by Mark Butler
"No! No!"
"Artois, help me!"
With his powerful brother, Francois picked him Ghoul and threw him into the sunlight. Ghoul died in the same way the grey cloud had died. Francois swore he could hear the oasis sigh in relief. There were no more ominous sounds, no more threatening rustling in the foliage. The air was light and the water clean and cool. The animals sensed it, too, and they frolicked in the brush, free of a great affliction. The death of Ghoul was the final act, the liberation of the oasis and, like the dragon, another blight removed from the world.
"It's time to go back, boys. We have a crusade to complete," Raul said.
Chapter Twenty-Three
THE COQUETS RETURNED TO THE ARMY without incident. There was no court martial, no demands made for their absence. In fact, it seemed as if no one had noticed they were gone, as if they had only been gone for a single night, instead of five days.
There were rumors from the Egyptian Army. Captured caravans and spies from the Ayyubid Army claimed that the easy capture of Damietta had panicked the sultan, and there was unrest in Cairo. They claimed that the Ayyubids were not prepared for, nor interested in, a war. The capitulation of Damietta had been a huge political blow to the sultan, and the entire Egyptian and Muslim empire was vulnerable.
For reasons unknown even to his closest advisors, King Louis did not capitalize on the momentum of capturing Damietta. No orders were issued for weeks. Common soldiers could be found lounging around Damietta and the neighboring villages, bored and violent. Looting became commonplace, and a few Egyptian women were raped while the army was still encamped. A few men deserted, but their drying, lifeless corpses were found in far reaches of the desert and discouraged others from following suit.
"Why don't we move?" Artois asked his father, two weeks after returning from the haunted oasis. It was the end of June, the hottest part of the year, and Raul had a few theories on King Louis' thought process.
"The great storms, called monsoons, will be here for a while yet. Those torrential downpours will flood the rivers and make troop movements nearly impossible. King Louis may be waiting for the rains to end, and though we haven't seen any yet, they will come."
"I'm not scared of a bit of rain water."
"There is the heat too. We are from the north and cannot resist the sun like darker-skinned men. King Louis knows this, and he may be waiting for cooler weather to fight."
"Heat is a discomfort, which all soldiers should learn to ignore."
"I agree, my son, but you are tougher than most men, or haven't you noticed? There is a reason you were with the king's bodyguards, Artois. You may have even been the best of them. You were born to be a warrior, but other men were born to paint pictures, or grow crops, or train dogs. Do not look down on those men, my son. Your superiority in combat is known," Raul said. He sensed that his elder son was more than just bored: he was angry. His white-hot temper was always just beneath the surface, poking and prodding at him until he went mad. He needed to vent that hatred from time to time, and sadly, the Seventh Crusade wasn't providing an adequate outlet.
"I'm off to see Francois," Artois said.
He left his father at their unit's barracks and strode through Damietta, taking in the rock-and-mud houses and strange temples, called mosques. The devout people of that faith always seemed to be praying on their rugs or talking about their god, and Artois thought they were all slightly crazy. He marched down the main road of Damietta and turned into a dark alley, a shortcut to Francois' clinic.
The people in the alleys were the poorest of the poor. The women were all prostitutes and the men were useless drunkards, or they chewed on the leaves of the plant that is said to take away all pain, take away all feeling. Artois walked through the alley quickly, his nose invaded by the stench of human feces and urine.
Francois' clinic was another half-mile, and Artois jogged the rest of the distance, eager to work his fitness. Above all, he feared becoming weak and complacent while he waited for the drums of war. Artois couldn't imagine being in a fight and his strength failing him, but he knew it happened to some men.
Francois' clinic was three open-air tents with guards posted at the flaps. They were contracted from the army and paid by Louis himself, as men who protected the injured and ill and maintained order in the hospital settings. When Artois approached the guards, they tensed up and put their hands on the hilts of their swords.
"Yes?" the older one growled.
"I'm here to see Francois, my brother," Artois said.
"We will see if he is available," the younger one said. He disappeared into the tent and came back with Francois a moment later, who indicated Artois could enter.
