‘Yusuf prefers books to swords,’ Turan sneered.
Yusuf ignored him. ‘I try to cultivate my mind as well as my body. I believe the two can be equally dangerous weapons.’
‘Well said,’ Khaldun murmured.
‘Indeed,’ Mansur ad-Din agreed. He turned to Ayub and began to speak in a low voice, a signal that the others at the table could talk as they pleased. Soon the room was buzzing with conversation.
John took advantage of the opportunity to whisper to Taur. ‘Where were you really?’ Taur smiled slyly, but did not reply. ‘Surely you were not in town all day,’ John insisted. ‘You were stiff as a priest’s cock when you walked in here.’
‘I cannot say,’ Taur whispered back. ‘My master would kill me.’
‘He doesn’t have to know,’ John offered, but Taur shook his head and refused to speak.
The next morning Yusuf was shaken awake by the mamluk, Abaan. Yusuf looked to the shuttered window in his room. No light filtered through. ‘Your father requests your presence in the interior courtyard,’ Abaan said. He began to leave, then stopped in the doorway when he saw that Yusuf had not yet moved. ‘Now!’
Yusuf rolled out of bed and pulled on his cotton pants, tunic and a brown caftan. He slipped on his sandals and belted his caftan around his waist as he walked down the cool, shadowy corridor to the courtyard. He entered to find his father waiting in the dim predawn light, his arms crossed and his face a blank mask. Turan stood next to him. He sneered at Yusuf, who scowled back. Next to Ayub and Turan was a third man – a Bedouin, one of the nomadic people who wandered the wastes beyond the villages, driving their flocks from pasture to pasture.
The man wore a caftan of rough cotton and a white turban, tied in place with a black ribbon. He was very short, with a thick black beard, beak-like nose and penetrating grey eyes. The man’s mouth was set in a thin line. As Yusuf approached, his father turned to the shepherd. ‘Is this the one?’
The Bedouin’s forehead wrinkled as he examined Yusuf. ‘I cannot be sure. But it was one of your sons, of that much I am certain.’
Ayub frowned and turned to face his sons. ‘Waqar here is the sheikh of his tribe.’
‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Waqar,’ Yusuf and Turan said, welcoming him. The sheikh did not reply.
‘Waqar has come to lay a serious charge against one of you,’ Ayub said.
The shepherd nodded. ‘Yesterday, I rose before sunrise and rode into Baalbek with my sons to trade. When I returned that night, I found that my camp had been raided. There were at least two men. They killed one of my goats and raped my young daughter. She was to be married this spring, and now she is worthless. My brother chased the intruders off, and in their hurry they left behind a horse. It bore the brand of Najm ad-Din.’ The shepherd pointed an accusing finger at Turan, then at Yusuf. ‘One of you did this. I demand justice!’
‘Forgive my impertinence, ya sidi,’ Yusuf said to the shepherd, addressing him respectfully as sir. ‘But perhaps it was one of my father’s men who did this terrible crime. The horse alone proves nothing.’
‘It was no man,’ Waqar spat. ‘My daughter swears that the one who shamed her was no older than she.’
‘It was Yusuf!’ Turan burst out. ‘Yusuf and that Frankish slave of his. They must have done it.’
‘He lies!’ Yusuf protested.
‘Silence!’ Ayub roared. ‘You shame me with your childish behaviour.’ He turned to Turan. ‘Explain yourself. Why do you say that Yusuf did this thing?’
‘Because I could not have done it, Father. I was in town all of yesterday. My friends, Idiq and Rakin, will vouch for me.’
‘What do you say to this, Yusuf?’
‘I was with Imad ad-Din yesterday afternoon. I could not have raided this man’s camp.’
Ayub’s mouth set in a hard line as he looked from one of his sons to the other. ‘One of you is lying. Admit your fault now, and I will be lenient.’ Neither Turan nor Yusuf spoke. ‘Very well,’ Ayub said. ‘You will be judged, and judged harshly. I will sell the slave of whichever of you did this deed; he let you commit this crime, which makes him as guilty as you. And whoever did this will marry the sheikh’s daughter and will pay the bride gift out of his inheritance.’ He turned to Waqar, who was smiling at his good fortune; to be connected by marriage to the household of Nur ad-Din was more than he could have hoped for. ‘The local imam, Imad ad-Din is a wise man. He returns from Damascus tomorrow, and I will ask him to judge the case. Tonight, you will be my guest. Tomorrow, you shall have justice.’
