for war. Eager to arrive for the campaign season, Yusuf had left as soon as the first tender green shoots had appeared in the wheat fields. He had ridden fast, keeping only John, Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub for company and leaving the rest of his mamluks and Faridah to follow at a slower pace. The snows had hit them on their first day out of Tell Bashir.
‘This weather does not bode well,’ Qaraqush murmured. ‘A bad harvest will mean little money for the campaign season.’
‘It’s only a dusting,’ Yusuf replied. ‘Inshallah, the crops will not suffer.’ He glanced at John, who rode with his eyes fixed on the distant walls. He had been quiet throughout the trip from Tell Bashir. ‘Come,’ Yusuf said. ‘The sooner we’re inside and before a fire, the better.’ He spurred his horse to a trot, and the others followed.
Yusuf nodded to the guards as they passed through the Jew’s Gate and into the narrow streets. The city was quiet, and Yusuf could clearly hear the crunch of their horses’ hooves in the snow. They crossed the deserted square at the heart of the city and clattered across the drawbridge that spanned the moat at the base of the citadel. They rode up the steep causeway, and as they approached the gate, the guards stepped aside for Yusuf.
The oval field that lay at the centre of the citadel grounds was crowded with mamluks on horseback, training on a course that had been set up near the periphery of the turf. Yusuf watched one of the riders gallop past, bow in hand. The rider jumped a low wooden barrier and, without slowing, drew an arrow from the quiver on his back and fired it at a suit of stuffed chainmail, complete with false head and helmet. The arrow hit the mannequin in the shoulder, and the mamluk galloped past, whooping victoriously.
‘Not bad,’ John said.
‘ Hmph,’ Qaraqush snorted. ‘I never saw an enemy killed by a blow to the shoulder.’
As Yusuf spurred his horse past the crowd of mamluks, he noticed that one of them was staring at him. The man was lean, his black hair and beard worn short. Yusuf looked more closely and blinked in recognition. ‘Khaldun!’
‘Yusuf!’ Khaldun rode over Yusuf and clasped his arm. ‘It has been too long, old friend.’
‘Too long, indeed. You look well.’
Khaldun grinned. ‘And I am the newly appointed Emir of Baalbek.’ His smile faded suddenly. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf. I know that Turan wanted the post.’
‘It is no less than you deserve.’
Khaldun placed his right hand over his heart and bowed slightly to signal his thanks for the compliment. Then he gestured towards John. ‘This is the ifranji who leads your personal guard, the one they call Yusuf’s shadow?’
Yusuf nodded. ‘His name is John.’
Khaldun rode forward and clasped John’s arm. ‘I have heard much about you.’
‘We met once before,’ John said quietly. ‘In Baalbek.’ Khaldun’s forehead creased; he clearly did not remember. ‘There is no reason for you to remember me. I was a slave then.’
‘Tell me about your wife,’ Yusuf said to Khaldun. ‘How is my sister?’
‘Zimat is here in Aleppo, and she is well,’ Khaldun replied, then scowled. ‘She has borne me two girls.’
‘Then surely a boy will be next.’
‘Inshallah,’ Khaldun said. ‘You must come to visit her. I have invited Nur ad-Din to my home tomorrow night to thank him for granting me Baalbek. Turan will be there, too. You should come. It will be just like old times.’
Yusuf smiled. ‘I will be there.’
The sun was just setting the next day when Yusuf left the citadel, John riding at his side. Khaldun had sent a mamluk for them, and they followed the man down the long causeway and out into Aleppo’s main square, which was dotted here and there with farmers packing up their carts. They left the square on a street that dead-ended after a hundred yards. The mamluk headed right, into a narrow alleyway with tall walls rising on either side. As Yusuf and John entered, the gate that protected the homes in the alleyway from thieves swung shut behind them. They rode past several wooden gates before coming to one that was open. The mamluk led them through into a courtyard with a fountain at the centre and tall palms growing around the edges. Turan had entered ahead of them and was dismounting his horse.
