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Saladin waved a hospitable hand. The doctor obediently gathered in his robe and lowered himself to the floor. As he did so, Saladin caught sight of Salim.

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘No, my lord. My apprentice.’

  ‘A Jew?’

  ‘He is Muslim.’

  Salim dared to raise his eyes, and in the seconds before he lowered them again the Sultan’s hawk-like face, long greying beard and deep-set piercing eyes were printed on his memory.

  ‘Wait over there, boy,’ Saladin said, waving his hand again.

  For the next ten minutes Salim watched awestruck as messengers came and went, mailed knights hovered respectfully and chieftains from Asia waited like servants for a word of command from Sultan Saladin. He quivered with pride at the sight of the doctor – his doctor – sitting like an equal on a cushion beside the Sultan, holding his wrist as he took his pulse, while Saladin talked confidentially into his ear, pointing now to his stomach and now to his chest.

  At last Dr Musa struggled to his feet and beckoned Salim.

  ‘I’ll send my boy to you with a draught, my lord. If God wills it will relieve the symptoms.’

  Saladin smiled.

  ‘I hope you’re right, doctor. But I fear I’ll never be at ease again until the day we send these infidel barbarians back to the lands of snow and ice where they belong.’

  ‘May the Lord bring that day soon,’ Dr Musa said fervently.

  ‘Extraordinary people, the Franks,’ Saladin said, as if to himself. ‘Superstitious as children, believing all kinds of foolish magic and fairytales, unwashed, drunken, uneducated – terrible manners! – but their faith! Their courage! To risk all, to travel across the sea, and fight like lions for their religion! You have to admire them after all.’

  Salim was shocked.

  How could anyone admire the Franks? He thought. They’re wicked and hateful. All of them.

  A servant led Salim and Dr Musa back out into the bright sunshine.

  ‘A tent’s being prepared for you,’ he said respectfully. ‘By our lord’s command. Over there, under the tree, close to the Sultan, peace be upon him. I’ll send a man for your belongings.’ He hesitated, then put his head on one side to look round into the doctor’s face. ‘Doctor, can I ask you something? My piles – they’re agony! You don’t have anything you could give me?’

  Dr Musa cast his eyes up.

  ‘Here it begins,’ he said despairingly. ‘Oh Jerusalem, Jerusalem! When will I see you and my Leah again?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the servant said humbly. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Don’t tell Lord Saladin that I was so presumptuous . . .’

  ‘No, no, my good fellow,’ Dr Musa said hastily. ‘Your piles, of course I can help you. Diet first. A correct diet – that’s the root of all good health. And something to soothe the – ah – the area. Come to me later this afternoon. First let an old man rest and wash and pray.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the servant said eagerly. ‘I’ll bring water. And for prayer – there are other Jews in the camp. Did you know? They pray together in the morning and evening. They have their own cook too.’

  Dr Musa’s round cheeks creased as he smiled.

  ‘Other Jews? God be praised! Salim, go and find the medicine chest and that mule of perdition. And tell them to look after Ismail. He’s not to get up yet. I’ll visit him later. Why do I bother, when all’s said and done? As soon as I’ve patched him up I’ve no doubt he’ll try to kill himself again.’

  Salim squared his shoulders and hurried away, proud of the doctor’s confidence. The Mamluk troop had moved some way off and he had to pick his way carefully through the crowd. Strange languages were being spoken all around him, and there were devices painted on shields and stitched to banners that he’d never seen before.

  They’ve all come, he thought admiringly. Everyone’s answered the call of Saladin.

  He stood back to let a couple of laden camels pass, and as he did so a voice speaking in Arabic came disastrously loud and clear out of the din around.

  ‘Those poor devils in Acre,’ the man was saying. ‘Thank God my family’s not there. I counted five more Frankish ships landing on the beach this morning and there are more arriving every day. This won’t be over tomorrow, I tell you. Months, this siege is going to last. The Franks will starve the city out. It’s the kids I feel sorry for. They always die first.’

  Zahra! thought Salim.

  In his imagination he saw his little sister growing pale and thin, not grizzling like a spoilt baby but crying real tears of pain and hunger. He could see Mama, Baba and Ali too, their eyes sinking into their skulls, their hands becoming claw-like, the flesh withering on their arms and legs, till they looked like the beggars who scavenged for food around the edges of the city.

