Kingdom (38 page)

‘Yes, Malik,’ Imad ad-Din murmured. He finished writing
and
placed his quill back in its inkwell. His forehead furrowed as he re-examined the document. ‘Perhaps you might consider a more diplomatic phrasing. Al-Muqaddam is husband to your sister and a great emir, yet you threaten to punish him as if he were a misbehaving child.’

‘If my threat is to have its desired effect, then it must be harsh.’

‘And do you truly think he will turn the city over to you?’ the secretary asked. ‘You plan to ride with less than a thousand men.’

‘Speed is more important than numbers. Al-Muqaddam is no fool. He knows that Damascus cannot stand on its own, and with Amalric dead and a boy on the throne, his treaty with the Kingdom is meaningless. He will ally with the first powerful force that arrives at his gates. Gumushtagin does not command enough men to take Damascus. That leaves either us or the ruler of Mosul. I met Saif ad-Din once, at the court of his uncle, Nur ad-Din. He struck me as haughty and impetuous, convinced of his greatness and eager to prove it. He will waste little time in raising an army to move on Damascus.’

‘And we must arrive first,’ Shamsa said as she entered the room in a tight-fitting caftan of saffron yellow silk. It was only five months since she had given birth to her third son, but she had already recovered her slim form. ‘You may go, Imad ad-Din,’ she said. Yusuf nodded, and the secretary left the room. Shamsa crossed to Yusuf and kissed him. ‘I have something to give you before you leave.’

Yusuf slipped his arms around her waist and kissed her again. She pushed him away. ‘No, not that. Come.’ She led him into his bedroom, where a chest had been set against the wall. ‘Open it.’

Yusuf raised the lid to find a vest of jawshan; an armour made of hundreds of small rectangular plates in overlapping rows. Each plate was laced to the others above, below and to the sides of it, making the armour effective at turning aside arrows or
sword
thrusts. But this vest of jawshan had not been made with defence in mind. The plates were of gold and shimmered as they caught the late afternoon light filtering though the window. ‘It is magnificent, but surely you do not mean for me to fight in this?’

‘And why not? You will look a true king.’

‘A dead king. Gold is soft. It will provide little protection against a steel blade.’

‘It is to be worn over your coat of mail.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘It will be heavy.’

‘If you wish the people of Damascus to bow before you, then you must look the part. Try it on.’

Yusuf pulled the vest over his head and went to stand before a silver mirror. He looked like a warrior from one of the ancient Greek myths he had read as a child. Achilles or Theseus.

Shamsa came to stand beside him. ‘There, you see? The people of Damascus will surely be impressed.’

‘I wish I could bring you with me, my clever wife. Al-Muqaddam would be no match for your wits.’

‘I am sure you will manage without me, Husband.’ She put her arms around him and kissed him. ‘You will conquer Damascus, and it will be the start of your kingdom in Syria.’

Yusuf pulled away. ‘Syria belongs to Al-Salih. I attack Damascus to return it to his power, not to take it from him.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ she said, but Yusuf could tell that she did not believe him.

‘I mean it,’ Yusuf said more firmly. ‘Al-Salih is my lord. The kingdom I am building is his.’

OCTOBER 1174: THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

It was a pleasant autumn morning when Yusuf set out from Cairo, riding at the head of seven hundred mamluk cavalry. He was taking only his best men, many of whom had fought beside
him
since he first became Emir of Tell Bashir more than twenty years ago. Yusuf knew that he could push them hard and they would not break.

On the first day they covered nearly forty miles and camped just south of Bilbeis. Even though they were still in Egypt, Yusuf set a watch to protect their horses from thieves. Over the next four days they continued north, following the easternmost branch of the Nile delta to the town of Seyan on the coast. From there, they turned east, riding alongside the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean to Daron, the furthest outpost of Egypt, just south of the Frankish fortress of Ascalon. With the Kingdom still reeling from the sudden death of Amalric and a new regent only recently installed in Jerusalem, the Franks were in no mood to fight. The lord of Ascalon stayed in his citadel, content to allow Yusuf’s army to pass undisturbed.

They rode east into the massive dunes of the Sinai desert. They crossed in a single day and made camp amongst the ruins of Beersheba, where they watered their thirsty horses and refilled their waterskins. Two days later they rounded the southern shores of the Dead Sea, riding within a few miles of the fortress of Kerak, where, according to Yusuf’s spies, Reynald de Chatillon was now installed as lord. Yusuf saw nothing of him or his men as his army rode along the eastern shore of the Dead Sea and then followed the Jordan north to where the river widened into Lake Tiberias. It had taken two weeks to reach its shores. They were making excellent time.

