Kingdom

by Hight, Jack

  Near the gate he rode past some two hundred Bedouin; reinforcements riding from the south to join the camp that sprawled along the Barada River. Yusuf spotted the standards of Al-Muqaddam and Al-Mashtub flying over two of the emir’s luxurious pavilions, which stood amidst the ordered rows of mamluk tents. Interspersed amongst them were the dusty, goat-skin dwellings of the Bedouin. A dozen men had organized a game of polo on the sandy banks of the Barada. One struck the kura – a ball of willow root – with a loud crack. It hurtled over the ground, nearly hitting a fat mamluk cook who was headed to the river to fill two buckets. The mamluk began to curse the players and then stopped and knelt as Yusuf approached in his distinctive gold armour. The polo players bowed from their saddles. Yusuf nodded back.

  He was almost at the Al-Saghir gate when Turan rode out to greet him. ‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan, Yusuf! Thank Allah you have come so quickly. I received troubling news this morning from our spies in Aleppo.’

  ‘We will talk in the palace,’ Yusuf said and turned back to his men. ‘Qaraqush, make camp alongside the river.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  ‘That is not necessary,’ Turan said. ‘Your men are welcome in the palace.’

  ‘The palace will make them soft. They will make camp here. After we talk, I will join them.’

  ‘As you wish, Brother.’

  Turan led the way to his study in the palace. ‘When will Selim arrive with the Egyptian army?’ he asked Yusuf.

  ‘It will take time to gather and provision the men, but he should set out before month’s end. He will be in Damascus before May is through.’

  ‘We need every man he can bring. I have gathered nearly five thousand warriors, but I fear it will not be enough.’ Turan retrieved a scrap of paper from his desk and handed it to Yusuf.

  ‘Saif ad-Din has arrived in Aleppo with seven thousand men,’ Yusuf read. ‘He leaves tomorrow with the army of Aleppo at his side. He wished to march directly on Damascus, but Gumushtagin has insisted that they retake Homs and Hama first.’ The two cities had voluntarily turned themselves over to Yusuf the previous year. Their emirs had complained that Gumushtagin was a poor ruler who taxed them too much and did too little to protect their lands from the raids of the Franks and Bedouin. Yusuf had lowered taxes and sent Al-Mashtub to Homs with five hundred men and orders to secure the countryside.

  ‘With Gumushtagin’s men, Saif ad-Din has more than ten thousand warriors,’ Turan said. ‘If they attack Homs first, that will buy us time. We can wait for Selim to arrive with the army of Egypt. That will even the odds. We can weather any siege they bring against us.’

  Yusuf’s brow furrowed. Ever since Alexandria, he dreaded the prospect of being under siege. ‘We will not stay in Damascus and wait for them. We would still be too few once Saif ad-Din joins forces with the Franks. And we will have lost Homs and Hama. I will not let that happen. We will attack now. I will leave tomorrow morning. You will stay to wait for Selim.’

  ‘I should ride with you,’ Turan protested. ‘The men of Damascus are mine to command.’

  Yusuf placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I ride to fight a force twice the size of mine, Turan. If I am defeated, then I need you to lead the armies of Egypt to avenge me.’

  Turan looked as if he were about to protest, but instead he nodded. ‘At least wait until next week, when more Bedouin will have arrived.’

  ‘There is no time to wait. We will ride now and trust in Allah.’

  APRIL 1176: TELL AL-SULTAN

  Yusuf held his arms over his head and arched his back. He had spent the previous two weeks in the saddle as his army criss-crossed Syria in search of the enemy, riding to Shaizar, then Kafartab, Maarat, Artah, Aleppo, Hama, and now back to Aleppo. It was like trying to catch smoke. Again and again they were told by passing Bedouin or local farmers that Saif ad-Din’s army was just over the next ridge, but when they arrived they found nothing but cold cooking fires and fields littered with horse droppings. Saif ad-Din was avoiding them, biding his time until he could join forces with the Franks.

