‘I am not a total savage.’
‘I never said you were.’
‘But it is what you think of us, is it not?’ John insisted. ‘We are fierce warriors, monsters, savages.’
‘That is what I thought,’ Zimat admitted. ‘But you are different.’ She met his eyes. ‘You saved me.’
John looked away. ‘I only did what any knight would do.’
‘But you risked your life. You were lucky not to have been executed.’
‘I would do it again.’
‘I know.’ Zimat turned away. ‘Someone is coming,’ she whispered as she looked back to John. ‘I must go.’ But she did not move. John stared into her dark eyes, and she met his gaze without blinking. He leaned forward to kiss her. Zimat slapped him. ‘How dare you!’ she snapped and slammed the shutters closed.
John touched his cheek where she had slapped him, and a grin spread across his face. For just before the shutters had slammed shut, he had noticed that Zimat was smiling.
Yusuf sidestepped a punch from his younger brother Selim and grabbed his arm, spinning Selim around and placing him in a headlock. Selim struggled for a moment, then gave up and went limp. ‘Never over-commit against a larger opponent,’ Yusuf told his brother, then released him. The two boys stood with their hands on their hips, breathing hard. Yusuf wiped the sweat from his forehead as he looked up to the hazy-blue autumn sky, framed by the tall walls of the temple. The sun had sunk behind the west wall. They had been training for well over an hour.
‘You did well today,’ Yusuf told Selim. ‘You can go.’
‘You always send me away early,’ Selim pouted. ‘I want to stay.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘What I do now, I must do alone, Brother.’
Reluctantly, Selim trudged out of the temple. Yusuf had brought him there every day for the past week. If John would not help him, then Yusuf would find other ways to train. Selim was still only a boy, but sparring with him was better than nothing. And teaching, Yusuf had found, forced him to think more carefully about what he was doing. Together, they practised swordplay and afterwards trained for hand-to-hand combat. Each day after Yusuf sent Selim home, he ended with the hardest exercise of all.
Yusuf took a drink from the waterskin, then walked to the centre of the temple and sat cross-legged on the worn stone floor. ‘Amant-Allah,’ he whispered as he closed his eyes. God protect me. The first time he had tried this exercise, he triggered an attack that left him gasping on the floor of the temple until he lost consciousness. His other efforts had been only slightly more successful. Still, he would keep trying until he conquered his weakness. Yusuf closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and held it. He counted silently: ‘Wahad, tnain, tlati, arb’a, khamsi.’ As he used up the air in his lungs, he felt the familiar panic. He could hear the thumping of his pulse in his temples and his heart began to race. He kept counting, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘Tlatin!’ he whispered as he reached thirty and allowed himself to breath. But he did not gasp for air, even though his lungs burned as if he were suffocating. He forced himself to breath slowly and evenly. Gradually the feeling of suffocation faded. Yusuf grinned in triumph. For the first time, he had fought off one of his attacks.
Yusuf rose, slung the waterskin over his shoulder, and left the temple, skipping down the stone steps. He dodged through the crumbled remains of the temple complex and entered the street leading to his home. There, he slowed his pace, enjoying the perfect weather. The heat of summer was gone, but the winter rains had not yet come. It was the best of seasons, and the street was filled with men working outdoors and women in veils chatting as they kneaded dough or sewed. Yusuf weaved between them as he walked up the hill to his home. The guard at the front gate nodded as he entered.
Yusuf passed through to the inner courtyard of the villa, where he washed his head, face and arms in the shallow pool. Then he went to his room to collect the book of poetry that sat beside his bed. There was still time for some reading beneath the lime trees before evening prayers. He headed down a shadowy hallway and into the kitchen, where he sneaked a piece of khubz – hot flatbread – from the kitchen slave, who complained half- heartedly. Yusuf popped the warm bread in his mouth and stepped out into the courtyard. John, was waiting just outside the kitchen door.
‘What do you want?’ Yusuf asked as he brushed past without stopping.
John fell in behind Yusuf. ‘I wish to apologize. It was the truth in your words about my people that angered me, not you.’
Yusuf stopped and turned to face John. ‘Then why did you avoid me?’
‘I did not wish to hear what you had to say, but ignoring you will not change the truth: many of my people are indeed savage, as you say. But I will show you that some of us have honour.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘Very well, come with me. I was just going to read from the Hamasah.’ Yusuf held up the thick book and smiled. ‘It will be an ideal lesson. There is nothing less savage than poetry.’
Yusuf led the way to the stable and up into the hayloft. He opened the Hamasah and leafed through the pages. ‘I will read,’ he said. ‘Listen carefully and tell me what the poems mean to you. This one is called the “Song of Maisuna”. She was a queen who married young. Listen.’ He turned to the book: The russet suit of camel’s hair, With spirits light, and eye serene, Is dearer to my bosom far Than all the trapping of a queen. The humble tent and murmuring breeze That whistles thro’ its fluttering wall, My unaspiring fancy please Better than towers and splendid halls. The rustic youth unspoilt by art, Son of my kindred, poor but free, Will ever to Maisuna’s heart Be dearer, pamper’d fool, than thee.
Yusuf looked up. ‘What does this mean to you?’
‘The queen is unhappy. She misses the simplicity of her home, of her people. She despises the luxurious life of her husband, the king. She feels trapped.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘This poem is famous amongst my people because it speaks of a truth: luxury makes one weak. The simplicity of the nomad, with only his tent and his camels, is honoured above the wealth of princes.’
‘Yet your princes live in great palaces.’
‘Yes, because such things are necessary to rule, but the wise ruler lives as a nomad within his grand halls.’
‘I am sure,’ John laughed. ‘And do nomads recite poetry?’
‘Of course, what better way to pass the cold nights in the desert?’ Yusuf flipped through the pages of the book. ‘Ah, this is one of my favourites. A love poem to ward off the chill desert night’: Leila, whene’er I gaze on thee My altered cheek turns pale, While upon thine, sweet maid, I see A deep’ning blush prevail. Leila, shall I the cause impart Why such a change takes place? The crimson stream deserts my heart, To mantle on thy face.
Yusuf looked up to see that John’s tanned face had flushed crimson. Yusuf laughed. ‘John! You’re blushing.’
‘I am not,’ John said, looking away.
‘You are, my friend. Has some maid captured your heart?’
John refused to meet Yusuf’s eye. ‘I am a slave,’ he muttered. ‘What does it matter?’
‘Slaves may marry if their master approves. And perhaps one day you will be free.’ He leaned closer to John and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Tell me. Who is it? A slave girl?’ John shook his head. ‘A girl from town, then,’ Yusuf said, grinning. ‘You must be careful, John. Her father will not take kindly to the attentions of a Frankish slave.’
But John shook his head once more. ‘It is not a girl from the village.’
The smile fell from Yusuf’s face. ‘I see.’ There was only one free woman in the villa who might have captured John’s heart. ‘Zimat,’ Yusuf said, his brow furrowed. ‘She is promised to a friend of mine, Khaldun. They will be married in three years, when he is a man.’
‘I did not know.’
‘Even if she were not promised, you could never be with her.’ Yusuf’s voice was hard. ‘It is forbidden. Put her from your mind. If you so much as touch my sister, you will die.’ He met John’s eyes. ‘I will kill you myself.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Let us continue. You read the next one.’ Yusuf handed the heavy book to John, who bent close to the page, biting his lip as he puzzled out the words of a poem about the incompatibility of pride and achieving true glory. Yusuf feared that John would not heed his warning. He was headstrong, and Zimat, well, she had always been unmanageable, unwilling to stay in her place as a woman. Yusuf had heard Ayub say more than once that he
