word. He had simply nodded and told Yusuf to meet him in the square after morning prayers. Yusuf noticed that Khaldun, too, carried a white stone in his hand.
‘Do we have to be here?’ John asked.
Yusuf nodded. ‘It is my duty. I am the witness to the crime.’
The crowd parted as Khaldun dragged Nadhira to the centre of the square. She was dressed in a white cotton caftan, with no veil, and her eyes were red from weeping. The crowd closed around her. Yusuf pushed his way to the front, pulling Turan after him. Khaldun released Nadhira and left her standing alone as he turned to face Yusuf.
‘This woman has been accused of adultery,’ Khaldun said, speaking loudly so that the crowd could hear. ‘Yusuf ibn Ayub, you witnessed her crime. Do you swear by Allah that she is guilty?’
The square fell silent. The men in the crowd seemed to be holding their breath as they waited for Yusuf to speak. He looked at Nadhira, who shook so strongly with fear that she was barely able to stand. Yusuf suddenly felt sick. He looked away from Nadhira and said softly, ‘I swear it.’
‘The punishment for her crime is death by stoning,’ Khaldun said. He moved to stand across from Yusuf and raised the stone he held. As the wronged party, it was his duty to cast the first stone.
Nadhira took a step towards Khaldun. ‘Please, Husband-’ she sobbed. ‘Forgive me.’
Khaldun said nothing, but his face contorted in a grimace as he hurled the rock at her. Nadhira cried out in pain as it caught her in the shoulder, spinning her around. A second later her screaming was cut short as another rock smashed into her mouth, breaking her jaw and spattering blood across Yusuf and Turan. Turan looked away, his face pale. Yusuf grabbed his jaw and turned his head, forcing him to watch. Nadhira lay curled on the ground, moaning as rock after rock slammed into her with a sickening crunch. Her eyes fixed on Turan, then a rock hit her in the face, crushing her right eye and knocking her unconscious. The stones continued to fall until her broken, bloodied body was barely recognizable as human.
Yusuf turned and pushed his way through to the edge of the crowd, where he bent over and vomited. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rose to find that the crowd was already dispersing, the men hurrying away as if ashamed of what they had done. John and Turan remained standing near Khaldun, who knelt in the centre of the square, cradling the wrecked body of his wife in his arms.
Turan went to Khaldun and placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘Forgive me,’ he pleaded, his voice shaking.
Khaldun looked up, his eyes wet with tears. ‘Leave me,’ his said, his voice breaking. His lips curled back into a snarl. ‘Get out of my sight, you bastard!’
Turan backed away, and Yusuf grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the citadel. When they reached the moat, Turan stopped and turned to Yusuf, who was surprised to see tears rolling down his brother’s cheeks. He had never seen Turan cry.
‘I – I loved her, Brother,’ Turan said. ‘And she is dead because of me. I cannot live with her blood on my hands.’
‘You must make amends,’ Yusuf told him.
‘How? I will do whatever you ask.’
‘I need capable men. Will you serve as my second in command?’
Turan hesitated. His hands clenched into fists, and Yusuf half expected his brother to refuse, to explode in a rage. But his hands relaxed and Turan nodded. ‘You could have killed me. I owe you my life.’
‘Good.’ Yusuf put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘But that is not enough, Turan. It is not in my power to forgive you for what you have done to the two of them.’ He nodded towards the square. Khaldun was still there alone, Nadhira clasped to his chest. ‘For that, you must look to Allah.’
That night John sat on the bed in his room in the citadel palace, staring at the candle flickering on the table before him and fiddling with a copper fal. His hair was still wet from washing, and he wore a fresh white caftan. He glanced out of the window to where the crescent moon was rising above the horizon. He crossed himself and rose. Yusuf was dining with Nur ad-Din, and John knew that Khaldun was with them. Nur ad-Din was seeking to cheer him after his wife’s betrayal, and so they would dine late into the night, which meant that John had more than enough time. He ran a hand through his long blond hair, then picked up his sword and pulled it part way from the scabbard, checking his reflection in the blade. The lines of his face were harder than they had once been, and his short blond beard fuller. He sheathed the sword and buckled it around his waist. Then he blew out the candle and left.
