Balian was invited to dine that evening with al-‘Ādil. Afterward, they strolled back to Balian’s tent. He supposed they could not be considered friends, but they had enjoyed an easy rapport from their first meeting, and he had never felt so grateful to anyone as he did to al-‘Ādil on this starlit September night. Realizing that Balian would need more than a safe-conduct to get to Jerusalem, al-‘Ādil had arranged for an escort, even sending with them a young man named Adam ibn Ibrāhīm, the son of one of the Christian clerks working for his chancellor, al-Sanī‘a.
“Adam will accompany you into al-Quds. He is a Christian like you and he speaks some French. My men will camp outside the city whilst you go in to fetch your family. Send Adam out to them once you are ready to depart and they will see you safely to the Frankish lands in Tripoli.” Shrugging off Balian’s thanks, al-‘Ādil added with a grin, “You’ll need other horses, too. I saw that nag you rode in on, and I doubt that he could outrun a turtle with a broken leg.”
“My money would be on the turtle, too,” Balian conceded with a rueful laugh.
Al-‘Ādil joined in and for a fleeting moment, they were not enemies by blood and birth, merely two men with enough imagination to realize that they were not as different as their world would have them believe. When Balian tried again to thank him, al-‘Ādil joked that Balian could repay him by naming his next son Ahmad.
They stopped, then, for Balian’s tent lay ahead. Al-‘Ādil bade him good night, turned to go, and then came to a halt. Facing Balian again, he said with sudden gravity, “There is something you should know. My brother had summoned some of the Franks from al-Quds to discuss the terms of surrender. I doubt you’ll be surprised to learn he was prepared to be very generous, more than fair. The Franks arrived on Friday, the same day of the sun’s eclipse. They were shaken by the darkness at noon, for the eclipse occurred two months to the very day since their defeat at Haṭṭīn. They said their God had punished them for being unworthy, false Christians.”
Balian nodded bleakly. “They are not the only ones to believe that. But if God did indeed punish us, it was for crowning a fool, Gerard de Ridefort’s puppet.”
“Ah, I forgot to tell you. He is here, too, the Templar grand master. When my brother had your king brought from Damascus, he also sent for de Ridefort. He has been offered his freedom if he gets the Templars to surrender their castles at Gaza and Latrun and he has agreed.”
Balian did not trust himself to speak, thinking of Jakelin and Roger de Moulins and the good men who’d died with them, thinking of the thousands of deaths on the Horns of Haṭṭīn, and the Templars and Hospitallers who’d been executed in Damascus.
He did not need to respond, for his silent outrage was more eloquent than any words could have been. Al-‘Ādil understood. “De Ridefort no longer matters. But this does. The men from al-Quds were foolish and arrogant. They spurned the sultan’s offer, declaring that they would never agree to surrender their holy city to ‘accursed infidels and heathens.’ They said the son of their God had died for them, and they would die for him if need be. My brother was angered by their insolence and swore that he would take al-Quds by the sword.”
“Jesu! Do you think he means it?”
“I am sure that he does. He takes a holy oath very seriously. And that is why you must get your woman and your children out of the city ere the siege begins.”
* * *
With each mile that brought them closer to Jerusalem, Balian felt more and more grateful for their escort, realizing he’d never have made it on his own. He lost track of all the times they encountered soldiers in search of plunder. A few terse words from the man in command sent them on their way. The bandits kept their distance, looking for easier quarry than armed horsemen. Al-‘Ādil’s men seemed pleased with their assignment, and Balian soon understood why; they were eager for their first glimpse of the city they called al-Quds. The Holy City was so sacred to Christians that they sometimes forgot that it was revered, too, by Muslims and Jews. As Jerusalem’s walls came into view, Balian’s escort veered off to the northwest, telling him they’d await him at the village of al-Jīb. Once the Saracens were gone, Balian and his companions galloped toward the city. Men appeared on the walls, brandishing weapons. But as soon as Balian identified himself, they were permitted to approach the gatehouse and the outer portcullis was winched up, allowing them to enter the barbican. It was L-shaped, another obstacle for invaders, and as they eased their horses around the sharp turn, the portcullis slammed down behind them. After the inner gate rose, they rode into a city already under siege—assailed by fear. At once, Balian came under assault, too, being bombarded with questions from all sides as men scrambled down from the walls. He was surprised by their urgency, for with such a steady stream of refugees, surely they could not be that starved for news.
