On the following day, the city of Jerusalem was formally turned over to Salāh al-Dīn, to the great jubilation of his amirs and soldiers. They watched as the banners of the Kingdom of Jerusalem were lowered and replaced by the sultan’s eagle, and many of the Franks wept. Now that the initial joy of their reprieve had passed, they faced a brutal truth, that they would be abandoning their homes, their shops, their churches, the only lives they’d known, for a future obscured by uncertainty and peril. Nothing would ever be the same. And throughout Christendom, they would be blamed and reviled as the ones who’d lost the Holy City to the infidels.
* * *
The Hospitallers left behind in Jerusalem were accustomed to obeying orders, not to acting on their own initiative. So Balian and Eraclius found that they were still reluctant to release the money in their custody, insisting they needed the authorization of the English king or their acting grand master in Tyre. They yielded, though, after the patriarch gave them a scathing lecture about Christian charity and Balian pointed out that the Saracens were not going to let them depart the city with thirty thousand dinars in their saddlebags. After turning the funds over to Salāh al-Dīn, Balian began trying to raise more money for the rest of the city’s poor, and the Saracens set up a collection plan for the ransoms.
In theory, it sounded feasible. People could leave Jerusalem only after displaying a receipt given by the sultan’s clerks as proof of payment, and once they exited the city, they were to camp outside its walls while arrangements were being made to convey them to Tyre, Tripoli, and Antioch. But when ‘Imād al-Dīn arrived from Damascus, he discovered to his dismay that in practice, the system was easily abused. Some of the Saracen guards were willing to be bribed. Desperate Franks climbed over the walls at night; others were caught sneaking out of the city in Saracen garb. And the collection process was repeatedly sabotaged by the generosity of ‘Imād al-Dīn’s master, for Salāh al-Dīn rarely turned away a supplicant. When his amirs asked to share the ransoms, he agreed at once, for money mattered little to him. He rewarded their soldiers with a lavish hand. And he was equally magnanimous when appealed to by the women of Jerusalem.
‘Imād al-Dīn was baffled that his sultan had allowed the unbelievers’ queen to depart with all of her possessions, charging no ransom for her or her household and giving her permission to join her husband, who was now being held captive in Nablus. Saladin did not even demand a ransom from Stephanie de Milly, the widow of their great enemy, Prince Arnat. And when some of the Frankish women came to him after paying their ransoms, weeping that they had nowhere to go, for their husbands were either slain at Haṭṭīn or held prisoner in Damascus, he told ‘Imād al-Dīn to free the husbands and to give money from his own coffers to the widows. ‘Imād al-Dīn did as the sultan bade him, but he was not happy about it.
What upset the chancellor the most, however, was the duplicity of some of the Franks. Their patriarch had paid the ransoms for his household, which included a veiled woman said to be his concubine, the notorious Pasque de Rivieri, and their daughter. He’d then packed up the treasures of their Church, filling carts with the gold and silver plate, the costly fabrics, and the gem-encrusted chalices and reliquaries that had adorned the Holy Sepulchre. ‘Imād al-Dīn had been indignant enough to go to the sultan about this blatant breach of the terms of surrender. He’d argued that the Franks were to take only their own goods, that nothing had been said about the property of their churches. Their patriarch ought not to be allowed to enrich himself at their expense, especially since he could have ransomed many more of their poor with those relics.
Salāh al-Dīn had agreed it was not honorable, calling the patriarch “an unholy man.” But he’d refused to interfere, saying, “I’d not give the unbelievers any grounds for accusing the People of the Faith of breaking faith.” So ‘Imād al-Dīn could only fume in private, torn between frustration at his lord’s impracticality and admiration for his indifference to the material trappings of their world.
* * *
Many of the poorer Franks were forced to sell their belongings to raise their ransoms; their goods were bought at bargain prices by the Saracen merchants of the suq al ‘askar, which traveled with their armies and supplied food for their soldiers. The Syrian Christians still had to pay their ransoms, but they were spared exile and allowed to stay in the city as dhimmis, reverting to their former status as “protected people.” They, too, purchased goods very cheaply from their banished neighbors, which increased the rancor and resentment between the Christians of Constantinople and Rome. There was no violence, though; Salāh al-Dīn’s soldiers saw to that.
