Yusuf looked to Al-Mashtub. ‘See that this one dies quickly. Crucify the others outside the northern gate.’ He turned to Saqr, who stood at the door. ‘Come with me.’ Yusuf left the torture chamber and crossed the palace to his father’s quarters. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and then he nodded to Saqr, who pushed the door open.
Ayub sat across from the door, bent over a lap desk as he wrote by the light of a single candle. He looked up as Yusuf entered. Ayub’s face was drawn, his eyes red. He placed his quill aside, took the piece of paper on which he had been writing, and held it to the candle flame. As it began to burn, he rose and dropped it out of the window behind him. Then he turned to face Yusuf.
‘Alhamdulillah. I am pleased to see you are well, my son.’
‘Are you, Father?’ Yusuf looked to Saqr. ‘Leave us.’ Saqr departed and drew the door closed behind him. Yusuf turned back to his father. ‘Were you writing to Nur ad-Din? Congratulating your lord on my death?’
‘I only wished to protect you, Yusuf.’
‘By sending assassins to kill me in the night?’
‘You would have died with your honour intact.’
‘Honour? That is all you care about, Father!’
‘Without honour we would be little better than animals,’ Ayub replied softly. ‘I thought I taught you that much, Yusuf, if nothing else.’
‘You taught me that you care more for Nur ad-Din than for your own family. You taught me that nothing I ever did would be good enough to earn your love!’
‘That is not true.’
Yusuf opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. Across the room a single tear had fallen from his father’s eye to zigzag down his weathered cheek. Yusuf had never seen his father cry. He had not thought him capable of it.
‘I am sorry, Yusuf,’ he said. ‘But loyalty is the most important virtue, even more than love.’
‘And what of your loyalty to me? I am your king.’
‘And I am your father.’ Ayub straightened and some of the old fire returned to his grey eyes. ‘Why would you not do as I asked? You have always been too headstrong.’
Yusuf did not reply. He did not know which he desired more: to forgive his father or to order his death. He was suddenly very tired. He wished only to be gone from here. He turned to leave.
‘Son!’ Ayub called, and Yusuf turned back. ‘I-’ His father met his eyes. ‘I understand what you must do. I only ask that you let me die an honourable death. Do not shame me. And do not let your mother know what I have done.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Yusuf was on his knees, prostrate so that his forehead touched the carpet beneath the domed ceiling of the Al-Azhar mosque. Morning prayers had ended, but Yusuf remained, surrounded by members of his private guard. He whispered the same words again and again. ‘Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory. Allah forgive me. What I do, I do in your name, for your glory-’
He heard soft footsteps on the carpet and felt someone touch his shoulder. He looked up to see Qaraqush. ‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Your father had an accident while hunting. He fell from his horse and broke his neck.’
Yusuf rose. ‘He is dead?’
‘In a coma. The doctor Ibn Jumay does not expect him to live long.’
Yusuf felt a tightening in his chest. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe. It was like one of his childhood fits when no matter how much he gasped the air would not come. He had not suffered such a spell in years. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly and steadily. The fit passed, but the heaviness in his chest remained.
Yusuf rode at a gallop back to the palace, where he went straight to his quarters. Shamsa was waiting in the antechamber. Yusuf strode past without a word and went to his bedroom. She began to enter after him, but he turned to block her way.
‘Leave me be! I am not to be disturbed. I want food and water brought to my chambers, but nothing else. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, habibi.’
Yusuf closed the door and sank to the floor. Tears began to form, but then he thought of something his father had said to him long ago: ‘Do not cry, boy. Only women cry.’ Yusuf shook the thought from his head. He tried to weep, but no tears would come.
Yusuf sat cross-legged in his bedroom. His hair was unkempt and his robe filthy, but he was oblivious to his appearance. A volume of the Hamasah lay open before him. He knew all of the poems by heart. How many afternoons had he spent in the shade of the lime trees behind his childhood home, lost in tales of love and glory? Yusuf smiled, but the smile faded as he thought of his father, his mouth set in a thin line of disapproval as he watched his son read. Yusuf closed the book and set it aside.
The door to the room creaked open. ‘I said I was not to be disturbed!’ Yusuf snapped.
Shamsa entered. ‘It has been two weeks, Yusuf. You have a kingdom to rule.’
‘I am not fit to rule,’ he muttered.
Shamsa sat across from him. ‘You look tired,’ she said and reached out to touch his hair, which was now flecked with grey.
Yusuf pushed her hand away. ‘Go, Shamsa. I wish to be alone.’
She did not move. ‘You did the right thing, Yusuf.’
‘I do not wish to speak of it.’
‘He tried to have you killed. He had to die.’
Yusuf felt the heaviness settle on his chest again. It was never far away. ‘I told you to go.’ He rose and went to the window, his back to Shamsa. ‘Why will you not leave me in peace?’
She approached and gently touched his shoulder. This time, Yusuf did not push her away. She wrapped her arms around him, embracing him from behind.
‘What sort of man am I, Shamsa?’
‘A great man.’
‘I do not wish to be great.’
‘You have no choice. Allah has chosen you.’
‘I wish he would choose someone else.’ Yusuf stared out of the window for a long time. Finally he turned to face Shamsa. ‘He was my father.’ Yusuf’s lip trembled. He could feel himself losing control. ‘I–I wish-’ Words failed him, and he buried his face in her shoulder and began to sob. It was the first time he had cried since his father’s death. Shamsa held him and gently stroked his hair.
Finally the tears stopped flowing. ‘To rule, you must make painful decisions,’ Shamsa whispered in his ear. ‘It is the price for greatness, Yusuf.’
Yusuf stepped back from her. The weight on his chest had vanished, and now he stood straight. ‘Some prices are too high. I should not have killed him. I am a warrior, not an assassin.’
‘You are a king.’
‘And I shall rule as a virtuous king, or I shall fall.’
She gazed into his eyes for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, but first you must have a bath.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘You are filthy.’
Yusuf looked down at his soiled robes. Was it really two weeks since he had bathed, since he had left his apartments?
‘And afterwards you will hold court,’ Shamsa continued. ‘Turan and Selim are worried. We receive news daily that Nur ad-Din is gathering more troops. The emirs need you to reassure them.’
‘Have my councillors gather in the council chamber,’ Yusuf told her. ‘But first, bring me Ibn Jumay.’
Yusuf had bathed. His hair had been oiled and his beard trimmed. He sat in a clean robe when Ibn Jumay entered his study. The doctor bowed. ‘Saladin.’
Yusuf motioned for him to sit. ‘Thank you for coming, my friend. You are well?’
‘My practice is busy.’
‘I hope you have time for one more patient.’
Ibn Jumay shook his head. ‘I cannot, Yusuf.’
‘I promise you that I will not sacrifice virtue for power. Not again.’