Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  Yusuf turned to his son. Az-Zahir had command of Yusuf’s scouts. He had been watching the Franks ever since the battle of Arsuf, five days ago. ‘You say you have seen men leaving the city?’

  Az-Zahir nodded. ‘Heading north to Acre.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Hundreds. Thousands maybe.’

  ‘Are they going for supplies?’

  ‘I think not. They take no wagons, and those who return are empty-handed. Something else draws them.’

  Yusuf could guess what that was. Since the fall of Acre, Franks had been flooding into the city from overseas. The merchants, farmers and craftsmen who had fled after the fall of Jerusalem were returning. And with them came whores, eager to service the men of Richard’s army.

  ‘You have done well, my son. Stay here. Let me know at once if the Franks make ready to march.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Yusuf made his way through the stand of trees to where a dozen members of his khaskiya waited with his horse. He cantered back to his camp, which was hidden beyond the hills two miles from Jaffa. He had ordered his emirs to gather when he left that morning, and he found them crowded into his tent. Qaraqush, his old companion-in-arms, stood beside Al-Mashtub, who leaned on a staff to spare his ruined knee. Al-Afdal stood with two of Yusuf’s younger sons, who had joined the army after Arsuf. Mas’ud was now sixteen, and Yaqub, fourteen. Yusuf had hardly recognized them when they arrived. They had been children when last he saw them, and now they were young men, their sparse beards filled out with kohl. Muhammad and Nu’man stood with dozens of lesser emirs from the Al-Jazirah. Yusuf frowned. He had only asked for his closest advisors. The presence of these additional men boded ill.

  He addressed his emirs curtly. ‘Today, we march on Jaffa. The Franks think us defeated and their pride has made them careless. The city is but poorly defended. They have not built a proper palisade, and many of their men are gone to Acre. We will charge in crescent formation, cutting them off from all escape. Al-Afdal will command the right wing and Az-Zahir, the left. I will have charge of the centre. You all know your positions, and you know your duty. The eyes of Allah are upon us. Let us make this a day of glory in his name. Let us drive the Franks back into the sea from whence they came!’

  There was a time – before Acre, before Arsuf – when such a speech would have been met with cheers. But today the emirs made not a sound. They shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet his gaze. Yusuf felt a twinge in his gut. Something was wrong.

  It was Muhammad who finally spoke. ‘Perhaps it would be better to wait a few days before we strike,’ he suggested in his silky voice. ‘The Franks will be more vulnerable on the march, once they have left Jaffa.’

  ‘They will not leave until they have finished repairing the walls and the city is lost to us. And when they do march, they will do so ready to fight. I tell you that the time to attack is now. Jaffa is only weakly held.’

  ‘Even in its ruined state, the citadel will not be easy to take,’ Muhammad countered. ‘The Franks will take shelter there, and we will find ourselves entangled in another siege, as at Acre. I need not remind you how that ended.’

  ‘Jaffa is not Acre. The Franks have only half as many men. The wall is in ruins. And this time, we have the element of surprise.’

  ‘I wonder why are you are eager to attack,’ Nu’man said in his rumbling baritone, ‘when you refused to strike the infidel outside Acre, after they massacred our men.’ Several emirs grunted their agreement. The pain in Yusuf’s gut sharpened.

  ‘If you want vengeance,’ he responded, ‘then you can have it now.’

  ‘How can we know this is not a trap?’ Nu’man demanded. ‘This Lionheart is a clever man. He bested us at Acre. He anticipated our ruse at Arsuf. Surely he would not leave his men defenceless.’

  ‘He is clever but arrogant. He thinks us defeated and has let down his guard. The city is ours for the taking!’ No one spoke. His men’s eyes were fixed on the carpeted ground. Yusuf felt anger rising within him, pushing aside the pain in his gut. His fists clenched. ‘Has Richard so unmanned you that you fear to face him? I am your king! Have you forgotten your duty?’

  ‘We have done our duty and more, Malik,’ Nu’man replied. ‘We have travelled far from our lands. I have not seen my wife or my children in more than two years. All that time, I have been at your side. My men have fought your battles. They have suffered hunger and cold.’

  ‘Perhaps if we were paid the gold we are owed—’ Muhammad started.