The three-tent combination was mostly empty. Two elderly patients writhed on two cots pressed close to each other, and Artois wondered if they were married. It almost made him cry, the idea that two people could be so close in life that they would do everything in their power to face death together. But death is an experience that you endure alone, no matter how many loved ones you're surrounded by.
The other doctor, Henry, was seated at a table, reading a thick medical text. He looked at Artois with a practiced eye and laughed a bit to himself before returning to the text.
"What?" Artois asked.
"How can one brother be so large and the other so normal? Our bodies are mysteries, I tell you, mysteries."
Olivia was sleeping on a cot, and there was another sick patient at the end of the tent. He was coughing violently and cordoned off by hanging sheets, but Artois could see the convulsing figure through the white fabric.
"Will he live?" Artois whispered to Francois.
"Not likely. He has a sickness in his lungs, and he coughs black chunks of flesh and yellow bile at night. One of these mornings, I'm sure, we'll find him cold."
Artois frowned and looked away. He didn't like to acknowledge the fact that one day his body would break down like everyone else's. There would be no medicine, no comfort, and no relief until death. It's a simple reality that all people know, but few will concede. I want to live forever, in memory, at least, Artois thought.
They took lunch together at a pit-fire behind the medical tent. Henry had managed to procure a cooking rack, tongs, and a fat, juicy camel. Artois and Francois glanced at each other when they saw the foul beast, seven feet tall, spitting, and with three large humps on its back. It had an unpleasant odor and flies buzzed around the camel's rear.
"What's that for?" Artois asked.
"Food," Henry answered. In a motion that was almost too quick for eyes to follow, Henry picked up an axe and slammed it to the camel's forehead. The animal staggered, its legs shook, and Henry hit it again. The camel collapsed, limbs akimbo, tongue lolling out. "I'll need some help butchering it. The humps are fat, so cut them off but don't discard them. Olivia, can you take the head to the elderly shaman by the temple? I promised him the head."
As hungry as ever, the three men set to cutting the camel apart with gusto. Artois cleaved the head off and gave it to Olivia, who was suddenly very pale and unsteady.
"Do you want me to take it?" Francois asked her gently, placing his hand on her elbow.
"I've seen grosser things in the king's chambers," Olivia said, jerking her arm away from him. She wrapped the head in a black cloth and stalked off, leaving Francois open-mouthed.
"What's her problem?" he asked no one in particular.
"Women don't like to show weakness, especially in the company of men. She wants you to protect her Francois, just don't make it obvious," Henry answered, sounding very much like Raul.
"I don't understand women," Francois lamented.
"That makes two of us," Artois replied.
"Three," Henry added.
By the time Olivia returned, the camel was a steaming hunk of meat on the cooking rack, and if she didn't know any better, it could have been a deer or a cow. Henry served everyone and provided a flask of wine and a basket of apples. The four of them sat around the pit-fire in the bowels o
f Damietta, eating camel and waiting, like the rest of the Seventh Crusade, for King Louis' orders to march.
Raul arrived halfway through the meal, holding a sack of potatoes and a jar of honey.
"May I join you?" he asked.
They sipped wine and dipped the potatoes in the honey, talking of Europe and life before the Seventh Crusade. Henry and Raul were very close in age, and they talked animatedly, ignoring the others.
"Where is your sons' mother?" Henry asked.
"She is in Italy, sipping wine and surveying her vast holdings. She is a woman of culture and intelligence, but I wanted my sons to grow up as woodsmen and she didn't. They each stayed with her for their early years and were sent to me on the brink of manhood."
"That must have been very sad, to be away from your sons while they grew from infancy."
"Aye, but now I have them, and I imagine their mother is very sad," Raul replied. The meal lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Henry was curious, but respectful enough to not ask too many more questions. Instead of further conversation, the soldiers guarding the medical tent's entrance appeared.
"Forgive me, doctors, but there will be a major announcement this evening, a messenger just told us. You are all expected to be in the plaza at dusk, to hear King Louis' proclamations."
