Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  As John stepped inside, he spotted a flash of metal flying towards him and jumped aside just before a goblet slammed into the door, which was swinging closed behind him.

  ‘What have you done, priest?’ Richard roared. The king was leaning on the table at the centre of the room. He wore only a thin linen bed tunic.

  ‘The Lord High Steward—’

  ‘I did not ask you about Blanchemains. What have you done?’

  ‘I negotiated a peace, Your Grace.’

  ‘Peace.’ Richard spat as if he could not stomach the taste of the word. ‘I swore to take Jerusalem. Would you make an oath-breaker of me, John? You can stuff you treaty up your arse. I’ll not agree to it.’

  ‘You have no choice, Your Grace.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘You have no choice, my lord.’

  Richard moved surprisingly fast for someone who had been confined to bed only moments before. He rounded the table, crossed the room in four great strides and swung for John’s head. John ducked the blow and slipped away. Richard was breathing heavily after his sudden exertion. John moved to put the table between them.

  ‘Hugh of Burgundy died while you were ill, Your Grace. The French troops have left for France. Many of your men have gone as well. The rest only wait to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem before departing.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Richard said between breaths. He went to the table and slumped into a chair. ‘King Henry will lend me the men of the Kingdom.’

  ‘They were not enough to defend Jerusalem. They are not enough to retake it. You must make peace.’

  ‘I am king, damn you!’ Richard slammed his fist on to the table so hard that the flagon of wine at its centre jumped. ‘Do not tell me what I must do!’ He coughed and spat. ‘You are bastards. All of you, bastards.’

  ‘We only sought to serve you, Your Grace.’

  ‘By betraying me?’

  John’s forehead creased. Richard’s words were closer to the mark than the king knew. John had always been a man of honour, and it was his duty to serve Richard as best he could. Instead, he had prayed for the king’s failure and done his part to assure it. But John had no regrets. Joan had been right: honour would neither save lives nor protect the innocent. John had done what was right, honour be damned.

  ‘I only did what you should have done, Your Grace.’

  Richard’s voice became dangerously quiet, almost a whisper. ‘You think you know my duty better than I, priest?’

  ‘I know it.’

  Richard stood, knocking his chair over, and John tensed, ready to fight if needs be. ‘I promised you an earldom if you made peace on my terms, John. You failed. I shall have you cast in chains for our return to England.’

  ‘I will not be returning to England, Your Grace.’

  ‘You will go where I say! You are my man.’

  ‘I am God’s man.’ John met Richard’s blue eyes. ‘And I thank God for that. You are a great warrior, but you have put your sword in the service of only you, not God. I will not serve you a moment longer. Not if my life depended on it, Your Grace.’

  ‘I will have your head,’ Richard growled.

  ‘Then you will have no peace.’

  Richard clenched the edge of the table. His face shaded purple with rage. ‘Go, then. Go! Go before I kill you myself!’

  ‘Your Grace.’ John bowed. ‘Godspeed on your journey.’

  September 1192: Ramlah

  Rain pattered off the roof of the pavilion. The men inside were huddled together uncomfortably close; the Franks on one side of the table where the treaty sat, the Saracens on the other. John had watched the pavilion’s shadow slowly shrink away to almost nothing while the treaty was read in its entirety, first in French, then in Latin and finally in Arabic. He clenched his teeth as Imad ad-Din droned on. The leg John had injured at Arsuf was aching, and blood had started to seep through the bandages to wet his tunic.

  Yusuf’s secretary finally finished reading, and Henry stepped forward. As king of Jerusalem, he would be the first to take his oath. The other Frankish lords would give their oaths to him. ‘I, Henry, Count of Champagne and Lord of Jerusalem, ruler of the Kingdom, in the presence of Balian of Ibelin, Humphrey of Toron and many other honourable men, both Christian and Muslim, swear that I will abide by the terms of this treaty . . .’

  After John had left Richard, the king had continued to rage for a full day, but in the end, he had agreed to honour the terms of the treaty. He had little choice. He was desperately needed in England, and even though he still longed to fight, he had no army.

