heard his heart beating. He turned towards Qaraqush. ‘The child lives!’ he shouted. ‘Zimat too!’
The shouting awoke Ubadah, who looked about, confused. ‘What happened?’ He looked up and saw that Yusuf was holding him. ‘Uncle?’
‘Yusuf!’ Qaraqush called. He had stopped only a few feet away. His eyes were fixed on something at his feet. ‘You must come and see this. Leave the boy.’ Yusuf handed Ubadah back to Zimat and stepped over the rubble to Qaraqush. The mamluk pointed at a gap in the debris. ‘There.’ Half of Khaldun’s face was visible through a pile of masonry and fallen beams. His eye was open, staring sightless up at the heavens. Qaraqush put his hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf.’
Ubadah had broken free of his mother and now appeared at Yusuf’s side. ‘What is it?’ His eyes fell on his father’s face. Yusuf lifted up the boy and carried him away, but it was too late. ‘Father!’ Ubadah cried. ‘What has happened to my father?’
Yusuf began to speak, then looked at Ubadah’s face. The words died on Yusuf’s lips. He did not know what to tell the child. His father lived, but Khaldun was dead.
The sky was beginning to lighten when Yusuf, covered in soot and dust, finally returned to the palace. His room was gone, so the guard at the door directed him to another, in a wing of the palace that had not been damaged. He entered to find Faridah waiting for him.
‘Zimat and the boy?’ she asked.
‘They live.’
‘Thank Allah.’ Faridah crossed the room and embraced him. Yusuf stood stiffly and looked straight ahead while she held him. She let go and stepped back. ‘What is it? What has happened?’
‘John,’ Yusuf whispered. ‘He has betrayed me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Zimat’s child – it is John’s.’
‘Does Khaldun know?’
‘He is dead.’
‘What will you do?’ Faridah asked.
‘My duty – I will avenge the honour of my family and of Ubadah.’
‘By killing the child’s father?’
‘His father is already dead.’ Yusuf strode past her to the window, where he looked out on the ruined city. Fires still burned here and there.
‘You know better than that, Yusuf. The boy still has a father.’
‘He must never know.’ A tear ran down Yusuf’s cheek, making a track in the soot. ‘I will take John hunting. We will ride into the desert, and I will finish this.’
Faridah approached from behind and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not,’ she said gently.
Yusuf spun around and slapped her backhanded, snapping her head to the side. ‘Quiet, woman!’ he hissed. ‘It is none of your business.’ Faridah said nothing. Yusuf could see the red print of his hand on her cheek. After a moment he reached out and gently touched it. ‘Forgive me.’
‘I will. But if you kill John, will you be able to forgive yourself?’
Yusuf turned back to the window. ‘I thought he was my friend,’ he murmured. ‘How could he?’
‘Perhaps he loves her-like you love Asimat.’
‘This is different.’
‘Is it?’
‘John is not just one of my men. He is my friend. Does that mean nothing?’
‘It should – for both of you.’ Faridah embraced him from behind, her chin on his shoulder. ‘Do not do this thing, Yusuf. You will regret it.’
‘I must.’
‘No. You do not want his blood on your hands.’
‘What I want does not matter,’ Yusuf said, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘The earthquake was a sign, a warning from Allah. I have been living without faith, without honour. It must stop. Friend or no, John must die.’
John rode along the ridge of a tall dune, lit gold by the sun setting behind him. Yusuf rode just ahead, the sand spilling away from his horse’s hooves and sliding down the steep slope. They had been riding all day, leaving Aleppo far behind them to the west. They had come to hunt, Yusuf said, but he had ignored the few signs of game that John had pointed out. Yusuf had hardly said a word during the long journey. He rode with his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, and John followed, unwilling to disturb his friend’s silence, afraid of what Yusuf might say.
The wind picked up, and John could hear the hiss of the sand as it blew towards them. He pulled a fold of his turban across his mouth and squinted against the stinging sand. After short time the storm passed, leaving him and his horse covered in a thin layer of grit. His horse shook its mane, sending sand flying. John blew his nose and picked grit from his eyes.
They rode down from the dune on to a flat waste of hard-baked sand, broken here and there with ridges of red, flaky rock. There was no vegetation, no life anywhere, and the only sound was the soft crunch of their horses’ hooves on the ground and the gentle whisper of the wind. John spurred his horse up alongside Yusuf’s. ‘It reminds me of our trip to Tell Bashir, all those years ago,’ he said.
‘ Hmph,’ Yusuf grunted, his eyes still fixed on the horizon.
‘We were so young, only boys. We have come a long way, haven’t we, my friend?’
Yusuf glanced at him. ‘A long way,’ he murmured and spurred forward to ride ahead of John.
They rode out of the sandy waste and up a ridge of rock. Their horses’ hooves clattered on the hard surface, sending pebbles skittering. At the top of the rise they looked down into a shallow ravine, a thin stream of water flowing at the bottom. ‘This looks like a good place to camp,’ John suggested.
‘No, just a bit further.’
They rode north along the ridge while the sky faded from golden red to a dark violet speckled with innumerable sparkling stars. A new moon rose, bathing the landscape in silvery light. John could see his breath, drifting upwards in the night sky. He pulled his cloak more tightly about him. Still, Yusuf rode on, holding the reins with one hand while with the other he fingered the eagle hilt of his dagger. Finally, John rode closer and touched his friend’s arm. ‘Yusuf.’
Yusuf started. ‘What is it?’
‘We should make camp. Before the night’s cold settles.’
Yusuf nodded. ‘Yes, you are right. It is time.’ He pointed to a wide, flat spot beside the stream below. ‘Down there.’
They picked their way down a narrow track to the water’s edge. ‘I’ll gather wood,’ John said as he slid from the saddle. The wind had died, and the soft crunch of his boots in the sand was loud in the silence. Yusuf had also dismounted and was busy with his saddle. John wrapped his horse’s reins around one of the bushes on the riverbank, and the horse lowered its head to drink. He removed its saddle and patted its side. Then he headed upstream to look for wood.
Some thirty yards from camp, he found a pile of dry driftwood. He knelt down and began to gather up branches when behind him he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn – the hiss of steel sliding against leather. He turned to see Yusuf, sword in hand. His friend’s mouth was set in a hard line.
‘What is this?’ John asked as he stood.
‘You know,’ Yusuf said, his voice trembling. ‘You lay with Zimat. Ubadah is your son. Admit it.’ He took a step closer and raised his sword. His eyes had narrowed dangerously, and his lips were stretched back in a snarl. ‘Admit it!’
John met Yusuf’s eyes and knew that his friend meant to kill him. He had feared this day since the first time he lay with Zimat. He would not fight it. He owed Yusuf his life and more. He sank to his knees in the sand. ‘I lay with her. The child is mine.’
‘How could you?’ Yusuf shouted, taking another step towards John. ‘I warned you not to touch her. I thought you were my friend!’
‘I am.’
‘You are a dog, like all Franks!’ Yusuf kicked out, catching John on the chin.
John slumped forward, hands cradling his face, then pushed himself back upright. He spat blood from his
