Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  “Once we’ve established control and rebuilt the defenses,” Ibelin modified.

  “And what if we can’t?” Aimery asked. “What if the Saracens send a large force against us that cuts us off from Tyre after we’ve moved up the coast?”

  “Haakon Magnussen says he can keep pace in his snecka. If we get into trouble, he can bring word back here and either recruit reinforcements or, in the worst case, bring the Pisan fleet to take us on board and return by sea.”

  There were grunts of approval at that plan.

  “So,” Aimery moved to the next issue, “How many knights, Turcopoles, and sergeants do we have for this expedition?”

  “I can’t allow you to reduce the strength of the garrison,” Montferrat interjected himself into the conversation for the first time. He’d been leaning against the wall, his arms and ankles crossed casually. Now, as the others turned to look at him, he righted himself, uncrossed his legs and arms, and assumed a quasi-belligerent pose.

  Ibelin, Sidon, and Lusignan stared at him with unreadable expressions, while Toron looked shocked and slightly outraged. Before Montferrat could explain himself, however, Ibelin turned to Sidon. “You have eighteen knights. I have fifteen. The three of us—or four, if you’re with us, Toron?” He tossed the question casually in the direction of his stepdaughter’s husband.

  “Of course, my lord,” Humphrey answered at once, conscious that failure to participate would be seen as cowardice, treason, or just plain inadequacy. At twenty-one he could afford a reputation for none of these, and Isabella would not forgive him if he didn’t defend his honor.

  Ibelin continued, “Maybe one or two of the knights who have come from the West in the last year will join us as well. Altogether, I think we can count on roughly forty knights. As for Turcopoles, archers, and other infantry, we’ll have to see what we can recruit.”

  The others nodded agreement. There wasn’t really a question in any of their minds that it was worth trying. They were tired of doing nothing. It was time to start fighting back.

  Although they had felt the need for action themselves, they were still somewhat overwhelmed by the response of the commons. As soon as word leaked out that Ibelin, Sidon, and the Constable were going to lead an expedition to try to retake Sidon, men started clamoring for inclusion. At first Ibelin thought they were just eager for wages. Annoyed that it hadn’t been made clear from the start that there would be none, he sent word around that the only “wages” would be plunder. The stream of applicants did not diminish in the least.

  When they mustered on June 1, they found one hundred eighteen Turcopoles (on a motley collection of mostly bad horseflesh), close to a thousand archers, and roughly six hundred pikemen, supplemented by a few hundred youth with clubs and other improvised weapons. The backbone of this force, Ibelin soon discovered, were men he’d led off the field of Hattin. These were experienced fighting men, and they trusted his leadership. Perhaps most important, however, almost all these men had lost their families in the subsequent collapse of the Kingdom. These men were desperate to start fighting back.

  Ibelin entrusted Sidon, who spoke excellent Arabic, with command of the Turcopoles, and gave him the task of forming the vanguard. He turned the knights including Toron over to Aimery, and tasked him with commanding the heavy cavalry, which would form the rear guard and reserve. He took command of the infantry himself. That he was in overall command had never been questioned by the others.

  They left Tyre on June 3, having spent a day in camp organizing, checking weapons and supplies, and ensuring that everyone had enough water and rations. On June 4 they reached the Litani and camped on the south bank. The following day, they crossed the river and immediately progress slowed dramatically. They found the road had washed out in several places, apparently during the heavy rainfall of the past winter. The little force only covered six miles that day, but at least they had seen no Saracens. On June 6 they covered a further nine miles, reaching the ruins of Sarepta.

  In the crusader era, Sarepta had always been dominated by the Church. It was a bishop’s seat and had housed the headquarters of the Carmelite order. The largest shrine had been St. Elijah, as this was the site of the biblical miracle in which he had raised a widow’s son from the dead. The Saracens had trashed the great church and burned something inside, leaving it a blackened hulk. The large number of pig bones in the ashes suggested that they had burned the entire pig population as an expression of contempt and hatred. The sight saddened and embittered the Christian troops, and Ibelin heard much muttering among his men, vowing revenge. They spent the night in whatever buildings they could find that were still more or less intact, the leaders enjoying comparatively comfortable quarters in the cloisters of the Carmelite monastery. Although the flower beds had gone to seed, the well had not been poisoned, and the cloisters provided shade and tranquility.

