Kingdom (17 page)

‘I pray for you, brother.’

‘I would rather you fight for me.’ Yusuf regretted the words immediately. John looked away quickly, as if he had been slapped. He spurred ahead, and Yusuf sped up to rejoin him. ‘I am sorry, John. I know that you have no choice.’

‘I forgive you, brother,’ John murmured, his tone more irritated than forgiving.

They rode on in silence. As they crested the hill, Jerusalem came into view. ‘Al-Quds Sharif,’ Yusuf whispered. The Holy Sanctuary. Even at this distance he could make out the bulky
Tower
of David, the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and beyond them, the gleaming roof of the Dome of the Rock. He was surprised to find tears in his eyes.

‘She is beautiful,’ he said. ‘More, she is a symbol of all that we have lost; not just the city but the people who died there and who have died since fighting for her. Jerusalem is where Mohammed rose into heaven before returning to write of it. She is our past, the childhood of our religion, and the Franks have taken her from us.’

‘I am sure the crusaders felt the same when they first laid eyes on the city,’ John observed. ‘Jerusalem is where Christ died, and it was in Christian hands for hundreds of years before the Muslims took it.’

Yusuf’s brow knit, but he said nothing.

‘Perhaps we can learn to share the city,’ John suggested.

‘Perhaps.’

The road led to an arched gateway that sat in the shadow of one of the citadel’s massive square towers. Merchants’ carts were crowded around the gate. A tax was due on any non-edible goods that entered the city, so these men had chosen to set up shop outside. Some knelt as the king approached. Others loudly hawked their wares. ‘Fine perfumes, my lord!’ ‘Women, sire! A slave girl for your pleasure!’

Amalric did not stop until he reached the gate, where the seneschal Guy and the patriarch waited to greet him. Yusuf and John reined in just behind the king.

‘Welcome, sire!’ Guy said. ‘God grant you health and joy.’

‘Praise God for your safe return,’ the patriarch added.

‘Spare me the formalities, I am tired and need a bath.’ Amalric glanced back to Yusuf. ‘You’ll want to put your helmet on, Emir.’ He spurred ahead, and Guy and the patriarch fell in beside him.

‘My helmet?’ Yusuf asked John.

John nodded. ‘Muslims are not welcome inside the city.’

Yusuf pulled on his helmet and followed Amalric through
the
gate. The road beyond was lined with men and veiled women who had come to see the return of their king. They cheered and Amalric waved.

Yusuf’s helmet rang as a piece of rotten fruit slammed into it, knocking his head to the side. ‘Murderer!’ a veiled woman shouted. ‘Go to hell, sand-demon!’

There was an angry murmur in the crowd. ‘Saracen dog!’ someone else yelled. A fist-sized rock sailed just in front of Yusuf’s face.

‘Leave him be!’ Amalric roared. He had reined in his horse and was glaring at the crowd. ‘The next person who throws something will lose his hand!’ He looked back to Yusuf. ‘I apologize, Saladin.’

‘It is nothing,’ Yusuf replied. He turned to John and added more quietly. ‘Now I know how Reynald felt.’

‘No, it is unacceptable,’ Amalric was saying. ‘But I shall make amends. You shall be my honoured guest tonight at the feast to celebrate my return.’

Yusuf sat beside King Amalric at the head table. John sat to Yusuf’s left. Another, longer table had been set up at a right angle to the head table. It stretched the length of the barrel-vaulted hall – the first completed part of the new royal palace being built south of the Tower of David. The table was lined with an eclectic mix of men: tonsured priests beside richly dressed merchants; clean-shaven Franks next to native Christians with trimmed beards; men who ate with their hands and wiped their fingers on the fur of the dogs who milled under the table beside others who ate with fork and knife.

A servant refilled Amalric’s goblet of wine and turned to Yusuf, who waved him away. The second course had yet to be served, and it was already the third time Yusuf had refused, but the first that Amalric had noticed. ‘How rude of me,’ the king said. ‘Bring Saladin a cup of water.’

‘Thank you, sire.’

Amalric nodded. ‘How long will you stay with us, Emir?’

‘A week, if I may. I am eager to explore the city.’

‘John will serve as your guide. What do you wish to see?’

‘Qubbat as-Sakhrah,’ Yusuf said. ‘The Dome of the Rock.’

Amalric frowned in confusion.

‘The Templum Domini, sire,’ John explained.

‘Ah, yes, the Lord’s Temple, where Christ threw out the moneychangers. The Augustinians have charge of it now.’

It was Yusuf’s turn to frown. He turned to John and spoke quietly in Arabic. ‘But the Dome was built after the Muslim conquest.’

