‘And Tell Bashir?’ Nur ad-Din asked. ‘The men that Gumushtagin leaves behind will not welcome a new governor. There could be trouble.’
‘Then you must send someone you trust to take command, somebody who can take matters in hand. If he fails, then you have lost nothing. You are back where you started. If he succeeds, then Tell Bashir will be secure.’
Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘Again, I am impressed.’ He turned to Shirkuh. ‘You did right to bring your nephew to me. He has a bright future before him. I will need men like Yusuf soon enough. The time is coming to drive the Franks from our shores.’ He paused to take a gulp of wine. ‘Keep me informed regarding your nephew, Shirkuh. I am curious to see how he gets along with your men.’
John sat alone amidst the dark shadows of his room and looked out of the small square window to the bright crescent moon. The chamber — one of several dozen identical rooms located in an outbuilding beside the palace — was only three feet by six, barely large enough for the straw mattress that covered the floor. There was no door for privacy. Shirkuh’s men had shown John to the room in the slaves’ quarters shortly after they arrived and told him that Yusuf would send for him if he was needed. John had waited, alone with his thoughts, while the light faded from the sky. His stomach had begun to growl, and John wondered if he should leave the room to look for food. But where? He had no idea where to go.
A loud bell began to ring somewhere close by, and John heard the tramp of feet in the hallway. Several men filed past his room. John rose and went to the door just as two black men were walking by — one bald and dark as the night sky, the other a rich brown like freshly turned earth. John noticed that they each carried a clay bowl. ‘What is happening?’ John asked them. ‘Why is the bell ringing?’
The darker of the two men examined John. ‘Our master has finished dining,’ he said at last. ‘It is the servants’ turn to eat.’
John followed the two men through low-ceilinged, shadowy hallways to a long room crowded with a bewildering mixture of men — native Christians, Turks, Egyptians, Africans, but no other Franks. They stood with bowls in their hands, waiting to be served from a huge black cauldron that hung from the ceiling on the far side of the room. The room buzzed with conversation, but as John entered, it fell silent. All eyes turned to him.
A tall, heavy man with a double chin approached John and stood looking down at him. ‘What do you want?’ the man asked in a high, reedy voice. John guessed he was a eunuch.
‘To eat.’
The eunuch chuckled briefly, then his expression hardened, and he spit at John’s feet. ‘You will not eat with us. You are unclean, ifranji. Go.’
The dark slave that John had followed to the room stepped forward and put a hand on the eunuch’s arm. ‘Leave him be, Zakir.’ He handed John a bowl.
Zakir shrugged off the other slave’s hand, then slapped the bowl from John’s hand so that it shattered on the floor. He met John’s eyes. ‘I said go.’
John could feel the eyes of every man in the room on him. He knew that he could not back down. If he showed weakness, then he would have no peace so long as he was in Aleppo. He sighed and spread his hands. ‘I want no trouble.’
The eunuch sneered and reached out to shove John from the room. John moved quickly, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting it behind his back. As Zakir spun around to relieve the pressure on his shoulder, John wrapped his free arm around the eunuch’s throat and pulled tight, choking him. The other slaves watched silently as Zakir thrashed and clawed at John’s forearm to no avail. Finally, the eunuch fell still, and John released him, letting him slump to the floor unconscious. No one moved.
John stepped forward, and the other slaves parted as he made his way to the cauldron. The slave with the ladle looked at John for a moment, then filled a bowl with steaming stew and handed it to him.
‘Thank you, Brother,’ John told him, then turned and left. He would eat in his room. Alone.
The next morning Yusuf, dressed in chainmail and with his sword at his side, followed Shirkuh out on to the expansive lawn that had served as a polo field the day before. Turan had already drawn up fifty mamluks in ranks to form a large square. The men wore identical armour of hardened black leather and conical steel helmets. They had bows and quivers slung over their shoulders and held long spears in their right hands. Although bought as slaves, each mamluk was freed at age eighteen, when they entered the service of their lord as warriors. They occupied a place of honour within the citadel. Those who fought well could hope to become emirs in their own right. All hoped someday to earn enough money to settle and raise a family of their own.
Yusuf trailed behind his uncle as he walked between the ranks, starting at the back row. The men straightened as Shirkuh passed, and he nodded to each of them. He spoke to a few, commiserating over injuries, praising their exploits in recent raids, or joking about their luck with women. Near the end of the final row, he stopped before a slump-shouldered, thin man with a sallow complexion.
‘I hear you won at the tables last night, Husam,’ Shirkuh said.
‘That I did, sir.’ Husam grinned, showing a smile missing several teeth.
‘You have not yet spent all of it on women and drink, I hope.’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Good. Then tonight you shall come to the palace and give me a chance to win some of your fortune from you.’
‘Gladly, sir, but only if we use my dice.’ The men around Husam chuckled.
‘You use your dice, and I will use mine,’ Shirkuh said with a wink, and the men all laughed. Shirkuh moved away and stood with Yusuf and Turan flanking him. ‘Men, this is my nephew, Yusuf ibn Ayub!’ Shirkuh’s deep voice carried to the furthest ranks. ‘You will treat him with respect. He has come from Baalbek to serve as one of my commanders. He is already a fearsome warrior; cross him at your own risk.’ Several of the men smiled at this. Shirkuh turned to Yusuf and spoke more softly. ‘I am needed at the palace today, Yusuf. I am leaving you in charge.’ He winked. ‘Take it easy on them.’ Shirkuh turned to Turan. ‘Show your brother how we do things.’
Shirkuh strode away, leaving Yusuf and Turan to face the troops. The mamluks were grown men, many old enough to be Yusuf’s father. He swallowed, then opened his mouth to speak, but Turan spoke first. ‘You heard what Shirkuh said,’ he shouted. ‘Take it easy on my little brother. No laughing behind his back. No calling him names.’ He winked and grinned. ‘Pipsqueak, son of a donkey, man-whore, bastard, bugger: I don’t want to hear any of that.’ There was scattered laughter amongst the men. ‘When he drills you, you will do exactly as he says. But before we train, I say we go to Sakhi’s for a round of wine. I’m paying!’ The men roared their approval, and Turan grinned. The carefully ordered ranks dissolved as men headed for the gates.
‘Wait!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Halt!’ The men reluctantly shuffled to a stop. Yusuf glared at Turan. ‘Shirkuh said we were to train, not drink. And besides, alcohol is forbidden.’ There were threatening grumbles amongst the men at this. ‘There will be plenty of time for drink later, after training,’ Yusuf amended.
Turan smiled. ‘Very well, Brother, if that is what you wish, then go ahead. Train them.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘All right, men! Back in your ranks!’ The mamluks filed sullenly past Yusuf and lined up in sloppy, uneven lines.
‘Who does he think he is?’ someone whispered.
‘Little bastard,’ another grumbled.
Yusuf flushed with anger. ‘That’s enough talk!’ he snapped. He marched up to Husam, the gap-toothed, lucky gambler in the first row. ‘Straighten up!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Husam replied and straightened. Yusuf moved on down the line, and as soon as his back was turned, Husam muttered: ‘You little bugger.’
Yusuf whirled around. ‘What was that?’
Husam shrugged, his eyes wide and innocent. ‘What was what, sir?’
Yusuf frowned and turned away. He continued down the line, meeting each man’s eyes, and the men straightened as he passed. He was near the end of the first row when he tripped over someone’s leg, stumbled, and fell to his hands and knees. He rose immediately, glowering at the closest soldiers. ‘You call yourselves warriors?’ Yusuf roared at them. ‘You are a disgrace! The Franks will tear you to pieces!’