Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “Did he give a name?”

  “Angelo.”

  Guillaume’s face changed, subtly, but just enough that Zaccaria, who had worked under him in Sicily for five years, noticed something was wrong. “My lord?”

  Guillaume gestured at the knight. “Bring him to me.”

  When Zaccaria left, the grand master made himself finish the Paternoster, then closed the prayer book. As he was setting it back inside the chest, the door was knocked on again, and this time, Zaccaria had another man with him. At a nod from Guillaume, the knight closed the door, leaving the two men alone in the solar.

  “My lord,” greeted Angelo Vitturi. His dark, handsome face was arrogantly impassive. “I wasn’t sure you would be taking visitors, after your unfortunate welcome on the dockside.”

  “I forgot how fast news travels in this city,” responded Guillaume wryly.

  “It is good that it did, for it alerted us to your arrival.”

  “I’m sure our discussion could have waited a day or two,” responded Guillaume, heading to a table where a servant had placed a jug of wine.

  “Actually, it couldn’t. I am leaving for Egypt.” Angelo shook his head as Guillaume offered him a goblet. “The contact I told you about when we spoke in France, I am meeting him.”

  “Then he agreed to aid you?” said Guillaume, sipping his wine. “I must say I am surprised. I did not think you would be able to turn one of them so easily.”

  “He doesn’t much care for the situation he finds himself in. It was not so hard.”

  “What are you doing here, Vitturi?”

  Angelo frowned at the bluntness in the grand master’s tone. “We wanted to make sure you are set and that nothing has changed.” He gave a small shrug. “Your mind perhaps?”

  Guillaume smiled, as if he found the game amusing. “I would be careful about questioning my word. It is a precious thing. Do not treat it lightly.”

  Angelo noted the danger behind that smile, but it didn’t faze him. “My father and I are simply concerned that everything runs as smoothly as possible. We only have one chance to do this. Have you thought about who you will use to accomplish the theft?”

  “I cannot do that until my position here is established and I have formed relationships with men I can trust. From what you told me, I presumed I had time in which to do this. Is that no longer the case?”

  “The theft itself will not occur for some while yet. You will have plenty of time.”

  Guillaume looked into the Venetian’s eyes, black and predatory as a shark’s, and touched his brow, the ache making his thoughts muddled. “Then we are finished here for now. I will keep my end of the bargain, Vitturi, if you keep yours.”

  Angelo bowed stiffly and left the chamber, to be escorted back to the gate by Zaccaria.

  Guillaume moved to the window. He had disliked the young man on their first meeting, and a second had done nothing to change that. He was angry that he was working with these merchants; his pride fought against the alliance, knowing they were using him for his resources. He believed their plan could work, where nothing else had. But it was a dangerous game and, not for the first time, Guillaume felt the weight of doubt pressing down on him. He pushed it aside. He had strong allies: King Edward, King Charles, Pope Gregory. They wouldn’t let the Holy Land fall. When the time came, they would rouse the West. He was sure of it.

  Guillaume looked over the courtyard beyond the walls to the scattered glitter of a thousand torches that lit the sleeping city like stars cast from heaven. If all went according to plan, they would soon be at war with the Muslims. “We do what we must,” he said quietly. And then, quieter still. “God forgive me.”

  7

  AL-Bira, Northern Syria 26 FEBRUARY A.D. 1276

  A howled cry rose on the air, shattering the quiet dawn. Clouds of birds soared into the sky from thickets on the riverbanks, as seventy catapults lined up in formation around al-Bira were fired in succession. Giant boulders went spinning from the siege engines’ slings to smash into dust and debris as they struck the city walls. As soon as the load was fired, one of the Chinese engineers who manned the catapults would winch down the sling, suspended from a long arm pivoted on the crossbar of the engine’s wooden frame. His comrades would then position another stone in the leather cradle. Every now and then, the sky lit up as the engineers substituted barrels of flaming pitch for the stones, which left trails of black vapor in their wake as they streaked up to explode across the fortifications.

