by Hight, Jack
‘For Islam!’ the men behind him roared back, echoed by the mamluks all along the line.
Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Signal the advance.’
Saqr held a curved ram’s horn to his lips and blew. The piercing sound drowned out the nicker of horses and the jingle of tack. The front line rode ahead at a walk. Yusuf led the reserve force into the dust they kicked up. A series of horn blasts sounded from across the field, and through the dust ahead Yusuf could see that the enemy army was on the move. Those at the centre of their line wore mail and those at the edges were dressed in the leather or quilted armour favoured by the Bedouin. The horn sounded again, and the enemy line accelerated, their horses moving at a trot. The gap between the two lines was closing fast. A few men amongst the enemy let loose arrows, and the shafts shattered on the hard ground ahead of Yusuf’s army.
‘Signal the charge!’ Yusuf called to Saqr, who immediately sounded the horn. The line spurred their mounts to a trot and then a canter, quickly pulling away from Yusuf’s reserve force. The opposing army had continued to gain speed. The drumming of their horses’ hooves sounded like thunder. They shot arrows as they rode, and Yusuf’s men shot back, aiming directly into the line of advancing horsemen. Yusuf reined in and raised his bow to signal the men behind him to begin shooting. He nocked an arrow and aimed high, shooting over his men. His arrow joined dozens of others arcing towards the enemy line. He saw a man in the front ranks of the enemy fall from the saddle with an arrow in the gut. He was lost in the dust, trampled by the horses behind him. The armies raced closer and closer and then slammed together. It was difficult for Yusuf to make out what was happening in the deadly fighting that followed. There were screams of pain, terror and rage. Swords flashed in the light of the morning sun. A horse whinnied loudly. A spray of blood filled the air as one of Yusuf’s men was nearly decapitated.
Gradually it became clear that Yusuf’s men were falling back under the weight of the enemy’s greater numbers. He could hear Qaraqush’s deep voice raised over the din of the battle. ‘Hold the line, men! Damn you, hold the line!’ The enemy advance slowed and then stopped.
As Yusuf scanned the line of battle from right to left he quickly recognized Saif ad-Din’s strategy. His army had thrown its greatest numbers against Yusuf’s right flank, but Al-Muqaddam and the men of Damascus were holding. On the left, Ubadah faced what looked to be a weaker force. But Yusuf knew better than to charge there. Saif ad-Din had kept several thousand men in reserve, and already they were drifting that way. Saif ad-Din had shown his hand too early. He was hoping to lure Yusuf into a charge on the left. His men would retreat to draw Yusuf’s mamluks after them, and then Saif ad-Din would send his men pouring in to cut them off. It was a classic strategy, of the sort one learned in books.
Yusuf turned towards the reserve force and raised his voice. ‘We will strike the middle of their line and split their forces in two. Then we will turn left, striking their reserve force in the flank.’ Saif ad-Din would find himself caught in his own trap, pinched between Yusuf and Ubadah’s men.
Yusuf opened his mouth to signal the charge but the words died on his lips. Ubadah was leading the left flank forward. Saif ad-Din’s men fled before them, and then, as Yusuf had foreseen, the reserve force swept in, cutting Ubadah’s men off from the rest of the army. The enemy warriors, who had been retreating only moments before, turned to fight. Ubadah’s men were surrounded, and Yusuf’s left flank was completely exposed.
‘Yaha!’ he cursed. ‘The young fool!’ He held his sword aloft and raised his voice. ‘To the left, men! Follow me!’ He spurred his horse to a gallop, and his men thundered after him. The left flank was only two hundred yards away, but it seemed to take an eternity to cover the distance. Ahead, some of Saif ad-Din’s men had turned from Ubadah’s forces and were striking the exposed flank of Yusuf’s line. The centre began to give ground under the pressure. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse to greater speed.