Since over forty-five thousand Franks would be departing the city, they were split into three groups of fifteen thousand each, to be led by the Templars, the Hospitallers, and lastly Balian and the patriarch. Sybilla and her daughters had been the first to leave, eager to join Guy at Nablus. The Templars and their charges were the next to go, followed by the Hospitallers’ party. Those who would be leaving with Balian and Eraclius were still camped outside the walls, preparing for their departure. But fifteen thousand wretched Franks remained in the city, those intended for the slave markets in Damascus and Aleppo.
* * *
Once most of the Franks had left the city, Salāh al-Dīn set up his headquarters in the priory next to the Holy Sepulchre. But on this mild October afternoon, he had summoned Balian and the patriarch to David’s Tower. They found him attended by his brother and al-Sanī’a; his second son, Uthman; ‘Īsā the lawyer; Gökböri; ‘Imād al-Dīn; and Joseph Batit, a Greek Orthodox scholar who stood high in the sultan’s favor. His eldest son and Taqī al-Dīn were already gone, and the sultan would soon be leaving to lay siege to Tyre, the only city not yet under Saracen control. On the morrow, Balian and Eraclius would be departing, so this was their final meeting.
Salāh al-Dīn introduced them to Falak al-Dīn Sulaimān, the man who’d be leading their escort. As he’d done with the earlier refugees, the sultan was sending fifty of his best fursan, the Saracen equivalent of knights, to see them safely into Christian territory. While they were being served iced jallabs, almonds, and oranges. Salāh al-Dīn told them that he’d made a decision about the fate of the Holy Sepulchre. Even though some of his amirs had urged him to destroy it, he’d decided to spare it, and Christian pilgrims would eventually be permitted to visit it again.
Balian and Eraclius expressed their great relief at hearing that, and al-‘Ādil could not resist observing that it was a pity future pilgrims would find it stripped bare of its finery. At that, all of the men turned to stare at Eraclius, who carried on with his usual aplomb. He did not meet Balian’s eyes, though, for they’d had a heated quarrel over the patriarch’s treasure-laden carts. He’d insisted that he had a duty to keep Church reliquaries and relics out of infidel hands. That explanation had not placated Balian, who could not reconcile it with the teachings of Scriptures, which declared that “He that hath mercy on the poor, happy is he,” nor with the fate of the seven thousand men and eight thousand women and children who’d been unable to pay their ransoms.
The sultan had been relying upon Joseph Batit to translate since the patriarch spoke no Arabic, having chosen the Orthodox Christian because he knew that would vex Eraclius. He supposed he ought not to take pleasure in such pettiness. But he still had to suppress a smile, for what he was about to reveal would be sure to outrage the patriarch. “I recently received a letter from the emperor of the Greeks, congratulating us upon our great victory at Haṭṭīn and asking us to return the control of its Christian shrines to the Greek Church, as it was ere the coming of the Franks. I think that is a reasonable request, one I shall probably grant.”
Eraclius was indeed outraged. “It grieves me,” he said coldly, “that one who calls himself a Christian should rejoice in our sorrows. The Greeks are an unprincipled people, guileful and corrupt.” He paused, then turned toward Balian as if remembering Maria was Greek. “I hope
I have not offended you by my candor. Naturally I was not speaking of your lady wife.”
“You need not worry,” Balian said, just as coldly. “My wife and I know what weight to give to your words.”
Joseph Batit gleefully translated that icy exchange and Salāh al-Dīn decided he would indeed turn the city’s Christian shrines over to the Orthodox Church. He rose, signifying that their meeting was done, when a high-pitched shriek turned them all toward an open window.
Al-‘Ādil was closest to the window. Looking out, he saw a group of Franks being led down David Street toward the open space between the grain market and Tancred’s Tower, where those who could not pay their ransoms were being assembled for their journey to Damascus. A woman no longer young had begun to scream and rend her garments, paying no heed to the attempts by her companions to comfort her. Their Saracen guards did not seem to know what to do either, obviously reluctant to lay hands upon a woman old enough to be their mother. Balian lost color as she continued to wail, giving the patriarch a look that was murderous. Eraclius did not notice, for he was visibly shaken, too, pushing away from the table and snapping, “For the love of God, close the window!”
