Yusuf and John followed the young mamluk out of the cell, and the other guards fell in behind them. They crossed the courtyard to the citadel’s keep, a thick-walled, three-storey building. They stepped through the arched doorway and into a dimly lit entrance chamber. A staircase opposite led to the next floor. Yusuf and John headed for it, but one of the mamluks grabbed John’s arm, stopping him.
‘Your slave will eat in the kitchen,’ the soldier said, gesturing to a door to the right.
‘He is not a slave,’ Yusuf replied.
‘He is a Frank,’ the bald mamluk spat.
Yusuf’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but John put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is all right, Yusuf. Go ahead. I will be fine.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf grumbled. The guards led John away, and Yusuf followed the young mamluk up the stairs and into a thickly carpeted room, well lit with candlelight. Opposite the door, Qaraqush sat on a cushion before a low table. He was dressed simply in a tunic of white cotton. He extended his hand, indicating that Yusuf should sit on the cushion opposite him.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Yusuf said as he sat. ‘You saved my life today. I am in your debt.’
Qaraqush waved away his thanks. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessing of Allah be upon him, commands us to welcome friend and enemy alike with open arms.’
‘I hope you shall count me as a friend.’
Qaraqush frowned. He clapped his hands, and two servants entered carrying bowls of hot water and towels. When Yusuf had washed his hands, more servants entered, and a bowl of steaming lamb stew, a plate of fresh flatbread, and a dish of cool cucumber yoghurt were placed on the low table before Yusuf. His stomach rumbled loudly.
‘You are hungry,’ Qaraqush said. ‘Eat.’
Yusuf eagerly tore off a piece of the soft flatbread and scooped up some of the lamb stew. ‘In the name of Allah,’ he murmured and ate, closing his eyes to savour the taste. He tore off another piece of bread.
‘Eat well,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘Tomorrow morning you leave.’
Yusuf lowered the bread. ‘You know that if you send us away, we will die. The Frankish raiders are waiting for us.’
‘That is no concern of mine.’
‘On the contrary. You know of my uncle, Shirkuh?’
Qaraqush’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Shirkuh?’ His eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf more closely. ‘Of course I know of him. He is Nur ad-Din’s greatest general.’
Yusuf met Qaraqush’s eyes. ‘If I am killed, my uncle will not rest until he sees you dead.’
Qaraqush thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I am afraid you are wrong. Why should Shirkuh seek vengeance against me, when it is Frankish bandits who will have killed you?’
‘I see,’ Yusuf murmured.
‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but it seems we are not destined to be friends. Tomorrow you will leave. What happens after that is in Allah’s hands.’ Qaraqush clapped, and servants entered with the next course.
Yusuf had lost his appetite, and he ate little for the remainder of the meal. Qaraqush was content to dine in silence. When the last course had been consumed, he bid Yusuf farewell. ‘Ma’a as-salaama, Yusuf. The guards will show you out.’
The door opened and the bald mamluk guard entered. Yusuf rose to leave, but then stopped at the door. ‘Wait,’ he said, turning back to face Qaraqush. ‘I have a proposition for you.’
‘A proposition?’
‘A challenge: I will fight your strongest man in hand-to-hand combat. If I win, we stay.’
‘You against my strongest man?’ Qaraqush chuckled. ‘You are brave, Yusuf, but you are little more than a boy.’
‘Then you should have no fear of my winning.’
‘ Hmph,’ Qaraqush snorted. ‘And why should I accept your challenge? What do I have to gain?’
‘My dagger.’ Yusuf gestured to the weapon tucked into the bald mamluk’s belt. ‘The man who defeats me will have it. And you, Qaraqush, shall have my sword.’
Qaraqush beckoned to the guard, who handed the two weapons over. Qaraqush took the dagger — the one that Shirkuh had given Yusuf — and whistled in appreciation as he fingered the eagle intricately carved into the hilt. Then he drew the sword and ran his finger along its curving blade. ‘Damascus steel,’ he noted. ‘A fine piece of craftsmanship.’ He sheathed the blade and smiled. ‘I like you, boy. You have spirit. I accept your challenge, but your victory will not win your Frank’s freedom.’
‘John is my friend,’ Yusuf protested. ‘I will not leave without him.’
‘Then he shall have to fight for himself. My men will enjoy watching him beaten.’
‘I am sure,’ Yusuf said, a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘I accept.’
‘Then we have a deal.’ The two men clasped shoulders and kissed one another’s cheeks to seal the agreement. ‘But even if you win, you will only be postponing the inevitable,’ Qaraqush warned Yusuf. ‘The Seljuk Sultan’s men will arrive in two weeks. My lord, Gumushtagin, has ordered me to turn the citadel over to them, and you will go with it. The sultan will pay good money for the nephew of Shirkuh, and I fear he will not treat you as generously as I have.’
‘You will not turn the fortress over to the sultan.’
‘No?’ Qaraqush’s eyebrows rose. ‘And why is that?’
‘Gumushtagin is no longer your lord. I am. Nur ad-Din has decreed it.’
‘Yes, but Nur ad-Din is far away, and the Seljuk Sultan is paying us well for Tell Bashir — one thousand dinars.’
Yusuf looked Qaraqush in the eyes. ‘I will give you two thousand.’
‘And where will you find two thousand dinars?’ Qaraqush scoffed.
‘That is my concern, but I promise: you will have your money.’
Qaraqush frowned. ‘I think you lie.’
‘I do not expect you to believe me. But you have nothing to lose. If I am defeated by your champion tomorrow, then you will be rid of me. If I win, then you can hold me hostage until the sultan’s men arrive. If I do not get you the money before then, you can sell me to the sultan. But if I do succeed, then you will swear loyalty to me and to Nur ad-Din.’
Qaraqush grinned. ‘You are a bold one, Yusuf. You will make a great leader, if you do not die first.’ He placed his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘If you defeat my champion and find the money, then I will gladly swear loyalty to you.’
‘I have one more condition,’ Yusuf warned. ‘Until the sultan’s men arrive, you and your men must do as I say. I will be in command here, as Nur ad-Din has decreed.’
Qaraqush burst out laughing, his head tilted back and his shoulders shaking. ‘By Allah, you are brash. First win your fight. Then we shall see.’
‘Wake up!’ John jerked awake to find Yusuf shaking his shoulder. It was morning, and pale sunlight streamed through the cell window. John sat up. He could hear dozens of voices outside. Occasional snatches of conversation floated through the window. ‘The little one won’t last one minute-’ ‘The Frank either-’ ‘Al-Mashtub will fight. I saw him kill a man with one blow-’
‘They started gathering after morning prayers,’ Yusuf said. He smiled. ‘One minute? They’re in for a surprise.’
John shook his head. ‘Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Remember what I taught you.’
Outside, the crowd began to roar, and a moment later, John heard the rasp of the door’s bolt. The door swung open, and he blinked against the sudden brightness. A mamluk stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light.
‘Come,’ the guard said. ‘It is time.’
John followed Yusuf out of the cell. The courtyard was crowded with dozens of mamluks, who stepped aside to create a narrow path. As John passed, they leaned close, spitting insults: ‘Frankish bastard!’ ‘Son of a donkey!’ ‘Male whore!’ ‘Your mother is a slut!’ John thought back to Acre, when, newly arrived in the Holy Land, he had fought the Saracen prisoner. Now he was the one being led to the slaughter. John shook the thought from his head. He would not die in this god-forsaken frontier town, not if he could help it. He walked on stone-faced, following Yusuf into an impromptu ring that had been marked off in the dust of the fortress courtyard.