by Mark Butler
War drums froze every man's heart. The crusaders used trumpets and whistles for their battle calls. The Ayyubids used drums. There was a darkening on the horizon, the shadow of thousands, tens of thousands, of warriors. Heavy infantry made up their center, archers were on the wings and the cavalry rode close to the crusaders, watching them with cold eyes. Their skin was red and their uniforms black.
Louis could imagine how they looked to the massive Egyptian Army. They were a force of 150 cavalry, packed tightly against the mighty canal, alone. They were outnumbered and scared. They were fatigued from the crossing and had an inexperienced leader.
"Retreat! Go back across the water!" Louis roared, pushing past his men. He leaped off his horse and tore his purple robe when it snagged on his saddle. He landed in the mud and stood. His crown fell off. Louis swore, picked up the golden trinket and jammed it onto his head. If he was going to die, it would be as the king of France. Louis left his horse and ran to the sandbar, and he walked across quickly, already hearing the sounds of battle behind him.
Arrows landed all around him. The cold water at his ankles was persistent, pulling him down, scaring him out of his wits. Louis fought on, knee-deep in the river mud and already exhausted. I should have trained my fitness with the men, Louis thought, and then, a darker thought; I should have killed Robert years ago.
Louis made it back safely, just as two units of infantry arrived. Louis practically dove into their protection, and they held up their shields to prevent a stray arrow from taking the monarch's life. More cavalry made it back across, but their numbers were depleted to almost nothing. Most were injured, being carried by their comrades away from the massacre.
"Hold the crossing! Lay boards! Hold the crossing!" Louis screamed from the middle of his line. His infantry officers looked at one another dubiously, and they plunged into the river, meeting the Ayyubids halfway. The battle quickly became a strange affair. Only the men in the middle of the river could perform direct combat, and their comrades behind them could only watch, waiting for the men in the middle to die and fall into the water, to be replaced.
The engineers arrived with the long-boards. If the infantry could simply capture the far side of the bank again, they could secure the boards and hundreds of men could cross at once, instead of two or three at a time. The boards were passed to the front and the Europeans made a final push, butchering the Ayyubids and reaching the far bank. Still under a furious assault, they laid the massive boards down and more soldiers rushed onto them, eager to join the fight.
The first two long-boards broke under the weight of flesh and metal, sending dozens of warriors to watery graves. The third long-board was dislodged by an Ayyubid countercharge, and more crusaders died. Five more boards were quickly laid, and they held strong while the Europeans charged across, eager to avenge their fathers, brothers, and sons.
"Why are we still fighting? Must I do everything myself?" Qutuz asked his second-in-command.
"The Europeans are heavy, my lord. They are fighting furiously; the men are doing their best."
"Come with me, we will show them how it's done," Qutuz said. He handed the reins of his horse to an attendant and jogged to the front of the battle. He was the high commander in Mansura, while Shajar was still four miles upriver, staring at the white men across the murky canal. Qutuz flexed his wrists and felt the power there. He had been fighting with blades since he could walk, and he had only lost once, to his father, when he was eleven. It had been the first time his father fought him like a grown man, and Qutuz had done the same thing to his sons when they came of age.
Qutuz never charged in recklessly, he never threw caution to the wind. Battle and victory were not about bravery or numerical superiority. Victory came from skill, timing, and the appropriate application of strength at the correct time. Whether he was in a one-on-one or a battle of thousands, Qutuz never forgot the lessons of war he learned as a child. With his wits completely about him, he strode out onto the long-boards, to push the crusaders back with the sweat of his own brow.
Artois was on the long-boards. He had left his unit when he heard the rumors of fighting on the ford, and now he was single-handedly keeping the Seventh Crusade alive. The Ayyubids gave him a wide berth along the battle line, and with good reason. Artois had already killed fifteen men. When they held back and tried to fence with him, he beat their cheap weapons down with his heavy axe, and then he cleaved their brains. When the Ayyubids got close, Artois simply threw them into the river, laughing at the sheer joy of it all. This was life!
