Outcasts

by Martin Lake

  At length the streets became wider and less crowded. Date palms and lemon trees grew at intervals and the buildings were larger and more grand. They left behind houses and shops and walked past mansions, public buildings and opulent gardens.

  Finally, they approached a vast open space with a beautiful mosque on one side and, on the other, a large complex made of sand coloured brick decorated with friezes and elaborate facades. High above their heads was a huge emerald dome which looked too weighty for the walls to hold.

  A large paved courtyard contained bowers of roses, a string of fountains and well-cut lawns. Peacocks strutted and beautiful women strolled.

  ‘What is this place?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘It is the palace of the Caliph, al-Nasir,’ said Habib.

  ‘The palace?’ Agnes said. 'Why have we come to the palace?'

  Habib frowned. ‘You do not think I have brought you across the desert to be a common-place servant? You, my dear, are going to join the harem of the Caliph.’

  Agnes’ hand went to her mouth. ‘You cannot be serious. I thought you were jesting.'

  'Such delightful innocence,' Habib said, reaching out for her hand and stroking it gently.

  ‘The Caliph has many women and many wives,’ he continued. ‘One of my tasks is to find him women of beauty and wit who will entertain and enthral him.’

  She blinked. ‘Then why on earth did you choose me?’

  Habib chuckled. ‘Because you are the sort of woman who asks me such a question. Because you are the sort of woman who is not aware of her quality. The Caliph has vain and foolish beauties a-plenty. He is getting tired of them. I know what he likes and what he needs. Someone like you.’

  He held her by the arm and gently stroked her cheek. 'You are beautiful, Agnes, but you do not realise it. I imagine that you were a pretty enough young girl but you are one of those lucky females who gain beauty as they grow more mature. Like a promising, tight little rose-bud opens up and becomes a rose of surpassing beauty. Many petals, many layers, every one soft and gorgeous. Yet guarded by thorns which deal out exquisite pain to those who make a grab at them.' He chuckled.

  ‘But I’m married.’

  Habib laughed. ‘Even a Caliph can’t have everything. Still, you won’t need to be broken in.’

  Agnes turned away, shame reddening her cheeks.

  Gerard saw and hurried to her side.

  ‘What about my children?’ Agnes asked.

  ‘That is not for me to decide,' said Habib. 'They may go as house slaves or work the fields. The older one is clever. The Caliph may want him for a eunuch.’

  ‘No.' Agnes turned, horrified that Claude-Yusuf may have heard. If he did, he gave no indication of it.

  Habib shrugged. ‘It was you who asked me to bring them.’

  ‘Don’t let this old fool alarm you,’ said Dawud. ‘He talks of eunuchs only because people mistake him for one.’ He squeezed his friend’s cheek. ‘But his old friends know that he is quite the contrary, quite the old goat in fact.’

  ‘Are you going to promise that he will not be made a eunuch?’ Habib said.

  ‘Of course not. But whatever happens to the boys will not be worse than being left in Damascus for some filthy Turk to buy them.’

  Habib grinned and turned to Agnes.

  ‘Dawud was a slave of the Turks as a child,’ he explained.

  ‘Do Muslims make slaves of Muslims?’ Claude-Yusuf asked.

  ‘The Caliph does,’ said Dawud. ‘If his servants become too arrogant and too fat.’

  ‘Ignore whatever Dawud has to say,' he said. 'He was born a Greek,’ he said.

  'A Greek?' said Claude-Yusuf. 'Like Alexius?'

  'Who is Alexius?' Habib frowned irritably.

  'He is our friend. He is descended from an Emperor.'

  'I care not for the Greeks nor for Emperors.' He leaned closer.

  ‘Dawud was stolen as a child by the Turks. He hates the Turks with a consuming fury.’

  ‘I thought every Muslim was a brother,’ Claude-Yusuf said.

  The two men laughed.

  ‘Why do you Christians always think this?’ Habib asked. ‘After all your own faith is split between Franks and Greeks, Syrians and Copts.’

