‘If I must.’
‘I see.’ Asimat stood straighter, and the warmth faded from her expression. ‘You have greatness within you, Yusuf, but you fear it. To be great, you must be willing to seize your opportunity, no matter what the cost. You must be willing to betray anyone at any time. Anyone.’
‘And you, Asimat? Would you betray anyone to see your son on the throne?’ She nodded. ‘Even me?’ Asimat met his eyes, then looked away without speaking. Yusuf shook his head. ‘It is no wonder Allah has cursed your womb. You are everything I despise.’
Asimat slapped him, hard enough to snap his head to the side. ‘You do not love me, coward,’ she spat. ‘You never have.’ She turned and strode away.
Yusuf did not move as she left the garden. He knew he had done the right thing, but he felt ill, sick to his stomach. He picked one of the blossoms – a damask rose – and smelled it. ‘I do love you, Asimat,’ he murmured. Then he dropped the flower and crushed it under his boot.
AUGUST 1163: ALEPPO
‘Oh Allah forgive me; have mercy upon me,’ Yusuf murmured as he knelt on the floor of his bedchamber. He prostrated himself, then straightened as there was a knock on the door. ‘Enter!’ he called.
John stepped into the room, then froze. ‘I am sorry, Yusuf. I did not realize that it was time for prayers.’
‘It is not,’ Yusuf said as he rose. ‘But praying brings me peace. Now, what do you want?’
‘You are needed in the council room.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Your brother, Selim, has come from Damascus with news. That is all I know.’
Yusuf hurried through the palace and up the narrow spiralling staircase to the council room in its high tower. Nur ad-Din was there, along with Shirkuh, Gumushtagin and Selim. Yusuf entered and exchanged kisses with his brother.
‘Salaam, Selim. It has been too long.’
‘He has brought good news,’ Nur ad-Din said. ‘King Amalric has made his final blunder. He is marching on Damascus at the head of an army.’ He looked at the men around him. ‘We will grind the Franks to dust against the walls of Damascus.’
‘It is not all good news,’ Shirkuh grumbled. ‘The Christian army has a head start on us. Damascus might fall before we arrive.’
‘We will reach the city in time,’ Nur ad-Din insisted. ‘And then we shall crush them-this time for good.’
SEPTEMBER 1163: DAMASCUS
Yusuf rode with Nur ad-Din and Shirkuh at the head of an army over ten thousand strong. They had been marching for nine days, heading west at first and then following the Orontes River south past the walled cities of Hama and Homs. After Homs, they had cut across the mountains, and today they would reach Damascus. Yusuf hoped that they would not be too late. The Frankish army had reached Damascus four days ago.
They were riding across a flat plain, following a gully that cut its way through the sun-baked earth, a thin trickle of water at the bottom. The plain seemed to stretch away endlessly, the distant horizon shimmering in the heat. Damascus was still hidden over the horizon when Yusuf saw a brown cloud rising high into the sky ahead.
‘What do you suppose that is?’ Nur ad-Din asked the emirs around him.
Yusuf squinted against the bright sun. ‘It looks like smoke.’
‘That it does.’ Shirkuh frowned. ‘I pray to Allah that we are not too late. If the Franks are in the city-’
‘Then we must hurry,’ Nur ad-Din finished his thought. ‘Come!’ He spurred his horse forward. Yusuf and the other emirs galloped after him, followed by thousands of mounted mamluks. The hooves of their horses drummed on the plain like thunder and sent up a tall plume of dust behind them. The city rose quickly above the oncoming horizon, the dark walls bordered by empty desert on the left and emerald orchards to the right. As they rode closer, Yusuf could see that the city was not on fire. The brown cloud came from the low hills to the west of the city, beyond the orchards.
Nur ad-Din raised his fist as he reined to a stop, and Yusuf pulled up beside him. ‘I don’t understand,’ Yusuf said. ‘There is nothing in those hills to burn.’
Shirkuh grinned. ‘That is not smoke, Yusuf. It is dust, kicked up by an army on the move. The Franks are withdrawing.’
‘Damascus has held again,’ Nur ad-Din exulted. ‘The Franks must have feared being caught between the walls and our army.’
‘They are not far off,’ Yusuf said. ‘If we push hard, then we can catch them.’
‘Patience, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din replied. ‘Our men have ridden far today, and we want them fresh for the fight. We will camp in the orchards where there is plenty of food and water.’
‘And the Franks?’
‘You will take an advance guard and trail them, sending messengers back to keep me apprised of their movements. Keep your men out of sight. I want the Franks to think we have let them escape. Then, when the time is right, we will surprise them as we did at Jacob’s Ford. And this time, we will not stop until we have driven every last Frank into the sea.’
SEPTEMBER 1163: PLAIN OF BUTAIHA
Low, rocky hills rose to either side of Yusuf as his horse picked its way along the floor of a ravine, walking in the footprints left by the Frankish army less than an hour before. He and his men had been following the Franks for two days, angling south-west across the plains and low hills that lay between Damascus and the Jordan River. Yusuf turned in his saddle to look at the forty hand-picked mamluks riding behind him. It was a small enough force that if they were seen, the Franks might take them for a band of raiders. Yusuf knew that further back, on the broad plain a quarter of a mile behind them, Nur ad-Din sat with his army, waiting for Yusuf to spring the trap. John was with them, riding in the baggage train where he would not be forced to fight his fellow Christians. Yusuf wished his friend were with him now.
Yusuf turned forward again. Ahead, the ravine turned to the north, but the trail beaten by the Franks headed straight on, out of the ravine and over the low rise before him. Yusuf reined to a stop.
Qaraqush rode up beside him. ‘What do you think?’
‘It is time,’ Yusuf replied. ‘We will follow their tracks.’
He spurred his horse up the gentle rise, then reined in sharply when he reached the top. A grass-covered plain lay before him, running towards the thin, silver ribbon of the Jordan River. The Frankish army was spread out over the plain, their plate armour glinting in the sun, pennants snapping overhead. They had stopped to water their horses. As Yusuf watched, a knight near the edge of the army pointed to him. He heard shouting in Frankish, carried to him on the wind. Yusuf did not move.
‘By Allah,’ Qaraqush murmured as he rode up alongside Yusuf. The other mamluks joined them, spreading out atop the hill. On the plain, the Christians began to mount their horses. A single knight spurred across the plain, followed by three more, then a dozen. ‘We should retreat,’ Qaraqush said.
‘Not yet,’ Yusuf replied. Hundreds of knights with lances in hand were now charging towards them, followed by thousands of foot-soldiers. Yusuf waited until the closest knights were only a hundred yards off. ‘Now!’ he shouted as he wheeled his horse. ‘Retreat! Back to the army!’ Yusuf dug his spurs into his horse’s sides and