The Egyptian's battle demeanor changed. They shrank back, and Artois surged forward, his comrades taking courage from his presence. But the Egyptians weren't retreating; they were consolidating, merging into a tight band of warriors on the bank. In their center was an older man, almost too old for battle and Artois saw the Ayyubids looking at him for orders.
They made eye contact. Despite the churning river, flying arrows, screaming and bleeding men, wild horses, and snapped long boards, Artois and Qutuz made eye contact. There was a moment of feral recognition, of two alpha predators that were hungry for blood.
Qutuz raised a fist and spread his fingers. The men around him dispersed immediately, forming a jagged line along the river's bank. They crouched and raised their weapons, and Artois held up a hand to the crusaders.
"Hold! Wait!" Artois shouted. The crusaders stopped as if the king had given the order, and they all looked to Artois, their eyes reverent of the big warrior. One battle-crazed crusader looked at Artois, saw no official rank, and charged the crouching Ayyubids. None of the crusaders followed him, though they watched him meet his fate.
Qutuz saw the lone figure running straight at his position, and he gave quick orders to his men to stand back. He had a long dagger with two golden handles; one at the bottom, the other halfway up the blade. The Christian martyr, for that was how Qutuz perceived the enemy, leaped through the air, his blade aimed at Qutuz's throat. The master of thousands of hours of practice saw the attack coming immediately, and he smoothly stepped aside, plunging his blade into the man's abdomen. The dagger went all the way through the man's back, and Qutuz grabbed the golden, upper handle of the dagger and pulled it the rest of the way through.
Artois saw the crusader die. The motion was almost too quick for his eyes to follow; one minute he was flying through the air, and then the Egyptian leader was pulling his blade completely through the man's body. He had surely died before his face crashed to the dirt.
"Keep the others busy," Artois growled, "That old bastard in the middle is mine."
"Who are you to give orders? I am Captain Bellackia of the Second Infantry in Paris!" a cavalryman yelled at Artois, steering his horse face-to-face with the big man. Artois looked at the captain and saw no blood on his blade. He shied away, pretending to be ashamed. Captain Bellackia beamed for a moment, and Artois pushed the horse's head aside and grabbed the captain by his shoulders. He pulled him off the horse and dropped him in the water. His axe was resting on the captain's chest a moment later.
"And I suppose you're going to kill them?" Artois gestured at the Ayyubid line. Captain Bellackia shook his head nervously, and Artois took his axe off the man's chest, "If you're not going to kill them, why don't you just let me do my job? Is that okay, Captain Blacklie?" Artois said, botching the man's last name. He waited for the captain to try and arrest him, or charge the Ayyubid line, but he did neither. He walked his horse back to the shore, and Artois raised his axe high.
"For France!" he screamed. The crusaders charged, leaving Artois, the best killer, a wide space for a duel with the leader of the Ayyubids. The Egyptian men, bravery in their veins, copied the crusader charge, leaving Qutuz to deal with Artois alone.
They met in the center of the river. The two men could not have been more different in appearance. Artois was a giant, white bruiser from France. He carried a battle axe, a sword on his hip and enough armor to cover his groin and abdomen.
Qutuz had lupi
ne features and reddish skin, a necessary inheritance from the hard men who lived in the desert. He had four golden daggers, a polished saber, and a rope around his waist, which he used as a last-resort ligature.
"After I kill you, those pretty daggers are mine!" Artois yelled, knowing the Egyptian warrior couldn't understand his words. They were ten feet apart, and Artois waited for the Egyptian to strike first.
Qutuz moved like lightning. He rushed Artois and ducked at the last moment, avoiding Artois' axe strike and slicing a ribbon of flesh off his leg. Artois yelped in pain and bounced back, eyeing the Egyptian with a tad more respect.
