Eagle

by Hight, Jack

  ‘Come on,’ he growled, raising his sword. ‘Come and get me, you bastards!’ One of the soldiers rushed forward, but stopped short. John took a step towards the man. Then he felt something slam into the back of his head, and the world went black.

  Yusuf jogged past the ragged remnants of Nur ad-Din’s army. Some of the foot-soldiers were carrying companions or helping their friends to limp along. Others walked alone, heads down. Mounted mamluks rode amongst them, staring vacantly ahead, stunned by defeat. Bone-weary, Yusuf forced himself to keep running until he reached a small stream where the army had stopped to set up camp and count their losses. Yusuf knelt beside the water and began to scoop it into his mouth.

  ‘Yusuf!’

  He looked up to see Shirkuh approaching. Yusuf stood, and his uncle embraced him. ‘Well met, Uncle.’

  ‘Well met, indeed. I thought we had lost you, young eagle. Come, I will take you to Nur ad-Din.’

  Shirkuh led him across the stream and to a tent. Inside, Nur ad-Din was sitting on a camp stool, his head in his hands. His shirt was off, and a doctor was busy sewing up the ragged wound in his shoulder. Nur ad-Din was mumbling to himself: ‘I have built mosques and schools, given to the poor. Why has Allah punished me?’

  ‘My lord,’ Yusuf said, announcing his presence.

  Nur ad-Din looked up and a smile spread across his face. ‘Yusuf! You have survived. It is a miracle!’

  ‘Yes,’ Yusuf murmured, thinking of John. ‘A miracle.’

  ‘You saved my life, Yusuf. I am in you debt.’

  ‘I only did my duty, malik.’

  ‘You were one of the few who did,’ Shirkuh said.

  ‘He is right,’ Nur ad-Din agreed. ‘You have proven your worth, Yusuf. When others fled, you stayed to fight for your lord and for Allah. You shall have new lands, and a new name to honour you. From this day on, you shall be known as Saladin.’

  ‘Thank you, malik,’ Yusuf said. Saladin: righteous in faith. It was a good name.

  ‘It is I who should thank you, Saladin.’

  SEPTEMBER 1163: DAMASCUS

  Two days later, the army of Nur ad-Din trudged into Damascus. There was no cheering as Yusuf followed the king through the gate and down the wide avenue towards the palace. The people lining the street watched in silence as the troops filed past.

  Yusuf’s father, Ayub, met them in the entrance hall of the palace. ‘Welcome, malik,’ he said and bowed. ‘Thank Allah, you have returned safely.’

  ‘There is nothing to be thankful for,’ Nur ad-Din grumbled. ‘I have failed. My army is in tatters, and I shall be forced to make peace with the Franks. We shall never drive them from our lands.’

  ‘I have news that will perhaps cheer you.’ Ayub gestured towards a man standing behind him. The man was tall and thin, with prominent cheekbones and darkly tanned skin. His face and head were clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows had been shaved. ‘Allow me to introduce Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’

  ‘Greetings, Nur ad-Din,’ Shawar said as he stepped forward. His voice was soft, and he spoke with a slight lisp. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’

  Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘What brings the Vizier of Egypt to my court?’

  ‘Treachery,’ Shawar replied. ‘I have been chased from Cairo, and the caliph is in the hands of traitors.’

  ‘And what do you want from me?’ Nur ad-Din asked, his voice weary.

  ‘Your help to retake my kingdom.’

  Nur ad-Din laughed bitterly. ‘With what? My army is in ruins.’

  ‘They are strong enough. The people of Cairo will welcome me. I am their rightful ruler.’

  ‘I see,’ Nur ad-Din murmured. ‘And why should I help you?’

  ‘Because I will send you a third of Egypt’s revenues each year as tribute. And I will recognize you as my lord. You will be King of Egypt.’

  ‘King of Egypt,’ Nur ad-Din whispered. For a moment his eyes gleamed with the old fire. Then his shoulder slumped again. ‘I am tired of war.’

  ‘Send me, malik,’ Shirkuh urged. ‘I will conquer Egypt for you.’

  Nur ad-Din looked to Shirkuh, then back to Shawar. ‘I shall think on it,’ he said. ‘You may go, Shawar.’ The Egyptian nodded and was led away. Nur ad-Din turned to Ayub. ‘I wish to bathe. And then I will eat.’

  ‘Very well, my lord,’ Ayub said. ‘But first I have news from Aleppo. It is your wife, Asimat. She is pregnant.’

