Baldwin was too stunned yet to feel triumph, relief, elation, any emotion at all. Others were not so numbed and they began to laugh, weep, and embrace one another, intoxicated by their reprieve, by the pure joy of deliverance. Reynald and many of the knights had left the field in pursuit of the Saracens. Some of the men had begun to heed the groans of the wounded, while plundering of the Saracen dead had also begun.
Baldwin found himself surrounded by euphoric soldiers. He was searching for familiar faces, feeling intense relief when he found them. His stepfather. His uncle. The d’Ibelin brothers. Hugues of Galilee and his young brother, who’d fought in his first battle before he needed to shave. There were missing faces, though, several of his household knights. So many dead, so many crippled, so many widows and orphans made this day. But God had rewarded their mad gamble. They’d saved the kingdom.
He hastily dismounted when someone told him Asad was bleeding. Grateful when Anselm stepped forward to offer his unobtrusive support, he saw that the stallion had suffered a shallow cut along his flank, and he realized that there would be time to celebrate their improbable victory, but not now.
So much to do. Wounded to care for, prisoners to chain up, horses to be put out of their misery or captured, bodies to be brought back to Ascalon, honorable funerals for their own, mass graves for their enemies, and messengers dispatched to Jerusalem and the other cities of the realm, spreading the word that Outremer was safe.
He was surprised and touched when his uncle rushed forward, enveloping him in an exuberant embrace, Joscelin’s jubilation temporarily prevailing over his fear of leprosy. Baudouin and Balian had just ended a brotherly hug that would likely leave bruises. Wherever Baldwin looked, he saw nothing but smiles.
Baldwin began to delegate authority, asking Denys to organize relief for the wounded and the d’Ibelins to take charge of the prisoners. He felt a sudden jab of alarm, then, remembering that a Saracen army was most dangerous in retreat, often using it as a tactic to lure their enemies into an ambush. But when he voiced his concern, his stepfather reassured him. Reynald and the Templar grand master were in command of the pursuit, Denys said, and they would not let the hunt go on too long. Overhearing, Joscelin agreed, pointing out that Saladin’s army was broken, his men concerned only with saving themselves. Baldwin at last let himself heed his battered body’s message, that he was rapidly reaching the end of his endurance, and he did not object when Denys suggested he return to Ascalon with the wounded.
Some of the men encircling Baldwin began to step aside and he saw the Bishop of Bethlehem approaching. “The Almighty has indeed blessed us, my liege. It is only right that we give thanks for His goodness and mercy.” Clad in a mail hauberk, a mace tucked into his belt, he looked very unlike a man of God at that moment. But he sounded like one and when he dropped to his knees, Baldwin followed his example, even knowing as he did that he’d likely need help getting to his feet again. The other men knelt, too, offering up their prayers for the miracle He had bestowed upon them on this St. Catherine’s Day at Montgisard.
CHAPTER 19
November 1177
Al-Qāhira, Egypt
Al-‘Ādil expected his brother to win a great victory over the Franks. At the least, their army would return with an abundance of riches. And Yūsuf could gain far more than the usual spoils of war. If the kingdom of the Franks was as poorly defended as their spies reported, he might even be able to threaten al-Quds. As time passed without word, though, al-‘Ādil was growing impatient and even somewhat uneasy, for he’d fought in enough campaigns to understand how much could go wrong. What if their invasion was a success but Yūsuf died in battle?
When Āliya asked if he’d take her to the newly restored mosque of al-Amr, he welcomed the distraction. While many husbands preferred that their wives pray only in the privacy of their homes, he saw no harm in letting Āliya or Halīma visit a mosque. Women and men were segregated, after all, and the Prophet had said that a man was not to forbid his wife to go to the mosque if she asked for permission.
After the noonday salat al-zuhr prayers at the mosque, al-‘Ādil agreed to take Āliya and Jumāna to see the progress being made at al-Gebel, where the sultan’s new citadel would one day stand. Telling them that Yūsuf meant the citadel to be his residence once it was completed, al-‘Ādil assured Āliya that they’d continue to reside at the West Palace, joking that the fortress would not be luxurious enough for her tastes. She laughed, knowing full well that he, too, liked living at the palace. She had enormous respect for his famous brother, and more than a little awe. But she was very glad that she was wed to Ahmad rather than Yūsuf.
