by Hight, Jack
A piercing horn sounded, and the line of Frankish foot-soldiers surged forward, thousands of men shouting war cries: ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’ Yusuf turned towards the dozen mamluks gathered atop the gate. Their faces – lit red by a fire that simmered beneath a cauldron of hot sand – were gaunt but grimly determined. These were Yusuf’s very best men, warriors like Al-Mashtub who had stood beside him for years. He had stationed them here at the gate, where he expected the fighting to be most intense. He wished he had Qaraqush and his brother Selim beside him as well, but Qaraqush was at the western wall and Selim the east. They each commanded three hundred mamluks, leaving Yusuf with four hundred trained warriors and another five hundred citizens to defend nearly a mile of wall against an army of thousands.
Yusuf addressed his men, shouting in order to be heard over the cries of the Franks. ‘Our foes are many! But Allah will give us strength. Fight like lions, men! Fight to the death! Fight for Allah!’
‘For Allah! Allah! Allah!’ his men shouted back. They fell silent as shields went up. Yusuf turned to see that the Franks had stopped two hundred yards from the wall. Their archers loosed a cloud of arrows, which fell hissing towards the walls. Yusuf raised his shield and crouched behind the battlement just before the arrows began to rain down. Most shattered against the wall or flew over, but Yusuf heard cries of agony as a few struck home. Beside him, Al-Mashtub grunted in pain. Yusuf looked to see an arrow protruding from the mamluk’s left shoulder.
‘Save your speech, sayyid,’ Al-Mashtub said before Yusuf even opened his mouth. The mamluk grabbed the arrow shaft and snapped it in half. ‘I am not going anywhere.’
His last words were drowned out by another roar from the Franks. The foot-soldiers were rushing forward again. They carried ladders – four men to a side – with their shields held up for protection.
‘Archers!’ Yusuf yelled as he rose, now heedless of the arrows falling around him. ‘Archers!’ he cried again, pulling the man next to him to his feet. ‘Let fly!’ Yusuf took his own bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow. He picked a target: one of the front men carrying a ladder. Yusuf held his breath and let fly. His arrow struck the man in the groin, just below his shield. The man fell and those behind tripped over him and dropped the ladder. They had only just picked it up when Yusuf shot again, dropping another Frank.
But most of the Franks were making it to the wall. Only a dozen yards to Yusuf’s right, four Franks raised a ladder while another four spread out, firing crossbow bolts up at the defenders. The ladder made contact with the wall and a mamluk began to push it off, only to receive a crossbow bolt in the throat. Below, two men held the ladder while two more Frankish soldiers began to climb. The first carried a shield before him. The second came close behind, holding a spear. As they neared the top of the ladder, another mamluk tried to push the ladder away, but the man with the spear picked him off the wall.
‘Use the rope!’ Yusuf shouted as he shouldered his bow and ran to the ladder. He picked up a coil of rope that had been placed there for just this purpose, and looped it around the end of the ladder. He began to walk along the wall, dragging the top of the ladder sideways. The ladder tilted and then fell back. The Franks screamed as they hit the earth.
All along the wall, ladders were going up and being dragged down. Yusuf’s mamluks shot arrows into the Franks below, while the Alexandrians hurled stones down on them. But there were too few defenders to hold off all the Franks. On the far side of the southern gate a Frank forced his way on to the wall and began to lay about with his sword, scattering Alexandrians. He was joined by another, then another. Soon half a dozen Christians were clustered atop the wall.
‘Al-Mashtub! Follow me!’ Without waiting for a reply, Yusuf drew his sword and sprinted towards the Franks. The wall was wide enough for four men to face Yusuf at once. They levelled their spears at his chest. At the last second, Yusuf dropped his sword and hurled himself forward on the ground, rolling beneath the spears and taking out the legs of the four men. One of them tumbled off the inside of the wall, dying instantly as he landed headfirst on the cobblestones below. The others fell across Yusuf, who found himself on his back, pinned beneath them. One of the Franks, a fat man with a thick blond beard, drew a dagger and reared back to strike. He collapsed in a spray of blood as Al-Mashtub’s sword struck him in the neck. The huge mamluk impaled a second Frank and grabbed the third, hurling him from the wall. More mamluks rushed past to engage the remaining Christians. At close quarters, their swords were more effective than the Franks’ spears, and the mamluks quickly cut them down.