  No sooner had they left Sarepta behind, however, than they attracted the attention of an enemy patrol. Sidon led his Turcopoles in a dash to try to cut off the Saracens and ensure their intelligence did not reach anyone, but the horses of the Turcopoles were inadequate to overtake the fleeter horses of the Saracen reconnaissance.

  They had to expect resistance of some kind now, and Ibelin was made uneasy by the fact that just beyond Sarepta, the road turned inland to skirt some higher bluffs that dropped precipitously into the sea. For the first time since setting off, they were going to be out of sight of Haakon Magnussen’s ship.

  The march along the dusty road in intense, cloudless, windless heat was all too reminiscent of Hattin, and Ibelin saw his own disquiet reflected in the grim expressions on the faces of his men. He ordered Sidon to divide up his Turcopoles into multiple patrols and sent them ahead in sweeping reconnaissance. “Don’t just watch for the enemy: note every well, every orchard, every stream and fishpond. If we need to take up defensive positions, I want it to be where there is water,” he ordered. Then he kept the infantry marching at as brisk a pace as possible. He did not relax until the shore came into view again, shimmering silver and gold in the afternoon sun.

  By dusk they were still a mile away, but Ibelin would not let his troops rest until they’d reached the beach. With relief, he located Haakon Magnussen’s snecka ghosting along the shore several miles to the north on the dying breeze. The Norseman dipped his banner once to indicate he had seen them, and then ran out his oars and returned to drop anchor opposite their position.

  They camped that night on the sandy shore. The soothing sound of waves slowly sweeping in and out across the sand lulled most of the men to ready sleep after the exhausting, tense day. Ibelin, Sidon, Toron, and the Constable stayed awake longer, however, while the crickets chattered in the tall grasses of the dunes and the gulls cried overhead. They were now just seven miles from the city of Sidon, and Reginald said the substantial but unfortified town of Ghaziye lay only a mile or so inland. This was—or had been—a major olive-oil manufacturing center surrounded by olive orchards.

  Ibelin didn’t like the sound of that. “Are there springs there?”

  “Yes, it’s lush countryside,” Sidon confirmed, thinking of how beautiful and prosperous the town had been with its limestone houses set amidst green orchards. Ibelin was thinking that such a town might serve as the perfect base for Saracen troops.

  He was not happy to be proved right.

  They had barely broken camp and started up the road on the final leg toward Sidon when the enemy appeared in force. Sidon, commanding the advance guard, immediately drew up and sent for Ibelin, the Constable, and (as a courtesy) Toron. By the time the others arrived, Sidon was able to report that the Saracen force was composed exclusively of mounted archers—no infantry or lancers—and was, he estimated, almost five thousand strong. They counted at least eighteen banners, but in the experience of the Frankish leaders, the size of a Saracen battalion could vary from two to three hundred. By their equipment, Sidon and Ibelin concluded they were Turkish regulars. They were blocking the road in a l
arge, dense mass, daring the Franks to continue.

  This put the Franks at a disadvantage. In a defensive situation, their comparatively large infantry force would have provided the horsemen with cover, and all they would have needed to do was hunker down, let the enemy exhaust themselves in futile attacks, and then launch a mounted counterattack. Sidon and Ibelin agreed the Saracens would be mad to do them the favor of attacking—but hoping for good luck or the Grace of God, they drew up into a defensive position and waited.

  The sun crawled its way up the sky. Flies and gnats plagued them. The horses stamped in irritation. They sweated and thirsted, and their only comfort was that the enemy was in exactly the same situation. Late in the afternoon, they elected to withdraw back to the beach. Here they could refresh themselves and their horses while retaining a defensive posture. The Saracens shadowed them and camped within sight but out of bowshot. Judging by their campfires, they numbered closer to six thousand than five thousand.