Although no one would have known it to look at Āliya, for she was enveloped from head to toe in voluminous robes, she was now in her fifth month of pregnancy and tired easily. So, after a brief inspection of the citadel construction site, al-‘Ādil escorted the women back to the West Palace. Dismissing his men, he helped Āliya out of her horse litter; Jumāna nimbly jumped out on her own. Turning his stallion over to a groom, he suggested to Āliya that they dine in the gardens, for Egyptian winters were the best time of the year, warm but without the sweltering heat of their summer sun. Jumāna volunteered to inform the cooks and al-‘Ādil was about to lead his young wife toward a pavilion when he heard footsteps and a familiar voice called out, “My lord! A word with you, if you please!”
His brother’s chancellor, ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Isfahānī, was hurrying toward him. Āliya sighed softly, for the chancellor was not a favorite of hers. She acknowledged his intelligence and superior education, but she thought he was also very boastful, always with an eye out for the main chance. Al-‘Ādil had initially been wary of ‘Imād al-Dīn, too. He’d learned to appreciate the older man’s sharp wits and pragmatism, however, for those were traits they shared.
‘Imād al-Dīn was carrying a wicker basket. Holding it out, he said, rather breathlessly, “A message has arrived from the sultan, my lord.”
Al-‘Ādil quickly raised the lid and lifted out a sleek carrier pigeon. Letters could be attached to a bird’s leg, tail, foot, wing, sometimes even its neck. This message was fastened under a wing with thread. Gently stroking the pigeon, al-‘Ādil cut the thread with the tip of his dagger, then handed the bird back to ‘Imād al-Dīn. Carefully unrolling the small scrap, he scanned the few lines. “The sultan says he is safe and will soon be arriving with spoils. He instructs us to make his news public as swiftly as possible.”
Āliya clapped her hands before taking a closer look at her husband’s face. “Is that not good news?”
Al-‘Ādil said nothing, leaving it to the chancellor to explain to Āliya the subtleties of official proclamations. “The sultan would not have assured us he is safe unless there had been a defeat.”
Āliya gasped. “How . . . how could the sultan lose?”
“I do not know,” al-‘Ādil admitted, before adding grimly, “but I mean to find out.”
* * *
Al-‘Ādil chose to begin the search for his brother at their base camp at al-‘Arīsh, where the sultan had left the bulk of the army’s baggage train. Here, an ancient city had once flourished by the sea, but it was long since abandoned, and the Saracen market town that had taken its place had not survived the arrival of the Franks. Al-‘Ādil always found something vaguely melancholy about al-‘Arīsh, history’s graveyard. He was shocked by what he encountered now—burned-out tents, overturned wagons, broken weapons, and some newly dug graves. His men were just as shocked, the same thought in all their minds: that the sultan’s army must have been destroyed if the Franks had been able to assault his Egyptian base camp, too.
Shadows began to emerge from the ruins—wounded, gaunt, and ragged survivors of an army of thousands. They were pitifully grateful to see the sultan’s brother, asking for food even before they asked for protection, for aid in returning to al-Qāhira. They all had horrific stories to tell and as he listened, al-‘�
�dil was stunned to realize the magnitude of the disaster that had overtaken Salāh al-Dīn.
The defeat on the battlefield at the hill called Montgisard was only the beginning of their suffering. Many had been slain or captured in the rout, when a soldier was at his most vulnerable, blundering into the nearby marshes. Those who’d escaped found that even the weather had become their enemy, for the winter rains had begun the next morning, icy torrents pouring from a sky that was dark even at midday. It soaked the men, turned the roads into quagmires, made it impossible to light fires even for those bold enough to risk discovery by the Franks. The infidels had been as unrelenting as the rains, they told al-‘Ādil, the pursuit led by the accursed Templars and that son of a devil, Arnat. They’d had no food, their supply wagons seized by the Franks, and hunger and cold had driven many to surrender, preferring slavery to the perils they were facing. And those who’d forged on, expecting to find salvation at al-‘Arīsh, had instead found only desolation, for their camp had been plundered and burned.
