‘It’s not getting wet that worries me; it’s the bandits. There are only twelve of us. That is enough to fight off most raiders, but the rain will dampen sound and make it hard to see. It will make us an easier target.’
John’s smile faded. He looked at the road stretching across the empty plain ahead and saw only a distant camel train. ‘Are bandits really such a danger?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘There is an old saying: the companions chosen are more important than the route taken. Only fools travel alone, and even large groups are sometimes attacked. When my mother was young, she was part of a caravan of over forty that was raided.’
‘Why doesn’t Nur ad-Din do something about it?’
‘There is little he can do. The raiders often attack far from where they live. Some are Franks from the Christian lands. Most are Bedouin. After their raids, they vanish into the great desert. None dares follow them there.’
They rode on in silence, following the course of the river. John was more alert now, scanning the road ahead for potential ambushes. When they came to a small settlement — a few single-room homes mixed with tents — he gripped the hilt of his sword as they passed, ready in case bandits burst forth. The rain slackened, then stopped, and a few rays of sun broke through the clouds. Around noon, they came to a larger settlement, built where two tributaries flowed into the Quweq from the north. The village had a mosque, and John led the horses to the river to drink while the others went inside to perform their afternoon prayers. Afterwards, they ate a simple meal of flatbread and goat’s cheese, then crossed the Quweq over a rickety wooden bridge. They left the river behind, following one of its tributaries north-west. The tributary, dry most of the year, was now full of muddy, turbulent water, which had cut a deep channel in the sandy soil. Desert grasses and wild flowers grew near the channel, but there were no crops. After a time, they left the tributary behind and rode across barren desert.
‘How does our guide know the way?’ John asked Yusuf.
‘The desert is the Bedouin’s home. They can read its signs, see things we cannot.’
They saw no trace of human life until just before sunset, when they heard the familiar, wavering cry of a muezzin calling the evening prayer. A moment later, they crested a small rise and saw a u-shaped building built around a well. It was a funduq — an inn that served caravans. Yusuf’s shoulders relaxed visibly when he saw it. ‘We made it,’ he said and spurred his horse through the gate. John followed and found himself in a courtyard lined with wooden stalls on the right. Most of them were occupied by a horse or camel. A murmur of conversation — punctuated by a woman’s loud laughter — came from a door to the left. It opened, and out stepped a dark-skinned man with a bright smile and large, gold loops in his ears.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, travellers,’ he said, giving a small bow.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,’ Yusuf replied as he dismounted. John also dismounted and took the reins of Yusuf’s horse.
‘I am Habil, and you are welcome at my funduq,’ the man said. ‘You can stable your horses here. Beds are through that door behind you. There is food and drink in the tavern.’ He waved to the door through which he had just come. ‘Three fals each for a bed and horse stall. Food and drink are extra.’
Yusuf took a dinar from the pouch at his belt and tossed it to Habil, whose eyes went wide at the sight of the gold piece. ‘That should be sufficient for me and my men.’
‘Yes, yes!’ Habil bowed again. ‘You can have all the food and wine you want.’
‘I do not desire wine. Where is the mosque?’
‘Yes, of course, the mosque. It is that way.’ Habil pointed to a door at the far end of the courtyard.
Yusuf nodded curtly. ‘You may go now.’ Habil bowed and re-entered the tavern, and Yusuf turned to John. ‘Care for my horse,’ he said, then spoke to the mamluks. ‘You will take turns guarding the gold. I want two men with that chest at all times. We will leave after morning prayers.’ Yusuf crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the mosque. Shirkuh’s men led their horses into the stalls and unsaddled them. Most of the men headed into the tavern, but two stayed behind in the fading light. They carried the chest into one of the stalls and sat on the straw-covered floor while John groomed Yusuf’s horse in the next stall along.
John took a comb, hoof pick and cloth from one of the saddlebags and then removed the saddle. He slid his hand down the horse’s right foreleg, squeezing just above the hoof, and murmured ‘fauq’ — up. The horse lifted its leg, and John carefully picked out the pebbles and grit that had gathered in the sole of its hoof. When he had finished with the hooves, he used the cloth to wipe the dirt from the horse’s face and ears. Then he took up the brush and began to scrape the dirt from the horse’s coat. He was nearly done when he heard a voice from the next stall.
‘What do you say, Nathir? Do you think he’d notice if we took a few dinars for ourselves?’ one of the mamluks said.
‘The chest is locked, Jareh.’
‘I could pick it. My father was a locksmith. He showed me how.’
‘It’s not worth it. Yusuf will have you’re hands if he catches you.’
‘Then we won’t let him catch us, will we?’
John stopped brushing. In the silence, he could just hear the sound of metal scraping on metal. He tossed the brush aside and walked over to stand in the entrance of the next stall. Jareh was on his knees, his back to John as he probed at the lock with his dagger and a needle. Nathir stood over him, watching. He looked up, and his face paled. He tapped Jareh’s shoulder.
‘What?’ Jareh asked. Nathir pointed, and the other mamluk looked over his shoulder. He sat on the chest and met John’s eyes. ‘What do you want, ifranji?’ John returned the man’s stare, but said nothing. ‘Yusuf’s watchdog,’ Jareh grumbled.
‘Careful, Brother,’ John told him.
‘I am not your brother, ifranji,’ the mamluk spat. He tapped the blade of his dagger against his open palm. ‘If you speak of this to Yusuf, you are a dead man.’
John shrugged. ‘I only wished to warn you: Yusuf knows the precise number of coins in the chest. If even one goes missing, he will know.’
‘I told you!’ Nathir slapped the back of Jareh’s head, then looked to John. ‘Shukran.’
John nodded and walked out into the courtyard, which was all dark shadows now that the sun had set. Yusuf was still at his prayers, and the sounds of revelry from the tavern had grown louder. Looking through one of the tavern windows, John saw a mamluk grab a buxom young woman — a prostitute, no doubt — and pull her on to his lap. He kissed the girl, and John turned away, battling bittersweet memories of his last night with Zimat. He went to a small door that he guessed led to the sleeping hall. But when he pushed it open, he found himself in a small candlelit chapel, a wooden cross hanging from the far wall. Two benches sat before an altar, and on one of them was seated a priest in brown robes. The priest turned, and John saw that he was very old, the skin of his face mottled and wrinkled. His eyes were covered with a milky film, and he looked towards John without seeing him.
‘Greetings, Son,’ the priest said in Latin.
‘Hello, Father.’ John closed the door and crossed the room to sit beside the old man, who stared ahead, saying nothing. ‘What are you doing here?’ John asked.
The priest smiled, revealing a mouth in which only a few teeth had survived. ‘This is my church.’
John feared the old man might be crazy. ‘But these are Muslim lands.’
‘Yes, but they were not always so. I came here more than fifty years ago, with the first King Baldwin. We conquered these lands and made a new kingdom for God. I have been here ever since. When the Saracens retook these lands, I stayed. I was old and blind; too much trouble for my fellow Christians to bother taking with them, and not worth the effort for the Saracens to kill.’
‘The Saracens treat you well, then?’
‘They let me be. There are native Christians and Franks who pass through with the caravans. Just yesterday, two-score Franks stopped at the inn. I prayed with them, offered them confession and absolution. Do you wish me to pray with you?’ The priest held out a wooden cup. A few copper coins rattled in the bottom. John added another. ‘Bless you, Son. Do you wish to confess your sins?’