‘Baha’ ad-Din Qaraqush.’
‘I bring only myself, Qaraqush, but that is enough to make you rich.’
Qaraqush laughed. ‘You are only a child.’
Yusuf’s jaw clenched, but his voice remained calm. ‘You are right. I am a child. I am no threat to you and your men. I humbly request your hospitality. Please let us into the citadel.’ Qaraqush’s brow creased, and he hesitated. To deny a traveller hospitality was a terrible breach of honour, and Yusuf in his dirty, torn tunic certainly did not look threatening. ‘Please, man,’ Yusuf insisted. ‘We have walked for miles through the desert. I am tired, hungry and in no mood to argue. All I ask is shelter, food and drink. We will leave in the morning.’ Qaraqush examined Yusuf for a moment longer, then the grill slammed shut.
‘’Sblood!’ John cursed. The Frankish bandits were racing up the main street, bows in hand. One let fly, and an arrow hit the gate next to John with a thud. Then the gate behind them creaked open, just enough for Yusuf and John to slip through. They hurried inside, and the gate slammed shut behind them.
Qaraqush stood before them. He was short but powerfully built, with a thick neck and arms. ‘Welcome,’ he said, ‘to Tell Bashir.’
Chapter 11
Yusuf sat on the dirt floor of the small cell, his knees drawn up to his chest in an attempt to ward off the evening chill. John was slumped against the opposite wall, his head hanging between his knees, his blond hair lit by a stream of light slanting in through the barred window. As soon as they had been admitted to the citadel, they had been marched to this cell. They had seen no one since.
John raised his head. ‘What do you think they will do with us?’
‘They will not kill us,’ Yusuf replied, ‘not after inviting us in. That would shame them.’
‘What then?’
Yusuf shrugged. ‘I do not know.’ There was the rasp of metal on metal as the door’s bolt slid back, and he got to his feet. The cell door swung open to reveal four mamluk soldiers in chainmail. One of them, a slender young man with a shaved head, stepped inside and held out his hand. ‘Your weapons.’ Yusuf hesitated. ‘They will be returned to you,’ the mamluk promised. Yusuf handed over his weapons, and John did the same. The young mamluk tucked Yusuf’s sheathed sword and dagger into his belt and handed John’s sword to one of the other men. ‘Come with us,’ he said. ‘Qaraqush requests your presence at dinner.’
Yusuf and John followed the young mamluk out of the cell, and the other guards fell in behind them. They crossed the courtyard to the citadel’s keep, a thick-walled, three-storey building. They stepped through the arched doorway and into a dimly lit entrance chamber. A staircase opposite led to the next floor. Yusuf and John headed for it, but one of the mamluks grabbed John’s arm, stopping him.
‘Your slave will eat in the kitchen,’ the soldier said, gesturing to a door to the right.
‘He is not a slave,’ Yusuf replied.
‘He is a Frank,’ the bald mamluk spat.
Yusuf’s brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but John put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It is all right, Yusuf. Go ahead. I will be fine.’
‘Very well,’ Yusuf grumbled. The guards led John away, and Yusuf followed the young mamluk up the stairs and into a thickly carpeted room, well lit with candlelight. Opposite the door, Qaraqush sat on a cushion before a low table. He was dressed simply in a tunic of white cotton. He extended his hand, indicating that Yusuf should sit on the cushion opposite him.
‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ Yusuf said as he sat. ‘You saved my life today. I am in your debt.’
Qaraqush waved away his thanks. ‘The Prophet, peace and blessing of Allah be upon him, commands us to welcome friend and enemy alike with open arms.’
‘I hope you shall count me as a friend.’
Qaraqush frowned. He clapped his hands, and two servants entered carrying bowls of hot water and towels. When Yusuf had washed his hands, more servants entered, and a bowl of steaming lamb stew, a plate of fresh flatbread, and a dish of cool cucumber yoghurt were placed on the low table before Yusuf. His stomach rumbled loudly.
‘You are hungry,’ Qaraqush said. ‘Eat.’
Yusuf eagerly tore off a piece of the soft flatbread and scooped up some of the lamb stew. ‘In the name of Allah,’ he murmured and ate, closing his eyes to savour the taste. He tore off another piece of bread.
‘Eat well,’ Qaraqush told him. ‘Tomorrow morning you leave.’
Yusuf lowered the bread. ‘You know that if you send us away, we will die. The Frankish raiders are waiting for us.’
‘That is no concern of mine.’
‘On the contrary. You know of my uncle, Shirkuh?’
Qaraqush’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Shirkuh?’ His eyes narrowed as he examined Yusuf more closely. ‘Of course I know of him. He is Nur ad-Din’s greatest general.’
Yusuf met Qaraqush’s eyes. ‘If I am killed, my uncle will not rest until he sees you dead.’
Qaraqush thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I am afraid you are wrong. Why should Shirkuh seek vengeance against me, when it is Frankish bandits who will have killed you?’
‘I see,’ Yusuf murmured.
‘I am sorry, Yusuf, but it seems we are not destined to be friends. Tomorrow you will leave. What happens after that is in Allah’s hands.’ Qaraqush clapped, and servants entered with the next course.
Yusuf had lost his appetite, and he ate little for the remainder of the meal. Qaraqush was content to dine in silence. When the last course had been consumed, he bid Yusuf farewell. ‘Ma’a as-salaama, Yusuf. The guards will show you out.’
The door opened and the bald mamluk guard entered. Yusuf rose to leave, but then stopped at the door. ‘Wait,’ he said, turning back to face Qaraqush. ‘I have a proposition for you.’
‘A proposition?’
‘A challenge: I will fight your strongest man in hand-to-hand combat. If I win, we stay.’
‘You against my strongest man?’ Qaraqush chuckled. ‘You are brave, Yusuf, but you are little more than a boy.’
‘Then you should have no fear of my winning.’
‘ Hmph,’ Qaraqush snorted. ‘And why should I accept your challenge? What do I have to gain?’
‘My dagger.’ Yusuf gestured to the weapon tucked into the bald mamluk’s belt. ‘The man who defeats me will have it. And you, Qaraqush, shall have my sword.’
Qaraqush beckoned to the guard, who handed the two weapons over. Qaraqush took the dagger – the one that Shirkuh had given Yusuf – and whistled in appreciation as he fingered the eagle intricately carved into the hilt. Then he drew the sword and ran his finger along its curving blade. ‘Damascus steel,’ he noted. ‘A fine piece of craftsmanship.’ He sheathed the blade and smiled. ‘I like you, boy. You have spirit. I accept your challenge, but your victory will not win your Frank’s freedom.’
‘John is my friend,’ Yusuf protested. ‘I will not leave without him.’
‘Then he shall have to fight for himself. My men will enjoy watching him beaten.’
‘I am sure,’ Yusuf said, a trace of a smile on his lips. ‘I accept.’
‘Then we have a deal.’ The two men clasped shoulders and kissed one another’s cheeks to seal the agreement. ‘But even if you win, you will only be postponing the inevitable,’ Qaraqush warned Yusuf. ‘The Seljuk Sultan’s men will arrive in two weeks. My lord, Gumushtagin, has ordered me to turn the citadel over to them, and you will go with it. The sultan will pay good money for the nephew of Shirkuh, and I fear he will not treat you as generously as I have.’
‘You will not turn the fortress over to the sultan.’
‘No?’ Qaraqush’s eyebrows rose. ‘And why is that?’
