William stepped closer to the throne. ‘An invasion will cost money, sire.’
‘The Egyptians have untold wealth,’ Gilbert noted.
Amalric stroked his beard. ‘Ask him what Shawar offers in return for our assistance.’ William translated the request.
‘Caliph al-Adid will recognize you as his overlord,’ Al-Khlata replied, ‘and pay you four hundred thousand dinars.’
The seneschal paled. ‘That is nearly equivalent to our annual revenue, sire.’
‘King of Jerusalem and lord of Egypt,’ Amalric murmured. ‘I could hire enough men to take Damascus. Succeed where my brother failed.’ The king’s forehead creased and his lips began to tremble. He burst out laughing, and Al-Khlata took a step back. The lords around the throne shifted uncomfortably. The fit subsided, and Amalric resumed his impassive expression. He looked to William. ‘Offer m-my apologies to Al-Khlata. And tell him that I accept his offer.’
‘Perhaps it would be wise to reflect before accepting, sire,’ Guy said. ‘We know nothing of this Al-Khlata. Can we trust him? Or his master? Why would Shawar turn his back on his fellow Saracens to ally with us?’
John stepped forward. ‘They are Saracens, sire, but they are not the same.’
‘What do you mean?’ Amalric asked.
‘The Egyptians are Shiites. They look to the Fatimid caliph in Cairo. Nur ad-Din and his men are Sunni, under the caliph in Baghdad.’
‘They are all Mohammedans,’ the seneschal said.
‘Just as they consider the English and French to all be Franks,’ John said, ‘whereas we know that they are in fact quite different.’
‘I see,’ Amalric said. ‘What do you say to this, William?’
‘I council caution, sire. If Shawar is willing to betray Nur ad-Din, then what is to say that he will not betray us in turn?’
Bertrand nodded. ‘William is right.’
‘Very well,’ Amalric said. ‘Tell him that we need time to c-consider.’
William opened his mouth to translate, but Al-Khlata spoke first. ‘Shawar is a man of his word,’ he said in accented but correct French. ‘It is Nur ad-Din who has broken his oath. His general, Shirkuh, has designs on Cairo. He sits in Giza, like a hawk poised to strike. Shawar needs your aid to remove him, and he needs it now. Your answer cannot wait.’
Amalric looked to William, who frowned and shook his head. The king turned to the constable. Humphrey commanded the king’s army in the field, and his word had weight. He nodded. Amalric turned back to Al-Khlata. ‘You will leave tomorrow for Cairo to tell Shawar that he has my support.’
Al-Khlata bowed low. ‘Thank you, Malik.’
Amalric nodded, and a servant entered to lead the Egyptian to his quarters. William frowned as he watched him go. ‘I do not trust him,’ he muttered.
Amalric rose from the throne and put a hand on William’s shoulder. ‘Nor do I, friend. But this is an opportunity we cannot ignore. Write to Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli. They will need to defend our northern border while I am gone.’ Amalric looked to the constable. ‘Gather the army, Humphrey. We leave in two weeks’ time.’
APRIL 1164: GIZA
Yusuf set his quill down and rubbed his temples. He had just finished another letter to Gumushtagin, written in ghubar, the tiny Arabic script used for the pigeon post. He had told the eunuch of the consideration that Shawar had shown them, how he had kept the army well provisioned and invited Yusuf to dine with him each night. He had also written of the increasing tension between the vizier and Yusuf’s uncle. Shirkuh was angry that Shawar had delivered only a fraction of the tribute that was due to Nur ad-Din. Shawar resented the presence of Shirkuh, who had informed the vizier that he planned to winter the army in Egypt. Yusuf had been forced to intervene more than once to prevent an open break between the two. All of this was information that Gumushtagin would eventually learn from Shirkuh’s dispatches to Nur ad-Din. Nevertheless, each letter that he wrote left Yusuf with a nagging sense of guilt.