  Yusuf winced at a pain in the small of his back. The days in the saddle were not as easy as they had been when he was younger. He placed one hand on his back, while with the other he shaded his eyes against the afternoon sun. He watched as his men watered their horses at the wells of Jibab al-Turkman, the last source of water until they reached Aleppo, fifteen miles distant. There were a dozen wells scattered over the quarter-mile stretch of broad plain and a mile to the west there was a low ridge. At each well a camel trudged slowly in a circle, powering a wheel that brought up brimming buckets and dumped them into a pipe, which could be redirected to send the water to different portions of the surrounding fields and orchards. Currently the water was pouring into long troughs, where the horses of Yusuf’s army buried their muzzles and drank. Meanwhile the men sat in the shade, some sharpening their swords, others eating or sleeping. Only Yusuf’s private guard stood ready. The five hundred mamluks of his khaskiya were still in the saddle. They had formed a protective square around the grove where he stood.

  Yusuf spotted Qaraqush nearby, speaking with the sheikh of the tribes who farmed the fields of Jibab al-Turkman. The mamluk general finished talking and walked over to Yusuf. ‘The sheikh says they saw a field of fire to the north last night.’

  ‘Campfires?’

  Qaraqush nodded. ‘Saif ad-Din is close.’

  Yusuf glanced at the shadows cast by the palms. They were slowly vanishing as the sun moved overhead. ‘We will move on at noon. The horses can drink again once we reach Aleppo.’

  Qaraqush began to walk away but froze, his eyes on the ridge to the north-west. Yusuf followed his gaze and saw the flash of sunlight off metal. There it was again, and again. An army was cresting the ridge, and Yusuf’s men were spread out over the floor of the valley, in no position to fight.

  ‘Have the men mount up, now!’ Yusuf shouted to Qaraqush. ‘We will withdraw—’ he looked about and spotted a flat-topped mound near the horizon ‘—east. We will regroup at that hill. I will cover the retreat with my khaskiya.’

  ‘But my lord—!’ Qaraqush began. He was stopped with a hard stare from Yusuf. ‘Yes, Malik.’ The mamluk general strode away, yelling for the men to mount up and ride.

  Yusuf called for his horse and then turned to Saqr. ‘The khaskiya will come with me. We will ride west and form a rearguard.’ Saqr’s brow furrowed, but that was the extent of his disapproval. He began shouting orders to the men of Yusuf’s private guard, and they quickly formed a column.

  Yusuf swung into the saddle. Qaraqush was galloping from well to well, shouting and waving his sword. Men were running everywhere, getting in one another’s way as they searched for their horses. The camels and mules of the baggage train were still being loaded. If they lost them, then the campaign would be over. They would have to return to Damascus to gather fresh supplies.

  Yusuf looked to the ridge, which was now covered with thousands of warriors, their helmets glinting in the sunlight.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’ Saqr asked.

  ‘Perhaps they were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Inshallah, they will continue to wait.’

  Yusuf led his personal guard through an orange grove and then across a field of brilliant green wheat that brushed his horse’s chest. They reached the edge of the irrigated land, and the wheat gave way to hard, dry ground. ‘We will hold here!’ Yusuf shouted.

  His men spread out in a line one hundred yards across and five rows deep. With so few men they had no chance of stopping a charge, but they could perhaps delay it long enough to give the rest of the army a chance to regroup. Yusuf took his curved bow from his saddle and strung it. He then tucked the bamboo shaft of his light spear under his right leg, where it would be ready when he needed it. On the ridge a single rider was galloping along the enemy lines, waving a sword above his head.

  ‘They will come soon!’ Yusuf shouted to his men. ‘Arrows when they come in range, then spear
s. We will feint forward and then retreat!’ Yusuf took his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow while his message was relayed down the line. His horse nickered and flicked its ears. It could sense his tension.

  There was a loud cry from atop the ridge, then another, and then a wall of noise as ten thousand men shouted at once. A wave of riders poured down from the ridge. Yusuf picked out a target and stretched his bow taught. To either side he could hear the twang of bowstrings as his men began to shoot. Yusuf let out his breath and then released. His arrow joined dozens of others, all black against the blue sky. Before his arrow reached its apex Yusuf had already nocked another and let fly. He shot again and again as all around him his men’s bowstrings sang. Dozens of enemy riders fell to be trampled by their comrades, but thousands more galloped on, closing rapidly. Yusuf slid his bow into his saddle and slipped his small, circular shield on to his left forearm. He looked back to the wells. His men were now all in the saddle, and the first of the camels were loaded and lumbering away.

