Yusuf could see his breath steaming in the air as he and John sat in the saddle atop a small rise just outside Tell Bashir. They had ridden out to inspect the harvest. It was autumn, and the fields were covered with golden wheat. Slaves moved between the rows of stalks, their scythes flashing in the sun. The wheat rippled in a sudden breeze, and Yusuf pulled his fur cloak more tightly about him. He thought of the panther he and John had tracked down in the mountains above Baalbek. How long ago was that? Yusuf counted on his fingers.
‘What are you thinking of?’ John asked.
‘Time. It has been nine years since we left Baalbek.’
John nodded and gestured to the workers around them. ‘I remember when I was a slave working in your father’s fields. It seems like yesterday.’
‘I was fascinated by you,’ Yusuf chuckled. ‘You were so foreign.’
‘And I hated you. I hated all Saracens.’ John sighed. ‘We were so young then.’
‘We are not so old now.’
‘But we grow older.’ John reached into his saddlebag and removed a book bound in finely worked black leather. He held it out to Yusuf.
‘What is this?’
‘A gift. You are twenty-three today.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘It is just another day.’ He tried to hand the book back, but John would not take it.
‘Open it.’
Yusuf opened the book at random. The pages were covered with beautifully drawn Arabic script. He read: ‘If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house will not be able to stand.’
‘It is the New Testament, part of our holy book.’
A smile tugged at the corner of Yusuf’s mouth. ‘You wish to convert me, John?’
‘No. I want you to know your enemy.’
Yusuf looked at the book for a moment longer, then placed the palm of his right hand over his heart and bowed his head. ‘Thank you.’ He slipped the book into his saddlebag. ‘I accept your gift.’
They left the fields behind and rode back to the citadel. In the courtyard a dozen young mamluks were training under the supervision of Qaraqush. Yusuf paused to watch them. The boys rode in a circle around the courtyard, firing arrows at a target that hung from one of the walls. Only one arrow had struck home so far, but the boys would improve with time. They were no older than ten, slaves newly taken from the distant Turkish steppes. By the time they reached eighteen and were freed, they would be skilled warriors.
Yusuf dismounted and handed his reins to John. ‘I will see you at dinner after evening prayers,’ he said, then entered the citadel’s keep and went to his quarters. When Yusuf opened the door, his eyes widened. Faridah lay naked on his bed, her entire body covered with swirling patterns drawn with henna. She was well past thirty now and more voluptuous than when Yusuf had first met her, with wider hips and a softer body. But her hair was the same fiery red and her face unlined. She was, Yusuf thought, even more beautiful. ‘Id milad sa’id,’ she purred. Happy birthday.
‘I am not a Frank, Faridah. To my people, the day of our birth is but another day.’
Faridah arched an eyebrow. ‘Then you do not wish to receive your present?’ She pulled a blanket over herself.
Yusuf went to the bed and pulled the blanket back. With his forefinger, he lightly traced the swirling patterns of henna, his finger moving down her stomach to between her legs. Faridah gasped, and Yusuf smiled. ‘Allah has told us the greatest joy is in giving.’ He began to kiss her when there was a knock on the door. Faridah rose and passed into her own quarters. Yusuf turned to the door. ‘Enter!’
Turan came into the room, a letter in his hand. ‘This has come from Aleppo.’ Yusuf took the letter and went to the window, where he broke the seal. ‘Is it from Nur ad-Din?’ Turan asked.
Yusuf nodded. ‘King Baldwin is dying. Nur ad-Din has called me back to Aleppo to help him prepare his campaign against the Franks.’
‘Then you must go. I will tell Qaraqush and John to prepare our departure.’ Turan headed for the door.
‘Wait, Brother,’ Yusuf called. ‘I admit that I had doubts when I made you my second-in-command, but you have served me well these last few years. Now I have another, greater service to ask of you.’
‘Name it, Brother.’
‘The campaign against the Franks may last for many years. I want you to stay here, to rule Tell Bashir while I am gone.’
Turan frowned. ‘I would rather fight by your side.’
‘I know, but I need you here to make certain that my lands flourish.’
Turan hesitated for only a moment before nodding. He had changed greatly since Nadhira’s death. ‘Very well.’
‘Thank you, Brother.’ Turan left and Faridah re-entered the room. Her lips were pressed in a thin line of worry. ‘Nur ad-Din has called for me,’ Yusuf told her.
‘I heard.’ She met his eyes. ‘And Asimat?’
Yusuf smiled to reassure her. ‘You need not worry. She means nothing to me.’