Yusuf just had time to recognize the king’s standard flying above them before he found himself surrounded and fighting for his life. A sword flashed towards his head, and he parried. He deflected another blow with this shield. He spurred forward, trying to escape the press of men, but before he could ride free a sword slammed into his back. His mail stopped the blade, but the force of the blow knocked him forward against his horse’s neck. He straightened just in time to parry a strike that would have decapitated him. Yusuf’s heart beat faster when he saw his attacker’s face. It was the king. Yusuf slashed for his head, but Amalric knocked the blow aside with his shield. The king raised his sword and then froze as an arrow thudded into his chest.
Another dozen mamluks, with Shirkuh at their head, had rounded one of the dunes and were now circling the Christians and shooting arrows. Another shaft slammed into the king’s chest. Yusuf saw no blood. The arrows had penetrated the king’s mail, but not the leather vest beneath.
‘To me!’ Amalric cried. ‘Retreat! Retreat!’ He parried a final blow from Yusuf and spurred away, his heavy horse knocking aside the mamluks’ lighter mounts. The remaining half-dozen knights galloped after him.
‘It’s the King! Don’t let him escape!’ Yusuf shouted as he spurred his horse to a gallop. He came alongside the rearmost Frank. The man hacked at him, but he turned the blow aside with his own sword before swinging backhanded and catching the man in the chin. Blood spattered the sand as the knight fell.
There were still five knights between him and the king. Yusuf spurred his mount still faster, flashing by one knight, then another and another. He knocked a blow aside with his shield as he sped past the final knight. The king was just ahead now.
And then a group of knights appeared from around the side of a dune to Yusuf’s right. Yusuf just managed to raise his shield before a lance slammed into it, sending him flying. He landed in the soft sand and rolled into a ball as the Frankish horses galloped over him. He stayed huddled as he heard the clash of steel above him, the thud of hooves, then quiet. He rose slowly. The knights were gone, the king with them. Shirkuh and Yusuf’s men were gone too, no doubt in pursuit. Yusuf’s horse was nowhere to be seen. He whistled loudly, but it did not return. Yusuf sat down in the sand. There was no sense in trying to walk back to camp. He would only get lost amongst the dunes.
It seemed a long time later when he heard the drum of approaching hoofbeats. ‘There you are, young eagle!’ Shirkuh called as he rounded a dune. He slid from the saddle and embraced Yusuf. ‘Thank Allah, you are alive!’ He grinned. ‘The Franks have fled. And we have their gold.’
‘What of the King? Did he escape?’
‘Escape? Ran away, more like it.’
‘Should we not give chase?’
‘Patience, young eagle. Their infantry is intact, and they still outnumber us, even after their losses. We will let them retreat to Cairo to lick their wounds.’
‘And where shall we go?’
Shirkuh grinned his crooked-tooth smile. ‘What better way to kill a snake than to cut off its head?’
‘Cairo, then.’
‘No, Alexandria. Cairo holds the Caliph, but it is Alexandria that furnishes the wealth of Egypt and gives them access to the sea. It is the emporium of the world, where East meets West, where the caravans end their long journey from India. And we, Yusuf, are going to take it.’
JUNE 1164: ALEXANDRIA
The Shining Pearl of the Mediterranean, the City of Spices, Silk City, City of Wonders — Iskandariyya. The city lay spread out below Yusuf as he stood at one of the windows high up in the lighthouse of Alexandria. The ships in the harbour looked like toys. Cleopatra’s needles, the twin obelisks that stood near the harbour, seemed no larger than toothpicks.
They had arrived in Alexandria that afternoon. A delegation of citizens had met them outside the walls and presented Shirkuh with the head of the Fatimid governor. The people of Alexandria were mostly Sunni Muslims and Coptic Christians, both of whom resented the rule of the Shia caliph in Cairo. They had welcomed the army into Alexandria. While the men occupied the towers that studded the walls, the city’s administrator, a Copt named Palomon, had led Yusuf and Shirkuh to the lighthouse so that they could survey the city and plan its defence.
Yusuf had heard of the lighthouse, of course. His childhood tutor, Imad ad-Din, had told him it had been constructed by the Greeks over a thousand years ago. He had described it as one of the wonders of the world, the tallest structure ever built by man, a work to rival that of God himself. None of those descriptions did the lighthouse justice. The broad base alone was taller than Alexandria’s massive walls. The lighthouse rose from the base in three steps, the first of which was a huge square block at least twice as tall as the tallest tower Yusuf had ever seen. An octagonal tower rose from the block, and a circular tower rose from that, its tip touching the clouds. It was unbelievable that something so tall could stand. The secret, Palomon had told him, was that the huge blocks of white stone were soldered with lead.
The sun was setting by the time they reached the top. Shirkuh had huffed with every step, turning so red that Yusuf had worried his stout, bow-legged uncle would not survive the climb. But finally the stairs had ended and they had stepped into a circular room surrounded by arched windows. Shirkuh had staggered to a window and leaned against the embrasure. Yusuf had joined him there, and neither man had spoken a word since.
‘This must be how Allah feels,’ Yusuf murmured at last.
‘She is spectacular, is she not?’ Palomon said as he came up behind them. ‘Still, Alexandria is smaller than she once was. The ruins beyond the walls mark the boundaries of the ancient city. Canals bring water from Lake Mareotis, which is used to water the public gardens, there.’ He pointed to an expanse of green in the south-eastern corner of the city. ‘The gardens may be used for food in the event of a siege.’ He pointed to the opposite side of the city, where there stood a huge structure of white stone buildings piled one atop the other. ‘That is Dar al-Sultan, the palace complex. You will stay there, Emir.’
Yusuf was only half listening. He was busy examining the city walls. They were twenty feet high and nearly as thick as they were tall. ‘Four gates,’ he counted, ‘and twenty-one towers.’
‘How many men can the city offer for the defence of the walls, if it comes to that?’ Shirkuh asked Palomon.
‘The Fatimid troops are all in prison or have fled. We can put maybe five thousand men in arms, but they are not soldiers.’
‘We will hold them in reserve.’ Shirkuh addressed Yusuf. ‘We have six thousand of our own men remaining. They will guard the walls. We’ll post fifty men in every tower and a hundred at each of the four gates. That leaves-’ He began counting on his fingers.
‘Forty-five hundred,’ Yusuf supplied.
‘Forty-five hundred men in reserve,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘Plus the men of Alexandria. We’ll position half near the palace and half in the east, near the gardens.’
Yusuf did not reply. He had thrust his head out of the window to look straight down at the base of the tower. He felt suddenly unsteady, as if he were standing on a ship at sea, the deck moving beneath him. He gripped the sides of the window embrasure, but the tower would not stop moving. He turned away and vomited.
‘It happens to many on their first visit,’ Palomon said. ‘Come. There is a Coptic church atop the lighthouse. The priests are allowed to worship there in return for tending the fire. They will have water for you to rinse your mouth.’
He led them upstairs to a room identical to the one below, except that there was an altar along the east wall with a cross hung over it. It was surprisingly warm. There was no one in the room. ‘The priests will be upstairs, tending the fire,’ Palomon said, continuing up a second staircase.