  Yusuf raised his voice. ‘We must hold them until the army is safely away. Now, men! Make those sons of whores eat dust!’

  He spurred forward and his men fell in behind him. They surged across the plain like a spear tip driving towards the centre of the oncoming army. The men in the enemy ranks were close enough now for Yusuf to make out their faces. He picked out an older man with a greying beard and then rose in the stirrups and hurled his spear. It caught the man in the chest, knocking him from the saddle. Yusuf drew his sword just before he reached the enemy line. An enemy warrior thrust a spear towards his chest, and Yusuf veered away and raised his shield. The spear glanced off of it, but the blow was enough to knock him back in the saddle. He straightened and lashed out at the next rider, catching him in the throat and filling the air with a spray of blood. There were enemy warriors all around now, and Yusuf’s horse slowed as it weaved between oncoming attackers. He deflected blows with his shield and hacked to the left and right, while his men followed close behind to finish off those he missed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the enemy flanks turning inward to encircle them. They had stood their ground long enough. ‘Back, men!’ he shouted. ‘Retreat!’

  Yusuf reined in, and he and his men wheeled their horses as if one. His guard allowed him to ride to their centre, and then they dug in their spurs and galloped away across the hard ground. Yusuf could hear the thunder of hooves behind him as the enemy gave chase. Arrows soon began to fall around Yusuf and his men. One hit Saqr in the shoulder, but the mamluk rode on as if unaware, crouching above the saddle, his head forward beside his horse’s neck.

  They galloped back across the green fields around the wells and out on to the dusty plain beyond. In the distance Yusuf could see the mound where his army was gathering. Beneath him, his horse was beginning to labour, its breath coming in explosive bursts. Yusuf glanced over his shoulder. The enemy riders were so close they had begun hurling spears. One of his men was struck in the back and fell from the saddle. Yusuf flicked the reins. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ he cried, urging a last burst of speed from his tiring mount. Ahead, his men had formed a battle line before the mound. They drew back their bows and a cloud of arrows filled the sky, arcing over Yusuf and his men to fall amongst the enemy. Yusuf heard cries of pain. He looked back and saw that his pursuers were falling back.

  He slowed his horse and trotted to the line. Qaraqush came out to meet him. ‘Subhan’allah!’ the grizzled mamluk said. ‘You live.’ He noticed the arrow protruding from Saqr’s shoulder. ‘Bring a doctor!’

  Saqr waved away his concern. ‘It barely penetrated the armour.’

  Qaraqush turned back to Yusuf and handed him a waterskin. ‘When you charged into their lines, I thought you were a dead man. But we needed the time you bought us.’

  Yusuf rinsed the dust from his mouth and spat. ‘Had they attacked sooner, they would have routed us.’

  ‘We were lucky. Allah favours us.’

  Yusuf looked back to where Saif ad-Din’s army was occupying the wells and beginning to water their horses. He grinned. ‘He does, Qaraqush. We have found them at last!’

  Yusuf stared up at the star-strewn sky. He located the constellations Al-Hirba’ and Al-A’sad: the Chameleon and the Lion. It had been a long time since he traced their shapes, but tonight he could not sleep. He had awoken with his heart racing after a particularly vivid dream. He could not remember its particulars, only that it had involved Asimat. It had been years since he saw her last. If he defeated Saif ad-Din’s army tomorrow, then he would see her again soon, in Aleppo. If he lost, he might well never see her again. He would lose Damascus, and Cairo would be next.

  A gentle breeze blew from the west, bringing with it the sound of a distant drum beating a rapid tattoo beneath the merry notes of a flute. He could see the enemy campfires from where his tent had been pitched atop the tall mound called Tell al-Sultan. His own camp was quiet, the campfires long since extinguished. Those who could manage sleep were in their tents. Others sat awake, sharpening their swords and checking their armour ahead of tomorrow’s battle. Some, like Yusuf, stared up at the heavens and wondered if they would soon be joining their forefathers there, in paradise.

  ‘Uncle?’