  I’ve got to do something, Salim told himself. I’ve got to get them out of Acre. Why didn’t Baba leave when he had the chance? Maybe he did. Maybe they’re out already. I’ve got to find out. I must!

  He hobbled on, scarcely looking where he was going.

  He was nearly sent flying by a hearty clap on the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, little brother,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘Where do you think you’re going, walking right past us? Forgotten your old friends already, have you? Did you see the Lord Saladin? What does he look like?’

  He’d reached the Mamluk troop’s quarter. Other soldiers crowded round him.

  ‘Are you coming back to us again?’ one asked.

  Salim, forgetting his troubles, shook his head proudly.

  ‘No. The doctor’s been advising the Sultan on his health. We’re to stay close to him.’

  ‘Wallahi! Our own doctor! He’s a great man, little brother. You will be too one day.’

  One of them led Suweida up to him. The old black mule, with her rough coat and simple leather tack, looked so humble after the magnificence of Kestan, the chestnut thoroughbred that Salim had so loved riding, that he felt ashamed of her. One of the soldiers saw him look longingly back towards the tethered horses.

  ‘You ride well,’ he said encouragingly. ‘You’re a quick learner, anyway. You’ll never be a Mamluk, exactly, but you’re better than most Arab boys. Come and see us again soon. When we’ve killed all the Franks and looted all their stuff, we’ll have a feast. A couple of roasted sheep, rice with almonds, the best fruit – what do you think of that, eh?’

  Another had brought up the medicine chest. Salim tied it on Suweida’s back with care, then, with the men’s good wishes in his ears, he led the mule away through the camp towards his new home beside the great tent of Saladin.

  Salim lay awake that night, staring up into the conical roof of the tent. The doctor lay on a mat nearby. His whistling snores were so like Baba’s that tears pricked Salim’s eyes.

  They’ll have got out of Acre, all right. They must have done, he told himself. Baba’s ship probably came in the day we left. They’ll have packed up and gone at once. They’ll be in Damascus by now, with Aunt Aliyah.

  He almost smiled as he imagined his mother’s frantic packing, her shouts to Selma the servant girl, the delving into chests, then Ali’s grumbles as she made him carry bundles out into the courtyard.

  Ali! He won’t have gone. He’ll have stayed to fight, he thought, half enviously.

  If only he could be sure! If only he could find out where his family really was!

  The camp outside was quiet. Sentries posted round Saladin’s enclosure coughed from time to time, and Salim could hear the clink of weapons as they patrolled. Further away, voices were raised in argument, and a goat bleated in startled protest. Just outside the tent a stone rattled, dislodged by a mouse, perhaps, and in the tree above an owl’s claws scratched against the branch. Otherwise, the great camp of Saladin was quiet.

  I could creep down to the city, Salim thought. I could go round by the sea and sneak past the Frankish army. I’d find a way in, I know I would, if I could just get up to the walls.

  He imagined everything: slipping out of S
aladin’s camp past the sentries, borrowing Kestan from the Mamluk troop, picking his way down the hill, then galloping across the plain to the sea. Under his cloak, which he’d wrapped round himself, his fists were clenched.

  I’d be caught for horse-stealing. And I’d never get that far on foot. Even if I did, the beaches are all covered with Frankish boats. There are hundreds of infidels there.

  But what if he didn’t go round the Frankish army, and instead tried to worm his way through it? What if he crept up to the enemy camp in the middle of the night and darted from behind one tent to the next, sliding silently through it till he came to the walls of Acre? He’d pretend to be a Frankish boy if someone accosted him.

  He rehearsed phrases from the half-remembered language in his head.

  What do you want, you little bleeder? What are you doing here?

  I’m – I’m John, he’d say, thinking of one of the boys he’d once played with. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep it up for long.

  My clothes are all wrong, anyway, he told himself. They’d think I was a spy. They’d stone me.

  It was a relief to accept that the whole idea was crazy. He yawned, turned over, and went to sleep.