When al-‘Ādil cursed the infidels, they shook their heads, saying the camp had been raided by those treacherous dogs, the Badaiyyin. These nomads, also called A’raab by Saracens and Arabs or Bedouin by the Franks, were looked upon as an alien race by the sultan’s followers even though they also believed that there was no God but Allah and Muḥammad was his messenger. Their name meant “desert dwellers,” for they embraced the arid, barren wastelands that other men shunned, turning the sun-bleached sands of the Sinai into their private domain. They were fiercely loyal, but only to their own clans, and were notorious for siding with the victors, be they infidel Franks or their Muslim brethren. So, it did not surprise al-‘Ādil that they’d have seized this tempting opportunity to loot his brother’s lightly guarded camp. Yet if the Badaiyyin had taken advantage of Yūsuf’s defeat, they had not caused it. What had?
The surviving soldiers had no answers for him, not at first, for they did not know why they had lost a battle to a greatly inferior force. Slowly, though, a pattern began to emerge, one that horrified al-‘Ādil, for it indicated that his brother had been unforgivably careless.
Nor could these miserable, sickly, and starving men tell him anything useful about the sultan’s whereabouts. They seemed sure that he’d survived the battle, although none of them reported seeing him on their flight from Montgisard. Al-‘Ādil had a stroke of luck, then, for a wounded camp guard awoke from a feverish sleep and he revealed that as soon as the first fugitives from the battle arrived, the sultan’s vizier, al-Qadī al-Fādil, had departed al-‘Arīsh with a mounted force and supplies in search of Salāh al-Dīn. After he left, the Badaiyyin came, he whispered, and closed his eyes, too weak to speak again.
* * *
Just as the Franks relied upon Arabic-speaking Christian Syrians for scouts and spies, the Saracens made use of Muslim Syrians, men familiar with the roads, castles, and customs of their homeland. Leading his men north, al-‘Ādil sent these local scouts ahead to search for the sultan. As they drew closer to the border with Outremer, they encountered the wretched winter weather that the soldiers had described so vividly—drenching rain, gusting winds, and cold that chilled them to the bone. Darkness came quickly at this time of year and al-‘Ādil decided to set up camp for the night. Before he could give the command, a rider materialized out of the gathering dusk. He was plastered with mud and wet clear through to the skin, but his smile was triumphant. “I’ve found him, my lord! I’ve found the sultan!”
* * *
Al-‘Ādil recognized some of his brother’s askar, the elite soldiers sworn to lay down their own lives to keep the sultan safe, and he felt a swelling of gratitude for their loyalty. It was becoming very clear to him that Yūsuf could easily have ended up dead on the field or taken prisoner by the Franks. The small camp erupted into action at the approach of armed men, the Mamluks making ready to defend Salāh al-Dīn to the death if need be. When they realized the identities of the newcomers, they began to cheer. They soon parted to let a hooded figure pass through their ranks. For a moment, al-‘Ādil thought it was Yūsuf, for he was of moderate stature, dwarfed by the towering Mamluks. But when he pulled his hood back, al-‘Ādil saw it was al-Fādil, Yūsuf’s vizier, who may well have been his savior, too. Had he not gone out in search of the sultan with food, tents, and soldiers, who was to say what might have befallen Yūsuf?
Swinging from the saddle, al-‘Ādil drew the older man aside. “How is he?” he asked in a low voice. “Was he wounded?”
“His wounds are not of the body. . . .” When al-‘Ādil asked if it was true that his brother had not ordered scouts to keep watch on the Franks at Ascalon, that he’d let his men loose to plunder the countryside, al-Fādil nodded reluctantly. “He’ll want to tell you himself,” he said, pointing toward one of the tents.
Al-‘Ādil started to turn away, then stopped. “May Allah reward you with blessings. My brother may well owe you his life.”
The vizier was not comfortable with such praise, so al-‘Ādil was not surprised when he deflected it, saying it was fortunate that the sultan had ordered him to stay behind at al-‘Arīsh, knowing he was a scholar, not a warrior.
