Al-Fadil set the document aside. ‘The terms of the contract are clear,’ he said, speaking quietly so that the litigants could not hear. ‘Qatadah has no legal obligation to pay.’
Yusuf frowned. Iqbal was an ex-soldier, probably a mamluk who had invested his meagre savings in the carpet business. For such a man, one hundred and ten dinars was the difference between a comfortable living and poverty. To Qatadah, such a sum was nothing.
Al-Fadil guessed what Yusuf was thinking. ‘If you make Qatadah pay, you will see a hundred such cases daily. Worse, merchants will cease to carry cargo, afraid that if they suffer losses then they will be forced to pay the difference. Commerce will dry up. Trade will go elsewhere.’
Yusuf still hesitated.
‘Tax revenues will fall, my lord. Your uncle will not like that.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf muttered. Then, in a louder voice: ‘This case is dismissed.’
Qatadah grinned. Iqbal spat in his direction and then stormed from the room.
Yusuf rose. ‘That is enough for today.’ He started to leave and then turned back to Al-Fadil. ‘See that Iqbal is given a position in the palace.’
‘As what, Emir?’
‘He looks to be an ex-mamluk, so he will be familiar with horses. Give him a position in the stables.’
Yusuf left the chamber, but his work for the day was not yet done. There was correspondence to read in his private study. Saqr accompanied him on the short walk from the caliph’s palace to that of the vizier. Yusuf entered his apartments and froze, his mouth dropping open. Standing before him were four naked women, beauties all. The one on the far right was Nubian, as black as night and with full lips and an angular face. The second was a Frank, blonde and with a voluptuous figure. The next was an Egyptian with flawless, golden skin. The last woman was a Turk with dark eyes, a narrow face and wavy chestnut hair that hung down to a pair of enormous breasts.
‘What are you doing here?’ Yusuf demanded.
‘I bought them for you,’ Faridah said as she entered from the next room. ‘They do not please you, my lord?’
‘I am busy.’ Yusuf rubbed his temples. When he had sent his brother Selim to bring Faridah and Ibn Jumay from Aleppo, he had not expected anything like this.
‘You work yourself too hard, Yusuf.’ Faridah approached and put a hand on his arm. ‘You need a woman.’
He reached out to push a strand of red hair back from her face. ‘I have a woman.’
Faridah shook her head. ‘I am old, Yusuf.’
It was true that she was no longer young. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and fine wrinkles around her mouth, and Yusuf had seen her carefully plucking strands of grey from her long red hair. But he did not mind. ‘You are still beautiful.’
‘In only a few years I will be fifty years of age. You no longer seek my bed as you once did.’ Yusuf opened his mouth to protest, but Faridah placed a finger on his lips. ‘I am not angry, Yusuf. You have given me more than I could have hoped for. You saved me from a terrible life. But now you need a younger woman. You need someone who can bear you a son.’ She pointed to the blonde Frankish woman. ‘What about that one?’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘The Turk, then?’
Yusuf met the woman’s dark eyes. Something in the way she met his gaze reminded him of Asimat. He felt a sudden pain in his gut as he thought of his former lover and their son. ‘I do not want any of them,’ he said and strode into his study.
He sat on a low divan and placed a writing desk on his lap. In the other room, he could hear Faridah addressing the women. ‘You, stay. The rest of you may go.’ Yusuf wondered who she had picked for him. He quickly dismissed the thought. He took up a sheaf of papers, messages from all parts of Egypt. They were all alike. A farmer or a merchant or a bath attendant claimed to have seen one of the Hashashin, but the claims invariably proved false. That was why the sect was so dangerous. The Hashashin blended in, taking up positions as merchants or soldiers, looking no different than any other man … until they struck.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Go away, Faridah,’ Yusuf said without looking up. ‘I am working.’
‘Excuse me, Saladin.’ It was the Egyptian Al-Khlata.
‘Pardon my rudeness. What is it?’
‘Your uncle-’
‘Does he need me?’
‘He is dead.’
‘What? How?’
But Yusuf did not wait for an answer. He sprinted across the palace to Shirkuh’s apartments. In the reception room he found the huge mamluk Qadi — one of Shirkuh’s most trusted men — leaning against the wall and weeping. Yusuf continued into the bedroom, where Shirkuh lay motionless, his eyes staring sightless at the ceiling. Selim stood with the doctor Ibn Jumay. Yusuf went to his uncle and touched his hand. It was already cold. He felt tears forming and blinked them away. He looked to Ibn Jumay. ‘What happened?’
‘He was eating his supper and-he had a seizure. I did all I could-’ The doctor’s head fell.
Yusuf placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘If anyone could have saved him, it was you.’ He looked back to his uncle and suddenly remembered Shawar’s final words: ‘Viziers in Egypt have short lives.’
‘The seizure,’ he said to Ibn Jumay. ‘Could it have been poison?’
‘It is impossible to say.’
Al-Khlata had entered behind Yusuf. ‘We must inform the Caliph,’ he said. ‘He will need to choose a new vizier.’
‘Yes, of course. Selim, you will prepare our uncle for burial. I will tell the Caliph myself.’
‘As for the jihad, thou art the nursling of its milk and the child of its bosom. Gird up therefore the shanks of spears to meet it and to plunge on its service into a sea of sword points.’
Yusuf stood before the caliph’s palace, on the same platform where his uncle had stood not long ago, and listened as Al-Fadil presented him to the people of Cairo. They were his people now, for at the age of thirty, Yusuf was ruler of Egypt. He wore the tall white turban, the red silk robes and the jewelled sword of the vizier. Yet his mood was dark. It was only three days since his uncle had died. Yusuf had been summoned to the caliph’s palace the previous day and had been told that he would succeed Shirkuh. From the dismissive way the young caliph had addressed him, Yusuf had gained the impression that he was not expected to last long in his new role.
Al-Fadil was now discussing Yusuf’s exemplary righteousness. It should have been Al-Khlata speaking, but the comptroller had excused himself, claiming an illness. Yusuf doubted that was the true reason. The comptroller had hoped to be made vizier himself, although that was hardly possible with Nur ad-Din’s army still sitting a short distance outside Cairo. Yusuf would have to keep an eye on Al-Khlata. Resentful men could be dangerous.
Al-Fadil finished speaking and the crowd cheered. The applause was not quite as enthusiastic as it had been for Shirkuh. The people were still taking Yusuf’s measure. He knew what was expected of him now. Shirkuh had left the platform to greet the people, and Yusuf must do the same. He jumped down, landing lightly on his feet. He started at the left edge of the crowd, walking slowly, allowing the people to greet him, to touch his robes.
‘Allah guard you!’ an old man with a curly, grey beard shouted.
‘Bless you, King!’ another man cried as he tugged at the sleeve of Yusuf’s robe.
‘Go back to Syria, Kurd!’ a bald man spat. A mamluk shoved him back into the crowd.
Yusuf kept his face expressionless. His heart, however, was pounding. He could not shake off the suspicion that Shirkuh had been murdered. Viziers in Egypt have short lives. He finally allowed himself to smile when he reached the end of the row of people. He stepped back as his troops parted the crowd, creating a path to the vizier’s palace. Two-dozen mamluks from Yusuf’s khaskiya surrounded him and he set off, waving to the populace as he walked.
His brother Selim was waiting in the entrance hall. ‘Congratulations, sayyid,’ he said and bowed.