Humphrey spoke next, expressing his approval of Guillaume of Montferrat as a husband for the king’s sister, and in his own gruff way, he banished any lingering unease over Walter’s blunder by saying forthrightly that of course they needed to choose a husband for Sybilla who was capable of ruling. She was the king’s heir, and whilst theirs was a kingdom blessed by God, it was also one in which men did not live as long as the softer, more pampered males of other Christian realms. Had not King Baldwin’s own father and uncle both died when still in their thirties?
“We do not often reach our biblical threescore years and ten here,” Humphrey declared, “but so be it. I am grateful to live out my days, however many I have, in the land of the Lord Christ’s birth.” That went down well with them all, for they prided themselves upon being born in the Holy Land, a privilege granted to very few of their Christian brethren.
When both the Templar and Hospitaller grand masters also voiced their approval, it was obvious that Raymond’s choice would prevail and it was soon agreed upon that Count Raymond would send envoys to Montferrat and offer Sybilla’s hand in marriage to Guillaume. But those who hoped the session would conclude then were to be disappointed. Raymond announced he had another matter to bring before the High Court.
“I think we ought to extend the truce with Saladin,” he said. “My spies tell me that he would be amenable to that and we could benefit from not having to worry for a while about Saracen attacks on our border strongholds or our supply caravans.”
It was obvious to Balian that Raymond had already discussed this with William and Baldwin. William looked unhappy and so did his royal pupil, for he’d taught Baldwin that truces should be made only to promote Saracen disunity. He’d convinced Balian of that, too, and he was disappointed when William kept silent, even though he understood William’s dilemma, torn between his beliefs and his benefactor. Balian did not have the stature himself to exert much influence upon the High Court and he hoped someone would speak out against Raymond’s plan.
Only the grand master of the Templars did, and because the Templars invariably argued for war, his words did not have the impact they might otherwise have had. Balian was sorry that Denys de Grenier was not present. He’d surely have objected to a decision that could only enhance Saladin’s power. Balian’s hopes rose when Humphrey got to his feet but waned as soon as the constable began to speak, for he favored the truce. Glancing around the solar, Balian saw that many of the men viewed this truce as no different from others they’d made in the past with the Saracens. Leaning over, Balian asked his brother in a low voice, “You are not troubled by this?” When Baudouin shrugged, Balian reluctantly made ready to reveal his own misgivings.
Before he could rise to his feet, Baldwin spoke first. “Is there not a danger, my lord count, that Saladin will use this truce to strike at his Muslim enemies—the amirs of Aleppo and Mosul and the Assassins?”
Raymond looked surprised. “That is indeed a risk, my liege. But that is always true when truces are made. It is a sad truth that in time of peace, men continue to prepare for war.”
“I understand that. Is this not different, though? We have never faced a foe as powerful as Saladin. If he gets full control of Aleppo, the rest of northern Syria will fall to him, and we’ll find ourselves encircled on all sides but the sea. Once that happens, what will keep Saladin from seeking our destruction? The Saracens think this land is theirs no less strongly than we do.”
That was an admirable summing up of William’s teachings about the precarious balance of power that had existed in Outremer since the Christians had stunned the Saracens by taking Jerusalem in God’s year 1099. William did not look proud, though; he was staring down at his clasped hands, color rising in his cheeks.
“Outremer will always be perched upon the cliff’s edge, my lord king. Your kingdom is like an island in a vast Saracen sea, which is why it is so important that we get aid from the rest of Christendom. We are not numerous enough to hold off that swelling tide, need a constant flow of men who’ve taken the cross, men eager to fight for the Holy Land. And we need a powerful ruler to offer us his protection, one whom Saladin sees as a threat, which is why I have reached out to the Emperor Frederick.”
“Saladin sees the Greek emperor Manuel as a threat,” Baldwin parried, “and Constantinople is far closer to Outremer than Germany.”
