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  And then a group of knights appeared from around the side of a dune to Yusuf’s right. Yusuf just managed to raise his shield before a lance slammed into it, sending him flying. He landed in the soft sand and rolled into a ball as the Frankish horses galloped over him. He stayed huddled as he heard the clash of steel above him, the thud of hooves, then quiet. He rose slowly. The knights were gone, the king with them. Shirkuh and Yusuf’s men were gone too, no doubt in pursuit. Yusuf’s horse was nowhere to be seen. He whistled loudly, but it did not return. Yusuf sat down in the sand. There was no sense in trying to walk back to camp. He would only get lost amongst the dunes.

  It seemed a long time later when he heard the drum of approaching hoofbeats. ‘There you are, young eagle!’ Shirkuh called as he rounded a dune. He slid from the saddle and embraced Yusuf. ‘Thank Allah, you are alive!’ He grinned. ‘The Franks have fled. And we have their gold.’

  ‘What of the King? Did he escape?’

  ‘Escape? Ran away, more like it.’

  ‘Should we not give chase?’

  ‘Patience, young eagle. Their infantry is intact, and they still outnumber us, even after their losses. We will let them retreat to Cairo to lick their wounds.’

  ‘And where shall we go?’

  Shirkuh grinned his crooked-tooth smile. ‘What better way to kill a snake than to cut off its head?’

  ‘Cairo, then.’

  ‘No, Alexandria. Cairo holds the Caliph, but it is Alexandria that furnishes the wealth of Egypt and gives them access to the sea. It is the emporium of the world, where East meets West, where the caravans end their long journey from India. And we, Yusuf, are going to take it.’

  JUNE 1164: ALEXANDRIA

  The Shining Pearl of the Mediterranean, the City of Spices, Silk City, City of Wonders – Iskandariyya. The city lay spread out below Yusuf as he stood at one of the windows high up in the lighthouse of Alexandria. The ships in the harbour looked like toys. Cleopatra’s needles, the twin obelisks that stood near the harbour, seemed no larger than toothpicks.

  They had arrived in Alexandria that afternoon. A delegation of citizens had met them outside the walls and presented Shirkuh with the head of the Fatimid governor. The people of Alexandria were mostly Sunni Muslims and Coptic Christians, both of whom resented the rule of the Shia caliph in Cairo. They had welcomed the army into Alexandria. While the men occupied the towers that studded the walls, the city’s administrator, a Copt named Palomon, had led Yusuf and Shirkuh to the lighthouse so that they could survey the city and plan its defence.

  Yusuf had heard of the lighthouse, of course. His childhood tutor, Imad ad-Din, had told him it had been constructed by the Greeks over a thousand years ago. He had described it as one of the wonders of the world, the tallest structure ever built by man, a work to rival that of God himself. None of those descriptions did the lighthouse justice. The broad base alone was taller than Alexandria’s massive walls. The lighthouse rose from the base in three steps, the first of which was a huge square block at least twice as tall as the tallest tower Yusuf had ever seen. An octagonal tower rose from the block, and a circular tower rose from that, its tip touching the clouds. It was unbelievable that something so tall could stand. The secret, Palomon had told him, was that the huge blocks of white stone were soldered with lead.

  The sun was setting by the time they reached the top. Shirkuh had huffed with every step, turning so red that Yusuf had worried his stout, bow-legged uncle would not survive the climb. But finally the stairs had ended and they had stepped into a circular room surrounded by arched windows. Shirkuh had staggered to a window and leaned against the embrasure. Yusuf had joined him there, and neither man had spoken a word since.

  ‘This must be how Allah feels,’ Yusuf murmured at last.

  ‘She is spectacular, is she not?’ Palomon said as he came up behind them. ‘Still, Alexandria is smaller than she once was. The ruins beyond the walls mark the boundaries of the ancient city. Canals bring water from Lake Mareotis, which is used to water the public gardens, there.’ He pointed to an expanse of green in the south-eastern corner of the city. ‘The gardens may be used for food in the event of a siege.’ He pointed to the opposite side of the city, where there stood a huge structure of white stone buildings piled one atop the other. ‘That is Dar al-Sultan, the palace complex. You will stay there, Emir.’

