Outcasts

by Martin Lake

  A stunned silence fell upon the city.

  ‘You have an hour to decide,’ said the herald.

  CHAPTER 27

  ROBBED AND REFUSED

  Tyre, Niphin and Tripoli

  The refugees collected their possessions and headed north along the coast. They wept as they trudged, bitter at their betrayal.

  ‘We must hurry them,’ Balian said. ‘Saladin will not hold off for much longer.’

  'Night is coming,' Jerome said. 'They may stray in the dark.'

  'That's true.' Balian smiled at his comrade. 'Will you light the way, old friend?'

  Jerome and Simon lit torches and rode alongside the surging mob. As the light began to fail the people moved ever more slowly.

  Jerome and Simon exchanged worried glances.

  ‘I could use my guards,’ Simon said.

  He realised it was not for him to suggest this and quickly rectified his blunder. ‘If my lord, Eraclius agrees, of course.’

  ‘Anything to get out of the way of a battle,’ Eraclius cried. ‘Give torches to your guards. I will take a torch and lead the way.’

  ‘And I will be the rearguard’ said Balian.

  Half a mile into their march Simon heard screams of terror from up ahead. He drew his sword and whipped his donkey forward. A furlong ahead he saw the refugees frozen with terror. A long line of Saracen horsemen were racing out of the sea-mists towards them.

  Simon quailed, his stomach cold and hard as a stone. Then he mastered himself and rode in front of the people, brandishing his sword at the Saracens.

  ‘Salaam, hero,’ their commander said, waving his hand extravagantly. His men laughed and they swept past, ignoring the refugees, hurrying towards the city.

  ‘That was courageous,’ said a voice from behind him. It was Jerome. He rode past Simon and raised his sword in salute to him.

  The refugees stumbled on for a few hours longer until their strength began to fail. Balian called a halt. The refugees slumped to the ground. Despite their fear they slept until dawn.

  When they awoke they could hear the clamour of battle from far behind. The Saracens had attacked Tyre but it was clear from the noise that they had not yet taken it. Balian allowed a short time for the refugees to eat and drink and then led them onwards to the north.

  The pattern of this day was repeated for the following six. It began to seem like they would remain on this road for all eternity.

  But on the sixth day they halted twelve miles south of the city of Tripoli to rest and take their noon meal

  Huddled against the coast to their left was a small town surrounded with low mud-brick walls. Beyond this, hard against the sea, Simon saw a peninsula behind a deep moat. High battlements rose above the moat and beyond this he could see the towers of a castle.

  He watched as the draw-bridge was lowered and the portcullis raised. A party of horsemen in chain-mail trotted over the bridge and headed towards them.

  ‘The Count of Tripoli must have heard of our progress,’ Eraclius said. ‘No doubt these men have been sent to escort us to his city.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Balian said.

  The horsemen began to pick up speed. Soon they were at full gallop. As they closed upon the refugees the horsemen swept out their swords and bellowed terrible war-cries.

  Simon instinctively drew out his sword but Balian grabbed his hand to stay him. In moments the horsemen had reached them.

  A few of the refugees tried to flee and a dozen were hacked down.

  The leader of the horsemen drew rein in front of the refugees and looked them up and down.

  ‘Who leads you?’ he cried, brandishing his sword above his head. ‘Speak and I may save your miserable skins.’

  Balian urged his horse towards the horseman.

  He pulled off his helmet and stared at Balian.

  He was a man in his forties, and his face was like a skull, his yellowing skin stretched taut over his bones. His eyes were those of a feral cat.

  ‘Who are you?’ thundered Balian. ‘Who dares to attack and slay poor Christians?’

  ‘I am the Baron Raymond of Niphin,’ the man answered. His voice was low and full of menace. ‘You travel across my lands without permission. There is a price for such an act.’

  ‘What price?' said Balian. 'Death?’

  The Baron shrugged and indicated the corpses on the ground.

  ‘For these, obviously. For the rest, let us see how things transpire.’

  His eyes strayed to the packs upon the priests’ donkeys.

  Balian struggled to master his rage.

