Holy War (14 page)

A servant arrived with a cup of water. Yusuf forced himself to drink, though his stomach still burned. Perhaps the water would help to quench the fire. As he sipped, he watched the catapults at work, hurling chunks of rock taken from ruins in the hills across the Tigris. The catapults pounded day and night, but they did little damage. Izz ad-Din had sent out sorties to drive away Yusuf’s sappers before they could get close enough to undermine the walls. Yusuf would have to starve the city into submission. He could well imagine how the people must be suffering. As a young emir, Yusuf had spent four months under siege in Alexandria. He still remembered the gnawing hunger in his gut. It had eventually become so much a part of him that he almost ceased to notice it.

Yusuf lowered his cup as he noticed a flurry of activity atop the nearest gate. Helmets flashed in the sun as more men joined the guards that were there. A horn sounded from amongst the men Yusuf had posted to watch the gate. A moment later, the gate opened. Yusuf’s men quickly formed a line to blunt the charge of any sortie. Below Yusuf, the camp sprang to life as men dropped their breakfast to reach for swords and spears. Al-Mashtub galloped up the ridge and slid from the saddle before Yusuf.

‘Malik, the gate!’

‘So I see,’ Yusuf replied calmly. ‘Inshallah, Izz ad-Din will be fool enough to attack. You will lead the Egyptian regiments against him. When the enemy charges, hold fast in the middle and send your flanks to cut them off from the city.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘And make sure the guards at the other gates stay alert. This may be only a feint before he attacks in force elsewhere.’

Al-Mashtub climbed into the saddle and galloped away shouting orders. Yusuf turned his attention back to the gate. If it was a sortie, Izz ad-Din’s men were taking their time about it. Any element of surprise had long since past. Finally, two dozen men rode out. Even from this distance, Yusuf could see that the three men at the centre were not soldiers. They wore no armour, which would have reflected the morning sun. Emissaries. The gates swung shut behind them.

Yusuf turned to one of the dozen messengers who attended him. They were young mamluks, selected for the speed with which they rode and their ability to accurately remember his instructions. ‘Tell Al-Mashtub to keep a careful watch,’ Yusuf told him. ‘This may be some trick.’ The man nodded and sprinted for his horse. ‘You four, have Gökböri, Nu’man, Muhammad and Imad ad-Din attend me in my tent. And you, see that Izz ad-Din’s messengers are shown here. Saqr, have food and drink prepared for our guests.’

Yusuf entered his tent and seated himself on a camp-stool. Imad ad-Din came in first and the emirs arrived shortly thereafter. Gökböri was still chewing on a roasted chicken leg. Muhammad was dressed immaculately in silk robes of emerald green decorated with a floral motif in silver. Nu’man waddled in last of all, wearing the hard leather and stained mail that never seemed to leave his back. The three men joined Imad ad-Din at either side of Yusuf’s stool.

‘You think they have had enough, Malik?’ Gökböri asked.

‘Inshallah,’ Muhammad said. ‘Sieges are a tiresome business.’

‘And expensive,’ Imad ad-Din added. ‘Each day costs thousands of dinars in food and pay for your mamluks, Malik. Even the coffers of Egypt will run dry at some point.’

‘Izz ad-Din’s treasury is filled with gold,’ Nu’man said. ‘We will have all we need when the city falls.’

‘Malik.’ Saqr stepped inside. ‘Izz ad-Din has sent his wife, the khatun Asma umm Arslan, and her two eldest daughters.’

Saqr held the flap aside, and the women entered. The two daughters were dressed in caftans of white – a symbol of purity indicating that they were virgins – and wore niqabs that covered all but their eyes. Izz ad-Din’s wife Asma wore robes of yellow silk and her face was uncovered. She was an attractive woman, with brilliant golden eyes that had the beginnings of crow’s feet at their corners. Her hair showed no trace of silver and her face was round. She, at least, had not suffered from a lack of food during the siege. She met Yusuf’s gaze boldly.

‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Yusuf welcomed them. He gestured to the food that had been set out. It was the hospitality due any guest. ‘Sit. Eat and drink.’