  Yusuf was only half listening. He was busy examining the city walls. They were twenty feet high and nearly as thick as they were tall. ‘Four gates,’ he counted, ‘and twenty-one towers.’

  ‘How many men can the city offer for the defence of the walls, if it comes to that?’ Shirkuh asked Palomon.

  ‘The Fatimid troops are all in prison or have fled. We can put maybe five thousand men in arms, but they are not soldiers.’

  ‘We will hold them in reserve.’ Shirkuh addressed Yusuf. ‘We have six thousand of our own men remaining. They will guard the walls. We’ll post fifty men in every tower and a hundred at each of the four gates. That leaves—’ He began counting on his fingers.

  ‘Forty-five hundred,’ Yusuf supplied.

  ‘Forty-five hundred men in reserve,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘Plus the men of Alexandria. We’ll position half near the palace and half in the east, near the gardens.’

  Yusuf did not reply. He had thrust his head out of the window to look straight down at the base of the tower. He felt suddenly unsteady, as if he were standing on a ship at sea, the deck moving beneath him. He gripped the sides of the window embrasure, but the tower would not stop moving. He turned away and vomited.

  ‘It happens to many on their first visit,’ Palomon said. ‘Come. There is a Coptic church atop the lighthouse. The priests are allowed to worship there in return for tending the fire. They will have water for you to rinse your mouth.’

  He led them upstairs to a room identical to the one below, except that there was an altar along the east wall with a cross hung over it. It was surprisingly warm. There was no one in the room. ‘The priests will be upstairs, tending the fire,’ Palomon said, continuing up a second staircase.

  When Yusuf stepped into the room above, a sudden blast of heat made it seem as if he had walked into an oven. A huge fire burned within a giant bronze brazier set in the middle of the floor. Smoke rose through a soot-covered hole in the ceiling. Two priests were throwing cords of wood on the fire. They wore nothing but loincloths, and their skin glistened in the firelight. A third priest in a brown robe was poking at the fire with a long, bronze rod. Yusuf could only look at the fire for a moment. It was so hot in the room that even breathing was painful.

  Palomon waved at the priest who was tending the fire. ‘Father Josephus! Water!’

  ‘Water!’ the priest shouted back over the roar of the flames. He set the bronze rod aside and went to a barrel, from which he took a cup of water. He crossed the room and handed it to Yusuf. The water was warm. Yusuf rinsed his mouth and spat out of the window.

  ‘Shukran!’ he shouted and then turned away. He could not stand the heat any longer. He hurried down the stairs and stood at one of the windows, gulping the cool sea air.

  Shirkuh joined him at the window and pointed to the city below. A last ray of sunlight illuminated the city, transforming the canals into molten gold. ‘Look at it,’ Shirkuh whispered to Yusuf. ‘The most magnificent city in the world. And it is ours!’

  Yusuf stood at one of the windows of the lighthouse and looked down to where the waves crashed upon the rocks at its base. The dawn light tinged the white foam pink. Yusuf climbed to the top of the tower each morning. At first, he had come to conquer his weakness – the dizzying sensation that left him retching on the floor. After a week the sick feeling had left him, and he found that he enjoyed being so high above the world. He raised his gaze to look out to sea. The endless waves stretching to the horizon appeared motionless from this height. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the salty sea air.

  ‘Pardon me, sayyid.’

  Yusuf opened his eyes
. It was Saqr, the boy that he had found in the desert long ago, after Reynald and his men had slaughtered his family. But Saqr was no boy now. He had been a mamluk for nearly a year. He had been posted as a lookout because of his sharp eyes. Saqr claimed that he could spot a hare sitting motionless in the desert sands at eight hundred paces.

  ‘I think I see something,’ the young mamluk said. ‘In the east.’

  Yusuf crossed the room and looked out, squinting against the newly risen sun. He thought he could make out a cloud of dust in the distance. ‘A dust storm?’

  ‘Look again, sayyid. You can see the reflection of sunlight off steel. There are riders in the dust.’

  ‘Hmm. Yes.’ In fact, Yusuf saw nothing. He was only twenty-eight and his eyes were growing feeble. He felt old for the first time in his life. Then he saw it, a flash of steel. He saw another, then dozens more, then hundreds. It was an army.

  ‘Well done, Saqr! Hurry to the palace and inform Shirkuh. Tell him to meet me here.’

