Humphrey of Toron shrugged. ‘It may be a week; less maybe.’
‘Or longer,’ John added.
Humphrey nodded. ‘Maybe.’
‘By the devil’s beard!’ Amalric cursed.
‘We can still take the city, sire,’ Grand Master Gilbert said. ‘All we need is a single breach. Once Egypt is in our power, we can laugh at the armies of Nur ad-Din. No one will be able to stand against us.’
‘But Egypt is not in our power, sire,’ John insisted. ‘And Shirkuh’s army is close.’
‘Do not listen to him,’ Gilbert snapped. ‘He cares for the infidel Saracens more than his own kind. Remember what he did to my men at Bilbeis!’ Gilbert pointed a long, thin finger at John. ‘He is a traitor!’
Humphrey put a hand on the Hospitaller’s arm. ‘Easy, Gilbert. We are all of us friends here. And the priest is right. If we are here when Shirkuh arrives, it will be a disaster.’
Amalric looked to John. ‘Pray with me, Father.’ They walked a few steps towards the river and knelt. Amalric held the piece of the true cross that he wore about his neck to his lips. Behind them the mangonel fired again, and another rock slammed into the wall with a loud crack. ‘I have prayed for victory each night,’ the king said softly. ‘Sometimes I fear the Lord does not want us to succeed.’
‘God does not always answer our prayers in the way we hope, sire. Perhaps leaving Egypt is for the best.’
Amalric frowned. ‘Are you mad, John? If Nur ad-Din controls Egypt, then Jerusalem itself will be in danger. I will have no choice but to seek a permanent peace.’
‘Maybe that is your destiny: to bring peace to the Holy Land.’
‘I would rather have been a great conqueror, like my grandfather, like the first crusaders. I was so close,’ Amalric sighed. ‘But you are right, John. I would be a fool to stay. I will not sacrifice the lives of my men in the pursuit of my dreams.’ He rose and raised his voice to address Gilbert and the others. ‘I have made my decision. We will return to Jerusalem.’
‘Allah will reward you!’ ‘Allah bless you!’ ‘All praise to Nur ad-Din!’ The crowd of Egyptians shouted their praise as Yusuf rode beside his uncle through the Bab al-Futuh — the Gate of Conquest. And they were conquerors. The Frankish army had fled at their approach, and the gates of Cairo had opened to welcome them. It had been easy, so easy that Yusuf feared something was amiss. He rode with his hand on his sword hilt.
Shirkuh grinned at him, showing his crooked teeth. ‘You look as if you have lost a friend, young eagle. Smile! Egypt is ours!’ Yusuf forced a smile, but he kept his hand on his sword hilt. ‘That is better,’ Shirkuh said. ‘Look about us.’ He gestured to the cheering crowd and to the city beyond. ‘All of this is now ours!’
They rode into the large square situated between the two halves of the caliph’s palace. Egyptian mamluks held back the populace, creating a path to the western palace. Shawar approached along the path and flashed his brilliant smile. ‘Welcome, Shirkuh! Saladin! All Cairo rejoices at your arrival.’
Yusuf and his uncle dismounted. Shirkuh walked past Shawar to the secretary Al-Fadil, who stood in the ranks of officials behind the vizier. ‘Take me to the Caliph.’
Al-Fadil looked to Shawar. ‘I am the Vizier,’ Shawar said.
‘The Caliph speaks through me.’
Shirkuh rounded on him. ‘It is the Caliph who asked us to come to Egypt, not you.’ He turned back to Al-Fadil. ‘Take me to him.’
Al-Fadil nodded. ‘Yes, ya sidi.’
The secretary led them to the caliph’s audience chamber, where Shirkuh and Yusuf both removed their swords and knelt. Yusuf noticed Shawar enter the room behind them. He looked forward again as the curtain rose to reveal the veiled caliph. He was noticeably taller, and fatter, than when Yusuf had first met him, nearly five years ago.
Shawar stepped forward. ‘Successor of the messenger of God, defender of the faithful, may I present Shirkuh and Saladin, commanders of Nur ad-Din’s army.’