Saif ad-Din’s men were just ahead now. One of them turned, and his eyes opened wide in shock just before the curved blade of Yusuf’s sword caught him in the face. Yusuf galloped past without glancing back to see the man fall. He slashed another warrior across the back. Behind them, the rest of the reserve force was cutting through the enemy. Yusuf pushed on into a crowd of riders. He parried a thrust and countered, dropping a man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sword slicing towards his face, but it was blocked at the last second by Saqr’s blade. Yusuf chopped the man down. Suddenly something slammed into the back of his helmet, and he slumped in the saddle as the world dimmed around him. He jerked back to consciousness just in time to knock aside a thrust aimed at his heart. Saqr slashed the attacker across the face, and Yusuf turned his horse to face the man who had struck him from behind. But his attacker was dead, having been dispatched by one of his khaskiya. More of Saif ad-Din’s men lay dead around him, and the rest were beginning to flee. The flank was secure, but Ubadah and his men were still surrounded and fighting an increasingly desperate battle.
‘Saqr! Signal for the line to advance.’ Saqr blew the horn, and Yusuf waved his sword over his head. ‘For Islam!’
‘For Saladin!’ his men shouted back.
The line surged forward, Yusuf and his men now on the left flank. They drove into the men surrounding Ubadah’s force. The enemy now found themselves caught between Ubadah and Yusuf’s men. They held for a moment and then panicked and fled, led by Saif ad-Din himself, his banner waving above him as he galloped from the field. Yusuf turned right to attack the centre of Saif ad-Din’s line, but they too were in full retreat. Yusuf continued riding until he reached the end of the line, where Saif ad-Din had initially committed most of his men. They were still fighting, and Yusuf and his men encircled them from behind. A horn began to blow repeatedly, calling them from the field, but it was too late. Some two thousand of Saif ad-Din’s men were surrounded, unable to retreat. They began to throw down their weapons and surrender.
Yusuf sheathed his sword and removed his helmet. There was a large dent on the back. Had the blow struck only a little lower, he would be dead.
‘Subhan’allah!’ Ubadah shouted as he rode up alongside Yusuf. ‘We are victorious!’
‘We were lucky,’ Yusuf snapped. ‘Your foolishness nearly lost us the battle.’
The grin fell from Ubadah’s face. ‘You said a leader must not be afraid to lead his men into battle.’
‘I told you to hold the line! An emir must obey the commands of his lord. Hundreds of my men died because of you. Men with families.’
‘I—’
Yusuf did not wish to hear the excuses. He turned his horse and rode away. He had no doubt that Ubadah was brave, but he feared it was a reckless bravery that would some day get him killed.
As he rode towards the deserted enemy camp, Qaraqush came up alongside him. ‘A great victory, Malik!’ The mamluk general grinned. ‘Did you see them run?’
Yusuf could not bring himself to share Qaraqush’s enthusiasm. He had a dull headache and felt nauseous. He touched the back of his head and found an egg-sized bump.
‘Are you well, Malik?’
‘Well enough,’ Yusuf replied tersely. ‘Move our camp to the wells and see that the horses are watered.’
‘And the prisoners? We have captured hundreds.’
‘Release them.’ Yusuf noticed the look of surprise on Qaraqush’s face. ‘Harsh measures will only make them hate us all the more. Mercy will rob them of the desire to fight. It will make peace that much easier to achieve.’
‘Yes, Malik.’
Qaraqush spurred away, and Yusuf rode on to the enemy camp. Some of his men were already there, searching through the tents and baggage that had been left behind. The booty would be distributed amongst Yusuf’s men. He saw a mamluk laughing as he picked at a lute that he had found. Another man emerged from a tent, his long brown beard stained violet. ‘Wine!’ he roared and then fell silent as he noticed Yusuf.
‘You
saw how their army fought?’ Yusuf demanded.
‘Yes, Malik.’
‘That is how men drunk on wine fight. See that it is poured out, all of it.’
The mamluk bowed and went into the tent. Yusuf watched while he rolled out a barrel and removed the stopper so that the wine poured out to stain the dry ground red. He looked up at the sound of a strange bird call. The mamluk Uwais was emerging from another tent with a cage that held two parrots. Another man followed with a cage containing nightingales.
‘What do we do with these, Malik?’ Uwais asked.
‘Have them sent back to Saif ad-Din with this message: tell him to play with his birds and leave war to men.’
