‘The little bugger has a temper,’ a voice called from the centre of the ranks.
‘Who said that?’ Yusuf demanded. The men all stared ahead, giving away nothing. The blood started to roar in Yusuf’s temples and his jaw clenched. He pushed his way through the rows of warriors in the direction of the voice.
‘Careful, he is a fearsome warrior,’ another voice sniggered from behind Yusuf.
Yusuf pushed his way back to the front of the ranks and turned to face the men. ‘Who said that? I demand to know who said that! Face me!’ he yelled, his voice breaking at the end.
A huge, muscle-bound man pushed his way forward. He was a head taller than Yusuf, and his neck was easily as thick as Yusuf’s thigh. ‘I said it,’ the man rumbled. ‘What are you going to do about it, little man?’ The other men laughed. Yusuf glanced over his shoulder to Turan. He was laughing, too. Yusuf was red-faced with anger and on the verge of losing control. He closed his eyes and concentrated on controlling his breathing. Gradually, the pounding in his temples faded. He opened his eyes and met the gaze of the man before him.
‘What is your name?’
‘Qadir.’
‘You will return to the barracks, Qadir. I will deal with you later.’
‘Make me.’
Yusuf’s jaw tightened. ‘Pardon me?’
‘You heard me. Make me.’
Yusuf nodded to the two men on the front row nearest to Qadir. ‘You two, escort Qadir to the barracks.’ The men did not move. ‘My uncle will not stand for this,’ Yusuf growled.
‘What do you know of Shirkuh?’ Qadir sneered. ‘I have fought beside him for ten years. I saved his life twice. What have you done, little bugger?’
Yusuf reacted without thinking. He lashed out, punching Qadir hard in the gut. It was like hitting a wall. The huge mamluk did not even move. His huge hand clamped over Yusuf’s wrist and twisted, forcing Yusuf to his knees.
‘Let him go, Qadir,’ Turan said. Qadir released Yusuf immediately.
Yusuf rose to his feet. He met Qadir’s eyes, then looked past him to the men. ‘I will not forget this,’ he promised, then turned and strode away towards the palace.
Turan’s voice followed him: ‘Now men, let’s have that drink!’
Yusuf paced the marble-floored antechamber outside Nur ad-Din’s apartments as he waited for his uncle to emerge. The guards before the door watched him, their faces impassive. As he paced, Yusuf thought of what he would tell his uncle, and a smile curled his lips as he imagined the various punishments Shirkuh would devise for his troops. But Yusuf’s legs grew tired from pacing, and still Shirkuh did not appear. Through the arched windows, Yusuf saw the shadow of the citadel lengthen and then deepen as dusk gathered. Finally, the doors to Nur ad-Din’s apartments opened, and Shirkuh emerged. ‘Uncle!’ Yusuf greeted him. ‘I must speak with you.’
Shirkuh examined Yusuf for a moment and then nodded curtly. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf followed him out of the antechamber and down a staircase. ‘Well, Yusuf?’ Shirkuh asked as he descended. ‘What do you have to tell me?’
‘Your men are insolent, and Turan is worse. They must be punished.’
‘Do not tell me how to deal with my men,’ Shirkuh snapped as they entered a long corridor.
‘But they insulted me! They refused to obey.’
‘I know what my men did. Husam told me. You were lucky to avoid a beating.’
‘But Turan-’
‘Turan is the least of your worries.’ Shirkuh stopped and turned to face his nephew. ‘There will always be men in the ranks like Turan. You must learn to deal with them.’
‘But how? The troops would not listen to me. They laughed at me.’
‘Then let them laugh. You cannot expect to command their respect instantly. They are hardened warriors. Some of them were fighting for me before you were born. You must earn their respect, and you cannot do so by insulting and threatening them.’
‘What then?’ Yusuf grumbled. ‘Should I buy them drink, like Turan?’
‘Forget Turan! He is a drunkard who wants the men to love him. He will never be great. But I expect more from you, Yusuf. Today you lost control. You must never lose control before your men. They will never respect you if you do.’ Shirkuh paused and took a deep breath. ‘Nur ad-Din has asked me to send you back to Baalbek.’
Yusuf lowered his head. He had only just arrived and already he had failed. He thought of the men’s laughter as he had walked away. They seemed to be mocking Yusuf’s dreams of greatness. He clenched his jaw as he fought back tears. ‘I am sorry, Uncle.’
Shirkuh gripped his shoulder. ‘Do not be too hard on yourself, young eagle. Leaders are created, they are not born. I reminded our lord that he was no better when he was your age, and I have persuaded him to give you a second chance. He has agreed that you are to command the citadel at Tell Bashir.’
‘Tell Bashir? But that is the property of the eunuch Gumushtagin.’
‘Not any more. He has been given Bizaa as you suggested. But the men he left behind in Tell Bashir remain loyal to him. Nur ad-Din fears that they will open the city to the Seljuks. It is your task to ensure that this does not happen.’
Yusuf straightened and met Shirkuh’s eye. ‘I will not fail you, Uncle.’
‘You had best not. I gave Nur ad-Din my word that you would succeed in Tell Bashir. If you fail, you will disgrace both of us.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. You leave tomorrow.’ Shirkuh grasped Yusuf’s shoulders with both hands. ‘Remember, Yusuf. Always remain in control. Never show weakness. Most importantly, treat your troops as men. And never forget: you must be one of them before you can lead them.’
Chapter 10
NOVEMBER 1152: ON THE ROAD TO TELL BASHIR
Slate-grey clouds hung low in the sky as John rode out of Aleppo through the Bab al-Yahud — the Jew’s gate. John was happy to leave the city behind; he had never felt more foreign and alone than he had in the slaves’ quarters of the citadel. Perhaps Tell Bashir would be better. At least Yusuf would be in charge there. John glanced to where his friend rode beside him, his head held high. They followed a Bedouin guide named Sa’ud, and behind them came three men leading pack-horses, then six mamluks surrounding a mule that carried an iron-bound chest. John knew that the key to the chest’s heavy lock hung around Yusuf’s neck. Back at the citadel, he had allowed John to look inside. The chest contained two thousand golden dinars, enough to buy John’s freedom many times over — surely enough to ensure the loyalty of the men at Tell Bashir.
Ahead, the road was little more than a beaten track, the wind whipping up swirling plumes of sand. John pulled down one of the folds of his turban to cover his face and keep out the dust. The trail sloped down to run parallel with the tiny Quweq River, which wound its way north through broad plains. They passed orchards, the trees heavy with oranges and limes. Beyond them were fields of harvested wheat — black earth dotted with the yellow stubs of cut stalks — and also fragrant fields of bright-yellow saffron. Past the fields, the rocky desert stretched away to the horizon, where a sheet of rain fell from the dark sky. As the storm came closer, John could see the rain sweeping down the river, disturbing its placid surface. He unwound his turban as the first cool drops hit him. A moment later, the skies opened up, soaking his tunic and turning the road to mud. John turned to Yusuf and grinned.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘The rain will slow us. You won’t be smiling if we don’t make it to the inn and have to sleep in the open.’
‘That’s why we have tents. Besides, we can’t get any wetter.’