Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  John stood and spun just in time to turn aside a knife thrust from the other Saracen. He swung backhanded, his mace crunching into the man’s face and nearly ripping off his jaw. John heard a splash behind him and spun again. It was a knight riding past on horseback. There was no one left to fight. The Saracen horses were gone. They had all fled. A horn began to sound, calling the Christians back to the column.

  There was no sign of John’s horse. He slogged back up the hill, slipping and sliding in the mud. He soon had mud in his boots, even in his mouth, and by the time he reached the top of the hill again, he was covered from head to toe. He slid down the far side and arrived just in time to join the end of the column. He trudged into Beit Nuba along with the sergeants. The town consisted of no more than two dozen homes surrounding a small keep. Richard sat on horseback, greeting the men as they straggled in. There were splashes of bright blood mixed with the mud on the king’s surcoat.

  ‘Well done, men!’ he shouted to the passing sergeants. ‘We routed the bastards, sent them running to Jerusalem with their tails between their legs. John! Praise God! Guy said he saw you fall.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘God spared you, priest. He looks after his own. The tents are up. Go inside and get some warm food inside you. You’ll need your strength; we’re on to Jerusalem as soon as this cursed rain ends!’

  January 1192: Jerusalem

  Yusuf stood above the Jaffa Gate and watched as his men rode through below him. The rain had slackened during the night and was now falling in a fine mist. A chill had settled over Jerusalem. He could see his men’s breath fogging the air. Their armour was spattered with dark mud and dried blood. Some clutched injuries. They rode in silence, their heads hanging.

  ‘Malik,’ Al-Afdal called as he approached along the wall. Yusuf’s son was covered in black mud. There was a thin cut on his left cheek.

  ‘What happened?’ Yusuf demanded. ‘I sent you to harass the Christians and slow their march, not to engage in battle.’

  ‘Richard surprised us. The Franks broke formation and their knights charged. It was raining heavily, and we did not see them until they were nearly on us. I – forgive me, Father.’

  ‘The fault is mine, Al-Afdal. I should have led the men myself. See that the injured are cared for, and give the men a double portion of their rations.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Al-Afdal bit his lip before continuing. ‘There is talk amongst your emirs. Some of them feel the battle for Jerusalem is already lost. They – they plan to leave the city this very night.’

  Yusuf gripped the stone battlement. Damn them! Where did they think they would go? If Jerusalem fell, then Damascus would be next, then Aleppo. ‘Have the emirs gather in the palace,’ he told Al-Afdal. ‘All of them. Then see to your men.’

  Al-Afdal bowed and moved away.

  ‘And my son,’ Yusuf called after him. ‘See that your cheek is tended to.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Yusuf turned back to watch his men. The last of them were riding through the gate. ‘Allah give me strength,’ he whispered. There was no response. There never was. He looked up to the grey sky. Was Allah punishing him for the crimes he had committed, the people he had killed?

  He lowered his gaze. There was no use dwelling on such thoughts. The past was past. He must focus on what he could do here and now. To either side of the gate, thousands of men were at work in the ditch that ringed Jerusalem, digging with picks and shovels to deepen it. It was brutally hard work in the cold and rain. Yusuf was using Frankish slaves and prisoners. Above them, mamluks were hanging leather hides and bales of hay from the wall to dampen the impact of siege engines. Yusuf had other men in the fields around the city, blocking up or poisoning the wells for miles around. He thought of what Al-Afdal had told him. It would all be for naught if his men deserted him. The common people were already fleeing – a steady stream of refugees heading out the eastern gate. Those who remained were busy boarding up their windows and doors. From his room in the palace, Yusuf could hear the sound of hammers day and night.

  Yusuf had hoped that peace might spare the city, but he was starting to believe that John’s plan was only a mirage. Richard had consented; but the weeks had slipped by as the Lionheart prepared his campaign, and no answer had come from Rome. And now it was most likely too late. If Jerusalem fell, it would not matter what response the Pope gave. Yusuf should have accepted Conrad’s offer of an alliance.