‘What was that?’ Amalric asked.

‘Saladin says that he is eager to explore the Temple,’ John said.

‘And the Al-Aqsa mosque,’ Yusuf added. ‘After Masjid al-Haram in Mecca, and the mosque of the Prophet in Medina, it is the most sacred place of worship for my people.’

‘The Templum Solomonis,’ John explained to Amalric. Then, to Yusuf: ‘The Templars are quartered there now.’

‘Be careful of them, Saladin,’ the king warned. ‘The Templars do not like visitors, especially Saracens.’

‘Not so,’ the Templar grand master, Bertrand, called from down the table. ‘You will be welcome at the Temple, Saladin.’

Yusuf nodded in his direction. ‘Shukran.’

The conversation paused for a moment as servants brought forth the next course: two roasted boars on platters. Yusuf blanched as one of the boars was set down before him.

‘You are the guest of honour,’ Amalric told him. ‘You may carve.’

‘I am sorry, King. The flesh of swine is forbidden to my people.’

‘Ah, y-yes, s-so it is,’ Amalric stuttered in embarrassment. He nodded to a servant. ‘Take this a—aw—’ His face contorted
as
words failed him. ‘Remove this, and bring something more palatable.’

Heraclius, who was seated beyond John and the patriarch to Yusuf’s left, leaned forward and looked towards Yusuf. ‘You do not drink wine. You do not eat pork. What sort of religion is that?’

Yusuf opened his mouth to speak, but John replied first. ‘Do we Christians not abstain from the flesh of animals on Fridays? And many religious orders eat no meat at all.’

The patriarch Amalric set his fork down. ‘Are you comparing Christian monks to the heathen Mohammedans?’

‘Yes,’ John said without hesitation. ‘The monks do not eat meat because they follow a rule. The Muslims follow their own rule, Your Beatitude.’

‘But only one of the two rules is of God, and I have no doubt which one that is, nor should you. Christ’s first miracle was to turn water into wine. God made grapes. He made swine. Why would he forbid us to enjoy them?’

‘Our place is not to question Allah’s designs,’ Yusuf replied. ‘He has commanded us to abstain from wine and pork, and so we do. It is our faith.’

‘Faith?’ The patriarch snorted dismissively. ‘You Saracens worship a rock. What sort of faith is that?’

‘We believe that Abraham placed Al-Hajaru-I-Aswad in Mecca. The black stone was sent to Adam and Eve by angels.’

‘It is a rock,’ Heraclius retorted.

‘It is,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘We do not worship the stone, but rather the God who sent it. Just as you do not worship the cross, but rather the Christ who died upon it.’

‘But—’

‘That is enough, Heraclius,’ Amalric cut across the conversation. ‘A good answer, Saladin. You are as wise as you are brave. I pray that the peace between our peoples lasts for many years, and that I do not have the misfortune to meet you again in battle. To peace.’ He raised his cup and drained it.

Yusuf glanced at John and then drank his water. ‘To peace,’ he murmured. ‘Inshallah.’

John rose early the next morning and went to the baths in the Hospitaller complex. The sun was just rising as he emerged. He strolled over to the Street of Herbs and purchased two oranges from the fruit seller, Tiv. The city was quiet as he walked the short distance to the king’s palace, in the shade of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He went to the room where Yusuf was staying and knocked. The door opened immediately. Yusuf was already dressed in a white caftan and sandals.

‘I thought you would never arrive. I am eager to explore the city, John.’

John handed Yusuf an orange. ‘I brought you breakfast.’

‘Shukran. Now come. Let us begin.’

John led him out into the palace courtyard. They were halfway across when someone called John’s name. He spotted the young Prince Baldwin playing with several companions. ‘John!’ the prince called again. It was the first time John had seen him in nearly seven months, and the boy was notably taller. He must be nearly four now, John calculated. The prince raced across the courtyard and wrapped his arms around John’s leg.

‘Who is this?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Prince Baldwin,’ John said. ‘I tutor him in Arabic.’

Yusuf crouched so that he was at the prince’s height. ‘Kaifa halak?’

The prince became suddenly shy. ‘I am well,’ he said as he peeked between John’s legs.

‘In Arabic,’ John told him.

‘Ana bekhair,’ Baldwin said and then, gaining in confidence, he added, ‘Motasharefon bema’refatek.’

‘A pleasure to meet you as well,’ Yusuf replied with a smile.

‘I have never met a Saracen before,’ Baldwin declared.

Yusuf’s eyebrows rose. ‘And what do you think?’

