by Tony Roberts
“And did you ask for help? Did you know how many they were? Where were they heading? Where had they come from?”
Gerard waved a feeble arm. “Does it matter? We had to attack!”
“You’re a bigger fool than I thought,” Balian said, “and you got valuable knights killed just to satisfy your lust for killing! You’re not fit to command, Ridfort. The Grand Hospitaller is dead, a very important member of the Council. I hope you regret that!”
Gerard groaned and turned his head away. Balian leaned over the stricken man. “Now we have trouble many times over! I worried about Reynauld’s blinkered attitude; it seems I was worrying over the wrong person. Between the two of you I think you’ll destroy us yet. I for myself need to press on to Raymond now. Are you fit to come with me?”
“No, no… I’m too badly hurt. Go on without me.”
Balian turned and walked out, waving the Archbishop to accompany him. They left the feebly moaning Templar to be ministered by the priest. He had a terrible sense of urgency; now it was essential to get Raymond on their side, or else they’d be drowned in an irresistible tide of invading Saracens. He felt sick.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Casca was summoned to Salah-ed-Din’s tent the morning after the feast. Casca reckoned he might be in a bit of trouble, but was prepared to take it. The raid had improved morale and both his men and Shafraz’s had enjoyed the roast mutton, spiced up with mint. The smell had attracted men from the other units and there was sufficient to hand over some to those lucky enough to get there first.
Casca arrived at the tent and was surprised to see horses tethered there belonging to the garrison of Kerak. Obviously they had decided to complain about the raid. Now he knew he was in the manure big time. Taking a deep breath, he announced his arrival. He was commanded to enter and he ducked in, removing his sharbrush and tucking it under his arm.
Salah-ed-Din was standing surrounded by people. Imad was there, taking notes, and a few other senior ranking Saracens. Also there were three Crusaders including, Casca saw to his surprise, Meurtrier. All turned at his entrance and their expressions ranged from interest through to stunned disbelief. Meurtrier stood there his mouth open and his one eye wide.
“Ah, my captain of the guard, Kasim,” Salah-ed-Din announced, smiling. “This is the thief who raided your village last night, but I think you know him already, do you not?”
Meurtrier’s mouth snapped shut. Then he pointed at him. “You’re dead! You can’t be alive!”
Casca shrugged and felt his body. “I seem to be fine, Meurtrier. Better than you, in fact, you old buzzard.” Salad-ed-Din smiled, as Imad, who spoke French, translated for his master.
Meurtrier swung round on Salah-ed-Din. “This man is to be brought back to Kerak castle and punished for his crime! He is a traitor to Christendom and will be publicly hanged!”
Salah-ed-Din shook his head slowly. “Esteemed guest, may I point out that it is you who have insulted me. Your master raided a caravan of mine and plundered it. He has not returned the booty or prisoners taken, despite requests from both your own king and myself. Therefore I will most certainly not give to you one of my most able officers who is capable of embarrassing your military abilities. In addition, how can he be a traitor to Christendom if he is not a Christian?”
Meurtrier glared at the Saracen emir, then turned his eye on Casca once more. “Kasim is it now? Then my lord was right; you were a damned Muslim spy! You ought to have been disemboweled and quartered and hung from the battlements!”
“Feel free to try, Meurtrier,” Casca replied grimly. “I’m here. Draw your sword, if you have the balls.”
Meurtrier gripped the pommel of his sword, and the sudden air of menace was palpable as the Saracen officers all tensed. One of the Crusader envoys, a priest by the looks of things, placed a hand on Meurtrier’s arm. “Desist, good fellow. The Lord shall punish this creature in His own time.” Meurtrier made a noise of disgust and flapped his sword arm down to his side. The Saracens relaxed. Salah-ed-Din turned to the priest. “Holy man, please take your colleagues and depart my camp. I shall not receive another embassy from your castle as long as the vile banner of the Cross hangs from it. I shall spread fire and terror throughout your domain, and you may try to stop it if you feel brave enough, but my men are ready to do the bidding of Allah in the fight against you and your infidel kingdom. You shall not be able to prevent it.”
