Yusuf took one of the dead Hashashin’s daggers and rose to his feet to help Saqr. The Hashashin he was facing backed away. ‘You will learn nothing from me,’ he spat. ‘Your days are numbered, Saladin!’ The man raised his dagger high.
‘Do not let him kill himself!’ Yusuf shouted. The Hashashin began to bring the blade arcing down towards his gut when an arrow sank into his shoulder. He dropped the knife and Saqr tackled him. He knelt on the Hashashin’s chest and pressed his hand to the man’s throat, pinning him to the ground.
‘I heard you call, Uncle,’ Ubadah said breathlessly. He looked at the bodies of the dead guards. ‘What happened?’
‘Hashashin.’ Yusuf knelt beside the man that Saqr held. ‘Who sent you? Gumushtagin?’ The Hashashin spat at Yusuf, who wiped the spittle away and turned to Ubadah. ‘Find Al-Mashtub. Tell him I have a prisoner, and I need answers.’
By the time Al-Mashtub arrived carrying a small trunk, the Hashashin had been taken inside Yusuf’s tent and tied down to a table so that he could not move. Al-Mashtub set the trunk down beside the table and drew a knife from his belt.
‘I am not afraid,’ the Hashashin said. He was a young man with a sparse black beard and a prominent nose. ‘I will tell you nothing.’
Al-Mashtub’s only reply was to begin cutting through the man’s tunic with his knife. He pulled the fabric aside to reveal the mail shirt beneath. He then lifted the bottom of the shirt, exposing the Hashashin’s stomach. He opened the trunk and took out a small cage holding a dirty grey rat and then a bronze pot with a wide opening that narrowed to a thin neck before widening again to a broad base. He set the pot on the table and then opened the cage and grabbed the rat by the tail. The Hashashin’s eyes widened as Al-Mashtub dangled the rat over the table and then dropped it into the pot. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I suggest you talk,’ Al-Mashtub replied.
‘Who sent you?’ Yusuf demanded. ‘Who paid to have me killed?’
The Hashashin shook his head, refusing to talk. Al-Mashtub lifted the pot with both hands and then quickly upended it, placed the opening on the Hashashin’s exposed stomach. He turned to Ubadah. ‘Hold it there.’
Yusuf could hear the claws of the rat scrabbling against the inside of the bronze pot. Sweat was beginning to bead on the Hashashin’s forehead, and his eyes were wide. ‘Who sent you?’ Yusuf asked again, but still the man refused to speak.
Al-Mashtub took a shallow dish from the chest. The bottom of the dish had a lip that fitted over the base of the upturned pot. Next the mamluk took out a tinderbox and removed a scrap of char paper, which he placed in the bottom of the dish. He held up a piece of flint and the fire steel on which he would strike it. Al-Mashtub met the Hashashin’s eyes. ‘Do you know what will happen once I light this fire? The pot will grow hotter and hotter, cooking the rat inside alive. There is only one way for it to escape. It will burrow down, through your gut.’
The Hashashin was trembling in fear, but he clenched his jaw shut and said nothing.
Al-Mashtub struck the flint against the steel. A few sparks landed on the char paper. They smoked for a moment, but the fire did not take. He prepared to strike again. The sound of the rat scratching against the inside of the pot was louder now.
‘Gumushtagin!’ the Hashashin cried out.
‘I knew it,’ Yusuf said. ‘I will have his head.’
‘That will not stop us,’ the Hashashin said. ‘Gumushtagin only paid us for what we would have done regardless. My lord Rashid ad-Din Sinan has sworn that you will die.’
‘The Old Man of the Mountain,’ Ubadah whispered.
Yusuf had heard of Sinan, of course. He ruled over sixty thousand fanatically faithful Hashashin from his mountain stronghold in Masyaf, some twenty-five miles west of Hama. ‘I am no enemy of Sinan’s,’ Yusuf said. ‘Why does he want me dead?’
‘You are Sunni.’ The Hashashin spat. ‘You ended the Fatimid Caliphate. You had the Caliph poisoned.’ Ubadah’s eyes widened at this.
‘How do you know that?’ Yusuf asked.
‘Nothing you do escapes Sinan. He has men everywhere.’
‘In my camp?’ The man nodded. ‘If you name them, I will let you live.’
‘Never!’
‘I thought not. Al-Mashtub, see that he does not suffer.’
The mamluk slit the Hashashin’s throat with a single stroke. Yusuf left the tent and Ubadah followed. ‘You heard what he said, Uncle. There are more Hashashin in our camp. And it is said that when Sinan orders a man dead, his men will not stop until that man lies in the grave.’
‘They will stop when they are dead, every last one of them,’ Yusuf replied. ‘It is time this siege ended. Once I am finished with Aleppo, we will march on Masyaf.’
The towers that framed Aleppo’s Qinnarin Gate loomed high above Yusuf and his private guard as they rode into their shadow. Yusuf had been happy to slowly starve the city into submission, hoping to spare his future people bloodshed. But now he did not wish to sit in his tent for another two months, a target for the Hashashin. He had decided to speak to the people of Aleppo himself. He could see men atop the gate, some in caftans, others in mail. There were even a few veiled women. Yusuf reined in his horse only fifty feet from the wall, close enough that the people could hear him but far enough that his armour would stop any arrows, should one of the soldiers dare to shoot.
‘People of Aleppo!’ he shouted. ‘I come to you as a friend. You see my army all around your walls, but they are not here to fight you. I have not come to conquer Aleppo.’ He paused to let the words take effect. He and Imad ad-Din had worked on this speech late into the previous night, and it was carefully crafted, pauses and all. ‘I am a loyal servant of Al-Salih, as are my men. I do not wish to take his kingdom, or to take Aleppo from him. I only wish to see the city flourish as it did under Nur ad-Din. I wish to see it safe from any who would take it from its rightful lord. But I cannot protect Al-Salih while his regent is sending Hashashin to murder me, while he is calling on the armies of Mosul and Jerusalem, inviting them into Al-Salih’s kingdom in order to fight me. These are not the acts of a man loyal to Al-Salih. These are the acts of a man who serves only himself.’
Yusuf paused again. The people were listening quietly. That was a good sign. He took a deep breath and continued. ‘I lived in Aleppo for many years while I served at the court of Nur ad-Din. I consider it my home, and I do not wish to destroy its walls or harm its people. I ask for only one thing: Gumushtagin. Deliver him to me, and there will be peace between us. But if you stand with him, then you stand against me. If you do not send him to me, then I will attack in earnest. You have until sunset tomorrow to decide.’
Yusuf rode back to his tent, where his advisers waited for him. Al-Maqaddam spoke first. ‘Do you think they will surrender Gumushtagin?’
‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf said. ‘But we must be prepared for them to resist. Qaraqush, you will be in charge of sapping the walls. Al-Maqaddam, you will build the mangonels. Ubadah, you will lead an attack tomorrow night. We will see if the people of Aleppo are willing to die for Gumushtagin.’
Saqr entered the tent. ‘Malik, a messenger has come from the city.’
‘So soon,’ Al-Maqaddam responded.
‘A good sign. Show him here,’ Yusuf ordered.
‘Her, Malik,’ Saqr corrected. ‘The messenger is a woman.’
A moment later, Saqr held the tent flap aside for a veiled woman who wore a violet silk caftan trimmed with silver. Her long chestnut hair flowed down her back from beneath a niqab that covered all but her eyes. Yusuf felt a burning in his stomach as he met those dark eyes.