by Tony Roberts
The Crusader army was in sight, but only the vanguard. Horsemen rode round the slow moving infantry while harassing Saracen cavalry tried to pick one or two off. As they reached the village at the mouth of the valley, they stopped. The rest of the army was strung out for miles back, and it was totally disorganized. Casca reckoned they had been under attack for the entire day and were exhausted.
“Those poor devils will be without water the entire night,” he commented to Sabat.
“Yes, Captain, but rather them than us, eh?”
“Aye, but it’s not a pleasant thought, all the same. They’ll be desperate to break through our lines tomorrow. They have one chance to do it. If they fail, they’re finished. All of them. Salah-ed-Din has got them in a trap.”
“Allah be praised! I was concerned about facing their warriors. They fight like madmen.”
“They still will, my friend. Go get some rest; you’ll need it for the battle tomorrow.”
Sabat bowed and left, no doubt headed for some source of food. Casca watched as the Crusader vanguard camped down, still under arrow shot from the skirmishers, and saw Gokbori’s wing form across the valley floor, blocking their path. Salah-ed-Din’s center was camped across the right hand valley slope, and off into the growing dark of the coming night the right flank was forming, blocking the roads further up close to the Horns of Hattin.
Across the valley the irregulars were sited. It was a box trap and Gokbori’s men were the door. Once they swung aside the Crusaders would enter, and then it was only a matter of time before the trap sprang shut.
Beautiful.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Night had fallen and Count Raymond moved amongst the exhausted men lying on the ground. They looked like curious flattened rocks, he thought. A few small fires flickered here and there but the men were mostly worn out after a day of fighting. It had been his men in the vanguard who had borne the brunt of the attacks, while the king in the center and Balian at the rear had escaped relatively unscathed.
Relatively, yes, he thought, but they were suffering from thirst just like the rest. He tried to block out the cries for water that came out of the darkness all round, but it was impossible. He stepped over more men suffering from raging thirst and cursed the king for the hundredth time. He cursed the king, Gerard of Ridfort and all the others who insisted on attacking without using any prior plan. In the distance, out of the darkness, came the chanting from the Saracen lines, men high on morale, and he could hear the beating of drums. He shook his head angrily and made for the king.
The king’s standard hung limp in the air amongst the houses of the village at the mouth of the valley. At least they had managed to take that before night had fallen, but it was as if the enemy had allowed them to capture it rather than by any great feat of valor. Now where could they go? Back, with the enemy attacking them all the way? Or forward, right into their teeth?
Raymond waved aside the guards as he approached the house the king had requisitioned and pushed in, slapping his gauntlets angrily against his thigh. The king sat at the table in the back room with the senior nobles in attendance.
“Well, Count Raymond, how are the men?” Guy asked.
“Terrible. They have no water and are dying of thirst. If we don’t get any water tomorrow they won’t be able to fight.”
“Well we’ll just have to attack,” Gerard said belligerently.
“In what direction, pray?” Raymond challenged him.
“At their leader, of course!” Gerard replied scornfully, “your friend Saladin.”
“He’s not my friend as you put it, Ridfort. And may I say your plan to relieve Tiberias has really worked, has it not? Here we are on the brink of collapse and they haven’t attacked us properly yet!”
“Gentlemen, stop!” the king said. “We need water. Now where can we get some?”
Raymond looked at the rough map and jabbed a finger down to the north of the Horns. “There is a spring at the village of Hattin there. It’s much closer than the lake.”
The others looked at the spot critically. “How far?” the king asked.
“Three, four miles. The Lake is over seven. Either way, we will have to fight uphill into the enemy in the heat of the day.” Raymond’s voice reflected the pessimism he felt.
“What about retreating back to Sephorie?” one of the nobles, a man called Reynauld of Sidon asked.
Balian, who had also just arrived, snorted in disgust. “What, and have the entire Saracen army chase us all the way? We’d never make it! The men are just about finished. The infantry would all die for certain. Getting water is our only hope.”
