‘You should go, sayyid,’ Faridah whispered. ‘You have a kingdom to rule.’
‘I love you, Faridah.’
‘Go.’
Yusuf rose reluctantly. He stopped in the doorway and looked back. Faridah had rolled over so that her back was to him. He could see her shoulders shaking. He turned and left, feeling as if he was leaving a part of himself behind. He feared it was the best part, too.
Yusuf stood in the shade of the portico that fronted the caliph’s palace. No, not the caliph’s palace, he reminded himself. It was his palace now. After the caliph had died, Yusuf had placed the rest of Al-Adid’s family under lock and key. He had spent an anxious week under heavy guard in his palace, but there had been no rebellion. His father and Shamsa had been right. He was king of Egypt, and the people who had braved the summer heat to flood the square between the two palaces were his people. Yusuf tugged at his collar. The silk robes of the vizier were no longer appropriate, and he was now dressed in a caftan woven almost entirely of gold thread. It was heavy and hot, and the collar chafed.
Al-Fadil approached from the direction of the steps that led down to the square. ‘It is time, Malik.’
There was a murmur in the crowd when Yusuf came in sight. He walked to the edge of the steps and stopped, his father and Al-Fadil flanking him. His guard spread out behind.
Al-Fadil began to speak in a loud voice. ‘People of Cairo, welcome your new king, ruler of Upper and Lower Egypt, defender of the faith, the Malik Saladin!’
The mamluks who surrounded the square roared their approval. The people were not quite so enthusiastic, although many did cry out ‘Allah protect you!’ or ‘Allah bless our king!’ When the crowd had quieted, Al-Fadil unrolled a scroll of parchment and began to read, listing Yusuf’s many accomplishments and encouraging him to protect the people, to ensure that the lands thrived, to defend Islam and to act as the scourge of the Franks.
Yusuf’s gaze moved over the crowd but stopped suddenly. There was something familiar about one of the men standing in the second row. Perhaps it was the way he stood, or the set of his shoulders.
‘Malik!’ Al-Fadil had finished his speech and was whispering urgently to get Yusuf’s attention.
Yusuf straightened and took a deep breath as he prepared to address the crowd. ‘My people, I was not born a king,’ he began. ‘Allah has blessed me, but he has also given me a charge, to watch over his lands and his people as the shepherd watches over his flock. I will dispense justice. I will help the lands to thrive. And I will defend Egypt from its enemies. I was not born a king, but I shall rule as one!’ He paused to allow the crowd to cheer but received only quiet applause. They would cheer soon enough.
Yusuf gestured to the palace behind him. ‘A king does not need a home such as this. A king should live a simple life and devote every last fal to the good of the people. That is why I shall remain in the Vizier’s palace. For the palace of the Caliph — Allah grant him peace — does not belong to me. It belongs to you, the people of Cairo, who built it, who paid for its riches with the taxes taken from you. And so I give it back to you; the palace, and all that it contains!’
This time the roar of the crowd was deafening. Yusuf gestured to the men who held the people back, and they stepped aside, allowing the throng to rush forward. Yusuf stood calmly as the people raced up the steps. The crowd parted as it reached him. Grinning faces flashed by on his left and right: dark and light men, old and young, all driven by greed. Then there was a familiar face. Yusuf turned to follow, but he was already lost in the crowd rushing towards the palace.
Yusuf felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. ‘We should return to the palace, Malik. It is not safe here.’
Yusuf nodded. He gave the crowd behind him a final searching glance and then shook his head. Surely John was not here. He had imagined it.
John pulled a fold of his keffiyeh over his mouth and nose as he managed to push his way out of the stream of people and took shelter behind one of the columns of the portico. He looked out from behind the column to where Yusuf was now heading down the steps to the square. John had hardly recognized his friend, dressed in brilliant gold, a jewelled sword at his side and a towering turban atop his head. He thought back to when he had first met Yusuf; he had been a skinny boy, bullied by his older brother. Even then, Yusuf had dreamed of greatness. Now he was a king.
John waited for Yusuf and his men to march from the square and then hurried down the palace steps. He headed north, in the same direction Yusuf had taken. John would have liked nothing more than to follow his friend to his palace, to celebrate this day with him. Instead he turned left down a broad street that led to the mamluks’ barracks. Their commander was now king, and they would be in the mood to celebrate. John would buy a few drinks, and in short order he would know everything there was to know about Yusuf’s rule and the state of his army. Then he would write to Jerusalem. Yusuf was his friend, but Amalric was now his lord. John had taken an oath before God, and he would not betray it.
Part II
Saladin was a deeply religious man, but he was not a fanatic, not when I knew him. He respected the Franks, and he believed that the Christians, Muslims, and Jews could share the Holy Land. All of that changed in the desert …
Chapter 13
MAY 1173: CAIRO
Yusuf lay on the floor with his second son, Al-Aziz, on his chest. The boy was a fat-cheeked babe, not yet one year of age. He smiled, and Yusuf grinned back. Yusuf’s first son, Al-Afdal, tottered across the room and shoved his brother off Yusuf’s chest. The babe began to cry. Yusuf lifted him back to his chest and gave Al-Afdal a hard look. ‘Why did you do that?’ The young boy’s lip trembled. He tottered away, tripped and fell. Shamsa scooped him up and began shushing him.
‘You baby him too much,’ Yusuf told her. ‘He will never learn to be a warrior.’
‘Then he shall live longer.’
Yusuf smiled at his wife. Since he became king two years ago, he had spent most of his time in the courts, in council meetings or training his troops. The pain in his gut had grown worse, and he often could not sleep at night. He treasured these rare moments with his family. Al-Aziz had ceased crying. He gurgled. Then he was sick on Yusuf’s chest. A nurse took the child and patted its back. A servant girl brought a wet cloth and wiped the vomit from Yusuf’s silk caftan. He smiled again. He might be a king, but here in the harem he was definitely not in charge. It was a nice feeling.
‘Saladin.’ It was Ayub, standing in the doorway. He held out a roll of paper. ‘A message from Nur ad-Din.’
Yusuf took the paper and went to the window to read. His brow furrowed.
‘What is it, Husband?’ Shamsa asked.
‘The Frankish king has taken men north to join the Emperor Manuel in a campaign in Cilicia. The Kingdom of Jerusalem is only weakly defended, and Nur ad-Din is planning an invasion. He will march from Damascus in one month. He has ordered me to attack from the south at the same time. Our first objective is Kerak.’ Yusuf scowled. ‘I had hoped the peace with the Franks would last.’
‘Then stay,’ Shamsa said. ‘You are no mere emir to come at Nur ad-Din’s beck and call. You paid back the two hundred thousand dinars he gave Shirkuh for the invasion of Egypt. You owe him nothing.’
Ayub glared at her and then turned back to Yusuf. ‘You should teach your wife to hold her tongue. Nur ad-Din made our family what it is. We owe him everything.’
Shamsa opened her mouth to retort, but Yusuf raised a hand, cutting her off. ‘My father is right. Nur ad-Din is my lord.’