Yusuf sat cross-legged on the floor of the dining room and listened as a rooster’s crowing broke the morning silence. Despite the early hour, the room was already full with men who had come to hear his case. The long, low table had been removed to create space for an impromptu court. At one end of the room, Imad ad-Din sat on a pile of cushions, his expression stern. To his left sat Ayub and to his right the Bedouin Waqar, who maintained a permanent scowl.
Yusuf sat before them, with Turan on his left. Immediately behind Turan were the men he had brought as witnesses: his friends Idiq and Rakin, his slave Taur and a bearded man that Yusuf did not recognize. Only John sat with Yusuf. The back of the room was crowded with his father’s men, Abaan at their head.
Imad ad-Din cleared his throat, and Yusuf turned his eyes back to him. ‘The case before us is not clear,’ the imam began. ‘Both of the accused claim to have been in Baalbek when the crime was committed. Today, we shall find the truth of the matter. Turan.’ Imad ad-Din beckoned Turan forward. ‘State your case.’
‘I was in town all of yesterday in the company of Idiq and Rakin,’ Turan said, gesturing to his two friends. ‘My slave and I left shortly after morning prayers. We took two horses from the stables. We returned with two horses in time for the feast. My father saw me there. I could not have done this shameful deed.’
‘I see.’ Imad ad-Din paused, his brown eyes burrowing into Turan, who lowered his gaze to the floor. ‘I have examined your father’s stables. I found a horse there that does not bear the brand of your father. Do you know where this horse might have come from, Turan?’
‘I do not know. Ask Yusuf.’
Imad ad-Din ignored the suggestion. ‘You were in town all of yesterday, you say? Tell me, what were you doing?’
Turan hesitated. His eyes flitted from his father to the floor and back. ‘I was at a tavern.’ Ayub frowned.
‘A tavern?’ Imad ad-Din asked. ‘Which one?’
‘Akhtar’s.’
‘A place of ill-repute, gambling and prostitution,’ Ayub growled. ‘Such conduct does you little credit, Son.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Imad ad-Din said, ‘if Turan was at Akhtar’s then he could not have also raided Waqar’s camp. Turan, you may sit.’ Turan smirked triumphantly as he took his seat. ‘Idiq, Rakin,’ Imad ad-Din called. ‘Come forward.’ The two young men approached. They were Turan’s frequent companions when he smoked hashish, local boys with wispy facial hair and pimply faces. Rakin stood with his head down and his hands clasped before him. Idiq held his head high and met Imad ad-Din’s gaze. ‘Idiq, do you swear that you were with Turan all of yesterday?’ Imad ad-Din asked.
‘Yes,’ Idiq said confidently.
‘And you, Rakin?’
‘I was with him all day,’ Rakin affirmed in an adolescent warble.
‘And you passed the day at Akhtar’s?’ Both boys nodded. ‘Did you win at the tables?’
Rakin’s forehead creased, and he looked to Turan. Idiq looked equally unsure. ‘We-we did,’ Idiq said at last.
‘How much?’
The two boys looked at each other. ‘Three dirhams,’ Rakin said. ‘Idiq was lucky at dice.’
‘I see,’ Imad ad-Din mused. ‘I notice that you have your purse with you, Idiq. May I see it.’
‘I-I-’ Idiq stuttered.
‘Come, give it here, boy,’ Imad ad-Din insisted. Idiq handed the purse over. Imad ad-Din opened it and shook the contents into his hand. ‘Four fals,’ he said, holding up the cheap copper coins. ‘Where did your winnings go?’
‘Women,’ Turan interjected. ‘We spent them on women.’
‘Silence!’ Imad ad-Din snapped. ‘You were not questioned, Turan.’ He turned back to Idiq. ‘You spent this
