‘It does not matter. What did he say to you?’
‘He asked me to keep him informed of our progress in Egypt. He told me that he would ask more of me when the time is right.’ Yusuf shrugged. ‘I do not understand the game he is playing.’
‘Is it not obvious? He wishes to kill Nur ad-Din and to place my son, Al-Salih, on the throne.’
‘Isn’t that what you want, too?’ Yusuf asked, a trace of bitterness in his voice. ‘You will do anything to see your son made king.’
‘Not anything, Yusuf. I want Al-Salih to rule, not to serve as Gumushtagin’s pawn. The eunuch would rule Nur ad-Din’s kingdom as vizier until the boy comes of age. But many will oppose him. That is why Gumushtagin needs you. He will make you powerful, so that you may protect him.’
Yusuf scowled. ‘I want no part in such a scheme. I will not betray my-’
‘Do not be a fool, Yusuf!’ Asimat hissed. ‘Your honour will count for nothing if you are dead, if our child is dead.’ Her dark eyes met his. ‘Come, you should meet him.’ She led the way to her bedroom. It had been transformed since Yusuf last visited. Heavy curtains now hung over the windows; a candelabra on a table by the door shed a dim light. The floor was deeply carpeted and scattered with cushions. A maidservant sat amongst them, cradling a child in her arms. Asimat took the child and brought the babe to Yusuf, who had not moved from the doorway.
‘This is Al-Salih,’ Asimat whispered as she handed him the sleeping child. ‘Careful, do not wake him.’
The babe had a thatch of brown hair and a chubby face. His smooth, almost luminescent skin was lighter than Yusuf’s olive hue, though he was not quite so pale as Asimat. The boy stretched in his sleep and opened his eyes. They were deep-set and light brown, like Yusuf’s, but the resemblance was not marked. Al-Salih could easily have been another man’s child.
The babe closed his eyes sleepily. Asimat took him back. She glanced at the maidservant and then spoke in a whisper. ‘He is your child, Yusuf. If Gumushtagin betrays us, we will die, all three of us. You must do anything to prevent that.’
‘I will not do his bidding forever. At some point we must stop him or else we will all become his pawns.’
‘I will deal with Gumushtagin, but now is not the time. Do as he says for now. Our son’s life depends on it.’
MARCH 1164: ON THE ROAD TO EGYPT
Yusuf sat astride his horse on a high outcrop of dark-brown stone that flaked and crumbled under his mount’s stamping hooves. Below him, mamluk troops rode four abreast into the shadowy mouth of a wadi — a dry riverbed lined with sand and gravel — which cut its way between the rocky hills. The long column of troops stretched away across the sandy plain Yusuf had just traversed, all the way to the shores of Al-Bahr al-Mayyit, the Dead Sea, whose rainbow waters glistened under an incandescent morning sun. Near the shore, the sea was rust-coloured from the algae that bloomed in the salty waters. Further out, the red mixed with pale whites and bright blue-greens. The army had been riding along the eastern shore for two days, keeping the sea’s waters between them and the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It had been nine days since they left Damascus.
A horse nickered behind Yusuf, and he turned to see Shirkuh and Shawar approaching, their mounts picking their way across the broken ground. ‘I have spoken with our Bedouin guides,’ Shirkuh said as he reined in beside Yusuf. ‘The land we must cross is unforgiving. The Bedouin call it Al-Naqab, the dry place. There will be no water until Beersheba. We will have to ride all day without stopping if we hope to reach it by evening.’
Shawar was looking to the sun. Now well above the horizon, it was baking the rocky soil, which radiated heat so intense that it had a physical presence. He wiped sweat from his forehead. ‘Is there no easier way?’
‘No. Not if we wish to stay clear of the Franks in Ascalon.’
‘Very well.’ Shawar straightened and flashed his winning smile. ‘A kingdom is worth a little suffering.’ He tapped his heels against the sides of his horse, which began to pick its way back down from the outcrop. Yusuf and Shirkuh followed.
They rode at the head of the army along the floor of the wadi. At times, the ravine was so narrow that they had to ride two abreast, the rock rising sheer on either side. At other times, it widened into washes that were broad and long enough to accommodate most of their army of seven thousand men. The trail they followed forked again and again, but always their Bedouin guides pushed on without hesitation. How they kept their bearings in this strange place, where every path looked exactly the same, Yusuf had no idea.
They rode in silence, stupefied by the heat, while the shadows that stretched across the wadi shrank to nothing and then stretched out again to cover the ravine, bringing blessed relief from the scorching sun. Finally, just as the sun was setting before them, they emerged from the hills on to a broad plain of coarse sand, which crunched under their horses’ hooves. A few miles later the ruined city of Beersheba came into view. The short stretches of wall that still stood were half buried in sand. A few Bedouin tents had been erected in their lee. At the sight of the approaching army, the Bedouin quickly rolled up their tents. They were gone long before Yusuf arrived.
A well sat at the centre of the town, and Shirkuh set men to work hauling up water for the horses. Yusuf left his mount with one of his men and walked away from the camp and up a sandy hill. He knelt to pray. Since he had no water, he rubbed his hands, feet, and face with sand. Then he spread out his prayer carpet and began the isha’a, the nightly prayer. By the time he finished, the tents of the army had sprouted all across the plain. As he walked back to camp he passed a dozen men digging a latrine for the army. Just beyond, he was hailed by Shawar.
‘Yusuf! I have found you at last. You must come and dine in my tent.’
‘I should see to my men first,’ Yusuf replied, although in truth, he had been planning to write his first report to Gumushtagin.
‘Your men will survive without you for one night. I, on the other hand, am in desperate need of good company. Come. Your uncle is already in my tent.’ Shawar saw that Yusuf still hesitated. The Egyptian winked. ‘Food is not the only delicacy on offer.’
Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘Very well.’ Gumushtagin could wait.
Shawar’s tent was impossibly luxurious. Yusuf had been sceptical when Shawar told him that he required twelve camels to transport his personal effects, but now he saw why. The low, sprawling tent was large enough to seat a hundred men. Lamps hung from the tent posts, illuminating deep carpets and shimmering screens of silk that separated off parts of the huge space. In the corner, two men were fitting together a polished wardrobe, which split in half for transport.
Shawar noticed Yusuf’s wide-eyed expression. ‘When I fled Egypt, I did not do so entirely empty-handed.’
Cushions had been spread in a circle, and Shirkuh was already seated and chatting with a man that Yusuf did not recognize. Yusuf sat beside his uncle, and Shawar took a seat across from him. Shawar gestured to the strange Egyptian. The man had darkly tanned skin and unexceptional features, save for his hazel eyes. ‘Al-Khlata is the civilian comptroller in Cairo. He sees that taxes are collected from the populace.’
Yusuf nodded towards him. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’
‘Now, let us eat.’ Shawar clapped his hands and veiled female servants in thin, almost transparent caftans stepped from behind one of the silk curtains. One of them came to Yusuf and placed a gold cup on the small, low table beside him. Yusuf was surprised to see it was filled with water. He had not expected Shawar to be so temperate.
Shirkuh was equally perplexed. ‘No wine?’ he grumbled.
‘Allah forbids alcohol, and as we march in his name, it is best to obey his laws,’ Shawar replied. ‘And besides, in the desert, water is more precious than wine.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Cairo! May we see her soon!’