Yusuf ducked back into his shelter and blew sand from his nose. He had no doubt that the two men had come to kill Shirkuh. The storm offered the perfect opportunity. No one would see them. No one would stop them. Yusuf thought of what Gumushtagin had told him: he only had to do nothing. If he stayed in his tent, Shirkuh would die and he would become commander of the army, then vizier of Egypt.
Yusuf forced the thought from his head. He tore two strips of linen from the tunic he wore under his chainmail and wrapped them around his hands to protect them from the stinging sand. Then he drew his blade and stepped out into the storm. He staggered against the force of the wind, which grasped at the folds of his keffiyeh, pulling it askew and exposing the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth as the sand drove into his skin. It felt as if hundreds of ants were biting at him. Yusuf had heard that if skin were left exposed for too long in a powerful sandstorm, it could be stripped from the body. He had no desire to see if the tales were true. He quickly covered his neck as he looked about. He could not see three feet in front of him. There was no sign of the two men with swords.
‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘Shirkuh is in danger!’ But the howling wind whipped the words away, and they were lost in the storm.
Yusuf held up a hand to shield his eyes and staggered in what he thought was the direction of Shirkuh’s shelter. He took ten steps, then twenty. He stopped. Surely he had gone too far. He had begun to turn around when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he dropped to one knee and raised his sword. A blade glanced off it, and Yusuf glimpsed the man in the brown robe, a curved sword in hand and a dagger tucked into his belt. His face was hidden behind his keffiyeh. Yusuf slashed at his throat. The man jumped back to avoid the blow and disappeared into the storm.
Yusuf rose and pivoted, his sword held out before him. His heart was pounding, and he felt a hollow pain in his stomach. That was fear. Not fear of fighting, but fear of an opponent he could not see, of a knife in the back. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and spun around. There was only the swirling, impenetrable sand, so thick that he could not see the tip of his sword. The whistling wind suddenly dropped and the space around cleared. Ten paces ahead and to his left stood the man in the white robe. He was only a dozen paces from Shirkuh’s shelter. But where was the other man? Yusuf turned, searching for him. He saw the man in the brown robe at the same moment the man saw him. They were little more than a sword’s length apart. Yusuf swung for the man’s head. Their swords met with the ring of steel upon steel.
Yusuf’s adversary moved fast. He kicked at Yusuf’s right knee, and at the same time slashed down towards his head. Yusuf sidestepped the kick, parried the blow and then swung backhanded for the man’s chest. The man brought his sword sweeping back to turn Yusuf’s attack aside. Then, just as Yusuf’s adversary was preparing a counterattack, the storm blew up again and Yusuf lost sight of him. He guessed where the man would strike next and dropped to one knee. He caught a glimpse of steel as his enemy’s sword flashed over his head. Yusuf sprang to his feet and charged, lowering his shoulder. He slammed into the man, and Yusuf’s momentum knocked them both over. He tried to rise but the man had grabbed hold of him. Together, they rolled over several times, and the man ended up on top of Yusuf. His keffiyeh obscured his face but for his glazed, bloodshot eyes. This was a Hashashin, Yusuf realized, one of the cult of trained killers who sometimes smoked hashish to increase their bravery.
The Hashashin had lost his sword in the tumble. With one hand he pinned Yusuf’s sword arm to the ground, while with the other he reached to his belt and drew the curved dagger. Yusuf managed to catch the assassin’s arm by the wrist, but the man leaned forward, using his body weight to press the dagger towards Yusuf’s throat. The dagger inched closer, close enough that Yusuf could see the intricate Arabic script carved into the silver hilt.
In a last, desperate effort, Yusuf released his sword and jerked his hand free. He tore his attacker’s keffiyeh away before the Hashashin grabbed Yusuf’s arm and pinned it back down. The man grimaced as the biting sand struck his face, but he did not release Yusuf. He pressed the blade of his dagger so close that Yusuf felt it begin to cut into his skin. The Hashashin’s face was growing red, showing minuscule drops of blood as if he had scraped it against a rough stone. Even drugged by hashish, the pain was too much. With a cry he released Yusuf’s right hand in order to raise his keffiyeh. Yusuf found his sword and brought it up. The blade sank into the Hashashin’s neck, splattering Yusuf with blood.
Yusuf shoved the man off him. He rolled over and pushed himself to his knees. He was just in time, for a sword was slicing towards his face. He managed to parry the blow, but then a booted foot caught him in the chest, knocking him sprawling on his back. The other Hashashin stood over Yusuf, his form just visible through the sand. The assassin raised his sword high. The wind howled, and his form was obscured by a cloud of sand. Yusuf was waiting for the blow when he felt hot blood spatter on his face. The wind fell, and Yusuf saw Shirkuh standing where the Hashashin had been only a moment before. He offered Yusuf a hand and pulled him to his feet.
‘Uncle!’ Yusuf shouted over the wind and thunder. ‘You saved my life!’
‘No, young eagle,’ Shirkuh shouted back. ‘You saved mine!’
They managed to stumble back to Shirkuh’s shelter and crawled inside. Yusuf began to cough, spitting up brown phlegm.
‘Do you know who they were?’ Shirkuh asked.
‘Hashashin.’
‘I thought as much. Who do you think sent them?’
Yusuf was sure it was Gumushtagin, but if he told his uncle, then Asimat and their son might suffer for his indiscretion. He shrugged to indicate that he did not know.
‘Maybe Shawar. Or Amalric,’ Shirkuh speculated grimly. ‘Seems like everyone wants me dead. Without you, Yusuf, they would have killed me before I even knew they were there. Shukran, young eagle.’ Shirkuh kissed Yusuf on each cheek and then grinned fiercely. ‘I do not care if it was Shawar or Amalric who sent the assassins. I will grind them both into the dust.’
Chapter 9
JANUARY 1169: CAIRO
John stood beside the king and his retinue on a low rise near the walls of Cairo and looked across the dark waters of the Nile to where the sun was rising behind the pyramids of Giza. It marked the start of the seventh week of the siege. The people had not opened the city gates to them as Amalric had hoped. The massacre at Bilbeis had made them all the more determined to resist.
There was a loud clanking just behind John as the mangonel lever was released. He turned to watch the catapult in action. A basket filled with heavy stones fell, and the long arm of the device snapped upwards. The leather sling trailing from the arm swung in an arc and hurled a heavy rock — stone taken from one of the nearby pyramids. John watched as the rock crashed into the northern wall of the city, producing a shower of debris. A rock from another mangonel hit the wall a few feet away, and a chunk of stone fell loose. The wall was pitted and cracked, but it held.
The king was pulling at his beard. ‘How much longer until we open a breach?’