‘We’ll never outrun all of them,’ John said.
‘Then we’ll die fighting.’
‘No. I owe you my life, Yusuf. It is time I paid my debt.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I will stay with you.’
‘Save yourself!’ John roared and pushed Yusuf towards the distant Muslim army. ‘Run, damn you!’ Then John turned and sprinted towards the oncoming Franks. He sidestepped the spear of the first soldier to reach him and slashed at the man’s throat, taking him down. A second Frank came at John with a mace, and John ducked the blow before cutting at the man’s legs, sending him tumbling. The next two knights attacked John together. One thrust his sword at John’s chest, while the other cut at his head. John parried the first blow and ducked the second, then threw his body into the two men, sending them all sprawling on the ground. John stabbed one with his sword, leaving it in the man’s chest. The other was scrambling to his knees, sword raised, when John punched him in the jaw. The Frank’s eyes went blank and he slumped to the ground. John took his sword and stood to see that the rest of the Frankish soldiers had formed a ring around him.
‘Come on,’ he growled, raising his sword. ‘Come and get me, you bastards!’ One of the soldiers rushed forward, but stopped short. John took a step towards the man. Then he felt something slam into the back of his head, and the world went black.
Yusuf jogged past the ragged remnants of Nur ad-Din’s army. Some of the foot-soldiers were carrying companions or helping their friends to limp along. Others walked alone, heads down. Mounted mamluks rode amongst them, staring vacantly ahead, stunned by defeat. Bone-weary, Yusuf forced himself to keep running until he reached a small stream where the army had stopped to set up camp and count their losses. Yusuf knelt beside the water and began to scoop it into his mouth.
‘Yusuf!’
He looked up to see Shirkuh approaching. Yusuf stood, and his uncle embraced him. ‘Well met, Uncle.’
‘Well met, indeed. I thought we had lost you, young eagle. Come, I will take you to Nur ad-Din.’
Shirkuh led him across the stream and to a tent. Inside, Nur ad-Din was sitting on a camp stool, his head in his hands. His shirt was off, and a doctor was busy sewing up the ragged wound in his shoulder. Nur ad-Din was mumbling to himself: ‘I have built mosques and schools, given to the poor. Why has Allah punished me?’
‘My lord,’ Yusuf said, announcing his presence.
Nur ad-Din looked up and a smile spread across his face. ‘Yusuf! You have survived. It is a miracle!’
‘Yes,’ Yusuf murmured, thinking of John. ‘A miracle.’
‘You saved my life, Yusuf. I am in you debt.’
‘I only did my duty, malik.’
‘You were one of the few who did,’ Shirkuh said.
‘He is right,’ Nur ad-Din agreed. ‘You have proven your worth, Yusuf. When others fled, you stayed to fight for your lord and for Allah. You shall have new lands, and a new name to honour you. From this day on, you shall be known as Saladin.’
‘Thank you, malik,’ Yusuf said. Saladin: righteous in faith. It was a good name.
‘It is I who should thank you, Saladin.’
SEPTEMBER 1163: DAMASCUS
Two days later, the army of Nur ad-Din trudged into Damascus. There was no cheering as Yusuf followed the king through the gate and down the wide avenue towards the palace. The people lining the street watched in silence as the troops filed past.
Yusuf’s father, Ayub, met them in the entrance hall of the palace. ‘Welcome, malik,’ he said and bowed. ‘Thank Allah, you have returned safely.’
‘There is nothing to be thankful for,’ Nur ad-Din grumbled. ‘I have failed. My army is in tatters, and I shall be forced to make peace with the Franks. We shall never drive them from our lands.’
‘I have news that will perhaps cheer you.’ Ayub gestured towards a man standing behind him. The man was tall and thin, with prominent cheekbones and darkly tanned skin. His face and head were clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows had been shaved. ‘Allow me to introduce Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’
‘Greetings, Nur ad-Din,’ Shawar said as he stepped forward. His voice was soft, and he spoke with a slight lisp. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘What brings the Vizier of Egypt to my court?’
‘Treachery,’ Shawar replied. ‘I have been chased from Cairo, and the caliph is in the hands of traitors.’
‘And what do you want from me?’ Nur ad-Din asked, his voice weary.
‘Your help to retake my kingdom.’
Nur ad-Din laughed bitterly. ‘With what? My army is in ruins.’
‘They are strong enough. The people of Cairo will welcome me. I am their rightful ruler.’
‘I see,’ Nur ad-Din murmured. ‘And why should I help you?’
‘Because I will send you a third of Egypt’s revenues each year as tribute. And I will recognize you as my lord. You will be King of Egypt.’
‘King of Egypt,’ Nur ad-Din whispered. For a moment his eyes gleamed with the old fire. Then his shoulder slumped again. ‘I am tired of war.’
‘Send me, malik,’ Shirkuh urged. ‘I will conquer Egypt for you.’
Nur ad-Din looked to Shirkuh, then back to Shawar. ‘I shall think on it,’ he said. ‘You may go, Shawar.’ The Egyptian nodded and was led away. Nur ad-Din turned to Ayub. ‘I wish to bathe. And then I will eat.’
‘Very well, my lord,’ Ayub said. ‘But first I have news from Aleppo. It is your wife, Asimat. She is pregnant.’
Nur ad-Din straightened, and a grin spread across his face. ‘A child. A son perhaps!’ he roared. He embraced Ayub and kissed him on both cheeks, then turned to Yusuf. ‘Can you imagine that, Yusuf? A son, an heir at last!’
‘A son,’ Yusuf repeated. His son.
SEPTEMBER 1163: JERUSALEM
John awoke with a start as cold water splashed over him. He lay on his side on hard ground. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked, and his head ached as if someone had driven an iron spike deep into his brain. He winced as he gingerly touched his scalp and felt dried blood caking his hair. He cracked open an eye and saw that he was lying in a dim prison cell. Rough-hewn stone walls stood on three sides, and the fourth was closed off by iron bars. There were three other men in the cell — all Saracens. Two were unmoving, flies buzzing about them. The third sat against the wall, staring vacantly ahead. John looked to the entrance of the cell, where two men stood. One wore chainmail and leaned on the shaft of a tall spear. The other wore the dark robes of a priest.
‘This is the one?’ the priest asked. ‘The Frank?’
‘A Saxon, Father Heraclius,’ the soldier corrected as he pulled open the cell door. ‘He talks in his sleep, and he speaks their savage tongue.’
Heraclius stepped into the cell and kicked at John’s leg. ‘You awake, Saxon?’ John rolled over on to his back, moaning at the pain in his stiff joints. The priest knelt beside him. The man was clean-shaven, with deep blue eyes and blond hair. He had an effeminate beauty about him. ‘Do you understand me?’
John nodded. ‘Water,’ he croaked.
The priest snapped his fingers at the soldier. ‘Bring water.’ He turned back to John, reaching out and brushing John’s long hair away from his eyes. ‘Blue eyes,’ he murmured. ‘You are indeed one of us.’
The guard returned with a waterskin and handed it to the priest, who gently lifted John’s head and held the waterskin to his lips. John drank greedily, the cool water a blessed relief. After a few swallows, Heraclius pulled the skin away. ‘That is enough for now. Can you talk?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have come to care for your soul, my son,’ Heraclius told John. ‘You were captured with the Saracen army. I am told that you fought for them, that you killed many of our men. How did you come to be with the infidels?’
‘I was captured at Damascus during the second crusade.’
Heraclius’s eyebrows rose. ‘That was fifteen years ago. You spent all that time amongst the infidels?’