Sir Galeran and his colleagues tried to follow, but they had not been formed up and prepared for a charge. They had no experience in charging, and their horses found it difficult to gain traction on the cobbles. The result was a disorganized, sloppy, and rather slow advance that had none of the impact of a Frankish charge. Within seconds the entire square was covered by a chaotic melee. Christians and Saracens were moving every which way, pirouetting around each other as they tried to gain an advantage. It was a senseless and disorganized fight—but one that was still deadly, as the more numerous Saracens were being steadily reinforced.
When Ibelin burst out of the church, he experienced a moment of sheer panic. Everything was lost. He was about to be cut down here on Manger Square, and Jerusalem would be without a commander and knights again. But then Dawit led Centurion forward, shielding Ibelin with his horse from the frantic skirmish in the square. Ibelin lifted his right leg and swung himself into the saddle from the off side, rather than waste time going around to the more exposed side. He didn’t bother taking up the reins, but instead grabbed his sword and shield. Centurion was a veteran, and his ears were already flat on his head; he knew the enemy when he saw it, just as well as Balian did. He turned toward them without any urging, while Dawit and Constantine flanked their lord as he plunged into the fray.
It was far too late to try to organize his knights, and there was no room for a charge. Ibelin’s only hope was to eliminate the leadership of the enemy. He had not had time to identify the commander, however, so he just started killing, in the hope that his opponent would identify himself by his reaction.
This was Ibelin’s first opportunity to use his new sword in combat, and he was astonished what a difference three extra inches made. He was noticeably reaching his enemy sooner and faster, before they really had a chance to close, and without the loss of balance or control. What he couldn’t see was the way the bronze in the sword was catching the sunlight, and how the combination of brutal efficiency and glittering blade was starting to strike unnatural fear into the hearts of his opponents.
The Saracens had not expected to encounter any Christian cavalry in Bethlehem, because they had been led to believe there was no Christian chivalry left alive and free—south of the city of Tyre. The Kingdom of Jerusalem, they had confidently thought, was utterly denuded of knights. They had been on loose reins, chatting about what a nice town Bethlehem was and what a pleasant night they would spend here, when they had come around a bend in the road and seen two Christian knights at a well. Their surprise had been so great that they had gaped in sheer astonishment, giving the knights a chance to flee.
As the knights ran away, however, the Saracens had become ashamed of their unpreparedness, while the obvious panic of the knights suggested they were two “strays,” lone knights who had somehow slipped out of the trap at Hattin. The Saracens set off in pursuit like hunters after a hare—only to crash into an entire squadron of knights. That, too, had been a shock, but the disorganized fight that ensued had restored their confidence. The Christians could not bring their heavier horses and armor to bear in the confined space of the paved, city square. Or so they had thought.
Then suddenly a knight burst out of nowhere, cutting through their ranks as if they were rag dolls. His horse was literally tearing the flesh off the smaller Arab stallions, while the knight slew with his sword and unhorsed men with his shield. The flash of bronze on his sword made him seem strangely superhuman in that instant—as if they were confronting some kind of demon, fighting with the fires of hell in his sword.
As men began to quail before the advancing knight, the commanding emir shouted furiously at them to stand, spinning his horse around to cut off the Christian before he could do more damage. The emir was fired not only by indignation at the cowardice of his men, but by the chilling knowledge that he had let his guard down. The Sultan would be furious to learn that he had allowed his troops to get ambushed like this! There were so many men vying for the Sultan’s favor that one little mistake like this could cost him his current status as one of the Sultan’s inner circle.
The emir’s horse found it hard to gain a footing on the cobbles, but the square was small enough for him to intercept the Christian killer. He called on Allah and raised his sword confident that he was more than equal to anyone who did not recognize the Prophet.
