Kingdom (31 page)

John had spent the previous night at his window counting the campfires of the Egyptian army. He added the number of men who had arrived today to his estimates and then dipped the quill in ink and marked the total: eight thousand men. Egypt was preparing for war. John would ride that day for Ascalon to send a message to Amalric. But first he needed to know where the army was headed.

He tucked the notebook into his saddlebag, which he slung over his shoulder. He left his room and walked through dim hallways to the quarters of the abbot, who sat reading at his desk. He looked up, and his eyes moved to John’s saddlebag. ‘You are leaving us, Father John?’ he asked in Arabic. John nodded. ‘I hope you found your stay profitable.’

‘Thank you for your hospitality, Father Abbot.’

‘You return to Jerusalem?’

John shrugged. Once he had delivered his message, he would wait in Ascalon for further orders. He might be called to Jerusalem or sent back to Cairo.

The abbot reached into a drawer in his desk and removed a
stack
of letters. ‘These are for the Coptic Bishop in Jerusalem. Will you see that they are delivered?’

‘Of course.’ John put the letters in a pocket of his saddlebag.

‘I wish you a safe journey. God be with you.’

‘May God grant you peace, Father Abbot.’

John left the monastery on a dusty path that cut through green fields before turning south to follow the Nile. The sun had just risen in the east, but the fishermen were already at work. John watched as a nearby boat pulled up a net where a dozen silver fish thrashed and squirmed. The road was also busy. Farmers called encouragement to the donkeys and mules that pulled their carts. Long lines of camels shuffled alongside the river, their drivers taking advantage of the morning cool to cover the last distance to Cairo. The tall white walls of the city were just visible in the distance.

By the time John reached the Al-Futuh gate the sun had risen, and the day had grown warm. ‘Morning, Father,’ said one of the guards, a thin man with a gold tooth.

‘Morning, Halif.’ John had passed through this gate every morning for nearly two years, and he knew most of the guards by name. ‘Will you be joining the army when it goes to war?’

‘No. I am stuck here on guard duty.’

‘My condolences. I hear the army is heading for the Kingdom,’ John guessed. ‘You shall miss your chance to enjoy the Frankish women.’

Halif shrugged. ‘I have three wives; women enough for one man.’

‘My condolences again,’ John said and continued into the city. So the army was headed for the Kingdom. But where? He meandered along narrow streets towards the north-west corner of the city, where Yusuf’s mamluks were quartered in a collection of buildings built around a square where they trained. The square was empty at this early hour. John stopped in the shade of a tree on the far right edge, near some merchants who were setting up stalls to sell fruit and water to the training men. John
approached
a merchant he knew well. Shihab was a bald man with ropey arms and an enormous potbelly over which hung a crucifix, identifying him as a Copt. ‘Salaam,’ John greeted him.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Ifranji.’

John selected a mango from Shihab’s cart and gave him two fals.

‘Three fals,’ Shihab corrected. John arched an eyebrow. ‘I am sorry, friend, but our lord Saladin, in his infinite wisdom, has raised the tax on all goods entering Cairo. The extra fal goes not to me but to him, to fund his war.’

John handed over the extra copper piece. It was a small price to pay for information. ‘Do you know where the army is headed?’ he asked. ‘I have family in Jerusalem. I fear for their safety.’

‘They are safe enough,’ Shihab replied. He lowered his voice. ‘A merchant friend of mine says the army will march on Kerak. It sits near the route from Damascus to Egypt, and Frankish raiders from the castle prey on the caravans. With it in our power, communication between Cairo and Damascus will be secured.’ Shihab smiled, revealing the broad gap between his front teeth. ‘Trade will prosper. Fortunes will be made.’

John handed him a piece of silver. ‘Thank you, friend.’ He had just started to walk away when two dozen mamluks entered the square. They wore protective leather vests and paired off to spar. John stopped to watch. He was particularly interested in the two mamluks who faced off only a few yards from him. One of the fighters looked to be about fifteen. He had only the beginnings of a beard, but he already had the broad chest and muscular arms of a man. His sandy-brown hair was light for a Saracen. His opponent was older and had the thick beard of a grown man. He was short and stocky.

