CHAPTER 50
September 1187
Latrun, Outremer
When they reached the Templar castle at Latrun, Salāh al-Dīn instructed Gerard de Ridefort to order the stronghold to surrender. The Templars were appalled at the command, but they were sworn to obey their grand master without question, and they yielded, just as the elderly Templars at Gaza had done. The sultan was still at Latrun when Adam arrived with a letter from Balian d’Ibelin. There was a delay while it was translated into Arabic for Salāh al-Dīn, who then had it read aloud in council, to the amazement of his audience.
Gökböri was the first to respond. “Such crazed courage ought to be rewarded. Save this man from himself, my lord. Insist that he leave al-Quds whilst he still can.”
After the laughter subsided, Taqī al-Dīn surprised them by offering rare praise for an infidel. “I agree that we do not want this Frank in al-Quds. He knows how to fight, as he proved at Haṭṭīn.” Adding with a sly glance toward Gökböri, “You can attest to that, I believe.”
Gökböri scowled, for he’d endured more than his share of barbed humor over the failure of his men to keep the Franks’ rearguard from escaping the battle. Before he could retaliate, the lawyer ‘Īsā al-Hakkari smoothly interceded. “Will you be freeing the Templar grand master?”
They were united in their contempt for Gerard de Ridefort, scornful that he’d betrayed his brethren by buying his freedom with the order’s strongholds, none believing he deserved to regain his liberty. The only opinion that mattered, however, was Salāh al-Dīn’s, and he ended the discussion by reminding them that he’d given the Templar his word. Al-‘Ādil evoked more laughter by observing that the Templar and the king of the Franks were the Muslims’ secret weapons, sure to wreak more havoc amongst the Christians by their utter ineptitude. Soon afterward, the council broke up, but al-‘Ādil lingered, giving his brother a speculative look.
“I must admit that I admire Balian d’Ibelin for caring so much about his countrymen. He has integrity as well as courage, Yūsuf, and that is all too rare.” He waited but his brother merely nodded, so he tried again. “You have not yet told us what you mean to do.”
That earned him the shadow of a smile. “No,” the sultan agreed, “I have not, have I?”
* * *
Balian and Maria and their household were having their evening meal when Adam burst into the great hall. “I have it, lord,” he panted, “the sultan’s answer!” Too excited to remember his French, he blurted out his news in Arabic that only Balian understood. But his presence was enough for Maria, who felt her knife slip through suddenly numb fingers. Renier Rohard understood, too, for Balian had confided in him when he’d questioned why they’d not left the city straightaway, and he half rose from his seat. Balian sat frozen for a moment and then reached across the table to take the letter that Adam was holding out.
As his eyes met Maria’s, he mouthed the word “solar,” and then he was gone, so swiftly that the other diners noticed and began to murmur uneasily among themselves. Maria forced herself to rise without haste, invited Adam to take a seat at one of the tables, and signaled for servants to continue ladling out the food. Only then did she follow her husband. When she reached the solar, she hesitated for a moment before the door, dreading what she was about to learn. No matter what Saladin decided, Balian would be the loser. And so would she.
Balian was standing by the window. He looked up as she entered, the expression on his face not easy for her to interpret. By the time she’d reached his side, she’d decided that it was absolute astonishment. “He released me from my oath, Marika. He said he understood why I felt compelled to stay. Not only is he not wroth with me, he said that I am a man of honor and he will still provide an escort for you, our children, and household.”
They looked at each other in silence. “I’d best go to the palace and tell Sybilla that I will take command,” he said at last. She nodded mutely, determined to hold herself together until he was gone. He halted at the door, gave her one final look that communicated all they dared not say. As soon as the door closed, she stumbled toward the closest chair. Her eyes were burning and she was finding it hard to catch her breath. But she did not weep, for if she did, she feared she’d not be able to stop.
* * *
Isabella had rarely seen her stepfather angry in the ten years since he’d married her mother, but he was obviously angry now, and more disconcertingly, angry with her. “What you are doing is brave. It is also foolhardy, Bella. You have no idea what occurs when a city is taken by the sword. Yes, I know what you said, that you’d be safe if you stayed in the palace with Sybilla, that Saladin would not let the queen and her sister be harmed. But you do not know the madness that comes over some men at such times. Anything can happen—anything.”
Balian paused, for she was still shaking her head stubbornly. “I cannot believe Sybilla would let you do this,” he said, so sharply that she winced.
“She did not ask it of me, Pateras. I told you that. But when I said I’d stay with her, I could see her relief. She is overwhelmed, knowing she is responsible for the safety of her daughters and all the people in the city. She needs my support.”
“And what of Maria? You think she will not need you? A widow with four young children?”
Isabella gasped, for until now, she’d not realized that he fully expected to die defending Jerusalem. She looked so stricken that Balian’s anger ebbed away. Reminding himself that she was only fifteen, he took her in his arms and she dried her tears against his tunic. “There is more to it,” she confided. “Humphrey’s mother is not well. You know how she is, as prickly as a hedgehog, so she’d never admit she was needy. And I will not pretend that I like her. But she is still Humphrey’s mother. How could I face him if she came to harm?”