"Thank you," Henry said, and the guards left.
King Louis IX did not get nervous! He was the leader of the greatest army in the world, except perhaps the Mongols, and he was fearless! King Louis IX pitied the Ayyubids, those miserable Egyptian Muslims holed up in their precious city, Cairo.
"Cairo." Louis spat the word as if it was a piece of rotten fruit. He had captured Damietta, with his genius tactics and blistering troop deployment, and now Cairo was beckoning. There were other cities, of course, but Cairo was the crown jewel. The home of the sultan and center of Muslim strength in the entire world, Cairo was purported to be impenetrable.
"My king?" One of Louis' assistants, he didn't know the man's name, heard him say "Cairo."
"Leave me, I must prepare for my speech," Louis said. The assistant rushed out of the room, closing the ornate, iron doors behind him. Louis had commandeered the largest house in Damietta, an estate that rivaled some of his holdings in Spain and France. It was an impressive building that provided a magnificent balcony overlooking the streets. The balcony was the perfect spot for Louis to address his faithful soldiers, and they were already assembled outside, waiting for him.
He wore a royal, purple robe, blue leggings and his golden crown. Louis carried an unsheathed long-sword in his hand, and it had been polished to a bright sheen. The hilt of the sword was encrusted with rubies and emeralds, and Louis held it high as he walked out to the balcony. His soldiers cheered when they saw him, and he pumped the sword in the air as a salute. From the streets, Louis cut an impressive, imposing figure up on the balcony.
"He can't even handle that sword," Artois snorted, standing between Raul and Francois. Olivia was in front of him, and Henry was next to her.
"Let's hear what he has to say," Raul said, sounding bored. He had seen enough king's speeches and heard enough petty, war-rousing words for ten lifetimes. If King Louis wanted to impress his oldest, most cynical soldiers, he would need to be original.
"Crusaders! Warriors! Frenchmen!" Louis began, "I stand before you as your king, your father, your brother, and your son. I am here for peace and justice, for prosperity and truth. I have promised you much, and thus far, I have not delivered on those promises."
His words had the desired effect. The soldiers, the common men, had never heard a king admit that he had made a mistake. It was shocking, even to Raul, who strained his ears to hear Louis' next words.
"I told you that we would free Jerusalem from tyranny, but we have not. I told you that we would break the Muslims in Egypt, so that we can live in the peace of Christian neighbors, but we have not. Do you know why?"
No one responded. King Louis had rarely used a rhetorical style during his speeches, and it was a difficult line to tread. If even one brash, drunken soldier yelled out something random, Louis' spell over the crowd would quickly dissipate.
"I cannot do it alone, men! I cannot do it alone! I need each one of your swords, your arrows, your daggers, your horses, your muscles, your minds, to defeat the Ayyubids! I ask you now, as your king, Who is ready to exercise their talents as they've never been exercised before?"
They responded this time with a throaty roar, a blood-boiling plea to be let loose on the Ayyubids. They needed Louis to believe that they were ready for war, eager to kill, enthusiastic in their support of the Seventh Crusade. Louis let the men yell themselves hoarse, and he raised the long-sword, making eye contact with as many men as he could in the crowd.
"Let the preparations begin! In one week's time, we march for Cairo!"
The Coquets did not cheer. To a man, they sensed disaster. It was something in their blood, something none of them could identify or even activate, but it was there, a cold premonition. King Louis did not know what he was doing. He was about to challenge more experienced, prepared commanders on their own land. Raul, Francois, and Artois all sensed it—the same way they sensed the dragon in France and the Ghoul in the desert—King Louis was leading his men to death.
Chapter Twenty-Four
COLD WATER WAS DRIBBLED ON HIS LIPS, into his mouth. A damp rag was pressed against his forehead. He took a breath and coughed. This was not the way Sultan Malik-al-Salih wanted to leave the world, weak and diseased. His hand crept down to his left leg, feeling the warm, open wound that was going to take his life.