Ibelin registered the green silk brocade, broken only by glittering bands of green satin on which were stitched gold Arabic lettering. He recognized subconsciously that he had an emir opposite him. Sayings from the Koran embroidered by a loving wife caught the sunlight as the emir raised his sword—and Ibelin, knowing this was his one and only chance to extricate his knights and live to fight another day, struck with the power of panic. He swung Defender of Jerusalem horizontally, at the same time spurring forward to lend his arm the strength of momentum. The sword struck just below the emir’s rib cage and continued clear out the other side. The emir’s upper body flopped onto the cobbles, and the lower half continued riding across the square. But the skirmish was over.
With shouts and screams, the Saracens spun their horses and galloped for the safety of the street by which they’d entered. Sir Constantine and Sir Dawit shouted orders not to follow as Balian sat back in his saddle, dropped his head, and gave thanks to Christ.
After a moment Balian took a deep breath, lifted his head, and resheathed his sword. He looked around at his troop. Two knights lay on the cobbles unmoving, two were trying to right themselves, and one was writhing in evident agony. “Sir Dawit, see to the wounded.”
He turned Centurion around, reaching down to pat his neck and mutter “well done” as he did so. The horse snorted satisfaction. Ibelin rode straight for the tall portal of the Church of the Nativity. It stood wide open, and one could see across the narthex into the long nave of the church. Crowding the doorway were scores of monks staring wide-eyed at the scene before them.
Ibelin drew up before the portal, but this time he did not dismount. He leaned on the pommel of his saddle and looked down at the intransigent abbot. “Those were men of Salah ad-Din’s advance guard,” he told them, pointing behind him in the direction the Saracens had fled. “Ascalon has fallen. The siege of Jerusalem is about to begin.”
Chapter 22
Jerusalem, September 20, 1187
THE SULTAN HAD ENOUGH MEN TO surround Jerusalem, something the men of the First Crusade had not been able to do, but it wasn’t necessary. The Christians in Jerusalem had no one who could possibly relieve them or send them supplies. Therefore, instead of surrounding the city, Salah ad-Din drew up his army on the hills to the northwest, where the terrain provided no natural aid to the defenders.
Throughout September 20, the defenders had watched as contingent after contingent of Saracen troops arrived with banners flying to set up a neat encampment, protected by a palisade. Speculation on the exact size of the besieging army ran rampant on the walls and in the streets of Jerusalem, but Ibelin didn’t participate in it. He knew what he needed to know: the Sultan’s army was more than sufficient to overwhelm Jerusalem’s defenses.
At dusk the wailing call to prayers wafted over the ramparts to the defenders from the throats of scores of muezzins, and the fires of the enemy came to life as far as the eye could see. Balian, reminded of Hattin, turned his back on the sight, and descended from the wall into the city.
There were more people on the streets than usual, and a tangible excitement stirred the crowds. The people behind the high white walls of Jerusalem had expected a Saracen army to surround and besiege them ever since the news of Hattin had arrived more than two months ago. For ten weeks they had lived in anticipation of this event. Ever since Ibelin’s arrival they had been consciously preparing for it. Now, finally, it was reality, and everyone felt the need to talk about the fact, to show off how much they knew, and to bolster their own courage with talk of their future deeds. Ibelin understood that—but he refused to be drawn into any conversations, and only nodded greeti
ngs to those calling out to him.
At the Ibelin palace, Balian forced himself eat a hearty meal, and then he called for Father Michael so he could confess his sins before retiring to bed. He left orders to be woken at Matins.
September 21, 1187
Father Michael did not sleep, so that he would not fail his lord by missing that morning call. He prayed until Matins and then woke Lord Balian and Georgios, who was serving as his squire since Ernoul was still in Tyre and Gabriel had been knighted. Georgios had been well trained by William Marshal. He was efficient as well as eager, and he knew when to hold his tongue. This morning was no time for chatter; he assisted Lord Balian without a word.
Ibelin left his residence while Matins was still being read in the many churches, but not before meeting with Sirs Constantine, Roger, and Mathewos in the courtyard of the Ibelin palace to give them their orders. He then made his way through the darkened, lifeless streets to Tancred’s Tower in the northwest corner of the wall.