  ‘Malik.’ It was Saqr. ‘The emirs have gathered in the palace.’

  The palace was only a short walk south from the Jaffa Gate. It had been built by the Frankish kings in the Frankish style. The walls were thick, the windows topped with rounded arches. But some eastern touches had been adopted. Shallow pools of water sat at the centre of the many courtyards, which were ringed with colonnaded walkways. Not for the first time, Yusuf reflected how strange it was to be walking the halls of his enemies. He had first come to this palace as a hostage to King Amalric. Now he ruled here as king. But for how much longer?

  Nearly a hundred emirs were waiting for him in the barrel-vaulted audience chamber. They fell silent as he entered. Yusuf strode through their ranks and turned to face them. He searched their faces. There were his sons: Al-Afdal and Az-Zahir, and the younger ones, Ishaq, Mas’ud and Yaqub. Beside them stood Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Saqr. Yusuf had known them since they were young men. Qaraqush’s beard was grizzled now, and he was bald. Al-Mashtub had never completely recovered from the fighting at Acre. He would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Even Saqr, who Yusuf still thought of as a boy, now had a trace of grey in his beard. Yusuf recognized other faces, too. There were men who had fought for his uncle, Shirkuh. There were men of Egypt, Aleppo and Al-Jazirah. Many of them bore scars from their many battles at his side. Yusuf looked from man to man, meeting their eyes. Some held his gaze; others looked away. Yusuf said nothing. He let the silence do its work, let the men who thought to betray him stew in their guilt. That was a trick he had learned from his father. Some of the men began to shift uncomfortably.

  Finally, Yusuf spoke. He started softly, so that the men in the back had to lean in to hear. ‘When I was a boy, my father told me the story of Jerusalem’s fall. After the Franks breached the wall, the city’s defenders fled. They left the people behind to suffer. The Franks spared no one; not women, not children, not old men. The streets ran with blood. The alleyways echoed with the screams of the women they violated. I swore that I would avenge their suffering, that I would retake Jerusalem.

  ‘I kept my oath. The city is ours once more. And once more, the Franks are at our gates. Today, you are the defenders of Islam. Only you can save this city. Only you can protect our people. If you fail, then the streets will run red once more, and not just in Jerusalem but also in Damascus, then Aleppo, Cairo, perhaps even in Baghdad. Our enemies will roll up our lands as if they were rolling up a scroll.’ Yusuf paused to let his words take eff ect. When he spoke again, his voice was firmer.

  ‘That will not happen! I know you. You are more than my men. You are my brothers. You fought at my side when we retook Jerusalem, when we swept through the Franks’ Kingdom like a scythe through a field of wheat. You stood firm outside the walls of Acre. And you will stand firm here in Jerusalem.’ His voice was growing louder, filling the hall. ‘Allah has set this test for us. The lion roars at our gates. This is our greatest battle. This is the line that we cannot let the enemy cross. Will you stand up to defend Islam? To defend our people? Will you fight beside me, my men? My brothers?’

  Silence. Yet Yusuf’s words had had their effect. The men who had met his gaze before now stood straighter. Many of those who had looked away now had their eyes fixed squarely on the floor. It was Al-Mashtub who finally spoke. ‘My lord, you call us your brothers,’ the huge mamluk rumbled. ‘You honour us, for in truth, we are but your servants and your slaves. You have made us mighty and rich. Before you, we had little more than our necks. They are in your hands. By Allah, I will fig
ht beside you until I die. I know every man here feels the same.’

  ‘Aye! Till the death,’ Qaraqush echoed.

  There was a murmur of agreement. His speech had won over some of them and would no doubt shame others into staying, but it would not win them all. Yusuf took careful note of those who seemed less than enthusiastic. There were more of them than he would have liked, including some powerful emirs, such as Muhammad. He would need to keep them under close watch.

  ‘You are true warriors,’ he said. ‘I expected no less from you. We will stand together and die together, if needs be. And tonight we will feast together to celebrate the bond that unites us. You will be my guests at the palace, and afterwards, you will all stay here, with me.’

