‘All faiths have their mysteries, Yusuf,’ John said. ‘Is it logical that according to Islam, a man can marry five women, but a woman only one man?’
‘If a woman had more than one husband, then how would we know who was the father of her children?’
‘And why should that matter so?’
‘Why does it matter? Surely your faith does not welcome bastards.’
‘God loves all his children equally.’
‘Even the ones who do not deserve His love, the murderers and the thieves?’
‘Jesus forgave prostitutes and murderers alike. He teaches that all deserve to be loved.’
‘And what of you, John? Do you love all men equally? The Arab and the Frank? Christian and Muslim?’ He met John’s eyes. ‘Amalric and me?’
‘Not equally. But I pray for them all.’
‘And when you pray, whose victory do you ask for?’
‘I pray for peace.’
‘And when peace is not possible?’
‘I pray for you, brother.’
‘I would rather you fight for me.’ Yusuf regretted the words immediately. John looked away quickly, as if he had been slapped. He spurred ahead, and Yusuf sped up to rejoin him. ‘I am sorry, John. I know that you have no choice.’
‘I forgive you, brother,’ John murmured, his tone more irritated than forgiving.
They rode on in silence. As they crested the hill, Jerusalem came into view. ‘Al-Quds Sharif,’ Yusuf whispered. The Holy Sanctuary. Even at this distance he could make out the bulky Tower of David, the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and beyond them, the gleaming roof of the Dome of the Rock. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes.
‘She is beautiful,’ he said. ‘More, she is a symbol of all that we have lost; not just the city but the people who died there and who have died since fighting for her. Jerusalem is where Mohammed rose into heaven before returning to write of it. She is our past, the childhood of our religion, and the Franks have taken her from us.’
‘I am sure the crusaders felt the same when they first laid eyes on the city,’ John observed. ‘Jerusalem is where Christ died, and it was in Christian hands for hundreds of years before the Muslims took it.’
Yusuf’s brow knit, but he said nothing.
‘Perhaps we can learn to share the city,’ John suggested.
‘Perhaps.’
The road led to an arched gateway that sat in the shadow of one of the citadel’s massive square towers. Merchants’ carts were crowded around the gate. A tax was due on any non-edible goods that entered the city, so these men had chosen to set up shop outside. Some knelt as the king approached. Others loudly hawked their wares. ‘Fine perfumes, my lord!’ ‘Women, sire! A slave girl for your pleasure!’
Amalric did not stop until he reached the gate, where the seneschal Guy and the patriarch waited to greet him. Yusuf and John reined in just behind the king.
‘Welcome, sire!’ Guy said. ‘God grant you health and joy.’
‘Praise God for your safe return,’ the patriarch added.
‘Spare me the formalities, I am tired and need a bath.’ Amalric glanced back to Yusuf. ‘You’ll want to put your helmet on, Emir.’ He spurred ahead, and Guy and the patriarch fell in beside him.
‘My helmet?’ Yusuf asked John.
John nodded. ‘Muslims are not welcome inside the city.’
Yusuf pulled on his helmet and followed Amalric through the gate. The road beyond was lined with men and veiled women who had come to see the return of their king. They cheered and Amalric waved.
Yusuf’s helmet rang as a piece of rotten fruit slammed into it, knocking his head to the side. ‘Murderer!’ a veiled woman shouted. ‘Go to hell, sand-demon!’
There was an angry murmur in the crowd. ‘Saracen dog!’ someone else yelled. A fist-sized rock sailed just in front of Yusuf’s face.
‘Leave him be!’ Amalric roared. He had reined in his horse and was glaring at the crowd. ‘The next person who throws something will lose his hand!’ He looked back to Yusuf. ‘I apologize, Saladin.’
‘It is nothing,’ Yusuf replied. He turned to John and added more quietly. ‘Now I know how Reynald felt.’
‘No, it is unacceptable,’ Amalric was saying. ‘But I shall make amends. You shall be my honoured guest tonight at the feast to celebrate my return.’
Yusuf sat beside King Amalric at the head table. John sat to Yusuf’s left. Another, longer table had been set up at a right angle to the head table. It stretched the length of the barrel-vaulted hall — the first completed part of the new royal palace being built south of the Tower of David. The table was lined with an eclectic mix of men: tonsured priests beside richly dressed merchants; clean-shaven Franks next to native Christians with trimmed beards; men who ate with their hands and wiped their fingers on the fur of the dogs who milled under the table beside others who ate with fork and knife.
A servant refilled Amalric’s goblet of wine and turned to Yusuf, who waved him away. The second course had yet to be served, and it was already the third time Yusuf had refused, but the first that Amalric had noticed. ‘How rude of me,’ the king said. ‘Bring Saladin a cup of water.’
‘Thank you, sire.’
Amalric nodded. ‘How long will you stay with us, Emir?’
‘A week, if I may. I am eager to explore the city.’
‘John will serve as your guide. What do you wish to see?’
‘Qubbat as-Sakhrah,’ Yusuf said. ‘The Dome of the Rock.’
Amalric frowned in confusion.
‘The Templum Domini, sire,’ John explained.
‘Ah, yes, the Lord’s Temple, where Christ threw out the moneychangers. The Augustinians have charge of it now.’
It was Yusuf’s turn to frown. He turned to John and spoke quietly in Arabic. ‘But the Dome was built after the Muslim conquest.’
‘What was that?’ Amalric asked.
‘Saladin says that he is eager to explore the Temple,’ John said.
‘And the Al-Aqsa mosque,’ Yusuf added. ‘After Masjid al-Haram in Mecca, and the mosque of the Prophet in Medina, it is the most sacred place of worship for my people.’
‘The Templum Solomonis,’ John explained to Amalric. Then, to Yusuf: ‘The Templars are quartered there now.’
‘Be careful of them, Saladin,’ the king warned. ‘The Templars do not like visitors, especially Saracens.’
‘Not so,’ the Templar grand master, Bertrand, called from down the table. ‘You will be welcome at the Temple, Saladin.’
Yusuf nodded in his direction. ‘Shukran.’
The conversation paused for a moment as servants brought forth the next course: two roasted boars on platters. Yusuf blanched as one of the boars was set down before him.
‘You are the guest of honour,’ Amalric told him. ‘You may carve.’
‘I am sorry, King. The flesh of swine is forbidden to my people.’
‘Ah, y-yes, s-so it is,’ Amalric stuttered in embarrassment. He nodded to a servant. ‘Take this a-aw-’ His face contorted as words failed him. ‘Remove this, and bring something more palatable.’
Heraclius, who was seated beyond John and the patriarch to Yusuf’s left, leaned forward and looked towards Yusuf. ‘You do not drink wine. You do not eat pork. What sort of religion is that?’
Yusuf opened his mouth to speak, but John replied first. ‘Do we Christians not abstain from the flesh of animals on Fridays? And many religious orders eat no meat at all.’
The patriarch Amalric set his fork down. ‘Are you comparing Christian monks to the heathen Mohammedans?’
‘Yes,’ John said without hesitation. ‘The monks do not eat meat because they follow a rule. The Muslims follow their own rule, Your Beatitude.’
‘But only one of the two rules is of God, and I have no doubt which one that is, nor should you. Christ’s first miracle was to turn water into wine. God made grapes. He made swine. Why would he forbid us to enjoy them?’
‘Our place is not to question Allah’s designs,’ Yusuf replied. ‘He has commanded us to abstain from wine and pork, and so we do. It is our faith.’