  Henry was reaching the end of his oath. ‘And if any of my lords do not observe the terms therein, then let their lands be forfeit. And if I or my successors do not observe this treaty, then let our word be counted for nothing, and our rule stripped from us. All this do I swear on this third day of September, in the eleven hundred and ninety-second year of Our Lord.’

  Joscius, the archbishop of Tyre, whom Henry had named his chancellor, stepped forward with the king’s seal. It was two-sided: one side showing the king seated on his throne; the other, the tower of David, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Dome of the Rock. Two seals had been prepared in advance, one for each copy of the treaty. Joscius attached them to the treaties with ribbons that had been embedded in the wax.

  Balian gave his oath next, followed by Humphrey of Toron and Reginald of Sidon. The Grand Masters of the Hospital and the Temple swore to uphold the treaty. Then it was the turn of the English lords: Blanchemains, Bishop Walter, de Preaux, de Ferriers and John.

  ‘And what of Richard?’ Selim asked after John had given his oath.

  ‘The King recognizes the terms of the peace,’ Blanchemains replied, ‘but he will not give his oath, nor will he make pilgrimage to Jerusalem. He bid me deliver this promise: once the peace is over, he will return to take Jerusalem.’

  Selim frowned. ‘Those are words of war, not peace.’

  ‘It is the King’s actions that matter, not his words,’ Balian assured him. ‘More than half his men have already left for home. Richard himself will be on a ship before another month has passed.’

  ‘If Richard will not swear, then nor shall Saladin. His men and I will take the oath in his name.’

  Balian looked to Henry. The king nodded. ‘Very well. Proceed.’

  Selim cleared his throat. ‘I swear by Allah that I will keep the peace and honour the terms of this treaty.’ As he spoke, Imad ad-Din traced Selim’s signature on the two copies of the treaty. Al-Afdal swore next, then Az-Zahir and Al-Mashtub. Imad ad-Din recorded their names. Qaraqush gave his oath last of all, after which there ensued an awkward silence in which the only sound was that of Imad ad-Din’s quill scratching on the parchment. The secretary finished and set the quill aside.

  There were no smiles, no exclamations of joy. The Saracens were no doubt thinking of how close they had come to driving the Franks from their lands once and for all. The Christians simply looked tired.

  ‘It is done,’ Selim declared at last. ‘As a sign of friendship, Saladin wishes to invite you to a feast in his tent.’

  ‘We would be honoured to attend,’ Henry replied.

  Selim led them further into the Saracen camp, to a tent large enough to hold more than a hundred men. A long, low table ran down its centre, with glasses of wine on one side and glasses of water on the other. The Franks took their places, with Henry at their centre, and the Saracens followed suit. John found a place near the end of the table. The space opposite Henry had been left open for Saladin. Selim raised his glass. ‘My brother does not wish us to wait on him. Eat, drink!’

  John took a sip of wine. There was a tap on his shoulder, and Az-Zahir leaned close to whisper in his ear. ‘My father wishes to see you. Come.’

  John followed him to a much smaller tent and Az-Zahir held the flap aside. John limped inside to find Yusuf seated cross-legged on the carpeted floor. He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and
his cheekbones protruded sharply from his face. His mouth was turned down at the ends, making him look melancholy. His robes hung like clothes on a scarecrow. He gestured to a cushion across from him. ‘Sit, friend.’ John lowered himself with care. ‘Your wound pains you. I am sorry, John.’

  ‘Do not be. I am old, Yusuf. If not my wound, it would be my back, or my shoulder.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘I hardly eat any more, my gut troubles me so. Perhaps peace will cure my ills. I have not seen Damascus in years, nor Shamsa . . .’ His voice trailed off and his eyes took on a far-away look, as if he were gazing at distant mountains. ‘I do not know what I shall do now that peace has come. I have spent my life fighting the Franks. I knit my kingdom together with the hope of defeating them. What shall we hope for now? What will hold my people together?’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘But for how long? After I took Jerusalem, I dreamed of peace, of the flourishing kingdom I would build. Now that peace has come, I fear I shall not enjoy it long. I am weak, John. The fire in my belly burns without cease; it eats me up from the inside. It is Allah, punishing me for my crimes. I have done terrible things.’

