* * *
Balian had lost track of time. He could have been kneeling before the small altar for an hour or for several hours. He’d pleaded for the citizens of Jerusalem, entreating God to show them mercy even if Saladin would not. And he’d prayed for divine guidance. Eventually, he’d prayed, too, for acceptance, to be able to embrace God’s will, no matter what it might be.
When he finally rose to his feet, he moved around the little chapel until moving no longer hurt, hunching his shoulders so his head would not scrape the low ceiling. On one wall hung a length of chain, said to be the very one that had bound the Son of God. Balian touched his fingers to the links even though he doubted their authenticity. Like many people, he was skeptical of some of the holy relics that churches so proudly displayed to pilgrims. Hay from the Christ Child’s manger? A long-dead saint’s fingernail clippings? He’d heard that when the devout came to Canterbury Cathedral to honor the martyred Thomas Becket, they could buy small vials of the saint’s blood. Becket must have bled enough to flood the cathedral, for he’d been dead for nigh on seventeen years and the monks were still selling those vials to pilgrims.
But relics in his homeland were different, far more likely to be real, not a hoax or a fraud. The Lord Christ had walked the streets of Jerusalem. Balian could think of dozens of sites intimately associated with the Savior. He’d watered the Mount of Olives with his tears and Golgotha with his blood. Four of the fourteen stations of the cross were to be found in this very church. How could the Almighty allow the Holy Land to be lost to the Saracens?
Coming back to the altar, he leaned against it, watching as the candle’s flame flickered and the wick burned down. He’d been going over his meeting that morning with the sultan’s brother, searching his memory for clues. Al-‘Ādil had been surprisingly candid, acknowledging that he and many of Saladin’s amirs preferred a peaceful surrender of the city. Only Saladin had balked. Why? Balian doubted that he truly wanted a bloodbath. The only towns that had suffered after Haṭṭīn were those that had refused to yield. He’d even allowed Ascalon and Beirut to surrender after holding out for a week or two. And according to al-‘Ādil, he’d been willing to offer Jerusalem generous terms, too, swearing to take the city by the sword only after he’d been provoked by those fools in the Jerusalem delegation.
Standing there in the quiet, darkened chapel, Balian could hear al-‘Ādil’s voice again, sounding both amused and affectionate. “Nor would history treat him kindly for a slaughter of thousands of women and children, and like all great men, he cares how posterity will judge him.” Saladin had valid reasons to want to avoid a massacre. What he needed then was a valid reason to disavow his oath. But surely al-‘Ādil and the other amirs had made all of the arguments in favor of surrender. What could he say that they had not?
* * *
The next morning, the sky was marbled with clouds, an unusual occurrence for the first day of October. But the citizens of Jerusalem had no thoughts for the weather. Soon after dawn, the sultan’s siege engines were in action again, pounding the walls and clearing the streets. So there were few witnesses as Balian rode through the city toward Jehoshaphat’s Gate.
The guards opened the gate for him, but they were clearly skeptical of his chances for success. He ignored them, concerned with getting safely to the sultan’s camp on the Mount of Olives. The Saracens had just launched another assault upon the breach that had gashed the city’s defenses like a bleeding wound. Once again, though, he found that he had either a perpetual safe-conduct or a guardian angel, for he was allowed to pass through their ranks, waved on when he claimed that the sultan’s brother was expecting him.
Escorted by a sentry to al-‘Ādil’s command tent, he was dismounting from Bayard when al-‘Ādil emerged. After a quick scrutiny of Balian’s face, he said, “I’ve seen men looking better than you as they were about to be sewn into their burial shrouds.” Telling one of his guards to see to Balian’s stallion, he pulled back the tent flap so Balian could enter. “Stay here,” he said, “and I will do my best to persuade my brother to talk with you.”