The next day they navigated the jagged hills along the lake’s eastern shore, riding through a man-made pass that decades ago had been cut through nearly a mile of solid rock at the command of one of the Umayyad sultans. Beyond the pass they rejoined the Jordan and followed it north to Jacob’s Ford, where they turned away from the river for the final, most difficult leg of their journey: three days with little or no water as they crossed arid hills and dusty plains on the way to Damascus. On the final day Yusuf’s men had to dismount and walk in order to spare
their
flagging horses. Yusuf breathed a sigh of relief when the Barada River finally came into view, its waters flowing south from Damascus, which was just visible on the horizon.

Yusuf dismounted within sight of the Al-Saghir gate and allowed his horse to drink from the river while he considered his next move. His message to Al-Muqaddam would have reached the emir by pigeon the same night Yusuf’s forces were camping south of Bilbeis. That had given the emir ample time to prepare. Bales of hay and sheets of leather had been hung over the wall to absorb the impact of stones hurled from catapults. The late afternoon sun glinted off the helmets of hundreds of soldiers manning the wall. Yusuf did not doubt that hundreds more stood ready to defend the orchards to the west of the city.

‘Shall we make camp here, Brother?’ Turan asked. Yusuf’s brother had returned from Yemen for the campaign. Selim had remained in Cairo to rule in Yusuf’s absence.

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I plan to spend the night in Damascus.’ He placed his foot in the stirrup, swung back into the saddle, and made to canter towards the city. His khaskiya, led by Saqr, started to follow. Yusuf gestured for them to stop. ‘I will ride alone.’

‘They have archers on the wall,’ Saqr protested.

‘Yes, and they will be more likely to accept my rule if they see that I am not afraid of their arrows.’

‘But Malik—’

Yusuf raised a hand, cutting him off. ‘I have known Al-Muqaddam since he was only a mamluk. I gave him my sister in marriage. He will not let his men shoot.’

Yusuf spurred his horse forward, riding across the hard-packed sand beside the river. On the walk above the city gate, he could see men clutching bows. Yusuf was close enough now that a good archer might hit him. Then the gates began to swing inward. Yusuf’s grip on the reins tightened. Perhaps he had been wrong to trust Al-Muqaddam’s honour, and this was a
sortie
come forth to slaughter him. But no. A single man rode forth, and the gates closed behind him. Yusuf stopped and allowed him to approach. As the rider came closer, Yusuf recognized him as Al-Muqaddam.

The Emir of Damascus reined in just short of Yusuf. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Saladin,’ he said in the clipped voice of a general issuing orders.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Emir.’

They examined one another. It had been years since Yusuf last saw Al-Muqaddam, yet the emir looked to have not aged a day. His olive skin was unlined and his neatly trimmed black beard showed no trace of grey. He was a smallish man, and to look at him, one would never guess he was a great warrior. Yusuf knew better. The emir had risen through the mamluk ranks due in equal parts to his tactical acumen and an almost reckless bravery. He wore simple mail instead of elaborate robes. That was a good sign. Al-Muqaddam had not allowed his new-found position to spur his vanity. Yusuf glanced down at his own golden armour. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

Al-Muqaddam spoke first. ‘My cooks have prepared a feast in your honour, Saladin. You are welcome to the hospitality of my palace.’

Yusuf raised an eyebrow. ‘Your palace? I am afraid not, Al-Muqaddam. You have allied with the ifranj against me and against our lord, Al-Salih. You must leave Damascus.’

The emir’s expression did not change. ‘Had I not made peace, Damascus would now be in the hands of the Franks.’

‘I understand. But so long as you rule Damascus, your peace with the ifranj will stand, and that cannot be.’

‘I can hold the city against you.’

‘For a time, yes, but you do not have the men to keep out the armies of Egypt forever. And if you fight me, then I shall show no mercy when you fall.’

‘I could ally with Saif ad-Din. Together we could defeat you.’

‘You might,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘But what do you know of Saif ad-Din? Can you trust him not to dispose of you and seize Damascus? You know me, Al-Muqaddam. You know that I will deal with you fairly.’

The emir gazed at Damascus for a long time before he spoke again. ‘Some men are born to be kings, Saladin.’ He gestured to Yusuf’s golden armour. ‘You are one such. I am only a simple soldier. But I am a proud man, too. If I surrender the city to you, what shall I have in return?’

‘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.