‘Turan and Yusuf,’ Ayub affirmed. The two boys approached and bowed low.
‘Fine young men,’ Unur approved. ‘Sit here, beside me. Eat. Now that you have arrived, we shall have entertainment. Afterwards, we shall talk.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring the girls!’
Yusuf and Turan were directed to cushions just to the left of the emir’s dais. Their father took his place on the emir’s right. No sooner had they sat down than four young women entered wearing veils and loose, diaphanous silk robes that shifted as they walked, revealing glimpses of firm breasts and long, golden-brown legs. A drummer had entered behind them, and at the first sound of his drum the girls began to dance, circling slowly to the beat. Their arms and feet traced intricate patterns while their waists and hips swayed slowly side to side. One of the girls paused for a moment before Yusuf, fixing him with dark eyes ringed with kohl. Yusuf blushed and looked away towards his father.
Ayub had begun to eat, scooping up stew with a piece of flatbread. Yusuf followed his example, tearing off a piece of the warm bread and using it to scoop up a delicious mouthful of chickpeas, onions and roast lamb. He noticed that Turan had not touched his food. His eyes were fixed on the dancers. Yusuf looked back to the girls, who were each bending forward now, allowing the men to see the curves of their breasts. He shrugged and scooped up more of the lamb. He could not understand his brother’s fascination.
The drum began to beat faster, and the dancers moved in time, spinning and leaping. Suddenly they stopped circling and fell to their knees. They shook their chests, then leaned backwards so that the back of their heads touched the floor. Turan was transfixed, his mouth hanging open. Yusuf looked over and saw that his father, too, had stopped eating to watch. The dancers lifted their hips off the floor slowly, then faster and faster, moving to the ever more rapid beat. They rolled over, pushed themselves to their feet and began circling again. They were now a blur of seductive curves and firm limbs. Then, with a final crescendo, the drum fell silent and the dancers fell to the floor, kneeling motionless with their foreheads touching the ground. Only their heaving sides betrayed the recent exertions.
Emir Unur rose from his dais and stepped down amongst the dancers. He walked slowly around the edge of the circle, then touched the shoulder of the dancer opposite the dais. She rose and left the room, head held high.
‘Lucky bastard,’ Turan murmured, just loudly enough for Yusuf to hear him.
Unur returned to his seat and clapped his hands. The other women left, followed by the drummer. The doors slammed shut behind them. ‘Lovely, are they not?’ Unur said with a wink towards Yusuf and Turan. ‘Even in trying times like these, we should not ignore life’s simple pleasures. Who knows when they will be taken from us?’ He turned towards Ayub. ‘I trust you saw the Franks arrive?’
‘I did. My sons and I stood on the walls for much of the day.’
‘And how do you rate our chances, wise Ayub?’
‘The Franks are many, and now that they have taken the orchards, the city will run short of food. Forgive my impertinence, Emir, but I do not believe you will be able to hold the walls for long. You need Nur ad-Din’s help.’
Unur frowned. ‘I fear that if I call on your lord to drive off the Franks, then I will only replace one master with another.’
‘Perhaps, but a Muslim master, one who will leave you your throne and not pillage your city. All you have to do is acknowledge his lordship and promise to send troops when he calls for them. Is that so much?’
‘ Hmph,’ Unur grunted. He looked around the circle at his generals. ‘Are you in agreement with Ayub?’ One by one, the generals nodded. Unur sighed. ‘So be it. Write to your master, Ayub, and tell him to send his army. But warn him that he must hurry if he wishes to win me as his vassal, for I plan to do better than merely hold the city until he arrives.’ He turned to face Turan. ‘Tell me, young Turan. What would you do in order to drive the Franks away from our city?’
‘I would strike now, before they dig in,’ Turan replied. ‘I would send men out from the eastern gate to circle behind the Franks.’ Turan used his right hand to show the movement of the soldiers. ‘And then I would attack from both sides.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The Franks will be crushed!’
‘A bold manoeuvre,’ Unur mused. Turan grinned. ‘Although one which would leave us with too few men to defend the walls, and which would split our army in order to attack a defensive position. If the Franks learned of our men leaving by the east gate, then they would attack and the city might well be lost.’ Turan blushed. Unur turned his penetrating gaze upon Yusuf. ‘What of you, young man? What would you do?’
Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘So long as the Franks hold the orchards, we are weak. They have food and water enough to last for months, while our supplies will grow smaller every day. We must drive them from the orchards at any cost.’
‘Agreed, but how? As I told your brother, we cannot send enough men to drive them out without leaving our walls vulnerable.’
Yusuf’s forehead creased as he considered the problem. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’
‘Indeed?’
Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘But there is no honour in it. It is best forgotten.’
‘Speak, young Yusuf,’ Unur insisted. ‘I wish to hear this idea of yours.’
Yusuf looked past Unur to his father, who nodded. ‘If the Franks cannot be driven out, then perhaps they can be lured,’ Yusuf suggested. ‘Aleppo is a better military target than Damascus. The Franks must have come here because they seek riches. If gold is what they have come for, then give it to them. Pay them to leave the orchards.’
‘That is a coward’s answer,’ Turan muttered. Several of the men in the room nodded their agreement.
‘Forgive me.’ Yusuf hung his head. ‘I should not have spoken.’
‘No, it was a wise answer,’ Unur said. He turned towards Yusuf’s father. ‘You have raised clever sons, Ayub. They do you great honour.’ Ayub inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Now I must bid you and your sons goodnight so that I may speak with my generals. We have much to discuss.’
The Frankish camp was set up at the edge of the orchard, near the river. John’s troop erected their tents in a clearing and dined on dark brown pods that they shook from the trees. The flesh was chewy but filling, with an earthy taste not unlike the black bread that John had grown up eating. His belly full, he removed his chainmail and crawled into his tent, where he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.
He dreamt of his home in Northumbria, of a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. He was walking through a green field of knee-high oats, their stalks rippling in a gentle breeze. He crossed the field towards his family manor, a rectangular building of grey stone, surrounded by a broad moat. His father stood in the doorway, waving to him. But something was wrong. As John approached, his father fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth. Behind him, John’s brother appeared. Loud screams echoed from within the manor.
John awoke with a start, but the screaming did not stop. Cries of agony came from outside his tent, joined now by shouts of alarm. John sat up just as a spear ripped through the side of his tent, plunging into the ground where he had lain only a moment before. He grabbed his sword and rushed outside, wearing only his linen tunic. The camp was overrun with ghostly figures, barely visible in the darkness — Saracens in dark armour, stabbing at the tents with their spears. One of the attackers saw John. With a cry, the Saracen charged, his spear pointed at John’s chest.