Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  Yusuf had ordered his troops to pitch their tents in a crescent that mirrored the enemy lines. He headed for the left flank. On the way, he passed through the camp market. At first, it had been only a few tents, but it had grown larger every day as merchants flocked to serve the army. Now the market sprawled across the coastal plain, spreading for a quarter-mile in every direction. There were hundreds of shops, selling everything from armour to fine carpets to Frankish slaves. Near the heart of the market, Yusuf heard the clang of steel on steel. Some of the hundreds of blacksmiths in the market were already at work, repairing armour or weapons. Further on, he passed cooks busying themselves at giant kettles. Just beyond them were the baths. A dozen holes had been dug in the ground and lined with clay. A series of wooden stalls had been built over them. A line of soldiers stood waiting to pay their two fals admission. For a silver piece, they could even have hot water.

  Yusuf continued on to a cluster of tents pitched beside the smooth waters of the Belus. Mamluks returning from the night-watch were removing armour before crawling into tents. Others sat breakfasting beside fires. They recognized Yusuf in his gold armour and rose as he passed on his way to the front lines, where yawning men were leaning against an earthen bulwark topped with spears. The mamluks straightened as Yusuf approached. Their commander stepped forward.

  ‘Morning, Malik.’ Husam’s gold tooth glinted as he spoke. A seasoned warrior ten years Yusuf’s senior, he commanded Shirkuh’s old regiment, the Asadite mamluks. They were Yusuf’s most trusted troops, which was why he had placed them across from the Christian’s main camp.

  ‘Anything to report?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘Last night five of our men crossed the lines to visit the red tents.’

  Yusuf scowled. A week ago, three shiploads of Frankish whores had arrived and set up their red tents just beyond the Frankish palisade, where they could cater to Christian and Muslim alike. For only a dirham, they would raise their ankle bracelets to touch their earrings and let the men have their way.

  ‘Shall I cut off their balls?’ Husam asked.

  ‘No.’ If he cut the balls off of every man who visited those tents, he would soon have an army of eunuchs. ‘Ten lashes for each of them.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’

  Yusuf continued up the line, nodding to the men and stopping to speak with those he knew well. He passed Gökböri’s men; then the Kurdish troops under Al-Mashtub. The huge emir was leaning against the barricade and breakfasting on a roast leg of lamb.

  ‘What news?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘Nothing, Malik. The Franks are as silent as death.’

  Yusuf looked towards the enemy ramparts, which began a hundred yards from his own. Beyond them, he could see tents topped by standards fluttering in the wind. ‘They celebrated late into the night after Conrad’s arrival,’ he noted. ‘No doubt they are still sleeping off their excesses. Keep a careful eye on their lines, nonetheless.’

  ‘I always do.’

  Yusuf urged his horse on to the centre of the line, where he had placed his personal mamluks, who were commanded by his sons Al-Afdal and Az-Zahir. Az-Zahir had the morning watch, and he smiled at him as Yusuf rode past. Only fifteen, Az-Zahir still had a boy’s enthusiasm. The ground was higher here, and Yusuf could see the line of his men stretching away before him: the Mosul regiments under the emir Zahir ad-Din, Nu’man’s men from Diyar Bakr, the mamluks of the eunuch Qaimaz an-Najmi and finally Ubadah’s men securing the far wing. Yusuf was just approaching Nu’man when a horn sounded in the Frankish camp. Ahh-hoo. Others joined it. Ahh-hoo. Ahh-hoo. Ahh-hoo . . .

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Nu’man grumbled. The short man pulled the battle-axe from his back and scrambled to the top of the barricade.

  Yusuf pulled on his helmet, dismounted and joined him. The call of the Frankish horns faded, and the only sound was the distant crash of the waves. Yusuf searched the Frankish lines but saw no activity. His stomach twisted with nervous tension. ‘Bring more men forward,’ he told Nu’man. ‘Send the message—’

  His voice was drowned out by a mighty roar from the Franks. All down the enemy line, sergeants poured over the barricades. Crossbowmen came first, followed by spearmen, all screaming war cries. ‘For Christ!’ ‘For the Kingdom!’ ‘Death to the infidel!’ As the Franks sprinted across the open ground between the lines, archers took to the ramparts behind them and let fly, filling the sky with arrows.

