Kingdom (24 page)

Shawar’s tan face had paled to a sickly yellow. ‘I set fire to Fustat to keep it out of the Frank’s hands,’ he protested. ‘And if there are traitors in the city, Caliph, I assure you that I will find them. As Vizier, I—’

The caliph raised a gloved hand. ‘Enough. Shirkuh, your army will stay. But they will make camp outside the city, beside the Bab es-Sa’ada el-Luq. Water is plentiful there. You and Saladin will stay as guests in my palace. I have need of your wise council.’

Shirkuh bowed. ‘I am honoured by your generous offer, Caliph, but a general should never leave his men. I will stay in camp, if it pleases you. But I shall wait on you at your pleasure. This evening perhaps, over supper?’

‘Very well.’

‘Alone.’

‘But Caliph!’ Shawar protested.

Al-Adid looked at him for a moment and then back to
Shirkuh
. ‘I will see you tonight, after prayers, Emir.’ He waved a hand, and the golden curtain fell.

Yusuf approached his uncle and spoke in a low voice. ‘Is it wise to remain outside the city?’

‘I’ll not stay in Cairo so long as Shawar lives. The man is a snake.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘And the best way to kill a snake is to cut off its head.’

The afternoon sun shone down pitilessly as Yusuf rode down a narrow lane that wound between the tombstones, domed mausoleums and mosques of the Qarafa al-Sughra, one of the two ancient cemeteries that stood outside Cairo, just beyond the charred remains of Fustat. Shawar rode beside him. The vizier produced a silk tissue and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘By Allah, it is hot,’ he muttered. ‘Why does your uncle insist on meeting here?’

‘Shirkuh is on a pilgrimage to the tomb of Al-Shafi,’ Yusuf told him.

‘I am the vizier,’ Shawar grumbled. ‘I am not a lackey that jumps at the beck and call of an upstart Kurd.’

The vizier was clearly trying to pick a fight, but Yusuf was in no mood. They rode on in silence, surrounded by two-dozen mamluks from Shawar’s private guard. Ahead, Yusuf spotted a larger structure amidst the tombs; the shrine that marked the tomb of the great Sunni jurist Al-Shafi, who had helped to create shari’a, the law by which all Muslims lived.

They dismounted outside the shrine, and Shawar again mopped his forehead. ‘This had best be important.’

‘Your men can wait outside,’ Yusuf told him.

Shawar’s eyes narrowed. ‘Were we not such good friends, I would think that you meant me harm, Saladin. No, my men will accompany me.’ He gestured to four mamluks, who went ahead into the shrine.

‘As you wish. Shirkuh is waiting for you.’

Shawar headed for the entrance. Yusuf was close on his heels, followed by the rest of Shawar’s guard. The doorway was framed by Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub. Yusuf nodded to them as he passed. The interior of the shrine was dim, and Shawar stopped while his eyes adjusted. ‘Where is Shir—’ he began, but the words caught in his throat. The four mamluks he had sent in were lying in their own blood. ‘What is this?’ he cried. ‘Guards!’

But it was too late. Yusuf had fifty men stationed inside the shrine, and Shawar’s mamluks were still half blind after entering from the bright sunshine. While they were being cut down, Shawar drew his sword and backed away to the centre of the shrine, where he stood in a pool of light that fell from a window above.

Yusuf drew his sword. ‘It is over, Shawar.’

Shawar raised his sword to fight and then thought better of it and dropped the blade. He smiled. ‘This is no way to treat a friend, Yusuf.’

‘We are not friends. You betrayed me. I nearly starved to death in Alexandria.’

‘It was nothing personal. That is the nature of war. Had I not joined with the Franks, how long do you think I would have lasted before your uncle eliminated me?’

‘Shirkuh does not deal in murder,’ Yusuf said coldly.

‘Yet here you are.’

Yusuf scowled. He raised his sword, and Shawar paled. ‘Do not kill me!’ the vizier pleaded. Yusuf stepped closer. ‘The Caliph will not stand for this!’

‘Shirkuh is with the Caliph now. Al-Adid ordered your death himself.’

Something seemed to break in Shawar. His shoulders slumped. ‘So this is how it ends. You and your uncle claim to be honourable men, but you are no better than I.’

‘We only do the Caliph’s bidding.’

‘The Caliph does not piss without someone telling him
to
. This is your work, Yusuf. I did not expect this of you.’ Shawar knelt on the stone floor. ‘I did not think you a murderer.’

‘This is not murder. It is an execution.’ Yusuf held the blade of his sword to the vizier’s neck.