  ‘You are a king. You did what you must.’

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘I once believed that. Now, I am not so sure. I had Turan killed. Asimat, too, and Al-Salih . . . my own son, John.’ Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘I have not admitted that to anyone. I am a monster.’

  ‘I killed my brother, Yusuf. If you are a monster, then so am I.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘We both have blood on our hands, but it is not our past that defines us. You tamed the Lionheart. You have brought peace to the Holy Land. You have opened Jerusalem to Franks and Muslims alike. This is how you will be judged.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘But I did not call you here to speak of these things. I wished to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me?’

  ‘For saving my life again, amongst other things. You were right, John. You have always been right. For years, I thought of nothing but defeating the Franks. I thought victory would make me great, but it only made me cruel. My wars have ruined the country. The fields have gone unplanted. My subjects are beaten down and confused. The rich are reduced to hunger and the poor to destitution. I fought in the name of Allah, but I was not doing his work. My people do not need victory; they need peace.’

  ‘I only reminded you of what you once taught me.’

  ‘I could have used you by my side these many years, John. I have missed you.’

  ‘And I, you. Though I served other kings, I was always your friend.’

  ‘I know. What will you do now that war is ended? Will you return home to England?’

  ‘There is nothing for me there. My home is here. I only joined Richard’s crusade so that I could return. I wish to return to Damascus, if you will permit it.’

  Yusuf smiled. ‘Of course. You are welcome at my court.’

  ‘Thank you, but I have had enough of kings and courts, my friend.’

  ‘As have I.’ Yusuf’s smile faded and his face resumed its melancholy cast. ‘If you will not accept a post, at least accept my coin, enough to settle you comfortably.’

  ‘You do not have to—’

  ‘I insist.’

  John placed his hand over his heart and bowed at the waist. ‘Shukran Allah.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘I have many subjects, but few friends, John. You will visit me from time to time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good.’ Yusuf stood and extended a hand to help John to his feet. ‘Now come. They will be missing us at the feast, and we have much to celebrate, you and I. Do you remember the first time you spoke to me of peace between our people?’ John nodded. ‘I called you a dreamer.’ Yusuf laughed softly. ‘Now, your dream has come true.’

  ‘Our dream, friend.’

  ‘Yes, our dream.’ Yusuf put his arm around John, and together they limped from the tent.

  After the peace, the Frankish crusaders made their pilgrimage to Jerusalem and then returned home. Richard refused to visit the Holy City, vowing to only set foot inside as a conqueror. He never did. He took ship in October and did not return. I do not know what became of him, though I have heard it told that during his journey to England, he was made a prisoner in Austria by the same Leopold on whose flag he once pissed.

  Saladin settled in Damascus with his wife Shamsa at his side, and set himself to doing good works and making up the prayers and days of fasting that he had missed during his long years of war. Allah did not grant him long to enjoy the peace he had crafted. The fire in his belly grew hotter and hotter until it consumed him from within. He died on the twenty-ninth day of Muharram in the five hundred and eighty-ninth year of the Hijra – the fourth day of May in the year 1193. I was by his side at the end, along with Shamsa, Imad ad-Din, Ibn Jumay, Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and his son Al-Afdal. Shamsa also summoned Faridah, Saladin’s first love, from her home in the city. She had become an old, wrinkled woman, but her hair was still fiery red. She held Shamsa while the sultan’s wife wept.

  All of Damascus was in tears. The people dressed in black sackcloth. When Saladin’s body was marched around the city, their lamentations were so loud that it was said they could be heard in Jerusalem. I do not know the truth of this, but I know that no man better merited the tears of his people. Saladin was a righteous man, a mighty warrior, a great king. He united his people. He tamed the Lionheart. He retook Jerusalem and opened it to Franks, Saracens and Jews alike. Before he died, he brought peace to a land of war. I am but a poor man. I cannot build a church or endow a school of learning in honour of Saladin. This chronicle is my tribute to the truest friend I have ever known.

