Yusuf could hardly believe what he was hearing. This man was nothing like the Shawar he had come to know. That smile, which Yusuf had once found so charming, now appeared false. How could Yusuf have been so blind?
‘Damn your seventh grandfather, you deceitful bastard!’ Shirkuh shouted. He had drawn his sword and was waving it up at Shawar. ‘I will tear down the walls of Cairo stone by stone. I will cut off your head and piss down your throat!’
‘You are welcome to try,’ Shawar replied brightly. ‘But I must warn you that if you do not leave now, my men will deal with you. I am afraid that this is the last time we will speak. Farewell, my friends.’
‘Son of a donkey!’ Shirkuh spluttered. ‘Whore’s twat!’
The men atop the walls drew back their bows. Yusuf grabbed his uncle’s arm. ‘Come, Uncle. We must go. We shall have our revenge later.’
APRIL 1164: CAIRO
John tugged at the rough collar of his cloak of dark brown wool. It was fastened with a brooch at the centre of the chest, in the clerical style. Laymen fastened their cloaks at their right shoulder so as to leave their sword arm unencumbered. Another advantage of placing the clasp at the shoulder, John had discovered regretfully, was that it distributed the weight of the cloak in such a way that it did not chafe. He tugged at the cloak again, pulling it away from his raw neck. If it were up to him, he would have worn a simple burnoose and keffiyeh, but William had insisted that as a priest and adviser to the king he must travel in tunic and cloak, with his long stole hanging about his neck. Even in April the Egyptian heat was oppressive, and his tunic was soaked with sweat.
‘What I wouldn’t give to be in England right now,’ he murmured.
‘England?’ Amalric asked as he came alongside. The two men rode near the head of a column of nearly five thousand warriors. There were just under four hundred mounted knights, each equipped with a thick mail shirt, lance, sword and shield. Surrounding the knights were three thousand sergeants; foot-soldiers who mostly wore leather jerkins and fought with spears and bows. The rearguard was composed of native cavalry, Christians who had lived in the Holy Land for generations and had more in common with the Saracens than the Franks. They wore light, padded armour and carried bamboo spears and compact, curved bows.
‘I was born and raised in the Holy Land,’ the king continued. ‘I have never been to England, although I have heard it described often enough. The pilgrims never cease to speak of it. Fields of green, woods, water in abundance … I have often wondered why, if it is so lovely, so many men leave to come here.’
John was not sure how to reply. He noticed that Amalric was worriedly fingering the fragment of the true cross that he wore on a chain about his neck. He hoped that Amalric was not seeking religious consolation. John still felt uncertain in his role as a priest. He wished William were here, but the chancellor was away on a mission to the Roman court in Constantinople.
‘I had to leave,’ John said at last. ‘I killed my brother.’ Amalric did not speak, so John continued. ‘He betrayed my father and several other Saxon lords to the Norman king in return for more land.’
‘The Norman king?’ Amalric asked. ‘England has been ruled by the Angevin line for nearly a hundred years. Surely Stephen is as English as you.’
‘The Normans speak French and the common people, English. And in the north we have long memories. My grandfather was a child when William the Bastard’s army butchered our people. He passed the story of the Harrowing on to my father, who passed it on to me.’
‘I see.’ Amalric continued to finger his cross. They were riding alongside a branch of the Nile delta, making their way from Bilbeis towards Cairo. John watched a low skiff with a triangular sail gliding upstream, mirroring their progress. A man in the prow was fishing with a bamboo rod and line. He had been at it for an hour but had caught nothing. John suspected he was a spy for Shirkuh, more interested in the Frankish army than fish.
‘Bernard of Clairvaux visited me last night,’ Amalric said suddenly.
John’s eyebrows shot up. He cleared his throat. ‘Is he not dead, sire?’
The corner of Amalric’s mouth twitched, then he burst into high-pitched, shrill laughter. ‘In a dream, John. He came to me in a dream. He said that I am a poor Chri-a poor Chri-’ The king’s face was reddening as he struggled to get his words out. His stutter was always worse when he was upset. ‘He said that I am not a worthy king.’
‘But that is not true, sire.’
‘Perhaps.’ Amalric sighed. ‘I have my faults, John. I divorced my wife and have since lived in sin with many women. Many women. To lie with a woman outside of marriage is a wicked sin, is it not, John?’
‘It is to be expected. You are a king, sire.’
‘That is hardly the appropriate answer of a man of the cloth!’
‘I fear I am a poor priest.’
‘Hmph. William tells me that a king should have a wife.’ Amalric held up the piece of cross around his neck. ‘Saint Bernard t-told me that I will be unw-worthy of wearing the cross unless I am a better Christian.’
‘So you shall marry, sire?’
Amalric shrugged. ‘Or p-perhaps I should simply cease wearing the true cross.’ He took the chain from around his neck and placed it in a pouch at his waist. He grinned. ‘Yes, that feels better.’ The king spurred ahead, leaving John to ride alone.
The sun had reached its zenith when the ruins of ancient Heliopolis — only a few miles north-east of Cairo — appeared on the horizon. The first thing John saw was a tall column that came to a point, like a needle reaching towards the sky. As they rode closer, he could make out the remains of the city’s wall of crude brick, now crumbling to dust. Beyond the wall, blocks of dark granite stood here and there, the obelisk towering over them. Its sides were decorated with strange symbols; John identified snakes, cranes and ploughs, and men in what looked to be skirts. An ornate tent of red silk stood beyond the obelisk. Surrounding the tent were ranks of Egyptian warriors holding long shields and lances.
Amalric held up a fist to signal a halt. ‘Have the men take water and food,’ he told the constable Humphrey. ‘But be prepared for trouble.’ He waved John forward.
‘Yes, sire?’
‘You will come with me to interpret. Fulcher and De Caesarea, you come as well,’ he called to two of the nobles. Geoffrey Fulcher was an older man with greying hair and a pleasant face. He wore the dress of a Templar knight: a white surcoat with red cross and a white mantle about his shoulders. He had returned not long ago from a mission to the court of France. Hugh de Caesarea was a hot-blooded young man, but he was reputed to have a silver tongue.
The four of them rode down an ancient street with occasional paving stones protruding from the dust. As they neared the tent the ranks of soldiers parted and a man strode out to meet them. He wore fabulous robes of red silk decorated with a swirling pattern of roses picked out in gold and silver. A jewelled sword hung from his waist. The man was tall and thin with a trimmed beard and very short black hair. He had an arresting face — sharp cheekbones and full lips that stretched back in a dazzling smile. ‘God keep you, King Amalric,’ the man called in Frankish. He then switched to Arabic, and John translated his next words. ‘I am Shawar, vizier to the Caliph. Welcome to Heliopolis, ‘Ayn Sams, as my people call it: “Well of the Sun”.’
‘God grant you joy,’ Amalric replied as he dismounted. He clasped Shawar’s arms and kissed him on the cheeks in the Saracen style.
Shawar stood rigidly, as if he were being kissed by a leper. But he recovered his composure quickly, and when the king stepped away, Shawar was smiling. ‘I am so pleased that you have come! Step inside my tent, you and your men.’ The tent was a grand affair, large enough to hold a hundred men. Scribes were seated cross-legged on the floor, writing desks on their laps. Shawar went to a table that held several glasses of water. He handed them to Amalric and the others. John noticed that the glass was cold, beads of moisture forming on the outside. Cold water in the desert; he wondered how the vizier had managed that. ‘Drink!’ Shawar said. ‘You must be thirsty after your journey.’