‘Shukran Allah, Malik,’ Asma said. ‘Your welcome honours us.’ She sat first, followed by her daughters. They each took a small bite of bread and a sip of water, then set the food aside.

‘After months surrounded by only warriors,’ Yusuf told Asma, ‘it is a joy to look upon beauty such as you and your daughters possess. It is like finding an oasis in the desert.’ Yusuf was more concerned with their message than their looks, but certain formalities had to be observed.

‘I see your reputation for courtesy is as well earned as your reputation in war, Malik. I hope to find that your reputation for mercy is equally well founded.’

That was well done. This Asma was clever. ‘Those who admit their faults and accept my judgement will find me ever merciful,’ he told her.

‘Then I beg mercy for the people of Mosul. They have done nothing to offend you, yet it is they who suffer most from this siege. Grain is worth its weight in gold. Men have been murdered over a loaf of bread. Hundreds of starving children beg in the streets. Be merciful, Malik. If you will not lift your siege, at least send food for our people.’

Food that would no doubt go to feed Izz ad-Din’s soldiers. ‘If your people want food, they have only to open the gates to me.’

Asma shook her head. ‘Our people are loyal before all else. They will never betray Izz ad-Din.’

‘We shall see, khatun. It is said that a hungry belly knows no loyalties.’

Asma’s eyes narrowed. When she spoke again, there was an angry edge to her voice. ‘You claim to be the servant of Islam, Malik. Why, then, are you here in the east fighting your brothers when the enemy lies far to the west in Jerusalem?’

‘You know well enough why I am here. I cannot fight the Franks so long as I fear a knife in my back the moment it is turned.’

‘You use clever words to hide your ambition. If all you seek is to secure your borders, then make peace with Mosul. Do not destroy it.’

Finally, they had reached the heart of the matter. Yusuf nodded for her to continue.

‘Izz ad-Din offers a ten-year truce. My daughters will marry your sons. You will free the emirs east of Mosul of their oaths to you. In return, Izz ad-Din will allow you to keep the lands to the west.’

Yusuf arched an eyebrow. ‘He will allow me? He cannot stop me. I do not seek a truce, khatun. I have come for Mosul, and it will be mine.’

One of the daughters sniffled. She began to weep loudly. The other joined in. Yusuf almost smiled, the ploy was so transparent. Asma herself made as if to wipe away a tear. ‘You would leave us with nothing?’ she demanded, her voice quaking. ‘You would kill your Muslim brothers? You would condemn my daughters to a life of squalor, make them the whores of your soldiers? I see that the legend of your piety is false. You are no man of God.’

Yusuf smiled gently. He, too, could play this game. ‘I do not wish any harm to your good daughters, khatun.’

‘Then you will make peace?’

‘If Izz ad-Din kneels before me as my subject, then I will grant him his life and spare his men and the people of Mosul. I will give your husband the province of Sinjar to rule.’

‘Sinjar?’ Asma said the word as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. She rose, and her daughters did likewise. ‘Izz ad-Din is the descendant of the great Imad ad-Din Zengi. He will never bow before a Kurd such as you.’

‘Then he will die and Mosul will fall. When that day comes, not even your daughters’ tears will save you. Go and tell your husband that.’

Yusuf hunched beneath his cloak as he rode out from camp for his evening inspection of the men on guard. The siege had reached seven months and winter had come. Heavy wet snow collected on the hood of his cloak and his horse kicked up mud, spattering Yusuf’s legs. They might be starving in Mosul, Yusuf reflected, but at least they had roofs over their heads. He could hardly remember the last time he was warm. The winter chill seemed to have got into his bones. And the ache in his stomach was worse than ever. Today was the last day of Ramadan; perhaps when the daily fasting was through, he would feel better. He glanced at Saqr who rode straight-backed, his head uncovered. He seemed to not notice the cold.
Ah, to be young again
.

Through the snow ahead, Yusuf spied ranks of mamluks. The guards stationed outside Mosul’s northernmost gate stood to attention as he approached. He knew the men were worse off than he. Some were shaking with cold as they clutched their spears. They knelt in the mud as he passed.