Balian nodded and murmured, “Insha’Allah,” Arabic for “God willing.” The phrase was a subtle reminder that they shared a belief in one God and that the Muslims viewed Christians as “people of the book.” He thought he caught a gleam of amused understanding in al-‘Ādil’s dark eyes, but before Balian could be sure, the other man had gone. Left alone, he sank down upon a cushion to ease his aching muscles. After another sleepless night, his body was punishing him for it, and this morning he felt as if he were decades older than his thirty-seven years. He tried not to dwell upon his coming confrontation with Saladin. His brain would not cooperate, though; it kept stirring up doubts. Could he be convincing enough? Could he carry this off?
He was expecting a summons to the sultan’s tent—if al-‘Ādil was successful. So, he was startled when the canvas flap was pulled aside and the sultan himself entered. Giving Balian no chance to rise, he strode forward and sat down on one of the cushions. He was followed by al-‘Ādil, but the latter’s face was expressionless, offering Balian no hints or guidance.
Salāh al-Dīn did not keep him in suspense. “I agreed to see you as a courtesy to my brother. But there is nothing you can say to change my mind. I offered your people a chance to save themselves. They scorned my mercy. So, let them pay the blood debt the Franks owe for their massacre of the innocent.”
He seemed genuinely angry; Balian did not think it was assumed. Was he the object of the sultan’s anger? He might well have repented of his generosity to the d’Ibelin family, for it had cost Muslim lives. Or was he angry at being compelled to act against his own nature, regretting an oath given impulsively? “I do not defend the slaughter that took place when Jerusalem fell to the Franks, my lord sultan. Even at the time, their brutality was not approved by all Christians. But the men who accrued that blood debt are long dead. There is no one in the city who was even alive in July of God’s year 1099.”
“The voices of our dead cry out for justice,” the sultan shot back. Before Balian could respond, they heard sudden shouting. Al-‘Ādil opened the tent flap, a moment later calling for his brother to join him. When Salāh al-Dīn rose, Balian did, too, and followed them outside.
There was considerable excitement in the camp. At the sight of the sultan, several of his men pointed toward Jerusalem. “Look, my lord, look!”
All eyes were on the city walls, where fighting had broken out upon the battlements. When the sultan’s banner was hoisted aloft, the men began to cheer and laugh. Salāh al-Dīn turned upon Balian, fiercely triumphant. “You are too late, d’Ibelin. The city is mine.”
Balian was speechless, unable to take his despairing gaze from those distant ramparts. But as he watched, the Franks launched a desperate counterattack and drove the Saracens back. Several were pushed from the wall and the sultan’s banner was flung down after them, the others retreating through the breach. The camp was suddenly silent. Salāh al-Dīn’s mouth hardened. Glaring at Balian, he said, “Go back to the city. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
Balian stood his ground. “Listen to me, my lord. You need to hear what I have to say.”
Salāh al-Dīn scowled. But his brother was also frowning, urging him to hear Balian out, so he nodded curtly and they returned to al-‘Ādil’s tent in a tense silence. Once they were sitting again, the sultan gestured, indicating that Balian could speak.
Now that the moment had come, Balian found that time seemed to slow down, as it did whenever he’d taken part in a battlefield charge. “We both know that the city will soon be yours. I entreat you not to stain a great victory with the blood of the defenseless. You are a man of clemency and mercy, my lord, as you’ve often proven. Show that mercy to the women and children sheltering in al-Quds.”
Al-‘Ādil flashed Balian an approving grin for the use of al-Quds rather than Jerusalem. Salāh al-Dīn no longer see
med angry; he suddenly looked weary, as weary as Balian. “I cannot grant your plea, Lord Balian,” he said somberly. “I have sworn a holy oath to take the city by the sword, to avenge the deaths of the thousands who were slain by the unbelievers.”
Balian had been expecting this reply. “My lord sultan, understand that there is no enmity in my heart. I am grateful for the kindness you showed my family. I came only to rescue my wife and children. I never meant to stay or to take command of the city’s defenses.”
“You have acted in good faith,” the sultan agreed. “But I do not see what that has to do with the fate of al-Quds.”