When they tried to make their way down David Street, it only got worse. People were surging toward them, hands outstretched, crying his name, sobbing, and thanking God. Balian was shocked by the hysteria and when he realized the reason for their bizarre behavior, he was horrified. These desperate, despairing people, most of them women and children and the elderly, apparently saw him as their savior.
“Madness,” he whispered, “utter madness,” for what could one man do against an army? The noise level was deafening. Not only was the city in a state of total panic, it was dangerously overcrowded. One glance at those congested, swarming streets told him that. It took them nigh on an hour to thread their way through the throngs to St. Stephen’s Street. When they finally saw the town house up ahead, they felt as if they’d reached a refuge of their own, for people were still trailing after them, some even trying to follow when the gate was opened.
Word had obviously spread of their arrival in the city. As soon as Balian dismounted, his seven-year-old son was there, his nephew just a few steps behind John, both boys clinging to him as if they would never let go. Helvis was sobbing openly and Margaret was squealing “Papa!” as she tugged at his hauberk. For a few precious moments, the world beyond the courtyard receded and all that mattered was this, a father embracing his children, after almost giving up hope that it would ever happen again.
“Do not cry, lass,” he entreated Helvis, shaking his head when she said he was crying, too. “Those are raindrops,” he insisted, pointing toward the sun. “Look at those storm clouds.” That made her smile and he gave her another hug. “Where is your mother, sugar?”
“I am here, Balian.” At the sound of his wife’s voice, he spun around to find her standing a few feet away, their youngest son, Philip, balancing on her hip, a blindingly bright smile upon her face, and the glimmer of tears on her lashes. Balian took them both into his arms, and they stood without speaking, for so long that Philip began to squirm impatiently and demanded that Papa make him fly, his favorite game. Once his father had boosted him up onto his shoulders, he whooped with delight, and for reasons he was too young to understand, that moment imprinted itself upon his memory. Long after he was grown, with sons of his own, he would recall very little of their flight from Nablus. But he would vividly remember the afternoon that his father came home and made him fly.
* * *
Balian managed to steal a few moments alone with Maria to tell her that he’d gotten permission from Saladin to take them from the city on the morrow. “I knew you would find a way,” she said, no more than that, and he realized he’d never received a greater compliment than the one his wife had just given him, for she meant it. She had never doubted him.
A joyful pandemonium still reigned in their household several hours later. Isabella had arrived from the palace to join the celebration. As Renier had hoped, his womenfolk had taken shelter with Maria, and they’d had an emotional reunion. Balian’s niece Etiennette wept with relief when he told her that her sister, Esquiva, was safe in Tyre, having accompanied Joscelin and his family from Acre after its surrender. He’d also been able to reassure h
er that her husband had been taken prisoner at Haṭṭīn and would be amongst the men ransomed. He did not tell her that he’d heard a rumor in Tyre that Baudouin was gravely ill; that must wait until they’d reached safety in Tripoli.
The tables in the great hall were being set for supper when there was a commotion out in the street and Patriarch Eraclius was ushered in, flanked by his usual entourage. He greeted Balian so warmly that strangers might have thought the two men were longtime friends and allies. Balian managed to be civil, all the while thinking of the Bishop of Acre, who’d died trying to protect the True Cross whilst the patriarch remained in Jerusalem. Eraclius soon revealed the reason for his unprecedented visit. “I’ve come to escort you to the palace. The queen is most eager to speak with you.”