“That is so. But Frederick is more trustworthy than Manuel, my liege. Like us, he follows the true faith of the Latin Church in Rome. Moreover, he has often spoken of taking the cross and he cares about the fate of the Holy Land. In Constantinople, they deny the authority of the Pope and that Greek Orthodox religion of theirs is often hostile to the Church of Rome. Nor are their ways our ways. I do not believe the Greeks can be relied upon,” Raymond concluded, and Balian saw that he’d carried the day, for most of the men did not trust the Greeks, either.
Baldwin did not continue to protest, for he’d done his best to articulate the argument that his father would have made and William should have made, and it had not been enough to sway the opinion of the High Court. William was looking more miserable by the moment, and Balian was not very happy, either, with the outcome. It was true that the Greeks and Franks were not natural allies. But Manuel was the first Greek emperor who appeared to be genuinely well-disposed toward their kingdom, and he was surely in a better position to come to their aid if the need arose. While Balian did not doubt the German emperor’s goodwill, Frederick seemed to think that a man could never have enough enemies, and he was currently embroiled in a war with the armies of the Pope, the Italian city-states known as the Lombard League, and the Sicilian king. What if he lost? Who would protect Outremer then?
* * *
Baudouin and Balian were crossing the citadel bailey after the High Court session when they heard Raymond call out to them.
“Humphrey and I are going to head the delegation to discuss terms with Saladin. I thought you might want to join us, Baudouin.”
Baudouin blinked. “Have you forgotten that I am a newlywed husband? Besides, I do not speak any Arabic. I cannot even curse in that infernal language!”
“That would not be necessary,” Raymond assured him. “Both Humphrey and I speak it, and of course we’ll have dragomen to interpret when need be.”
Baudouin continued to shake his head. “I may have my faults,” he said with a grin, “but I’m not daft enough to think Saladin would be better company than my Elizabeth.”
Balian’s eyes had brightened. “I speak a little Arabic,” he said eagerly.
Baudouin stared at him in surprise. “You do? Since when?”
“For a while,” Balian said evasively. He’d not told Baudouin of his lessons in Arabic, knowing how his brother would have teased him, unable to comprehend why he’d want to expend so much time and effort when dragomen were always available to communicate with the Saracens or the Franks’ Arabic-speaking tenants. Baudouin’s good-natured mockery was forgotten when Raymond agreed to include Balian in the delegation and he thanked the regent with such enthusiasm that Raymond bestowed one of his infrequent smiles upon him.
Raymond left them, then, having noticed that his wife was waving to him from the doorway of the great hall. As soon as he was out of hearing, Baudouin looked at Balian with puzzled amusement. “I know you do not approve of this truce, Little Brother. So why are you so keen to witness it? Will that not make you an accomplice of sorts?”
“I think it would be obvious. Who’d not want to meet Saladin face-to-face?”
“Me, for one,” Baudouin retorted. “Whilst I might feel different if he was coming here to us, I am not about to spend days in the saddle for that privilege.” When he headed toward the stables, Balian started to follow, but then he saw William emerging from David’s Tower.
William looked so downcast that Balian did not have the heart to bring up the truce. The sound of laughter gave him another topic of conv
ersation and he nodded his head in the direction of Raymond and Eschiva. “The count seems like a different man altogether when his wife is around. We should all be so lucky in marriage—a great heiress who is loving in the bargain.”
“Raymond and Eschiva do appear to be well suited to each other,” William agreed. “I am sure she is grateful that he is such a devoted stepfather to her sons, too.” He was not interested in discussing the regent’s marital good fortune, though, needing to unburden himself.
“I tried my best to convince Raymond that he ought not to make this truce with Saladin, but to no avail.” William hesitated and then made a mumbled confession that testified to the strength of his friendship with Balian. “I should have spoken up again in public.”
Balian was sorry that William was so ashamed of his silence in the High Court session, and sought to cheer him by saying, “Well, you’ve convinced Baldwin, for certes. And once he reaches his majority, he’ll be much more likely to follow in your footsteps than in Raymond’s.”