  “What if we were to retreat to Sarepta and establish ourselves there?” Aimery de Lusignan suggested. “The harbor is in good condition, and holding the territory from the Litani to Sarepta would still be a step in the right direction.”

  Ibelin agreed, although Sidon was deeply disappointed at the thought of pulling back. “We can’t just scuttle back to safety like curs!” he protested. “We should at least probe the mettle of enemy.”

  The other three men gazed at him mutely. Toron was sweating badly and kept trying to wipe his palms dry on his surcoat, leaving streaks of sweat on the skirts.

  “If the knights charge with the Turcopoles in their wake, we might be able to break through.”

  “Maybe, and then the Turks will close ranks again, and we’ll be separated from our infantry. Then they can slaughter us separately at their leisure,” Aimery speculated.

  Sidon frowned fiercely, but he didn’t contradict him. Both men looked at Ibelin.

  “Even if we could break through with our entire force, the number of Saracen units out there suggests that Salah ad-Din intends to hold onto this territory. In short, we have called his bluff, and his promise to you was worthless,” Ibelin noted dryly. He would have preferred to be proved wrong in this as well. This wasn’t just Sidon’s inheritance they were fighting for, it was Helvis’ future. “The fact that we got this far, however, suggests also that we might indeed be able to hold Sarepta and the land between Tyre and Sarepta. That would give us a second port, substantial fertile land, and more defensible and comfortable housing for many refugees. Taking control of Sarepta, rebuilding the defenses, establishing a garrison there, and cultivating the coastline from the Litani to Sarepta are not insignificant accomplishments.”

  Sidon growled something and stalked out of the meeting. Balian and Aimery exchanged a glance.

  “Do we retreat tomorrow, then?” Humphrey asked.

  “No, we take our time. Keep the enemy guessing about our intentions. I propose moving out tomorrow night after darkness. There will be almost no moon by then. If we move with sufficient care, we could be halfway back to Sarepta before they notice we’ve gone.”

  The Constable and Toron nodded agreement, and Ibelin went in search of Sidon to convey their decision. He also had Sir Roger Shoreham pass the word to the archers and the other infantry, before signaling to Haakon Magnussen the need for parley. The Norseman lowered a small boat and had himself rowed ashore, so Ibelin could explain the situation.

  On the night of June 9, the Franks quietly packed up their few belongings and retreated by cover of darkness. Despite having failed in their objective, the mood among the men was, Ibelin thought, remarkably good. They had escaped the boredom of waiting for the brewing crusade and were encouraged to have come this far. They were not really eager to attack a force roughly three times their size in territory where they were essentially isolated. Their overall concurrence with the decision taken by their leaders was expressed in the disciplined fashion in which everyone maintained silence and moved efficiently.

  The march back to Sarepta was considerably easier than the march out. The night was cool and they were rested, but as they came within sight of the ruined town they were discomfited to see Saracen banners fluttering from the tallest remaining buildings. Now their only option was to keep marching back south whence they’d come. This felt more like a “cur scuttling back to safety with his tail between his legs” than Ibelin was comfortable with.

  They skirted the town of Sarepta in the half-light of early dawn and were already a mile to the south when the rear guard shouted a warning. Ibelin at once reined his horse around and cantered back to the Constable.

  Lusignan had turned the knights around to face what was following them: a force of what looked like four to five hundred horsemen. And they weren’t just ordinary horsemen: they were the Sultan’s Mamlukes. “They must have seen us slink by,” he commented as Ibelin drew rein beside him.

  “Maybe they just want to herd us back to the Litani,” Ibelin suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  They couldn’t keep marching indefinitely, not after the sleepless night, so Ibelin sent Sidon and his Turcopoles ahead to find a defensible position in which to camp. Meanwhile the Constable and his knights formed a protective screen across the road, leap-frogging forward in relays to keep up with their infantry.