Balian had no doubts that Humphrey’s fears for his wife would be far greater than any fear for his difficult mother. He saw, though, that Isabella was trying to live up to the sort of high expectations the young too often demanded of themselves. She confirmed that now by another confession, that she did not want to desert the terrified people of Jerusalem, for the first time revealing that she shared some of her mother’s pride of birth, the noblesse oblige of a king’s daughter and an emperor’s kinswoman.
“My mother is very distraught that I plan to stay,” she admitted, “but in her heart, she understands. You do not think she’d ever have left you, Pateras, if not for your children?” She mustered up a small smile. “I promised her that I’d look after you since she cannot.”
She seemed heartbreakingly vulnerable to Balian, innocent and obstinate, lost in that unexplored terrain between childhood and womanhood. “And you must promise me, Bella, that you will become Sybilla’s shadow once the siege begins.” Her only security would be found in the palace, for he was sure Saladin would send men to safeguard Sybilla as soon as the city fell.
He would have to stress that with Marika, the only comfort he’d be able to offer. Isabella promised that she would. Gazing up into his face, she wanted to tell him that she loved him as much as any daughter could love her father. But she saw that he already knew.
* * *
They left the city at dawn. Al-‘Ādil’s men waited just out of arrow range. Adam waved to confirm that all was set and they would escort Maria, her children, and household members to the sultan’s camp at Latrun, then on to safety in Tripoli. Renier’s wife and mother were accompanying Maria and Balian had done his best to convince Renier to leave, too, arguing that they might need his protection on the journey. Renier had refused, saying Balian would have greater need of him. Balian had also failed to get Ernoul out of the city, despite ordering the youth to see his family safely through the war-ravaged countryside. Ernoul had not argued; he’d simply disappeared during the night, intent upon hiding until his lord’s lady was gone.
Balian and Maria had rarely lied to their children, but they did now,
assuring them that their father was remaining behind to take care of some important matters in the city and would join them as soon as he could. While the little ones did not question it, Helvis was old enough to harbor doubts and even John seemed uneasy. Eleven-year-old Thomasin understood all too well what his uncle was doing. He did his best, though, to reassure his cousins, and Balian was very grateful to him. He did not think he or Maria could have borne it otherwise.
He was astride the stallion al-‘Ādil had given him, a bay palfrey that he’d named Bayard. His owner had probably died at Jaffa, but he’d trained the horse well and when Balian reined him in alongside Maria’s mare, Bayard halted obediently, allowing his new master to lean over and kiss his wife. They did not speak. They’d said little during the night either, clinging to each other in a final farewell that held more pain than passion.
Isabella nudged her mare forward then, reaching out to clasp hands with her mother. “We will see you in Tripoli,” she said, as convincingly as she could. Maria dredged up a smile from the depths of memory, squeezed her daughter’s hand, and then urged her mount toward David’s Gate. She did not look back, having promised Balian that she would not. The others followed slowly. Balian guided Bayard into the barbican, watching only long enough to see them greeted by their Saracen protectors. He turned the stallion around then and rode back into the city as the portcullis clanged shut behind him.
* * *
Balian spent the next few days in almost ceaseless activity. He began by meeting with Patriarch Eraclius, Sybilla, the master of the Hospitaller Hospital of St. John, the patriarch of the Armenian Church, the grand master of the leper knights, a few elderly Templar serjeants, and several of the most influential members of the burgesses’ community. There he learned that their plight was even worse than he’d expected. Sybilla and Eraclius had done their best to shelter the thousands of refugees, housing some in the pilgrim hospices, others in the hospitals, calling upon churches to take them in, ordering bakeries to stoke their ovens from dawn till dusk to provide loafs of bread for the hungry. But they’d done little to bolster Jerusalem’s defenses, had not even taken measures to identify the Muslim slaves and prisoners in the city.
Balian’s first action was to find out the number of Saracens being held prisoner or enslaved by the Templars and Hospitallers, who used them for their building projects; he was troubled to learn there were five thousand of them. He and Renier inspected the city walls and gates, then assembled teams to shore up the most vulnerable areas. Balian next checked the city’s water sources. Jerusalemites relied upon cisterns for drinking water, but there were also three reservoirs within the walls that could be used for animals and to extinguish fires. Unlike most of Christendom, Outremer did not have guilds. Some of the more affluent trades did have fraternities and he arranged to meet with the leaders of the goldsmiths, silversmiths, and mercers, telling them that he needed volunteers to man the walls and asking them to spread the word.
He used the town crier to summon carpenters to the palace, agreeing to buy all the lumber they had at hand. He and Renier sketched for them diagrams of mangonels, explaining that they would have to assemble them upon the roofs of David’s Tower and Tancred’s Tower. Renier took on the duty of finding men among the refugees and residents who’d ever operated mangonels and Balian put unskilled laborers to work lugging heavy stones up to the tower roofs.
One of the greatest challenges was supplying weapons. The need was far greater than the armories of the Templars and Hospitallers could provide. Jerusalem had a few bladesmiths, but swords were custom-made, so they had a limited number in stock, never mass-produced. Balian had to rely upon the blacksmiths for spears and axes and the bowyers for crossbows. The latter were fairly easy to learn, so he set up archery lessons in the open area between the grain market and Tancred’s Tower.