Just to the side and at the base of Tancred’s Tower stood the Postern of St. Lazarus. As agreed earlier, this quarter had been turned over to the lepers when the arrival of Salah ad-Din’s army made it necessary for them to abandon the leprosarium beyond the wall. At Sir Daniel’s request, the Order of St. Lazarus had been given the task of defending the St. Lazarus Postern from the inside.
At the sight of his former lord, Sir Daniel strode forward in evident agitation. “My lord, I was just about to come for you. We believe the enemy is preparing to attack here. At this very tower.”
Ibelin only nodded. “I expected as much. I have already sent Sir Constantine to draw half the Greek and Armenian defenders off the southwest and southern walls. Sir Mathewos will take some of his Syrians off the eastern wall as well. They will reinforce the defenses here.” He turned to mount the stairs to Tancred’s Tower.
Daniel stopped him, stammering out, “My lord, remember King Baldwin—”
“There is not a second when I do not remember him,” Ibelin countered coldly; he felt his former squire was being presumptuous.
“I mean, remember what he did despite his illness, his disfigurement!” Daniel pleaded for understanding.
“Yes,” Balian answered impatiently; the Saracens were about to launch their first assault on the city, and this was no time for reminiscing. “And I intend to do the same.” He started again up the steps.
Daniel had no choice but to call after him, “So will we, my lord. That’s all I’m trying to say. So will we!” With his good arm he took in the misshapen, crippled, and disfigured band of almost two hundred lepers clustered around him.
The chorus of voices that fell in with him made Balian pause and look back down on a sea of deformed and misshapen faces—men and women without lips and noses, old and young with missing fingers and crippled feet. Yet they were here in the dark of the pre-dawn to fight for Jerusalem. Ibelin stopped. All they were asking for was recognition of their humanity. He drew a deep breath and took the time to look them in the eye, one after another. Then he nodded, “Thank you and God bless you!”
On the wall walk, the watch also greeted the Ibelin excitedly. “My lord, we were just about to send for you. Look! There and there! It’s hard to see in the darkness, but if you listen you can hear them. They are forming up opposite.”
Ibelin glanced over his shoulder toward the east, trying to judge how long it would be until dawn. Maybe another hour before the sky lightened. Then he turned back to the men of the watch and asked, “Can you make out any siege engines?”
“Not that we can see or hear.”
Ibelin nodded. Salah ad-Din was testing them, hoping that they didn’t have the heart or means to truly defend themselves. He would, Ibelin guessed, send in some of his best shock troops, probably motivated with large promises of rewards from the spoils. (“All the gold of Jerusalem.” “Forty virgins in a single night.”)
Well, the Sultan would discover that they certainly had the heart to fight.
He looked back into the city and was pleasantly surprised to see that Greeks and Armenians that Sir Constantine had sent were starting to collect at the foot of the stairs leading onto the walls. As ordered, Sir Constantine had brought his men through the darkened streets without a light, and he was enforcing strict silence.
Ibelin signaled for Sir Constantine to join him on the roof of Tancred’s Tower, and directed him in a low voice to integrate the Greeks and Armenians into the Frankish line all along the northwest ramparts rather than deploy them as a separate unit. Sir Constantine nodded and returned to give his orders to his men.
No sooner had the Greek and Armenian troops dispersed along the wall than a heavy wagon lumbered up carrying a huge cauldron filled with tar. While half the team set up a ring of stones covered by a grill, the others, carefully and with much whispered bickering, offloaded the cauldron and placed it on the grill. Behind them a second wagon pulled up, full of wood for the fire. The driver clambered on to the back of the cart to start tossing the wood onto the pavement beside the cauldron, and the sound of the wood clattering on the flagstones made Ibelin jump. He leaned over the wall to hiss down to the man: “Stop that racket!”
The man looked up, annoyed, and then amazed when he realized he had just been addressed by none other than the Baron of Ibelin himself. While he gaped, Ibelin snapped, “Get down and offload the wagon quietly!”