He rolled the scroll and slid it into a tiny tube. He wrote Gumushtagin’s name on a scrap of paper and then wound it around the tube, affixing it with a dab of glue. He left his tent and strode across camp to where the hawadi were kept. The mail pigeons sat in their cages, cooing softly. ‘For the palace in Aleppo,’ Yusuf told the keeper, a stooped mamluk, too old to fight. The man nodded and went to one of the cages. He took out the pigeon and carefully tied the tube to its leg. Then he stepped outside and released the bird. It circled once and flew away, heading north-east.
‘Your message will arrive tonight, Sayyid,’ the keeper told him.
Yusuf was heading back to his tent when Selim hailed him. ‘Brother! There you are!’ Selim was breathless. He looked to have run the length of the camp.
‘What is it?’
‘Shirkuh needs you. It is the Franks. They are here.’
Yusuf entered Shirkuh’s tent to find him speaking with a bow-legged Egyptian who smelled of fish. ‘You are certain?’ Shirkuh was asking him.
‘I was fishing north of here, in the eastern branch of the Nile, when I saw them; maybe five thousand men. They are no more than four days’ march from Cairo.’
Shirkuh handed the fisherman a sack of coins. ‘Keep me informed of their movements. There is more where this came from if your information proves useful.’
‘Shukran, Emir. Shukran Allah!’ The fisherman bowed repeatedly as he backed from the tent.
When he had gone, Shirkuh turned to Yusuf. ‘What do you make of this, young eagle?’
‘The Frankish king is no fool. He knows that if Nur ad-Din and Egypt are allied, he is in grave danger. He must be marching to drive us out.’
The lines on Shirkuh’s forehead deepened. ‘If he is no fool, tell me why he has come to Egypt with only five thousand men. That is not enough to face us and the Egyptians. I do not like this.’
‘We should speak with Shawar,’ Yusuf suggested.
‘Yes, he is clever. Perhaps he will know what the Frankish king plans.’
Accompanied by a dozen members of Shirkuh’s private guard, they took a barge north to Al-Maks, the port of Cairo. From there they rode to the northern gate, the Bab al-Futuh. As they approached, Yusuf saw that the gate was closed. Soldiers stood atop it with spears in hand. Atop each spear was a head. Yusuf felt a burning in his stomach as he recognized those heads. They belonged to the garrison of mamluks that Nur ad-Din had left in Cairo.
Shirkuh flushed red with anger. He reined to a stop before the gate and shouted up to the guards. ‘What is the meaning of this? Open the gate immediately! I wish to speak with Shawar.’
‘I am sorry, Atabeg,’ one of the guards called down. ‘The Vizier has ordered the city closed to you.’
‘Surely there is a misunderstanding,’ Yusuf said to his uncle. He raised his voice to speak to the guards. ‘Inform Shawar that we will wait here until he arrives.’
They did not have to wait long before Shawar appeared atop the gate. ‘Shirkuh! Yusuf! I deeply regret that we find ourselves in this awkward situation.’
‘You see, it is a misunderstanding,’ Yusuf told his uncle. ‘Open the gate, friend,’ he called up to Shawar. ‘Let us in so we may talk.’
‘I am afraid I cannot do that. As you can see-’ he gestured to the heads ‘-your men are no longer welcome in Cairo.’
‘I will gut you, you two-faced bastard!’ Shirkuh roared.
Yusuf put a hand on his uncle’s arm to calm him. ‘This is no time for a falling out,’ he called to Shawar. ‘The Frankish army is only days away. We must discuss how we will repel them.’
‘But I have no wish to repel them. It is I who invited them here.’
The burning in Yusuf’s stomach grew worse. ‘Why?’
‘I wish to be master of Egypt,’ Shawar replied. ‘I never shall be, so long as your army is here.’
‘But we are your allies! I am your friend.’
‘Yes, we are good friends, aren’t we?’ Shawar smiled. ‘It pains me to turn my back on a friend such as you, Yusuf, but my personal feelings do not matter. I must do what is in the best interest of Egypt.’