  And here, I must put down my quill. This chronicle has taken the last ten years of my life. I am old, my hands crooked, and writing does not come as easy as it once did. Soon I will follow Saladin. He is no doubt in Paradise. Perhaps I shall see him there, if God lets me in. I have not lived a holy life. I was raised in England and came to these lands with blood on my head. Here, I have known love and pain and death. I have been called by many names and titles: Iain of Tatewic, John the Saxon, Canon, Archdeacon, Abbot, Priest, and finally, John of Damascus – Yahya al-Dimashqi. I have more than once made a mockery of the vows I took as a priest. But if my life has not been holy, if my actions have not always been honourable, I have always done as I thought best for the good of the Kingdom and its people. I pray that is enough.

  The Chronicle of Yahya al-Dimashqi

  Historical Note

  Eagle, the first book in the Saladin Trilogy, was a challenge to write because we know so little about Saladin’s early years. The challenge of Holy War was precisely the opposite. The Battle of Hattin, the siege of Jerusalem and the Third Crusade are all momentous events, any of which could easily support a novel in its own right. Contemporary chroniclers and modern historians alike have spilled much ink describing them. The challenge of this book was thus what to leave out, and I had to make some painful decisions. I wish I could have kept the Battle of Jacob’s Ford, mostly because it was the final battle of the constable Humphrey of Toron, a character of whom I have grown fond. In April 1179, Saladin sent a small army to reconnoitre the area around the ford, where Baldwin was building a castle. The Saracens surprised and routed a Christian army, which was only saved from total destruction by the valiant rearguard action of Humphrey, who later died from his wounds. I also left out Saladin’s attack of the Kingdom in 1182, which featured an assault by land and sea on Beirut – the first time Saladin had combined his navy and army in that way. Most notably, I greatly streamlined Saladin’s many Al-Jazirah campaigns, which present a long list of alliances made and broken and citadels taken and retaken. Rather than dwell on this complex back and forth, I wanted my story to drive more directly towards the spectacular events at Hattin.

  At Hattin, I did my best to faithfully reconstruct a battle that, like most great conflicts of the Middle Ages, has remained
stubbornly opaque. Most historians of the day were priests (on the Frankish side) or scribes and poets (on the Muslim side), and thus not overly familiar or concerned with the details of warfare. As a result, historians disagree on some of the most basic details, such as where exactly the Horns were, but what is clear is that the Frankish army made a number of tactical errors. They should never have left the springs at La Sephorie, and once on the march, they should not have made camp short of water. Once they did so, their fate was sealed. The Frankish army’s greatest strength was its discipline. Terrible thirst destroyed that discipline, and as soon as the Frankish sergeants broke ranks, the battle was lost.

  Hattin and the conquest of Jerusalem that swiftly followed were the high points of Saladin’s rule. The clemency he showed at Jerusalem – in sharp contrast to the behaviour of the crusaders almost a hundred years earlier – won him plaudits even amongst his enemies. In my eyes, though, the true measure of Saladin’s greatness is found not in his triumphs but in his stubborn resistance to King Richard. The Lionheart was a fascinating, complex man, and a worthy adversary for Saladin. His wars in France had already won him a reputation as a great warrior long before he took up the cross. I tried to capture what precisely made him great: his incredible personal valour and his ability to inspire men through both words and deed. But I did not want to ignore the dark side of Richard. He was a man who twice rebelled against his father and eventually hounded him to death. He used the threat of pogroms to squeeze money out of the English Jews for his crusade. He conducted war through rape and pillage. While such actions might be excused – the Middle Ages was, after all, a brutal time, when such things were common – his massacre of the prisoners at Acre upset even contemporary chroniclers. It was not just the scale of the slaughter that was decried, but the fact that Richard had given his word that the men would be spared. And as brilliant as he was on the battlefield, he seems to have been just as clumsy in his relations with his fellow rulers. King Philip of France’s siege craft, more than anything else, helped bring about the fall of Acre, but Richard seized the lion’s share of the credit and in doing so, alienated his fellow king. His domineering attitude also drove off Conrad and the Germans. Richard never suffered defeat in the Holy Land, but neither did he achieve his goal of retaking Jerusalem. He had only himself to blame for that.