The two mamluks were circling one another. Suddenly the younger man sprang forward. He slashed down, and his opponent parried the blow. The young mamluk kicked out, catching the bearded warrior in the gut. He stumbled backwards, and his
younger
opponent was on him immediately. The bearded warrior parried, but the light-haired mamluk spun and lashed out, catching him on the side. The older fighter backed away, clutching his ribs and holding his sword with one hand. His adversary attacked furiously, hacking down until he knocked his injured opponent’s sword from his hand. The young mamluk reared back to strike his now defenceless foe, but his sword arm was caught at the last second by Qaraqush.

‘Easy, Ubadah! You have won.’

Qaraqush released him, and Ubadah made the smallest of bows to his injured opponent, who threw down his practice sword and hurried from the square. He was clearly embarrassed, but there was no shame in losing to Ubadah. John had seen Ubadah defeat dozens of older warriors. He was speaking quietly with Qaraqush now, and John edged forward to hear.

‘You are a natural swordsman, Ubadah,’ Qaraqush said, ‘but you must learn patience.’

‘I won,’ the boy replied.

‘This time, yes. But the Franks are clever warriors, they will turn your aggression against you.’

‘I do not fear them. None have bested me yet.’

Qaraqush walked over to the practice sword the other mamluk had discarded and picked it up. ‘Then perhaps it is time.’

Ubadah laughed. ‘Are you jesting, greybeard? I do not wish to hurt you.’

Qaraqush did not reply. He swung the sword from side to side to test its balance and then stood straight, the weapon held casually in his right hand with its tip towards the earth. The mamluks nearby stopped fighting and turned to watch.

Ubadah raised his sword and began to circle Qaraqush. He feinted forward and then jumped back, but the old warrior did not so much as blink. Ubadah feinted several more times. Only Qaraqush’s eyes moved as he tracked his opponent. Ubadah
circled
behind Qaraqush, and this time he attacked in earnest, lunging for the small of Qaraqush’s back.

Qaraqush moved quickly, pivoting to his right and swinging his sword up to knock aside the attack. Ubadah spun left and brought his blade arcing towards his opponent, but Qaraqush stepped back so that the blade passed inches from his chest. Then he moved inside Ubadah’s guard and punched the boy hard in the shoulder. Ubadah was already off balance from his spin, and the blow toppled him. He rolled away and sprang to his feet, sword at the ready. But Qaraqush had not followed up his attack.

‘In a true battle you would now be dead,’ the grizzled mamluk said.

Ubadah’s forehead creased and his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. He attacked, his sword moving with blinding speed, hacking, lunging, slashing. Few could have withstood such an attack, but Qaraqush was a seasoned warrior. He made small movements of his blade, just enough to steer Ubadah’s attacks aside, and gave ground as he waited for his opponent to make a mistake. Then it came. Qaraqush was back-pedalling, and Ubadah lunged at his chest, overextending himself. Qaraqush brought his sword up, knocking Ubadah’s blade above his head. The boy brought his sword slashing back down, but Qaraqush sidestepped and slammed his practice blade into Ubadah’s side. The boy cried out as he stumbled back holding his ribs. Qaraqush sprang forward and brought his blade down on the boy’s forearm.

‘
Yaha
!’ Ubadah cried as he dropped his sword. The blades were blunted but the blow still stung.

‘As I said, you must learn patience,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘There is no prize for dispatching your opponent quickly. Dead is dead, no matter how long it takes.’

‘My Uncle Saladin says I am the best young swordsman he has ever seen,’ Ubadah pouted as he gingerly touched his side. The protective leather jerkin would have softened the blow,
but
John guessed a deep bruise was already forming. ‘Better than him, even.’

‘You are just good enough to get yourself killed. That is enough for today.’

Qaraqush walked away, and the other mamluks went back to sparring. Ubadah stood red-faced, rubbing his sore wrist. The boy was upset, although John was not sure if it was because of his defeat or because Qaraqush had dressed him down before the other men. But Qaraqush was right. Ubadah was too aggressive. He fought as if he wished to prove something. The songs of poets were filled with tales of such men, of their glorious victories and their early deaths.

Ubadah looked up, and his eyes settled on John. Looking at the boy’s face was like looking into a mirror. He had the same arch of the brow as John, the same square jaw, the same thin nose. John turned away and casually asked for a cup of water from one of the merchants. From the corner of his eye he could see that Ubadah was still watching him. Surely the boy did not recognize him. It was nearly seven years since Ubadah had last seen him.

