by Mark Butler
Olivia came from below decks. She sidled up next to Francois and let her hands slip around his waist. He had seen how the Venetian sailors coveted her, but they had seen Artois' protective body language and settled themselves to leering. "Hello," she said.
"Olivia, say goodbye to Egypt," Francois said. Olivia spat over the deck. The brothers laughed and did the same. Their spittle disappeared in the frothy, white waves and was gone, but their gesture did not go unnoticed by one of the sailors.
"That's bad luck," he said. They ignored him.
"We're going back to France now," Artois said, "What will we do?"
"We are returning crusaders. The fashion in which King Louis propagates this expedition will reflect our treatment," Francois said, his eyes gazing into the ocean. He was thinking of Olivia, medicine, survival, and a bright world. He knew that if the Seventh Crusade was deemed a failure, he could not use that distinction in future affairs. Where would he go? There were many places, and his mind flashed to his wealthy mother, relaxing at her luxurious estate. There would be rows of grapes, thick copses of peach and walnut trees. The mighty city of Rome was nearby, a few days' travel from Tuscany. Stories from that legendary place had haunted and fascinated Francois as a child.
"I will become a bodyguard," Artois blurted out. "Or I will guard something, maybe expensive things owned by weak people. Or I will kill something."
Olivia and Francois met eyes. There was mutual humor there, and Francois knew what she was thinking: your brother is simple to understand. You are not.
Egypt was far in the distance now, a tiny speck. None of the three spoke for a long time, and Raul ghosted up behind them. The breeze was cool and stinging, the ocean's natural way of energizing people in her realm. Raul put his hands on the railing and shielded the sun from his eyes. He sensed the quiet and did not speak. Of them, he was the only one who lost a close family member in Egypt. The strange port city of Damietta, constantly under sieges and reinforcements, was Christof's final resting place. Farewell brother. I never understood you.
"My father is in Paris," Olivia said. The men looked at one another.
"Paris is a beautiful place to live," Artois said.
"It is a place to start, son, but not a home. Make your way in Paris for a time, but remember the world is woods, fields, farms, and battlefields. Life is sailing the oceans, seeing amazing cities, and meeting strange people. Paris is a beginning, though," Raul said.
"Our mother is in Italy," Francois said, "Though I cannot make the journey alone."
Everyone leaned hard to the left. The ship listed and there was a crash beneath the deck. Cargo was likely sliding around: armor, weapons, equipment, and food boxes. Artois gripped the wooden railing and, flexing his veiny biceps, pulled himself vertical. The ship listed to the right and the cargo crashed again. A man yelled something in Italian and two crewmen went to tie down the loose articles. After a moment the ship righted itself and the seas calmed.
"Let us not speak too much of the future," Raul said. "We should enjoy being here and now. Survival on this voyage, or any other, is not guaranteed."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
THERE WAS SAND IN HIS THROAT, eyes, ears, and between the toes on his bare feet. His legs were numb from running behind a horse for two days. Turanshah had permitted Louis a few sips of water from time to time, but nothing more. Louis' chest hurt. His heart was beating too quickly, not slowing down.
The crusaders surrendered Damietta back to the Ayyubids under one condition: they could leave Egypt freely, without fear of attack. Turanshah agreed. He had their king. The gates of Damietta were thrown wide open and Turanshah's warriors stormed the city, securing the gate and main roads.
With naught else to do, Turanshah went around the tall walls of Damietta and watched the ships take the hated Europeans back to their homes. A few of them cast wary glances at the foreboding sultan, perched on the battlements, with their king tied up and kneeling beside him like a common slave. But if the crusaders were offended by Turanshah's disrespect, they lacked the heart to do anything about it. Louis watched them leave, too, and he wept.
Turanshah called for his French interpreter. "Tell this miserable leader to shut his mouth and stop behaving like a woman. He is supposed to a king." The interpreter nodded and started speaking to Louis in that foul language that sounds like one's tongue is misshapen.
