The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  Casca felt elated. Salah-ed-Din’s guard! The best of the best. Why not? “Lord, I am honored.” He bowed low again.

  “Excellent. You will be shown where to go at the end of this day. You will continue with your duties as normal until then. You can bid your comrades a farewell in good time.”

  Casca bowed and left, his heart pounding with pride.

  ____

  If things were going well for Salah-ed-Din and his kingdom, the opposite could be said for Outremer. In August Raymond was urgently summoned by Joscelin de Courtenay to the king’s side at Acre. When he got there it was clear the eight year old king was not long for this world, and Raymond knelt with heavy heart at the failing boy’s bedside. It wasn’t long before he passed away, and Joscelin looked at Raymond with a face bleak as the mountains in winter.

  “What to do now?” the Seneschal asked, back in his room.

  Raymond hung his head. All his plans had rested on the boy surviving; now he was dead. Who would be king now? There were two candidates, as he saw it; Guy de Lusignan who was, in Raymond’s opinion, totally unfit to reign, and Humphrey de Toron, whom he preferred even though Humphrey was a lily-livered incompetent.

  Joscelin made a decision. Things had to be done quickly to ensure the kingdom had a strong leader. “Call a conclave of the barons at Tiberias; we don’t want the Patriarch finding out the king is dead yet or he’ll crown Sibylla queen and that will make her husband Guy king. I shall take the king to Jerusalem myself to bury him. Speed is of the essence, Raymond.”

  Raymond nodded; he’d call the barons to his home base and ensure the will of the late leper king Baldwin IV would be carried out, rather than see the kingdom fall into the rival faction of Guy, Sibylla, Ridfort, Reynauld and the Patriarch. He shook hands with Joscelin and rode back east towards Tiberias, sending messengers to the barons and those he trusted to attend a conclave.

  Joscelin wasted no time either; he called his captains to him and ordered the citadels of Acre and Tyre be guarded, and then he sent for Sibylla and the Patriarch, advising them of the king’s death and the need to urgently crown Sibylla queen. He also told them he’d sent the traitor Raymond back to his home on a fool’s errand. For Joscelin had become afraid of Raymond’s power and wanted it curbed, so he was prepared to do a deal with the devil, even if it meant putting a fool like Guy de Lusignan on the throne.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Casca heard news from across the border that made him feel war was inevitable; it was coming and it seemed as though there were those in the Crusader kingdom who actively wanted it. He saw the strength of Salah-ed-Din’s kingdom and shook his head in amazement of the stupidity of the Christian nobility.

  Raymond had been overthrown by the war-like opposition. Sibylla had been crowned queen, against the will of Raymond and his supporters who refused to attend the ceremony, and she promptly invested her husband Guy de Lusignan as king. Raymond had protested and intended to set Humphrey of Toron as a rival king but Humphrey, probably shitting himself at the prospect of such a responsibility, fled to Jerusalem and surrendered himself to Guy.

  That effectively ended matters. The other barons, seeing no alternative, submitted to the new king, except Raymond and a few die-hards. A split had occurred in Outremer and much of it was now under the control of the new king and his supporters. Raymond retired to Tiberias and sulked.

  Salah-ed-Din pondered on these developments and decided he’d try to exploit the rift between Raymond and the others. He sent an embassy to Tiberias, promising to return to Raymond all the prisoners he held who belonged to the Count of Tripoli, and would not an alliance of some sort be to their mutual benefit? Raymond, faced with the military might of Guy, had no option but to agree and he got his men back, plus a few Saracen units to reinforce his lands.

  Guy was furious. He branded Raymond a traitor and heretic and called for a crusade to expunge him from the land, but he was persuaded to wait while the Crusader forces built their strength up. They were still not strong enough to take on Salah-ed-Din.

  Casca didn’t go to Tiberias; he remained close to the Saracen leader. Training was hard but he expected that; the elite guard unit would be trained more thoroughly than any other unit, and it also showed up those who weren’t up to the job. Casca enjoyed it. It was a routine to him, as he’d done so many times before.