“I wanted to be sure that you remember I have been honest with you from the first, for I am being honest with you now, too. You need to know what it will cost you if you insist upon taking the city by storm. We want to live. But if we are denied your mercy, we shall sell our lives dearly. If we see that death is inevitable, we shall slay our women and our sons, leaving none alive for you to enslave. We will burn all our property and goods and kill our livestock, so you will not benefit by so much as a single denier. There are over five thousand Muslim prisoners in the city and we shall put them all to death. Then we will destroy the shrines you hold most sacred, the Dome of the Rock and the al-Aqsa mosque, and come forth to do battle with your army. We know we will be riding out to die, but there are none so dangerous as men with nothing to lose. Ere you kill us, we will kill many of you. And when the battle is done and you can lay claim to the city, you will find only ashes and cinders and rubble and bodies.”
Balian had spoken in measured, matter-of-fact tones, knowing there was no need for drama or hyperbole, not when he was describing an apocalypse. When he was done, he leaned back, seeking to judge the impact of his ultimatum upon them. Al-‘Ādil’s eyes had widened slightly when Balian had begun to speak and a muscle was twitching in the sultan’s cheek. Otherwise, their faces gave away no secrets, their thoughts hidden.
They exchanged a look he could not read, then both men rose to their feet without haste. “You were right, Lord Balian,” the sultan said coolly. “I did need to hear what you had to say.” For a moment, he regarded Balian impassively, his eyes utterly inscrutable. “You are a man of surprises. You may wait here whilst we discuss what you have said with my amirs.”
* * *
Balian would have thought waiting would be intolerable with so much at stake. It was not. He was aware only of an eerie sense of calm, knowing he’d done all that he could. He’d even begun to doze, jerking awake when the tent flap was pulled aside and al-‘Ādil entered.
“Napping, were you? What do you have in your veins, ice water?”
Balian explained that he’d not slept in days, his eyes searching al-‘Ādil’s face all the while. “What did the sultan decide?”
A corner of al-‘Ādil’s mouth was curving. “I think you know. He has taken the counsel of his amirs and he has decided to accept the peaceful surrender of al-Quds.”
Balian exhaled his breath as a prayer, a whispered “Thank God.”
As he started to rise, al-‘Ādil reached down to help him to his feet. “I’ve come to take you to the sultan’s tent to discuss the terms of surrender.” He made no move to go, though. “That was a most memorable threat. Did you mean it?”
“What do you think?” Balian parried, and al-‘Ādil laughed, then reached for the tent flap.
* * *
‘Imād al-Dīn had taken ill after Haṭṭīn and was convalescing in Damascus, so al-‘Ādil’s chancellor, al-Sanī‘a, was chosen to record the surrender terms. Balian recognized two of the men he’d met at Ascalon: the sultan’s nephew Husām al-Dīn and the lawyer ‘Īsā al-Hakkari. He recognized, too, a man he’d not seen for twelve years, for Taqī al-Dīn had not changed at all; he still had the hawklike features and a smoldering intensity that never seemed to burn itself out. Also present was the amir Balian had faced at Haṭṭīn, Gökböri, the Blue Wolf. They greeted him amicably, clearly pleased that he’d been able to convince the sultan to accept the city’s surrender; even Taqī al-Dīn was civil. Two of Salāh al-Dīn’s young sons were there, too, visibly excited that they were to reclaim the city so holy to Muslims. They were being careful, though, not to gloat, seeking to emulate their father’s composed demeanor. There was an unreality about the scene for Balian, yet that had often been true since Haṭṭīn. There were times when he’d felt that he was trapped in the mother of all bad dreams. But reality came crashing down upon him when the sultan named a ransom figure far beyond their ability to pay.
“Thirty dinars for every man, ten for every woman, and five for every child?” Balian echoed, hoping he’d heard wrong. When Salāh al-Dīn calmly confirmed it, Balian shook his head slowly. “My lord sultan, we could never raise such a high ransom. There are about sixty thousand people in the city, mayhap more, and I would guess that for every one who could pay their own ransom, there are one hundred who could not scrape together even two dinars.”