  The next morning he had fetched milk for the doctor’s breakfast and was crouching over a fire, boiling water, when he became aware of a knot of men silently watching him. He looked back at them warily, afraid he was doing something wrong. One man, a Kurd by the look of him, came up to him, and Salim saw with surprise how nervously he was fingering the wooden scabbard of his sword.

  ‘Are you the doctor’s boy?’ he asked.

  Salim nodded.

  ‘Will he see us? Me and my friends – we all want to consult him.’

  He fumbled inside his gown, brought out a coin and pressed it into Salim’s hand.

  Salim heard a familiar grunt and shot up to his feet. Dr Musa was standing behind him. Salim read the look in his eye, and put the coin back into the Kurd’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Bribe my servant, will you?’ the doctor said, his voice rumbling with menace. ‘No need for that. Come and see me in my tent after noonday prayers.’

  Salim watched the men file away.

  ‘Pennies from poor soldiers, that’s no way to get rich,’ the doctor said reprovingly. ‘It’s as I thought it would be. We’ll have every blister and stomach twinge standing outside the tent by this afternoon. Are you ready for work, boy? You’d better be. You know what I think of laziness? It’s to be punished! Mercilessly! There’s a shocking lot to do. My poor medicine chest wasn’t kitted out to service an army. It’ll be emptied in a day. Replenishment! Fresh supplies! Thanks be to God, his marvellous creation bountifully supplies. Heads of mice.’

  Salim, whose mind had wandered, looked up, startled.

  ‘Mice, sidi Musa?’

  ‘You heard me. Heads of mice, kneaded in honey. Extraordinary properties. And herbs! I shall need everything! Chicory! Poppy! Henbane! Deadly nightshade! Oh where, where is Sayed, my old pharmacist?’

  ‘In Acre, ustadh?’ Salim ventured.

  ‘Of course he’s in Acre! At least, I hope he’s fled by now. The point is that he’s not here, and neither is his storeroom. We must do what we can. You’ll go out into the highways and byways and bring back the fruits thereof.’

  ‘Fruits?’ Salim was becoming more puzzled by the minute. ‘You mean figs?’

  ‘Figs? Did I say figs? Fresh fruit is an abomination to the digestion. No, you’ll seek out plants and bring them to me. You’ll start now, on the slopes behind the camp. Not a word of argument! Chicory first. You know a chicory plant?’

  ‘I – I don’t think so.’

  The doctor rolled his eyes.

  ‘Belladonna? Hemlock?’

  Salim shook his head.

  ‘Asphodel? Thistle? Sage?’

  Salim said nothing.

  ‘Ignorance! Well, we must start somewhere. You will go out now and collect one of every kind of plant you find. I’ll teach you what they are, and what I want you to look for. Off! Now! What are you waiting for?’ Salim had already hobbled away. ‘And mice!’ the doctor’s voice floated after him. ‘Bring me mice!’

  Salim, brought up in the narrow, crowded streets of Acre, had never roamed about on the rocky hillsides above the city. At first he stumbled around aimlessly, not knowing what to do. He’d never really looked at plants before. He’d never noticed that some were small, some large, some bushy, some spiky, some grey-green, some fleshy and some brittle. He began to pull them up and, half an hour later, pleased with himself, hobbled back to the doctor with his haul.

  Dr Musa scowled when he saw the roots dangling from the bundle.

  ‘You want to turn the hillside into a desert? Is that it? Did I say uproot? Pluck! Pick! Leave the plant in place to grow again! Now what have we here?’ Quickly he sorted through the wilting leaves. ‘This one, yes. And this. The others are useless. More! I need more! Go further. Look harder! Don’t neglect the little things that creep upon the ground.’

  Salim hurried off again. He had picked a dozen new kinds of leaves when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a mouse whisk itself under a stone. He lunged for it, dropping his load. The mouse shot out from its hiding place and with incredible speed raced up a short incline from the dip where Salim had been looking for plants and disappeared over the top. Salim stumbled after it, but when he came to the top he forgot the mouse and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

  He’d come further than he’d thought and was looking right down into the Crusader camp. It ringed the city in a great horseshoe, both ends of which ran right down to the sea. All along the outer rim, men were at work digging a huge trench and throwing the earth from it up on to a high bank. Archers were stationed along the length of the trench, arrows ready on the strings of their bows, watching out for a Saracen attack.