Balian had no desire to see Sybilla, but he knew that did not matter. She was still the queen and that did matter. Getting reluctantly to his feet, he said, “I cannot stay for long.” He was about to insist that Maria come, too, but she was already at his side, silently daring the patriarch to object. He merely smiled graciously, which they did not find reassuring.
* * *
The ride to the palace was a repeat of Balian’s entry into the city. The streets still teemed with people. Once again, they mobbed him, widows holding up children for his blessing, priests promising to pray for his victory against the infidels, youngsters eagerly offering to fight at his side if he could provide weapons, greybeards tearfully thanking him for coming back to save the Holy City. By the time they reached the palace, Balian felt as if he were bleeding from dozens of wounds. He saw that his wife was deeply shaken, too. He’d told her of the emotional frenzy he’d encountered, yet it was different to actually witness it for herself. But he noted uneasily that the patriarch did not seem to share Maria’s shock. He even looked pleased by the uproar.
* * *
Sybilla was showing the strain of the past few months; her eyes were heavy lidded from lack of sleep, she was too pale, and she’d lost so much weight that she looked older than her twenty-eight years. But she brightened at the sight of Balian, crossing the chamber to greet him as warmly as the patriarch had done; only in her case, she seemed sincere.
“Lord Balian, I cannot begin to tell you how grateful I am to you for returning to Jerusalem. The patriarch and I have been in despair. We have more people in the city than we can care for and most of them are women and children. The great majority of the men now in Jerusalem are either elderly, priests, or green lads. We desperately needed a seasoned soldier to take charge of our defenses, for without such a commander, we are all doomed. So, you can imagine my joy when we heard of your arrival. God has truly answered our prayers!”
Balian had listened in silence. Maria saw the tension in the set of his shoulders, the tightening of the muscles in his jaw, and she reached over, unobtrusively resting her hand on his arm. He covered it with his own hand, but he kept his eyes on Sybilla.
“No, madame,” he said, quietly but firmly. “The Lord has not answered your prayers. All the prayers in Christendom will not stop Jerusalem from falling to Saladin. Its fate was writ in blood from the moment those fools sneered at the sultan’s offer. As I am sure they told you, he was greatly offended and swore that he would take the city by the sword. I did not return to lead a doomed defense. I am here to take my wife and children to safety, and for no other reason. We will be leaving on the morrow—”
“No!” Sybilla was horrified by what she was hearing. It had never occurred to her that he’d refuse the command. “You cannot go. I understand your concern for your family. But there is more at stake than their lives. Once you think upon it, I am sure you will see that.”
Eraclius quickly spoke up before Balian could respond. “You’ve seen for yourself the panic of Jerusalem’s citizens. If you abandon them, there is no hope, neither for them nor the Holy City. Promise us that you will not leave on the morrow. Do not do something that you will regret for the rest of your life.”
“I have no choice. I would not have been able to reach Jerusalem had Saladin not given me a safe-conduct and an escort. But I had to swear an oath that I would not spend more than one night in the city and that I would not take up arms against him—”
“Is that all?” The patriarch gave an audible sigh of relief. “You are not bound by such an oath. One given to an infidel counts for nothing. But if your conscience is sore, I can absolve you of it. Right here and now if you wish.”
“I gave him my word and I intend to keep it. I will not take command of the city. Even if I were not bound by my oath, my first loyalty is to my family, and I mean to get them to safety on the morrow.”
Eraclius shook his head, as if in disbelief. “What of your loyalty to the kingdom?”
Balian stared at the patriarch, incredulous at first, and then utterly outraged. “I was loyal to that crowned fool you foisted upon us. We all were, and where did that blind loyalty lead us? To thousands of bodies still rotting unburied on the Horns of Haṭṭīn, to the dungeons of Damascus and the slave markets of Aleppo, and now the loss of the Holy City!”