  ‘Get down, Malik!’ Nu’man shouted as he pulled Yusuf down behind the barricade. The arrows hissed past to shatter on the earth behind them. Others buried themselves in the top of the earthen barricade.

  Yusuf ignored the arrows as he ran for his horse. He swung into the saddle, drew his sword and waved it over his head. ‘To the barricade, men!’ he shouted as he rode down the line. ‘To the barricade!’

  The mamluks on watch had already mounted the bulwarks and were shooting arrows into the onrushing Franks. More men were rushing towards the lines. Yusuf galloped past a half-dressed man, his mail worn over bare legs and feet. Another soldier rushed by in only a tunic, his spear and shield in hand. Yusuf reached the centre of the line and reined in. He shouted for Az-Zahir and then saw his young son on the rampart. The first Franks were reaching the line and scrambling up the earth bank. Az-Zahir hacked a man down with his sword. He impaled another. Then he fell.

  Yusuf slid from the saddle and sprinted for the barricade. He could hear Saqr shouting, but he ignored him. He ran up the rampart, but saw no sign of his son. All along the line, Franks were swarming up the barricade. Some stopped to yank out the spikes that Yusuf’s men had placed on the face of the slope. Others paused to loose crossbow bolts. One zipped past Yusuf. He saw another Frank about to shoot and raised his shield just before a quarrel slammed into it. He shifted his shield to block a Frankish blade and lunged, slicing through his attacker’s throat. Saqr joined Yusuf on the wall and began shouting orders. Three mamluks stepped in front of Yusuf to protect him, and Saqr pulled him away from the fighting.

  ‘Az-Zahir!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Az-Zahir!’

  ‘Here, Father!’

  The boy sat ten feet away, at the edge of the rampart. He was clutching his leg, and as Yusuf knelt beside him, he saw that there was a crossbow quarrel through his son’s calf. The boy was fighting back tears. Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘See that he is taken to safety and his wound looked after.’

  Saqr’s reply was swallowed up by another roar from the Franks. Yusuf looked north down the line to where hundreds of fresh troops were striking the right flank. They swarmed up the barricade and Ubadah’s men gave ground, retreating down the far side of the rampart.

  ‘Yaha!’ Yusuf cursed. He had hoped that Ubadah’s troubles were over. He should never have given him such an important command. ‘Saqr! Go and bring my personal guard to strengthen the right flank.’

  ‘What of Az-Zahir?’

  ‘I will see to him. Go!’

  Saqr scampered down the face of the rampart and mounted his horse. He was galloping away when Az-Zahir struggled to his feet and pointed towards the enemy lines. ‘Look, Father!’

  Directly across from Yusuf, one of the gates that closed off a gap in the Frankish bulwark had opened and dozens of knights were charging forth, their mounts’ hooves kicking up plumes of dirt as they raced across the sandy soil.

  ‘Stand fast!’ Yusuf shouted to the men around him. ‘Spearmen to the fore!’

  A line of mamluks stepped forward and braced the butts of their spears against the ground. Yusuf took a spear and joined them. The knights had reached the mid-point between the two barricades. They slowed to a walk so they could form a line, their horses shoulder to shoulder. The knights lowered their lances as they picked up speed again. The Frankish sergeants scattered to either side as the knights approached at a gallop. Yusuf dug his feet into the loose earth atop the bulwark and raised his shield.

  The knights charged up the slope, shields in hand and lances couched. ‘For Islam!’ Yusuf shouted, an
d his men echoed his cry. The shout of the mamluk to his left was cut short as he was skewered by one of the Frank’s long lances. Yusuf took a lance on his shield and was knocked on his back. He curled into a ball as a horse galloped overhead. He started to rise when a hoof caught him in the ribs. He fell flat, struggling for breath. He spotted Az-Zahir a few feet away, crouched behind his shield. Yusuf crawled to him. ‘Can you walk?’ he shouted, and Az-Zahir nodded.

  Yusuf looked about him. The knights had crashed through the line, leaving dead men in their wake. They were now galloping past tents as they drove deep into the Muslim camp. On the other side of the rampart, the Frankish sergeants were rushing towards the gap opened by the knights.

