‘Faith?’ The patriarch snorted dismissively. ‘You Saracens worship a rock. What sort of faith is that?’
‘We believe that Abraham placed Al-Hajaru-I-Aswad in Mecca. The black stone was sent to Adam and Eve by angels.’
‘It is a rock,’ Heraclius retorted.
‘It is,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘We do not worship the stone, but rather the God who sent it. Just as you do not worship the cross, but rather the Christ who died upon it.’
‘But-’
‘That is enough, Heraclius,’ Amalric cut across the conversation. ‘A good answer, Saladin. You are as wise as you are brave. I pray that the peace between our peoples lasts for many years, and that I do not have the misfortune to meet you again in battle. To peace.’ He raised his cup and drained it.
Yusuf glanced at John and then drank his water. ‘To peace,’ he murmured. ‘Inshallah.’
John rose early the next morning and went to the baths in the Hospitaller complex. The sun was just rising as he emerged. He strolled over to the Street of Herbs and purchased two oranges from the fruit seller, Tiv. The city was quiet as he walked the short distance to the king’s palace, in the shade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He went to the room where Yusuf was staying and knocked. The door opened immediately. Yusuf was already dressed in a white caftan and sandals.
‘I thought you would never arrive. I am eager to explore the city, John.’
John handed Yusuf an orange. ‘I brought you breakfast.’
‘Shukran. Now come. Let us begin.’
John led him out into the palace courtyard. They were halfway across when someone called John’s name. He spotted the young Prince Baldwin playing with several companions. ‘John!’ the prince called again. It was the first time John had seen him in nearly seven months, and the boy was notably taller. He must be nearly four now, John calculated. The prince raced across the courtyard and wrapped his arms around John’s leg.
‘Who is this?’ Yusuf asked.
‘Prince Baldwin,’ John said. ‘I tutor him in Arabic.’
Yusuf crouched so that he was at the prince’s height. ‘Kaifa halak?’
The prince became suddenly shy. ‘I am well,’ he said as he peeked between John’s legs.
‘In Arabic,’ John told him.
‘Ana bekhair,’ Baldwin said and then, gaining in confidence, he added, ‘Motasharefon bema’refatek.’
‘A pleasure to meet you as well,’ Yusuf replied with a smile.
‘I have never met a Saracen before,’ Baldwin declared.
Yusuf’s eyebrows rose. ‘And what do you think?’
The prince shrugged. ‘Where is your turban?’
Yusuf laughed. ‘It is a cloudy day. I have no need of one.’
The prince considered this for a moment before turning to John. ‘I thought the Saracens would be more … different.’
‘As I have told you, they are men and women, just like us. Now go and play with your fellows.’
Baldwin headed back to the corner where the other children were pretending to fight with swords. Yusuf called after him: ‘Ma’a as-salaama.’
‘Allah yasalmak,’ Baldwin replied, and ran over to join in the play.
John looked to Yusuf. ‘You see. Not all Franks hate your people, Yusuf. Baldwin will be king someday. He can bring peace.’
‘He is a clever child. Perhaps you are right, John.’
Later that morning John emerged from the Templum Domini with Yusuf at his side. They had been forced to leave quickly when one of the monks had taken offence at Yusuf’s presence.
‘Have you seen enough?’ John asked hopefully.
Yusuf pointed to the Al-Aqsa mosque, which lay beyond a series of arches, the remnant of some long-vanished structure. ‘I wish to visit the mosque. It is time for noon prayer.’
John’s eyes widened. ‘You wish to pray there?’
‘How can I visit Jerusalem and not pray in Al-Aqsa, one of the holiest places in all of Islam?’
‘And the Templar headquarters.’
‘The Grand Master said I was welcome.’
‘The other knights are not as enlightened as Bertrand.’
‘I thought you said the Franks could learn to respect my people.’
‘Not the Templars,’ John grumbled. ‘They are fanatics.’
‘Please, friend. I may never return to Jerusalem again.’
‘Very well,’ John sighed, ‘but let me do the talking.’
John led them to the Temple, which was fronted by an arcade held up by pointed arches. Two Templar sergeants with spears in hand framed the entrance that sat in the shadows of the arcade. The guards eyed Yusuf suspiciously and then looked to John.
‘What is your business here, Father?’ one of them asked. He was a short man with a thick, bull-like neck. From his accented French, John guessed that he was Norman, and a new arrival to the Holy Land.
John gestured to Yusuf. ‘King Amalric has engaged me to show this man the city.’
‘He is a Saracen?’ the guard asked.
John thought about lying but decided against it. ‘Yes.’
The second Templar lowered his spear so that it pointed towards Yusuf’s chest. ‘He is not welcome here.’
John stepped between Yusuf and the spear point. ‘We will be no trouble. He only wishes to see the main hall.’
‘He is a sand-devil,’ the thick-necked Templar spat. ‘He will not enter.’
John drew himself up straight. ‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and in the name of the Patriarch, I order you to step aside.’
‘The Temple was granted to us by King Baldwin II,’ the guard replied. ‘The Patriarch has no power here.’
‘Leave,’ the other guard barked, jabbing his spear so that it stopped just inches short of John’s chest.
‘What is going on here?’ Bertrand de Blanchefort approached from behind the guards. ‘John?’
‘Grand Master.’
‘And Emir Saladin.’ Bertrand turned to Yusuf. ‘How do you find Jerusalem?’
‘A beautiful city. I had wished to pray inside your Temple. It is holy to my people.’
Bertrand turned to the guards. ‘Let them in.’
The bullish guard scowled and reluctantly stepped aside.
John followed Yusuf inside. They walked down a wide, high-ceilinged nave lined with columns on either side. Windows set high above shed a dim light. At the end of the nave, they found themselves standing under a dome. Yusuf pointed to a niche built into the wall of the hallway to their left. ‘A mirhab; the mark on the wall indicates the direction of Mecca. I shall pray there.’
John stood just outside the niche while Yusuf began to pray, murmuring the first words of the Sura al-Fatiha. ‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful-’ Yusuf had just knelt for the first time when John noticed the bull-necked guard approaching. He held up a hand to stop him, but the man shoved him aside. He grabbed Yusuf from behind, lifted him from the ground, and set him back down facing east.
‘That is the way to pray, Saracen!’
John’s fists clenched. ‘Leave him be, friend.’
Yusuf put a hand on John’s arm. ‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘I do not wish to cause trouble.’ He turned to the Templar. ‘The Grand Master gave me permission to pray as I please.’
The Norman glared at them and then turned and stomped away. Yusuf resumed his prayers. Watching him, John could remember when he had been struck by the strangeness of Muslim prayer, the kneeling and prostrating. After seeing Yusuf pray hundreds, even thousands of times, he now realized that it was not so different from Christian prayer. He had spent more time than he wished on his knees since he became a priest. And now that he was supposed to pray seven times a day, the five daily prayers required of Muslims did not seem so odd.
His thoughts were interrupted by the Templar, who had returned without John noticing. ‘East!’ The man pointed as he shouted at Yusuf. ‘You should face east!’
Yusuf looked to John and raised an eyebrow, as if to say: ‘See. This is why peace between our peoples is not possible.’
John grabbed the guard by his surcoat and pulled him away. ‘I said leave him be.’
The Templar knocked John’s hand aside and swung at him. John sidestepped the blow, grabbed the man’s arm and pivoted, using the guard’s momentum to swing him towards the wall. At the same time, he stuck out his leg. The Templar tripped over it and slammed face first into the wall. He roared in pain and began to rise. John punched him hard, catching him in the jaw, and the Norman slumped to the floor, unmoving.