John recognized the game they were playing as polo. He had seen Yusuf play it in Baalbek.
John reined in his horse just behind Yusuf and watched as one of the players brought his mallet down and with a loud crack, sent the wooden kura hurtling towards the left-hand goalposts. Several riders spurred after the ball, but two outraced the rest, galloping close to John and the others. One was tall and thickly built, light-skinned and with a thick chestnut-brown beard. The other was darker, tall and thin, with only a few wispy black hairs on his chin and cheeks. The riders were neck and neck as they galloped towards the kura, their mallets raised high. At the last second, the dark-skinned rider pushed ahead and veered his horse towards the other man, cutting him off. He then brought his mallet down with a triumphant yell and sent the ball hurtling through the goalposts.
‘Who is that?’ Yusuf asked.
Shirkuh smiled. ‘That is our lord, Nur ad-Din.’ He kicked his heels and trotted on to the field. The others followed, John bringing up the rear.
‘ Ho! Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din roared as they approached. ‘Well met!’ Close up, John saw that Nur ad-Din had brilliant, golden eyes and a full-toothed, bright smile. John looked past him and was surprised to see that the rider who had contested him for the kura was none other than Turan. While Nur ad-Din rode up to Shirkuh and grasped his arm, Turan guided his horse towards Yusuf.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Yusuf,’ Turan said, greeting his brother formally.
‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Brother,’ Yusuf replied stiffly, and the two leaned across their saddles and exchanged the ritual kisses.
‘ Ah!’ Nur ad-Din turned his gaze upon Yusuf. ‘So this is the young eagle that you told me of, Shirkuh? He doesn’t look like much.’
‘Nor did you at his age.’
‘True enough. Tell me: do you play polo, Yusuf?’ Yusuf nodded. ‘Then we shall see if you merit the praise your uncle has given you. You will play on my team.’ Nur ad-Din raised his voice so that all those on the field could hear him. ‘Two gold dinars to whoever scores the next goal!’ The men cheered, and Nur ad-Din turned back towards Yusuf. ‘Let us see what you are made of, young eagle.’
Yusuf sat astride his horse, mallet in hand, and watched as the crowd of riders surged up the pitch towards the far goal. He held back, keeping free of the melee and saving his horse’s strength. It had already carried him thirty miles that day, and Yusuf knew his mount would only be good for one or two short bursts. So he stayed near his own goal and watched as the other riders jostled against one another in the fight for the kura. Nur ad-Din forced his way alongside the ball and swung, but missed. There was a loud crack as an opposing player hit the kura, sending it out of the crowd. Turan was waiting for it. He slammed the ball downfield towards Yusuf and galloped after it.
Yusuf ignored his brother; his eyes were fixed on the kura. He spurred towards it and hit the ball smoothly, sending it bouncing back up the field. A split second later, the handle of Turan’s mallet slammed into his gut. Yusuf grabbed his horse’s mane and managed to stay in the saddle. He reined in and sat doubled over, gasping for breath.
‘Welcome to Aleppo, Brother,’ Turan sneered as he rode past.
Yusuf looked past his brother and noticed Nur ad-Din watching him. He gritted his teeth and straightened, then spurred after Turan. A crowd had again formed around the kura, and this time Yusuf headed straight for it. His mount was tiring fast, and Yusuf kicked at its sides, squeezing the last bit of effort from it as he weaved through the other riders towards the centre of the melee, following Turan. Turan reached the kura first, but as he swung at it, Yusuf slammed his horse into Turan’s mount. Turan missed, and Yusuf hit the kura up the field. He saw Nur ad-Din charging for the ball, and Yusuf steered to the right, keeping clear of the other riders. Nur ad-Din reached the kura first, but the crowd was on him instantly. Nur ad-Din managed to hit the ball, but it glanced off a horse and rolled straight to Yusuf. There was no one between him and the goal.
Yusuf raised his mallet, but then hesitated. He spotted Nur ad-Din alone and sent the kura hurtling towards him. As the ball reached him, Nur ad-Din swung his mallet down and sent it flying through the goalposts. He let out a loud whoop and raised his arms in victory.
