‘And why not? You will look a true king.’
‘A dead king. Gold is soft. It will provide little protection against a steel blade.’
‘It is to be worn over your coat of mail.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘It will be heavy.’
‘If you wish the people of Damascus to bow before you, then you must look the part. Try it on.’
Yusuf pulled the vest over his head and went to stand before a silver mirror. He looked like a warrior from one of the ancient Greek myths he had read as a child. Achilles or Theseus.
Shamsa came to stand beside him. ‘There, you see? The people of Damascus will surely be impressed.’
‘I wish I could bring you with me, my clever wife. Al-Muqaddam would be no match for your wits.’
‘I am sure you will manage without me, Husband.’ She put her arms around him and kissed him. ‘You will conquer Damascus, and it will be the start of your kingdom in Syria.’
Yusuf pulled away. ‘Syria belongs to Al-Salih. I attack Damascus to return it to his power, not to take it from him.’
‘Of course, my lord,’ she said, but Yusuf could tell that she did not believe him.
‘I mean it,’ Yusuf said more firmly. ‘Al-Salih is my lord. The kingdom I am building is his.’
OCTOBER 1174: THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS
It was a pleasant autumn morning when Yusuf set out from Cairo, riding at the head of seven hundred mamluk cavalry. He was taking only his best men, many of whom had fought beside him since he first became Emir of Tell Bashir more than twenty years ago. Yusuf knew that he could push them hard and they would not break.
On the first day they covered nearly forty miles and camped just south of Bilbeis. Even though they were still in Egypt, Yusuf set a watch to protect their horses from thieves. Over the next four days they continued north, following the easternmost branch of the Nile delta to the town of Seyan on the coast. From there, they turned east, riding alongside the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean to Daron, the furthest outpost of Egypt, just south of the Frankish fortress of Ascalon. With the Kingdom still reeling from the sudden death of Amalric and a new regent only recently installed in Jerusalem, the Franks were in no mood to fight. The lord of Ascalon stayed in his citadel, content to allow Yusuf’s army to pass undisturbed.
They rode east into the massive dunes of the Sinai desert. They crossed in a single day and made camp amongst the ruins of Beersheba, where they watered their thirsty horses and refilled their waterskins. Two days later they rounded the southern shores of the Dead Sea, riding within a few miles of the fortress of Kerak, where, according to Yusuf’s spies, Reynald de Chatillon was now installed as lord. Yusuf saw nothing of him or his men as his army rode along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea and then followed the Jordan north to where the river widened into Lake Tiberias. It had taken two weeks to reach its shores. They were making excellent time.
The next day they navigated the jagged hills along the lake’s eastern shore, riding through a man-made pass that decades ago had been cut through nearly a mile of solid rock at the command of one of the Umayyad sultans. Beyond the pass they rejoined the Jordan and followed it north to Jacob’s Ford, where they turned away from the river for the final, most difficult leg of their journey: three days with little or no water as they crossed arid hills and dusty plains on the way to Damascus. On the final day Yusuf’s men had to dismount and walk in order to spare their flagging horses. Yusuf breathed a sigh of relief when the Barada River finally came into view, its waters flowing south from Damascus, which was just visible on the horizon.
Yusuf dismounted within sight of the Al-Saghir gate and allowed his horse to drink from the river while he considered his next move. His message to Al-Muqaddam would have reached the emir by pigeon the same night Yusuf’s forces were camping south of Bilbeis. That had given the emir ample time to prepare. Bales of hay and sheets of leather had been hung over the wall to absorb the impact of stones hurled from catapults. The late afternoon sun glinted off the helmets of hundreds of soldiers manning the wall. Yusuf did not doubt that hundreds more stood ready to defend the orchards to the west of the city.
‘Shall we make camp here, Brother?’ Turan asked. Yusuf’s brother had returned from Yemen for the campaign. Selim had remained in Cairo to rule in Yusuf’s absence.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I plan to spend the night in Damascus.’ He placed his foot in the stirrup, swung back into the saddle, and made to canter towards the city. His khaskiya, led by Saqr, started to follow. Yusuf gestured for them to stop. ‘I will ride alone.’
‘They have archers on the wall,’ Saqr protested.
‘Yes, and they will be more likely to accept my rule if they see that I am not afraid of their arrows.’
‘But Malik-’
Yusuf raised a hand, cutting him off. ‘I have known Al-Muqaddam since he was only a mamluk. I gave him my sister in marriage. He will not let his men shoot.’
Yusuf spurred his horse forward, riding across the hard-packed sand beside the river. On the walk above the city gate, he could see men clutching bows. Yusuf was close enough now that a good archer might hit him. Then the gates began to swing inward. Yusuf’s grip on the reins tightened. Perhaps he had been wrong to trust Al-Muqaddam’s honour, and this was a sortie come forth to slaughter him. But no. A single man rode forth, and the gates closed behind him. Yusuf stopped and allowed him to approach. As the rider came closer, Yusuf recognized him as Al-Muqaddam.
The Emir of Damascus reined in just short of Yusuf. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Saladin,’ he said in the clipped voice of a general issuing orders.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Emir.’
They examined one another. It had been years since Yusuf last saw Al-Muqaddam, yet the emir looked to have not aged a day. His olive skin was unlined and his neatly trimmed black beard showed no trace of grey. He was a smallish man, and to look at him, one would never guess he was a great warrior. Yusuf knew better. The emir had risen through the mamluk ranks due in equal parts to his tactical acumen and an almost reckless bravery. He wore simple mail instead of elaborate robes. That was a good sign. Al-Muqaddam had not allowed his new-found position to spur his vanity. Yusuf glanced down at his own golden armour. Perhaps it had been a mistake.
Al-Muqaddam spoke first. ‘My cooks have prepared a feast in your honour, Saladin. You are welcome to the hospitality of my palace.’
Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘Your palace? I am afraid not, Al-Muqaddam. You have allied with the ifranj against me and against our lord, Al-Salih. You must leave Damascus.’
The emir’s expression did not change. ‘Had I not made peace, Damascus would now be in the hands of the Franks.’
‘I understand. But so long as you rule Damascus, your peace with the ifranj will stand, and that cannot be.’
‘I can hold the city against you.’
‘For a time, yes, but you do not have the men to keep out the armies of Egypt forever. And if you fight me, then I shall show no mercy when you fall.’
‘I could ally with Saif ad-Din. Together we could defeat you.’
‘You might,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘But what do you know of Saif ad-Din? Can you trust him not to dispose of you and seize Damascus? You know me, Al-Muqaddam. You know that I will deal with you fairly.’
The emir gazed at Damascus for a long time before he spoke again. ‘Some men are born to be kings, Saladin.’ He gestured to Yusuf’s golden armour. ‘You are one such. I am only a simple soldier. But I am a proud man, too. If I surrender the city to you, what shall I have in return?’