  ‘We must fall back; lean on me.’ Yusuf put his son’s arm around his neck and together they stumbled and skidded down the rampart. The first tents were only fifty yards from the barricade, but their progress was slow. Az-Zahir cried out in pain with every step. Yusuf glanced back to see the first sergeants cresting the ramparts. ‘Hurry!’ he urged his son. Az-Zahir gritted his teeth and limped faster. From behind, Yusuf could hear the Franks’ battle cries. He dared not look back. The hairs on his neck rose. He could almost feel the point of a Frankish spear driving into his back. And then they reached the tents. He pulled Az-Zahir behind the second one they came to. A sergeant rushed past a moment later, followed by another, and another.

  ‘Go on!’ Az-Zahir told him through clenched teeth. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and it was all he could do to stand. ‘You will stand a better chance without me. You must rally the men.’

  Yusuf nodded. He lowered Az-Zahir to the ground.

  ‘Give me a knife, Father.’

  ‘No.’ Yusuf knelt before him. ‘Do not throw your life away. If they find you, yield. I will ransom you.’

  Az-Zahir shook his head. ‘I will not dishonour you, Father.’

  Yusuf slapped him. ‘This is no game, boy! Honour counts for nothing if you are dead. Do as I say.’

  Yusuf did not wait for a response. He turned and ran, dodging between the tents. He heard shouting from behind. ‘There! The one in gold! He’s their king!’ Yusuf swerved left behind a tent, where he ran headlong into a man on foot, knocking both of them down. The man Yusuf had hit was a fellow Muslim, and judging by the stains on his tunic, a cook. Wide-eyed, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the three saddlebags he had dropped. A thief. The man sprinted away, but he had not got ten feet when a knight at his back ran him down. The knight’s lance hit him between the shoulder blades and exploded from his chest in a shower of blood. The knight reined to a stop as he tried to free his lance from the dead man’s body. He saw Yusuf rushing at him, but too late. Yusuf’s thrust caught the knight in the armpit, where there was no armour. The Frank’s eyes widened in surprise, and he mouthed a silent Oh! Then he slumped to the ground, landing with a crash.

  Yusuf pulled himself into the saddle and quickly surveyed the field. Ubadah’s wing had rallied and was now pushing the Franks back. On the left, Gökböri had led his men in a charge, covering for Al-Mashtub, who had brought his mamluks down the line to cut off the Franks who had broken through. The Frankish foot-soldiers had spread out to loot the tents of Yusuf’s men. Most of the knights had continued into camp and surrounded the hill where Yusuf’s tent stood. A hundred members of Yusuf’s private guard stood atop the hill, fending off twice that number of Franks. If the tent fell, then Yusuf’s men would think him dead. The entire army might collapse.

  Yusuf waved his sword over his head. ‘Your king is here! To me, men! To me!’

  Men stepped out from behind the tents where they had been hiding. Soon, a dozen mamluks surrounded Yusuf, with more on their way. ‘You,’ he instructed a man. ‘Run to Taqi ad-Din. Tell him to send men to my tent. You, go to Al-Mashtub and say the same. The rest of you, come with me.’

  There were thirty mamluks with him now. As they came clear of the tents, Yusuf spurred his horse and shouted, ‘For Allah!’ His men echoed the cry and sprinted after him. They struck the Frankish knights in the rear. Yusuf drove between two men. His sword glanced off the helm of the one on the right, and he slammed his shield into the face of the one on his left. His men came after him and dragged the knights from their saddles. Yusuf pressed on, hacking left and right. He felt a sword glance off his side. Another struck the side of his helm, setting his head ringing. He roared and swung blindly. He felt his sword dig into flesh, and when he swung again, a spray of crimson blood flew from the blade.

  On the hill above, the men of his khaskiya had seen him and were fighting with renewed vigour, pushing the Franks back. Yusuf lowered his gaze just in time to see a Frank driving his sword towards his gut. He twisted out of the way and hacked down, catching the Frank on the wrist and severing his hand. Another knight raised his sword to strike, but he was grabbed from behind by his mail coif and pulled from the saddle. Ubadah rode over him as he came alongside Yusuf. His nephew’s face

  was spattered with blood.

  ‘Shukran, Nephew.’

  Ubadah had struck the knights’ flank with three dozen mamluks, and fifty more, with Saqr and Al-Mashtub at their head, were driving into the Christians from the other side. One of the knights shouted for the retreat. The Franks wheeled their horses and drove past the mamluks that Yusuf had led into battle.

