‘He is a man obsessed with defeating the Franks. You have said so yourself. You do not need to sacrifice the happiness of your people to his bloodlust.’
Privately, Yusuf agreed. Still, Nur ad-Din was his king. ‘It is not your decision to make, Wife. If Nur ad-Din calls on my army, then we shall march.’
‘Shall I send messengers to gather the emirs in Cairo?’ Ayub asked.
‘I shall do it myself.’ Yusuf rose and went to the door. He looked back to his children. He would not have time to see them again until after the campaign. He went to Al-Aziz and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Allah yasalmak, young prince.’ He knelt and kissed Al-Afdal. ‘Be good, my son.’ Then, he rose and turned to his father. ‘Come. There is much to do.’
‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti,’ John murmured as he knelt on the stone floor of his cell in the monastery in Mataria. He performed his morning prayers here instead of with the monks, who prayed in Coptic, a tongue he did not understand. John kissed the cross that hung from his neck and then rose and went to the window. Fifty mamluks were riding past the monastery on the way to Cairo. Men had been pouring into the city all week, joining the growing army camped along the Nile.
He went to his bed and flipped over the straw mattress. Monks in the monastery were not allowed private possessions, and although as a visiting priest he was given some dispensations, his mattress had to do for the rest. He reached through the hole he had cut in the cotton covering and felt in the straw for a moment before pulling out a leather-bound notebook and his dagger. He belted the dagger about his waist and carried the notebook to his desk, where he began to sharpen a quill.
John had spent the previous night at his window counting the campfires of the Egyptian army. He added the number of men who had arrived today to his estimates and then dipped the quill in ink and marked the totaclass="underline" eight thousand men. Egypt was preparing for war. John would ride that day for Ascalon to send a message to Amalric. But first he needed to know where the army was headed.
He tucked the notebook into his saddlebag, which he slung over his shoulder. He left his room and walked through dim hallways to the quarters of the abbot, who sat reading at his desk. He looked up, and his eyes moved to John’s saddlebag. ‘You are leaving us, Father John?’ he asked in Arabic. John nodded. ‘I hope you found your stay profitable.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Father Abbot.’
‘You return to Jerusalem?’
John shrugged. Once he had delivered his message, he would wait in Ascalon for further orders. He might be called to Jerusalem or sent back to Cairo.
The abbot reached into a drawer in his desk and removed a stack of letters. ‘These are for the Coptic Bishop in Jerusalem. Will you see that they are delivered?’
‘Of course.’ John put the letters in a pocket of his saddlebag.
‘I wish you a safe journey. God be with you.’
‘May God grant you peace, Father Abbot.’
John left the monastery on a dusty path that cut through green fields before turning south to follow the Nile. The sun had just risen in the east, but the fishermen were already at work. John watched as a nearby boat pulled up a net where a dozen silver fish thrashed and squirmed. The road was also busy. Farmers called encouragement to the donkeys and mules that pulled their carts. Long lines of camels shuffled alongside the river, their drivers taking advantage of the morning cool to cover the last distance to Cairo. The tall white walls of the city were just visible in the distance.
By the time John reached the Al-Futuh gate the sun had risen, and the day had grown warm. ‘Morning, Father,’ said one of the guards, a thin man with a gold tooth.
‘Morning, Halif.’ John had passed through this gate every morning for nearly two years, and he knew most of the guards by name. ‘Will you be joining the army when it goes to war?’
‘No. I am stuck here on guard duty.’
‘My condolences. I hear the army is heading for the Kingdom,’ John guessed. ‘You shall miss your chance to enjoy the Frankish women.’
Halif shrugged. ‘I have three wives; women enough for one man.’
‘My condolences again,’ John said and continued into the city. So the army was headed for the Kingdom. But where? He meandered along narrow streets towards the north-west corner of the city, where Yusuf’s mamluks were quartered in a collection of buildings built around a square where they trained. The square was empty at this early hour. John stopped in the shade of a tree on the far right edge, near some merchants who were setting up stalls to sell fruit and water to the training men. John approached a merchant he knew well. Shihab was a bald man with ropey arms and an enormous potbelly over which hung a crucifix, identifying him as a Copt. ‘Salaam,’ John greeted him.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Ifranji.’
John selected a mango from Shihab’s cart and gave him two fals.
‘Three fals,’ Shihab corrected. John arched an eyebrow. ‘I am sorry, friend, but our lord Saladin, in his infinite wisdom, has raised the tax on all goods entering Cairo. The extra fal goes not to me but to him, to fund his war.’
John handed over the extra copper piece. It was a small price to pay for information. ‘Do you know where the army is headed?’ he asked. ‘I have family in Jerusalem. I fear for their safety.’
‘They are safe enough,’ Shihab replied. He lowered his voice. ‘A merchant friend of mine says the army will march on Kerak. It sits near the route from Damascus to Egypt, and Frankish raiders from the castle prey on the caravans. With it in our power, communication between Cairo and Damascus will be secured.’ Shihab smiled, revealing the broad gap between his front teeth. ‘Trade will prosper. Fortunes will be made.’
John handed him a piece of silver. ‘Thank you, friend.’ He had just started to walk away when two dozen mamluks entered the square. They wore protective leather vests and paired off to spar. John stopped to watch. He was particularly interested in the two mamluks who faced off only a few yards from him. One of the fighters looked to be about fifteen. He had only the beginnings of a beard, but he already had the broad chest and muscular arms of a man. His sandy-brown hair was light for a Saracen. His opponent was older and had the thick beard of a grown man. He was short and stocky.
The two mamluks were circling one another. Suddenly the younger man sprang forward. He slashed down, and his opponent parried the blow. The young mamluk kicked out, catching the bearded warrior in the gut. He stumbled backwards, and his younger opponent was on him immediately. The bearded warrior parried, but the light-haired mamluk spun and lashed out, catching him on the side. The older fighter backed away, clutching his ribs and holding his sword with one hand. His adversary attacked furiously, hacking down until he knocked his injured opponent’s sword from his hand. The young mamluk reared back to strike his now defenceless foe, but his sword arm was caught at the last second by Qaraqush.
‘Easy, Ubadah! You have won.’
Qaraqush released him, and Ubadah made the smallest of bows to his injured opponent, who threw down his practice sword and hurried from the square. He was clearly embarrassed, but there was no shame in losing to Ubadah. John had seen Ubadah defeat dozens of older warriors. He was speaking quietly with Qaraqush now, and John edged forward to hear.
‘You are a natural swordsman, Ubadah,’ Qaraqush said, ‘but you must learn patience.’
‘I won,’ the boy replied.
‘This time, yes. But the Franks are clever warriors, they will turn your aggression against you.’
‘I do not fear them. None have bested me yet.’
Qaraqush walked over to the practice sword the other mamluk had discarded and picked it up. ‘Then perhaps it is time.’
Ubadah laughed. ‘Are you jesting, greybeard? I do not wish to hurt you.’
Qaraqush did not reply. He swung the sword from side to side to test its balance and then stood straight, the weapon held casually in his right hand with its tip towards the earth. The mamluks nearby stopped fighting and turned to watch.