‘He-he wishes for me to have Al-Adid murdered.’
Shamsa continued to massage him in silence. ‘He is right,’ she said at last.
Yusuf pulled away. ‘No. The Caliph is my lord.’
She moved to sit across from him, lowering herself with great care. ‘Your father only wants what is best for you, Yusuf.’
‘My father serves Nur ad-Din first and his family second. He cares nothing for me. He never has.’
‘You are wrong. Think, my lord! So long as the Caliph sits in his palace in Cairo, your rule will never be secure. He appointed you, and if you displease him, he will remove you. He has already conspired against you once. You know that he was in league with Al-Khlata.’
‘He denied it.’
‘You know better. The Caliph resents you. He will seek to turn the Egyptian troops against you, and eventually he will succeed. After all, they were raised to serve him.’
Yusuf frowned. He knew she was right.
Shamsa touched his arm. ‘Al-Adid has no heir. If he dies you can declare yourself king. But if you wait until he has a son, it will be too late. You must act now.’
Yusuf rose and went to the window, which looked out over an interior courtyard. Rose bushes bloomed and fat bees buzzed between the flowers. Watching them, Yusuf was reminded of his youth. How many days had he spent in Baalbek under the lime trees in bloom, watching bees chart their course amongst the flowers? He scowled. He had thought then that honour was what made a ruler great. He turned from the window to face Shamsa. ‘Bring me Ibn Jumay.’
The Jewish doctor was staying in the palace in order to be on hand for Shamsa’s birth. He was shown in a moment later. Yusuf’s childhood tutor was nearly fifty now, but his appearance was largely unchanged. He had the same kind brown eyes, the same close-cropped beard and curling sidelocks. Only his small paunch showed his advancing age.
Ibn Jumay bowed. ‘Are you well, sayyid?’
‘I am not the one who needs your ministrations, friend. The Caliph is unwell. I do not number long his days in this world.’
‘I have heard nothing of it.’
‘Nevertheless, it is so. I want you to go to him. Take away his pain. You have drugs that will ease his passage to the next life?’
Ibn Jumay opened his mouth to reply, then frowned. ‘What are you asking me, sayyid?’
‘I need your help, friend. Nur ad-Din will invade if I do not convert Egypt to Sunni Islam. And yet, if I do so and go against the Caliph’s wishes there will be a rebellion. I would lose everything. But if the Caliph were to die a natural death-’ Yusuf let the words hang in the air.
‘I am no murderer, Yusuf.’
‘You are a doctor, and now it is the state itself that needs your care. You would be sacrificing one life to save thousands.’ Yusuf met Ibn Jumay’s eyes. ‘If you do not help me, then I will die.’
After a moment the doctor dropped his gaze to the floor and whispered, ‘I understand, sayyid.’
‘A son, my lord!’
Yusuf blinked at the midwife. Shamsa had entered labour shortly after his meeting with Ibn Jumay. The delivery had been long, stretching into the next day. Yusuf had not slept, and now he was groggy, his thoughts slow.
‘You have a son. Come and greet him.’
Yusuf followed the woman into Shamsa’s chamber. Her bed was surrounded by nurses and doctors, but Ibn Jumay was absent, busy at the caliph’s palace. The crowd parted as Yusuf approached the bed. Shamsa was pale, her face drawn. In her arms she held a sleeping babe.
‘Leave us,’ she ordered. When the others had left, she patted the bed beside her. Yusuf sat and bent over to kiss her forehead. She held the babe towards him. ‘Our son.’ The child’s face was flushed red. He had dark hair and pinched features.
‘Al-Afdal,’ Yusuf whispered the boy’s name. ‘You have given me an heir, Wife. Ask for anything you wish, and it shall be yours.’
‘Send Faridah away,’ Shamsa replied without hesitation.
Yusuf pulled away from her. ‘Why? She welcomed you to the harem as if you were her own sister.’
‘I am mother of your son now. I should reign in your harem, as you reign in Egypt. But I never will so long as Faridah is here. She rules your harem, Yusuf. She rules you, more than you know.’
‘And you wish to rule me instead?’
‘To help you, if you will let me.’
‘If you wish to help me, then do not ask this of me.’ Yusuf turned away. ‘Faridah has been with me since the beginning. I cannot send her away.’
Shamsa placed a hand on his back. ‘I know it is no small thing that I ask of you, my love. But it is no small thing that I have given you.’ She handed him Al-Afdal.
Yusuf cradled his son awkwardly. The babe twitched and opened his eyes sleepily. Then it shut them again. Yusuf handed him back. ‘Ask anything else of me, Wife. I cannot send Faridah away.’
Shamsa’s face hardened. ‘I wish for nothing else, Husband. If you wish to visit my bed again, you must choose: Faridah, or the mother of your son.’
Yusuf went to the window. A column of black smoke was rising over the caliph’s palace. He knew what it meant. Yusuf felt suddenly nauseous. He left the room, ignoring Shamsa’s calls for him to stay. He strode to his quarters, where he found Ibn Jumay waiting. The Jewish doctor’s face was haggard.
‘It is done, sayyid,’ he said quietly. ‘The Caliph died this morning of a sudden fever.’
‘Did he suffer?’
Ibn Jumay closed his eyes. ‘It was terrible. I am a doctor, dedicated to preserving life-’
‘And you have. You have saved my life, and you have saved Egypt from civil war,’ Yusuf said, although even he felt that his words were hollow.
The doctor shook his head. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but I must resign from your service.’ He headed for the door.
‘Ibn Jumay, wait!’ The doctor turned. ‘You only did as I asked. The burden is not yours to bear.’
‘I am the one who had to watch him die. Goodbye, Yusuf.’
That night Yusuf paused at the door to Faridah’s room. He took a deep breath and pushed it open. She sat in bed reading by candlelight, and as Yusuf entered she looked up and smiled. She was as beautiful as ever. Older, yes, with a fuller, softer figure. But beautiful all the same. She set her book aside. ‘My lord, you look as if you are walking to your execution.’ She patted the bed. ‘Sit.’ Yusuf sat at the edge of the bed, and she began to massage his shoulders. ‘Tell me.’
‘The Caliph is dead. I had him killed. What have I become? Ibn Jumay has left my service. He does not wish to attend upon a murderer.’
Faridah stroked his hair. ‘Ibn Jumay is a good man, but he is not a king. You wish to be great, Yusuf, and there is a price to pay for greatness.’
He shook his head. ‘A great king obeys the laws of Allah. He does not slaughter women and children, as I did when I burned the Nubians’ barracks. He does not commit murder.’
‘A good man obeys Allah. A great king does what he must do.’
‘Am I a good man, Faridah?’
‘You are the best I have ever known.’ She kissed him. ‘Go now. There is a coronation to prepare. With the Caliph dead, you will be king.’
Yusuf looked away. ‘I need your council now more than ever. Shamsa-’ Yusuf faltered. He could not find the right words.
‘I knew this day would come,’ Faridah said. He turned back to her, and she met his gaze. ‘You are dismissing me, are you not? It is time, my lord. Shamsa is a good wife. She is all that I could have wished for you.’
‘I do not love you any less, Faridah.’
‘You have always been a poor liar, Yusuf.’
He saw only love in her green eyes. He longed to tell her she could stay. Instead he said, ‘You will have a home wherever you wish and servants to tend to you.’
He looked away, tears in his eyes, and she gently turned his head to face her. ‘You have given me more than I could have ever hoped for, Yusuf.’ She kissed him and then welcomed him into her arms. They lay side by side while the candle burned low and was finally snuffed out in a pool of wax.