The priest paled and bowed, pulling Meurtrier with him in his haste to exit. The French knight paused in the tent opening and faced Casca one more time. “The next time we meet I shall slay you, traitor. May God give me strength to slaughter your unholy hide!”
“Try it, Frenchman. Many already have. All have failed. I’ll be ready.”
Meurtrier sneered and left, and a moment later they heard the galloping of hoofs as the small party galloped back to Kerak. Salah-ed-Din turned to Casca. “Kasim, the next time you plan to raid a Christian village please ask permission from me beforehand.”
Casca bowed. “I am sorry, Light of the Faithful, it was a sudden impulse.”
Salah-ed-Din waved the excuse aside. “If you wish to remain in favor you must ask first. And more importantly pass one fifth of any plunder to me. Such is the teaching of the Prophet.”
Casca grinned. “I apologize, Lord. Our next raid shall provide you with the tastiest beast.”
Salah-ed-Din laughed, echoed by the other officers. Imad smiled and nodded in approval to Casca. The Saracen leader then spoke again. “I shall keep my word. You will send out raiders to all parts of this devil’s domain and plunder, burn and take. But, and I must insist, you do not harm any of those who follow Islam. Just persuade them to leave the lands of Arnat and travel to my lands where they shall enjoy the protection of Allah.”
The officers bowed in assent. Casca stood to attention as the Saracens exited in file, then waited for Salah-ed-Din to speak to him once more. “Kasim,” he said, “I saw the fear in the eyes of the infidels. They are truly afraid of you, and that is good. I intend using that to bring terror to their hearts. Ride with me on our raids and you shall help drive these unbelievers into the sea. Go prepare your men and tell them they escort me this day!”
Casca bowed and left, excited at the thought his unit would now have the honor of being the emir’s personal infantry unit. It would raise their morale – and maybe their rations – even further!
The raids went to plan, and Reynauld’s lands were devastated. The garrisons were too few to protect the area, and only the two castles of Kerak and Montreal – the Royal Mountain – remained in Reynauld’s hands. He sat fast in his mighty fortress, fuming at the situation, and shocked at the news Meurtrier had brought him. He was convinced the man he knew as Rufus Longue had been killed, but here he was as alive as ever, and according to his knight untouched. Now his real identity had been revealed, he would have great pleasure in telling that weakling de Beaucaire his man had been a Muslim spy. He’d enjoy watching his face when he told him, and he’d somehow get his daughter away from him and this time nothing would stop him having her. He grinned evilly at the thought. He might even persuade the king to command she come under his protection! Yes, that was it, he’d have her then. Repeatedly.
Salah-ed-Din was pleased at how impotent the Christians were, but strategically it was a waste of time. Unless he could take the two castles he might as well go back to Damascus for all the good his plundering raids were. Then a messenger arrived and informed him of the battle at Cresson, and the aftermath in which Raymond, appalled at his part in the defeat, had repudiated his alliance and gone back over to the kingdom of Jerusalem.
Salah-ed-Din cursed. Now he had to face a united Christian kingdom once more. Moreover, according to his spies, the king of Jerusalem was ignoring his raids in the south and concentrating his army in the north, facing Tiberias. It was obvious Salah-ed-Din was wasting his time down here.
So it was he ordered the end of the raids and turned his men around to
return to his son east of Lake Tiberias, and to plan the invasion which he hoped would end with the destruction of the enemy kingdom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Preparations progressed for the long awaited invasion. Now that Raymond was no longer an ally, plans were made to attack and capture Tiberias. It was the most important town close to the border and taking it would provide a good base to launch further attacks deeper into Christian territory.
Casca and his unit made their preparations and before long word came to get ready to move. The Saracen army had grown to about 45,000 but most of these were foot soldiers of dubious quality. Salah-ed-Din would have to rely on the hard-core professionals to see the campaign through to victory.