  Under cover of the relentless bombardment, three towering monstrosities rolled cumbersomely toward the city. Within the lurching wooden structures, mounted on wheeled platforms, were four floors reached by internal ladders, on which groups of Seljuk archers knelt before arrow slits, bows primed. On the top floor of each tower, cramped beneath a heavy wooden hatch, were ten Mongol warriors. They were clad in lamellar battle armor, maces and swords ready in their fists. Behind the siege towers, lines of infantry marched in formation carrying long ladders. These men wore a lighter armor made from varnished oxhide, with shields slung over their shoulders and swords at their hips. Clothes hung loose on forms they had fitted snugly just three weeks earlier. A sickness causing violent bouts of vomiting and diarrhea had ravaged the army over the past few days, killing several hundred. But still they came, dogged, determined, the colorful cloaks and turbans of Seljuk and Iraqi troops garish amidst the brown leather armor of the Mongols.

  Shortly after the initial crashes and thuds of rocks and barrels, the first screams went up from the walls, as the Mamluk soldiers manning them were wounded by flying shards of stone or crushed by boulders that smashed through the ramparts. Mamluk archers answered their enemy with arrows that sprang in wide sheets that turned the sky dark before arcing in a lethal volley into the advancing troops, thumping into shields, mud and men. Within the city itself, citizens crowded nervously into the mosques, men praying, mothers trying to quiet infants who wailed at the booming sounds of battle and the strained dread they sensed in their parents.

  The Mamluk garrison Baybars had set in al-Bira, following an attack by the Mongols eleven years ago, were no strangers to sieges. Baybars had wrested the city from the occupying Mongol forces shortly after his accession to the throne, and the Mamluks had been involved in a tug-of-war with them over possession of it ever since. But this time was different. The Mongols knew the weak spots and were concentrating all their efforts on them. Even with the extra troops that had come up from Aleppo two weeks earlier, the assault was taking its toll.

  Mamluk soldiers primed mandjaniks and ‘arradas mounted on the tower platforms that buttressed the walls, letting loose a barrage of stones and javelins into the approaching engines and troops. One javelin, four feet long, went shooting from an ‘arrada into a line of Mongols who were carrying one of the ladders. The first man didn’t even see it coming. It plunged into him, driving clean through his hide armor, barreling through him like he was made of water, not flesh and bone. The impact picked him off his feet and drove him backward, where the javelin continued its deadly trajectory into three more men, impaling them like pigs on a spit. Four soldiers raced out from the lines of infantry that waited just out of range of the arrows, picked up the fallen ladder and continued the march. As more fell, others were there to take their places, leaving the dead to cover the ground behind them.

  Stones from the Mamluks’ mandjaniks, which were launched at the siege towers, had less effect than the javelins, as each of the wooden structures was covered with a deadening shield of cloth, hay and sacking. They did, however, shudder and sway ominously as the missiles struck them. Heavy rainfall had turned parts of the plain into a slimy mire, making further work for the rope pullers. Feet slipping, legs coated in gray, stinking mud, teeth gritted against the pain in their stretched muscles, they heaved and hauled the siege towers awkwardly, but steadily, toward al-Bira.

  Ishandiyar was less than a quarter of a mile away when the first of the siege towers reached the walls. Dimly
, through the clouds of smoke and dust that hung like a shroud in front of the city, he saw the hatch of the tower flip down onto the wall. Figures leapt out into the Mamluk lines waiting on the ramparts. Moments later, two of the ladders were hoisted against the walls. From his vantage point, on a slight incline beside the Euphrates, Ishandiyar saw Mongol warriors begin to climb. A barrel of pitch flew up from a catapult and erupted across a corner tower. Men burned like phoenixes as they fell from the heights, clothes and hair flaming. Their screams came to him; then a tattered veil of smoke swirled in to obscure his vision.

  Ishandiyar turned to the two military governors beside him. “Ready the men.”

  “Should we reveal ourselves to the enemy so soon?” said one of the amirs doubtfully.