Al-Mashtub had just helped Yusuf to his feet when there was a loud boom. The wall shook beneath them. The Franks had rolled the battering ram up to the southern gate. Yusuf’s men hurled stones down on it, but they clattered off the peaked roof. A shower of burning naphtha followed the stones. The liquid engulfed the ram in flames for a moment, but the roof had been covered in wet hides. The fire burned out without catching. The ram slammed into the gate again, and Yusuf heard a loud crack as one of the three thick beams that barred the gate started to give way. The Franks manning the ram began to roll it back from the wall, so that they could build momentum before striking the gate again.
Yusuf turned to Al-Mashtub. ‘We must take the ram.’ He raised his voice to shout at the men at the gate, who were still hurling stones down on the ram. ‘Men! Follow me!’
Yusuf led ten men down the ramp to the base of the wall. Two-dozen mamluks were gathered before the gate with spears pointing, ready to meet the Frankish assault if the ram broke through. Yusuf noticed Saqr amongst them. ‘Open the gate,’ he told the men.
They did not move.
‘Are you mad?’ Al-Mashtub demanded. ‘We will be overrun!’
The ram hit the gate again. The top beam splintered in the middle. The two other beams holding the gate shut were sagging inward.
‘We must do something!’ Yusuf pointed to four of the men with spears. ‘You four. Prepare to open the gate.’ He selected another six men. ‘You will take the ram and roll it inside. The rest of us will hold off the Franks.’ Yusuf looked to the four men who were now standing with their shoulders braced against one of the beams barring the gate. ‘Now!’
The men strained as they lifted the heavy beam from its brackets. They dropped it to the side and put their shoulders to the next beam. Yusuf raised his sword. ‘Ready!’ he shouted as the men removed the second beam and pulled the doors of the gate inward. ‘For Islam!’ He charged through the opening.
The soldiers manning the ram had their heads down as they strained against the bars protruding from its side, struggling to push it towards the wall. Yusuf impaled one and slashed across the face of another before the rest realized what was happening. They fled, and the six men Yusuf had selected went to the bars. But before they had even begun to push, dozens of Franks came rushing towards them from either side.
‘Get the ram inside!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Form a line, men! Stay together!’
The mamluks had just enough time to form a semicircle around the ram before the Franks struck. Yusuf sidestepped a spear thrust and plunged his sword into his enemy’s gut. A sword blade slashed towards his face. He knocked the blow aside with his shield and then brought the shield up to smash the attacker’s face. He spun away from another spear and lunged, dropping a fourth man. More Franks joined the attack, and they surged forward, pushing back the line of mamluks. Yusuf found himself separated from his men and surrounded by Franks on all sides. He ducked a slashing blow, but as he rose, a spear struck him in the back. The blow was turned aside by his mail, and Yusuf spun and slashed down, snapping the spear shaft in half. He impaled his attacker, but a moment later a sword rang off the back of his helmet. He staggered forward. Another Frankish foot-soldier was standing before him. The man grinned, and instinctively Yusuf stepped to the side. A spear thrust past him and impaled the grinning Frank. Yusuf spun and cut down the man with the spear.
Out of the corner
of his eye, Yusuf saw a sword flashing towards his face. He ducked, but another blade was thrusting towards him. It was blocked at the last moment. Yusuf looked to see Saqr standing beside him. The young mamluk turned the sword aside and slashed across the leg of the Frank who held it. The man dropped to one knee, and Saqr drove his sword into his throat. He parried a spear, and Yusuf dispatched the attacker. Together, they fought their way back towards the line of mamluks. Saqr was quick as a snake, his sword darting through his enemies’ defences and leaving them crying in agony. Yusuf blocked and lunged, parried and countered again and again, but the ranks of Franks seemed endless. Then someone grabbed Yusuf’s shoulder and pulled him backwards. Yusuf spun, ready to strike.
‘Easy there!’ It was Al-Mashtub. He had pulled Yusuf back behind the line of mamluks. Behind him, the ram was rolling, picking up speed.
‘Fall back!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Fall back!’