  Fascinated and afraid, Salim crawled further forward. The nearest point of the earthwork was a good half-mile away, but the sun was behind him and he could see clearly in the bright morning air. Behind the bank the camp was much the same as Saladin’s. Tents sprouted everywhere, some small and simple, others large and magnificent. Several had crosses raised above them.

  Churches, Salim thought.

  Horses were tethered in lines. Banners with different devices fluttered from dozens of poles. There were wagons and cooking fires and piles of wood and blacksmiths’ forges. He could even make out a huge haystack and the two men who were pitchforking bundles of hay into a barrow.

  A bird in the tree above him squawked noisily, and although the Franks were too far away to hear it, Salim instinctively ducked his head, afraid of being spotted. If he was seen the Franks would send a volley of arrows towards him. Even at that distance, one could kill him.

  On his way back to the Saracen camp he was distracted by a crow that was tussling with something on the ground. He went to look. The crow flapped away, and Salim saw that it had killed a mouse. Triumphantly, he scooped it up.

  Dr Musa nodded with satisfaction when he saw Salim’s haul.

  ‘Achillea. Excellent,’ he said, laying the plants aside one by one. ‘First-class for healing wounds. And valerian for nervous disorders. What’s this? A mouse! Your industry has been richly rewarded!’ His brows twitched together in a look of the utmost ferocity. ‘You didn’t stray towards the Frankish camp, boy, eh? You didn’t risk capture by those murdering fanatics?’

  Trying not to look guilty, Salim shook his head.

  The doctor’s scowl would have stopped a lion in its tracks.

  ‘If you allow yourself to be snatched by the enemy, believe me, I shall pursue you like a fury! You think I want to see my investment wasted? Is that it?’

  Salim shook his head.

  ‘No, sidi Musa. Would you like me to make you some mint tea?’

  The doctor rolled his eyes.

  ‘Mint? On an empty stomach? Now you want to kill me! But a light meal – some bread, a little cheese, a few olives and then a rest, fo
r us both, in the shade of our tent – a good idea, my boy. See to it.’

  The days quickly settled into a pattern. In the afternoon a respectful crowd assembled outside the doctor’s tent, bringing with them every kind of ailment, as well as countless little gifts of gratitude, until the tent was overflowing with eggs, flasks of rose-water, small bags of nuts and bottles of olive oil. Often the doctor was called away to Saladin’s marquee to attend to one of the chieftains or to the Sultan himself. Salim would go with him, watching everyone, learning the names and characters of the great men, becoming a familiar presence so that he could slip in and out of the compound past the guards without a challenge.

  It was the mornings, though, that he enjoyed most. He spent hours every day out on the hillsides looking for the plants the doctor needed. He would start on the inland side, away from Acre, but always he was drawn back to the seaward side, to the little outcrop where he’d first looked down into the Crusader camp, and he would lie there for as long as he dared, watching people come and go, anxiously assessing the new arrivals from Europe pouring in off the ships, counting the tents springing up in the ever more crowded space, shuddering at the sight of the wagons full of weapons, and the knights in their heavy chainmail, puzzling over the Crusaders’ odd clothes and strange habits and, more and more as the weeks went past, wrinkling his nose against the stench that built up into an unspeakable foulness as the Crusader camp became more squalid and dirty day by day.

  He watched anxiously as strange contraptions rose from the ground near the city walls. Immense beams of wood were hauled to strategic points by teams of oxen. The men who were working on them from dawn to dusk were slowly building gigantic catapults. Salim shuddered as he watched, his heart in his mouth, as the first one to be finished swung back its great arm and sent a huge rock crashing into the city wall. It took a second or two for the dull thud to reach him, but he had already let out a sigh of relief. The wall had stood firm but the rock itself had disintegrated. He could see, even from this distance, the splash of white it made against the masonry.

  The ditch grew deeper and the bank grew higher day by day. There were gaps in it here and there, cleverly designed with inner walls so that it would be easy for knights to charge out and attack, but possible also to defend against an assault from outside. Quite often, he saw Franks emerge through such gaps from behind their great mud wall. Horses cantered along the length of it, and soldiers often foraged for wood and grass.