  “We cannot stay hidden for much longer.” Ishandiyar motioned along the river. For several miles the broad, sloping banks had shielded them. Ishandiyar had sent out soldiers to find and kill any Mongol scouts in the area, so that no one would be warned of their approach. Ahead, however, the bank leveled out, and within a hundred or so yards, the Mongol Army would see them. Ishandiyar looked down the slope behind him to the line of troops that stretched into the distance. It was as if a brightly colored forest had sprung up out of the desert, bristling with bows and spears. Men waited, calming horses, drinking water from skins, tightening armor. As well as his own regiment of four thousand, there were the regiments of the two amirs and the auxiliary forces they had gathered at Aleppo. They were twenty thousand in total. But that matched only two-thirds of the Mongols’ force. “If we move now, whilst they are concentrating on the walls, we may be afforded some measure of surprise. Either way, we cannot linger.”

  “I agree,” said the second governor.

  “I will lead a charge against the troops at the walls. You and your men will focus on the soldiers behind the siege lines, and on the engines.” Ishandiyar nodded to them. “Allah be with you.”

  The amirs turned their horses. Kicking up dust, they sped down the bank and galloped along the line of waiting soldiers, past infantry, cavalry, Bedouin tribesmen and men carrying pots of naphtha. They barked orders as they went, their silk surcoats flying out behind them to reveal glittering coats of mail beneath. Ishandiyar steered his horse over to the officers of his regiment. After a few brief commands, they were ready. All along the line, men moved into position, infantry jostling to move out of the way of cavalry, as the distant thuds and screams at the city walls continued.

  Ishandiyar raised his sabre. “Allahu akbar!”

  His officers answered his cry, and together, the first cavalry of the Mamluk elite charged their horses up the sloping, sandy banks, like a wave curling over a shore.

  Within moments of the Mamluks’ appearance, the horns blared an alarm from the Mongol camp that was stretched along the plain between the city and the river. Mongol cavalry, watching the battle from behind the lines, rushed to their mounts, grabbing spears and helmets as the dust cloud churned up by the Mamluk charge grew, thickening the air.

  The other siege towers had now reached the walls. Warriors spewed forth from the towers’ tops, whirling maces and swords. Six ladders had gone up, the Seljuk archers inside the siege towers shooting at Mamluks on the walls who were attempting to cast them down. More Mongol warriors were scrabbling up through the siege towers to join their comrades fighting fiercely on the ramparts, trying to punch through the lines of Mamluks. Men shoved and snarled and spat as they fought one another in the cramped space, eyes stinging with dust and sweat, feet catching on bodies, tripping on rubble.

  The Bedouin tribesmen were the first of Ishandiyar’s troops to reach the Mongol camp. Their cloaks and kaffiyehs flying like ragged shadows around them, they swarmed in under command of their sheikhs like a plague of wasps. Arrows, knives and stones whipped from bows and hands and slingshots, and several catapults went still as the Chinese engineers manning them were viciously cut down. Ishandiyar had worried about the Bedouin; he had known them to desert to the enemy side when their own faltered, offering their allegiance in return for a share of any plunder. But as he glimpsed their lightning raid on the camp, he was glad they were with him. They were canny fighters, swift on their light horses, and for now at least, the Mongols were feeling the full force of their skill. The wounded and the sick were given no mercy as whooping tribesmen tossed flaming brands into tents, which caught and flared like paper. Here, disease had done its work and many of the men were simply too weak to fight. Despite the rallying shouts of their commanders, some began to flee.

  Ishandiyar saw a line of Mongol heavy cavalry approaching to his right, and shouting for his men to follow, he bore down on the sprawl of soldiers at the foot of the walls as the right flank of his regiment broke away to engage the cavalry. The mass of troops scrambled into lines ahead of him that tightened as he closed the distance, shields and spears going up. One of the ladders fell back, pushed from the wall by the Mamluks on the ramparts. Men clung to the rungs, shrieking as it plunged to earth. Others jumped free, only to be crushed moments later by their comrades as the ladder crashed into the ground.

  Ishandiyar launched himself into the fray, slicing his sword in a sweeping arc then stabbing backward as he barreled through the first lines of infantry, killing indiscriminately. One man leapt at him, grabbing his horse’s neck. His face, beneath the streaks of dust and mud, was ugly with battle rage. Snarling, he stabbed at the commander with a dagger. Ishandiyar kicked out, catching the man in the jaw and snapping his head back. Deftly, he turned his horse with his knees. The beast, which was well trained, knocked the man aside, sending him sprawling to the ground, then reared up and stamped down, the impact of its hooves crushing his skull.