  He kept in contact with Siddig, even though they rarely met these days. Siddig remained indoors or on ceremonial duty in the palace grounds, while Casca accompanied Salah-ed-Din with the elite guard wherever he went. On the days they both had free they often met and talked of many different things. Siddig was intrigued by his strange companion; he was not like many soldiers drawn from the common people, he had a wisdom that exceeded his years, or, at any rate, how young he appeared to be. He was the most knowledgeable man he ever met on history; he could tell a story as though he had been present, a marvelous talent!

  They sometimes ventured into the city, but Siddig was not comfortable mixing with the populace, and they usually went out in the early morning or late evening. Once they walked to the Bustan al-Qitt, the Cat’s Garden, in the southern part of the city and looked out over the fertile green fields of the valley that surrounded Damascus. Siddig sighed and looked back along the street that ran due west straight as an arrow. “Truly a wondrous city, the most beautiful in the entire world.”

  “The Greeks call it the Most Beauteous,” Casca commented, examining the red sandstone walls next to the gate. “Roman,” he said, patting the immense block, pride in his voice.

  Siddig looked at the stone. “A thousand years and it still stands! Such marvelous engineering.”

  “Oh yes. The Romans knew how to build.” Casca had a pang of nostalgia and suppressed it ruthlessly. It was gone and nothing could bring it back.

  “Ah, you admire the Roman way? Let me show you the Islamic and marvel at that!”

  Siddig led Casca back into the city towards the immense mosque that had been built shortly after Damascus had fallen to the Faith, five centuries ago, which was being built the last time Casca saw it. Now it was there in its splendor and glory. A huge dome caught his eye, perched atop a massive stone rectangular basilica, and fanning out left and right were ornate arched bridges connecting it to the outer buildings. To the left stood a minaret, the spire thrusting out of a square-sided clock tower.

  Even as they watched, the clock struck, and Casca stood open-mouthed as metal falcons moved, striking the hour. The hours were marked by a number of shut brass doors, and as they watched the falcons completed their chiming and another door slammed shut. Siddig clapped and turned to Casca, delighted. “Such wondrous devices that make this timepiece work, do you not agree?”

  Casca admitted it was something else, but he already knew Muslim mathematicians were amongst the best there were, so he wasn’t surprised. Many Christian states in Europe discouraged learning in the sciences as the church maintained it was against the teachings of God and the Bible. Casca thought that attitude was dumb, and it meant they lagged behind in technology. No wonder Outremer was rotting.

  They turned as they heard the clattering of horses’ hooves and a man came galloping along the street, his face grim and streaked with dirt and sweat. Casca noticed his outfit and the horse’s livery and turned to Siddig. “My friend, I think we’d best get back to our barracks; that was a messenger from Salah-ed-Din’s personal corps. I think something bad has occurred.”

  Siddig paled and looked sick. Casca wondered how he’d react if he was ever faced with battle. No matter, he dragged the ashen faced youth after him and propelled him in the direction of Imad’s palace. “Take care, Siddig,” he called and pounded towards Salah-ed-Din’s palace, wondering what was up. He got there within moments and guards were talking animatedly amongst themselves. “What’s the matter?” he breathed.

  One guard shook his head in anger. “A caravan has been attacked in the south, many killed, much taken. It was Arnat.”

  Arnat.
Casca had learned of the name during his time in Damascus. It was what the Muslims here called Reynauld of Chatillon. So the fool had finally snapped and done something stupid. He walked into the barracks and threw down his off-duty clothing and changed quickly. If he knew Salah-ed-Din the man would be ready to retaliate in no time flat. The four-year truce, signed not two years past, had been violated.

  He grabbed a spear and trotted along to the inner chamber. Heads gathered at the doorway, listening in, and Casca pushed up against them to catch what was being said.

  “That evil man must be punished! A defenseless caravan, massacred! Who does he think he is? May Allah bring a thousand sores to his body!” Salah-ed-Din was pacing angrily up and down, Imad trying to keep pace with him, other courtiers looking on nervously.

  “Lord, please hear the voice of wisdom and calm before you succumb to those of hatred and revenge,” Imad pleaded.