It was high summer and the rivers were lower than earlier in the year, and the army crossed the Jordan close to Lake Tiberias. Spirits were high and the men joked as they crossed the bridge into enemy territory, thanks to the reconnaissance patrols they knew the area they were entering fairly well. Trees shaded their route and the victory of Gokbori and his men at Cresson was fresh in their minds. As they reached the fork in the road that led to Tiberias, a small party branched off towards that town to blockade it, but the main part of the army pushed on west towards Acre.
It was from that direction that King Guy led his army, 22,000 strong, along the road towards the enemy. His army camped at Sephorie, a castle not far from Nazareth, and held a Council of War. Raymond was once more part of it, having been reconciled with the king, and he anxious to hear news of the enemy advance, for his wife was still in Tiberias. It arrived that evening from none other than Eschiva, his wife, who gave grave news; Tiberias had fallen but she and her garrison were holding out in the citadel.
A hubbub broke out, the knights imploring the king to speed to her rescue and the more belligerent nobles demanding the army march at once to relieve the siege. Raymond sighed and stood, facing the crowd. “To reach Tiberias we would have to cross a waterless plain in the heat of mid summer, which is folly. Madness! Here we are in a strong position with adequate water for our needs, and Saladin will not attack us here. But if we move across a barren desert, we risk everything. Tiberias is being defended by my dear wife, but I would rather she become captive and the citadel lost rather than this kingdom. I implore you, sire, please do not throw away the advantage we hold here. The Saracens cannot remain in the field for long; they will have to retreat and Tiberias can be retaken at our leisure.”
There was a rumble of assent, but trouble was always waiting in the wings. Gerard, recovered from his wounds, shouted out in disagreement. “You are a coward and a traitor! Why should we believe your words? A man who would let his own wife fall to the Muslims? What sort of man are you? Do you love these people more than your own woman?”
Raymond shook his head angrily. “No but I put the safety of this kingdom before my own!”
Reynauld stood next to Gerard. “Our sacred mission is to spread the Word of God, not let our lands be subjected to a different religion! If you wish to side with this Saladin, then go and make your peace with him. But I will never bow to these people, no matter what. I would never allow any of my family fall captive; I was a prisoner once and I know what it is like, and so were you, but it seems you have lost your pride as well as your reason to these fiends!”
Balian banged on the table top. “Raymond is right; we would risk the lives of our army by abandoning this position. You may speak of attack, but our mission is to defend, and we cannot defend a town already under the enemy yoke.”
The king looked one way and then the other. He assessed that most of the nobles actually sided with Raymond and Balian, so he ordered the army to stand where it was. But Gerard was having none of it. After everyone had retired for the night, he crept into the king’s chamber and confronted Guy. “Sire, will you believe the words of a traitor? Why? Tiberias is only six leagues away, it is nothing! We could be there by the afternoon. Then we could slake our thirst! We Templars would rather leave the Order than miss a chance of glory on the battlefield! It is a shameful thing that you would let a town of ours fall to the enemy without trying to save it.”
And so King Guy gave the order to march.
____
“Captain! Captain!” Sabat ran towards Casca who was polishing his sword.
“What is it? You’ve found a hidden cache of olives?”
“No no! Word has reached me the enemy approach! They are coming up the Hattin road!”
Casca sprang up and roared to his men to prepare themselves. He made his way to the emir’s tent which was an island in a sea of rushing men. Armor was being dragged out from the baggage train, the thuql. Weapons were stacked and men went to them and grabbed swords, spears and hauberks of mail. It seemed complete chaos but Casca had seen it all before and he knew it would settle down soon enough.
He stood with the other captains, awaiting orders, and the tension weighed heavily in the air. Clouds of dust rose off to the south west and rumors reached them that the cavalry had engaged the vanguard of the Crusaders on the road towards them. The amirs came out of Salah-ed-din’s tent and began identifying their officers, issuing orders. Casca’s commanding officer beckoned him and the three other infantry captains and addressed them excitedly. “The enemy is on the road. Our cavalry are shadowing them, and we are to march for the Horns of Hattin. There,” he pointed over his shoulder to the north east where a curious double humped hill rose in the haze. “They are trying to reach Tiberias along the road that passes close to the base of the Horns. We must stop them. Get your equipment and weapons and be ready to move as soon as possible.”