  In the first seconds, the Mamluk cavalry sheared through the tangle of men that choked the foot of the walls, like a scythe through corn. But the cramped space quickly became treacherous. The slimy ground, littered with rocks and bodies, caused men and horses to slip and stumble. Some Mamluks were pulled from their mounts and butchered by Mongol warriors; others fell dying with a Seljuk arrow in the neck or were thrown from their saddles as their horses were slashed by stray blades. Blood turned the air and the boggy ground red as men cut and thrust, and struck one another.

  Ishandiyar managed to stay in his saddle and relentlessly blocked and delivered blows. His face a mask of concentration, he grunted with effort as the long march and the fierce charge quickly caught up with him, locking in his limbs. He hacked a man down, then turned to face another. Two more of the ladders had toppled and the boulders had ceased to fall. But the battlefield was chaos. Ishandiyar had no idea what was happening around the rest of the city. Thick smoke was rising from the Mongols’ camp, but the enemy had rallied and were pouring into the melee to aid their comrades. His soldiers were falling. He could hear them dying around him. Panic rose in him. But he forced it down ruthlessly. His conviction lent strength to his arms and he hammered at the Mongols. If his death was required today, so be it. He would face it as a warrior and as a Muslim. He would face it with his men.

  For some moments, Ishandiyar, caught up in the fury of battle, didn’t hear the horns, and when eventually he did, he couldn’t discern where the sound was coming from. Then he saw one of his officers thrusting a saber to the sky, jubilation plain in his face. Turning his horse, Ishandiyar saw Mamluks riding onto the plain in their hundreds. He thought for a second that they were his own troops, but then he realized that they weren’t clad in the colors of any of the regiments he had led to the city. They wore the uniform of the regiment of the amir of Aleppo. The gates of al-Bira had opened. The city’s garrison was riding to their aid.

  And within moments, the battle turned.

  The Mongols around al-Bira, seeing the reinforcements pouring from the city, began to rout. Their camp was in flames, their forces divided. Some men, locked in combat or too hemmed in to escape, fought on to the death. Most fled, running to the river, where they swam to the other side, arrows from the Mamluks who pu
rsued them darting into the water around them. Others charged weary horses toward the ford they had crossed by. After a siege that had lasted almost two weeks, with victory in sight, the Mongols and their Seljuk allies were driven back across the Euphrates a weaker, smaller force, leaving a trail of dead and wounded behind them.

  Ishandiyar met with one of his officers after the fighting had ended, the last few pockets of resistance having been swiftly dispatched. A knife wound in his leg had been hastily bound by one of his physicians and stung like fire. He sucked water from a skin, swilled it around his mouth, then spat dust and blood into the sand.

  “Take this to Aleppo,” he said, handing a scroll to the officer. “Give it to the amir and have him send it by post-horse to Sultan Baybars. Cairo will be keen to learn of our victory.”

  The officer bowed and left.

  Ishandiyar winced as he put weight on his leg and limped toward the gates, where wounded men were being carried into the city. The battle had ended in triumph. They had defeated the Mongols. But now it was time to count the dead.

  THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 1 MARCH A.D. 1276

  The sound of gruff voices was a dull drone in Baybars’s ears as he looked down on the assembled company of governors, seated cross-legged on carpets and cushions before the dais. Resisting the urge to yawn, he pushed himself straighter and grasped the lions’ heads that capped the throne’s arms, feeling the metal solid and cold beneath his hands. “Enough, Mahmud. I think we are all familiar with your position on this matter now.”

  Mahmud bowed, but his face clearly displayed his gall at the brusque chastisement.

  “Amir Kalawun,” said Baybars. “You have kept very quiet. What do you say to this?”

  Kalawun felt the attention of the fifteen men in the throne room turn on him. He took a sip of cordial from the goblet he held, so as to allow himself a moment to collect his thoughts. The younger men, like Mahmud, fidgeted impatiently. The war council had been tense and animated since it started, with arguments and counterarguments clashing into one another without resolution for over an hour. When he was ready, Kalawun set the goblet on one of the low tables arranged on the carpets and met Baybars’s waiting gaze. “As I have stated before, my lord, I see no point in wasting precious resources attacking a people that are no threat to us at present.”