Envoy of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  After Caesarea the Saracens increased the pressure. They sent in larger, more determined attacks, although they still avoided a set battle. By September 3, however, the attacks on the rear guard had grown so intense that the Templars and French lost large numbers of horses. Sir Roger Shoreham, pointing out the scores of carcasses dragged into the camp so the common soldiers could enjoy fresh meat for a change, remarked to his lord, “If we’d brought the colts from your stud with us, you could have made a fortune selling them today.”

  Ibelin answered ruefully, “I will never make a man of commerce, Shoreham. When I see all those fine animals destroyed, I am filled with sadness. It would break my heart to send my colts, each so full of life, loyalty, and personality, to such a slaughter, much less to see them cut to pieces by greedy infantry.” Shoreham, who didn’t particularly like horses, looked at his lord uncomprehending, and Ibelin added, “I wish my wealth still came from pomegranates, grain, and almonds, as once it did.” Hearing the sadness in his voice, Shoreham realized how much his lord missed Ibelin and all that had been before Hattin.

  Later that same night, William of Tiberius sought out Ibelin. “Toron’s disappeared,” he announced indignantly and without preamble.

  Ibelin raised his eyebrows. “I can’t say that’s much of a loss. What did he bring, a handful of crossbowmen?”

  “Two dozen, to be precise, and paid for by Lusignan, who gets his money from the English King. I think they were all Armenian mercenaries formerly in the service of Isaac Comnenus. But that’s not the point; they’re still here. Only Toron is gone.”

  Ibelin shrugged. “Even less loss, then. Don’t worry about Toron.”

  “I think he’s a traitor,” the titular Prince of Galilee answered bluntly.

  “To whom?” Ibelin retorted. “He hates Montferrat—and me—for taking Isabella away from him, although he would neither fight for her nor honor her as a queen. But he’s loyal to Lusignan to a fault and eats out of the King of England’s hand.”

  “He’s never been the same since he returned from Saracen captivity,” Tiberius countered. “He wears kaftans as soon as he removes his armor, and he eats sitting cross-legged.”

  “But I’ve seen him drink wine. I don’t think he’s abandoned the True Faith.”

  “I didn’t say he had, nor does he have to in order to be a traitor. The Sultan has Jews and Syrian Christians in his service, too,” Tiberius pointed out.

  Ibelin thought about that and nodded. “You’re right, but what could Toron tell Salah ad-Din that he doesn’t already know? The Sultan knows the size, composition, and leadership of our army already. He knows our marching order simply by reading our banners. As for our intentions, it doesn’t take a genius to realize the ultimate objective is Jerusalem, and Jaffa is the closest port.”

  Tiberius nodded unhappily, accepting that Ibelin was right. In his head he could almost hear his late stepfather saying something similar.

  “Don’t worry about Toron,” Ibelin repeated, laying a hand on Sir William’s shoulder. “He can do us no harm.”

  Tiberius took a deep breath. “But at some point Salah ad-Din has to try to stop us. I’m not happy having to pass through the forest of Arsuf tomorrow.”

  “True, the forest offers a degree of cover for an ambush. Indeed, it would be the ideal place for us to ambush them, since our archers could take up fixed positions using the underbrush and trees as cover. But short of trying to set the whole wood on fire—which is harder than it sounds—I doubt that Salah ad-Din is even tempted to fight there. The forest robs the Turks of their most effective tactic: fast attacks by mounted archers. No one can ride fast through a forest, so the mounted archers lose their mobility—not to mention that they would have to shoot through the trees. The risk comes when we turn inland and lose touch with the fleet. As long as we have the ships with us, we have supplies, lines of communication, and a means of both rapid retreat and rapid reinforcement. The tricky part comes when we’re more than a day’s march from the coast,” Ibelin predicted.

  Arsuf, September 7, 1191

  Ibelin was wrong. To be sure, there was no ambush in the forest of Arsuf, and they had a day of rest after passing through, but as they prepared to march out the following morning, they found that Salah ad-Din had moved his army down from the heights and was blocking the road. The unavoidable confrontation had come much sooner than expected.