  Yusuf’s jaw clenched. It was all he could do not to strike Muhammad. The fate of the kingdom was at stake, and Muhammad spoke of gold like some merchant. ‘The Franks carry with them the gold they took from Acre. You will have your coin when they are defeated.’

  ‘If they are defeated,’ Muhammad countered. ‘Pay us now if you wish me by your side in today’s battle. My men are done fighting for promises.’ The other emirs of Al-Jazirah added their assent.

  Muhammad was a lost cause. He had always been more of a courtier than a warrior. Yusuf turned to Nu’man. ‘We have fought side by side many times, friend. I have saved your life, and you, mine. You would rebel against me?’

  ‘I am no rebel, Malik. I would fight for you even now. But my men will not.’

  Yusuf’s hand went to his sword. ‘Then go!’ he shouted. ‘Go! Leave my tent before I have your heads!’ The emirs hurried out, but Qaraqush remained behind. ‘I should have them all executed,’ Yusuf muttered.

  ‘Your emirs are not to blame, Malik. Nu’man spoke true: the men have no heart for a fight. They fear the Lionheart.’

  ‘What sort of king am I, when I cannot command my own men?’ Yusuf went to a table to pour a glass of water, but then flung it to the ground. ‘Curse them all! We could have won!’

  ‘What will you do, Malik?’

  Yusuf rubbed his beard – more grey than black now – and could feel the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He felt every one of his fifty-three years. He wanted nothing more than to return to Damascus, to spend his days with Shamsa. But that was not to be. He forced himself to stand straight.

  ‘Qaraqush, you will send men to destroy Ramlah, Lydda and Latrun. Take what crops are ripe from the fields and burn the rest. I will ride for Ascalon to tear down its walls. If I cannot stop Richard, then I will leave him nothing to conquer.’

  Chapter 23

  September 1191: Ascalon

  Black smoke roiled up from the base of the wall of Ascalon, stinging Yusuf’s eyes and making him wrinkle his nose. His horse whinnied and tossed its head, and he tightened his grip on the reins. His men were burning the wooden supports that held up this last stretch of wall. To either side, the wall had already come down. Beyond the piles of rubble, a cloud of dark smoke hung over the city. Yusuf’s men had set fire to it that morning. The last stretch of wall began to shake and then collapsed with a roar like thunder, causing Yusuf’s horse to shy. He patted its neck, pulling a fold of his keffiyeh over his face as the cloud of smoke and dust thrown up by the collapse rolled forward to engulf him.

  Beside him, Qaraqush coughed and spat. ‘That’s it.’ The grizzled mamluk’s voice was sombre. ‘When we took Ascalon four years ago, I saw to the reinforcement of those walls. I never dreamt I’d be the one to tear them down.’

  ‘It had to be done.’ Yusuf’s words were for him as much as for Qaraqush. The destruction of the city left him feeling queasy. Or perhaps it was the acrid smell of smoke that had turned his stomach. ‘Richard will not be able to use Ascalon as a base for an attack on Egypt. That is all that matters.’

  He rode away, his horse’s hooves kicking up clouds of ash as he crossed a field of burnt crops. Beyond the field, he came to the impromptu market that had sprung up. The people of Ascalon were selling their possessions before fleeing south to Gaza or inland to Hebron or Jerusalem. They glared as they stepped aside to let him pass. Yusuf did not blame them for their anger. He had destroyed their homes and turned them into refugees; poor ref
ugees, for the most part. They would be lucky to get a fraction of what their belongings were worth. Yusuf saw a glass merchant selling cups that would normally fetch a dirham each for only one copper. Another man was practically giving away dark wood furniture inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl. The largest crowd had gathered around the horse market. ‘Four hundred dinars,’ the horse merchant cried as he auctioned off a bony old nag. ‘Four hundred and fifty. Five hundred dinars!’ The horse in question would not have brought fifty dinars three weeks ago, but the people of Ascalon were desperate for pack animals to carry their possessions. Yusuf came upon a field of red tents, where young women were selling the only thing they had: themselves. He spurred his horse to a canter and left the market behind.

  His brother Selim was waiting inside his tent with letters in hand. Yusuf frowned. Of late, each letter brought only bad news. He had been avoiding Imad ad-Din, which was no doubt why his secretary had sent Selim with the day’s post. Yusuf had a sudden desire to turn, mount his horse and ride away. Instead, he lowered himself on to his camp-stool with a sigh.