The ram rolled inside the gate, and Yusuf and his men began to retreat, moving backwards in step. They reached the gate and spread across the opening in a double line. Only twenty mamluks remained now, facing over a hundred Franks, with more arriving all the time. A horn began to sound, and Yusuf heard the rumble of hooves over the sound of battle. That would be the Frankish knights charging for the gate.
‘Close it!’ he shouted. ‘Close it!’
As the mamluks began to push the gates closed, Yusuf’s men fell back. The space between the two doors was small enough now that it could be defended by only three men: Yusuf, Al-Mashtub and Saqr. ‘Close the gate!’ Yusuf repeated as he fought desperately. But try as his men might, they could not force the gate closed against the press of Franks. As more and more Christians joined the attack, the doors of the gate began to swing wider. Now there were six men standing alongside Yusuf. And the thunder of hooves was louder. The knights were close.
Yusuf looked to Al-Mashtub. ‘The sand.’ Al-Mashtub nodded and left the line. Yusuf raised his voice. ‘Follow me, men. One last push!’
He led his men forward. They pushed the Franks back a few feet before their charge stalled. Beyond the heads of the enemy foot-soldiers, Yusuf could see the standards of the approaching knights.
‘Retreat!’ he shouted. ‘Inside the gate!’
His men rushed back inside. Yusuf was close behind. With a roar the Franks charged after them. But their cries of triumph turned into screams of agony as a shower of red-hot sand poured down from above. Some Franks fell to the ground, clawing at their armour, which trapped the burning grains of sand against their skin. Others ran screaming. Yusuf’s men were able to push the gate closed, and the first crossbar dropped into place with a loud thump. The second followed a moment later.
Yusuf ran up the ramp to the top of the wall. The battle was still raging. Thousands of Franks swarmed the length of the walls, but his men were holding. He joined the fight and soon lost track of the number of ladders he toppled, of the number of men he killed. And all the time, Saqr stayed by his side, silent but ruthlessly efficient. Finally, as the sun began to set, a horn in the enemy camp sounded three short blasts. The attack slackened. The three blasts repeated and soon the Franks were in full retreat, carrying their wounded with them.
Yusuf slumped against the battlement. Al-Mashtub came striding along the wall towards him. ‘You crazy bastard. I thought you were dead for sure when we went to seize the ram.’
‘I would have been, if not for Saqr.’ Yusuf looked to the young mamluk, who was still at his side. ‘You saved my life.’
‘I only did my duty, Emir.’
‘You did well. I need a new commander for my private guard. You shall lead my khaskiya.’
‘Shukran, Emir.’
Al-Mashtub spat towards the retreating Franks. ‘May you rot in hell!’ Then he grinned. ‘Look! Three men under a flag of truce. They wish to parley.’
‘Let us hope they seek peace,’ Yusuf said. The excitement of the battle was fading and the gnawing hunger in his gut had returned. ‘Have a list of our dead drawn up, Al-Mashtub. And have the wounded taken to the hospital. Saqr, you come with me. We shall meet with our enemy.’
John had stopped just beyond the edge of the Christian camp, behind Shawar and King Amalric. In the gathering dusk, he could just make out the southern gate of Alexandria. The gate opened enough to allow two figures to emerge.
‘Here they come,’ Shawar said.
‘I understand their commander’s name is Saladin,’ Amalric said. ‘What do you know of him, John?’
‘I have never heard the name.’
‘I am surprised at that,’ Shawar said. ‘He is Shirkuh’s most trusted adviser.’
John shrugged. The two men had stopped halfway between the Christian camp and the wall.
‘Come,’ Amalric said. ‘Let us meet him.’
As John approached, he saw that one of the two men was leaning on the other. John got the impression that he would have collapsed without the support. Having stopped only a few feet away, it still took John a moment to recognize the man as Yusuf. He looked terrible. His cheeks were sunken, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His mail hung loosely from his thin frame.
Amalric spoke first. ‘Greetings, Saladin. Peace be upon you.’
‘And upon you, King Amalric,’ Yusuf replied in flawless French. ‘I am honoured to meet you.’
Amalric tugged at his beard. ‘You speak our tongue well.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Yusuf’s expression hardened as he turned to Shawar. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Vizier.’