  ‘I am Balian, Lord of Ibelin,’ he said. ‘I am good friend to your lord, Raymond, Count of Tripoli.’

  ‘Not any more, you aren’t. He’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Balian looked at Jerome.

  ‘And not in battle either, as a Count should.’ The Baron laughed. ‘He died of a cough.’

  Balian’s bowed his head, shaken by this news.

  ‘So who rules in Tripoli now?’ Jerome asked.

  ‘The old man's godson, Raymond of Antioch; the milk-sop.’

  Balian could not hide a groan.

  ‘It is to Tripoli that we are headed,’ Eraclius said. ‘I presume that the new Count has asked you to lead us there.’

  ‘I don’t care what the Count wants,’ the Baron answered. ‘He’s a craven wet-the-bed. I do not consider him my lord.’

  He placed his sword against Eraclius’ throat.

  ‘But I do care for something. Your money.’

  Eraclius shook his head. ‘The money belongs to the church, to our Saviour.’

  ‘Not any more, friend,’ said the Baron. ‘It belongs to me.’

  The Baron turned to his men, pointing out the baggage which contained the wealth of the Holy Sepulchre and more. They climbed off their horses, grinning at the prospect of such wealth.

  Simon turned towards Eraclius, waiting for his instructions.

  Eraclius’ mind worked fast. He pulled a bottle of wine from his saddle-bag and sipped at it. When he had drunk his fill he passed it to Jerome who took it with surprise.

  Eraclius chuckled slightly to himself.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ Baron Raymond demanded.

  ‘Nothing,’ Eraclius answered. ‘Nothing at all.’

  The Baron pushed his horse closer to the Patriarch. ‘I demand you tell me what you are laughing at.’

  Eraclius shook his head. ‘My son, you really do not wish to know.’

  The Baron drew a knife and brandished it in front of Eraclius.

  ‘I really do.’

  Eraclius stared at the knife and nodded. ‘I laugh because what you do is futile,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Futile?’

  ‘Yes. The first kings of Jerusalem, Godfrey and Baldwin, laid dreadful curses upon this treasure. Any man who stole it would be struck with leprosy in this life and face eternal damnation in the next.’

  The Baron turned and stared at the treasure.

  ‘Why else is it still with me?’ Eraclius continued, softly. ‘Why else would Saladin not have stolen it for himself?’

  The Baron urged his horse away from Eraclius who now gazed upon him with a faint look of pity.

  ‘What about the other stuff?’ the Baron cried. ‘That can’t be cursed?’

  ‘Not by the Kings of Jerusalem,’ said Eraclius. ‘But if you take it you shall surely taste the torments of hell.’

  He stared at Eraclius, considering his words. The features on his face grew rigid, making his face look even more like a skull.

  He turned to his followers. ‘Leave the priests' bags. They're cursed. Take everything from the rest.’

  His soldiers went about the refugees, forcing them to give up all their precious, hoarded treasures. After an hour they had only worked their way down half the line.

  Baron Raymond lost patience. He called to his men and they plunged into the crowd. They returned, each carrying three or four screaming children.

  ‘Thes
e little ones die,’ the Baron called. ‘Unless you all bring your riches and place them here, at my feet.’

  Silence descended upon the crowd. For a moment nobody moved. Then a young woman stepped forward and dropped a handful of coins and a brooch at the Baron’s feet.

  ‘Is one of these whelps yours?’ the Baron asked, indicating the children.

  The woman shook her head. ‘My child died on the march,’ she said, ‘and my husband in the siege.’

  She returned to the line.

  An old man stepped forward and emptied a purse of gold and silver on the coins. He stared at the Baron and shook his head before returning to his place.

  Eraclius’ wife climbed from her horse and placed a small chest beside the woman’s coins. She removed her rings and necklace and dropped them there.

  Slowly, without a sound, the rest of the refugees followed suit.

  They reached the city of Tripoli as the evening came and with it a fierce wind from off the sea.

  Balian, Eraclius, Jerome and Simon approached the gate. Eraclius muttered a prayer.

  Balian lent upon the wall. The journey had been far worse than he had feared.

