ahead, the walls of Damascus loomed larger and larger. They were headed for the Bab al-Faradis, or Gate of Paradise, which led into the city from the orchards. It was a massive structure, twice as high as the walls around it. Many of the men crowded atop the gate had bows in hand. John nervously fingered the hilt of his sword as Nur ad-Din led them on. In only a few more feet, they would be within bow shot of the walls.
‘What is Nur ad-Din doing?’ John grumbled. ‘He’s going to get us killed.’
‘Emir Mujir ad-Din would not dare let his men shoot at Nur ad-Din,’ Yusuf said. ‘They will speak, first. Then we will fight.’
Nur ad-Din finally reined in his horse only thirty feet from the gate. ‘People of Damascus!’ he called loudly. ‘Your emir has betrayed you. He has refused to join me in my fight against the Christians. He has betrayed his oath to me in order to make peace with the Franks. He does not deserve your service.’ He paused, gathering breath, then roared: ‘Open the gates to me! I have come for Damascus!’
There was silence, broken only by the nickering of horses and the distant call of birds. None of the men on the wall moved. Then the gate opened inward, groaning on its hinges. A man rode out, unarmed and dressed in a ceremonial silk caftan. As he came closer, John recognized him as Yusuf’s father, Ayub. Behind him came four armed men on foot, leading a prisoner in chains. The prisoner was a young man, with fat cheeks and a carefully trimmed beard. The procession stopped before Nur ad-Din.
‘Greetings, my lord,’ Ayub said and bowed in the saddle. ‘The city is yours. The leading nobles of Damascus have come to pay homage to you.’ He gestured to the man in chains. ‘And they have brought the emir, Mujir ad-Din.’
‘Bring him to me,’ Nur ad-Din said. Ayub waved, and the emir was pulled forward.
‘Allah bless you, my lord,’ Mujir ad-Din said, bowing awkwardly due to the chains about his wrists. He straightened, licking his lips nervously. ‘You are welcome in my city.’
‘It is not your city any more.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘You were wrong to oppose me,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘But I am a generous man. You shall have Homs and its lands to rule as emir, and you shall join me in my war against the Franks.’
Mujir ad-Din bowed again. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘Release him,’ Nur ad-Din commanded, and the noble removed the emir’s chains. ‘Now, let us enter my city.’ He spurred forward, riding towards the open gate. Ayub fell in beside him, while Yusuf and John trailed behind. Atop the wall, the people began to cheer, and white rose petals were cast from the top of the gate.
‘The nobles of Damascus expect to be paid from the treasury for betraying their lord,’ Ayub said to Nur ad-Din. ‘And it would be wise to distribute money to the mamluk troops to ensure their loyalty.’
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘You have done well, my friend. You shall be my governor, wali of Damascus.’
‘Thank you, malik.’
‘Malik? I am no king, Ayub, only a servant of Allah.’ Despite his modest words, John saw that Nur ad-Din wore a smile as he passed through the gentle shower of rose petals and into the city.
That evening Yusuf attended a celebratory feast in the domed chamber at the heart of the palace of Damascus. He had last visited the palace as a child, during the Franks’ failed siege. Now, as then, he and Turan sat together, just to the left of the emir’s dais. Yusuf had been in awe of the emir then. Now, his father sat on the dais, nodding at Nur ad-Din’s lords and generals as they entered and took their seats around the edge of the circular chamber.
Nur ad-Din entered last of all, and all the men stood. As he strode into the open circle at the centre of the room, Nur ad-Din gestured to Ayub. ‘Please, friend, remain seated. You have earned it.’
‘I am honoured, my lord,’ Ayub said as he sat. Nur ad-Din joined him on the dais. He waived to his vassals, who also sat.
Yusuf frowned. His father had opened the city through treachery and bribes. Such tactics hardly deserved praise. He caught Ayub watching him and turned away.
The feast lasted for hours and featured dozens of courses. Yusuf and Turan ate in silence, each avoiding the other’s gaze. As the meal drew to a close, Ayub stood, holding up his hands for silence. ‘Friends, I welcome you all, and especially our lord Nur ad-Din, emir of the great cities of Aleppo, Mosul and Damascus, a kingdom greater than that of the Seljuk Sultan himself. He has accomplished his father’s dream. He has unified our lands, and today I greet him as malik, emir amongst emirs, King of Syria. May Allah continue to bless him!’ The men showed their approval, slapping the floor with their palms and shouting ‘Malik! Malik! Malik!’