‘Greetings, Turan,’ Yusuf said as he slid from the saddle.
Turan nodded back. ‘Brother.’
Their mamluk guide gestured to a room built against the outer wall of the villa. ‘Your servant can wait there.’ John nodded and headed that way.
Yusuf and Turan followed the mamluk across the courtyard and into Khaldun’s home. They found themselves in a large, thickly carpeted room lit by braziers burning in the corners. Nur ad-Din was already there, seated on cushions across from the doorway. To his left sat Khaldun and a man that Yusuf did not recognize. The man had handsome features: a strong jaw, dark eyes, a smallish nose, and a carefully groomed brown beard. To Nur ad-Din’s left sat Asimat, and beside her Zimat and another woman, short and plump with broad hips, large breasts and brown skin the colour of desert sands after rain.
‘Yusuf!’ Zimat exclaimed when she saw her brother. She rose and crossed the room to embrace him. There were tears in her eyes.
‘Greetings, Sister. You are well?’
‘I am glad to see you. That is all.’
Yusuf gently extricated himself from her embrace. He bowed to Nur ad-Din. ‘Malik,’ he said, then turned to Khaldun. ‘Thank you for inviting me, my friend.’
‘Malik,’ Turan murmured, also bowing to Nur ad-Din.
‘Yusuf, this is Usama bin Munqidh, the emir of Shaizar,’ Khaldun said, gesturing to the man beside him.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Yusuf said.
‘And you,’ Usama replied. ‘I have heard much about you.’ ‘And this,’ Khaldun gestured to the woman beside Zimat, ‘is my second wife, Nadhira.’
‘My lord,’ she whispered, nodding in Yusuf’s direction.
‘Now, please sit,’ Khaldun said, waving them to their places. Yusuf sat across from Nur ad-Din, beside Usama. Turan sat to his left, beside Nadhira.
Servants entered and placed steaming bread and a dip of roasted eggplant and ground walnuts on the small tables next to each guest. ‘In the name of Allah,’ the diners murmured as they each tore off a piece of bread and began to eat. As he dipped his bread, Yusuf stole a sidelong glance at Asimat. Their eyes met, and he looked quickly away. He glanced at Turan, who was talking to Nadhira in hushed tones. Yusuf looked away as Nur ad-Din began to speak.
‘Usama has recently returned from a trip to the Frankish court in Jerusalem,’ he said.
‘What was it like?’ Yusuf asked.
‘A nest of vipers,’ Usama replied. ‘King Baldwin’s mother seeks to rule despite her son. A few years ago, he had to lead an army against Jerusalem to reclaim his throne from her. Still, her faction intrigues. And that is just within the king’s family. The Templars and the Hospitallers, Tripoli, Antioch and Jerusalem, all are at odds with one another. King Baldwin is at his wit’s end, and in his case, he did not have very far to go to get there. His brother Amalric has all the brains, but the man is cursed with a stutter and fits of laughter.’
‘We should move against them,’ Turan said. ‘They are divided and weak.’
‘But we have a treaty with the Frankish king, Baldwin,’ Yusuf noted.
Nur ad-Din frowned. ‘Yes, and I will honour my word. But the Franks, if all goes well, will not honour theirs. That is why Usama visited Jerusalem. One of the reasons,’ he concluded with a wink.
Usama spread his hands. ‘I have no idea what you mean. I visited Jerusalem only to serve you, my lord.’
Nur ad-Din laughed. ‘Me and the ladies of Jerusalem. I know you too well, Usama. I’ll wager that there’s more than one Frank in Jerusalem who will be expecting a suspiciously dark-skinned child.’
All eyes turned to Usama. ‘How can I help it,’ he asked, ‘when their women are so obliging, and their men so lacking in honour?’
‘Ah ha, you see!’ Nur ad-Din exclaimed. ‘You are a scoundrel.’
‘Do tell,’ Asimat said, her eyebrows raised.
‘If you insist, my lady,’ Usama said with a smile. ‘Just a few days ago, on my way back from Jerusalem, I