If Artois wanted to win, he knew he had to strike first. He stalked Qutuz, trying to get close enough to end the fight with a single blow. Qutuz shuffled his feet and moved laterally, reading Artois' body movements. Inspiration struck Artois; he threw his axe at Qutuz. It was an attack neither of them was expecting, and the blade flipped through the air and caught Qutuz on the upper arm, drawing a fountain of blood. Qutuz dislodged the axe and it dropped in the gory water.
Qutuz responded by throwing one of his golden daggers. He was renowned for his accuracy with the blades, but that accuracy was always found in training, when the ground was dry and you weren't tired and bleeding. Artois surprised Qutuz by ducking under the dagger, and it kept flying, striking a random Ayyubid warrior in the neck and killing him.
"C'mon, you bastard!" Artois yelled.
Qutuz had never had so much trouble killing a man before. He knew he must get close and end the fight with his daggers, so he waded in, avoiding Artois' sword strikes. As he was about to bury his dagger in the man's neck, Artois dropped his sword and grabbed Qutuz by the arms. He lifted him up and threw him face down into the river, driving his knee into the man's back.
"I learned this from the king's bodyguard!" Artois yelled to no one in particular. Qutuz was slippery, though, and he kicked Artois' legs and spun out of the potential drowning. He kept spinning and was soon back on his feet. He grinned. Artois had dropped his sword and Qutuz still had two daggers. Qutuz took a quick inventory of the battle around him. His men had lost, somehow, and he was the only Ayyubid still standing. Death didn't matter to him, though. He just wanted to kill one more man.
He charged Artois again, and Artois met his momentum with his own, sending the two warriors sprawling in the water. Qutuz flailed under Artois' weight, and he brought his fingers up, clawing at Artois' eyes, trying to blind him. Artois tucked his chin and grabbed the rope around Qutuz's waist. Before Qutuz knew what was happening, Artois looped the rope around his throat and squeezed. Artois flipped Qutuz over on his back and kept the ligature tight, while still holding his head underwater. Artois killed him like that, drowned him like a river rat. He stood up from his handiwork, shaking and pale.
"I learned that from my uncle Christof!" Artois roared. To the other crusaders, he looked like some sort of river demon, and they shied away. The battle was over, the Ayyubid warriors dead or retreating. The river was secure, for now.
King Louis brought his entire army to the crossing. He decided they would hold the crossing for a day, regroup, and then advance toward Cairo. Again, his procrastination was derided by his commanders, but Louis had a taste of real battle that day, and he was disturbed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE AYYUBID REINFORCEMENTS arrived under the command of Shajar. After learning of Qutuz's death in the river, he took a more practical, economical approach to fighting the crusaders. He spread his men along the canal, loosely, and attacked the crusaders in spontaneous waves. They peppered the crusaders with arrows, launched surprise cavalry charges, and never surrendered an inch of their land.
King Louis had all his forces at the canal's crossing, but he refused to push farther south. The Ayyubids were expecting that, he said, and they should be patient. His commanders wondered if he was hoping for a truce, to avoid more bloodshed, or if he was truly delusional. Surely, they thought, the Ayyubids were benefitting more from the stalemate than they were. The answer came in the form of an Ayyubid charge on a cold January morning, 1250.
The three Coquets were eating lunch next to the canal that morning. Artois wore a new gold epaulette on his shoulder, a gift from the king after his heroics in the river. Raul was the father of the hero, and men came from every part of the army to bless Raul, to thank him for raising such a strong son and bringing him to save French lives in Egypt. Raul was always quick to point out that he had two sons, the other one a skilled surgeon and brave fighter, but there were dozens of men with those qualities. Artois was special, they said, one of a kind.
"What do you suppose that shiny trinket is worth?" Francois asked with a mouthful of fish.
"Three or four livre, I should think," Raul said.
"I won't sell it. This is a reminder, and I will treasure it always. Besides, there are more riches to be had from the Arabic corpses we shall soon create!" Artois said. He was drinking cold soup and some of it flew out of his mouth, landing on Francois' cheek.
"Shut your mouth while you eat, you big ox," Francois said, wiping his face.