  ‘But Malik—’ Muhammad began.

  ‘I insist. Until this evening, men.’

  As the emirs filed out, Yusuf called for Qaraqush to stay behind. The thick-necked mamluk came to him. ‘A powerful speech, Malik.’

  ‘But still only words. I want you to seal the city gates. No one is to leave. Take charge of this yourself, and use only our most trusted men.’

  ‘Of course, Malik.’ Qaraqush bowed and left.

  Yusuf went in the other direction. He had done all he could. The rest was in the hands of Allah. He would go to Al-Aqsa to pray.

  Crack! John blinked awake just as his tent collapsed on top of him. He could hear the wind howling outside. It had snapped his tent pole in half. John was not surprised. Dozens of other tents had already suffered the same fate. He struggled out from under the heavy canvas and into the driving rain. No, not rain. Snow. The fat flakes stung his face, and he shivered. He had slept in his armour, with his cloak wrapped around him, but everything was long since soaked. Richard had decided to wait for the storm to stop before moving on to Jerusalem, but it had yet to let up. John’s feet and hands had gone numb with cold the first night they had arrived in Beit Nuba, five days ago. The shallow wound in his chest had become inflamed, making him feverish. That only made the cold worse.

  John pulled his damp cloak more tightly about him as he examined the wreckage of his tent. There would be no fixing it so long as this wind lasted. He looked to the sky. The clouds that hung low overhead were lightening. Dawn had broken, such as it was. That meant the cooks would already be at work.

  John slogged through ankle-deep mud to the cooks’ tents. The endless rain had ruined the stores of biscuit and grain that they had brought, but the men had not gone hungry. A cook handed him a chunk of charred horsemeat. The knights’ mounts were dying from cold and lack of feed, but at least they kept the men’s bellies full.

  John took his meal towards the fort, where he joined a dozen other men eating in the lee of the wall. No one acknowledged him. His fellows were hunched glumly over their breakfasts. The man next to him had blue lips and was shivering so violently that he had difficulty bringing his meat to his mouth. He looked like he might not survive the day. None of them would last much longer if this madness did not end. Someone had to talk sense to Richard.

  John finished his breakfast and trudged through the mud to one of the squat houses in the village. Inside, more than twenty nobles were packed into the tiny space, which smelt little better than a latrine. Still, it was dry and warm. These men were the lucky ones. John spotted Balian and stepped over the bodies of sleeping men as he made his way to him. There was snot crusted on Balian’s nose and lip, and he was snoring loudly. John shook him awake. ‘I would speak with you,’ he whispered. ‘About Richard.’

  Balian nodded. ‘Something must be done,’ he said as he sat up and picked sleep from his eyes.

  ‘Who else of the great lords feels the same?’

  ‘Humphrey. And Hugh of Burgundy, the French commander. That one hates Richard.’

  ‘Fetch them and meet me at the wall of the fort.’

  The cold seemed even sharper when John stepped outside. He returned to the lee of the wall and paced back and forth, stomping his feet in a futile attempt to restore some warmth to them. Balian finally appeared. He was followed by two men. Humphrey’s fat cheeks had thinned and there were dark circles under his eyes. Hugh looked far from well. His face was flushed with fever and he was sweating despite the cold. He had taken an arrow to his ankle during the battle of Arsuf, and the wound had festered.

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ John spoke loudly to be heard over the screaming wind. ‘I am going to speak to Richard. Someone must turn him from this madness.’

  Balian nodded. ‘We should never have marched in winter. At this rate, Saladin will destroy us without a battle.’

  ‘I am only a priest,’ John said. ‘Richard will not listen to me alone, but he cannot ignore your counsel. Will you join me?’

  ‘Anything to escape this cursed cold,’ Hugh muttered.

  The other men nodded.

  The guards at the fort gate waved them through. The keep was a simple, two-storey building of white limestone. Richard’s chamber was on the second floor. They found the king alone. He was sitting before a roaring fire, a goblet of wine in hand. He gestured for them to enter.

