Yusuf turned back towards his younger brother Selim and the mamluk commander Qaraqush. Qaraqush was a thick-necked bull of a man. His hair had begun to grey, but he was just as fearsome a warrior as when Yusuf had first met him twelve years ago. As for Selim, he was a man now. With his dark hair and beard, wiry build and deep brown eyes, he looked like a younger, slightly taller version of Yusuf, so much so that the men had taken to calling him Al-Azrar: ‘the younger’.
‘If we do not return by evening prayers,’ Yusuf told them, ‘lay siege.’
Qaraqush nodded. ‘I will not leave a stone standing.’
Yusuf spurred after Shirkuh and Shawar. As they approached the city gate, a small man in an elegant caftan of blue silk embroidered with gold came out to meet them. As he came closer, Yusuf saw that his back was crooked and hunched. His narrow face, though, was pleasant enough, with a dark beard that reached past his chest. In his hands he held a cushion upon which sat a human head.
The man stopped just short of them and bowed. ‘Salaam, Shawar. I come on behalf of the Caliph to invite you to his palace. And, I bring a gift.’
‘What is this?’ Shirkuh demanded, gesturing to the head. It was grotesque: the face bruised and swollen, the eyes and tongue removed.
Shawar took the head and gazed at it for a moment. ‘It is the head of the traitor, Dhirgam.’ He looked to the man who had brought the grisly gift. ‘What happened to him, Al-Fadil?’
‘The people of Cairo turned on him. They tore him to pieces.’
‘Such a pity,’ Shawar murmured. ‘I would have liked to kill him myself.’ He tossed the head aside. ‘Come. The Caliph awaits.’
Shawar spurred through the gate, and Yusuf and Shirkuh followed, accompanied by two-dozen mamluks from Shirkuh’s private guard. A silent crowd lined the wide street. ‘My people!’ Shawar seemed oblivious to their lack of enthusiasm. They rode on into a broad square situated between the two halves of the palace — a dizzying collection of colonnaded porticos, domes and towers of white stone. ‘The east palace is occupied by courtiers,’ Shawar explained. ‘The Caliph lives on the west side.’
Shawar led them that way. They dismounted and climbed the broad stairs to the portico. ‘Your men should wait here,’ Shawar told them. Shirkuh hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Shawar led him and Yusuf inside into a high-ceilinged reception hall lined with guards. Yusuf and Shirkuh followed Shawar across the hall and through a series of luxurious rooms. The walls were hung with brightly coloured silks decorated with swirling patterns woven in gold and studded with jewels. The floors were covered in thick carpets of soft goat hair, which swallowed the sound of their footsteps. Finally, they reached the audience chamber, which was divided in the middle by a curtain of golden cloth.
‘Your swords,’ Shawar told them. ‘It is customary to lay them before the Caliph.’
Shirkuh drew his sword and laid it on the ground before him. Yusuf did the same.
‘Now kneel,’ Shawar said, ‘and bow three times.’
Yusuf and Shirkuh did as they were told. Shawar joined them, prostrating himself before the golden curtain. It rose to reveal the boy-caliph, sitting cross-legged on a gilt throne. Not one inch of the caliph’s flesh was visible. He wore a white silk caftan, the hem and collar of which were heavy with jewels. A veil hid his face, and gloves of red silk covered his hands. On his feet were jewelled slippers. A dozen mamluk warriors stood along the wall behind the throne, and richly dressed courtiers lined the walls to the left and right.
Shawar addressed him. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, God’s deputy, defender of the faithful, I have returned to serve you.’
‘Welcome back to Cairo, Shawar,’ Al-Adid said in an adolescent warble. ‘You have been missed.’
‘Not as much as I have missed serving you, Caliph.’
‘Then you may serve me again. I am in need of a new vizier.’
‘It would be my honour, Caliph.’
‘Then it is done. Rise.’
Shawar rose, and Yusuf and Shirkuh did likewise. Al-Adid gestured to one of his attendants, who stepped forward holding a red silk cushion on which lay a magnificent, gold-bladed sword with an ivory hilt encrusted with jewels. Its sheath, which lay beside it, was of gold and also covered in precious stones. ‘The sword of the vizier,’ the caliph said. ‘It is yours.’
The courtier belted the sword about Shawar’s waist. ‘Shukran, great Caliph,’ the vizier said and bowed.
Al-Adid waved away his thanks and turned to Shirkuh and Yusuf. ‘Who are these men, Shawar?’
‘Emirs from Syria. They came at the behest of Nur ad-Din to help me dispose of the traitor Dhirgam.’
‘Then they have my thanks.’
Shawar cleared his throat. ‘Nur ad-Din has been promised a third of our annual revenue as tribute.’
‘Very well,’ the caliph said in a tired voice. He seemed bored by these details. ‘Is there anything else?’
Shirkuh stepped forward. ‘My lord instructs me to thank you for welcoming us to Cairo. So long as I am in Egypt, I will serve you as I would serve him. To better protect you from any reprisals from Dhirgam’s men, I would like to station a garrison inside the city.’
The caliph shifted on his throne. ‘This is my city,’ he said sharply. ‘I will not turn it over to foreign troops.’
‘But Shawar agreed-’
Shirkuh stopped short as Shawar shot him a warning glance. ‘These are of course only suggestions, Caliph,’ the vizier said in a soothing tone. ‘Shirkuh is a reasonable man. He will understand that it is not possible to garrison his troops within the city.’ He turned to Shirkuh and spoke in a low voice, so the caliph would not hear. ‘We must not anger the caliph. If he speaks against you, I will have a riot on my hands.’
‘I can put down a riot,’ Shirkuh grumbled.
‘Yes. But swords close markets, and dead men pay no taxes. The treasury is low, and Dhirgam will have emptied it further to pay his troops. If you want the tribute that is owed to Nur ad-Din, then your army must leave the city. They need not go far. They can stay in Giza, just across the Nile.’
Shirkuh looked as if he had just taken a sip of sour wine, but finally he nodded. ‘I will move my army to Giza. But I will leave a garrison of one hundred men to take charge of the city gates.’
‘Agreed.’ Shawar flashed his most winning smile. ‘Now come, friends. You will be guests at the Caliph’s table. Let us celebrate the alliance between our two great kingdoms.’
Chapter 3
APRIL 1164: JERUSALEM
John sat with his eyes closed, submerged to his chin in the steaming waters of the bath house. A low murmur of voices surrounded him, echoing off the domed ceiling. Most spoke in French, but John also heard German, Provencal, Latin and Catalan. He ignored the sound and let his mind drift. This was his morning ritual, before he went to the church to learn to chant and lead Mass from the prayer book, and then to the palace to work for William or tutor prince Baldwin. It was a time when he could be at peace and forget that he was a man without a country, as cut off from his childhood home of England as he was from his friends in Aleppo. He belonged nowhere, and perhaps that is why he felt at home in Jerusalem. It was a city of immigrants — pilgrims from Europe and native Christians from all over Syria. A city where it was easy to leave one’s past behind and fashion a new life.
John rose from the warm waters and headed for the next room, where he was scrubbed down by an attendant before being doused in cold water. He slipped into his caftan in the changing room and stepped out of the bath house into the paved courtyard of the Hospitaller complex. All around him rose tall buildings — churches, hospitals built to house sick pilgrims and barracks for the knights who served the order. The air, which would be as hot as a furnace by midday, was comfortably warm. John glanced at the sun, whose deep red rim was just rising above the tall buildings that lined the eastern side of the courtyard. There was time for a short walk and a little breakfast.