  ‘It is the same in Islam,’ said Dawud. ‘The Sunnis hate the Shia, the Shia hate them back, the Arabs hate the Persians, the Egyptians hate the Arabs, the Arabs hate the Turks and everyone hates the Kurds. Especially everyone hates Saladin.’

  ‘I thought Saladin was the King of the Muslims,’ Claude-Yusuf said.

  ‘He is Lord of Egypt and Syria,’ said Dawud. 'And he is a Kurd.'

  ‘If anyone can be said to be King of the Muslims,' said Habib with pride, 'it is the Caliph al-Nasir.’

  ‘But you said he has less soldiers than Saladin.’

  ‘I did,’ cried Habib. He bent down close towards him. ‘But each one of them has a sword sharp enough to slit your throat. So be careful that you do not criticise the Caliph in their hearing.’

  ‘You’re frightening the boy,’ cried Agnes.

  Dawud held his hand up to her. ‘He did it for the boy’s sake. Saladin may be feared here but he is not loved.’

  ‘This is a new world,’ Habib added. ‘You had better get used to it.’

  He said a word to the door-keeper and they were allowed into the palace.

  ‘A woman for the harem,’ Habib told an attendant. ‘Take the girl with her. I will look after the boys.’

  CHAPTER 29

  THE SARACEN ATTACK

  Tyre

  John glanced at Bernard and Matthew. ‘Do you think the hour is up yet?’

  Bernard nodded. ‘Yes, or very close.’

  At that moment, the herald rode out in front of Saladin’s army and cried out loudly, ‘Conrad of Montferrat. My master, Saladin the Merciful, gave you an hour to make up your minds. Surrender the city of Tyre now. Otherwise all of your people will be slain or sold as slaves and the city torn down. You will be crucified and your body left as food for crows and as warning to all who defy the will of Saladin.’

  From the battlements Conrad stared at him, unmoved by his words.

  ‘Tell Saladin that I will never surrender,' he cried. 'If he wants Tyre he must fight me for it.’

  The herald nodded and trotted back to the Saracen lines. This was the signal.

  At once there sounded a mighty blaring of trumpets and a thunderous beating of drums. The Saracen horsemen fanned out along the walls, racing fast, pouring arrow after arrow over the battlements.

  The infantry marched stolidly down towards the walls. In between their massed companies moved catapults and mangonels beyond count.

  ‘This looks more terrible than the battle for Jerusalem,’ said Bernard.

  ‘It is because Saladin wants this port in Muslim hands,’ said Khalid. ‘And he does not like being defied by an arrogant Italian like Conrad.’

  John and his friends were astonished by the speed with which Saladin unleashed his fury upon the walls. Within minutes of the herald’s return, the city was being bombarded. Boulders smashed against the walls and catapult shafts as thick as a man’s arm rained into the city.

  The defenders on the battlements were hard-pressed to respond in any way. The hail of arrows from the horsemen was keeping the more sensible soldiers cowering behind cover of the walls. The fool-hardy were picked off as they stood.

  ‘The arrows won’t prove fatal from this distance,’ Khalid said. ‘But they inflict wounds and keeps the Franks occupied while we make our move.’

  Scores of infantrymen now raced up to the bottom of the walls with huge scaling ladders. Some were hoisted up by men wielding large poles. These poles had two timbers shaped like a claw at the top which held the rungs of the ladders securely. As the men pushed at the poles the ladders began to inch their way upwards towards the walls.

  To hasten the attack Saladin had ordered that thick ropes be tied to the bottom rungs of a dozen of the ladders. Once this was done the Saracens
attached the other ends of the ropes to sturdy arrows already in place on the catapults.

  The catapults were released. As the arrows sailed over the walls the ropes dragged the rear of the ladders up behind them. The ladders crashed against the walls and, before the defenders could reach them, dozens of Saracens were clambering up to the attack.

  The defenders tried to push the ladders back but the storm of arrows meant that too few men were willing to risk their lives to lend a hand. Five or six ladders were toppled back, sending the Saracens hurtling to the plain below. The rest were unmoved and within moments Muslim soldiers were on the walls, fighting ferociously with the defenders.