‘Do what you must, but remember this: viziers in Egypt have short lives. Your uncle should think of that before he takes my post.’

The last word was still hanging in the air when Yusuf’s blade struck the back of the vizier’s neck, killing him instantly.

Yusuf stood in the shadows of the colonnade that fronted the caliph’s palace, searching for threats in the crowd that filled the square. He saw only a mixture of curiosity and impatience as the Egyptians waited for a glimpse of the new vizier. Shirkuh was with the caliph, who was investing him with the symbols of his office: robes of scarlet silk interlaced with gold, a white turban with gold stitching at the edges, and the vizier’s sword, a golden blade with the ivory hilt encrusted in precious jewels. Soon, Shirkuh would emerge to have his office proclaimed in a speech by Al-Khlata, the city’s chief official now that Shawar was dead. It would be the perfect time for one of the Hashashin to strike. Yusuf had posted a line of mamluks to keep the populace back, but there were thousands of men in the square. Any one of them could hold a dagger or a crossbow.

‘What do you think?’

Yusuf turned to see his uncle. Shirkuh was dressed in his new finery, and it ill-suited him. The luxurious robes were too long for his squat frame, and the tip of the ceremonial sword nearly touched the ground. Yusuf suppressed a smile as Shirkuh tugged irritably at the stiff, gold-laced collar of his tunic. ‘I am told the Egyptians would be sorely disappointed if I did not wear this frippery,’ he grumbled.

‘You look very distinguished, Uncle.’

‘
Ha
! You will never make a good courtier, Yusuf. You have
no
talent for lying,’ Shirkuh nodded towards the crowd. ‘All is well?’

‘The crowd is larger than I anticipated. We should have more men.’

‘Stop fretting, Yusuf.’

‘Someone has paid the Hashashin to kill you, Uncle. You know their reputation. They will not stop until you are dead.’

Shirkuh placed one of his callused hands on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘We must defy our enemies, Yusuf, or they will have defeated us without even striking a blow.’ A blast of trumpets drowned out his last words. He clapped Yusuf on the back. ‘Come. It is time.’

The crowd cheered as Shirkuh strode down the palace steps to a platform crowded with Egyptian officials. Yusuf followed and stood at the edge of the platform as Al-Khlata began to address the crowd. Yusuf did not trust the Egyptian, who had been a confidant of Shawar, but Shirkuh had decided that he should keep his post as civilian comptroller. He knew Egypt as none of Shirkuh’s men did, and could be sure that every last dinar in taxes was paid. Al-Khlata was speaking in flattering tones, telling the crowd of the new vizier’s many qualities: he was the blessed of Allah, a great warrior, the father of his people, the commander of the faithful, the child of jihad, scourge of the Franks.

Yusuf was only half listening. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the front row of the crowd, only thirty feet away. Al-Khlata said something in a loud voice and the crowd roared, raising their hands and cheering. All except one man just behind the front row. His eyes were focused on Shirkuh. His right hand was clutching something inside his caftan. Yusuf kept his eyes on the man as he stepped down from the platform to where Qaraqush stood. ‘That man,’ Yusuf said and nodded. That was all that was needed. Qaraqush disappeared into the crowd, and Yusuf returned to his place.

The suspicious man had edged forward so that he was now in
the
front row. He was just beside a mamluk, but the guard was paying little attention to him. The crowd cheered again, and Yusuf looked away from the man to see that his uncle was now addressing the people. Yusuf watched in alarm as Shirkuh jumped down from the platform and into the square. He stepped towards the crowd, allowing the people to reach out and touch him. Yusuf’s eyes swung back as the man, now only a dozen feet from Shirkuh, removed his hand from his caftan. Yusuf saw the glint of steel. Then the man’s eyes widened. Qaraqush held a knife to this throat and pulled him backwards into the crowd, just as Shirkuh passed the place where the Hashashin had stood. Yusuf breathed a sigh of relief.

Shirkuh finished greeting the crowd and mounted the steps to the platform. He was grinning, clearly pleased with the impression that he had made. As he reached Yusuf, Shirkuh slapped his nephew on the shoulder. ‘See, young eagle. Nothing to fear!’

MARCH 1169: CAIRO

‘You lying, camel-faced bastard! You owe me!’ the Egyptian spat, showing brown teeth. Iqbal was a thickly bearded, broad-shouldered man in a homespun caftan. He had the erect bearing of an ex-soldier. He lunged towards the man he was addressing, but the courtroom guards held him back.