The king pressed his palms into his temples. “Then pass the word; on the morrow we head for the village of Hattin. Raymond, your vanguard will have the honor of breaking through. I shall support you, while Balian, you hold the enemy off from the rear as long as you can.”
“May God give me protection,” Balian muttered as he left, drained and full of dread for what would come at daybreak.
Casca meanwhile was slowly walking round his camp, making sure the men were ready for battle. Their spirits were high and laughter and singing could be heard. He smiled as he went from group to group, sensing the belief they all had in victory. Water was plentiful as supplies had come from Tiberias, now in Salah-ed-Din’s hands, and the men made sure they had enough stored for the battle to come.
Casca made his way to the edge of the trees and looked down onto the scattered lights of the Crusader camp. They were already half defeated, and if the Saracens were able to block the push for water, then the outcome wasn’t in doubt. He drew in a deep breath and leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree and shut his eyes, allowing the night sounds to wash over him.
He felt relaxed and settled. He thought on that a moment. Yes, this is what I really am. A soldier. It’s what I do best. The Jew was right. This is where I belong, not on a farm or in a rich man’s villa. This is my world, my existence. His eyes opened and he looked again at the lights. He wondered where Reynauld de Chatillon was, and hoped that tomorrow he’d find him and slaughter the bastard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The day began with thick rolling clouds. But not, as the Crusaders might have wished, with clouds pouring rain from the sky, but with acrid, choking smoke from fires lit on the northern slopes by the irregular Muttawiyahs.
The smoke billowed down the slope into the Crusaders’ eyes and added to their distress. They stumbled from their camps, formed up and began moving along the valley floor, heading east. As they went, more smoke began on the northern slopes, and it was clear that Salah-ed-Din’s tactics were to keep the enemy away from that slope and to cause them as much discomfort as possible.
As they left the village the king had camped in, Gokbori’s men occupied it, effectively boxing the Christians in the valley. The Crusaders went up, the infantry gasping; mouths open with thirst, the cavalry desperately trying to keep a protective screen around them.
Casca and his men were also ordered to move east, parallel to the enemy’s line of march. But they walked in comfort, through the shade of trees along a road. They passed through another village, one that the locals told them was called Lubiyah, and then shortly afterwards swung to the left and began moving down through the trees. Excitement mounted as they realized they were now heading directly for the enemy.
Suddenly the sound of cries and the ringing of steel upon steel were heard, directly in front. Casca pulled out his sword. “Form ranks!”
The men obediently snapped into three ranks of spears, just in case the feared enemy cavalry should attack, and they advanced through the thinning trees, and then they were out into the open, into the morning air. Smoke obscured the far side of the valley but in front of them they saw the entire Christian army struggling to make their way up towards the Horns of Hattin. To left and right, an entire line of Saracen infantry stepped out of the trees and pushed in towards the enemy right flank.
Casca walked with
them, waiting for the attack signal from the trumpets. He saw to the left, a mass of cavalry milling about, throwing up clouds of dust, and assumed that that was Gokbori and his men pushing in on the Crusader rearguard. He looked to the right. Up the hill, a line of Saracens blocked the road along the valley floor. This must be Taqi al-din’s troops. Now the enemy would have to stand and fight!
The trumpet blared. “Right!” Casca yelled, his voice echoed by the other commanders, “at them! Charge!”
Voices roared in response. “Allah akhbar!” and the entire line of troops charged down towards the Crusaders. The infantry saw the attack and turned to face them, faces strained in desperation and thirst, but then out of their lines thundered a phalanx of heavy cavalry, their shields and surcoats emblazoned with the red cross. “Templars!” Casca exclaimed, gripping his sword tight.