  ‘What news, Brother?’

  ‘Your son Az-Zahir writes from Ramlah. The city has been burned.’ Selim flipped through several more letters. ‘Al-Mashtub reports the same from Lydda. He has moved on to burn Latrun.’

  Each name was like a punch to the gut. It was his duty to protect these towns, and he had ordered their destruction. But Egypt was safe. That was what mattered. ‘We will leave tomorrow to protect the road to Jerusalem. Anything else?’

  ‘This is why I came.’ Selim produced a longer letter, written in a graceful hand. ‘The Caliph writes.’

  Yusuf had sent letter after letter requesting aid from the caliph in Baghdad. He searched Selim’s face, trying to anticipate whether the news was good or bad. ‘Is he sending men? Gold?’

  ‘He writes of our nephew. Ubadah has laid siege to Akhlat. The city’s ruler has called on the Artuqids to support him and has written to the Caliph, who has promised to intervene on his behalf. The Caliph says that if you do not curb Ubadah, then there will be war.’

  Yusuf massaged his temples. He could not afford to become embroiled in a war in the east, or to anger the caliph. The men from Al-Jazirah were already on the verge of rebellion. If the caliph denounced him, then they would mutiny. And that would be just the beginning. He would find himself facing down uprising in his own kingdom. He shook his head. ‘I sent Ubadah east hoping that time away would cool his passions.’

  ‘You did all you could for the boy, Brother, but he has always been impetuous. If you wish, I will ride east. I will deal with Ubadah as I did with our cousin, Nasir ad-Din.’

  Yusuf knew it was what he should do. It was, no doubt, what the Lionheart would have done. But he was not Richard, and Ubadah was no more to blame in this than he himself was. Perhaps if Yusuf had not lied to Ubadah, things would have been different. ‘No, Brother. I’ll not murder my own nephew.’

  ‘The Saladin I knew—’

  ‘I said no!’ Yusuf continued in a softer tone. ‘I have seen my reflection, Brother. Richard showed it to me at Acre, and I did not like what I saw.’

  ‘Yes, Brother.’

  ‘Go now. I will write to Ubadah myself.’

  ‘God curse the craven bastard!’ Richard roared as he threw his cup of wine across the tent. The contents splashed all over the white robes of Bishop Walter. ‘Poisoned wells and burnt fields; this is not war, it is cowardice!’ Richard glared about the tent as if daring his lords to contradict him. John was tempted to tell him that Richard’s Norman ancestors had behaved little differently when they subdued England, but he held his tongue. He could not afford to anger Richard. Not today. Their army had shrunk with each passing day as men deserted to Jaffa or Acre. They were losing the war despite not having lost a battle. Perhaps Richard would listen now. Perhaps John could save the Holy Land before it was completely ruined.

  The king poured another cup of wine. He drained it and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Saladin will not stop me. We do not have the supplies to reach Egypt, but the land of the Nile is not why I came to the Holy Land. Blanchemains, you will set the men to rebuilding the wall of Ascalon.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking, but to what end, Your Grace? The city has been burned. There is nothing here to defend.’

  ‘There is Jerusalem. I mean to take it and hold it. Ascalon must be strong to protect the Kingdom from invasion from Egypt. Now go.’ Richard went to refill his cup.

  John remained behind as the other lords trooped out. ‘I would speak with you, Your Grace.’

  Richard’s brow furrowed. ‘I have little patience for talk today. Do not waste your words, priest.’

  ‘You must make peace with Saladin.’

  Richard’s eyes widened. He lowered his cup and began to laugh, softly at first, but then so loudly that his whole body shook. ‘Thank you, John,’ he gasped when he had recovered. ‘Thank you. I needed a good laugh.’

  ‘It was no jest, Your Grace.’

  Richard’s good humour was gone in an instant. ‘Then you must be mad. Why should I make peace with a man who flees before me, who has yet to defeat me in battle?’

  ‘You have not lost, it is true, but what have you won? You are lord over burnt fields and ruined cities.’

  ‘Cities can be rebuilt.’