"You have taken everything from me. I have nothing left," Louis told the interpreter.
"There is always something more that I can take. Your manhood, perhaps? Your head? Do not presume that you have nothing left to lose," Turanshah said.
"I am not afraid of you," Louis insisted. The interpreter began to translate, but Turanshah held up his hand to silence the man.
"Leave us now. I have nothing more to say to this wretch."
Turanshah summoned the leaders of Damietta to the town center that evening, after the last of the crusaders had evacuated. He made them kneel, naked, in a row. There were six of them, all men, all spoiled sons of wealthy politicians in Cairo.
"You are supposed to be warriors. Your sacred duty is to guard this city against invaders. You have failed in your duties. Is this not true?" Turanshah said quietly, stalking up and down the row. The naked men's genitals shriveled and one of them had urinated all over himself. Another was crying.
"The crusaders were too many! We gave the city up easily, yes, because we wanted to save lives for future battles!"
"That is not your decision to make! If my father told you to guard this city, then you guard the city! You are not authorized to portion out warriors throughout this empire as you see fit!" Turanshah roared. His sword was suddenly in his hand and he plunged it into the man's mouth. The man gagged and choked on the cold steel, and then he fell sideways, his eyes open and glassy. The watching crowd gasped and a woman cried out, but there was no general disturbance, no pleas for mercy. If they thought my father was brutal, wait until I'm finished with these men, Turanshah thought.
He sentenced them to die by half-hanging. It was an execution method he'd learned about while fighting in Syria, though he didn't know where the idea originated. It was simple, really. Hang a man by the neck until he passes out, and then revive him. Then do it again. And again. It was putting a man to death, essentially, but not giving him the sweet release of eternity.
Turanshah ordered a scaffold to be constructed immediately. He stood and grimly watched while the engineers from Damietta and his soldiers fumbled around, trying to locate the supplies. It took some time, but the framework was ready within an hour, and the scaffold was completed in two. Men worked harder when under the gaze of the sultan, who controlled their lives with the breath of his voice.
He made sure that Louis watched the executions. It was fitting Louis should know what his expedition had cost these men. Turanshah hated the idea of kings and queens, generals and, yes, even sultans sitting on their plush estates and not witnessing the effects of their decisions. Turanshah liked to be face-to-face with his subjects; he liked to smell their fear and see their blood.
The half-hangings began without delay. The crowd was like a living thing, and they pressed in on the scaffold from all sides, yelling about Allah and shaking their fists in the air. When the men were being choked, bets were taken on who would live the longest, or who would die first. Each time a man coughed and his eyes fluttered open after a revival, the crowd would sigh and the betting would begin anew. Turanshah watched from the top of the scaffold, pleased at the unity that the executions were bringing to the citizens of Damietta. They were able to forget their shame for a time, at least.
Turanshah left Damietta the next day. He ordered Shajar to stay behind and fortify in every way he could think of. He told him to put the smartest, strongest, and most enthusiastic warriors in charge of the defenses. He wanted towers at the mouth of every river. He wanted artillery ready at all times on the walls. The citizens were required to train in basic combat techniques, and each person was assigned
a specific task if Damietta was attacked again. Turanshah made one final promise to the coastal city before he left: if you ever succumb to foreign invaders again, without even a fight; he would personally half-hang them all.
Cairo beckoned. Turanshah had hundreds of things to do. He needed to placate the politicians whose sons he had executed. A proper burial ceremony was owed to Qutuz, and Turanshah would see it happen. His wives were likely squabbling over a thousand petty issues that he would need to sort through. The Mongols were threatening his holdings in the east. The responsibilities weighed on Turanshah, made him tired before he started the work.
And then he saw King Louis, running behind a horse. He was malnourished, yellow-skinned, and filthy. His eyes had become empty orbs, devoid of hope or rescue. Turanshah saw King Louis and the weight of Egypt lightened on his shoulders. The man was a valuable bargaining piece on the world stage. If France wanted her king back, she would empty her nation's coffers into Turanshah's pockets. All things considered, the Seventh Crusade had been a resounding success for the Ayyubids.
