Yusuf smiled, despite the pain it caused his swollen lip. ‘I did.’
Shirkuh squeezed his shoulder. ‘Well done.’
Turan now stepped forward. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Uncle.’ The two exchanged three kisses, the proper greeting between adult relatives. ‘I am pleased to see you.’
‘And I am pleased to see you-all of you,’ Shirkuh replied. ‘It has been far too long.’
‘Now, go and look after your horses,’ Ayub told his sons.
‘Your uncle and I have business to discuss.’
‘Yes, Father,’ Yusuf said, echoed by his brothers.
‘I will see you all tonight, at supper,’ Shirkuh called after them as they hurried from the courtyard.
The three boys reached the entrance way, but they did not continue on to the stables. Instead, Turan turned right and pulled open the door leading to the living quarters. ‘Where are you going?’ Selim asked. ‘What about the horses?’
‘There’s time for the horses later, Selim,’ Yusuf told him.
‘After we find out what they are talking about,’ Turan agreed.
Yusuf pulled the door shut behind them, careful to make no noise, and the three of them hurried down the hallway, past sleeping chambers and the weaving-room, with its huge loom holding a half-woven carpet. They turned the corner and raced down another hallway to a heavy wooden door. It was already slightly ajar. Turan pushed it open, and the three of them stepped into a dark room. Hundreds of fleeces were stacked five deep against the far wall, filling the air with their musky smell. The wool was this year’s tribute from Yusuf’s father’s vassals, stored here until it could be worked, sold or sent on to their father’s lord, Nur ad-Din, in Aleppo. The stacks reached almost to the ceiling, and at the end of the pile, directly across from the door, the white soles of two bare feet were just visible.
‘Who’s there?’ Turan asked.
The feet disappeared, replaced a second later by a face. It was their sister, Zimat. She was older than all of them, thirteen and already a woman. Zimat was stunningly beautiful, and she knew it. She had flawless skin the colour of golden sand, long black hair and brilliantly white teeth, which she showed now as she grinned at them. ‘It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been listening.’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Turan told her. ‘Get out!’
Zimat did not move. ‘Shush, you big ox!’ she hissed. ‘They’ll hear you.’
‘This is no business of yours, woman,’ Turan grumbled as he climbed up beside her. Yusuf noticed that Turan slid in unnecessarily close to his sister, pressing his side against her. Zimat shot him a warning glance and moved away. Yusuf climbed up next, the raw wool scratching his face and arms as he pulled himself up the side. Once on top of the pile, he crawled forward in the narrow space between the wool and the ceiling, and took his place on the other side of Zimat. She had opened the shutters that covered the window a few inches, but Yusuf could see nothing through the thin crack between them except a sliver of the courtyard pool, flickering torchlight reflecting off its surface.
He could just hear the voices of his father and uncle, but they were too far off to make out what was being said.
‘What are they talking about?’ he asked Zimat.
‘Something about a king,’ she whispered. ‘From a place called France.’
‘That is the kingdom of the Franks!’ Yusuf said. ‘Across the sea.’
‘Who are the Franks?’ Selim asked as he slid in beside Yusuf.
Zimat rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t you know anything? They are monsters from over the seas. Bloodthirsty savages who eat children like you!’
‘Quiet,’ Turan told them. ‘They’re coming closer.’
Yusuf strained to hear. His father was speaking. ‘When will they land, and where?’
‘Acre and Antioch,’ Shirkuh replied. The two men stopped, and Yusuf could see the backs of their heads through the crack in the shutters. ‘As for when, I do not know. Perhaps they have landed already.’
‘How many?’
‘Thousands. Enough to take Damascus, perhaps even Aleppo.’
‘Allah save us,’ Yusuf’s father said. ‘My home and most of what I possess are in Damascus. And if Aleppo and our lord Nur ad-Din fall, then all is lost for us. We have already left two homes behind, Brother. Where would we go next?’
‘It will not come to that, inshallah.’
‘God willing?’ Ayub asked. ‘God turned his back on me the day Baalbek fell.’
‘Careful, Brother, you speak blasphemy.’ The two men stood silent for a moment, then Shirkuh continued. ‘The crusade is dangerous, yes, but it is also an opportunity. Nur ad-Din has a task for you. If you are successful, then you will find yourself restored to his favour.’
‘You have my ear. Speak on, Brother.’
‘Our people are divided. The Fatimids in Egypt quarrel with the Abbasid caliphate in Baghdad. The Seljuks threaten our lord from the north, while Emir Unur in Damascus has allied himself with the Franks. The Christians have exploited these divisions to build their kingdom, but if we join forces, they cannot stand against us. This Crusade can help bind us together. Nur ad-Din asks that you go to Unur and tell him what I have told you. Persuade him to ally with our lord.’
‘I will go, but I do not think Unur will listen.’
‘He will when the Franks march on his city. Fear will bring him to us.’
‘Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah,’ Shirkuh repeated. ‘You should take Turan and Yusuf with you. It is time that they learned their place in the world.’
‘Turan, yes, but Yusuf is too young.’
‘Perhaps, but there is something special about that one.’
‘Yusuf?’ Ayub scoffed. ‘He has been cursed with fits. He will never be a warrior.’
‘Do not be so sure.’
Yusuf did not hear the rest, for Ayub and Shirkuh had moved on, and their voices faded away. ‘Did you hear?’ Turan asked, his eyes shining. ‘Thousands of Franks: this means war! And I am going!’
‘I heard them,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Father said that Damascus might fall.’
‘You’re not afraid, are you, little brother?’ Turan jibed. He exaggerated his breathing, mimicking one of Yusuf’s fits. ‘Afraid-’ gasp ‘-the terrible Franks-’ gasp ‘-will come and get you.’
‘Stop that!’ Zimat ordered. ‘Don’t be childish, Turan.’
‘Zimat!’ It was their mother calling. ‘Where are you? You are supposed to be stirring the mishmishiyya!’
‘I must go.’ Zimat slid down from the pile of fleeces and hurried out.
‘We should go too,’ Yusuf said. ‘If we don’t see to the horses before dinner, Father will have our hides.’
Yusuf arrived at the evening meal freshly scrubbed, wearing a white cotton caftan, the ends of the billowing sleeves embroidered red and the middle belted with red wool. His clothes were immaculate, but his eyes were red and his nose swollen. Ibn Jumay, the family doctor, had seen to him, and the Jew’s treatment had been almost worse than Yusuf’s injuries. First, Ibn Jumay had reset Yusuf’s nose, clucking all the while about the dangers of polo. He had then made Yusuf smoke kunnab leaves in order to reduce the pain and bring down the swelling. The pipe was hardly out of his mouth before Ibn Jumay had smeared Yusuf’s nose inside and out with a noxious unguent that smelled of rotten eggs. The doctor had said the mixture would prevent infection. It would certainly keep Yusuf from enjoying dinner.
In honour of their guest, the floor of the dining room had been covered with the family’s best rug – soft goat hair knotted on to a warp of wool, forming patterns of swirling red flowers and white starbursts against a yellow background. The room was bare of any other decoration, save for a low table that ran down the middle, surrounded by cushions of yellow saffron-stained cotton stuffed with wool. Yusuf took his place at the middle of the table, across from Selim. To his right, Turan sat across from their father, and Shirkuh sat at the head of the table. To Yusuf’s left were Zimat and Yusuf’s mother, Basimah. She was an older, fuller version of Zimat, still beautiful despite the streaks of silver in her long black hair. Normally, they would not have appeared in the presence of a male guest, but Shirkuh was family.
The meal that Basimah and her two kitchen servants had prepared to welcome Shirkuh exceeded even her
