‘But he did not fight you, Malik. And that army has been disbanded.’
‘And what of the treaty with Gumushtagin? The friend of my enemy is my enemy.’
‘Jerusalem is no friend to Gumushtagin. Our treaty was with Al-Salih, the rightful ruler of Aleppo.’
‘It was a treaty negotiated by Gumushtagin,’ Yusuf insisted, ‘a treaty that called for a joint attack on my lands.’
‘We wish no harm to your kingdom,’ William assured him. ‘We have come to make peace.’
‘Do not trust them, Malik,’ Al-Maqaddam interjected. ‘They have turned their back on the treaty they made with Gumushtagin. How are we to know they will not do the same to any treaty they sign with us?’
Yusuf raised his eyebrows. ‘A fair question.’
‘Raymond never breaks his word,’ William insisted. ‘As you know, our treaty with Al-Salih called for us to join forces with the armies of Aleppo and Mosul. Those armies were destroyed at Tell al-Sultan. We cannot join with armies that do not exist.’
A smile played at the corner of Yusuf’s mouth. ‘A clever answer, William.’
The priest bowed.
‘It does not matter,’ Ubadah insisted. ‘We have no reason to make peace. Why negotiate with Jerusalem when we could take it?’
‘I think you will find that Jerusalem is not an easy prize,’ William countered. ‘Our armies are strong, as are the walls of Jerusalem and our other cities. And we have the support of the Roman Emperor in Constantinople.’
Qaraqush snorted. ‘Then why have you come begging for peace?’
‘Because peace benefits both our peoples.’ William looked to Yusuf. ‘I am not concerned with battles and glory but with the lives of my flock, just as you, Saladin, are concerned with the lives of your people. War will only bring them death and suffering. Peace will let them prosper.’
Ubadah shook his head. ‘There can be no peace until your kind are driven from our lands.’
Yusuf raised his hand. ‘Enough, Ubadah. You must respect our guests.’
‘He is right, Malik,’ Al-Muqaddam said. ‘We should strike while we have the advantage.’
The other emirs nodded their agreement. Yusuf rubbed his beard and opened his mouth to speak, but John spoke first. ‘May I speak with you in private, Malik?’ He met Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Please, friend.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘Leave us.’
John waited until the men had filed out. ‘Make peace, Yusuf.’
‘My men are against it.’
‘They are men of war. That is all they know.’
‘And they know it well, John. Qaraqush believes we can defeat the Kingdom.’
‘At what cost? Remember when we spoke of peace after Alexandria? It is possible at last. You are lord of Syria and Egypt. You have no reason to fear the Kingdom, and we would be fools to attack you.’ John waited, but Yusuf said nothing. ‘Make peace,’ John urged again. ‘I do not wish to fight you, Brother.’
‘Has it come to that, John?’ Yusuf sounded tired. ‘I am forced to besiege my son. Must I also do combat with my closest friend? Will you, too, take arms against me?’
‘Not against you. For Baldwin. He is my king. If you invade the Kingdom, I will fight to defend him.’
‘I see.’ Yusuf rested his chin on his hand. He sighed. ‘To tell the truth, I grow tired of war, John. I miss my family. And I have no desire to fight you or your king. I fear such a war would only destroy us both. I will give you your peace, but only for five years. More, I cannot do. The war against the ifranj has cost my people thousands of lives and countless pieces of gold, but it is a necessary evil. Nur ad-Din taught me this: it is only the desire to drive out the Franks that bound his kingdom together. Now that same force binds my kingdom. Peace and prosperity can create new bonds, but it will take time.’
‘I understand. Five years is a good start. Thank you, Brother.’
‘The men grow tired of waiting, Malik,’ Qaraqush said.
Yusuf nodded but did not reply. They stood on the ridge outside his tent and looked towards Aleppo. Summer had brought a stifling heat that rose from the ground and caused the city to shift and waver like a mirage. The siege had lasted for more than two months now — two months with no fresh supplies — and yet the people still held out.