Chapter Thirty
KING LOUIS IX, THE MIGHTY MONARCH of France and world shaker, collapsed within ten miles of Cairo. Turanshah was secretly impressed that Louis had been able to run for so long, but his body was had been pushed as far it could. He was eating food each night, but his stool was always watery and he vomited often, taking more of his strength.
Turanshah took one look at Louis' battered, emaciated body on the sand and he considered taking the man's head off. Nothing would please him more. But, no, Egypt needed the ransom money that King Louis would fetch. Grudgingly, Turanshah ordered his men to take Louis on a horse and get the royal physician.
The world shook when the warriors under Turanshah slipped under the gates of Cairo. The citizens were out on that spring morning: trading, praying, cooking, talking . . . Turanshah loved his people. They were fierce and proud, and he was a true son of Egypt, embodying everything they cherished. The young sultan waved to the crowds as his soldiers trotted by, and the people responded with deafening roars of approval. With great solemnity, Turanshah raised his hands for a moment of silence.
No one spoke, no one moved. A message from the sultan directly to the public was exceedingly rare, and no one wanted to miss a word.
"My brothers in Allah! My sisters! I bring you my captive, our captive, King Louis of France!" Turanshah pointed to the motionless figure behind one of Turanshah's largest warriors, and the crowd hooted and laughed in pleasure.
"He was living like an animal! He was eating spiders and sleeping in the dirt! This is what happens when you invade EGYPT! EGYPT!" Turanshah shouted the last words and the crowd took up the chant.
EGYPT! EGYPT! EGYPT!
Turanshah laughed and led the march to the palace.
Louis' ailment was a result of malnutrition, the physician said. Louis needed salt, green food, and more water. He needed rest. Turanshah agreed to have Louis treated and fully restored to health, though he would be locked in the palace dungeon while he recovered.
Two months passed. Louis recuperated. Turanshah had waited for the day when the physician would say Louis was fit and hale. When that time came, Turanshah was in the dungeons immediately, gloating.
"Long live the king," he said, through an interpreter.
"What do you want?" Louis asked irritably.
"I want 800,000 bezants from your royal court. You will be sent home when I have received half, and the other half will be delivered on your honor."
Louis coughed. The dungeons, even the ones in the palace, were dreary. He had not seen the sky in two months, nor felt the breeze on his face. His skin was deathly pale. He had put on a good deal of weight in the dungeons, but that was only because he could not work on his fitness.
"How much?"
"You heard me," Turanshah said, staring the interpreter down. If the man was changing his words, or using the wrong ones, Turanshah would have him executed.
"That will require more than the wealth of the palace. It will require old debts be settled with the nobility. Land will need to be sold too."
"I don't care about the details. You invaded my country. If you had succeeded, would you have been so generous with me, the sultan, in captivity? I do not think so. Get the gold or you will be killed." Turanshah stalked out of the room. He had a few French ambassadors on his staff, and he would let them handle the communications with France and King Louis.
The gold was delivered. It was yellow treasure, stacked high on twenty wagons and dragged to Cairo by camels, under heavy guard. The citizens rejoiced and blessed Turanshah and his line for a thousand years. The money was enough to double the size of the army and fortify Ayyubid holdings throughout the world.
True to his word, Turanshah ordered his men to escort Louis to Acre. It was a Jewish state, managed by Jerusalem and multinational. Louis could find his way home from there, or kill himself for bankrupting his nation. It mattered little to Turanshah.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE COQUETS WENT TO PARIS. They heard the rumors about Louis' capture by the Egyptians, and none of them claimed to have been on that expedition. The government, the military, and the citizens of France were angry and humiliated. If anyone identified them as crusaders, they would be chased out of town. Exiled. Banished.
