But it was too late. Yusuf had fifty men stationed inside the shrine, and Shawar’s mamluks were still half blind after entering from the bright sunshine. While they were being cut down, Shawar drew his sword and backed away to the centre of the shrine, where he stood in a pool of light that fell from a window above.
Yusuf drew his sword. ‘It is over, Shawar.’
Shawar raised his sword to fight and then thought better of it and dropped the blade. He smiled. ‘This is no way to treat a friend, Yusuf.’
‘We are not friends. You betrayed me. I nearly starved to death in Alexandria.’
‘It was nothing personal. That is the nature of war. Had I not joined with the Franks, how long do you think I would have lasted before your uncle eliminated me?’
‘Shirkuh does not deal in murder,’ Yusuf said coldly.
‘Yet here you are.’
Yusuf scowled. He raised his sword, and Shawar paled. ‘Do not kill me!’ the vizier pleaded. Yusuf stepped closer. ‘The Caliph will not stand for this!’
‘Shirkuh is with the Caliph now. Al-Adid ordered your death himself.’
Something seemed to break in Shawar. His shoulders slumped. ‘So this is how it ends. You and your uncle claim to be honourable men, but you are no better than I.’
‘We only do the Caliph’s bidding.’
‘The Caliph does not piss without someone telling him to. This is your work, Yusuf. I did not expect this of you.’ Shawar knelt on the stone floor. ‘I did not think you a murderer.’
‘This is not murder. It is an execution.’ Yusuf held the blade of his sword to the vizier’s neck.
‘Do what you must, but remember this: viziers in Egypt have short lives. Your uncle should think of that before he takes my post.’
The last word was still hanging in the air when Yusuf’s blade struck the back of the vizier’s neck, killing him instantly.
Yusuf stood in the shadows of the colonnade that fronted the caliph’s palace, searching for threats in the crowd that filled the square. He saw only a mixture of curiosity and impatience as the Egyptians waited for a glimpse of the new vizier. Shirkuh was with the caliph, who was investing him with the symbols of his office: robes of scarlet silk interlaced with gold, a white turban with gold stitching at the edges, and the vizier’s sword, a golden blade with the ivory hilt encrusted in precious jewels. Soon, Shirkuh would emerge to have his office proclaimed in a speech by Al-Khlata, the city’s chief official now that Shawar was dead. It would be the perfect time for one of the Hashashin to strike. Yusuf had posted a line of mamluks to keep the populace back, but there were thousands of men in the square. Any one of them could hold a dagger or a crossbow.
‘What do you think?’
Yusuf turned to see his uncle. Shirkuh was dressed in his new finery, and it ill-suited him. The luxurious robes were too long for his squat frame, and the tip of the ceremonial sword nearly touched the ground. Yusuf suppressed a smile as Shirkuh tugged irritably at the stiff, gold-laced collar of his tunic. ‘I am told the Egyptians would be sorely disappointed if I did not wear this frippery,’ he grumbled.
‘You look very distinguished, Uncle.’
‘Ha! You will never make a good courtier, Yusuf. You have no talent for lying,’ Shirkuh nodded towards the crowd. ‘All is well?’
‘The crowd is larger than I anticipated. We should have more men.’
‘Stop fretting, Yusuf.’
‘Someone has paid the Hashashin to kill you, Uncle. You know their reputation. They will not stop until you are dead.’
Shirkuh placed one of his callused hands on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We must defy our enemies, Yusuf, or they will have defeated us without even striking a blow.’ A blast of trumpets drowned out his last words. He clapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Come. It is time.’
The crowd cheered as Shirkuh strode down the palace steps to a platform crowded with Egyptian officials. Yusuf followed and stood at the edge of the platform as Al-Khlata began to address the crowd. Yusuf did not trust the Egyptian, who had been a confidant of Shawar, but Shirkuh had decided that he should keep his post as civilian comptroller. He knew Egypt as none of Shirkuh’s men did, and could be sure that every last dinar in taxes was paid. Al-Khlata was speaking in flattering tones, telling the crowd of the new vizier’s many qualities: he was the blessed of Allah, a great warrior, the father of his people, the commander of the faithful, the child of jihad, scourge of the Franks.
Yusuf was only half listening. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the front row of the crowd, only thirty feet away. Al-Khlata said something in a loud voice and the crowd roared, raising their hands and cheering. All except one man just behind the front row. His eyes were focused on Shirkuh. His right hand was clutching something inside his caftan. Yusuf kept his eyes on the man as he stepped down from the platform to where Qaraqush stood. ‘That man,’ Yusuf said and nodded. That was all that was needed. Qaraqush disappeared into the crowd, and Yusuf returned to his place.
The suspicious man had edged forward so that he was now in the front row. He was just beside a mamluk, but the guard was paying little attention to him. The crowd cheered again, and Yusuf looked away from the man to see that his uncle was now addressing the people. Yusuf watched in alarm as Shirkuh jumped down from the platform and into the square. He stepped towards the crowd, allowing the people to reach out and touch him. Yusuf’s eyes swung back as the man, now only a dozen feet from Shirkuh, removed his hand from his caftan. Yusuf saw the glint of steel. Then the man’s eyes widened. Qaraqush held a knife to this throat and pulled him backwards into the crowd, just as Shirkuh passed the place where the Hashashin had stood. Yusuf breathed a sigh of relief.
Shirkuh finished greeting the crowd and mounted the steps to the platform. He was grinning, clearly pleased with the impression that he had made. As he reached Yusuf, Shirkuh slapped his nephew on the shoulder. ‘See, young eagle. Nothing to fear!’
MARCH 1169: CAIRO
‘You lying, camel-faced bastard! You owe me!’ the Egyptian spat, showing brown teeth. Iqbal was a thickly bearded, broad-shouldered man in a homespun caftan. He had the erect bearing of an ex-soldier. He lunged towards the man he was addressing, but the courtroom guards held him back.
Shirkuh had made Yusuf the governor of Cairo, and as part of his duties Yusuf sat in judgement every Monday and Thursday. He had already heard some two-dozen cases that day and was weary of the never-ending procession of petty complaints. Nevertheless, it was his duty to provide impartial justice. Without law, a kingdom could not stand. He looked to the defendant, a merchant named Qatadah.
Qatadah spread his hands, on which he wore several gold rings. ‘I told Iqbal that the investment was a risk.’
‘He owes me one hundred and ten dinars!’ Iqbal insisted.
‘You took this money from him?’ Yusuf asked.
‘I am no thief, Your Excellency,’ Qatadah replied. ‘Iqbal gave me five silk carpets, which I told him that I would sell in Acre. I paid him twenty dinar up front, and was to pay the rest upon the return of my ship, after the carpets had been sold.’
Iqbal pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘And he did not pay!’
Yusuf gestured for silence. ‘Why not, Qatadah?’
‘The ship was attacked by pirates. All the cargo was lost. I, too, have suffered from this, Your Excellency. I have no money with which to pay Iqbal.’
Yusuf doubted that. Besides the gold rings on his fingers, Qatadah wore a rich silk caftan with jewels at the collar. Yusuf looked from him to Al-Fadil, the Egyptian scribe who Yusuf had selected as his private secretary. Al-Fadil sat with a writing desk on his lap and the contract that Qatadah had brought held between his ink-stained fingers. Other scribes sat behind him, ready to record Yusuf’s judgement.