The prince shrugged. ‘Where is your turban?’

Yusuf laughed. ‘It is a cloudy day. I have no need of one.’

The prince considered this for a moment before turning to John. ‘I thought the Saracens would be more … different.’

‘As I have told you, they are men and women, just like us. Now go and play with your fellows.’

Baldwin headed back to the corner where the other children were pretending to fight with swords. Yusuf called after him: ‘Ma’a as-salaama.’

‘Allah yasalmak,’ Baldwin replied, and ran over to join in the play.

John looked to Yusuf. ‘You see. Not all Franks hate your people, Yusuf. Baldwin will be king someday. He can bring peace.’

‘He is a clever child. Perhaps you are right, John.’

Later that morning John emerged from the Templum Domini with Yusuf at his side. They had been forced to leave quickly when one of the monks had taken offence at Yusuf’s presence.

‘Have you seen enough?’ John asked hopefully.

Yusuf pointed to the Al-Aqsa mosque, which lay beyond a series of arches, the remnant of some long-vanished structure. ‘I wish to visit the mosque. It is time for noon prayer.’

John’s eyes widened. ‘You wish to pray there?’

‘How can I visit Jerusalem and not pray in Al-Aqsa, one of the holiest places in all of Islam?’

‘And the Templar headquarters.’

‘The Grand Master said I was welcome.’

‘The other knights are not as enlightened as Bertrand.’

‘I thought you said the Franks could learn to respect my people.’

‘Not the Templars,’ John grumbled. ‘They are fanatics.’

‘Please, friend. I may never return to Jerusalem again.’

‘Very well,’ John sighed, ‘but let me do the talking.’

John led them to the Temple, which was fronted by an arcade held up by pointed arches. Two Templar sergeants with spears
in
hand framed the entrance that sat in the shadows of the arcade. The guards eyed Yusuf suspiciously and then looked to John.

‘What is your business here, Father?’ one of them asked. He was a short man with a thick, bull-like neck. From his accented French, John guessed that he was Norman, and a new arrival to the Holy Land.

John gestured to Yusuf. ‘King Amalric has engaged me to show this man the city.’

‘He is a Saracen?’ the guard asked.

John thought about lying but decided against it. ‘Yes.’

The second Templar lowered his spear so that it pointed towards Yusuf’s chest. ‘He is not welcome here.’

John stepped between Yusuf and the spear point. ‘We will be no trouble. He only wishes to see the main hall.’

‘He is a sand-devil,’ the thick-necked Templar spat. ‘He will not enter.’

John drew himself up straight. ‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and in the name of the Patriarch, I order you to step aside.’

‘The Temple was granted to us by King Baldwin II,’ the guard replied. ‘The Patriarch has no power here.’

‘Leave,’ the other guard barked, jabbing his spear so that it stopped just inches short of John’s chest.

‘What is going on here?’ Bertrand de Blanchefort approached from behind the guards. ‘John?’

‘Grand Master.’

‘And Emir Saladin.’ Bertrand turned to Yusuf. ‘How do you find Jerusalem?’

‘A beautiful city. I had wished to pray inside your Temple. It is holy to my people.’

Bertrand turned to the guards. ‘Let them in.’

The bullish guard scowled and reluctantly stepped aside.

John followed Yusuf inside. They walked down a wide, high-ceilinged nave lined with columns on either side. Windows
set
high above shed a dim light. At the end of the nave, they found themselves standing under a dome. Yusuf pointed to a niche built into the wall of the hallway to their left. ‘A mirhab; the mark on the wall indicates the direction of Mecca. I shall pray there.’

John stood just outside the niche while Yusuf began to pray, murmuring the first words of the Sura al-Fatiha. ‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful—’ Yusuf had just knelt for the first time when John noticed the bull-necked guard approaching. He held up a hand to stop him, but the man shoved him aside. He grabbed Yusuf from behind, lifted him from the ground, and set him back down facing east.

‘That is the way to pray, Saracen!’

John’s fists clenched. ‘Leave him be, friend.’

Yusuf put a hand on John’s arm. ‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘I do not wish to cause trouble.’ He turned to the Templar. ‘The Grand Master gave me permission to pray as I please.’

The Norman glared at them and then turned and stomped away. Yusuf resumed his prayers. Watching him, John could remember when he had been struck by the strangeness of Muslim prayer, the kneeling and prostrating. After seeing Yusuf pray hundreds, even thousands of times, he now realized that it was not so different from Christian prayer. He had spent more time than he wished on his knees since he became a priest. And now that he was supposed to pray seven times a day, the five daily prayers required of Muslims did not seem so odd.