and knock the ball hurtling towards the goal to Yusuf’s left. Yusuf responded instinctively, turning his horse with his knees and kicking its flanks to urge it forward. He reached the ball just in time, slamming his mallet into the ground and blocking the rolling kura. Turan’s cry of victory died on his lips.
‘Selim!’ Yusuf yelled as he swung his mallet, sending the ball bouncing to his right, towards his brother. The rest of the boys followed the kura, but Yusuf headed to the left of the crowd. When the ball reached Selim, he sent it bouncing back across the field, past the other riders, to where Yusuf sat alone on his horse. The boys in the crowd turned their horses, but it was too late. There was no one between Yusuf and the far goal.
Yusuf slammed the kura up the field and galloped after it. He was halfway across the field when he reached it, and, without slowing, swung his mallet in an easy loop, striking the ball with a loud crack and driving it on towards the goal. The boys giving chase were still far back, except for Turan. He had broken free of the crowd and was gaining quickly. Yusuf kicked his horse’s sides, leaning close to its neck as he raced for the ball. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Turan closing fast. There was something odd about the way he was riding. He held his mallet at a funny angle, and his eyes were fixed not on the kura, but on Yusuf. Yusuf felt a shiver of fear run through him as he realized that he was Turan’s target.
Yusuf was almost to the ball, and now he could hear the pounding hooves of Turan’s horse. He took his eye off the kura, focusing instead on Turan’s mallet. He would have to time this just right. Yusuf raised his mallet as if he were about to strike the ball. At the same time, he let go of the reins with his left hand, grabbed his horse’s mane and slipped his left foot from the stirrup. Turan rode closer and closer, and then his mallet was in motion, arcing down towards Yusuf’s head. Yusuf dropped his own mallet and dodged to the right, swinging out of the saddle and gripping the mane of his horse as he clung to its side, one foot in the stirrup. Turan’s mallet landed with a thud on the saddle. Yusuf grabbed it, and pulled hard. Turan was off balance after missing Yusuf. He let go of his mallet, but too late. ‘ Yaha!’ he cried out as he tumbled from the saddle and landed in a cloud of dust.
Yusuf swung himself back upright and reined in his horse beside the kura. He looked back, past where Turan lay, past the approaching riders, to where the last glimmer of the sun was slipping behind the mountain, leaving the field covered in shadows. Yusuf turned back to the ball and swung Turan’s mallet hard, sending the kura bouncing through the goal.
‘Subhan’alla!’ he cried. Hallelujah! They had won. Yusuf dropped the mallet and raised his arms to the sky, a huge grin on his face. He was turning his horse to accept the congratulations of his team-mates, when he felt himself grabbed from behind and pulled from the saddle. He landed hard, knocking his head against the ground. Dizzy, his head pounding, he rose to his feet to find himself facing Turan. Turan was red-faced, his hands balled into fists.
‘Cheater! You grabbed my mallet.
You broke the rules!’ ‘You were trying to hit me!’ Yusuf protested.
‘How dare you accuse me!’ Turan growled and shoved Yusuf, who stumbled backwards. ‘You’re the one who cheated!’
The others had arrived, and still mounted, they formed a circle around Yusuf and Turan. ‘Leave him be, Turan,’ Khaldun called out.
‘But he cheated! He grabbed my mallet. We would have won otherwise.’
‘Fine,’ Khaldun said. ‘We’ll call the goal off. Nobody wins the bet. Happy now?’
‘I’ll be happy when this cheater tends to my horse and mucks its stable.’ Turan looked around the circle of boys. ‘And all of your horses, too.’
A tense silence fell over the group, and all eyes shifted to Yusuf. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he said quietly.
Turan jerked his chin up and clicked his tongue to show that he disagreed. ‘You lie, little brother.’ He stepped close enough that Yusuf could feel his brother’s hot breath on his face. ‘Admit it. You grabbed my mallet. Otherwise I would never have fallen.’
Yusuf looked to the other boys, then back to Turan. Their eyes met. ‘In battle, men will do worse things than grab your mallet, Turan. A true warrior never leaves his horse.’
