‘Salaam, Yusuf.’ John had always had a gift for languages; he had learned Latin and Frankish with a rapidity that astonished the monks who had taught him as a child. His gift had not deserted him, and he had picked up Arabic quickly. Yusuf’s Frankish had improved just as fast. Now, they spoke to one another in a mixture of the two. ‘More reading?’ John sighed, eyeing the books.
‘If you can speak but cannot read, then you are little better than a savage.’
‘I can read Greek, Latin, Frankish and English.’
‘But not Arabic, the holy language.’ Yusuf handed the larger of the two books to John. Graceful, curving Arabic letters had been carved into the leather of the spine.
‘ The Chronicle of Damascus,’ John spelled out. While he spoke Arabic well enough, he found it devilishly tricky to read. The flowing, snaky script seemed to blend together, making it difficult to determine where one letter ended and another began.
‘It is a history written by one of our greatest scholars,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Today’s topic will be of some interest to you; we shall read of the first crusade and the siege of Jerusalem.’
John opened the book at the marked page and squinted at the ornate, flowing script. ‘The army of the Franks-’ he read slowly, ‘more than ten thousand men strong, arrived before the walls of the Holy City on the ninth day of Rajab in the four hundred and ninety-second year since the flight of the Prophet Mohammed from Mecca to Medina.’ Yusuf nodded and smiled encouragement. ‘The Frankish.. .’ John’s eyebrows knit in frustration.
‘Warriors,’ Yusuf supplied.
‘We would say chevaliers – knights,’ John murmured. He turned back to the text. ‘The Frankish warriors are said to have-’
‘Wept.’
‘-to have wept to see the city that they had travelled so long to reach. They were led by Raymond of Toulouse, a giant of a man and a fierce warrior, and Godfrey of Bouillon, who would become King of Jerusalem. The Franks surrounded the city and lay-What is this word, here?’
‘Siege,’ Yusuf translated into Latin.
‘They lay siege. The Franks dashed themselves against the walls of the Holy City, but the mighty walls did not fall. Hunger and thirst plagued the Franks. In desperation, they marched-’
‘Barefoot.’
‘-barefoot around the walls of the city, calling on God for aid. On the walls, the defenders of Jerusalem also prayed to Allah, asking for victory. But it was not to be. The Franks built tall towers, constructed of wood from the very ships they had used to reach the Holy Land, and used these towers to break through the walls. The Holy City fell.’ John looked up with a grin. ‘I wish I had been there to see it. That was a glorious day.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘Read what comes next.’
‘The Fatimid emir fled with his army, and the Franks entered the city. The horror of their deeds will never be forgotten. Men, women, children: all were put to the sword. The slaughter was worst on the Temple Mount, where blood flowed in-in-’
‘The blood flowed in torrents,’ Yusuf supplied. He took up the narrative from memory. ‘Women were dragged from their homes and raped. Children were torn from their mothers’ arms and cast into the air to be impaled on the swords of the Franks. The Franks entered the Al-Aqsa mosque and killed all they found there, staining this holiest of places with blood.’ Yusuf’s voice shook with passion. ‘In the Jewish quarter, they forced the Jews into their houses of worship, which they then burned. Those who escaped the flames were cut down by waiting warriors. Smoke hung dark over the city. The cries of sorrow could be heard for miles. The emir, hearing them as he fled, fell down and wept, cursing himself for his failure.’
John shook his head. ‘The writer is a Saracen. He lies.’
Yusuf opened the second book that he had brought and read a nearly identical tale of carnage. John interrupted him. ‘What does this prove?’ Yusuf closed the text and handed it to John. ‘ Gesta Orientalium Principum,’ John read from the title page. His eyes widened. The author was William of Tyre. ‘I have met this man. He is a priest.’
‘A Christian,’ Yusuf agreed.
John said nothing. He had been told that the taking of Jerusalem was a glorious victory. The priest in Cherbourg who preached the second crusade had referred to the victory again and again, calling on the people of the town to take up the sword and surpass the feats of their forefathers. The priest had not spoken of slaughtered women and children, or of streets flowing with blood.
‘That is the nature of your great victory,’ Yusuf said. ‘The Christians are savages, animals.’
‘Not all of them. Our faith is one of love and forgiveness. It is Jesus who told us that if our enemy strikes us, we should not strike back, but offer him our other cheek.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘Your Jesus said much of great wisdom. He is counted amongst our prophets. But tell me: do the crusaders follow his teachings? They burn crops, kill women and children. They know nothing of medicine or literature. They do not even know enough to bathe. They are fanatics who blindly follow the Cross. Even you, John, you followed this pagan symbol from your home all the way to these lands. And why? To murder and pillage in the name of God. But your crusades are no business of God. Allah turns his back on such savage deeds.’
John frowned. Much of what Yusuf said was true. In his months in Ayub’s household, he had learned that the Saracens were nothing like he had been told. They were cultivated, learned and frequently kind, even to their slaves. Compared to Yusuf and his family, the men and women that John had known in Tatewic did seem like dirty savages. And it was true that many of the men who had accompanied John on the crusade to Damascus had fought for spoils or adventure, not for God. Even he had not truly come east to fight for Christ. He had joined the crusade to escape his past. But that did not make him a savage.
‘The Christian knights are men of honour,’ he said. ‘Savages have no honour.’
‘Honour?’ Yusuf scoffed. ‘Your knights have the honour of men who sell their fellow soldiers for a sack of gold. I was at the emir’s court in Damascus during the siege. The emir paid your men to move from the orchards, and they did. Such men know nothing of honour.’
John thought of the night long ago when he had seen Reynald in the clearing meeting with the Saracen. He thought of the heavy sack that Ernaut had carried. The facts fell into place. Reynald was the man the emir had bribed. That was why he had sent Ernaut to kill John: to eliminate the only witness to his treachery. John’s jaw clenched in anger.
‘Your knights are brave,’ Yusuf continued. ‘But it is the bravery of animals, not of men. They fight to satisfy their appetites, not for honour, and certainly not for God.’
John shook his head. ‘There are men of honour among us.’ He put the book aside and rose, brushing straw from his pants. He stepped past Yusuf and climbed down the ladder.
‘Where are you going?’ Yusuf demanded as John headed for the stable door.
‘I have had enough for today.’
John poured water over the back of the last of the five horses that Ayub’s mamluks had taken hunting that day. He had avoided Yusuf for the past week, ever since their lesson in the hayloft. Once Yusuf had come to seek him out early in the day while he was rubbing down one of the horses, but John had ignored him. He was not yet ready to confront Yusuf. His time in Baalbek had opened his eyes to another way of life. It was raising uncomfortable questions about much that he had taken for granted. Yusuf had given voice to those questions, and now all that had been so certain – John’s faith, the righteousness of his cause, the superiority of the Christians – seemed suspect.
John finished washing the sweat from the horse’s back and proceeded to scrape its coat clean. When he was done, he patted the horse a final time, grabbed his tunic from where it was slung over the stall door, and left the stables. He was passing through the narrow space between the east side of the villa and the outer wall when he heard a high-pitched giggle and froze, his pulse quickening. He looked about and saw Zimat, peeking out through the shutters of one of the rooms in the villa.
‘Salaam,’ John said as he hurriedly pulled on his tunic.
‘Salaam. I liked you better with your shirt off,’ Zimat added in Arabic. ‘I have never seen a Frank shirtless.’
John’s eyebrows shot up. He approached the window. ‘Haven’t you?’
Zimat’s golden cheeks flushed crimson, but she did not move away. ‘You-you speak our tongue,’ she managed. ‘How?’