  ‘And who will people them? The men in these lands are Muslim and Syrian Christian. They have more in common with one another than they do with you. They will betray you at the first chance.’

  ‘Why should they? The Kingdom of Jerusalem stood for a hundred years before I arrived. The people served its kings well enough. They will serve again, and the Kingdom will stand a hundred years more after I am gone.’

  ‘Only if you make peace, my lord. Think of what will happen if you take the Holy City. Your force is made up of pilgrims. They will pray at the altars and then they will return home. Your army will melt away, but the Saracens will remain. We must make peace with them if you wish to keep the lands you have conquered.’

  ‘I swore a vow to retake Jerusalem, John. I will not be forsworn.’

  ‘I do not ask you to halt your campaign, Your Grace. But you must think now to what will come after Jerusalem. Let me go to Saladin. I will speak with him on your behalf. I will make certain that we keep what you have gained.’

  ‘That is not enough. I want Jerusalem, and all the lands west of the Jordan, as it was before. And we must have the True Cross.’

  ‘And if I secure all of that?’

  ‘Then you are a miracle worker, John.’ Richard scratched his beard while he thought. He nodded. ‘Go and work your miracle. Talk will cost us nothing. Take Humphrey of Toron with you. He is well known to the Saracens. Craft a peace if you can. Perhaps Saladin will be fool enough to give it to you.’

  October 1191: Ramlah

  ‘Conrad believes there can be peace between you and him.’

  Yusuf studied the man before him. Reginald of Sidon had arrived at his camp in Ramlah two days before. Yusuf had made him wait before seeing him. The old Frankish lord was completely bald. He had ruddy cheeks and liver spots marked his forehead. He claimed to speak on behalf of Conrad, who styled himself the true king of Jerusalem.

  ‘Conrad defied me at Tyre,’ Yusuf said. ‘He fought for more than a year at the siege of Acre. Now one of my most implacable foes seeks peace. What does he want in return?’

  ‘Only what is his due. Richard has given the crown to Guy, but none of the barons support him. The throne is rightly Conrad’s.’

  ‘I am a Muslim. It is not for me to make Christian kings.’

  ‘No, but with Conrad’s help, you can drive off Richard. And with Richard gone, there will be no one to support Guy.’

  ‘Conrad’s help? His men will fight beside mine?’

  Reginald nodded. ‘He will help you retake Acre. In return, you will grant him Sidon and Beirut, along with Tyre. The rest of the Holy Land is yours.’

  ‘Tyre,
Sidon and Beirut. That is a high price.’

  ‘It is a just price to help rid you of the Lionheart.’

  As Yusuf sat back to consider this, Saqr stepped into the tent. He came to Yusuf and whispered in his ear. ‘More envoys, Malik. From Richard.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Humphrey of Toron and John of Tatewic.’

  ‘Selim will meet with Humphrey. Have John shown to a tent, somewhere private.’ Yusuf turned back to Reginald. ‘I will think on what you have said. Conrad will have my answer soon.’

  Yusuf stood, and Reginald did likewise. The Frankish lord bowed and was shown out by a pair of guards. Yusuf poured himself a glass of water and went to stand before a table covered with a map of Palestine. The towns now held by the Franks were marked in red. Tripoli, Antioch, Tyre, Acre, Caesarea, Arsuf, Jaffa, Ascalon. He had lost almost the entire coast. Richard would turn inland now. Where would the king’s conquest end? Jerusalem? Damascus even?

  Yusuf found Saqr waiting for him outside his tent. ‘Take me to John.’

  ‘This way, Malik.’

  Saqr led the way to a small tent near by. ‘Wait outside,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Make certain we are not overheard.’ He entered to find John seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor and sipping from a cup of water. He rose at once. He was wearing mail, with a surcoat bearing Richard’s arms. He bowed.

  ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Yusuf. Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘This meeting did not happen. You will let your king know that I did not dignify his emissaries by meeting with them.’

  ‘I understand.’

  They studied one another for a moment. John’s sandy hair had continued to silver, but he looked as strong as ever. Yusuf gestured to the lions on his surcoat. ‘What does your king wish to tell me?’

  ‘He seeks peace.’

  Yusuf’s eyebrows arched. ‘The Lionheart wishes for peace? Forgive me if I do not believe you, John.’