"Don't touch it, my sultan! We must keep the wound clean!" one of the sultan's wives slapped his hand away and began wiping the wound with a clean rag. She had heavy breasts and a beautiful face, and if the sultan died that day, he would be content if her face was the last thing he saw.
"Remove your shirt," the sultan commanded. She looked at him with a wry smile, perhaps surprised that he still had a sexual appetite. She complied quickly and smiled when the sultan cupped her breast in his hand. He could not bed her the way he used to, but he still liked breasts.
"When you are done, send in my generals. There is much work to do," the sultan said. His wife finished cleaning the wound and wrapped it tightly with a compression bandage. The wound had come from an arrow in Syria, when his killers were slaughtering a Khwarezmian clan. A lone archer had shot an arrow from an impossible distance. It's the will of Allah, the sultan thought. There was no way the arrow could have hit him without some assistance from the gods, or at least a favorable wind. The leg wound had become infected and his surgeons wanted to cut off the leg, but Malik-al-Salih knew that very few men survived an amputation.
His doors opened with a creak. His generals were there, seven men who knew him better than anyone else. They were his dogs of war, his most trusted advisors and best friends. Each of them had killed enemies with their own hands, each had commanded thousands of troops in the heat of battle, and Sultan Malik-al-Salih loved each one like a brother.
"Enter," he said, "I'm still sucking air."
They filed in respectfully and lowered their heads in his presence. The smell of his infected leg filled the room like a toxic cloud, but his generals were too loyal to comment on it. If the sultan died, there was a well-established line of succession in place. They had none of the conflicting loyalties, none of the palace intrigue that plagued the European royal families. The generals simply wanted to follow whatever final orders their sultan gave before his death, so that he might commend them in the afterlife.
"How are you, Malik?" Shajar-al-Durr asked. He was the sultan's right-hand man and his most favored tactician.
"I am dying, Shajar. If the infection doesn't kill me, the amputation will. I am content with my lot. Before I pass, I tell you there is work yet to be done. The European dogs are in Damietta. They took it with speed and violence, and because we were preoccupied in Syria, they now have a foothold in our country. They must n
ot gain any more ground."
"I will grind them to dust under my boot heel," Qutuz said. He was probably the best warrior in all of Egypt, a magician with the sword. When there was killing to be done, on a large or small scale, Qutuz was always the best man for the job.
"You will Qutuz, I know it. I need each of you to ready your men and meet these 'crusaders' at Mansura. Stop them at the canal, and if they try to cross it, widen the canal and pepper them with arrows and stones. I want to take a bit of their confidence before we take their hearts."
"Should we cross the canal? Or shall we make a stand in Mansura?" Shajar asked.
"Do not let them capture Mansura! If everything goes to plan, they will never even see the city. I do not want you to cross the canal, but if they make a ford, I want you to use it. Let them die trying to cross the canal, and then we will use their ford to bring more death."
"We shall crush them greater than all of their previous crusades combined! How many times must we slaughter these European men before they realize we are superior?" Qutuz exclaimed, prompting a bout of laughter from the other men. It was true, too, that the Muslims had won almost every major war in every crusade against the Holy Land, and then in the crusades against Egypt directly.
The Sixth Crusade was nothing but politics and diplomacy. The Fifth Crusade was a devastating victory for the Ayyubids. The Fourth Crusade never even reached their shores, and the first three produced mixed results for both sides. The sultan and his generals had every right to hubris, to the sort of confidence that comes from endless success. They had no reason to believe that this "Seventh Crusade" would be any different.
"Ready our men for battle. If I do not survive until the end, let my final wish be known throughout the land. Let every man, woman, and child know what Sultan Malik-al-Salih's dying wish was: destroy this 'Seventh Crusade' and parade its leader through Cairo, mocking him as the fool and weakling that he is."
The generals silently filed out of their sultan's room, his words still echoing in their ears. If they weren't motivated enough before, the wish of an obviously dying Sultan was more than enough of an incentive. His words were a mandate, a decree from on high to fulfill their holy mission and protect their homeland.