  Jerome hammered upon the gate.

  A light was uncovered in one of the towers on either side.

  ‘What do you want?’ came a nervous cry.

  ‘We are refugees from Jerusalem,’ Balian cried. ‘I am Balian of Ibelin and the Patriarch of Jerusalem rides with me.’

  ‘Wait there.’

  The men exchanged looks. Sanctuary at last.

  ‘We should get the old and frail in first,’ Balian told Eraclius.

  ‘What about the church's treasure? It is at risk out here.’

  ‘The old and frail first,' repeated Balian. 'If necessary we can ask Count Raymond to send men to guard the treasure.’

  ‘I’d rather we don’t alert anyone to it.’

  ‘As you wish. But, Eraclius, your hoard will stay here until the vulnerable are safe inside.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘I think a storm may be coming.’

  They heard the sharp sound of a grate in a postern door being opened.

  ‘Is that you, Balian?’ A young man, not even in his twenties, peered out of the door.

  Balian nodded. ‘It’s good to see you, Raymond. I hear that you are now Count of Tripoli.’

  ‘Yes. And what a terrible time to have this thrust upon me.’ He paused. ‘You have the Patriarch with you?’

  ‘Yes. And hundreds upon hundreds of refugees.’

  ‘You are welcome, Balian, and any knights among you. But I can’t let in anybody else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t. Saladin is a friend of Tripoli and to my father in Antioch. If he hears that I am giving sanctuary to so many he may cease to be a friend.’

  ‘He won’t be a friend for much longer,’ Balian said. ‘Saladin is bent on destroying every Crusader state.’

  Raymond groaned. ‘I know. What are we to do?’

  ‘One thing we can do is to stand together. If we are disunited then Saladin’s victory will come swiftly. If he hears that you have refused us help he will laugh with joy. We are only strong if we support each other.’

  ‘But what offer of support do you bring? Old men, old women, sick children.’

  ‘Yes, and Christians every one,’ cried Eraclius.

  ‘You are welcome, Your Worship,' Raymond said quickly. 'You may stay.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to,’ cried Eraclius. ‘Show mercy damn it or I shall beg God to show no mercy to you.’

  Raymond whimpered.

  ‘We cannot take them, my lord,’ said a voice behind Raymond. ‘You must deny them.’

  ‘I would give you sanctuary,’ Raymond whispered. ‘But my captains tell me not to.’

  ‘But you are the Count,’ said Balian.

  ‘But I’m from Antioch. The people of Tripoli have accepted me but they are doubtful. I cannot go against them.

  ‘Lick-spittle,’ cried Eraclius. He raised his hand above his head and muttered a curse upon Raymond. 'You will not remain Count of Tripoli for long,' he told him.

  Raymond's hand went to his mouth.

  ‘These people need shelter,’ said Balian. ‘A storm is threatening.’

  ‘I will give you food,’ Raymond said. ‘That's as much as I can do.’

  Eraclius and Balian looked at each other in astonishment.

  ‘Then do that at the very least,’ Balian cried.

  Raymond nodded and disappeared from view.

  'What a tragedy Raymond has died,' Balian said. ‘My old friend would not have treated us as his godson has done.’

  ‘Count Raymond was always too fond of the Saracen,’ Eraclius said. ‘But you are right in this respect. He would not have seen the people suffer at his gates in this manner.’

  Balian turned and looked at the refugees.

  ‘Shall I tell them?’

  ‘No, my friend,’ Eraclius said. ‘We need you to lead us on to safety. We shall have to go to Antioch, or even beyond, to the Empire. The people need to keep their faith in you. The bad news will come better from an old, tired priest.’

  He walked away into the darkness.

  A few minutes later a loud, keening wail of despair rose from the refugees and echoed against the walls.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE PALACE OF THE CALIPH

  Baghdad

  Agnes awoke from a drowsy slumber. On the couch opposite the children were twitching in their sleep.

  She groaned. She had tried to keep a check on the long days of this ceaseless journey but was no longer sure how long it had been. She realised that she had not seen her husband for weeks and weeks but could not be more certain than that.