  ‘So soon,’ said Bernard in disbelief. ‘The city will be taken in minutes.’

  A moment later a trumpet sounded from within the city. The huge gates were thrown open and a hundred armoured horsemen careered out, followed by a hundred footmen.

  The knights crashed into the Saracen horsemen, catching them unawares and sending them reeling back. At the same time the foot-soldiers attacked the Saracens around the siege ladders, hacking into them. The Franks swiftly tied ropes to the bottoms of the ladders and threw them to the knights who attached them to their saddles and galloped away from the wall. It was enough to destabilise the ladders. They began to totter.

  Up on the walls the defenders began to push on the tops of the ladders. The Saracens upon the ladders fought back in frenzy but it was too late. One after the other the siege ladders were pushed back from the walls and toppled to earth, injuring scores of Saracens as they did so.

  The Frankish infantrymen fled back to the gate and held the Saracens at bay until the knights had thundered back and into the city. The gate was slammed shut with a clang.

  ‘Don’t show your pleasure,’ Bernard hissed at John and Matthew. ‘If we look pleased we may have our throats slit.’

  ‘Wise words,’ said Khalid. ‘Remember who your lord is now and act accordingly.’

  ‘But you have been thrown back so quickly,’ John said.

  Khalid gave him a pitying look. ‘Please, John. This is merely the first move. We have tested their defences and now know their mettle. But it is only a question of time. Be patient.’

  Yet as Khalid walked away Bernard thought that the concern showed upon his face.

  Night fell and the three friends laid their blankets close to Khalid. They were in a den of lions and he was the only friendly one.

  Towards the end of the night John was disturbed by a strange dream.

  He was a little boy visiting his uncle’s farm in the country. A huge herd of cows plodded towards him. At first he thought they were friendly and waited until they got close so he could pat their leathery backs. Then he saw that they were not cows but bulls and there was hatred in their eyes. Terrified, he fled the herd and took refuge in a forest. For a moment he felt safe. But then he saw a huge tree wrench itself out of the ground and stagger towards him on legs made of roots. Every other tree did the same; and their branches were like arms reaching out to clutch him.

  He woke and heard the reassuring snore of Bernard beside him. He smiled at the nightmare and drifted back to sleep.

  The sun rose. John stretched and looked around. The Saracen army was stirring. Men had laid out their prayer mats while the servants banked up the fires for the morning meal.

  John turned his gaze towards the city and blinked in astonishment.

  A dozen huge siege towers had been placed in position a mere ten yards from the walls.

  ‘How on earth?’ he began.

  ‘The Saracens dragged them here,’ said Matthew. ‘I’ve just been talking with Khalid. The towers come from Jerusalem. As soon as the city was taken they were dismantled and brought by cart to the coast. They were kept beyond that forest yonder and were rebuilt yesterday. The Saracens dragged them here overnight.’

  John shook his head in wonder. ‘There’s not much hope for Tyre now,’ he said.

  ‘Unless there's a miracle.’

  They had forgotten about Conrad, however. He had been alerted to the approach of the towers during the night and had already made his preparations.

  Saladin began his attack as soon as his men had prayed and eaten. Tall infantrymen hoisted their shields above the heads of gangs of sappers who strained to push the towers the last remaining yards towards the battlements.

  The defenders in the city poured arrow after arrow upon the sappers but Saladin had placed his own archers to the rear of the towers and they sent up a cloud of shafts to daunt the defenders.

  Step by excruciating step the towers inched closer.

  Eventually they were only a yard or two from the battlements. At the top of each tower a draw-bridge crashed down and Saracen warriors stormed across to the walls.

  If the Saracens saw the long tubes pointing towards them they had no time to do anything about it.

  From the mouth of the tubes belched a deep red flame. It caught upon the foremost Saracens and the flames leapt up their bodies. Their screams were terrible to hear.

  ‘Greek Fire,’ muttered Khalid. He stared up at the walls as the tubes vented once again.

  More Saracens were stricken and the flames went further still, back to the towers themselves. The timbers had been well wetted to protect them from ordinary fire but this was no proof against the strange terror. The Greek Fire appeared to stick against the wet timbers, to pause for a moment as if panting for breath, then leapt up in renewed fury. Soon the towers were blazing at the top as if they were the candles of giants.