  ‘Your Grace,’ John began. ‘We would have a word with you.’

  Richard scowled. ‘You wish to tell me to retreat. I will not do it.’

  John exchanged a glance with the other lords. ‘I beg you to reconsider,’ Hugh urged. ‘We cannot take the city, Richard, not in this weather.’

  ‘We can, and we will! The prophet in Sicily foretold that I would not lose a battle in the Holy Land. You were there, John. Tell them.’

  ‘You may not lose a battle, my lord, but you are losing your army nonetheless. Over half the horses are dead, and when the last of them are gone, what will the men eat? Many have deserted already. When the food runs out, they will leave en masse. We must fall back. You cannot fight the rain and snow.’

  ‘I swore to take Jerusalem.’

  ‘It will not happen,’ Balian said. ‘Not now.’

  Richard’s brow furrowed and his fist clenched around the goblet. He hurled it at Balian, who ducked. Wine splashed across John’s face and the goblet clattered off the wall. Richard pushed himself up from his chair. ‘You are cowards, all of you!’ he roared. ‘Leave if you wish. Run back to Acre. I will stay here.’

  Hugh met his gaze without flinching. ‘Then you will die here. Alone.’

  ‘So be it.’ Richard turned to stare into the fire.

  ‘There is another way to take the city,’ John suggested. ‘Peace, Your Grace. We still await the Pope’s response regarding Joan’s marriage.’

  Richard snorted. ‘Do not play the fool, John. I agreed to your scheme only to weaken our enemy’s resolve and to keep Saladin from allying with Conrad. My sister will never marry a Saracen. And if we turn back now, the advantage will lie with Saladin. He will piss on your precious marriage. Go, all of you. Leave me.’

  ‘The blind fool,’ Humphrey grumbled as the lords headed for the door.

  John stayed behind. ‘You are not the only one whose life will be lost if you stay, Your Grace. Your men will die with you. You will have sacrificed their lives for nothing.’

  ‘I told you to leave,’ the king muttered. He went to the window and threw the shutters open. Wet snow swirled inside to melt on the stone floor. ‘When will this cursed storm end?’ Richard looked to John. ‘I fight for God, priest. Why does He thwart me?’

  Because your God is not the only one in this fight, John wished to say. Instead, he said, ‘You have won great victories, Your Grace. You took Acre, Jaffa and Ascalon. You have saved the Kingdom. God made that possible.’

  ‘And now it seems He is done with me.’ Richard shivered and closed the shutters. ‘I am not the blind fool that Humphrey thinks me, John. There are French and English, Italians and Germans, Hospitallers and Templars in my army. Jerusalem is all that keeps them from happily slitting one another’s throats. With that goal gone, my army will disintegrate. I cannot retreat.’

  ‘If you stay, they will abandon you all the same
. Or they will die. You must fall back. Your crusade is over, Your Grace.’

  Richard’s shoulders slumped. It was the first time John had ever seen him look defeated. ‘I am stubborn, John, and sometimes a fool. But I am not a stubborn fool. I’ll not throw away the lives of my men. We will fall back to Ascalon.’

  ‘O Allah forgive me; have mercy on me,’ Yusuf murmured as he knelt beneath the dome of the Al-Aqsa mosque. He prostrated himself and then sat back on his heels. ‘Greeting to you, O Prophet, and the mercy and blessing of Allah. Peace be unto us, and unto the righteous servants of Allah . . .’

  The words spilled out with hardly a thought. Yusuf had years of prayers to make up. He had missed them while on the march or while fighting. He could hardly remember a time when he was not at war. He had spent years in the saddle, far from his family. He had done horrible things, all in the name of Allah.

  ‘I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.’ Yusuf looked to his left. ‘Peace be upon you.’ He looked right and repeated the phrase. The sound of footsteps, soft on the carpeted floor, came to him as he stood to begin another round of prayer. He turned. It was Az-Zahir.

  ‘Father!’ Yusuf’s son was grinning. ‘A thousand pardons, but I have important news. The Franks are retreating!’