  Habib snored beside her, his head lolling against her neck. She reached out and pushed his head away gently. She did not want to wake him. His endless talk was beginning to drive her to despair.

  She pulled open the curtain.

  It was dawn. The sky to the east was a pale grey. A faint smudge of red lay upon the horizon like blood upon a wound. As she watched, it seemed to bubble, a flaccid shape that only gradually resolved itself into the morning sun. The sky turned from grey to an ever-deepening blue. Above the sun a tide of red surged up, painting the blue a delicate shade which made her heart lighten.

  The sun heaved itself clear of the horizon. A light flashed on the land in front of her. She turned to look at it and gasped.

  Spread before her was a vast city, white and golden, thronged with domes of every colour, pierced by towers and minarets.

  Baghdad. The capital of the Muslim world.

  Habib stirred, gave a huge yawn and even huger belch. He saw Agnes looking through the curtain and poked his head out beside her.

  ‘Baghdad,’ he cried. ‘Now you will see the wonders of a great city.’

  ‘Are we here?’ Eleanor asked, as she had every morning of the trek.

  ‘We are, darling,’ Agnes said.

  ‘Will we have to stay on this camel?’ Eleanor asked.

  Agnes turned to Habib. ‘Can we walk from here?’

  ‘Of course. There is no better way to enter the city.’

  He shouted to the driver. The camel halted and, with great groans, lowered itself to the ground. The driver opened the curtain and helped Agnes and Eleanor down. Gerard and Claude-Yusuf leapt down beside them.

  ‘Brave boys,’ Habib said. ‘Such brave boys.’

  Claude-Yusuf looked at him with distaste.

  The camel behind also stopped. Dawud climbed down, munching on a piece of bread.

  ‘At last,’ he said. ‘My backside is as rough as a date palm.’

  ‘It matches your face then,’ Habib said.

  Dawud ignored him, staring at the beautiful spectacle before them.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like this, boys?’ he asked.

  ‘Never,’ Claude-Yusuf said. ‘I thought that Jerusalem was the biggest city in the world.’

  Dawud chuckled. ‘J
erusalem is dwarfed by the Round City.’

  ‘Why’s it called that?’ Gerard asked.

  ‘Because it is built as a huge circle with the Mosque in the centre.’

  ‘Next to the palace,’ Habib said.

  ‘A palace,’ said Claude-Yusuf. ‘Does a king live there?’

  ‘A king and more than a king. The palace belongs to the Caliph who is master of the entire Muslim world.’

  ‘Is he more important than Saladin?’ Gerard asked.

  Habib paused. Why did children ask such difficult questions?

  ‘He is in the eyes of God and in the hearts of the people,’ Habib said. ‘He has fewer soldiers than Saladin; at the moment.’

  Gerard and Claude-Yusuf lost interest at this news. They knew full well that a prince with few soldiers was not as powerful as a prince with many.

  They strolled through streets which were beginning to fill with people. Most were too engrossed in their own business to pay any attention to them but those who had time to spare watched the westerners with idle curiosity.

  Agnes, on the other hand, stared back at them with fascination. In Jerusalem she had been used to seeing a variety of people, all hailing from different places. Yet even this had not prepared her for the universe that was Baghdad.

  Most faces were similar to the Muslims of her own country. In addition, there were traders from Africa, merchants from India, Northmen from Scandinavia, Bedouin from the deserts and, fascinating to behold, people with narrow eyes and yellow skin from the unimaginable steppes to the east.

  Claude-Yusuf and Gerard turned and stared with every step they took, astonished at the faces, exhilarated by the voices.

  ‘This is a wonderful place, mama,’ Gerard called. ‘I like it here.’

  ‘He feels the blessings of Allah,’ Habib said with a smile.

  ‘Look at all the food,’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s so pretty.’

  They had reached a huge bazaar, its stalls packed with the produce of the world. The colours were as bright as flowers, the scent a rich melange which sent their heads spinning. A few alleyways stank of rotting meat and vegetables but most were clean and fresh with a great many edged with narrow channels filled with running water.