Jack Hight - Eagle (Saladin Trilogy 1)

Also by Jack Hight

Siege

Book One of the Saladin Trilogy

JACK HIGHT

www.johnmurray.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK Company

Jack Hight 2011

The right of Jack Hight to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Map by Rosie Collins

All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

All characters other than the obvious historical figures in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Epub ISBN 978-1-84854-511-3
Book ISBN 978-1-84854-297-6

John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH

www.johnmurray.co.uk

For my parents, who let me stay up as late as I wanted,
so long as I was reading.

Salah ad-Din, or Saladin as he is known to the Franks, was a Kurd, the son of a despised people, and yet he became Sultan of Egypt and Syria. He united the peoples of Allah, recaptured Jerusalem and drove the Crusaders to the very edge of the sea. He battled, and in the end tamed King Richard of England, who was called the Lionhearted and well deserved his savage name. Saladin was a great man, the greatest man that I ever knew, but when I first met him, he was only a skinny child...

The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashq

MARCH 1148: BAALBEK

Y usuf sat in the saddle, his olive-skinned face mottled red and his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He was having one of his fits, during which the devil himself seemed to grip his lungs and squeeze out all the air. And the faster he breathed, the more elusive the air became. His horse had already recovered from the sprint and was tugging at one of the rare clumps of spring grass that managed to grow on the dusty polo field. On the far side of the pitch, two-dozen boys continued the match without him, the hooves of their horses stirring up a cloud of dust as they swarmed around the kura, a wooden ball made from willow root. Their long mallets waved above the dust, rising and falling as the boys swung at the kura, trying to drive it through the far goal, two half-toppled Roman columns, remnants from some long-vanished structure. A hundred yards past the columns stood the thick city walls of Baalbek, and past them dozens of pale, sandstone buildings clustered around an ancient Roman temple whose tall columns dwarfed the city around it. Over it all loomed the craggy, snow-capped peak of Mount Tallat al Jawzani.

Yusuf closed his eyes and leaned close to the neck of his horse, forcing himself to slow his breathing. He blocked out the whoops and yells of the other boys, concentrating instead on the rapid beat of his heart and the sweet, musky smell of his horses mane. Gradually, his chest stopped heaving and his heart slowed.

Yusuf! Yusuf sat upright and his eyes snapped open. The kura was bouncing towards him across the uneven ground, and one of his team-mates had called out to warn him. Turan, Yusufs older half-brother and opponent in the match, had broken from the pack and was racing after the ball. Turan was tall and thick whereas Yusuf was short and thin. At twelve, he was Yusufs senior by two years, and his upper lip already showed the first signs of a mans beard. His horse was larger and faster, but Yusuf was closer. He would reach the ball first.

Yusuf flicked the reins and kicked the sides of his horse, urging it to a gallop. His eyes locked on the kura, and he raised his mallet high. He had begun to swing down in an arc towards the ball when, just before he made contact, he felt a sharp blow against his side as Turan drove the butt of his mallet handle into his ribs. Yusuf slipped sideways, lost his grip on his mallet, and then toppled from the saddle. He rolled as he hit the ground, as he had been taught, in order to absorb the impact. He sat up just in time to see Turan knock the kura through the goal, another pair of tall Roman columns. Turan let out a whoop of joy. Yusuf rose slowly, clutching his side. Dragging his mallet behind him, he trudged towards his horse, which had found another patch of grass some fifty yards off. Yusuf had only taken a few steps when Turan rode past at a gallop, almost knocking him over. Turan gathered the reins of Yusufs horse and led it back to him.

You should be more careful, little brother, Turan said with a grin as he handed Yusuf the reins. A true warrior never leaves his horse.

A true warrior fights with honour, Yusuf muttered as he pulled himself into the saddle.

What was that? Turan demanded, raising his mallet. He had a dangerous look in his eye. Yusuf wondered if he had been drinking again.

Nothing.

Are you sure, little brother? Yusuf nodded. Good. Turan turned his horse and spurred away to the centre of the field, where the other boys were waiting. Yusuf followed.

I have a proposal! Turan shouted to the other boys. He pointed to the mountains that lay beyond the city to the east. We will play until the sun disappears behind Mount Tallat al Jawzani. Those who lose will tend the horses and muck out the stalls for the winners. The boys on Turans team, all older, cheered.

But thats not fair! Yusufs younger brother, Selim, protested. Selim was only eight, and at first glance a perfect mixture of his two elder brothers tall like Turan, but thin and wiry like Yusuf. Youre already up two to one. Selim shook his head and turned his horse to leave.

Fine then! Turan called after him. The next goal wins. Selim turned back towards the others. But the losers will tend the victors horses for a full week.

Selim shook his head and opened his mouth to speak, but Yusuf cut him off. Agreed.

The other boys on Yusufs team looked at him wide-eyed, surprise mingled with anger. They were all older than Yusuf, and they were Turkish, part of the elite warrior class that ruled over the local Arabs. Two years ago, while Yusufs father was governor of Baalbek, the other boys would have been forced to go along with him. But after the Emir of Damascus conquered Baalbek, Yusufs father had lost his post, and the boys respect had turned to scorn. Now when his family visited from Damascus to oversee their remaining lands, Yusuf was just another Kurd, an outsider. The local boys followed Turan because they were afraid of him, but no one feared Yusuf.

Haytham, the oldest boy on Yusufs team, rode up beside him and gripped his arm painfully. What are you doing, Kurd? he hissed. You know weve never beaten them.

The son of the local emir, Khaldun, put a hand on Haythams shoulder. Peace, Haytham. He gestured to the sun, which hung huge and molten red just above the mountains. We only have to hold on a little longer for the tie.

Yusuf shook his head. No, we only have a little longer to win.

Khaldun chuckled. Youre not so bad, for a Kurd. He turned to Turan. We accept your bet.

Turan grinned. Then lets play. He raised his mallet high and swung down in a loop, hitting the wooden kura with a crack and sending it bouncing towards the weathered columns on Yusufs side of the field. The boys spurred after it, swarming around the ball. Yusuf and Selim kept free of the crowd, circling around to defend their goal. They played better in open space, where their superior horsemanship was to their advantage. The other boys always mocked Yusuf for hanging back, refusing to join the scrum for the ball. They claimed he lacked bravery, but Yusuf did not care what others said, so long as he won.