When Yusuf stepped into the room above, a sudden blast of heat made it seem as if he had walked into an oven. A huge fire burned within a giant bronze brazier set in the middle of the floor. Smoke rose through a soot-covered hole in the ceiling. Two priests were throwing cords of wood on the fire. They wore nothing but loincloths, and their skin glistened in the firelight. A third priest in a brown robe was poking at the fire with a long, bronze rod. Yusuf could only look at the fire for a moment. It was so hot in the room that even breathing was painful.
Palomon waved at the priest who was tending the fire. ‘Father Josephus! Water!’
‘Water!’ the priest shouted back over the roar of the flames. He set the bronze rod aside and went to a barrel, from which he took a cup of water. He crossed the room and handed it to Yusuf. The water was warm. Yusuf rinsed his mouth and spat out of the window.
‘Shukran!’ he shouted and then turned away. He could not stand the heat any longer. He hurried down the stairs and stood at one of the windows, gulping the cool sea air.
Shirkuh joined him at the window and pointed to the city below. A last ray of sunlight illuminated the city, transforming the canals into molten gold. ‘Look at it,’ Shirkuh whispered to Yusuf. ‘The most magnificent city in the world. And it is ours!’
Yusuf stood at one of the windows of the lighthouse and looked down to where the waves crashed upon the rocks at its base. The dawn light tinged the white foam pink. Yusuf climbed to the top of the tower each morning. At first, he had come to conquer his weakness — the dizzying sensation that left him retching on the floor. After a week the sick feeling had left him, and he found that he enjoyed being so high above the world. He raised his gaze to look out to sea. The endless waves stretching to the horizon appeared motionless from this height. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the salty sea air.
‘Pardon me, sayyid.’
Yusuf opened his eyes. It was Saqr, the boy that he had found in the desert long ago, after Reynald and his men had slaughtered his family. But Saqr was no boy now. He had been a mamluk for nearly a year. He had been posted as a lookout because of his sharp eyes. Saqr claimed that he could spot a hare sitting motionless in the desert sands at eight hundred paces.
‘I think I see something,’ the young mamluk said. ‘In the east.’
Yusuf crossed the room and looked out, squinting against the newly risen sun. He thought he could make out a cloud of dust in the distance. ‘A dust storm?’
‘Look again, sayyid. You can see the reflection of sunlight off steel. There are riders in the dust.’
‘Hmm. Yes.’ In fact, Yusuf saw nothing. He was only twenty-eight and his eyes were growing feeble. He felt old for the first time in his life. Then he saw it, a flash of steel. He saw another, then dozens more, then hundreds. It was an army.
‘Well done, Saqr! Hurry to the palace and inform Shirkuh. Tell him to meet me here.’
By the time Shirkuh arrived, red-faced and panting, the Frankish and Egyptian army covered the plains east of the city, stretching from within a mile of the walls all the way to the horizon.
‘How many?’ Shirkuh asked as he joined Yusuf at the window.
‘More than ten thousand. Too many to fight.’
Shirkuh frowned. ‘They have no need to fight. They will block up the canals and then sit outside the walls while we run short of food and water. They will let hunger and thirst do their work for them.’
‘What shall we do?’
Shirkuh scratched at his beard while he thought. ‘We will leave,’ he said at last.
‘But we cannot abandon the people of Alexandria. We promised to defend the city.’
‘And so we shall. You will stay with a thousand men; enough to man the walls. I will take the rest of the army south into Upper Egypt. Hopefully, my raids there will draw the Frankish army away from Alexandria.’
Yusuf looked back to the enemy troops, who were still pouring over the horizon. ‘And if the Franks do not leave?’
‘Then you must hold the city for as long as you can.’
Chapter 5
OCTOBER 1164: ALEXANDRIA
John took a deep breath and dunked his head beneath the cold water of Lake Mareotis. The siege was four months old. Autumn had come, but John had not given up his increasingly bracing morning bath. At first, he had come to escape the heat. Now he came seeking the calm that was impossible to find in camp. Behind him, hundreds of Muslims from the Egyptian army knelt along the shore, prostrate in prayer. They, too, came every morning. John found the gentle murmur of their voices comforting. He waited until they had finished and then waded ashore. He glanced to the east as he dressed in his linen tunic and sandals. The rim of the sun was just rising over the horizon. He would be expected at Amalric’s tent soon.
John followed the Egyptian soldiers back towards camp, crossing fields long since picked clean. A range of low hills lay between him and the city. The Egyptian and Frankish armies had set up camp amongst them, with Shawar’s men to the west of the southern gate and Amalric’s men to its east. The level ground between the two camps was usually empty, but as he approached, John saw a crowd gathered there. A dozen Franks were headed by a stout man with small, beady eyes. He was facing a tall Egyptian soldier, backed by twenty mamluks.
‘Puking, onion-eyed, stone-worshipper!’ the Frank was yelling. ‘You’ve been stealing our grain. Admit it!’ He pointed a stubby finger at the Egyptian.
‘Naghil!’ the Egyptian soldier spat back. ‘Kol khara!’
‘What was that, you filthy son of a whore?’ one of the Frank’s companions demanded.
‘Eat shit,’ the Egyptian enunciated carefully in Frankish.
The beady-eyed Frank swung for him. The Egyptian ducked, and one of his friends tackled the Frank from the side. A brawl ensued. John steered well clear of it. Even if he had not been expected at the king’s tent, he doubted that he could do much to stop the fighting. Tensions in camp had run high ever since Shirkuh began raiding the supply caravans from Cairo. The soldiers had taken to pillaging local farms in search of food, but there was never enough. As the siege dragged on, tempers grew short. Fights between the Franks and their Egyptian allies had become an almost daily occurrence.
The guards outside Amalric’s tent nodded to John as he entered. Inside, he found Amalric breakfasting on boiled wheat. ‘Sire,’ John said, and knelt.
Shawar entered just as John was rising. A dark-skinned Egyptian soldier entered behind the vizier.
‘I have bad news,’ Shawar declared cheerfully.
‘Then why are you so damned happy about it?’ Amalric grumbled.
‘I find that good humour is the best antidote to misfortune. Nur ad-Din has invaded the principality of Antioch and scored a crushing victory. Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli have been captured.’
‘What!’ Amalric demanded, red-faced. ‘Are you c-certain?’
‘I am. The news reached Cairo by messenger pigeon two days ago. I learned of it this morning.’
‘By his nails!’ Amalric cursed. ‘With Bohemond and Raymond defeated, there will be no one left to defend the Kingdom’s northern border.’
‘You shall have to return to protect Jerusalem,’ Shawar agreed.
‘Four months of siege wasted,’ Amalric grumbled, then shook his head. ‘No. I’ll not leave empty-handed. I’ll tear down the walls of Alexandria stone by stone, if I must.’
‘Perhaps that will not be necessary.’ Shawar gestured to the Nubian warrior beside him. ‘Jalaal, tell them what you have found.’
The Nubian spoke haltingly, in a deep voice, and John translated. ‘My men and I, we were searching a nearby farmhouse for food. The farmer kept his grain out back in an old stone storeroom — older than old, Vizier, if you take my meaning. The stones were just barely holding together. He said it was empty, but we didn’t believe it, him being a Copt and all. We broke the lock and had a look. The grain was gone, but we found something else. A door.’