The wagoneer bobbed his head deferentially with an awed, “Yes, my lord!” Then he dutifully dismounted and started to offload his wagon an armload at a time.
Meanwhile, two other wagons driven by Templar lay brothers drew up in the street. These were laden with arrows. The lepers clustered around to offload and then prepare these as flaming arrows. They worked in teams of four, men and women both: one cut strips of cotton cloth, one wound the lengths of cotton around the arrow behind the head, a third dipped the prepared arrow in the now slowly bubbling tar, while the fourth stacked the arrows in bundles to be passed up to the wall. Other lepers took braziers of glowing coals up to the ramparts so the archers could light the tar-soaked arrows just before firing.
Sir Constantine, his men now deployed, returned to join Ibelin on Tancred’s Tower, reporting that the Greeks had supplies of Greek fire that they would bring with them. Burning tar was unpleasant; Greek fire was deadly. Their supplies, however, were limited. “Today is only the beginning,” Ibelin reminded the Greek knight as he turned his attention to the enemy again.
It was definitely getting lighter, making it easier to see the enemy’s preparations. There could be no question that the Saracens were forming up opposite Tancred’s Tower, but they had separated their forces into two divisions. Apparently they intended to strike both to the west and to the north of Tancred’s Tower, probably in order to divide the attention of the defenders, particularly the archers on the tower itself. Although the Saracen formations were quite dense, they remained well out of bow range.
Ibelin returned to the inside wall of the tower and looked into the city again. He was pleased by how much activity was evident although noise was minimal. In strict obedience to his orders, the fighting men not on watch had mustered without lighting torches and were being careful to make as little noise as possible. From David’s Gate to St. Stephen’s Gate, they were filing silently up the various stairways to the wall walk with their bows on their backs, axes and swords at their hips.
By the time the Saracens started to advance, the Christians were not only in position, they had been so for nearly a half-hour and the tension was almost unbearable. Ibelin pulled his coif over his head and secured the aventail over his throat and chin. He slipped his hands into the mail mittens hanging from the sleeves of his hauberk, and pulled his helmet over his head. He was wearing his older openfaced helmet with the nosepiece, rather than the visored helmet he’d worn at Hattin. He felt it was important to make eye contact with the men he was leading.
Still believing they had the advantage of surprise, the Saracens jogged forward w
ithout the usual fanfare of shouts and calls to Allah. Behind them from their camp the muezzins started calling the Faithful to prayer, as if to disguise the fact that the Saracen army was now rushing toward the walls of Jerusalem.
Ibelin could hear the men behind him squirming and fidgeting in nervousness, and it took considerable control to restrain his own instinct to action, but the longer the enemy thought they were approaching a sleeping city, the more careless they would be—and the more of them would come in range of the archers, crouched behind the battlements with arrows already notched in their bows.
Ibelin murmured in a low voice to the sentry beside him on the corner of Tancred’s Tower. “Give an alarmed shout—like you just noticed something and are panicked.”
The man stared at him and then started shouting with every appearance of panic. “Attack! Attack! We’re under attack!”
Unfortunately, his “attack” was misinterpreted as an order by many of the over-tense men along the wall, and these sprang up and started firing at the Saracens. Ibelin would have preferred to wait another thirty seconds, but it was impossible to call the arrows back. All he could do now was reinforce, calling: “Fire!”
Although not as perfectly timed as Ibelin would have liked, the Christian volley still took the attackers by surprise. Instead of a sleeping city, they found themselves racing toward an enraged beast. Arrows poured over the side of the city and rained down on them. Many of the arrows were tipped with flaming tar. The screams of wounded and dying men mingled with shouts of anger, so that the attacking army seemed to roar like a wounded lion.
But these Saracen soldiers were hardened veterans, and even if taken by surprise, they did not falter. They rushed forward, faster and more determined than ever to get the siege ladders up against the walls.
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