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum,’ the caliph declared. ‘You are welcome in my city.’ He made a motion with his hand and two fat eunuchs stepped forward carrying a chest. They placed it before the throne and opened it. Gold coins glimmered in the light from the candles that lined the walls. ‘A reward for your aid.’
Shirkuh rose and bowed. ‘Many thanks, Caliph. We are honoured to have been able to offer you assistance against the ifranj. I only regret that they fled before we could defeat them.’
‘Yes,’ Shawar said. ‘You have arrived a little too late. It appears your army is no longer needed.’
Shirkuh glared at the vizier and then looked back to the caliph. ‘We are here at your request, Defender of the Faithful. If you wish us to leave Egypt, then we shall go. But we are prepared to stay to protect God’s deputy from his enemies-’ he shot a glance at Shawar ‘-both within and without. There are men who would sell Egypt to the infidel in order to keep power. Men who in the past welcomed the ifranj into Egypt, who betrayed their fellow Muslims, who burned their own cities. If you wish it, I will drive these traitors from Cairo.’
Shawar’s tan face had paled to a sickly yellow. ‘I set fire to Fustat to keep it out of the Frank’s hands,’ he protested. ‘And if there are traitors in the city, Caliph, I assure you that I will find them. As Vizier, I-’
The caliph raised a gloved hand. ‘Enough. Shirkuh, your army will stay. But they will make camp outside the city, beside the Bab es-Sa’ada el-Luq. Water is plentiful there. You and Saladin will stay as guests in my palace. I have need of your wise council.’
Shirkuh bowed. ‘I am honoured by your generous offer, Caliph, but a general should never leave his men. I will stay in camp, if it pleases you. But I shall wait on you at your pleasure. This evening perhaps, over supper?’
‘Very well.’
‘Alone.’
‘But Caliph!’ Shawar protested.
Al-Adid looked at him for a moment and then back to Shirkuh. ‘I will see you tonight, after prayers, Emir.’ He waved a hand, and the golden curtain fell.
Yusuf approached his uncle and spoke in a low voice. ‘Is it wise to remain outside the city?’
‘I’ll not stay in Cairo so long as Shawar lives. The man is a snake.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘And the best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head.’
The afternoon sun shone down pitilessly as Yusuf rode down a narrow lane that wound between the tombstones, domed mausoleums and mosques of the Qarafa al-Sughra, one of the two ancient cemeteries that stood outside Cairo, just beyond the charred remains of Fustat. Shawar rode beside him. The vizier produced a silk tissue and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘By Allah, it is hot,’ he muttered. ‘Why does your uncle insist on meeting here?’
‘Shirkuh is on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Al-Shafi,’ Yusuf told him.
‘I am the vizier,’ Shawar grumbled. ‘I am not a lackey that jumps at the beck and call of an upstart Kurd.’
The vizier was clearly trying to pick a fight, but Yusuf was in no mood. They rode on in silence, surrounded by two-dozen mamluks from Shawar’s private guard. Ahead, Yusuf spotted a larger structure amidst the tombs; the shrine that marked the tomb of the great Sunni jurist Al-Shafi, who had helped to create shari’a, the law by which all Muslims lived.
They dismounted outside the shrine, and Shawar again mopped his forehead. ‘This had best be important.’
‘Your men can wait outside,’ Yusuf told him.
Shawar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Were we not such good friends, I would think that you meant me harm, Saladin. No, my men will accompany me.’ He gestured to four mamluks, who went ahead into the shrine.
‘As you wish. Shirkuh is waiting for you.’
Shawar headed for the entrance. Yusuf was close on his heels, followed by the rest of Shawar’s guard. The doorway was framed by Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub. Yusuf nodded to them as he passed. The interior of the shrine was dim, and Shawar stopped while his eyes adjusted. ‘Where is Shir-’ he began, but the words caught in his throat. The four mamluks he had sent in were lying in their own blood. ‘What is this?’ he cried. ‘Guards!’