Eraclius started to speak, then stopped, wise enough to realize that there were few emotions as raw or dangerous as fury indistinguishable from grief. Sybilla’s first instinct was to defend her husband, to blame Gerard de Ridefort for their disastrous defeat at Haṭṭīn. But the images Balian had called up were so powerful that she shrank from them, for he’d breathed life into the victims of Haṭṭīn, forcing her to confront the men who’d been slain or enslaved because of Guy’s mistakes. Seeing that Balian and Maria were about to leave, she cried out desperately, “You are our only hope, Balian!”
She saw him pause. But then he slowly shook his head and reached for the door latch. Sybilla sank down again in her chair, covered her face in her hands, and began to sob.
* * *
Maria slept poorly that night and she knew that Balian did, too. He’d insisted he was well, just too tired to sleep; she knew better. When she awakened again, it was not yet dawn and his side of the bed was empty. Finding her bed robe and felt slippers, she went in search of her husband.
He was not in the shadowed bedchamber. She went to check the rooms where their children slept, but she did not find him keeping vigil by any of their beds, as she’d half expected she would. Returning to their bedchamber, she sat down on the bed, at a loss. Then she thought of their balcony overlooking the courtyard.
He was there, sitting on the bench, gazing up at a sky still glittering with stars, lighting the heavens like the remote fires of an enemy camp. He was partially dressed in shirt and braies, with a mantle over his shoulders, for the night had been chilly. He turned as Maria stepped outside and when she sat beside him, he opened the mantle to envelop them both.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked and he shook his head. There was such anguish in his eyes that she felt her heart begin to race. “What are you going to do, Balian?”
“Marika, I do not know,” he confessed, sounding utterly defeated.
She felt no surprise. She’d seen how he’d reacted to the distraught and doomed people pleading for his help. It was nothing said by Sybilla or Eraclius that had stolen his sleep. It was the haunted faces of the women, the bewilderment of their children, the old men no longer able to play a man’s part. Above all, it was his bitter understanding of what happened when a city was taken by storm. It mattered little whether the soldiers were Muslims or Christians. The looting, the raping, the killing were always the same.
“Whatever I do, it will be wrong,” he said huskily. “If I get you and our children to safety and then come back, it will be too late by then. If I stay, all I can do is prolong the inevitable outcome by a few days, for Jerusalem is not Tyre. And even if I believed it was possible to defend the city, I could not take command without breaking my oath to Saladin. I have no choice but to hold to my vow and ride out to meet al-‘Ādil’s men, as agreed upon.”
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And yet if he did, she realized that he’d never forgive himself. Till he drew his last mortal breath, he would regret abandoning the helpless people of Jerusalem. He did not want to die in the ruins of the besieged city. His head told him that there was nothing he could do for these trapped civilians. His heart belonged to her and their children. But his sense of honor would be well-nigh impossible to silence, judging him for a chivalric sin that would shred his peace and might even poison their marriage if she insisted that he leave with her. He’d said none of this. He did not need to, for she knew him to the very core of his being, to the most shadowed corners of his soul, knew him even better than he knew himself.
She wanted him to hold her so tightly that she could barely breathe, wanted them to ride away from the horrors unloosed by Guy de Lusignan and Gerard de Ridefort, never to look back. “We agree that nothing is more important than saving our children,” she said, somehow managing to sound as if they were in the midst of an ordinary marital discussion. “If their safety could be assured and you were not tethered by that oath to Saladin, what would you do, Balian?”
“I want to go with you, Marika,” he said without hesitation. “I want to see our children grow up. I want us to grow old together. But I would stay here and do all I could to defend the city and its people.”
She was quiet for a time, drawing upon the lessons learned long ago in her Constantinople childhood, that duty and honor were paramount, the cornerstones for the life of a Greek princess. “All you can do, then,” she told him, “is to let Saladin know that you are faced with an impossible choice and ask him what he would do in your place.”
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 82
