tongue was burned. John would die.
‘Again,’ Sabir told him.
Yusuf licked the blade a second time. It felt as if a hundred angry wasps were in his mouth, stinging at his tongue. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. He dug his fingernails into his palms. Yusuf met the eyes of Umar, who was watching him closely, and forced himself to smile. Then, before Sabir even prompted, he licked the blade a final time. He could taste blood in his mouth now and felt himself grow faint. Sabir took his arm, steadying him.
‘Bring him water!’ Sabir shouted.
A woman presented a cup, and Yusuf drank. The cold water only worsened the ache in his tongue. He drained the cup and forced a smile. ‘Shukran,’ he said to the woman who had given him the water.
Umar pressed forward. ‘Examine him, Father. Let us see if he tells the truth.’
Sabir nodded. ‘Back!’ he shouted to the crowd. They retreated several feet, opening up a space around Yusuf and Sabir. Sabir turned to Yusuf. ‘Open.’
‘I do not lie,’ Yusuf whispered to him, then opened his mouth.
Sabir peered inside for a moment, then nodded in satisfaction. ‘He speaks the truth!’
‘Impossible!’ Umar protested, rushing forward.
‘I have made my judgement, Son. Yusuf speaks the truth. You will apologize to him.’
Jaw clenched, Umar bowed slightly to Yusuf. ‘Forgive me my error,’ he spat, then turned and strode away into the darkness beyond the firelight.
‘Forgive him,’ Sabir said. ‘The death of his wife has unbalanced him. Now come to my tent. You need food and water.’
Yusuf began to follow Sabir, when John grabbed his arm. ‘I don’t understand,’ he whispered in Frankish. ‘How did it not burn you?’
‘It did,’ Yusuf replied.
John looked to Sabir, who was standing at the entrance to his tent, beckoning for them to follow. ‘Then why did he lie?’
‘He is a wise man. He knew I told the truth.’
‘Wake up! Wake up!’
John opened his eyes to see Sabir crouched over Yusuf, shaking his arm. The tent flap was open and morning sunlight streamed inside. ‘What is it?’ Yusuf mumbled, his burned and swollen tongue making it painful for him to speak.
‘The Frankish bandits have followed you. You must go quickly. If they find you here, then we will suffer.’
Yusuf rose immediately. ‘I understand.’
John and Yusuf followed Sabir outside. He pointed to the horizon, where a plume of dust rose high above the desert floor. ‘There. They are only a few miles off.’ He handed them each a full waterskin. ‘Take these and head east.’ He pointed in the opposite direction of the Franks, to where John could just make out a line of low hills on the horizon. ‘The Sajur River is just over those hills. Once you reach it, Tell Bashir is not far. If you move fast, you may make it.’
‘Thank you, sheikh,’ Yusuf told him. ‘You have saved our lives.’
‘Not if you do not hurry. Go!’
Yusuf kissed Sabir on both cheeks, then slung the waterskin over his shoulder and loped out of camp. John joined him, jogging at his side. ‘The Franks already have our gold. Why would they follow us?’ John huffed between breaths.
‘Perhaps it is not our gold that they are after.’
‘What then?’
‘Me. If they know who I am, then they know my father will pay for my ransom.’
John glanced back at the cloud of dust. It already seemed much closer. ‘Then we had best hurry,’ he said and picked up the pace.
They ran on in silence, conserving their breath. John’s legs burned with fatigue after the previous day’s march across the desert, and painful blisters had formed on his heels. He gritted his teeth and pressed on. The sun rose from behind the hills ahead, and John was soon soaked in sweat. When they finally reached the shade cast by the hills, they stopped to drink. As he tilted back his waterskin, John looked back to the cloud of dust thrown up by their pursuers.
‘’Sblood,’ he cursed. ‘They’re close.’
‘Only a few miles back,’ Yusuf agreed. ‘And closing fast.’ He placed the stopper back in his waterskin. ‘Come on.’
To save time, they avoided the twisting paths that ran at the base of the hills and headed straight east, slogging up and down hill after hill. Sweat ran down John’s face, stinging his eyes, and his muscles screamed with agony. But he forced himself to keep going, trudging up the face of the hill before him. Yusuf ran ahead, seemingly tireless. He was already halfway up the next hill, and when he reached the top, he let out a whoop of joy. John staggered up after him and stood bent over, hands on his knees. ‘Thank God,’ he managed between breaths.
Before them, the hill sloped down towards carefully tended fields that ran up to the edge of a broad river, its slow-moving waters sparkling silver. A road alongside the river snaked to the north, and there, rising high above the valley on a lone hill, was the fortress of Tell Bashir, with the houses of the town scattered around it. It was no more than a mile off.
Yusuf clapped John on the back. ‘We made it!’
‘Not yet.’ John pointed behind them. The dust from the hooves of the bandits’ horses was rising up from the hills just behind them.
‘We’ll have to run,’ Yusuf said. ‘Are you up to it?’ John grimaced, but nodded. ‘Come on, then!’ Yusuf sprinted down the hill, and John followed.
They reached the bottom of the slope and tore across a field of saffron, leaving a haze of yellow pollen hanging in the air behind them. They crashed through a spinach patch and out on to the road. Despite his burning lungs, John kept going, straining to keep up with Yusuf. As they raced down the road, the fortress loomed closer and closer. It was of Roman construction, its thick walls showing bands of red brick separated by a mixture of concrete and rough stone. John could see three soldiers standing above the gatehouse, bows in hand.
As they passed the first house on the outskirts of town, John began to slow. ‘We’re almost there!’ Yusuf called back in encouragement, but John could go no further. He stumbled to a stop, bent over and vomited. Looking back, he saw the Frankish bandits sitting astride their horses atop the distant hills. The bandits thundered down the hill after them. With a groan, John straightened and ran on, stumbling down the main street. Houses were built close on either side, but nobody was out. The doors were all closed and the windows shuttered.
They reached the hill on which the fortress sat and John gritted his teeth, forcing himself up the sloping road after Yusuf. The two staggered to a stop before the closed gate and John fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Behind him, the bandits were galloping along the road towards them. They would reach the fortress in minutes.
Yusuf pounded on the closed gate. ‘Open up! Open the gate!’
A grill slid open, revealing a man’s face. His square jaw was clean-shaven, indicating that he was a mamluk, and he had dark, penetrating eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What do you want?’
‘I am Yusuf ibn Ayub. I have been sent by Nur ad-Din to take command of this fortress. Open the gate.’
The man frowned. ‘And why should I do that?’
‘I told you!’ Yusuf shouted, exasperated. ‘I have been sent by Nur ad-Din. I am your lord, and I command you to open the gate!’ While Yusuf shouted, John glanced behind them. The bandits had now reached the outskirts of the town.
‘Gumushtagin is my lord,’ the man behind the gate replied. ‘He commanded me to hold this fort until the Seljuks arrive. They are bringing us a fortune in gold.’ He eyed Yusuf’s ragged clothing. ‘What do you bring?’
Yusuf’s face was beginning to turn red, and John could tell he was on the point of exploding in anger. John placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Easy,’ he whispered. ‘We cannot afford to anger him.’ He glanced back to the bandits, who were only two hundred yards away.
Yusuf nodded. ‘What is your name, mamluk?’ he asked in a more even voice.