Casca turned and bellowed for Sabat. The thick-set man appeared, carrying Casca’s armor. “Here, Captain, your armor and weaponry.”
Casca nodded his thanks and shrugged the heavy chain mail on over his head. The sun beat down and he knew it would be a bastard but it would be worse for the Crusaders. Who the hell decided to march along that road? It was virtually bare of any water supply. He fixed his belt and slid his sword home into its scabbard and he stuck his sharbrush onto his head. Now he was ready. But were his men?
The camp fire had been kicked into extinction, half-drunk beverages thrown onto the thirsty ground and equipment either collected up, or stowed away. The men began lining up in ranks and Casca waited impatiently as the laggards finally got to their places. Glaring balefully at the last couple who always seemed to be the slowest, he nodded and turned to face the front.
Within moments all the units were ready and the order to march came. Horsemen rode to left and right, protecting their line of march, and they moved out of the grove of trees they had been shading under, and into the full heat of the day. Sweat broke out on their faces but they plodded on, accompanied by the distant sounds of battle. Drums, too, began to boom out and excitement rose. Would they be called to battle soon? Casca stepped aside and watched his men march past. He reassured them all was fine, but he looked behind him to check on what he could see.
The land stretched back for miles, a dusty waterless plain, and the dust cloud that marked the enemy advance was getting closer, but he could see the dark dots of Saracen horsemen riding round, harassing the advance units. They seemed to be moving at an angle away from their lines, across them rather than towards them, and Salah-ed-Din had placed his left flank under Gokbori to block the Crusaders from coming this way. Casca nodded; that was sensible. Salah-ed-Din commanded the center, which Casca was part of, and over way ahead, towards the hilltop, was the right flank under Taqi al-Din, an experienced commander who had come down from Aleppo. He could almost smell the excitement pushing through the mixture of dung, sweat and leather.
The land sloped up all the time and breathing became hard under the sun. They found they were now marching up the southern slope of a valley, and on the northern side a host of irregular troops, called the Muttawiyah, swarmed. That side of the valley was more vegetated and the Muttawiyah had some shade to enjoy. Not like Casca and his men. He grumbl
ed at getting the hottest and most uncomfortable of routes, but then he turned to see the dust in the distance and reckoned he was getting it easy.
The order to halt came and the men gratefully stopped. A road ran in front of them, coming from over their left shoulders and running up along the valley, splitting into two as it went. One fork, the right hand one, ran across their line of direction up the right-hand side of the valley and into scrubland. Casca could see the roofs of a whitewashed village nestled there. The other fork ran left along the valley floor and eventually curved its way into the distance close to the left-hand side of the valley. Casca couldn’t see where it went.
Opposite where he was, at the foot of the valley slope, stood another village, and around it he could see men of Gokbori’s infantry retreating. It was directly into their backs the enemy army was advancing, but their rate was now at a crawl; the cavalry had done a great job in slowing them. Most of the Saracen army had managed to break camp, move off and get into new positions without any trouble.
Casca ordered the men to rest and stood on the edge of the slight slope, looking across the valley. Here it was wide and gently sloping, but it narrowed and grew steeper the further in it went, off to the east. Here, at its mouth, the land was open and bare, and no protection was possible. There were also no springs and the waterless plain was where Salah-ed-Din was trying to pin them. Those poor bastards, he thought, they’ll be dying of thirst. He turned and watched as camels were led past, loaded with arrows. Salah-ed-Din was preparing to destroy the enemy with efficient thoroughness. The day was well into the afternoon before the cavalry came into sight, some showing signs of combat. The horses were tired and Salah-ed-Din ordered them to rest. His horses had done their job, now it was up to Gokbori to stop them advancing any further up the road before nightfall.
Casca received the order to resume the march and his men grumbled as they got to their feet, but the sound of the skirmish was getting close. They walked up the slope and into scrubland and trees, and were thankful of the shade. Once again they were halted and this time ordered to make camp. Pickets were sent out and many went to the edge of the trees to watch the approach of the Crusaders.