  The order was given to prepare for battle, and men took particular care with preparing their arms. They also took care of their souls, seeking out one of the many priests traveling with the army. The knights, meanwhile, donned their full armor and prepared their destriers.

  Ibelin elected to ride Centurion, the elder of his two destriers and the horse that had brought him safely through Hattin. It was not a sentimental choice; Centurion stood a far better chance of dying today than his rider did. Balian didn’t like that thought, because Centurion was a friend and a comrade, and it would break his son’s heart. But he had to be practical: the stallion was nearing twenty, and his useful life was almost over anyway. The younger stallion, Ras Dawit (King David in Amharic, named in honor of the Ethiopian knight who had died at Jerusalem), was the more valuable and so the less expendable of the two warhorses.

  Centurion was tacked up with battle kit. The girth consisted of five chains of steel, encased in tubes of leather and wrapped in canvas sewn diagonally for additional strength. The reins, too, were chains of steel encased in leather and robust cloth. The trapper was of quilted canvas painted with the arms of Ibelin, and reinforced with panels of boiled leather across the chest and over the rump to the tail and down to the haunches. A leather mask attached at the browband and noseband with protruding eye shields protected Centurion’s forehead and eyes from blows from above, but did not inhibit lateral vision, since Ibelin trusted his stallion to see danger coming and assist in keeping them both alive by sidestepping if necessary.

  Most of Ibelin’s knights could not afford so much protection for their horses, but they were personally equipped with chain-mail hauberks, and most with chain-mail mittens for their hands, coifs for their heads, and chausses for their legs, as well as shields and helmets. About half the knights had invested in the newer style helmets with a hinged visor that could be lowered to cover their entire face. The rest still wore helmets with a heavy nose guard but open cheeks. Ibelin favored the old-fashioned helmet when commanding, particularly in defense, because he felt it was important that his men be able to see his face. Today, however, he was just one of thousands of knights following orders, and so he opted for the greater safety of the visored helmet.

  While the knights, aided by their squires, armed themselves and tacked up their horses, Ibelin’s infantry likewise prepared for battle. Crossbowmen and archers drew extra supplies of bolts and arrows. All ensured that their water skins were full to the brim and that they had something to eat in their belt pouch as well. They donned their protective headgear, whether quilted caps, leather hoods, or kettle helms. Finally, they proudly displayed on their shoulders or chests flannel badges shaped like a yellow shield bearing a red cross pattée, the arms of Ibelin.

  The badges had been cut and sewn by the Dowager Queen’s women and forwarded to Acre just before they set off on the march. Such badges were more the exception than the rule. Household knights of important lords might wear surcoats and carry shields with the same device, and some of the communes of Outremer had also taken to wearing distinguishing colors or badges to set themselves apart (mostly the Pisans from the Genoese and vice versa, out of rivalry), but the infantry of most armies was made up of an inchoate collection of feudal levies, temporary volunteers, and mercenaries that collected and then melted away without strong ties. It was the Dowager Queen, raised in the Eastern Roman Empire, which retained many more traditions from ancient Rome, who had proposed the badges, because she understood the importance of unit identity. These badges reinforced the pride Ibelin’s men felt to be in his pay and service.

&nbs
p; Returning from the King of England’s command tent, Ibelin was greeted by a cheer. Rather than just acknowledging it and riding on, he drew up. At once the men hushed expectantly. He raised his voice to be heard even in the rear ranks. “How many of you were with me at Hattin?”

  Hundreds of hands went up. Without taking an actual count, Ibelin estimated that 90 per cent of his men had raised their hands. “Good. Then you know what to expect. We’ll be under attack all day, and will have to keep moving despite that. These won’t be the annoyance raids of the past week. Salah ad-Din has drawn up his entire army and intends to fight. We can expect him to send attacks in waves. When they find they can’t stop the advance—and they will find that, as the Templars and King Richard will ensure that we roll right over anyone stupid enough to try to stand in our way—they’ll shift their efforts to the rear. We’ve been asked to move farther back in the column, immediately ahead of the Hospitallers, who will make up the rear guard today. That means we can expect to be the target of attack starting around midday.”