  A trumpet call sounded from the Saracen lines. The sappers turned and frantically began to push the towers back from the danger. They managed to move them but it was too late.

  By the time they had moved beyond the reach of the fire the upper stories of the towers were engulfed. Blazing timbers crashed amongst the Saracens. The flames seized on their flesh and could not be quenched. They leapt away in agony, spreading the dreadful menace amongst their comrades like a plague.

  The rest of the army stared aghast as their own friends charged towards them, carrying flame and destruction with every step.

  ‘Shoot them,’ cried al-Adil. ‘Shoot the men on fire.’

  For a brief moment the archers did not move, horrified at the thought of killing their own people.

  ‘Do it,’ cried Saladin, beside his brother. ‘Shoot the men on fire. They will bless you for doing so.’

  The archers shook free of their trauma and aimed arrow after arrow at the stricken men. One after the other the burning men fell to this onslaught. Their comrades watched in horror as they were consumed.

  John turned to look at Saladin. The Sultan's face was a mixture of horror and rage. The sight of it chilled John’s blood; a terrible naked fear seized him.

  CHAPTER 30

  MEETINGS IN THE HAREM

  Baghdad

  Agnes picked up Eleanor and hurried after the silent attendant. He led them through corridor after corridor, so many that, within minutes, she had completely lost all sense of direction.

  Finally, they reached a large white door inlaid with sheets of beaten gold. The attendant knocked quietly upon the door. After a moment a tiny panel slid open and two eyes peered out.

  'A Frankish woman for the harem,' said the attendant. 'Habib and Dawud brought her.'

  The door slid back.

  'Wait here,' the attendant said before hurrying back the way he had come.

  'Where are we, Mama?' Eleanor asked.

  'We are at our new house,' Agnes answered, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill out.

  'Is Daddy here?'

  'Not yet, darling, not yet. But he will be. Someday soon.'

  Eleanor fell quiet, apart from the occasional sniff.

  The door slid open to reveal a large man who regarded them silently. He was tall and very overweight but unlike Habib he wore this well. He looked almost as much muscle as fat. His massive head was bald of all hair, including eye-brows.

  'Come
this way,' he said in a voice like that of a child.

  A eunuch, Agnes realised. She shuddered, remembering Habib's threat regarding Claude-Yusuf.

  She followed the eunuch into the harem. This was one of the two hearts of the Palace. The other was the Caliph's Council Hall, surrounded by offices, busy with functionaries, where he made policy, ruled his lands and dispensed justice and religious edicts.

  The Caliph thought of the Council Hall as his public heart. His private one he reserved for the harem.

  Here, in the very centre of the palace, were his private quarters, his dining rooms, bath-house and lounges, his bedroom, his prayer-room and his courtyard gardens. Here, also, were his eighty women. A few were his wives but the majority were concubines, placed there for his amusement only.

  Some amused the Caliph insufficiently and he never took them to his bed again. They passed the years waiting for the summons. When it finally became certain that the summons would never arrive they were passed on to the Caliph's favourites or gradually took on more and more menial duties. Many of them became indistinguishable from the female servants who serviced the harem and lived out the rest of their days in this role.

  Those concubines who amused the Caliph greatly, or those who bore him a male child, attained a status close to that of his wives. It was, however, a fragile status. Should she cease to amuse, or should the child not survive, it would be better for her to throw herself upon the mercy of the desert jackals.

  To prosper in the harem a woman had to have beauty, adroit erotic skills, the political instincts of a vizier and the nerve of a tiger.

  Or she had to be like Johara.

  The eunuch pointed towards a room and told Agnes to wait there. It was a small room containing a divan and two large cushions upon the floor. A window looked out upon a courtyard garden. A small fountain cascaded into a pool containing water lilies which were just opening to the sun.

  'That's a pretty garden, Mama,' Eleanor said.

  Agnes nodded. Tears filled her eyes. It was about the size of her courtyard in Jerusalem.