  By the time Shirkuh arrived, red-faced and panting, the Frankish and Egyptian army covered the plains east of the city, stretching from within a mile of the walls all the way to the horizon.

  ‘How many?’ Shirkuh asked as he joined Yusuf at the window.

  ‘More than ten thousand. Too many to fight.’

  Shirkuh frowned. ‘They have no need to fight. They will block up the canals and then sit outside the walls while we run short of food and water. They will let hunger and thirst do their work for them.’

  ‘What shall we do?’

  Shirkuh scratched at his beard while he thought. ‘We will leave,’ he said at last.

  ‘But we cannot abandon the people of Alexandria. We promised to defend the city.’

  ‘And so we shall. You will stay with a thousand men; enough to man the walls. I will take the rest of the army south into Upper Egypt. Hopefully, my raids there will draw the Frankish army away from Alexandria.’

  Yusuf looked back to the enemy troops, who were still pouring over the horizon. ‘And if the Franks do not leave?’

  ‘Then you must hold the city for as long as you can.’

  Chapter 5

  OCTOBER 1164: ALEXANDRIA

  John took a deep breath and dunked his head beneath the cold water of Lake Mareotis. The siege was four months old. Autumn had come, but John had not given up his increasingly bracing morning bath. At first, he had come to escape the heat. Now he came seeking the calm that was impossible to find in camp. Behind him, hundreds of Muslims from the Egyptian army knelt along the shore, prostrate in prayer. They, too, came every morning. John found the gentle murmur of their voices comforting. He waited until they had finished and then waded ashore. He glanced to the east as he dressed in his linen tunic and sandals. The rim of the sun was just rising over the horizon. He would be expected at Amalric’s tent soon.

  John followed the Egyptian soldiers back towards camp, crossing fields long since picked clean. A range of low hills lay between him and the city. The Egyptian and Frankish armies had set up camp amongst them, with Shawar’s men to the west of the southern gate and Amalric’s men to its east. The level ground between the two camps was usually empty, but as he approached, John saw a crowd gathered there. A dozen Franks were headed by a stout man with small, beady eyes. He was facing a tall Egyptian soldier, backed by twenty mamluks.

  ‘Puking, onion-eyed, stone-worshipper!’ the Frank was yelling. ‘You’ve been stealing our grain. Admit it!’ He pointed a stubby finger at the Egyptian.

  ‘Naghil!’ the Egyptian soldier spat back. ‘Kol khara!’

  ‘What was that, you filthy son of a whore?’ one of the Frank’s companions demanded.

  ‘Eat shit,’ the Egyptian enunciated carefully in Frankish.

  The beady-eyed Frank swung for him. The Egyptian ducked, and one of his friends tackled the Frank from the side. A brawl ensued. John steered well clear of it. Even if he had not been expected at the king’s tent, he doubted that he could do much to stop the fighting. Tensions in camp had run high ever since Shirkuh began raiding the supply caravans from Cairo. The soldiers had taken to pillaging local farms in search of food, but there was never enough. As the siege dragged on, tempers grew short. Fights between the Franks and their Egyptian allies had become an almost daily occurrence.

  The guards outside Amalric’s tent nodded to John as he entered. Inside, he found Amalric breakfasting on boiled wheat. ‘Sire,’ John said, and knelt.

  Shawar entered just as John was rising. A dark-skinned Egyptian soldier entered behind the vizier.

  ‘I have bad news,’ Shawar declared cheerfully.

  ‘Then why are you so damned happy about it?’ Amalric grumbled.

  ‘I find that good humour is the best antidote to misfortune. Nur ad-Din has invaded the principality of Antioch and scored a crushing victory. Bohemond of Antioch and Raymond of Tripoli have been captured.’

  ‘What!’ Amalric demanded, red-faced. ‘Are you c-certain?’

  ‘I am. The news reached Cairo by messenger pigeon two days ago. I learned of it this morning.’

  ‘By his nails!’ Amalric cursed. ‘With Bohemond and Raymond defeated, there will be no one left to defend the Kingdom’s northern border.’

  ‘You shall have to return to protect Jerusalem,’ Shawar agreed.

  ‘Four months of siege wasted,’ Amalric grumbled, then shook his head. ‘No. I’ll not leave empty-handed. I’ll tear down the walls of Alexandria stone by stone, if I must.’