William did not appear to take any comfort from that, though, and Balian said softly, “He knows, doesn’t he?”
William did not reply, for that was Baldwin’s secret to reveal or not. He suspected that the boy had done so with his mother and Count Raymond, but he’d not asked Baldwin, nor would he.
Balian realized that this was a question he should not have asked and he murmured an abashed “sorry” before saying, “Why is Raymond so set upon making this truce with Saladin?”
“Raymond was well treated during his long years as a prisoner of the Saracens. He learned Arabic and seems to have formed some friendships with his gaolers. I worry that his experiences in Aleppo may have made him more trusting than he ought to be. Judging from what he has said to me, I think he truly believes that a lasting peace with Saladin is possible.”
“I assume you told him that Islamic law forbids Muslims from making peace with infidels, that they can only offer truces of ten years’ duration or less.”
William nodded morosely. “I did. He smiled and made a rare jest, saying he’d be willing to settle for ten-year truces that were continuously renewed. I fear he is too quick to dismiss both the Saracen belief in jihad and the Christian belief in holy war.”
“I think many Poulains would be willing to make an accommodation with the Saracens if they believed it would be honored,” Balian confided.
“The Poulains might, but not the men newly come to the Holy Land, afire with zeal to slaughter infidels. They are always horrified when they find we have adopted some of the Saracen ways, consult their doctors, and are more concerned with protecting our hard-won gains than with claiming new lands we’d not be able to hold for long. Can you imagine their outrage if they arrived to discover that we’d made a lasting peace with men they see as the Devil’s spawn?”
“True enough,” Balian conceded. “Many of them are already convinced that Poulains are questionable Christians, not worthy of being the defenders of the Holy City.”
“And then there are the Saracens who are just as convinced that it is their sacred duty to drive us into the sea.”
“Not all of their rulers have acted in accordance with jihad,” Balian pointed out. “Like us, they have often done what was expedient or in their self-interest. Do you think Saladin has fully embraced jihad?”
“I would give a great deal if I knew the answer to that question, Balian, for it might well determine our kingdom’s fate.”
CHAPTER 8
July 1175
Marj al-Sufar, Syria
Balian had looked forward to seeing Damascus, one of the world’s oldest cities, according to William. He was sorry, therefore, to learn that they’d be meeting Saladin at his camp, set up at Marj al-Sufar, a large plain to the south of Damascus. He soon forgot his disappointment, though, for he was very curious about the enemies who were at once familiar and foreign, and he was sure this would be a memorable experience.
His first surprise was the sultan himself. Because Saladin loomed so large in their lives, Balian had envisioned the man as a physically imposing figure, one who was serious, single-minded, and intimidating. But the real Saladin was not at all like Balian’s mental image of him. He was of average height and slender build, with dark coloring and a neatly trimmed beard. Nor was he aloof or reserved. He was quick to smile, approachable and affable, such a gracious host that it was almost possible to forget Saracen-Frank encounters were usually on the battlefield. Not all of Balian’s expectations were wrong; he sensed a sharp intelligence at work behind those inscrutable black eyes, and he already knew Saladin could be ruthless if need be, having proved that in the past. He’d just not foreseen the sultan’s charm.
Once the formal greetings were over, the ceremonial gift giving came next; Raymond presented Saladin with three very fine gyrfalcons and the sultan reciprocated with several valuable camels and a tent for the young king. If it was anything like Saladin’s pavilion, Balian thought Baldwin would be delighted. Their kings had spacious, comfortable tents for campaigns, yet none were as impressive as this one; it easily accommodated well over a hundred men and even had an inner private compartment, where Balian assumed the truce negotiations would be held. But first they would break bread together, and Balian knew it would be an elaborate, lavish meal, for the Saracens took the obligations of hospitality very seriously.