He formed a squadron of gravediggers, too; in a city under siege, the dead needed to be buried quickly to ward off plague. When they pointed out that the charnel houses were located beyond the walls, he told them that the dead would have to be buried in the churchyards, even unhallowed ground if need be. After some of the priests heard this, they came to protest, insisting graves must be properly consecrated. Balian paid them little heed, for he was already on to the next problem—that many of the men he was conscripting expected to be paid for their labors. Apparently not even an impending Saracen attack was enough to suspend the normal laws of commerce.
It was then that a familiar figure appeared, hurrying toward him to volunteer. Balian had not seen Anselm since Baldwin’s death and was very pleased by the sight of the older man. Anselm had two virtues worth their weight in gold—he was utterly reliable and almost impossible to fluster. Anselm proved it when given his first assignment, leading men to strip silver from the roofs of the richest churches and cart it over to the Royal Mint to be melted down into coins. A number of priests protested strenuously to that. But they found Balian had a strong ally in the patriarch, who had sharp words for any who came to complain about his orders.
Even with money to pay defenders, Balian knew that he could not muster enough of them. Eraclius had told him that they thought there were at least sixty thousand people in the city, and only about twenty thousand of them were males. It was his opinion that of this group, fewer than six thousand were capable of offering real resistance, the rest being too old or too ill or unwilling. For the specter of betrayal hung over the city, too. Eraclius admitted that he was not sure they could trust all of the Syrian Orthodox Christians.
“They’d lived under Muslim rule for centuries until the Kingdom of Jerusalem was carved from blood and bone and faith, and as much as it grieves me to say it, I think some of them might even welcome a Saracen victory. There are rumors that Saladin’s spies have been trying since Haṭṭīn to plant seeds of disloyalty amongst the Syrians.”
Even at such a moment, Eraclius could not suppress his flair for oratory. Despite the ornate delivery, the warning was a credible one, but Balian could only deal with one threat at a time. He asked Eraclius for a list of the sons of knights and nobles, those who’d reached their legal majority of fifteen. Summoning these youths to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, he awed and thrilled them by calling each one forward to kneel and be knighted. It was a solemn ceremony, conducted by candlelight in the most sacred church in Christendom, and their audience was moved to tears. Balian then shocked some of them by knighting forty more men. These new knights were well respected, pillars of the community. They were also burgesses, not of noble birth, and there were those who disapproved of Balian’s action, viewing it as subversive, undermining the social order. Most of the trapped Jerusalemites were quite willing, though, to embrace whatever Balian did, seeing him as a gift from God, a man who knew warfare as they did not, the battle commander who would save them and their Holy City from an infidel army.
Balian had eaten little, slept even less, driven to get as much done as he could in the dwindling time they had left. By Sunday evening, he was so exhausted that he finally had to rest, and at Ernoul’s urging, he agreed to sleep for an hour or so. Sprawling across the bed after pausing only to remove his boots, he fell asleep at once. When he was awakened by a hand on his shoulder, he felt as if he’d just closed his eyes. “Has Compline rung already?”
Renier shook his head. “No, not yet. But whilst you slept, Saladin’s army arrived. They are setting up camp to the west. On the morrow . . .” He did not finish the sentence; there was no need. On the morrow, the Saracens would unleash hell upon Jerusalem.
* * *
The men of Jerusalem stood on the battlements, nervously clutching their weapons as they gazed upon the sultan’s army. While many of them had convinced themselves that God would never let the Holy City fall to the infidels, their conviction wavered now that the day of judgment had actually arrived. Balian was one of the few who was encouraged by the sight meeting their eyes. Thousands of seasoned soldiers spread out bel
ow them, the victors of Haṭṭīn. But Saladin had done what Balian had hoped he would do—he’d chosen to assault the city from the west, assuming that David’s Tower had been built to bolster the walls where they were weakest. That was a mistake. Not only were these walls strongly buttressed, the terrain was very rough, choked with thorny underbrush and steep, rock-strewn slopes that would not make it easy for the Saracens to get close enough to fill in the fosse. The longer they could keep the sultan’s men from reaching the walls, the more time they could buy for themselves.
Well aware that Jerusalem was a city without soldiers, Salāh al-Dīn and his amirs had not expected its defenders to put up much of a fight. But the assault did not go as planned. When they began to employ their siege engines, the Franks answered with their own mangonels, and it was soon apparent that theirs were more dangerous. Their height upon the tower roofs gave them a greater range and men scattered as rocks crashed down upon them. And when the Saracens launched their first attack, they found it was slow going. As they stumbled and lurched on the uneven ground, crossbow bolts and arrows found fleshy targets and stones were heaved from the walls, claiming victims, too. They were eventually forced to make a humiliating retreat.
The second day went no better for the Saracens. The mangonels of the Franks were operated in shifts so there was no respite, and several of their own siege engines were damaged by the lethal bombardment from the roof of David’s Tower. The sultan and his amirs watched in frustrated fury as their men died without ever reaching the city walls.
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 83