“How many poor are there?”
Balian paused to consider. “I would say at least twenty thousand, not including all the refugees who lost everything when they fled their homes.”
Now it was Salāh al-Dīn’s turn to consider. “I am willing, then, to free them all for the sum of one hundred thousand dinars.”
“We could never come up with so great an amount.” Balian could not hide his dismay, for once again the fate of thousands of Jerusalemites was resting upon his shoulders; he may have saved their lives, but any who could not ransom themselves would be sold as slaves.
The sultan asked how much the Franks could pay to ransom their poor. Before Balian could reply, ‘Īsā al-Hakkari interceded. Experienced in negotiations and a good judge of character, he did not think the Frankish lord was dissembling, and that meant they had a long and arduous bargaining session ahead of them. “May I suggest that we have food sent in?” he murmured. “It seems that we will be at this for quite a while.”
* * *
When the Saracens suddenly pulled back, the city’s residents were thankful, but they saw it as only a brief respite, sure that their foes would soon launch the final, fatal attack. But then the sultan’s siege engines fell silent. Venturing cautiously from their houses and shops, the Jerusalemites clustered in the streets to discuss this unexpected lull. A rumor soon spread—that Balian d’Ibelin had been seen riding out to the Saracen camp that morning. And as the hours passed without a resumption of hostilities, people dared to hope that he had somehow managed to save Jerusalem. A crowd gathered by the palace, an even larger crowd by Jehoshaphat’s Gate, and when Balian finally returned, he was welcomed with excitement that bordered on euphoria. While he was touched by their rejoicing, his own spirits were unable to soar with theirs, tethered by the bleak knowledge that there would not be a good outcome for them all.
* * *
Balian’s welcome at the palace was only a little less frenzied. So many people were waiting that they had to meet in the great hall. Flanked by the patriarch and queen, Balian gave them the details of the deal he’d struck with Salāh al-Dīn. They would formally surrender the city on the morrow, handing over the keys to David’s Tower. The sultan would then station guards in each street to make sure both the Saracens and Franks would keep the peace. The ransom had been set at ten dinars for every man, five for every woman, and two for every child, and they would be allowed to take with them all of their movable goods. Those able to pay their ransoms would be escorted to safety in Christian territory by the sultan’s men.
Balian was bracing himself to tell them the rest—the worst—when his stepdaughter asked what would befall those who were too poor to pay the ransom. Isabella’s dark eyes were so sorrowful that it was obvious she suspected what the answer would be.
“They will have their lives spared, but they will be sold as slaves. Some will be freed, though. The sultan has agreed to ransom seven thousand of the poor for a single
payment of thirty thousand dinars. And I am sure that the Church, the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the more prosperous of our citizens will also assist those unable to pay.”
Balian did not get the wholehearted response he’d hoped for from his audience, despite being the ones most able to aid their indigent countrymen. It grew quiet as they absorbed what they’d just been told, a silence finally broken when the patriarch of the Armenian Orthodox Church asked Balian how he could come up with the vast sum of thirty thousand dinars.
“The Hospitallers are still holding thirty thousand dinars for the English king,” Balian said, reminding them that whilst the grand master of the Templars had used their share to finance the Haṭṭīn campaign, the Hospitallers had refused to release their funds without King Henry’s prior approval. He’d had no luck getting them to offer any of it for the city’s defenses, either. But he was not going to be thwarted again, not when that money could buy freedom for seven thousand Jerusalemites.
Eraclius at once backed Balian up, saying that it was the duty of all Christians to come to the aid of their less fortunate brethren. Sybilla echoed the sentiment and urged them to open their hearts and empty their coffers for the city’s needy. Only the most cynical among them noted that the patriarch had said nothing of spending the Church’s wealth on behalf of the poor.
* * *
The Land Beyond the Sea Page 86