Raymond had made sure that Balian was introduced to the sultan, a kindness Balian much appreciated. He did not expect to be seated with them at the diplomatic dinner, though, nor was he. Cushions were brought in and distributed, for the meal would be served on low tables or on the ground, a Saracen custom that many of the Poulains had quickly adopted themselves. Tablecloths were spread over the tent carpeting, and once Raymond and Humphrey had taken the seats of honor beside Saladin, they all washed their hands in basins of rose-scented water and settled cross-legged on their cushions. Balian had brought several of his knights along, and they looked surprised when he chose to sit next to one of Raymond’s men rather than with them, for Gerard de Ridefort had not endeared himself to any of the Poulains on the journey to Marj al-Sufar.
While Balian did not know much about Gerard de Ridefort’s background, he was sure the man must come from an influential family in his native Flanders, for he’d managed to attach himself to Raymond’s household soon after his arrival in the Holy Land. On their way to meet Saladin, he’d also learned that the Flemish knight was hot-tempered and had the typical newcomer’s suspicion of the native-born Christians. Knowing that this bias went hand in hand with a visceral hatred of all Muslims, Balian had been keeping an eye upon Gerard, not trusting him to stay on his best behavior once he found himself surrounded by Saracens.
Gerard was already showing signs of agitation and Balian knew from experience with other new arrivals to Outremer that their unease often expressed itself in anger. As soon as they sat down, Gerard began to complain about the lack of chairs or tables, asking scornfully if they were to eat on the ground like dogs. Even though he understood that the Flemish knight was distraught to be dining with men he’d sworn to kill, Balian still had to strive for patience.
“Once you become accustomed to it,” he told Gerard, “you’ll find it is a very comfortable way to eat. Many Poulains prefer it to the European way of dining.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” Gerard muttered, sounding so sour that Balian suppressed a sigh, thinking it was going to be a long meal. Gerard next found fault with the liquid being poured by servants into their cups. Taking a grudging sip, he grimaced, and for a moment, Balian feared he was going to spit it out. “God’s blood, what is this swill?”
After tasting his own drink, Balian forced a smile. “It is pomegranate juice, Sir Gerard, not hemlock. The Saracens do not serve wine, for their holy book says it is forbidden.”
“‘Holy book’? Most men would think it blasphemous to use words like that for vile infidel beli
efs,” Gerard snapped. Balian kept silent, hoping that would discourage him from continuing with his harangue. Gerard was quick to find another grievance, though, staring incredulously at the communal serving trays being placed on the tablecloth within reach of their plates. “Christ Jesus, you mean we are to eat out of the same dishes?”
Balian knew dishes were often shared at meals in the English and French kingdoms and he did not think it was any different in Flanders. What appalled Gerard, of course, was that some of the fingers being dipped into these dishes were Saracen fingers. Balian had hoped that he’d be able to ease the Fleming’s discomfiture so he could relax and enjoy the meal. He realized now that he’d set an impossible task for himself, that the best he could do was to keep Gerard from making a scene that would offend their Saracen hosts and put all the Franks in a bad light.
“This is the first course, honey dates stuffed with almonds. I am sure you’ll like them if you give them a try.” Balian leaned over and put a date on the other man’s plate. The knight let it lie there untouched. He was gazing at it as if it were offal, not a delicacy sure to please the most demanding palates, and Balian began to entertain a fantasy in which he held Gerard down and force-fed him every date in Outremer.
The main dishes were served next, brought out all at once instead of in separate courses, as was the custom of the Franks and their European brethren. Balian was pleased to see one of his favorites, sikbāj, a lamb dish marinated in vinegar, then cooked in olive oil with eggplant, onions, almonds, figs, and raisins. After helping himself, he offered to put some on Gerard’s plate, only to get a curt refusal. More from stubbornness now than any hope of shaming the Fleming into remembering his manners, Balian continued to talk about the food, pointing out a dish called zirbāj, a sweet-and-sour fish dish fried in flour. All to no avail.
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