The tent was small, meant for a soldier, not a sultan. It kept out the rain, but not the cold. A sole torch cast a feeble light, just enough to reveal the outline of a man seated in the shadows. He did not move as al-‘Ādil ducked under the tent flap, so incurious he did not even turn his head.
“Yūsuf?” There was no response, not until al-‘Ādil took a few steps forward and sat down beside him on the blanket.
Looking up then, he blinked in dulled surprise. “Is it truly you, Ahmad?”
When al-‘Ādil reached out and touched his brother’s hand, the skin felt like ice. Leaning over, he picked up another blanket and draped it around the other man’s shoulders. Had al-Fādil not assured him otherwise, he’d have been sure Yūsuf was suffering from a serious wound, even a mortal one, for his face was grey, his cheeks sharply hollowed, his eyes dark pools of pain.
The silence between them was painful, too. There was so much al-‘Ādil wanted to ask, so much he needed to understand. Why had they not kept the Franks at Ascalon under close watch? Why had his brother allowed discipline to flag so badly? Surely he knew that a soldier given license to loot had nothing on his mind then but the spoils he could claim for himself. Why had Yūsuf committed such massive mistakes and how many men had died because of them?
“My fault,” the sultan said at last. “All my fault, Ahmad. Thousands dead or captured. Our army broken on the wheel of my arrogance. I brought us to ruin.” He’d bowed his head and his words were so softly spoken that al-‘Ādil barely caught them. “‘He who has in his heart as much pride as a grain of mustard seed will not enter Paradise.’”
As boys, both brothers had learned to memorize the Qur’an, but in manhood, al-‘Ādil did not have Yūsuf’s extensive recall of their holy book. He did remember a hadīth dealing with forgiveness, though. “Allah’s apostle said that whilst every son of Adam sins, the best of the sinners are those who repent.”
Yūsuf’s response would normally have been a teasing smile, feigning surprise that his younger brother could still call up any of those childhood lessons. Now he looked as if he’d never smile again. “‘Īsā was taken prisoner.”
“The Franks will ransom him, Yūsuf. You know that.”
“We ought not to have tried to switch the left and right wings. There was no time. But ‘Umar and the others urged it. . . .”
Al-‘Ādil was not surprised that his nephew had gotten his way, for he knew Yūsuf usually heeded Taqī al-Dīn’s battle advice. “Do you know if ‘Umar escaped?”
“I think so. . . .” The sultan began to cough. When he finally got it under control, he said in a strangled voice, “His son Shāhanshāh was captured. Khālid—” He was interrupted by another fit of coughing, so severe that al-‘Ādil winced to hear it.
“And Khālid? Was he taken prisoner, too, Yūsuf?”
The sultan was still struggling to get his breath back. Raising his head, he gave al-‘Ādil an anguished look before dropping his gaze again. “No . . . he was slain during the battle.”
Al-‘Ādil froze. Tears stung his eyes and he closed them tightly as he sought to keep his grief at bay, not daring to give in to it, not yet. He did not know any in their family who did not love Khālid, who had inherited his father’s high spirits but not his combustible temper. To Allah we belong and to Him is our return. Once he was sure his voice would not betray him, he asked if ‘Umar knew of his son’s death.
Salāh al-Dīn inclined his head. “He knows. Khālid’s first charge into the midst of the Franks was successful. ‘Umar bade him go again and it was then that he was killed.”
After that, neither man spoke. Al-‘Ādil had been aware for some time of a slow-burning anger, a fire half-smothered by his numbed sense of shock and disbelief. Yūsuf had been blessed with the power to inspire other men, a talent al-‘Ādil knew he lacked. His brother was a visionary, albeit a pragmatic one, driven both by ambition and piety, a shrewd judge of character who excelled at statecraft and long-range planning. But al-‘Ādil had long known that he was not a particularly skilled battle commander. He knew, too, that he’d never have made the mistakes that Yūsuf had made in the days leading up to Montgisard. Never underestimate the enemy. Yes, the Franks were infidels. They were also fierce fighters, with a history written in blood. Yet Yūsuf had greatly undervalued the young leper king and his knights. He’d forgotten that no one is more dangerous than a man with nothing left to lose.
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