With a crash the Templars struck the advancing infantry, scattering them. Casca cursed and stepped out of the line of approach of one particular horse. As the rider hacked one of his men to death, Casca struck from the other side, sinking his blade into the exposed lower torso. The knight cried out and sank over Casca’s blade and the Eternal Mercenary pulled him off, throwing the body to the ground, jerking his blade free. More heavy thudding of hoofs alerted him and he stepped back, raising his circular shield. Just in time, too, as a heavy blade crashed down and the force jarred his arm.
The shouts of joy changed, and Saracen horsemen swept in from the trees, hitting the Templars as they hacked away at the exposed infantry. “To me, to me!” Casca screamed, head swinging left and right. Some of his men gathered and their spears thrust out protectively, forcing the Templars away. One charged at Casca, recognizing he was an officer. The horse hurdled over the protective screen of spears and as it landed, the rider chopped down viciously. Casca deflected the blow but was knocked clean off his feet.
With a roar, Sabat grabbed the Crusader and pulled him off his horse. The others piled in, knives flashing in the morning sun, and the screams of the Templar soon subsided.
The infantry reformed, shaken but still a going concern, and retreated, away from the clashing cavalry. The Crusader infantry were still moving but now they began to drift eastwards, rather than follow Raymond’s vanguard who were battling to break through north-east to the village of Hattin. The whitewashed buildings could now be seen ahead along the road, but masses of Saracen troops blocked the way.
Casca called his men to him in the protection of the trees. Losses had been light but many were shaken by the Templar charge. “Right, men,” he said, “we’ll keep together, spears facing out. Don’t break ranks, not with these damned horses around, okay?”
Nods met his gaze. Casca grunted and looked around. The commander was waving the men to follow him, at a slant north-eastwards, so Casca led his men in their wake. It wasn’t long before they broke out of the trees again. Now he could see ahead the double humped Horns of Hattin, and in front of them Taqi’s troops battling the fierce attacks of the Crusaders. Indeed, he could see they were giving ground under the strain.
“Damn! They’re breaking through!” Casca cursed. If the Crusaders broke through, the battle could well be lost. But the break was happening not on the road to Hattin village, but along the path to the summit of the Horns and the Tiberias road. The infantry, catching sight of the glistening waters of Lake Tiberias in the distance, moaned in anguish and began heading that way.
Raymond, fighting hard at the front, saw the infantry move away. “No! No! This way you fools!” The village of Hattin was just ahead, and the infantry were breaking ranks and pouring along the shoulder of the Horns in an attempt to get to the lake that was far too distant to be realistically reachable. He cursed and chopped a Saracen’s head off, wheeling his horse and assessing his situation. The entire army was now moving up onto the Horns, assailed on all sides by the Saracens. Cursing the stupidity of the average soldier, he ordered his men to follow.
Casca and his men joined in the pursuit up the hill. They caught the Crusader infantry as it crossed their line of approach, and this time there were no cavalry to spoil their attack. Yelling madly, they closed and hacked at the enemy lines. Casca blocked the first attack from a swordsman and smashed his shield into the man’s face, stunning him. The Crusader fell like a stone and Casca kicked him for good measure, stepping over him. Let someone behind take care of that one.
A huge bearded man swung a sword at Casca’s head, and he only just blocked it. Staggering back two paces he regained his balance but the bearded soldier sprang after him, breath whistling through his teeth. Another mighty swing and Casca’s shield buckled, sparks flying up from the blow. Memories came flooding back to Casca; Germanic soldiers swinging mighty swords to hack at disciplined Roman lines, and falling to efficient stabs under their guard. Casca dropped on one knee and the surprised Crusader missed totally, then gasped in pain as he received four feet of steel through his stomach.
Wrenching the sword out of the dying man’s body, Casca stepped over him and looked about rapidly. Knots of men were struggling in the heat, sweat pouring off faces. The noise of battle consumed Casca’s mind; grunts of men exerting themselves, swords clashing, horses screaming, men crying out in pain or for God or their mothers. And all the time, in the background, a terrible sound of two mighty forces killing each other all melded into one indescribable roar.
