Yusuf had been holding these contests every Sunday since he and John had come to Tell Bashir, over a year ago. One week it was archery, the next horsemanship, the next swordplay. The men’s skills had improved dramatically as they sought to win the weekly prize. John watched the games each week, but he never participated. As the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya — his private guard — John had earned the respect of the men, but he would never be one of them. To them he would always be alifranji, the Frank, a man apart. He had a different past, different memories. John thought of the brilliant green fields of England and then of Zimat. He frowned. She would be married by now, and as unreachable as his home country.
‘Ready!’ Yusuf called, drawing John’s attention back to the courtyard. Yusuf had stepped behind the line of archers, each of whom now reached back and, in a fluid motion, drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it to his bow. The crowd quieted in anticipation, and John could hear the bows creak as the archers drew them taught. ‘Rama!’ Yusuf shouted, and the men let fly. The arrows hissed through the air, and all six found their target, thudding into the leather shield.
Yusuf took the shield from the wall, and as he walked back towards the archers, he pulled out the arrows, starting with the ones furthest from the centre. ‘Manzur!’ he called after examining the colours painted on the shaft of the arrow. He tossed the shaft aside. ‘Rakin! Akhtar! Liaqat!’ He dropped the last arrow as he came to a stop before the archers. ‘Your aim was true, but not true enough. The Frankish armour is thick. It is not enough to hit them, for if you hit their chest, your arrows are wasted. You must strike their neck where the armour is thin.’ He wrested the remaining two arrows from the shield. ‘Nazam and Uwais, you have come closest to the mark. Ready yourselves.’
The two men grinned, and their fellows clapped them on their backs as they stepped forward. Each man notched an arrow to his bow. John could hear some in the crowd placing bets as to who would win. ‘In battle,’ Yusuf told them, ‘you must hit a moving target. Let us see how skilled you truly are.’ He tossed the shield high into the air.
Immediately, Nazam pulled back and let fly. His arrow thudded into the shield before it had even reached its apex. Uwais waited until the shield was frozen at its highest point before shooting, his arrow slamming into the shield. The shield had just begun to fall when Nazam hit it with another arrow. He quickly nocked another and managed to strike the shield once more before it hit the ground. The men cheered his feat, and John gave a low whistle of appreciation.
Yusuf went to the shield and raised it high. Uwais’s arrow — the shaft decorated in black and blue — protruded from the centre of the shield. Nazam’s three arrows were scattered around it. ‘The winner is Uwais!’ Yusuf declared. He took a coin pouch from his belt and tossed it towards the victorious archer.
Nazam snapped the pouch out of the air before it reached its intended target. ‘It is not right! I struck the shield three times, and Uwais hit it only once.’
The mamluks in the courtyard went quiet. Even from high on the wall, John could see the change in Yusuf’s bearing — his back straighter, his shoulders back. He stepped close to Nazam and placed a hand on the mamluk’s shoulder. ‘It is not he who strikes most, but he whose strike is the most telling who wins, Nazam.’
‘But-’
‘I have spoken!’ Yusuf snapped.
Nazam lowered his head. ‘Yes, qadi.’ He handed the pouch to Uwais.
John turned away from the scene to gaze out beyond the castle walls. His eyes wandered across the town to the glittering waters of the Sajur River. Two miles off, he saw a cloud of dust rising above the road beside the river. John could just make out the shapes of riders amidst the dust.
The lookout spotted the men at the same time. ‘Riders approaching!’ he shouted down to Yusuf. ‘Three of them.’
Yusuf hurried up the stairs to join John atop the wall. The riders were closer now, just entering the outskirts of the town. John could see that two were older warriors, well-muscled and tanned, with full beards. The third was a young man, still beardless. Yusuf squinted as the riders drew closer. ‘The young one, I know him.’ He grinned and slapped John on the back. ‘Come!’
John followed Yusuf as he hurried down from the wall. ‘Open the gate!’ Yusuf shouted. The gate swung open just as the riders were coming up the ramp towards the citadel. When he saw Yusuf, the young rider slid from the saddle and sprinted forward. The two men embraced and exchanged kisses.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Brother!’ the young man exclaimed.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Selim.’
Selim? John’s eyebrows rose as he looked more closely. Yusuf’s younger brother had added several inches since John last saw him, and his round, boyish face was now lean.
‘You are a man, now,’ Yusuf said, gripping his brother’s shoulder. ‘What brings you to Tell Bashir?’
‘Shirkuh has sent me. Nur ad-Din has need of you and your men. He is marching on Damascus.’
APRIL 1154: ON THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS
Yusuf smelled Nur ad-Din’s camp long before he saw it. The breeze brought him the pungent odours of wood smoke and manure mixed with the musky scent of the thousands of horses, camels and sheep that accompanied the army. As Yusuf neared the top of a low hill, he could hear the snorting and harrumphing of the camels and the bleating of sheep. Then he crested the rise, and the camp lay before him, stretching for a mile along the Orontes River, which blazed red under the setting sun. Thousands of animals grazed at the edge of the camp. Beyond them rose a maze of tents, the sprawling structures of the Bedouin interspersed with the neat, wool triangles of the mamluks. In the centre was Nur ad-Din’s grand pavilion, his banner flying from the top.
‘Qaraqush!’ Yusuf called, and the mamluk commander left the column of Yusuf’s warriors — fifty men in all — and rode up beside him. ‘See that the men are quartered. Make sure to camp upwind of the livestock.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Selim and John come with me,’ Yusuf continued. He looked behind him to where Faridah sat on a camel, her face veiled. ‘You too, Faridah.’
Yusuf rode down the hill, and Selim and John followed, riding on either side of Faridah. They passed through a herd of camels chewing impassively at their cuds as they watched the riders pass. At the edge of the tents, two mamluk sentries were waiting for them. ‘Halt, friend,’ one of them called. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I am Yusuf ibn Ayub, emir of Tell Bashir,’ Yusuf replied as he and the others dismounted. ‘I have come at Nur ad-Din’s request.’ He handed his reins to one of the sentries. ‘Take care of our horses,’ he said and walked past.
‘Yes, my lord,’ the sentry called after him.
Yusuf led the way between the Bedouin’s ramshackle tents — sprawling structures that held entire clans. Hard-faced men in patchwork leather armour lounged outside, chatting or tending their cooking fires. The Bedouin’s bravery was legendary, as was their greed. They had been known to put down their arms in the midst of battle in order to strip the bodies of the dead, friend and foe alike.
Past the Bedouin, Yusuf entered amongst the tents of the vassal lords who served Nur ad-Din. These tents were more luxurious: tall, round structures with several rooms, each surrounded by the tents of the emir’s men. Yusuf spotted Shirkuh’s standard fluttering in the distance, but lost sight of it as he wove his way through the maze of tents. He stopped when he came to a fire surrounded by a dozen men who he recognized as Shirkuh’s soldiers. They were eating, scooping boiled wheat out of a common pot.