‘Raids?’ Gumushtagin asked. ‘That would violate our treaty with Baldwin.’
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘War is coming at last. I will send word to the emirs and sheikhs telling them to gather their men. We must prepare to strike!’ The assembled men nodded their agreement.
‘Where will we attack?’ Yusuf asked.
‘Acre,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘We shall take the Franks’ main port, cutting their lands in half and dividing Jerusalem from Tripoli and Antioch in the north. With Acre in our power, we can then turn south to take Jerusalem. Their kingdom will fall.’
‘Inshallah,’ several of the emirs murmured. Others slapped the floor to show their approval. Yusuf cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, malik, but if we strike at Acre, will this not leave Aleppo exposed?’
The emirs glared at Yusuf, but Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘You are correct, Yusuf.’ He turned to Shirkuh. ‘Tell them our plan.’
‘We will divide our army in two,’ Shirkuh explained. ‘I will command a force in Aleppo while Nur ad-Din will lead a larger army from Damascus. My men will march through the Kadisha valley towards Tripoli, in order to distract the Franks and block them from attacking Aleppo. When the Frankish forces move against us, then Nur ad-Din will move on Acre, taking the castle of Banyas along the way.’
Nur ad-Din grinned. ‘The Frankish army will no doubt leave the Kadisha and march to relieve Acre. When they reach the city, my forces will engage them, and Shirkuh’s army will then attack them from behind.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘They will be crushed between us.’
‘A brilliant plan, malik,’ the eunuch Gumushtagin said.
‘We will be rid of the Franks once and for all,’ Usama agreed.
Yusuf frowned. ‘But we cannot violate our treaty with the Frankish king based on rumours alone.’
‘No, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din agreed. ‘We need more than rumours. That is why I am sending you to Frankish lands to find the truth of the matter. You will leave tomorrow.’
Yusuf bowed at the waist. ‘I am honoured to serve you, malik. With your permission, I will go now to prepare my men.’
‘Take no more than a dozen mamluks, not enough to attract attention,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘And do not take the Frank, Juwan.’
‘But he is captain of my khaskiya. It is his duty to protect me at all times.’
Nur ad-Din frowned. ‘I know you think him loyal, but he is an ifranji. He will cut your throat and run to the Franks at the first opportunity.’ Several of the emirs nodded their agreement.
Yusuf met Nur ad-Din’s eyes. ‘Forgive me, my lord, but you do not know John as I do. I trust him with my life. He will come with me.’
Nur ad-Din said nothing. His golden eyes bore into Yusuf. Finally, the malik nodded. ‘Very well, but watch him close. You may go.’ Yusuf rose and opened the door. ‘Wait,’ Nur ad-Din called, and Yusuf turned to face him. ‘Do not fail me, Yusuf. Bring me my war.’
NOVEMBER 1156: ON THE BORDER OF THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM
John rode beside Yusuf and Turan, their horses’ hooves kicking up dust from the dry road. Behind them trailed two dozen mounted mamluks, Qaraqush at their head. They rode alongside the Orontes River, which marked the boundary between the Frankish kingdom of Jerusalem and Nur ad-Din’s lands. On the eastern side were the Muslim strongholds of Shaizar, Hama and Homs. Some way off, on the opposite side of the river, stood the crusader castles of Montferrand and Krak des Chevaliers. In between was a no-man’s-land roamed only by the Bedouin, who knew no lords, neither Frankish nor Muslim. Across the river and near the horizon, John spied a group of Bedouin on foot, driving a flock of sheep towards the water. He pointed to them. ‘Perhaps they will know something.’
‘Perhaps,’ Yusuf agreed. After nearly three months of riding up and down the border from Shaizar to as far south as Banyas, they had still found no sign of Frankish troops or raiders. Yusuf looked to Turan. ‘Wait here with the men. John and I will speak with the Bedouin.’