The gate leading out of the citadel was guarded by four men, lit by torches burning in brackets. John recognized al-Mashtub amongst the men and nodded. The huge mamluk winked back.
‘What are you doing leaving so late?’ he asked. ‘Off to see a woman?’
‘I am going to church, to pray,’ John replied as he strode past and headed down the ramp leading to the moat.
‘Give her my regards,’ al-Mashtub called out behind him, and there was laughter in the gatehouse.
John headed across the moat and out into the city. The cobbled surface of the main square stretched away before him, empty save for a single homeless beggar, slumped in the middle and calling out for alms. John passed by the man and turned left, walking to the end of a wide avenue. A narrow alley, barred by an iron gate, opened off to his right. John looked both ways, then quickly scaled the gate, avoiding the sharp spikes at the top, and dropped over the far side. The alleyway was so dark that John could hardly see his outstretched hand before him. A dozen feet ahead, he tripped over a sleeping figure, who cursed him loudly before rolling over and dropping back to sleep. John continued on his way, counting his steps. After thirty-two paces he stopped. He felt the wooden gate to his left. Unless he was mistaken, this was the home of Khaldun, and Zimat.
John could see the top of the wall above him, silver in the moonlight. It was at least ten feet high. Luckily, the alleyway was no more than four feet across, and putting his feet against one wall and his hands against the other, he was able to slowly walk his way upward until he grasped the edge of the roof. Gripping it tight, he kicked off from the wall behind him and scrambled on to the flat roof of Khaldun’s villa. He crawled to the opposite side and looked down into the courtyard. The fountain burbled in the darkness, but he saw no movement. John took a deep breath and then dropped off the roof. His boots sounded loudly as he landed, and he scrambled back and crouched in a shadowy corner, his heart pounding.
A door in the gatehouse opened, shedding soft candlelight into the courtyard and illuminating the low fountain. A guard in chainmail, sword in hand, stepped into the courtyard just to John’s left and walked away along the periphery of the garden. He reached the far side and turned. John held his breath as the guard approached and then walked passed, close enough that John could have reached out and touched him. The guard did not stop. He finished his tour of the garden and, satisfied, re-entered the gatehouse.
John exhaled in relief and stood. The door that Zimat had shown him through was on the far side of the garden, lit by the bright moon above and in clear view of the gatehouse. John whispered a prayer to the Virgin, then slipped from the shadows and hurried to the door. It was locked. Cursing under his breath, he turned and went to the main door of the villa. He tried the handle, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was open. He slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. Then he waited with his ear to the door. They were no sounds of alarm.
John turned away from the door to find himself in a large, carpeted entrance room with passages leading off to the left and right. He took the dark hallway to the right and crept down it. After only a few feet the passage turned to the right. John rounded the corner just as one of the doors further down the hallway opened. John quickly stepped back behind the corner.
‘Yes, my lady,’ he heard a female voice saying, then the slap of sandals on stone as someone headed his way.
John retreated into the entrance room and slipped into a corner, pressing himself against the wall. A moment later, a maidservant entered. She crossed the room without even a glance to the side, and exited through the passage on the far side. As soon as she was gone, John hurried back down the hall to the door of the room she had left. ‘Mother Mary, let this be the right one,’ he whispered and then pushed the door open.
The room was dark, but John could make out the dim outlines of a bed with a woman lying in it. She sat up. ‘Who is there?’ she asked. It was Zimat’s voice. ‘Khaldun?’
John stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. ‘It is me, John.’
‘John!’ Zimat rose from the bed and rushed to him, throwing herself into his arms. ‘Praise Allah, you have
