‘No. He will kill you!’
‘Then we will run away, to the kingdom of Jerusalem.’
‘And do you think Zimat will be happy amongst the Franks?’ Faridah demanded. ‘She is the wife of an emir, surrounded by luxury. What will her life be like as the wife of a simple soldier? What future will there be for your child?’
‘Then what?’ John demanded, his jaw clenched. ‘I leave the woman I love? I leave my child to be raised by another man?’
Faridah nodded. ‘If you truly love Zimat, then you must do what is necessary to protect her and the child.’
‘And what about when the child is born? What if it has blue eyes or blond hair?’
‘Pray to God that it does not.’
APRIL 1158: TELL BASHIR
John stood atop the gatehouse of Tell Bashir, his wet clothes clinging to him and rain running off his nose as he stared out at the road from Aleppo. He held a long strip of leather, which he methodically wrapped and unwrapped around his right hand. The two mamluks on watch were hunkered down under their cloaks. ‘What the devil do you suppose is hounding al-ifranji?’ one of them whispered.
‘Maybe he lost at dice.’
‘Maybe he has lost his mind.’
John heard the words, but he paid no more attention to them than he did to the rain. It was seven months since they had left Aleppo and almost nine months since Zimat had told him that she had ceased to bleed, that she was with child. John expected news of her delivery any day, and so he stood here at the gate whenever he could, his eyes fixed on the winding road from Aleppo.
John thought he saw movement in the distance. He squinted, trying to penetrate the curtain of rain. He could just make out a group of riders at the edge of town. John turned to the men on watch. ‘Someone is coming. Inform the emir and prepare to open the gate.’
The men scrambled away, and John turned back to watch the riders approach. As they drew closer, he could see that there were five of them. They splashed down the muddy street through the centre of town and up the short ramp to the gate, where the man in the lead pushed back his hood. It was Yusuf’s younger brother, Selim. ‘Open the gates!’ he called. ‘I come with news.’
John watched as Selim entered and was led into the citadel’s keep. John bowed his head and took a deep breath. ‘Please God,’ he whispered. ‘Let the child have dark eyes.’ Then he descended from the wall and strode across the muddy courtyard to the keep. He went to Yusuf’s chambers and found the door open. Stepping inside, he found Yusuf kissing Selim on each cheek. Turan stood to the side, smiling.
‘John!’ Yusuf exclaimed. ‘Selim has brought good news.’
‘Yes?’ John asked, barely able to keep his voice from shaking.
‘You remember my sister, Zimat? She has given birth to a son!’
‘A son,’ John whispered hoarsely. He turned to Selim. ‘You have seen the boy?’ Selim nodded. ‘What is he like?’
‘He is a healthy child.’
‘And who does he favour?’ John asked urgently. ‘His mother?’ Selim frowned, confused by John’s interest. ‘The boy is only a babe, but he has his father’s eyes.’
John sighed in relief. ‘Il-Hamdillah,’ he murmured. ‘God be praised.’
Chapter 17
OCTOBER 1161: TELL BASHIR
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.’