Chapter 20
APRIL 1176: ON THE ROAD FROM ACRE TO ANTIOCH
John rode under a banner displaying Raymond’s arms, a golden cross on a field of red. Before him, a long line of Frankish soldiers followed a path that wound its way along cliffs above the Mediterranean Sea. They had marched from Acre just over a week ago and had left Tripoli and Lattakieh behind. John rode at the centre of the column, along with Raymond, Humphrey and William. The regent rode up alongside John.
‘We will reach Antioch the day after next,’ Raymond said. ‘After that we will head inland to rendezvous with the armies of Aleppo and Mosul. Then we will turn south to confront Saladin.’
John nodded but said nothing. Raymond searched his face for a moment. ‘You know Saladin well, John. What sort of man is he?’
John thought for a while. ‘When he was a boy, he suffered fits that robbed him of his breath and left him helpless. His father despised him and considered him unfit to be a warrior. His older brother Turan bullied him. Saladin was a skinny boy. He weighed maybe half as much as Turan. He bided his time and learned to fight. When Saladin was twelve and his brother sixteen, Saladin beat Turan to within an inch of his life. Turan never troubled him again.’
‘A determined man.’
John nodded. ‘When he was aged fourteen he was made Emir of Tell Bashir. He arrived to find the men there still loyal to the previous emir, who had ordered them to turn the fortress over to the Seljuks. The money Saladin had brought to buy their loyalty had been stolen by bandits. Those same bandits nearly killed Saladin, leaving him with no horse and no men. He arrived at Tell Bashir penniless after a two-day trek through the desert. Within two weeks he had driven off the bandits and earned the loyalty of the men of Tell Bashir.’ John met Raymond’s eyes. ‘Saladin is not the strongest of men, nor the bravest, nor even the wisest, but he has greater resolve than any man I have ever known.’
‘And what are his weaknesses?’
John’s forehead creased in thought. ‘Saladin is a religious man. He does not drink, and he has no interest in games of chance.’ John paused. He thought of Yusuf’s affair with Asimat and then of the night that Yusuf had spared him, despite John’s relationship with his sister. ‘But he is perhaps too loyal to his friends. And he has been made a fool by love.’
‘As have we all.’
They rode on in silence while the waves crashed against the rocky shore below and the seagulls shrieked and wheeled overhead. Ahead, the road led down to a broad coastal plain, where sandy beaches gave way to emerald-green fields. Even after all these years John found himself surprised by the beauty of the Holy Land. If only it were not riven by war, it could be a paradise; a kingdom of heaven on earth, as a preacher in England had once described it to him.
John spotted half a dozen riders approaching on the plain. They paused briefly when they reached the front of the army. Then they moved on at a gallop. They pulled up just short of John and Raymond. John blinked in surprise as the lead rider brushed the dust of the road from his face.
‘Bohemond!’ Raymond exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
Bohemond, the prince of Antioch, was supposed to have waited to meet them there. He was breathing heavily after his ride, and it took him a moment to gather himself. ‘I bring evil news,’ he said at last between deep breaths. ‘The armies of Aleppo and Mosul have been crushed. Aleppo will surely fall soon. Saladin is master of Syria.’
‘Are you certain?’ Raymond asked. ‘They outnumbered Saladin’s army nearly two to one.’
‘I received the news from one of Saif ad-Din’s emirs, who was separated from the army and fled to my lands. The Bedouin and caravans from Aleppo support his account. No allies will be waiting for us in Artah. If we wish to face Saladin, we will do it alone.’
Raymond looked to William.
‘If we engage Saladin, we might prevent him from taking Aleppo, but if we lose …’
Raymond’s brow knit. William did not need to tell him what would happen. If they were defeated, the entire Kingdom would be laid bare before Saladin’s armies. The regent looked to John. ‘Can Saladin be trusted? If we make peace, will he keep it?’
John nodded. ‘He will honour any agreement he makes.’
‘Very well. You and William will go to him and sue for peace.’
‘Peace will be hard to come by,’ William warned. ‘Saladin has the upper hand. He will want to press his advantage.’
‘Perhaps, but he will also need time to consolidate his gains. He will accept peace with us so that he can turn his attentions to Aleppo.’
The constable Humphrey frowned. ‘And after that, he will move on us. He controls Egypt and Syria. We are in a vice. He will crush us, sooner or later.’