Nur ad-Din gestured for quiet and then rose. All present stood as he descended the dais and walked to the centre of the circular chamber, where he turned, looking at the men around him. ‘Malik,’ he said and smiled. ‘So be it. But it is not I who deserves this praise, but Allah. For surely it is Allah’s will that all Muslims be united against the Franks. Ayub, my faithful servant, has delivered Damascus to me without shedding a drop of blood. Could he have performed such a miracle without the blessing of Allah? And why, my friends, has Allah helped us? For one reason alone: He wishes us to free the holy city of Jerusalem and to drive the Frankish invaders into the sea. My father began this task when he conquered the Christians’ kingdom of Edessa. Now that we are united, I shall complete his work!’
The men stomped the floor with their feet, and Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘As ever, you have my thanks for your service, and you shall each be rewarded from the treasury of Damascus. Now go. Take your men back to their lands. But be ready for my call. For I promise you that soon enough, we shall drive the Christians from our shores!’
Nur ad-Din strode from the room amidst a loud chorus of cheers. The emirs began to file out after him, but as Yusuf headed for the door, his father called to him. ‘Come with me, Yusuf. I wish to speak.’
Yusuf followed his father out of the back of the chamber and into a small, square room bare of furniture. Through the single window Yusuf could see the great mosque of Damascus, its towering minarets and great dome shining silvery under the light of the moon.
Ayub turned to face Yusuf. ‘You are displeased with me, my son?’
Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘No, Father.’
‘Yes, you are. You think I have acted dishonourably in turning Mujir ad-Din’s people against him and negotiating his surrender. You would have preferred a contest of arms?’
‘Yes!’ Yusuf met his father’s gaze and held it. ‘Where is the glory in bribing men to turn against their ruler? I hear that you even spread a rumour that Mujir ad-Din had slept with another man.’
‘He did.’
‘How could you know such things?’
‘Because I paid the man, an Egyptian prostitute, to sleep with him.’
Yusuf’s face wrinkled in disgust. ‘I do not understand why our lord Nur ad-Din honours you so,’ he said. ‘You disgust me.’
Ayub raised his hand as if to slap Yusuf, but then lowered it. He sighed. ‘You are young, Yusuf, so I will forgive you your anger. And you are right: intrigue is distasteful. Do not think that I enjoy it. But shedding the blood of our Muslim brothers is still more distasteful. You heard Nur ad-Din. He wishes to drive the Franks from our lands. He will need all our people to do so.’ Ayub placed a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We will speak no more of it. I have a place for you here in Damascus, my son. I need someone that I trust to serve as my deputy.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I must return to govern my lands and to train my men. When Nur ad-Din marches on the Franks, I must be ready to join him.’
‘Then go to him when he calls. Until then, your place is here with me.’
‘And what of Turan?’ Yusuf asked. ‘He is the oldest.’
‘Your brother will return with Nur ad-Din to Aleppo. He hopes to be made emir of Baalbek.’ Ayub sighed. ‘Turan is brave, but he does not have your wisdom. Shirkuh told me how you handled Tell Bashir. I need you to do the same here. Mujir ad-Din’s family has ruled Damascus for decades. Many of the men here are still loyal to him.’
‘I am sure you can pay them,’ Yusuf sneered. ‘You seem to be good at that.’
Ayub slapped him. ‘I am your father! You will show me respect.’
‘You are my father, but you are not my lord.’ Yusuf glared at him. ‘I will go to my lands until Nur ad-Din calls for me.’ He began to leave, but Ayub grabbed his arm.
‘You are my son, Yusuf. If you stay in Damascus, then the city will be yours to govern when I die. Think on that.’
Yusuf shrugged off his father’s hand. ‘I wish for more than to govern Damascus, Father. I will be more than a mere wali.’
Ayub’s eyebrows rose. ‘What then? You would dare challenge our lord?’
‘No, but there are other kingdoms, Father. Cilicia. Egypt.’
‘Ha! You are no pharaoh, my son. You are a Kurd. Do not forget your place. I am lucky to have risen so high. We owe everything to Nur ad-Din.’
‘I do not owe him my honour, and I will not stay in Damascus if it means that I must serve you.’ Yusuf locked eyes with his father, and the two faced one another in silence. Finally, Ayub looked away.
‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘Return to your lands. Perhaps it is for the best.’