  Nur ad-Din straightened, and a grin spread across his face. ‘A child. A son perhaps!’ he roared. He embraced Ayub and kissed him on both cheeks, then turned to Yusuf. ‘Can you imagine that, Yusuf? A son, an heir at last!’

  ‘A son,’ Yusuf repeated. His son.

  SEPTEMBER 1163: JERUSALEM

  John awoke with a start as cold water splashed over him. He lay on his side on hard ground. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked, and his head ached as if someone had driven an iron spike deep into his brain. He winced as he gingerly touched his scalp and felt dried blood caking his hair. He cracked open an eye and saw that he was lying in a dim prison cell. Rough-hewn stone walls stood on three sides, and the fourth was closed off by iron bars. There were three other men in the cell – all Saracens. Two were unmoving, flies buzzing about them. The third sat against the wall, staring vacantly ahead. John looked to the entrance of the cell, where two men stood. One wore chainmail and leaned on the shaft of a tall spear. The other wore the dark robes of a priest.

  ‘This is the one?’ the priest asked. ‘The Frank?’

  ‘A Saxon, Father Heraclius,’ the soldier corrected as he pulled open the cell door. ‘He talks in his sleep, and he speaks their savage tongue.’

  Heraclius stepped into the cell and kicked at John’s leg. ‘You awake, Saxon?’ John rolled over on to his back, moaning at the pain in his stiff joints. The priest knelt beside him. The man was clean-shaven, with deep blue eyes and blond hair. He had an effeminate beauty about him. ‘Do you understand me?’

  John nodded. ‘Water,’ he croaked.

  The priest snapped his fingers at the soldier. ‘Bring water.’ He turned back to John, reaching out and brushing John’s long hair away from his eyes. ‘Blue eyes,’ he murmured. ‘You are indeed one of us.’

  The guard returned with a waterskin and handed it to the priest, who gently lifted John’s head and held the waterskin to his lips. John drank greedily, the cool water a blessed relief. After a few swallows, Heraclius pulled the skin away. ‘That is enough for now. Can you talk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have come to care for your soul, my son,’ Heraclius told John. ‘You were captured with the Saracen army. I am told that you fought for them, that you killed many of our men. How did you come to be with the infidels?’

  ‘I was captured at Damascus during the second crusade.’

  Heraclius’s eyebrows rose. ‘That was fifteen years ago. You spent all that time amongst the infidels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you remain true to our faith?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That is good, my son. But you have betrayed your oath and imperilled your soul by fighting for the enemies of God. However, you may still be saved. Tell me, do you desire salvation?’ John nodded. ‘Then you shall have it.’

  John looked away as he felt tears welling in his eyes. After all this time, he had finally found redemption. The stain of his brother’s death, of the knights he had killed: it could all be wiped away. ‘What must I do?’ he whispered.

  The priest smiled. ‘You must burn as a traitor and a heretic. The fire will purify your soul.’

  Historical Note

  Eagle is based in fact. Yusuf ibn Ayub – or Saladin as he is known to history – was one of the greatest military and political leaders of his age, and his exploits have been celebrated by Muslims and Christians alike. We are lucky enough to have contemporary accounts of his life from people who knew him, including Imad ad-Din, who appears briefly in Eagle. However, we know relatively little about Yusuf’s early life – th
e period covered in this book. We know that he grew up mainly in Baalbek and Damascus. He played polo, was interested in religious studies and knew many poems from the Hamasah by heart. There are stories of him drinking and consorting with prostitutes as a young man, and in Eagle I attempt to show why this deeply religious young man might have engaged in such behaviour. At the age of fourteen, he joined his uncle Shirkuh in the service of Nur ad-Din and was given a fief – Tell Bashir in this novel. Aside from a few brief stints in Damascus, he spent the next twelve years in Nur ad-Din’s service. From these scraps of history I have woven together the story of Yusuf’s early life.

  The major events in the story happened much as I described them. I drew heavily on William of Tyre’s account for my description of the Second Crusade. Nur ad-Din did conquer Damascus without bloodshed, and he did surround and rout the Christians at the battle of Jacob’s Ford in 1157. However, there were too many battles for me to include every one. The final battle in the book is actually a composite of two events. In 1158 Baldwin marched on Damascus and subsequently defeated Nur ad-Din’s army on the plain of Buthaia. I combined this with Nur ad-Din’s defeat at Krak des Chevaliers in September 1163, the point at which Eagle ends.