  “What? Calm? How can I be calm when Arnat murders our people who only wish to trade or worship? Are they soldiers? No! What wisdom is there, learned councilor, when innocents are butchered without reason? Cowards! Murderers!”

  Imad took a deep breath. “Lord, if you may permit this humble servant of yours to send an embassy to the house of the king in Jerusalem and request this Arnat be punished for his transgression of the treaty, perhaps we may yet enjoy the fruits of peace.”

  “Peace? Pah!” Salah-ed-Din stamped around, barely under control. Eventually he grew quiet, took a deep breath and faced his Secretary of State. “Go send an embassy; tell King Guy that he must punish that fool for his transgression. If he does not, then I swear on the Holy Quran that I shall wage war on these infidels until their bones bleach in the sun and their castles are but dust on the land!”

  Imad bowed and backed away, his face aghast. Salah-ed-Din waited until the Secretary’s footsteps had faded, then he turned to the expectant sea of faces in and out of the room. “I will call a jihad to rid these lands of this pestilence. Go spread the word! Put up signs! I call on a jihad! A JIHAD!”

  A roar went up and fists punched the air in delight and fierce patriotism. Casca stood back and shrugged. It was inevitable, and now God help the Christians of Outremer. Or, he corrected himself wryly, Allah help them.

  Casca felt a knot grow in his guts; he was going to war.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Raymond looked over Lake Tiberias and wondered just how many more times he would stand there and enjoy the scene. His heart weighed heavily in his chest and he knew the end was coming; he felt it. He turned and smiled at the figure of Roland de Beaucaire, standing before him, a man much shrunken and aged since he had been brought to Tiberias in a physician’s wagon. His hair was white and deep creases lined his face, but he still stood upright and carried an air of dignity about him. “So you are to travel to Jerusalem, de Beaucaire.”

  De Beaucaire nodded. “I must, for safety’s sake. The war that is coming will wash over this place. You know you’ll be the first to go?”

  “Yes. Even though I have a treaty with Saladin, I don’t think it will stop his army from taking Tiberias, sooner or later. I understand your reason for going but I wish to urge caution. There are those who wish me no good and that extends to my friends. It is known you have been under my protection these last months and that won’t stand you in good stead with my enemies.”

  De Beaucaire turned and looked at Balian d’Ibelin. The young knight shrugged. “I put both Lord de Beaucaire and his daughter under my protection. I don’t think even Gerard de Ridfort would take action. I myself must go to Jerusalem to attend the Court, and see what I can do to curb their enthusiasm for war. With so many now in the king’s camp I don’t think there’s much I can do.”

  “Has the king done anything to punish de Chatillon for his attack on that caravan?”

  Balian shook his curls. “Nothing. He whimpered a bit, asked him to release the prisoners but Reynauld ignored him. The king did nothing more.” His voice betrayed the contempt he felt towards the weak Guy de Lusignan.

  “You see why Reynauld and his clique backed Guy? He won’t stand up to them.” Raymond’s hands curled into fists of impotence. “So Reynauld has got a free hand to do what he likes, and Saladin is going to come through here with his entire damned army!”

  “Where is he now?” Balian asked out of interest, putting on his riding gauntlets.

  “Oh,” Raymond turned back to stare out of the window, “somewhere out there, gathering his forces, ready to descend upon us. May God help us all.”

  ____

  Salah-ed-Din was at this moment at a place called Ras-al-Mai, a well watered area to the north-east of Lake Tiberias. Here, watercourses flowed west down towards the River Jordan and no one lacked for water. Casca scooped up some fresh water into his conical helm and drank, then filed his water bottle with more. He knew it was always best to carry any water as fresh as possible, so every time he came across a watercourse he emptied his bottle and replaced the water.

  The call for a jihad, a Holy War, had gone out and recruits were flocking in from all directions. Calls had gone out to Salah-ed-Din’s vassals and family to gather forces and move in on every frontier they faced, so that the Crusaders would not know where the invasion would come from. Salah-ed-Din didn’t know himself, and he had concerns of his own at that moment, which he was discussing with his son who commanded part of the army. “I am worried Arnat will attack more caravans. It is now Muharram, and pilgrims will be returning in huge numbers from Mecca. They will be ripe for plunder. I must send protection to them to prevent further bloodshed.”