Gaps opened in the fight, then closed. It was never static, and to stand there admiring the ebb and flow was folly, for anything could happen at any moment and strike one down. Casca saw the corpses of one or two of his men and sighed. Lucky bastards! I’m denied that. His face set grim, he waded in again, catching a Crusader in the back who was busy pummeling a spearman to the ground. The hapless Christian fell over the Muslim he’d just killed, two men joined in death in an embrace they’d never contemplated in life.
“Break off!” Casca’s amir ordered suddenly, and the Muslim infantry broke contact, puzzled. The Crusaders, relieved from the pressure, didn’t follow but carried on across the shoulder of the hill. “Follow me, quickly!” the amir waved, running eastwards, parallel to the enemy advance.
Casca ran, sweating heavily. His men jogged, panting, a fair few of them blood splattered. They ran for a few minutes, then were ordered to halt. The word came down they were to drink, rest and prepare themselves for battle once more. Ahead, some of their comrades were fighting the enemy, desperately holding them from breaking through down the road towards Tiberias which Casca could now clearly see in the distance. Salah-ed-Din had obviously seen the danger and rushed Casca and the other troops around to block the escape route.
The Crusaders had congregated on the western slopes of the Horns. The king’s tent had been erected and the standard flew from it defiantly. The Holy Cross could be seen, held aloft by a bishop, surrounded by tough looking soldiers. The cavalry massed, ready for some charge, and the armies took a deep breath and made ready to finish matters, one way or the other.
Smoke from the burning slope drifted across the field and a few men coughed, but it wasn’t too bad for them; the Crusaders on the other hand were in a terrible way. Salah-ed-Din now appeared on horseback, and pointing at the Crusader army, screamed the attack command.
With a roar the entire Saracen army poured forward, crashing into the enemy lines. The infantry, exhausted, dehydrated and full of despair, either ran for the top of one of the horns or fell to their knees and refused to fight any longer. They’d had enough. That left the knights and cavalry, and the king turned in desperation to Raymond. “Fight your way through to the springs, it’s your territory, you have the honor, Raymond.”
Raymond bowed and, waving to his knights, formed up and charged Taqi’s lines. Taqi, seeing that this was just the vanguard, ordered his men to open out. The knights, expecting to hit the enemy, galloped past in surprise. Raymond wheeled and looked back. The Saracens had reformed and blocked the way back. Ahead off to one side was the village of Hattin, and the road carried on ahead down
the gorge to safety.
“The battle is lost; we cannot rejoin it,” Raymond said to his men, all of whom were tired beyond words. “Let us ride to Tyre and bring news of the disaster. We cannot do any more here.”
So Raymond and his knights rode off away to the north, leaving the remnants of the Crusaders to fight on as best they could.
The battle had disintegrated into a mass of men struggling in individual melees. There were no set lines of defense. Saracens were mixed in with Crusaders everywhere, and a man could be fighting alongside a foe without realizing it. The king ordered the army to retreat further up the hill until they were gathered together in a shrinking knot, surrounded by the enemy on all sides.
Balian d’Ibelin saw the end was near and gathered what was left of his men together. “We have to get out of this mess, now or never. Are you with me?”
His men replied with ‘ayes’ and the Lord of Nablus pointed his sword at the advancing lines of Saracens coming up from the west, and charged downhill. Balian was surprised to see Reynauld of Sidon with him but he didn’t care; it might make things easier to get out. They charged recklessly, scattering the over confident troops who thought they had a defeated enemy in front of them, and suddenly the knights were through and galloping downhill away to the west. Balian took one last look behind him and then turned to face the way out of the battle, his face grim.
Casca took a long pull of water as he sat on the corpse of a horse, waiting to be let back into the fight. Salah-ed-Din had men spare to rotate them, and he wasn’t allowing his men to get exhausted. Arrows poured from the archers onto the hapless Crusader forces and the knot was shrinking. The sun beat down mercilessly, and Casca once more damned the stupidity of the enemy for marching in this heat across a waterless route.