  Most of the people who appear in the story are real. Turan and Selim were Yusuf’s brothers and later his lieutenants. Ayub and Shirkuh were Kurds who entered the service of Nur ad-Din’s father after being banished from Tikrit. Qaraqush and Al-Mashtub became generals under Saladin. Usama and the eunuch Gumushtagin were members of Nur ad-Din’s court. Ibn Jumay, the Jewish doctor who John meets upon first arriving in Yusuf’s home, really did serve as Saladin’s physician. Less is known about the women in Yusuf’s life, although it is recorded that he had a sister who was very important to him – Zimat in my story. Faridah is my invention, although women like her certainly existed. Asimat was Nur ad-Din’s wife.

  On the Frankish side, King Baldwin, the young prince Amalric, William of Tyre and Reynald de Chatillon were all – as far as we know – more or less how I have portrayed them. I have not exaggerated Reynald’s cruelty. The story of him tying the patriarch to the roof of the citadel of Antioch is true. Reynald used the money that he extorted from the patriarch to invade Cyprus, where he and his men went on a rampage, looting churches, burning crops, raping women and cutting the throats of those who were too young or too old to be sold into slavery. Reynald is also known to have regularly raided in Muslim lands. In fact, although I moved his capture to the battle of Jacob’s Ford in 1157, he was actually captured three years later while raiding cattle. He was confined in Aleppo for sixteen years before being ransomed by the Byzantine emperor Manuel for the mind-boggling sum of one hundred and twenty thousand dinars – this at a time when a mamluk’s monthly wage was only three dinars.

  The only major character who was not real is John. However, while John is fictional, much of his story is based on fact. Saxons like John did suffer greatly during and after the Norman invasion of England. As many as one hundred thousand men and women – nearly ten per cent of the population of England at the time – were killed in the Harrowing of the North, during which the Normans developed many of the scorched-earth techniques that they later used in conquering the Holy Land. Many Saxon warriors fled to seek their fortune elsewhere. Some made their way to Constantinople, where they eventually formed the Emperor’s Varangian guard. Others headed for the Holy Land. And some, like John, no doubt ended up in slavery. After the failed siege of Damascus during the Second Crusade, there were so many captured crusaders in the city’s markets that some were indeed sold for the price of a pair of sandals.

  I have done my best to portray accurately the details of the world in which John finds himself – the food, the markets, the slaves, the mamluks, the desert. The poems that Yusuf recites from the Hamasah were quoted from C. J. Lyall’s translations in John Cunliffe and Ashley Thorndike (eds), The Warner Library, Vol. 2: The World’s Best Literature. I drew on contemporary accounts, ancient maps and modern archaeological research to describe the walls, gates, buildings and general layout of Baalbek, Acre, Damascus, Tripoli and Aleppo. These cities have of course changed since crusader days, but many of their greatest treasures remain. The Roman temple in Baalbek – the largest in the world – is still every bit as spectacular as I describe it. Aleppo’s citadel, perched on a hill above the city, is a marvel. And the Umayyad mosque in Damascus is one of the great achievements of early Islam.

  The Islamic world was in many ways more advanced than Europe at the time. While earlier practices like trial by fire persisted, this was also a society that had modern courts of law, psychiatric hospitals, brilliant philosophers and which, most spectacularly, invented modern medicine. Their doctors developed the germ theory of disease, techniques for removing cataracts and even medication for heart disease. Islamic medical books from the eleventh century were still being used in European medical schools into the early 1900s. Unsurprisingly, many Muslims, Jews and native Christians looked upon the Crusaders as dirty barbarians. One example of this attitude is the story that Ibn Jumay tells of the mad Frankish doctor whose only idea of medicine is cutting off body parts. I took the story from the autobiography of Emir Usama ibn Munqidh.

  Of course not all Europeans were savages like this doctor or brutes like Reynald de Chatillon. Thousands were inspired by their faith to make the arduous journey to the Holy Land. And many of the Europeans who settled there adopted eastern ways, wearing caftans and turbans, bathing regularly, eating local foods and employing Jewish or Muslim doctors. They were part of a vibrant culture – Christian, Muslim and Jewish; eastern and western – which existed in the Middle East during the Crusades. While Eagle is a work of fiction, I hope that it does justice to the complexity of this culture and to the life of the man who represented the best it had to offer: Saladin.