‘We should attack, Malik,’ Qaraqush urged again. ‘Gumushtagin lost much of his army at Tell al-Sultan. With the reinforcements from Egypt, we have enough men to take the city by storm.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I have not come here to cross swords with Al-Salih’s men.’
‘The men will not be content to roast under the hot summer sun forever, Malik.’
‘It shall not be forever, friend. Aleppo must already be running short on supplies. Eventually the people will turn on Gumushtagin.’
Qaraqush frowned. ‘Yes, Malik.’
‘In the meantime, send men to capture the fortresses north and east of Aleppo: Manjib, Buza’a and Azaz. That will keep the men occupied.’
‘Yes, Malik,’ Qaraqush repeated in a brighter tone.
Yusuf returned to his tent. Imad ad-Din was waiting inside with an armful of papers. ‘Correspondence from Damascus and Cairo, Malik.’
‘Can it wait?
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’ Yusuf passed through the curtain that led to his bedchamber. He unbuckled the belt that held his sword and dagger and tossed it aside. He removed his helmet and untied his vest of golden armour. He pulled his mail coat over his head and removed his sweat-soaked padded vest last of all. He sighed in relief. ‘Water,’ he called as he pulled on his mail-lined tunic and donned his mail cap and keffiyeh. Yusuf frowned. Where were his servants? He took a seat amongst the cushions on the floor and raised his voice. ‘Water!’
A servant entered carrying a tray with a pitcher of water and a glass. He froze after passing through the curtain. ‘Bring it here,’ Yusuf commanded. As the servant stepped towards him, Yusuf heard the distinctive chink of mail armour. ‘Hashashin!’ he shouted. ‘Guards!’
The Hashashin threw the tray aside and brandished a knife. ‘In the name of the Prophet!’ he roared.
Yusuf started to scramble to his feet, but the Hashashin kicked him in the chest, knocking him sprawling on his back. Yusuf reached for his sword belt, but the Hashashin stepped on his arm and then knelt and brought his knife down towards Yusuf’s chest. Yusuf raised a forearm and managed to deflect the Hashashin’s arm, but the knife continued downward, towards his face. Yusuf jerked his head sideways just before the blade struck him on the side of the head.
‘Yaha!’ the Hashashin cursed. The mail cap beneath Yusuf’s keffiyeh had saved his life. The Hashashin was raising his dagger to strike again when Saqr tackled him from behind. Saqr grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the carpeted ground and then drew a dagger and slit the Hashashin’s throat.
‘Are you injured, Malik?’ Saqr asked.
Yusuf sat up gingerly. He winced as he touched the side of his head where the dagger had struck. A painful bruise was already forming, but there was no blood. ‘I live. Alhamdulillah.’
Saqr bowed his head. ‘I was not here, Malik. I failed you.’
‘You saved my life. Where are the guards who were supposed to guard my tent?’
‘They are dead.’
‘Surely this one man did not kill all of them. We must find the other Hashashin before they flee.’ Yusuf rose and strode from the tent. The five men who had guarded the entrance lay dead. There was no one else in sight. ‘Guards!’ he shouted. ‘Damn them! Where are they? Saqr, I-’
Someone slammed into Yusuf from behind, knocking him down and landing on top of him. He felt a blade dig into his back, but it was stopped by the mail lining that reinforced his tunic. The blade struck again, and this time Yusuf felt a sharp pain as the tip penetrated the mail and dug into his back. He managed to roll over and found himself staring up at one of the Hashashin. Looking past his attacker, Yusuf could see Saqr engaged with another man. The Hashashin straddling Yusuf stabbed down again, but this time Yusuf caught his arm. With his free hand the man drew another knife from his belt and was preparing to attack when an arrow lodged in his neck. He fell to the side, blood gurgling in his throat. Yusuf looked up to see Ubadah running towards him, bow in hand.