  Just beyond one of the tributaries to the Litani, the Turcopoles found what they thought was a defensible campsite. Abandoned vineyards slanted down toward the shallow stream, serving as a break to any cavalry charge, and at the top of the slope was a large citrus orchard that provided both shade and cover for archers. The stream itself ensured the horses had drinking water.

  The flagging infantry perked up at the prospect of rest. Within an hour the leading units were already across the stream, which while fordable, slowed them down. As the infantry spread out to cross the stream all along the bank, the Saracens launched an attack on the rearguard.

  Ibelin supposed that the Saracen commander shared their assessment of the campsite—or simply wanted to imitate on a small scale the success King Baldwin had had at Montgisard. At that battle in 1177, King Baldwin had pounced on Salah ad-Din’s invasion force when it was making camp for the night on the banks of a river—and obliterated it. Shouting for the archers to get across the stream and start providing covering fire from the far slope, Ibelin spun his destrier around and galloped back to join Aimery de Lusignan, with Sidon and his Turcopoles at his heels.

  In the short time it had taken for Ibelin to give his orders and turn back, the Constable and his knights had been completely enveloped by the enemy. Although they were still fighting in a tumultuous melee, around the edges Turkish horsemen were streaming past, shouting war cries and raising their bows to fire at the retreating Frankish infantry. Ibelin made a split-second decision to try to cut the Constable and his knights free rather than try to stop the Turkish archers rushing to attack his infantry. He had to trust Shoreham to organize his archers to protect the infantry.

  A moment later he crashed into the seething mass of confused combat and started felling his opponents with his sword. Sidon was right beside him, doing the same thing. The Turcopoles, though less well armored than the Frankish knights, were on very equal footing when fighting mounted Turkish archers in close combat. By closing before the Turkish archers could use their bows, they robbed them of their greatest tactical advantage, and with half the Turks rushing past them to attack the Frankish infantry, the odds were swinging in favor of the Frankish/Turcopole cavalry.

  It took Ibelin and Sidon at most half an hour to hack their way through to the Constable and the other knights, but by then the intensity of the Saracen opposition was waning. Ibelin could not spare a glance over his shoulder, but he could clearly hear screams that were not just battle cries, much less ululations of triumph on the part of the Saracens. His peripheral vision, furthermore, registered movement in the direction of Sarepta. It might just be riderless and panicked horses, or it might indicate th
at at least some of the enemy had already abandoned the attack.

  With a well-trained slashing stroke that harnessed gravity to the strength of his sword arm, Ibelin brought his sword down on the back of a man’s head. Ibelin’s sword, the words “Defender of Jerusalem” engraved in bronze in the fuller of the blade, sliced clear through the back of the man’s helmet, sank into his neck, and cut his spine in two. Blood spurted from the ruptured artery as the corpse slid from the terrified horse, and Ibelin drew up beside Sir Galvin. In the protection of the Scottish knight’s great mace, Ibelin risked looking back over his shoulder. He was both relieved and amazed to see that the Turks appeared to be in headlong flight. It wasn’t just a few of their number who were fleeing northwards; apparently they all were—at least those not pinned to the earth by the crossbow bolts coming in steady volleys from the far bank of the stream.

  Around the Frankish/Turcopole cavalry, the Turkish horsemen were beginning to understand that their fellows had been routed, and they were looking for ways to disengage. On the edges, they were spinning their mounts around and pounding the flanks of their horses with their heels, but in the thick of the melee it was not so easy to escape. The Constable was killing men with chilling proficiency, and Ibelin saw on his face a fury he could not remember seeing there before Hattin. Sidon, on the other hand, was flagging, his age or the aftereffects of his torture sapping the strength from him. Ibelin saw his blows fall ineffectively, and one Turk and then another used that weakness to dart away. Sidon just slumped in his saddle, relieved to be alive. Even Sir Galvin had stopped fighting as their opponents melted away before them, spurring their horses in a frantic bid for escape.