Artois opened his mouth to reply, but a series of horns across the river cut him short. There was an infantry regiment stationed over there, to repel brave Ayyubids who might try an attack, and no one moved.
"I'll talk while I eat and eat while I lay with a whore!" Artois said to Francois, laughing and spewing more food.
"You can kill men. Congratulations," Francois said, as he stood and walked away. It was disgusting to him. Not Artois' lack of meal etiquette, but the way that other common men esteemed Artois, the way they venerated him because he was born two sizes too big and with an insatiable appetite for violence. Artois' qualities were not something Francois worshipped. Why should he? There were men, like Henry, who could save a life that no other man could. There were women, like Olivia, who always put others first, who self-sacrificed because they knew that love and compassion were what made life worth living. In Francois' mind, men like Artois were the antithesis of those virtues; they were strong and aggressive, hardly qualities to boast about.
"Get down!" Artois said, running toward Francois. Seeing his older brother running toward him, full speed, Francois did the only sensible thing he could: he ducked. A hail of arrows flew over his head and Artois was there a moment later, holding a broad shield up and protecting Francois. "Retreat! Get back!" Artois screamed, and then he drew his sword and ran toward the river.
"What's happening?" Francois cried, but Raul was there a moment later, pulling Francois away. The trumpets of the crusade started blaring, and men took up the cry all over the camp.
"We're under attack! We're under attack!"
"Retreat! Fall back!"
"Move! Move!"
The crusaders infantry pulled back to its side of the river. Artois was in the center of the line, and the Europeans looked formidable, impenetrable. But across the river was a force of Ayyubids that dwarfed the Seventh Crusade, and they were formed densely; a wrecking ball of Egyptian blood, flesh, and steel. With a guttural cry, they charged across the river.
The trumpets blasted again, three long, mournful notes. It was the command for a general retreat. The infantry backed away from the river, and the rest of the camp backed up with them, pulling north.
"What about Artois?" Francois asked, carrying his sack and weapons. Raul's face was strained, he carried Artois' gear as well as his own, and he grimaced.
"Artois knows what he's doing."
The familiar sound of Artois' battle cry could be heard above all the other noises, and Francois knew his brother was plying his trade, again. He briefly remembered that Artois had saved his life, again, and he cursed the gods for their cruel sense of humor.
The same scene played over and over for the next two months. The Ayyubids, as soon as they received reinforcements from Cairo, rushed the crusaders. The crusaders, suffering from their long tenure in the desert, retreated every day. The Ayyubids pushed them farther north unde
r the mastery of Shajar.
Shajar used tactics from the books of Caesar, Alexander, and Augustus to defeat the crusaders. He launched night attacks, employed decoys, ambushed supply lines, and made examples of captured crusaders. Some of his captives were crucified, others were castrated, and all were eventually killed. The horror of knowing what might happen to them took the heart of many crusaders, and they needed little encouragement to retreat back to the coast, back to Damietta.
Artois was the only soldier to fight every day. Whether the attack came in the darkest of night or in the fullness of daylight, he was there, standing in the center of the rearguard. His presence brought courage to scared men and fortitude to a crumbling expedition. His gallantry did not go unnoticed by the king and his generals, and Artois was made into a hero of the Seventh Crusade. Accolades were piled on him, until Francois thought he might drown under the sheer weight of them all.
Francois fought alongside his brother twice. The first time, Artois hardly took his eyes off Francois and he was, in turn, ineffective. The second time, Francois received a small cut to his chest, and Artois personally carried him to the medical tent. The other men started to complain of Francois' presence, and he decided to just stay with Henry and tend to the new batch of wounded warriors that came in each day. It was frustrating. He wanted to fight, to kill, and be recognized as Artois was, but it was just impossible. He couldn't hope to match Artois' skill in killing.
"You should love your brother," Henry said, one evening after one of Francois' rants.
"I do love him, but I hate what he is. Do you understand?"
"He saved your life, and your father's, more than once. He didn't choose to be a killing machine, but he is. Is he really so unbearable?"