The words were hardly out of Yusuf’s mouth when Turan’s fist slammed into his face and white lights exploded behind his eyes. He found himself sitting on the ground, blood pouring from his nose. Turan was standing over him, his fists still clenched and his lips curled back. ‘Always so clever, aren’t you, little brother?’ he snarled. ‘You’re not so smart now, are you?’
Yusuf could feel the eyes of the other boys on him. He began to struggle for air and fought against the familiar panic. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, but he was hardly up before Turan punched him in the stomach, doubling him over. Yusuf was breathing in ragged gasps now, desperate for air.
‘That’s enough, Turan!’ Khaldun shouted.
‘Stay out of it!’ Turan snapped. ‘This is between me and my brother. He needs to be taught a lesson.’
Yusuf wiped the blood away from his nose, leaving a crimson smear on the back of his hand, and slowly straightened. His chest heaved rapidly as he gulped for air, but it was no use. One of his fits had seized him. Still, he forced himself to remain standing and met Turan’s gaze. Turan punched him again, catching him in the jaw. Yusuf stumbled but stubbornly kept his feet. He braced himself for another blow, but it never came. Turan had turned away. He and the other boys were watching a rider approach from the city. Yusuf recognized the compact, dark man as Abaan, one of his father’s mamluks – Turkish slaves purchased as children and raised as soldiers. The circle of boys parted to allow him to approach.
‘What’s this?’ Abaan demanded as he reined in before Yusuf and Turan.
‘He fell,’ Turan said, gesturing to Yusuf.
‘Is that so?’ Abaan looked to Yusuf, who simply nodded. Accusing Turan would only lead to worse later. And besides, Yusuf knew his father. He would care little for Yusuf’s complaints. ‘Very well,’ Abaan said. ‘You are to return with me immediately. You too, Selim.’
Turan and Yusuf mounted their horses. As they fell in behind Abaan, Turan rode close to Yusuf and whispered, ‘We’ll finish this later, little brother.’
Yusuf passed through the gate in the thick stone wall that surrounded his home and rode into the dusty courtyard. Before him was the main building, a low, rectangular structure of tan sandstone. Torches in brackets flickered on either side of the domed entrance way, driving back the advancing darkness. Yusuf dismounted and followed the others to the stables, which were situated against the wall to the left. Four strange horses were there, all of their noses buried in the feeding trough. Judging by how determinedly they were eating, Yusuf guessed that they had been ridden far that day. Visitors, then. But who? Yusuf turned away and followed Turan, Selim and Abaan.
As they walked through the cool, red-tiled entrance way, Yusuf looked up, as he always did. High above, the domed ceiling was tiled in indigo, inlaid with golden stars. A low fountain was set in the floor directly below the centre of the ceiling. Its burbling waters flowed to a channel cut into the floor, and Yusuf and the others followed the channel out to the courtyard at the centre of the residence. Torches had been lit along the walls, illuminating the pool that ran the length of the courtyard. Two men were talking quietly as they paced beside the still waters, their backs to Yusuf. The man on the right stood stiffly upright. He was short and wiry, with darkly tanned skin and short-cropped hair just beginning to grey. Yusuf recognized him immediately as his father, Najm ad-Din Ayub. The other man had unkempt, black hair, and although he was only slightly taller than Yusuf’s father, he was much stouter, if not downright fat.
‘Your sons are here, my lord,’ Abaan called and then withdrew.
The two men stopped and turned. Ayub scowled when he saw Yusuf’s bloodied nose and swollen lip. The other man was red-faced, with a gruesome scar across his milky-white right eye. When he saw the boys, he smiled broadly, revealing crooked teeth. It was Yusuf’s uncle, Shirkuh.
Yusuf and Selim ran to him, and he gathered them both in his thick arms, lifting them from the ground and kissing first Selim, then Yusuf on both cheeks. ‘Salaam ‘Alaykum, my little nephews,’ Shirkuh rumbled. Peace be upon you.
‘Wa ‘Alaykum as-Salaam, Uncle,’ Yusuf and Selim replied together, as Shirkuh set them down.
Shirkuh’s smile faded as he inspected Yusuf more closely.
‘What happened to your face, boy? Your nose looks to be broken.’
‘A polo match.’
‘Polo, eh? Did you win?’