  ‘Perhaps that will not be necessary.’ Shawar gestured to the Nubian warrior beside him. ‘Jalaal, tell them what you have found.’

  The Nubian spoke haltingly, in a deep voice, and John translated. ‘My men and I, we were searching a nearby farmhouse for food. The farmer kept his grain out back in an old stone storeroom – older than old, Vizier, if you take my meaning. The stones were just barely holding together. He said it was empty, but we didn’t believe it, him being a Copt and all. We broke the lock and had a look. The grain was gone, but we found something else. A door.’

  ‘A door?’ Amalric asked.

  ‘A door to the catacombs,’ Shawar clarified. ‘Kom el-Shoqafa: the Mound of Shards.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Amalric asked Jalaal. ‘How far did you go?’

  ‘Only a few feet, Malik. We didn’t dare go further. There are evil djinn below the earth. Allahu Akbar.’

  ‘Thank you, Jalaal.’ Shawar turned to Amalric. ‘The catacombs are said to run beneath the city walls. If we can find the passage, then we can enter by night and overrun the defences. The people of the city will pay for their defiance.’

  Amalric grinned. John did not share their enthusiasm. Yusuf might be in the city, and regardless, he had other friends amongst the Saracens. They would be slaughtered. Those who fled would be massacred before the city walls. And that would only be the beginning. For once the enemy was dead, the people of Alexandria would suffer.

  ‘We must explore the catacombs immediately,’ Amalric said.

  ‘Yes, but quietly,’ Shawar cautioned. ‘I do not doubt that Shirkuh has spies in our camp. If he learns what we have discovered, then he will put his men on guard. The fewer who know of this, the better.’

  ‘Agreed. You send Jalaal. I will choose a man that I trust. He and Jalaal will report directly to us.’

  ‘I wish to go,’ John ventured. Amalric frowned. ‘I speak Arabic.’ John looked to Shawar. ‘The catacombs were built under the Romans, were they not?’ The vizier nodded. John turned back to Amalric. ‘I read Latin and Greek. I can help to find the passage into the city.’ He did not add his true reason for wanting to go: if a passage were found, then he wanted to be the one to find it. He had sworn to serve Amalric, but that did not mean he would stand by and let his friends in the city die.

  ‘Very well,’ Amalric responded, ‘but I will send a sergeant with you. There is no telling what dangers lie beneath the earth. The three of you will go tomorrow, at first light.’

  Yusuf
chewed on a small piece of flatbread as he strode down Al-Harriyah, the main street of Alexandria. He nodded at the handful of merchants who were setting out their stalls. The men were grim-faced. Food in the city was scarce, and people had little interest in the perfumes and jewels they were selling. Yusuf finished his breakfast, and his stomach grumbled in protest, demanding more. Yusuf ignored it. His men were on half-rations, and so was he. He would not eat again until that evening.

  He reached the wall and climbed the stairs to the top of the eastern gate. He nodded to his men, and looked out on the enemy camp. More Franks had arrived from Jerusalem a week ago. The week before that, two hundred Egyptians had joined the army.

  Yusuf walked south along the wall, nodding at his men as he passed, exchanging words with those he knew well. He walked the complete circuit of the walls each morning and evening. Seeing him helped to keep the men’s spirits up. And, it allowed Yusuf to get away from the palace, where the citizens of Alexandria besieged him with an endless stream of grievances. They complained about the curfew that Yusuf had set. They complained when he took men and women from the linen and silk factories and set them to making padded armour. Most of all, they complained about the rationing system. But Yusuf had no more food to give. Most of the horses had been eaten at this point.

  He was approaching one of the four towers manned by townspeople. There were a dozen men atop the tower; half as many as were required. That was typical. At first, the townspeople had been proud to strut about in their new armour, but before long they were petitioning to avoid guard duty.

  ‘How goes it?’ Yusuf asked. The Alexandrians glared resentfully. None spoke. ‘Where is your commander?’

  ‘Inside the tower,’ said an older man with close-cropped hair and a greying beard. The man pulled his cloak more tightly about him in an effort to ward off a chill brought on by hunger.

  ‘Whipping two men,’ another citizen added darkly. He was tall and must have once been fat. Now, his skin hung in folds from his neck and arms. ‘What gives the bastard the right?’