  He paused, wondering if he was taxing their patience, but they appeared very attentive—even hungry for more. Not many commanders took the time to tell their infantry what was expected of them. “The key to success is absolute discipline. We cannot—must not—allow a gap to develop between the Hospitallers and ourselves on one hand, or the French and ourselves on the other. Try to march so your shields nearly overlap.” He paused again, but he still had their undivided attention. “Have any of you ever heard of the Spartans?” He was surprised that a score of men waved in answer. For the rest he added, “They were ancient Greek warriors with a fierce reputation for never losing a battle. Do you want to know how they did that? By maintaining a wall of overlapping shields. If you try to imitate that, all of us—by the grace of God—may well survive this day. Your line of defense must not break for any reason until nightfall—excepting only at the signal to charge. I’ll come to that in a minute.

  “First take note: We’ll be marching five abreast, and the man on the far left will be bearing the brunt of the direct attacks, but the man immediately beside him will have to march with his shield raised against arrows fired in a trajectory. The middle man is the man who does the shooting, protected by the men on his left, while the man on his right reloads and hands him a cocked bow. At regular intervals, you must rotate functions. If a man is killed or injured, send him to the wagons and shorten—but don’t thin—the lines. Do you understand?”

  They nodded, murmured, or shouted assent, depending on their nature. These instructions were not new. Ibelin had developed and refined the idea of this order of battle ever since the torturous march to Hattin had cost him one-third of his infantry. Since signing on troops for the campaign, he had drilled his men in the formation, and they had used it daily for the last two weeks. His men, he sensed, were more annoyed than inspired by his reminder of what he expected of them. With an inner sigh, Ibelin admitted to himself that they would either hold or break today based on their own mettle. There was nothing more he could do or say.

  He continued to the instructions that were new. “When six trumpets sound the attack—two at the front, two at the standard, and two at the rear—that is the signal for the cavalry to pour out through the infantry for a charge. At the signal, I’ll need three gaps for my knights to ride through. One after the first twenty-five rows, one after the second twenty-five, and one after the third. Is that clear?”

  “I’ll be sure every man knows where the breaks are, my lord,” Sir Roger Shoreham assured him, seeing there was some confusion in the ranks.

  Ibelin nodded his thanks to Shoreham. Without the veteran sergeant-turned-knight, his troop would be worth half what it was now. “When that signal sounds, the cavalry must attack as rapidly as possible. Everything depends on our blow being delivered as a powerful joint effort. If we attack in ones and twos, we’ll squander our strength for nothing. When the signal sounds, open the gaps fast—but not a moment before. I am counting on you. The King of England is counting on you. Christendom is counting on you.”

  “For Christ and the Holy Sepulcher!” someone shouted from the ranks, and they all took up the shout. “For Christ and the Holy Sepulcher!”

  As predicted, the initial assaults focused on the front of the army. Waves of Nubians, Bedouins, and then Turks and Kurds hammered at the Frankish host as it advanced. Knowing that their greatest advantage lay in their mobility and numbers, Salah ad-Din did not attempt to actually hold a specific line, but flung successive waves of troops against the Franks. The Templars and the King of England’s Angevin and Gascon men put their heads down, their shields up, and kept marching in tight formation. Protected by the infantry, the knights (against their nature) dutifully ignored—as if deaf—the taunts and challenges of the drums, trumpets, cymbals, and the battle cries of their enemies. From their position toward the back of the army, Ibelin and his knights could see the air darken with the volleys of arrows. As they advanced, they increasingly found themselves marching past the corpses of horses, the human casualties having been cleared by their comrades and sent to the wagons.