John handed a copper to the merchant and took a cup of water. Ubadah had begun to walk in John’s direction. John handed the cup back without drinking and walked away. When he reached the street leading from the square he glanced back. Ubadah had stopped at the edge of the practice arena, but his eyes were still on John. Their gazes met for a moment, then John strode away. The sooner he left Cairo, the better.

He was leaving through the Al-Futuh gate when a guard hailed him. ‘John! Stop!’

‘What is it, Halif?’

‘You are a Frank, yes?’

John nodded. He had never tried to hide his origins. It would only raise more questions. ‘I am a priest, come to pray at the holy sites.’

‘Wait here.’ Halif turned to one of the other guards. ‘See that he does not leave.’

Halif disappeared into the gatehouse. He returned a moment later with Ubadah. John felt his stomach tense.

Ubadah scratched at his patchy beard as he peered at John. ‘I thought I recognized you, ifranji. You are John.’

John knew that it was too late to lie. ‘Ubadah.’

‘What are you doing in Cairo?’

‘I was here to pray. I was just leaving.’

Ubadah shook his head. ‘My uncle will want to see you. Guards, bring him.’

The burning in Yusuf’s gut grew worse as he examined a page of the notebook taken from John’s saddlebag. It was covered with detailed sketches of the walls of Cairo. He flipped to another page, the first of several containing figures on the number of men in Yusuf’s army, the supplies they had and how long they could stay in the field. The next few pages discussed the training regimen and tactics of Yusuf’s troops.

‘You should execute him publicly,’ Ayub said. He was standing in the corner of Yusuf’s private audience chamber, watching his son.

Yusuf ignored his father and continued flipping through the book. A series of pages were covered with the designs for the citadel that Yusuf planned to build south of the city. How had John obtained those?

‘You have seen what is in that book,’ Ayub continued. ‘I spoke with a merchant who says the Frank has been around for months asking questions. He was here as a spy, Yusuf.’

‘He broke no laws, Father.’

‘You cannot afford to appear weak in the eyes of your men, not when we are going to war. What better way to show your strength and to rally the troops than to execute a Frankish spy?’

‘John is a man of God.’

‘He is a spy!’ Ayub was red-faced, angry at his son’s intransigence.

Yusuf met his father’s eyes. ‘He is my friend.’

Ayub sighed. ‘You are a king now, my son. You cannot afford friends, least of all Frankish ones.’

Perhaps his father was right. Yusuf looked at the notebook in his hands. Perhaps John was not truly his friend. No. Yusuf closed the book and tossed it aside.

‘A great king is generous with his enemies,’ he said. ‘He shows mercy.’

‘You would show mercy to those who have shown us none? Have you forgotten what the Franks did when they took Jerusalem? What they did in Bilbeis? What they did to your mother?’ Yusuf flinched. Before he was born the Franks had raped his mother. It was something that was never discussed. ‘Have you?’

‘John is not like the other Franks.’

‘They are all the same. There is no place for them in our lands. They must be driven back into the sea from whence they came.’

‘They are savage, so we should be savage in return? That is your counsel? Why, tell me, do we deserve these lands if we are no better than the Franks?’

‘Because they are our lands!’

‘Yes!’ Yusuf replied, his voice rising to meet his father’s. ‘And we must strive to be worthy of them.’ He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again his voice was calm and even. ‘Have the prisoner brought here.’

‘You must kill him.’

‘That is for me to decide, Father. Bring him.’

Yusuf retrieved John’s notebook and took a seat on the dais. He flipped through the pages again while he waited. The door opened, and Ayub pushed John into the room.

‘You may wait outside, Father.’ Yusuf turned his gaze on John, who stood with his hands tied together before him. His friend was perhaps a touch heavier, the lines on his face a bit deeper, but other than that he was unchanged. He had the same
square
jaw, the same clear blue eyes, which met Yusuf’s gaze and did not look away. ‘It has been a long time, John.’

‘Too long.’

Yusuf held up the notebook. ‘Why did you come to Cairo?’

‘King Amalric sent me.’ John lowered his eyes. ‘To—to gather information.’