Not needing a translation of that, al-‘Ādil reached out to latch the shutters. That did not completely muffle the sounds of her anguish, which eventually gave way to broken sobs. The silence that followed was a lengthy one, fraught with all that was being left unsaid. Balian suddenly slammed his fist down upon the table, hard enough to bruise his hand, causing the patriarch to jump and grab for his jallab before it spilled into his lap. Taking their cue from the sultan, the other men had gotten to their feet, belatedly followed by Eraclius and Balian.
Al-‘Ādil had yet to move from the window. “Yūsuf, I would seek a boon from you. Will you give me a thousand of the Franks who are to be enslaved?”
Salāh al-Dīn was surprised, not so much by the request as that al-‘Ādil had spoken in Arabic; they usually switched to Kurdish for family conversations. “Of course, Ahmad. What mean you to do with them?”
“What I think best.” Al-‘Ādil’s eyes swept the chamber before settling upon al-Sanī’a. “Send men to choose a thousand of the Franks and arrange to free them.”
Salāh al-Dīn said nothing, merely nodding to acquiesce to al-‘Ādil’s generous gesture. The other Saracens nodded approvingly, too, for the Qur’an viewed the manumission of slaves as a praiseworthy act of benevolence and piety. Only ‘Imād al-Dīn showed displeasure, for this was yet more money that would never reach his lord’s chancellery. He was quite exasperated, therefore, when Balian then stepped forward, asking earnestly, “My lord sultan, may I request the gift of slaves, too, to honor God as your brother has done?”
Salāh al-Dīn looked amused. “I suppose the patriarch wants to make a similar request?”
“Indeed, he does, my lord,” Balian assured him, before offering Eraclius a terse explanation of what was occurring. While the patriarch did not find it easy to ask for favors from men he saw as God’s enemies, it would ease his conscience if he could assist in the freeing of some of those miserable souls, and he hastily added his voice to Balian’s, both men falling silent, then, as they awaited the sultan’s verdict.
“Very well. I shall give you each a thousand of the slaves, too.” Telling his unhappy chancellor to see to it, Salāh al-Dīn waited until al-‘Ādil and the two Franks had thanked him before making ‘Imād al-Dīn even unhappier. “Now that my brother and Lord Balian and the patriarch have performed their acts of charity, I shall do my own almsgiving. The elderly amongst the poor Franks no longer need pay their ransoms and are free to leave the city.”
“I will be sure that the other Franks know of your clemency and generosity, my lord sultan.” Balian was grateful to Salāh al-Dīn for sparing so many and was even more grateful to al-‘Ādil. He wondered if the other man had acted impulsively, moved by the misery of the enslaved Franks. Or had he always intended to make this request, confident that his brother would welcome an opportunity to display mercy again?
Becoming aware of his speculative gaze, al-‘Ādil glanced in Balian’s direction and winked. Balian smiled, realizing he’d never have the answer to that question. He could answer another question, though, one that he’d pondered since their first meeting in Salāh al-Dīn’s tent at Marj al-Sufar. They shared neither the same faith nor the same blood. But al-Malik al-‘Ādil Saif al-Dīn Abū Bakr Ahmad bin Ayyūb was his friend.
CHAPTER 52
October 1187
On the Nablus–Acre Road
It would prove to be a hellish journey. Balian had often traveled with an army on the march, but never with thousands of women and children and the elderly slowing them down. Emotions were raw, tempers quick to flare, for they were mourning their yesterdays and dreading their tomorrows. They were fearful, too, for their safety, knowing the countryside was swarming with bandits and Bedouins and not sure at first if they could trust their Saracen escort.
Some of that anxiety eased after the fursan chased away horsemen who’d begun shadowing them, showing a sinister interest in stragglers. These young Muslim soldiers were also displaying remarkable patience with their heartsick charges, keeping an eye out for those who fell behind, ordering their servants to dismount so the elderly and exhausted could ride for a while, and taking weary children up onto their own horses, turning the grueling trek into a game for the youngsters perched in front of their saddles.