  By noon the focus of the attacks had shifted, however, and came increasingly from the left quarter. The army had been marching three hours without rest, the sun was at its height, and the dust churned up by the repeated attacks made breathing more difficult than ever. They began encountering men from the battalions ahead of them who had collapsed from heat stroke and thirst. Furthermore, as the French and Flemish marching ahead of them started to wilt in the heat and dust, chinks in their defenses resulted in mounting casualties.

  In contrast, the Ibelin shield wall was still holding up very well. Riding back and forth beside the inside file, Ibelin caught the occasional joke about “Wait till they start the fires” or “When are they finally going to get off their asses?”

  By midafternoon, Ibelin noticed that the Count of Champagne, who commanded the battalion immediately ahead of them, had changed horses twice. He wasn’t sure, however, whether it was because he’d lost two horses already or was simply trying to spread the burden among his three horses to ensure he was not riding an exhausted horse when the charge finally sounded. To his credit, Champagne was riding energetically up and down his ranks, encouraging his men and exposing himself to danger.

  In his own battalion, no one was joking anymore. They had been marching six hours without a pause. Their throats were parched and their feet sore. Their arms ached from holding up their shields or firing round after round. They were hungry and needed to relieve themselves. Men started to lag or dropped out of rank for a piss. Furthermore, the attacks started coming more from behind them, which made it increasingly difficult to return fire.

  Riding to the back of his battalion, Ibelin noticed the Hospitallers were marching backwards in order to return fire without halting. That didn’t work very well, as he knew from bitter experience. Men tripped and fell, their aim was bad, and progress was slower than ever. The Hospitallers were under such unrelenting attack, however, that they had no choice, and Ibelin ordered a reduction in the pace of his battalion to prevent a gap developing. Ibelin rode forward to pass the word to Champagne, who at the sight of him at once cantered back to meet him.

  “The Hospitallers are marching backwards. We need to slow down,” he told the younger, less experienced commander.

  Champagne shook his head, not so much in disagreement as distress. “My uncle won’t like that. He keeps sending messages to pick up the pace and press onward. He’s worried about making it to the designated campground. We can’t stop short of Arsuf, where we have abundant water for the horses.”

  Ibelin found himself asking God why Guy de Lusignan had not had the sense the English King possessed. Here was a Westerner who had only been in the Holy Land three months, yet he had already grasped the essentials of warfare in the Palestinian environment against the mobile Saracens.

  Even as they spoke, the Hospitaller Master, Garnier de Nablus, cantered up and shou
ted at them: “We can’t take this much longer! I’m losing horses like flies. We have to fight back!”

  “The King will give the signal at the right time,” Champagne answered loyally.

  “The hell he will! We’re at risk of being wiped out!” Nablus snarled back, his face bright red and gleaming with sweat.

  “You’d better take that message forward yourself,” Ibelin advised; then nodding to Champagne in farewell, he turned Centurion around and rejoined his own men.

  “When the hell are we going to charge?” Sir Galvin echoed Nablus’ complaint, his ax ready in his hand. “Does the King of England think we can just wear them down without attacking? That’s not going to happen. There are too many of them. What the hell is the English King waiting for?”

  “I haven’t a clue what the King of England thinks,” Ibelin admitted, removing his right hand from his soaked mitten to wipe the sweat away from his eyes. His face was caked with dust, as were the faces of all his companions. The sweat from his hair left little rivulets on his cheeks before disappearing in the sheet of perspiration on his neck beneath his chain mail. He reached down for his water skin, took a sip, and then gestured to Georgios to bring water for Centurion as well.

  Georgios had just joined them and was leaning out of his saddle with the water bucket for Centurion when an arrow whizzed in and landed with a chink at the feet of Sir Galvin’s stallion. The veteran warhorse whinnied and snorted, and Ibelin looked quickly over his shoulder to where the arrow had come from. “Are they moving in closer?” he asked Sir Galvin in alarm.

  The Scotsman nodded, muttering his usual obscenities about the sexual organs of their enemy. Ibelin saved his breath, but shouted to his men, “Close up! Shields up!”