‘You shall have Baalbek. I will not have Zimat’s husband landless.’
‘Baalbek is not yours to give.’
‘It will be.’
‘And if Gumushtagin sends the men of Aleppo south to seize it from me?’
‘Then my men will fight alongside yours.’
Al-Muqaddam considered for a moment longer and then nodded. ‘Very well. If I must have a master, then let it be you, Saladin.’
Yusuf urged his horse alongside Al-Muqaddam’s. He leaned over and the two men exchanged the ritual kisses.
‘Now come!’ Al-Muqaddam said, smiling at last. ‘Your sister is eager to see you. And we must feast the arrival of the new lord of Damascus.’
‘Al-Malik al-nasir!’ the men greeted Yusuf as he entered the domed chamber where the feast was to be held. The leading emirs of Damascus and Egypt stood around the edge of the circular room. Yusuf nodded to Turan and Al-Muqaddam, who sat on either side of the dais opposite the door. The first time he had come to this room, Emir Unur had sat on that dais. Yusuf had seen Nur ad-Din sit there for the first time. Now the position was his. He mounted the dais and sat, motioning for the men to do the same. Servants entered and set before each man dishes of steaming flatbread and jannaniyya, a heavily spiced vegetable stew. Yusuf dipped a piece of bread. ‘Bismillah,’ he murmured and took a bite, signalling that the other men could now eat.
Al-Muqaddam scooped up some of the stew and chewed thoughtfully before turning to Yusuf. ‘Might I ask your plans, Saladin? I trust you will not tarry too long before marching on Baalbek. I am eager to take possession of my new lands.’
‘We will leave before the week is out. I am sure Baalbek will surrender quickly enough. I will offer generous terms, and they will gain nothing but suffering by fighting against us.’
‘And after that, will you push north?’
All the emirs looked to Yusuf, eager to hear his answer.
‘No. I shall return to Cairo with my men. Turan will stay to govern Damascus.’
‘Shukran, Brother,’ Turan said. ‘But you should not be so quick to leave. None would question your decision if you moved against Aleppo. You could be king of Egypt and Syria!’
The greatest king in the world. With Syria and Egypt in his power, he would not have to fear the Franks. He could make peace. But to do so, he would have to take Aleppo, and it was now ruled by Al-Salih. Yusuf had murdered his own father. He would not kill his own son.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Al-Salih is Nur ad-Din’s heir and our lord. Syria is his.’
‘Al-Salih is only a boy,’ Turan grumbled. ‘It is the regent Gumushtagin who rules.’
‘I have made my decision.’
Turan looked as if he wished to protest, but bit back his words. Servants entered with the second course, a roasted lamb that had been marinated in murri, a pungent combination of honey, anise, fennel, walnuts and quinces that was boiled and allowed to ferment.
Yusuf took a bite. ‘Your cooks have outdone themselves,’ he told Al-Muqaddam.
The emir placed his hand over his heart and bowed. ‘They are yours, if you wish to have them, Malik.’
‘No. I have taken Damascus. It would be cruel to also deprive you of the pleasure of such delicious food.’
‘Shukran. Might I speak freely, Malik?’
‘Of course.’
‘You should listen to your brother. Aleppo cannot stand alone, and it is no secret that Gumushtagin has no love for you. He will seek allies elsewhere; in Mosul, or worse, Jerusalem. They will be a threat to Damascus.’ Several of the emirs murmured their agreement.
Yusuf could understand why they were so eager. Gumushtagin was dangerous and Aleppo was a great prize. They did not know that Al-Salih was his son. But that should not matter. Al-Salih was these men’s lord. It was time they learned a lesson.
Yusuf stood and crossed the room to one of Al-Muqaddam’s men who had agreed with Turan. ‘Are you a man of honour, Emir?’
The man bristled. ‘Of course, Malik.’
Yusuf looked to another emir. ‘And you?’ The man nodded. ‘And you, Turan?’
‘You know I am, Brother. We are all of us honourable men.’
Yusuf turned to look each man in the eye. ‘You call yourselves men of honour, yet you counsel me to make war on our lord.’ There were murmurs of protest. ‘Silence! What are we if we do not have honour? Even the most savage Frank is loyal to the death. Are you lesser men than they? Does your loyalty shift like a banner in the wind? Do your serve only when it suits you?’ Yusuf met his brother’s gaze, and Turan looked away. Yusuf looked about the room. None of the emirs would meet his eye.
‘When I swear an oath, I keep it. That is what it means to be a man of honour. Al-Salih is our lord, and it is our duty to defend him. It does not matter that Gumushtagin is regent in Aleppo. He is our lord’s servant and thus our ally. It does not matter that he may join others and march against us. Until that day, I will serve Al-Salih loyally. If you are truly men of honour, then you will do the same.’
Yusuf returned to the dais and sat.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally Al-Muqaddam spoke. ‘I spoke foolishly earlier. Forgive me, Malik.’
‘There is nothing to forgive. You voiced your thoughts, and now I have told you mine. We will not attack Aleppo. That is an end to the matter.’
Chapter 18
FEBRUARY 1175: KERAK
The mud sucked at John’s boots as he led his horse on to the narrow spur of land that sloped up to the citadel of Kerak. It was a miserable winter’s day, the low grey clouds spitting rain. John crossed the bridge over the gap in the spur and walked past a row of decapitated heads impaled on spears. The two guards at the gate were hunkered down under their cloaks. They hardly spared him a glance.
‘I am come to see Lord Reynald,’ John said.
‘In the keep.’
John left his horse with a stable boy in the lower court. He took the ramp to the upper court, where rain was pooling in broad puddles. There was no one about. Firelight glowed invitingly in the windows of the keep. John skirted the puddles and climbed the steps to the door. It was locked. He pounded on it, and a moment later it opened.
A heavy-set guard in mail stood in the doorway. ‘If you’ve come to beg, then you’d best leave before I run my sword up your backside.’
John held up his cross. ‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. I have come on the King’s business. I must speak with your lord.’
The guard examined him for a moment before waving him inside into a draughty entrance hall. Another guard — an adolescent in loose, ill-fitting mail — stood beside the door.
‘I will inform Lord Reynald of your arrival,’ the heavy-set guard said. ‘You have a name, priest?’
‘John of Tatewic.’
The guard grunted. ‘An Englishman.’ He left, his footsteps echoing in the tall stone chamber.
John removed his dripping cloak. Beneath, he wore his chasuble and stole over a coat of mail. A mace was belted to his waist. He handed the cloak to the young guard. ‘Find a fireplace and hang this up to dry.’
The boy hesitated and then nodded and started to leave. He met the other guard in the doorway.
‘Where are you going?’ the heavy-set guard demanded.
‘H-he told me to hang his cloak.’
The guard cuffed the boy on the side of the head. He took the cloak and tossed it on the floor. ‘Get back to your post, porridge brains. Priest, you come with me. Leave your mace with the boy.’
John followed the guard up a stairwell and down a chilly hallway lined with loopholes. The guard stopped before a set of double doors. He knocked and pushed them open. John stepped into a thickly carpeted room, kept warm by a fire burning in the hearth beside the door. Reynald sat alone at table, bent over a roasted leg of lamb. He carved off a piece and speared it with his fork. Only then did he look up.
‘Saxon.’ He gestured to one of the seats at the table. ‘Sit.’