‘A pleasure to see you again as well, Saladin,’ the Egyptian replied in Arabic.
As Yusuf turned to face John, his eyes widened and the blood drained from his cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
‘Are you well, Emir?’ Amalric asked.
Yusuf pulled away from the young man supporting him. He stepped to John and embraced him. There were tears in his eyes as he kissed John on both cheeks. ‘I cannot believe it! I saw you struck down. I thought you dead, John.’
‘And I thought you were someone else: Saladin, righteous in faith.’
‘Nur ad-Din gave me the name after the battle at Butaiha.’
Amalric’s forehead was creased. He had not been able to follow any of this. ‘You know this man, John?’
‘Saladin was called Yusuf ibn Ayub when I knew him. He was my lord amongst the Saracens.’
‘Indeed?’ Amalric’s eyebrows rose. ‘The two of you must speak, later. Now, we have important matters to discuss.’ He looked to Yusuf. ‘The siege is over.’
‘I will not surrender,’ Yusuf replied.
‘You have no choice in the matter. Shirkuh has negotiated a truce.’
Yusuf looked to John. ‘Is this true?’
John nodded. He produced the treaty from a pouch at his waist and handed it to Yusuf.
Yusuf frowned as he read. ‘Both Shirkuh and Amalric will withdraw from Egypt,’ he murmured. ‘It will be left to Shawar. Why would Shirkuh agree to such a thing?’
Shawar smiled. ‘Your uncle is not entirely unreasonable. I will pay him fifty thousand dinars.’
‘You will pay the Franks too,’ Yusuf said as he continued to scan the treaty. ‘And they will be allowed to garrison troops in Cairo.’
‘They are my allies,’ Shawar said. ‘That is why the treaty favours them.’
‘You and your uncle will be given free passage to Damascus,’ John said. ‘That is what matters.’
‘And the people of Alexandria?’ Yusuf asked. ‘I have sworn to protect them.’
Shawar scowled. ‘They must be punished for their treachery.’
‘Then this meeting is at an end. I will not surrender the city if it means their slaughter.’
‘But your uncle has already signed the treaty,’ Shawar protested.
Yusuf straightened and looked down his nose at the vizier. ‘I have a duty to Allah greater than my duty to my uncle. I will fight if I must.’
‘Saladin is right,’
Amalric said. ‘The people must be spared.’
Shawar’s brow creased. ‘But—’
‘It is a small enough thing to bring this war to an end,’ Amalric told him. ‘There will be no reprisals, Shawar. Swear it.’
‘Very well,’ the vizier muttered.
‘What good is his word?’ Yusuf demanded.
‘It will have to be good enough,’ Amalric replied. ‘Or you can continue to defend the city, and the people will starve. It is your choice.’
‘I will honour the treaty,’ Yusuf said reluctantly.
‘There is one more provision,’ Amalric said. ‘As part of the agreement, we will take a hostage. He will stay with us until Shirkuh’s army has left Egypt. Your uncle suggested that you send your brother, Selim.’
‘No, I will come. I will stay with your army so that I may see the people of Alexandria are not harmed.’
‘Very well. We have an agreement.’ Amalric stuck out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, Yusuf clasped it. ‘My men will leave the city tomorrow,’ he said. He looked to John. ‘I will see you again soon, friend.’
Yusuf was the last of his men to leave the city. He rode in the dust kicked up by the long column of soldiers, most of whom walked on foot, their horses long since eaten. The people of Alexandria crowded about them on either side, shouting insults and making the sign of the evil eye. They called Yusuf khâyin: traitor. They had trusted him to defend their city, and he had failed. Yusuf knew that there would be little he could do once he left Egypt to prevent the vizier from punishing the citizens of Alexandria. The people knew it, too.
‘You will roast in hell!’ a final voice called after Yusuf. Egyptian troops lined both sides of the road outside the gate. After Yusuf’s men had filed between them, they entered the city. Yusuf watched for a moment and then turned away. His men continued east, marching to join Shirkuh and the rest of the army where they waited near the city of Tell Tinnis. Yusuf rode south into the Frankish camp. He was stopped at the perimeter and led to the king’s tent. Amalric and John were waiting for him. Shawar was there, too.