Their commander, Falak al-Dīn Sulaimān, soon won their confidence, too, for he maintained discipline, commended his men for showing kindness to the Franks, and remained vigilant, rotating the vanguard and rearguard so that there were always sentries to watch over them when they camped at night. Balian was aware how much more difficult their odyssey could have been had the sultan not chosen so wisely. But because Falak al-Dīn was not given to idle conversation, it was not until they’d been on the road for over a week that Balian learned he was al-‘Ādil’s maternal half brother.
Yet even such competent shepherds could not protect their flock from the haunting memories and bitter regrets that trailed after them as they left Jerusalem behind. For Balian, seeing the milestone pointing toward Nablus was a low point, and even worse lay ahead. As they turned onto the road to Acre, a road Balian and his rearguard had ridden not so long ago, he and Renier and Ernoul tried to keep their eyes away from the twin hills rising to the north. The Horns of Haṭṭīn, where their kingdom had breathed its last, was now a cemetery for their unburied dead, and they were thankful they did not have to look upon its gruesome graveyard.
They halted at Acre for supplies and some of the people wept again to see Saracen banners flying from its castle and battlements. Others took heart, for they were now only twenty-six miles from Tyre, where many of them expected to end their journey. Upon reaching that formidable seacoast city, they found a Saracen camp already set up, awaiting the arrival of the sultan with the bulk of his army. The Saracens had been alerted that refugees would be arriving, though, and with Falak al-Dīn to speak for them, they encountered no trouble from the Muslims. That came from their Christian brethren. Before they could approach the triple walls guarding the landward entrance, it was shouted down from the battlements that only men of fighting age would be admitted and the rest of them would have to continue on to Tripoli.
* * *
Balian had entered the city to try to change Conrad of Montferrat’s mind about admitting only men able to fight. A fair-haired man in his early forties, with a resemblance to his dead brother, Conrad received him cordially and willingly heard him out. He then shook his head. “Of course I have pity for the Jerusalem refugees. That does not mean I will accept them. We are already overcrowded, and food is getting scarce. We can afford no more useless mouths, people who cannot aid in the city’s defense.”
Balian could see the cold logic in Conrad’s position. But the refugees were not just “useless mouths” to him; t
hey were people who’d suffered through the siege of Jerusalem. “As you will,” he said reluctantly. “I shall ask the younger men how many want to join you.”
“I suppose you’ll not be one of them? More’s the pity, for it would embolden our citizens to have Jerusalem’s savior fighting with us.” Conrad grinned when Balian grimaced at “Jerusalem’s savior.” “The refugees we did accept made you sound like a cross between the legendary King Arthur and the Archangel Michael. I know you’re set on joining your wife in Tripoli, but you’re always welcome to return to Tyre. I’ve need of a reliable second-in-command.”
Balian’s eyebrows rose, for Conrad’s authority in Tyre was based more upon expediency than legality—being in the right place at the right time. But his cockiness was contagious, his bold confidence sure to appeal to the fearful townspeople. Balian understood how he’d won the citizens over to his side, convincing them that defiance made more sense than surrender.
Declining an invitation to spend the night at the castle, Balian explained that he’d assured the refugees he’d not be gone for long, which seemed to amuse Conrad. “They do not trust the patriarch to act in your stead? Tell Eraclius he is welcome in Tyre, provided those carts of his come with him.”
Balian was not surprised that Conrad knew about the treasure-laden carts, for it was no secret to the Jerusalem exiles. He just hoped the gossip had not spread beyond the city walls, or they’d be attracting bandits like carrion drew vultures. “I suspect the patriarch will decline,” he said dryly, adding that he wanted to see Archbishop Joscius ere he returned to the camp.
“Alas, you’re too late. As soon as we learned that you’d persuaded Saladin to accept Jerusalem’s surrender, the archbishop sailed for the West. The sailing season was past, but he said he had to risk it, for Christendom must know that Jerusalem is lost.” Conrad had risen when Balian did, and as they walked, he dramatically described Joscius’s ship leaving the city’s outer harbor for the open sea, its sails dyed black to mourn the Holy City’s fall.
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