  Yusuf turned to see Ubadah approaching. He was a man now, and Yusuf had given him lands and a new name: Taqi ad-Din, ‘Strong of Faith’. He hoped it would remind his headstrong nephew of his duty. This was Ubadah’s first campaign, and Yusuf had placed him in charge of over a thousand men. He stopped beside Yusuf and looked out towards the enemy camp. Yusuf saw that he held a twig, which he rolled back and forth between his forefinger and thumb. The boy was nervous.

  ‘I often have trouble sleeping before a battle,’ Yusuf told him.

  Ubadah nodded. ‘My eagerness to fight has robbed me of my sleep,’ he boasted. Then after a moment he asked in a quieter voice, ‘How many men will we face?’

  ‘More than ten thousand.’

  ‘And we have only half so many.’ Ubadah licked his lips nervously.

  ‘Does the wolf run from the sheep, simply because he is outnumbered?’

  ‘Sheep do not carry swords, Uncle.’

  ‘Even if they did, they would still be sheep.’ Yusuf clapped his nephew on the back. ‘And we are wolves!’

  Ubadah nodded, but he continued to roll the twig back and forth. Then he tossed it aside and turned to face his uncle. ‘Why did you lead the rearguard today? You could have sent me.’

  Yusuf smiled. His nephew was so eager to prove himself. He, too, had been like that once. ‘There will be opportunity enough for you to win glory tomorrow. Today I had to act fast, and my khaskiya was ready to ride when the rest of the army was not.’

  ‘But you could have died.’

  ‘A good leader must be willing to risk his life for his men.’ Yusuf placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Get some sleep, Ubadah. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  Ubadah walked away, and Yusuf returned to his tent. He eventually drifted into a restless sleep, only to be woken what seemed moments later by Saqr. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya told him. Yusuf performed his prayers, and then Saqr helped him into his armour. He wore leather leggings and a padded vest, over which he pulled on a mail shirt that hung to just below his waist, and over that his suit of golden jawshan, which laced up at the side. Last of all, Saqr attached a mail collar that would protect Yusuf’s neck and then handed him a pointed steel helmet with a crossbar that ran down before his nose. Saqr wrapped a piece of white cloth around the helmet to keep the sun from turning the metal into an oven.

  Yusuf stepped outside into the grainy light of early dawn. He found Qaraqush, Al-Maqaddam and Ubadah waiting for him.

  ‘A good morning, Malik,’ Al-Maqaddam said.

  ‘Did you hear their camp last night?’ Qaraqush asked. ‘Sounded like a tavern.’

  ‘Let us hope they are feeling the effects of their merrymaking,’ Yusu
f said, and proceeded to give his instructions for the battle, keeping them short and simple. He had found that the more complex the plans a commander laid out, the more likely they were to go astray. ‘We will form the battle line and march at sunrise. Taqi ad-Din, you will command the left, Al-Maqaddam the right. Qaraqush, you will be in the centre. I will keep my guard of five hundred men in reserve. We advance at the sound of my horn and charge at its second sounding. Once battle is joined, you must each hold the line. When I detect a weakness in their ranks, I will strike. At the trumpet’s third blast, you will all advance together and drive them from the field. Understood?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Allah yasalmak.’

  The emirs left to organize their men. Yusuf stood outside his tent and breakfasted on a bowl of boiled wheat as he watched his men form the line: eight men deep and stretching across the plain for two ghalvas – over a quarter of a mile. The men busied themselves stringing their bows and checking their armour. In the distance the enemy line was forming on the plain east of the wells. The men and their horses were tiny at this distance. Yusuf turned to study the sky behind him. It was coloured soft pink and there was a bright spot on the horizon where the sun would soon rise. He handed his bowl to a servant and turned to Saqr. ‘My horse.’

  Yusuf rode down from the mound and through the ranks of the reserve force. He nodded in greeting to those he knew well: Liaqat and Manzur, who had been young men when Yusuf first met them, and were now hardened warriors with streaks of grey in their long beards; Uwais, a deadly archer; and Nazam, the bald-headed warrior who Yusuf had fought once long ago upon his arrival at Tell Bashir.

  Yusuf reached the front of the reserve force. Ahead, the line of the army stretched far to either side, the men’s helmets glinting orange-red as the sun crept above the horizon behind them. It was time. Yusuf raised his voice and shouted, ‘For Islam!’