They broke camp that night, and Yusuf led them north along the Orontes River, past the castle of Shaizar and into the lands of the principality of Antioch. This was Frankish territory, and they gave wide birth to the Frankish castles in their path – Apamea, Sarminiqa, Inab and Arzghan. During the day they camped out of sight in the hills that bordered the river. On the third day, as they were making camp in the hills, John pointed out a far-off band of Frankish knights heading east, their plate armour glinting under the morning sun. ‘Where do you think they are headed?’
Yusuf shrugged. ‘There are not enough to attack a castle. They must be raiders.’
‘If they are raiding into Muslim lands, then that would violate the treaty.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘When night falls, we will follow their tracks.’
They broke camp as the sun was setting, and rode down from the hills. The Franks had left a wide trail, and Yusuf found their tracks easily, even in the dim twilight. They followed the tracks east as the light faded from the sky, and stars emerged above them. They had been riding for several hours when Yusuf saw something in the distance. It looked like a disembodied, turbaned head, floating in the darkness. Yusuf blinked, but the head remained.
‘’Sblood,’ John muttered beside him. ‘What sort of devilry is this?’ They rode on, and more floating heads appeared. Yusuf’s horse whinnied nervously.
‘We should turn back,’ Turan said, reining in.
Yusuf shook his head and spurred forward. As he reached the first head, he saw that it was impaled on a spear that had been planted in the ground. The head had belonged to an older man, with a long, greying beard. His mouth was stretched open in anguish, and his eyes had already been pecked out by birds, leaving black holes. Still, Yusuf recognized him.
‘Sabir ibn Taqqi,’ he whispered.
‘Why would anybody do such a thing?’ John asked as he rode up beside Yusuf.
‘It is meant to send a message.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of war.’
They rode through the forest of heads and came to the bodies. Most were gathered close together where they had fallen, bows and shepherd’s crooks still clutched in their hands. Hyenas moved amongst them, gorging on the dead. They ran off howling as Yusuf and his men approached. Yusuf reined in and sat staring at carnage. Then he saw movement amongst the bodies. ‘I think one of them is alive!’ he cried as he slid from his saddle.
Yusuf approached a pile of bodies, pulling a fold of his turban over his mouth and nose to keep out the foul smell. From under three dead Bedouin, he saw two eyes staring out at him. It was a boy, a knife clutched in his hand. ‘D-don’t come any closer!’ he cried out.
‘I am a friend,’ Yusuf said, kneeling a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder towards his men and shouted: ‘Quick, bring water and food!’ John handed him a waterskin, and Yusuf held it out towards the boy.
Slowly, carefully, the boy crawled out from under the dead. He was thin and dark, with wide eyes and short black hair. His face was covered with dried blood. The boy reached out and snatched the waterskin. He drank greedily. Then he dropped the waterskin and held out his knife. ‘You’re one of them!’ he hissed at John.
‘Easy, boy,’ Yusuf said. ‘One of who?’
‘The Franks. They came for our herds.’ The boy began to cry. ‘They killed my family – they killed everybody.’
‘You will have a new family now,’ Yusuf told him. ‘You will come with us to Aleppo, as a mamluk. You will learn to fight, and someday you will have your revenge against the Franks.’ Yusuf rose and turned towards John.
‘If the Franks did this,’ John said. ‘Then the treaty is broken, and that means-’
‘War,’ Yusuf finished for him.
‘There’s more,’ the boy said from behind them. Yusuf turned. The boy had dried his tears and once more gripped his knife in his hand. ‘I heard the name of their leader.’ He spat into the dust. ‘Reynald.’