Turan frowned. ‘I should come with you, not the ifranji.’ Yusuf’s jaw set. He locked eyes with his brother, and eventually Turan lowered his gaze. ‘Let it be as you say, Brother,’ he murmured. John could hardly believe his ears.
Yusuf turned to John. ‘Come.’ He turned into the river, and John followed, his horse’s hooves kicking up a spray that sparkled in the bright sunlight. The river was deep here, and soon their horses were swimming, the cold water coming up to John’s waist. They crossed to the far side without incident, and their mounts climbed up the bank, water streaming off them. Yusuf looked over to John and grinned. ‘I’ll race you,’ he said and kicked at his horse’s sides, sending it galloping over the hard-baked earth towards the Bedouin.
John spurred after him, standing in the saddle and leaning forward, his head low against his horse’s neck. He came up alongside Yusuf, grinned at him, and then shot past. He pulled up in a cloud of dust upon reaching the shepherds. Yusuf joined him a moment later. The Bedouin’s sheikh — a wrinkled old man with a shepherd’s crook in his hand — stepped forward and stared at them impassively. Behind him, several of the shepherds had taken bows from their backs and were stringing them. John blinked in surprise. He had seen the sheikh before.
‘Sabir ibn Taqqi!’ Yusuf exclaimed. It was the same sheikh who had given them food and water years ago during their harrowing trip to Tell Bashir. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum.’
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Yusuf son of Ayub,’ Sabir replied. ‘When I saw you last, I did not number your days long in this world. And now I find you again in great danger. There is a Frankish fortress not far from here.’ He pointed towards the horizon. ‘Qal’at al-Hisn — Krak des Chevaliers, the Franks call it. We passed through its shadow yesterday.’
‘Did you notice anything unusual? More men? Preparations for war?’
‘We kept our distance. I saw nothing.’
‘Have you heard of Frankish raids against the Bedouin?’
The sheikh shook his head. ‘I hear little. We have been travelling the desert from oasis to oasis. We have not visited a town in months.’
‘Thank you for your help, sheikh.’ Yusuf untied his purse from his belt and tossed it to Sabir. The Bedouin sheikh looked inside and whistled in appreciation.
‘What is this for?’
‘You saved my life. It is yours.’
Sabir shook his head. ‘I only gave you hospitality as our laws dictate.’ He pocketed a silver dirham and tossed the pouch back to Yusuf.
‘You will always be welcome at my home,’ Yusuf told the man.
Sabir nodded, then turned back towards the other Bedouin and made a clicking noise. The tribe moved on, herding their sheep past John and Yusuf.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘We are wasting our time out here,’ he muttered.
‘We could find out more in the Frankish towns,’ John suggested.
‘I cannot enter uninvited. It would violate the treaty.’
John smiled. ‘You cannot, but I can.’
NOVEMBER 1156: TRIPOLI
John pulled a fold of his turban down around his mouth and nose to keep out the dust as he walked behind a long line of heavily laden camels. Outside Akkar, he had joined a caravan of dusky Indians bringing spices from the East. He had followed them as they marched alongside the Kadisha River, winding their way through green fields dotted here and there with distant villages or farmhouses. The local peasants — a mix of native Christians and Saracens were outside, preparing the soil for the spring planting. Beside the river to John’s left, a peasant yelled encouragement to a bony ox as it pulled a plough through the rich earth.
‘Tripoli!’ one of the Indians ahead in the caravan shouted, and John squinted into the distance, trying to pick out the city. On the horizon, he could make out the sea, golden under the late-afternoon sun. The walls of the city were just visible as a dark smudge against the glittering water. As they drew closer, the city began to take on a definite shape. A massive castle stood at the eastern end of the city wall, which stretched for a mile to the west, where it was anchored by a squat, round tower. Behind the wall lay Acre, built on a peninsula that curved out into the Mediterranean. John could make out the peaked roof of a church and two soaring minarets — now converted into bell towers.