‘Well done, Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din called as he rode over. ‘You have saved me two dinars, and for that, you shall have the honour of dining with me tonight. You will meet my wife, Asimat, and we shall see if you are as clever with words as you are with a polo mallet. But I warn you: Asimat is harder to impress than I.’
Yusuf stood at the window of his room – part of Shirkuh’s suite in the palace – and looked out over the city that was now his home. His room faced east, away from the setting sun, whose dying light cast the white-walled buildings of the city below in soft pink. The ululating chant of the muezzins reached Yusuf as they began the call for evening prayer. Below, the streets filled with men and women headed towards the mosques. Yusuf moved from the window and went to the small washbasin in his room to perform the ritual ablution required before prayer. He filled the washbasin from his waterskin and then carefully washed his arms, face and hair, repeating the ritual three times. He dried himself off with a cotton cloth, then unrolled his prayer mat.
‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful,’ Yusuf began, when he was interrupted by loud knocking. The door swung open to reveal Shirkuh.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘It is time to dine.’
‘But what about evening prayers?’
‘Allah will wait. Nur ad-Din will not.’
Yusuf followed his uncle out of the room and down a long, dim hallway. ‘I thought Nur ad-Din was a religious man.’
‘Our lord practises religion in his own way. Instead of prayers, he offers victories over the Franks. Which do you think Allah values more?’
They reached the end of the hallway and ascended a steep staircase. At the top, Yusuf found himself in an open, marble-floored room. To his left, a row of arched windows looked out over the city. Opposite the windows was a large double door guarded by three mamluks. Shirkuh approached and allowed the guards to search him for weapons. Yusuf did the same.
‘How are your wives, Marwan?’ Shirkuh asked the man searching him.
Marwan grimaced. ‘Three wives is three too many.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Shirkuh chuckled. ‘That is why I have none.’
The search concluded, and the guards pulled the doors open. Yusuf followed Shirkuh into a large room that was a double of the one they had just left, with arched windows on the far wall looking out over the citadel grounds. But this room was not empty. Braziers burned in the corners and a thick rug – saffron-yellow with geometrical designs in blue and crimson – lay spread across the floor. Cushions were stacked in a circle on the rug and low tables had been set up at intervals between the cushions. Nur ad-Din sat across from the door in a caftan of red silk. To his left was the woman who had to be his wife, Asimat. Upon seeing her, Yusuf felt his pulse quicken. She was surprisingly young – perhaps a few years older than Yusuf – and her milky-white skin was flawless. She had wavy, chestnut-brown hair that framed a long, thin face with a delicate nose and full lips. Her dark eyes met Yusuf’s, and she did not look away. Yusuf forced himself to look back to Nur ad-Din.
‘Shirkuh! Yusuf!’ Nur ad-Din smiled and raised a goblet towards his guests. He gestured to the young woman. ‘This is Asimat.’ Yusuf bowed to her, and she nodded back. ‘Do not be deceived by her beauty, Yusuf. Her tongue is sharp.’
‘A wise wife is a great asset, Husband,’ Asimat said quietly.
‘True, but a quiet wife is a greater one still,’ Nur ad-Din replied with a laugh. He gestured to the cushions. ‘Please, sit.’ Shirkuh took a seat to Nur ad-Din’s right, and Yusuf sat directly across from Nur ad-Din. As soon as they were seated, servant girls carrying platters of food entered through a side door. One of the servants, a thin girl with skin as black as ebony, placed a tray beside Yusuf. It held steaming flatbread, a bowl of yoghurt dip and a fragrant lamb stew that smelled of mint. Another girl placed a goblet on Yusuf’s table and filled it with red wine. ‘A toast to you, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘Welcome to Aleppo and to my table.’ He quaffed his wine, and Shirkuh followed suit. Yusuf lifted his goblet and hesitated, gazing at the crimson contents. He glanced at Asimat, who had not drunk. Then he placed the cup aside.
‘You do not drink,’ Nur ad-Din noted. ‘Is it that you are unhappy to be in Aleppo?’ He smiled. ‘Or is it the company you find objectionable?’
‘N-no my lord,’ Yusuf stammered. ‘I do not drink wine. Allah forbids it.’
‘You are a man of conviction, and you are to be commended for it.’ Nur ad-Din clapped his hands. ‘Servants!