  ‘For Allah, men!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘With me!’ He galloped after the knights, across the plain and in amongst the tents. The Frankish foot-soldiers were also retreating, lugging their loot with them. Yusuf slashed one of them down from behind. Another sergeant dropped the heavy bag he was carrying and turned to give battle. Yusuf took his spear thrust on his shield and slashed down, catching the man in the neck. The Frank twisted as he fell, spraying blood in an arc.

  Ahead, knights were riding over the barricade and sergeants were scrambling after them. Yusuf struck down two more as he rode up the rampart. Before him, the Franks were sprinting for the safety of their lines. To his right, he could see that Ubadah’s men were driving the Franks before him. On the left flank, Gökböri’s men had reached the ramparts of the Frankish camp. A horn sounded behind the Frankish lines, and Yusuf saw sergeants running from the rampart facing the city to reinforce the barricades across from Yusuf’s camp. The blast of the horn had hardly faded before the gates of Acre opened and the Muslim garrison poured out to strike the now abandoned ramparts. Some of the sergeants turned back to meet the threat. Others milled about, unsure what to do.

  ‘We have them now!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘We will drive the infidels into the sea from which they came! Yalla! Yalla!’ He spurred his horse down the far side of the bulwark and galloped across the sandy ground. He raised his sword as he closed on the rearmost of the fleeing sergeants.

  ‘Malik! Malik! Stop!’

  Yusuf pulled back on the reins. Ubadah, Al-Mashtub and Saqr drew alongside with only a dozen mamluks. ‘What has happened? Where are the rest?’ Yusuf looked back and his eyes widened in disbelief. His men had turned back and were returning over the barricade and into camp. The men on the left and right flanks had also turned back. ‘We had victory in hand. Where are the cowards going?’

  ‘We had best join them, Malik,’ Al-Mashtub urged. ‘We cannot remain here.’

  Yusuf gave a last look to where the Franks were still fleeing towards their camp. He had been so close. When he spoke, his voice was as sharp as a well-honed sword. ‘To camp, men.’

  As they reached the top of the bulwark, Yusuf dismounted and took Ubadah aside. ‘You fought bravely today, Nephew. You saved my life.’

  ‘Each time I kill a Frank, I pray that he is John. That is why I fight; not for you.’ Ubadah turned and stalked away.

  ‘Father!’

  Yusuf looked to see Az-Zahir limping up the rampart. His anger faded, and he went to embrace his son. ‘Alhumdillah. You are safe.’ Yusuf pulled back and then noticed that the camp before him was nearly empty of men. ‘Where is the army?’

  ‘The merchants and some of th
e rearguard thought we were defeated when the Franks breached our lines. They plundered our own men’s tents and fled. I tried to stop them, Father, but they would not listen. When our men saw what was happening, they abandoned the attack to retrieve their belongings.’

  The stupid fools! Yusuf’s jaw clenched, and he could feel the veins at his temples throbbing. He turned to where his emirs where gathered. ‘Saqr! Gather up the enemy dead and have them dumped in the river, downstream of our camp. Al-Mashtub, round up the thieves. Bring all that they have taken back to camp and see that it is returned to its owners.’

  ‘And the men who took it?’

  ‘I will have no thieves in my camp. They ran from the Franks; let them keep running. Take everything they own, including their clothes, and send them on their way.’

  Rain drummed on the roof of Yusuf’s tent. He stared at the cup in his hand before draining it. The medicine left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it worked. His gut had been troubling him again. It felt as if there were coals burning in his stomach. The medicine extinguished them, if only for a time. ‘Shukran, Ibn Jumay.’

  The Jewish doctor touched Yusuf’s forehead. ‘You are feverish.’ He poured another cup of water, to which he added several powders from his supplies. ‘Drink this as well.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Crushed coriander seeds and anise with poppy extract. It will ease the pain in your head.’

  Yusuf swallowed the draught and grimaced at the taste. He waved to Ibn Jumay, dismissing him, but the doctor did not leave. ‘May I speak with you, Malik?’ he asked, and Yusuf nodded. ‘You push yourself too hard. You are only human. Remember what happened at the siege of Aleppo. You almost died.’

  ‘I did not have you with me that time.’

  ‘I am no miracle worker. My medicines can ease your pain, but they cannot cure what ails you. Only rest can do that, Malik. Pull back, at least until the men of Egypt arrive.’