Shirkuh had made Yusuf the governor of Cairo, and as part of his duties Yusuf sat in judgement every Monday and Thursday. He had already heard some two-dozen cases that day and was weary of the never-ending procession of petty complaints. Nevertheless, it was his duty to provide impartial justice. Without law, a kingdom could not stand. He looked to the defendant, a merchant named Qatadah.

Qatadah spread his hands, on which he wore several gold rings. ‘I told Iqbal that the investment was a risk.’

‘He owes me one hundred and ten dinars!’ Iqbal insisted.

‘You took this money from him?’ Yusuf asked.

‘I am no thief, Your Excellency,’ Qatadah replied. ‘Iqbal gave me five silk carpets, which I told him that I would sell in Acre. I paid him twenty dinar up front, and was to pay the rest upon the return of my ship, after the carpets had been sold.’

Iqbal pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘And he did not pay!’

Yusuf gestured for silence. ‘Why not, Qatadah?’

‘The ship was attacked by pirates. All the cargo was lost. I, too, have suffered from this, Your Excellency. I have no money with which to pay Iqbal.’

Yusuf doubted that. Besides the gold rings on his fingers, Qatadah wore a rich silk caftan with jewels at the collar. Yusuf looked from him to Al-Fadil, the Egyptian scribe who Yusuf had selected as his private secretary. Al-Fadil sat with a writing desk on his lap and the contract that Qatadah had brought held between his ink-stained fingers. Other scribes sat behind him, ready to record Yusuf’s judgement.

Al-Fadil set the document aside. ‘The terms of the contract are clear,’ he said, speaking quietly so that the litigants could not hear. ‘Qatadah has no legal obligation to pay.’

Yusuf frowned. Iqbal was an ex-soldier, probably a mamluk who had invested his meagre savings in the carpet business. For such a man, one hundred and ten dinars was the difference between a comfortable living and poverty. To Qatadah, such a sum was nothing.

Al-Fadil guessed what Yusuf was thinking. ‘If you make Qatadah pay, you will see a hundred such cases daily. Worse, merchants will cease to carry cargo, afraid that if they suffer losses then they will be forced to pay the difference. Commerce will dry up. Trade will go elsewhere.’

Yusuf still hesitated.

‘Tax revenues will fall, my lord. Your uncle will not like that.’

‘Very well,’ Yusuf muttered. Then, in a louder voice: ‘This case is dismissed.’

Qatadah grinned. Iqbal spat in his direction and then stormed from the room.

Yusuf rose. ‘That is enough for today.’ He started to leave and then turned back to Al-Fadil. ‘See that Iqbal is given a position in the palace.’

‘As what, Emir?’

‘He looks to be an ex-mamluk, so he will be familiar with horses. Give him a position in the stables.’

Yusuf left the chamber, but his work for the day was not yet done. There was correspondence to read in his private study. Saqr accompanied him on the short walk from the caliph’s palace to that of the vizier. Yusuf entered his apartments and froze, his mouth dropping open. Standing before him were four naked women, beauties all. The one on the far right was Nubian, as black as night and with full lips and an angular face. The second was a Frank, blonde and with a voluptuous figure. The next was an Egyptian with flawless, golden skin. The last woman was a Turk with dark eyes, a narrow face and wavy chestnut hair that hung down to a pair of enormous breasts.

‘What are you doing here?’ Yusuf demanded.

‘I bought them for you,’ Faridah said as she entered from the next room. ‘They do not please you, my lord?’

‘I am busy.’ Yusuf rubbed his temples. When he had sent his brother Selim to bring Faridah and Ibn Jumay from Aleppo, he had not expected anything like this.

‘You work yourself too hard, Yusuf.’ Faridah approached and put a hand on his arm. ‘You need a woman.’

He reached out to push a strand of red hair back from her face. ‘I have a woman.’

Faridah shook her head. ‘I am old, Yusuf.’

It was true that she was no longer young. There were crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and fine wrinkles around her mouth, and Yusuf had seen her carefully plucking strands of
grey
from her long red hair. But he did not mind. ‘You are still beautiful.’

‘In only a few years I will be fifty years of age. You no longer seek my bed as you once did.’ Yusuf opened his mouth to protest, but Faridah placed a finger on his lips. ‘I am not angry, Yusuf. You have given me more than I could have hoped for. You saved me from a terrible life. But now you need a younger woman. You need someone who can bear you a son.’ She pointed to the blonde Frankish woman. ‘What about that one?’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘The Turk, then?’

Yusuf met the woman’s dark eyes. Something in the way she met his gaze reminded him of Asimat. He felt a sudden pain in his gut as he thought of his former lover and their son. ‘I do not want any of them,’ he said and strode into his study.