Raul was the first to leave. He went back to his cottage in Troyes and sold everything. With the money he received, he was able to purchase a plot of land in Toulouse. It was an ugly patch of property that bordered some ancient woods. Rumors had abounded in that region of dragon sightings for generations, and Raul said that if the beast ever returned, he wanted to be there to see it.
Artois found a job without much difficulty. His employer was a cartographer; a fat, red-nosed Englishman who needed warriors to escort his mapmaking business to the dark regions of Europe. The cartographer was smart, and he had probably guessed that Artois was a veteran of the Seventh Crusade, but he wisely never asked him about it.
"How long will you work for him?" Francois asked him once. They were drinking ale at a Parisian tavern, admiring the beautiful women who served the heady, brown beverages.
"As long as I please. He says that we will be going to Italy in a few weeks."
"Italy? Where?"
"We'll hit the busy northern cities, and then angle south, eventually reaching Sicily," Artois said, knowing Francois' deep desire to visit their mother.
"Of course."
They left one week later. Francois and Olivia were on horseback, while Artois drove the wagon and the cartographer slept in back. The French sun was high in the sky and the air smelled of honeysuckle and cedar. Bees hovered around patches of wildflowers and rabbits dashed through the fields. The wagon's wheels creaked as they turned, and the steady clip-clop of the horses' hooves on the dirt was relaxing; hypnotizing. The world was beautiful and Italy was many horizons in the future, a grand adventure for another day.
Historical Note
THE SEVENTH CRUSADE was, for all intents and purposes, the last great crusade. There were technically two more subsequent crusades against Muslims, but they were small affairs, negligible on a global scale. The earlier crusades were fueled by religious zealotry that simmered and died out toward the end of the Fourth Crusade. The later crusades were fueled by greed, power, and wealth. Whatever each man's personal reason for going to war, it is notable that half as many men fought in the Seventh Crusade as in the First Crusade.
The crusades all occurred during what's known as the "Dark Ages" in Europe. This was a time of feudal chaos; loyalty to one's nation was reduced to devotion to a warlord or general. Martial skills became necessities to life, and the art of pen and paper was extremely diminished. Therefore, reliable sources are scarce. Perhaps the most well-known account is from a historian who accompanied the Seventh Crusade, Jean de Joinville. I encourage my readers to look him up. Nonetheless, one can piece together bits and pieces of ancient texts (with a little help from the Internet) and deci
pher what happened on that failed expedition.
The primary language of the Seventh Crusade was French. Non-French speakers made up a small percentage of the crusade, about 15 percent. The Ayyubid Muslims spoke Arabic, chiefly in the upper classes and military. The lower classes spoke Turkish or a dialect of it. I didn't want to constantly write about the interpreters who accompanied the king and the sultan everywhere they went, but I'm sure they were always close at hand.
Thirteenth-century peasantry life is much as I described. Each person had a trade that he did all his life, and acquiring wealth or ascending the social letter was nearly impossible. The best path for a poor man to distinguish himself was in combat, and many young men lost their lives trying to climb out of the poorhouses. In that regard, the Medieval Ages were startlingly similar to modern times.
Dogs have been used extensively for hunting and tracking throughout history, especially in conjunction with horses. The main hunting dog of this period was the greyhound, a strong, rugged breed that was smart and vicious. The later years saw mastiffs utilized for hunting bigger game, although they proved more adept at guard duty.
Dragons have been mentioned in texts and scrolls since before Jesus' time. The legends of giant, flying lizards have survived the years and been featured in more books, movies, and plays than I can count. I inserted a dragon in this book for a few reasons: entertainment, fantasy, and action. But there was another reason. I wanted the reader to consider that all of these dragon legends surely came from somewhere. Is it so unthinkable that dragons ever existed? I personally wonder if pterodactyls survived the extinction of dinosaurs and continued to live in remote, dangerous places until they could no longer sustain a population. (If I had any anthropologist friends, I’m sure they’d be picking up the phone, red-faced, upon reading this) It's always important to note that legends come from somewhere, for some reason.