  “Father, you have vowed to destroy the Christian kingdom; surely that is your priority?” Al-Afdal, Salah-ed-Din’s son, pointed on the map in front of him at the lands to the west of the Jordan.

  “Ah, my son,” Salah-ed-Din smiled, “to attack one must first learn of the enemy movements and intentions. It is too soon to attack and the army is not yet gathered and trained. I have time to protect the pilgrims and return to carry out my vow. While I am gone you will guard this frontier and keep a watch on the Christian movements. It is a great honor for me to ask this of you.”

  Al-Afdal, a young man not yet fully broadened, bowed and acknowledged the responsibility. “I shall send spies to learn many things, my father,” he replied.

  “Good. In the meantime I shall march down and attack the stronghold of that devil Arnat. It may fool the enemy into thinking it is my main attack. It will buy us more time.”

  He dismissed his son and stood, deep in thought, leaning on the small table staring at the map. He couldn’t remain in the field for too long or his volunteers would begin to melt away, and besides war was a costly thing to maintain. He had to strike fast and true. And in order to do that he had to lure the entire Christian army out and destroy it.

  He called his senior guards officers to him and they gathered round. “We march south with the elite forces,” he announced, “to show Arnat who is Lord of Syria!”

  The officers shouted in delight and the camp suddenly exploded into life, men rushing to stow equipment, put away tents, put out fires, harness horses and prepare for the long journey south to the desert frontier. They marched out after mid-day and made their way down the pilgrim trail, a long snaking column of about 700 men, all tough professionals. They were well-armed and equipped and if Reynauld was stupid enough to venture out with his garrison against them, there could only be one outcome.

  As it happened Reynauld remained behind his walls, watching as pilgrim caravan after pilgrim caravan passed safely north. He cared not; he’d amassed amazing wealth after his attack on the first caravan and he could sit here in safety and Salah-ed-Din and his pathetic soldiers would soon bugger off north so he could resume his raids. The opportunity for more plunder would soon present itself, he was certain.

  Casca found his memory of the area came in good use. Often out on patrols he remembered locations of springs or wells as well as excellent places for shelter, and his ability was
soon brought to the attention of the Saracen leader. Casca was shown to Salah-ed-Din’s tent one evening after a particularly hard patrol out on the edge of the Syrian Desert. Casca had grit in his eyes, under his clothing and in his hair. He felt very uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to get his clothing off and cool down under his thin blanket.

  Salah-ed-Din waved Casca to sit in a soft chair made of camel skin and made comfortable with camel hair. The Saracen leader himself sat on a pile of cushions and rugs, sipping a refreshing mint ch’a. His eyes never left Casca as his guest sat down and awkwardly arranged himself as the grains of grit found new areas to irritate. “I am told, Kasim,” he began, waving a servant girl to attend his warrior with a drink, “that you have proven valuable these past few days in providing sufficient water for my soldiers’ needs. Also, you have shown a talent in commanding small groups of men, organizing them in bringing water to the camp. Have you commanded before?”

  Casca accepted a welcome cup of spring water, sighing at the coolness as it almost hissed down his parched throat. “My lord, I have commanded previously, it is true. I am but a humble soldier who has seen service in this area in the past.”

  Salah-ed-Din shrewdly appraised his warrior. Here was someone he could not quite place in the order of things. Most people were easy to describe and judge, but this Kasim was a strange one indeed. “My spies say you are a natural officer. What would you say if I made you one of the captains of my foot guards?”

  Casca was surprised. “Don’t you have enough already, my lord?”

  “Yes, but one has been taken ill with a fever and he is being sent back to Damascus. Therefore his post is up to me to fill, and I choose you, Kasim.”

  Casca bowed. “I would be honored, my lord.” Casca wondered about Salah-ed-Din’s judgment of him. Long ago, he, Casca Rufio Longinus, had been an ordinary Roman legionary. Back then he’d been content to be a soldier and nothing more, and he’d done his job well. Too well, he thought bitterly.