‘Saqr,’ Yusuf called. ‘Send a messenger back to camp. Have the cooks prepare a hot soup and see that it is brought to the men on guard.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf continued on towards the next watch. The fire in his belly was growing worse. He felt a sudden, sharp stab of pain, like a hot poker thrust into his gut. He dismounted and fell to his hands and knees in the mud as he retched violently. His vomit was red with blood.

Saqr was at his side immediately. ‘Are you well, Malik? I will call the doctors.’

Yusuf waved him away. ‘Leave me be.’ He tried to rise, but his head was spinning and his legs weak. He collapsed and rolled on to his back. The last thing he remembered was the touch of the wet snow on his hot cheeks. And then the world went black . . .

He did not know for how long he was unconscious, but after a time, images came to him. He saw his son Al-Salih as a young babe, crawling towards him from the darkness. The baby became a man, holding a golden sword with a wide, curving blade. When he spoke, Al-Salih’s voice was hollow and cold, the voice of a dead man. ‘Vengeance, Father. I will have vengeance.’ He swung his blade, and Yusuf skipped back out of the way. He was in armour now, with a sword in his hand. He met his son’s next blow and turned it aside. Yusuf countered and his blade opened up a gash in Al-Salih’s stomach. No blood appeared.

Al-Salih attacked again, hacking down. Yusuf sidestepped the blow and impaled his son. Al-Salih laughed, a hollow sound, like bones clacking together. ‘You cannot kill me, Father. I am already dead.’ He reached for Yusuf with his hands, and as they closed around Yusuf’s throat, Al-Salih transformed into his mother, Asimat. Yusuf pushed her away, but she came back, raking at his face with long nails. Her hand closed again on his throat and began to squeeze. Yusuf grabbed her arms and tried to pull her hands away, but her grip was like iron. He was growing desperate for air.

‘I know,’ she rasped. ‘I know what you did.’ The flesh of her arms began to decay in his hands. Her face became grey, the skin sloughing off to reveal white bone. ‘I know!’ Her fingers closed tighter and tighter, choking the last air from him. He sank into darkness once more.

January 1186: Harran

Yusuf awoke in a dim room. He was lying in a soft bed and above him shadows played on the ceiling, cast there by a candle that flickered on the bedside table. He tried to call for a servant but only produced a strangled croak. His throat was impossibly dry. He made to get up, but sank back into the feather mattress, his head spinning. He heard voices and turned his head, locating the door. It was open. Outside, he saw dim figures speaking in hushed tones.

‘He must not be disturbed,’ one of them said. Yusuf did not recognize the man’s voice. ‘He needs rest if he is to recover.’

‘Yes,’ agreed another strange voice. ‘More
hashah
to dull the pain and allow him to sleep.’

‘He has had sleep enough.’ That was Selim. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be in Aleppo. ‘While my brother lies in bed, men are conspiring to steal his kingdom from him and his children. I must speak with him. You will do whatever it takes to wake him.’

‘I dare not,’ one of the doctors protested.

‘Let—’ Yusuf managed to rasp. It felt as if the words were clawing their way out of his throat. ‘Let. Him. In.’

‘Brother!’ Selim entered and knelt at Yusuf’s bedside. He looked back to the doctors. ‘Bring water at once.’

One of the doctors entered with a cup. He was a compact man with a beak of a nose and a black beard with a few streaks of grey. He looked familiar, but Yusuf could not place him. It did not matter. He took the cup and drank greedily. When he spoke again, it was easier. ‘Where am I?’

‘Harran. Your men carried you here four weeks ago.’

‘Four weeks? What of Mosul?’

‘The siege was abandoned. I came from Aleppo as soon as I could.’

‘I heard you talking. What are these conspiracies you speak of?’

Selim glanced towards the door. ‘It would be best to speak in private. I know a place where we will not be overheard.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Help me up.’

Selim put his arm behind Yusuf’s back and helped him to sit. Yusuf looked down at his legs. They were impossibly thin beneath his linen tunic. He raised a bony arm and examined it.

‘At first, you could keep nothing down,’ Selim told him. ‘You lost two stones before the doctors managed to feed you a little broth. Do you want food?’

‘Later.’ Yusuf tried to rise, but the world was spinning. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, and Selim helped him to stand. ‘I wish to speak with Imad ad-Din as well. Have him come with pen and paper.’