John shook his head. ‘Saladin does not hate us the way that Nur ad-Din did. I believe a lasting peace is possible.’
‘We will pray that is so,’ Raymond said. ‘In the meantime, I will take the army back to Jerusalem and prepare for the worst.’
JUNE 1176: ALEPPO
John stopped his mount in the shade of a pistachio tree atop a steep hill. In the distance stood the white walls of Aleppo. The city was surrounded by Yusuf’s army. Their tents stretched to within half a mile of where John now sat.
William reined in beside John and whistled in appreciation as he caught sight of the Saracen camp. ‘A mighty force. How many men do you think Saladin has?’
‘Fifteen thousand, at least. He must have received reinforcements from Cairo.’
‘Such a force might take Jerusalem. We must not fail, John.’
William led the way down the far side of the hill. John followed, and their escort of twelve knights trailed after him. They were still some distance from the enemy camp when fifty mamluks rode out to meet them. William called for their escort to halt. ‘Raise the white flag,’ he told John.
They waited while the Saracens galloped up and formed a ring around them. The mamluks rode with bows in hand. If they decided to attack, then it would be a short fight. One of them rode forward from the ranks. It was John’s son, Ubadah.
‘What is your business here?’ Ubadah demanded.
‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum,’ William replied. He continued in Arabic. ‘We come at King Baldwin’s bidding to speak with your lord, Saladin.’
Ubadah fingered the hilt of his sword. ‘You have trespassed on Muslim lands.’
‘We are peaceful emissaries. Our past treaties with your lord, and with Nur ad-Din before him, give us permission to cross his lands in order to conduct negotiations.’
‘Saladin is leading an army. He has no time for negotiations with Frankish dogs.’
‘Nevertheless,’ John said, ‘perhaps you would do us the honour of informing him of our presence, Ubadah ibn Khaldun.’
Ubadah’s eyes widened in surprise at having been recognized, then narrowed as he examined John more closely. ‘I am called Taqi ad-Din now, John. Who is your companion?’
‘William of Tyre. We are happy to wait here until Saladin decides if he will see us.’
‘That will not be necessary.’ Ubadah turned to one of his men. ‘Take the knights to camp and see that they are fed and their horses watered.’ He looked back to John and William. ‘You come with me.’
Ubadah led them into camp. John knew that Yusuf’s army ha
d arrived outside the city nearly two months previously, having driven Saif ad-Din east across the Euphrates. But Yusuf’s men seemed to have made little progress. The walls of Aleppo showed no sign of damage from catapults or mangonels. Mamluks lounged about, talking or playing games of chance.
John followed Ubadah to the top of a ridge that overlooked the city. Yusuf’s enormous tent had been pitched there. Ubadah led them into a smaller tent in its shade. ‘Wait here.’
‘A most unpleasant young man,’ William muttered when Ubadah had gone. ‘You know him?’
John nodded.
‘Thank God for that. I thought for a moment he was going to order his men to kill us.’ William removed his cloak and shook the dust from it, then laid it on the ground and knelt. ‘Let us pray for the success of our negotiations.’
John knelt beside him, and they bowed their heads. When Ubadah returned, he frowned to see them praying. ‘The Malik will see you now,’ he said. He led them to Yusuf’s tent and motioned them inside.
Yusuf sat on a campstool. He was dressed in spectacular golden armour and flanked on his right by Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Al-Muqqadam. Ubadah joined them. John recognized Imad ad-Din amongst the scribes who stood to Yusuf’s left. Yusuf studied John for a moment, but showed no sign of recognition. John and William approached and bowed.
‘Ahlan wa-Sahlan,’ Yusuf told them. Then he added in French, ‘God grant you joy and health.’
‘And may he grant you the same,’ William replied in Arabic. ‘We are honoured to be allowed into your presence, great King. Thank you for seeing us.’
‘And what is it that you want?’ Yusuf asked.
‘Peace between our great kingdoms.’
‘Peace?’ Ubadah scoffed. ‘The eagle does not make peace with the hare.’
Yusuf gestured for him to be silent. ‘I am a man of peace, William, but I fear the regent Raymond is not. Did he not sign a treaty with my enemy Gumushtagin? Did he not gather an army to fight against me?’
