A sudden commotion ahead drew John’s attention away from the market. A swarm of young, half-naked children appeared from out of the crowd and pressed around the horses, forcing them to stop.
‘Fresh fruit, ya sidi? ’ one of them yelled at John, holding up a mango.
Another pushed a waterskin towards him. ‘Cool water?’
Others simply begged, holding out their hands and repeating: ‘Money, ya sidi? Money?’
One of the boys tried to slip his hand into John’s saddlebags, and John caught his wrist. The child cringed, his eyes wide with fright. John released him, and the would-be thief scurried off into the crowd. He was instantly replaced by another child.
Ahead, Shirkuh threw a shower of glinting coppers off to the side, and the children raced towards them, shouting with excitement as they scrambled on the ground, wrestling one another for the coins. John urged his horse past them, following the others out of the square and into the shade of the citadel. High above, he could see guards walking the limestone walls, which were set with towers at regular intervals. The walls rose directly from steeply sloped, bare white rock. At the base of the hill, the dark waters of a moat some twenty feet across added another layer of defence. Four guards in chainmail and pointed helmets, spears in hand, stood blocking the drawbridge across the moat. They stepped aside as Shirkuh approached. ‘Morning, men,’ Shirkuh called as he rode past, the hooves of his horse sounding loud on the wooden bridge. Yusuf came next, nodding towards the guards. He was followed by Shirkuh’s three men and then John, to whom the guards gave a hard look. John ignored them, urging his horse up the brick causeway that led to a large gatehouse, only half built and still covered in scaffolding. At the top, four more guards stepped aside to let the group pass, and John followed the others into the citadel.
What he found there surprised him. He was facing an oval-shaped expanse of flat land, easily three hundred yards long and one hundred yards wide. A maze of verdant orchards and gardens covered the expanse to his left. Off to his right, an enormous palace was built against the far wall. Other buildings — barracks, stables, kitchens, storerooms — were built into the walls that surrounded the space. And in the middle of it all was an expanse of closely cropped, green grass where two-dozen riders were thundering back and fourth in pursuit of a wooden ball. John recognized the game they were playing as polo. He had seen Yusuf play it in Baalbek.
John reined in his horse just behind Yusuf and watched as one of the players brought his mallet down and with a loud crack, sent the wooden kura hurtling towards the left-hand goalposts. Several riders spurred after the ball, but two outraced the rest, galloping close to John and the others. One was tall and thickly built, light-skinned and with a thick chestnut-brown beard. The other was darker, tall and thin, with only a few wispy black hairs on his chin and cheeks. The riders were neck and neck as they galloped towards the kura, their mallets raised high. At the last second, the dark-skinned rider pushed ahead and veered his horse towards the other man, cutting him off. He then brought his mallet down with a triumphant yell and sent the ball hurtling through the goalposts.
‘Who is that?’ Yusuf asked.
Shirkuh smiled. ‘That is our lord, Nur ad-Din.’ He kicked his heels and trotted on to the field. The others followed, John bringing up the rear.
‘ Ho! Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din roared as they approached. ‘Well met!’ Close up, John saw that Nur ad-Din had brilliant, golden eyes and a full-toothed, bright smile. John looked past him and was surprised to see that the rider who had contested him for the kura was none other than Turan. While Nur ad-Din rode up to Shirkuh and grasped his arm, Turan guided his horse towards Yusuf.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Yusuf,’ Turan said, greeting his brother formally.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Brother,’ Yusuf replied stiffly, and the two leaned across their saddles and exchanged the ritual kisses.
‘ Ah!’ Nur ad-Din turned his gaze upon Yusuf. ‘So this is the young eagle that you told me of, Shirkuh? He doesn’t look like much.’
‘Nor did you at his age.’
‘True enough. Tell me: do you play polo, Yusuf?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘Then we shall see if you merit the praise your uncle has given you. You will play on my team.’ Nur ad-Din raised his voice so that all those on the field could hear him. ‘Two gold dinars to whoever scores the next goal!’ The men cheered, and Nur ad-Din turned back towards Yusuf. ‘Let us see what you are made of, young eagle.’
Yusuf sat astride his horse, mallet in hand, and watched as the crowd of riders surged up the pitch towards the far goal. He held back, keeping free of the melee and saving his horse’s strength. It had already carried him thirty miles that day, and Yusuf knew his mount would only be good for one or two short bursts. So he stayed near his own goal and watched as the other riders jostled against one another in the fight for the kura. Nur ad-Din forced his way alongside the ball and swung, but missed. There was a loud crack as an opposing player hit the kura, sending it out of the crowd. Turan was waiting for it. He slammed the ball downfield towards Yusuf and galloped after it.
Yusuf ignored his brother; his eyes were fixed on the kura. He spurred towards it and hit the ball smoothly, sending it bouncing back up the field. A split second later, the handle of Turan’s mallet slammed into his gut. Yusuf grabbed his horse’s mane and managed to stay in the saddle. He reined in and sat doubled over, gasping for breath.
‘Welcome to Aleppo, Brother,’ Turan sneered as he rode past.
Yusuf looked past his brother and noticed Nur ad-Din watching him. He gritted his teeth and straightened, then spurred after Turan. A crowd had again formed around the kura, and this time Yusuf headed straight for it. His mount was tiring fast, and Yusuf kicked at its sides, squeezing the last bit of effort from it as he weaved through the other riders towards the centre of the melee, following Turan. Turan reached the kura first, but as he swung at it, Yusuf slammed his horse into Turan’s mount. Turan missed, and Yusuf hit the kura up the field. He saw Nur ad-Din charging for the ball, and Yusuf steered to the right, keeping clear of the other riders. Nur ad-Din reached the kura first, but the crowd was on him instantly. Nur ad-Din managed to hit the ball, but it glanced off a horse and rolled straight to Yusuf. There was no one between him and the goal.
Yusuf raised his mallet, but then hesitated. He spotted Nur ad-Din alone and sent the kura hurtling towards him. As the ball reached him, Nur ad-Din swung his mallet down and sent it flying through the goalposts. He let out a loud whoop and raised his arms in victory.
‘Well done, Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din called as he rode over. ‘You have saved me two dinars, and for that, you shall have the honour of dining with me tonight. You will meet my wife, Asimat, and we shall see if you are as clever with words as you are with a polo mallet. But I warn you: Asimat is harder to impress than I.’
Yusuf stood at the window of his room — part of Shirkuh’s suite in the palace — and looked out over the city that was now his home. His room faced east, away from the setting sun, whose dying light cast the white-walled buildings of the city below in soft pink. The ululating chant of the muezzins reached Yusuf as they began the call for evening prayer. Below, the streets filled with men and women headed towards the mosques. Yusuf moved from the window and went to the small washbasin in his room to perform the ritual ablution required before prayer. He filled the washbasin from his waterskin and then carefully washed his arms, face and hair, repeating the ritual three times. He dried himself off with a cotton cloth, then unrolled his prayer mat.
‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,’ Yusuf began, when he was interrupted by loud knocking. The door swung open to reveal Shirkuh.