The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  Salah-ed-Din? Imad? No, not those two. Any rival faction in the Saracen camp? The only ones he’d crossed recently were those of the criminal clique in Damascus, but Salah-ed-Din had nipped that one in the bud. Possible, but unlikely. So what about the Christians? The only one who had a grudge had been Reynauld de Chatillon, but he’d executed him at Hattin. The Templars might have some cause to hate him, and it was feasible someone in Jerusalem had seen him talk to de Beaucaire and made a sudden plan. Unless……

  Casca sat up. That spy that had abducted Eleanor and knifed de Beaucaire. He had been Reynauld’s man. What if he had taken onto himself revenge? And what was that maniac at Kerak called? Meurtrier. What of him? He then had a sudden tightening of his chest. If the spy was loose in Jerusalem, he’d be known to Eleanor, and he’d certainly try to do something about that. He suddenly knew he had to warn de Beaucaire, and fast.

  But he was on the wrong side of the walls and in the wrong army. He clenched his fists in impotent anguish.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Men sweated as they hauled on the ropes of the great war machine, and the arm of the mangonel lowered until it almost touched the ground. The engineer loaded the basket with rocks, ordering his crew to select the heaviest one and place it. One crew member stood by the lever that would release the catch and send the counterweight, loaded with rocks, crashing earthwards, thus sending the missile arm up into the air and propelling its cargo out of the basket and arcing through the sky.

  The engineer studied the direction the great machine was pointing in and nodded. It was aimed right at Tancred’s Tower, or what he could see of it with the rising sun blazing directly into his face. None of the attackers could see much, blinded as they were in the morning sun. The engineer chopped his arm down and the crewman released the lever.

  The weight dropped with a crash and the rock was sent hurtling up silently at its target. The defenders saw it coming and yelled warnings, taking cover. It crashed with an ear-splitting noise into the stonework, sending shards up and out over the wall, and shook it mightily. Then the Christians rose and began resuming their deadly work of pouring a hail of arrows, stones and spears down onto the attacking enemy.

  It was hell. Men poured forward screaming madly, mindless of the rain of missiles that hammered down onto them. Some men cried out in pain and clutched arms, shoulders or legs as shafts suddenly sprouted out of their bodies like some incredible fungi. Others crumpled soundlessly as stones smashed into their skulls, crushing their existence in a blink of an eye. Others screamed as missiles sank into their torsos, leaving them writhing on the ground, to be jumped over by their comrades as they ran pell-mell for the walls.

  Ladders were carried by teams intent on scaling the walls and it was against these that Balian ordered the heaviest of the missiles to be directed. Men toppled by the dozen as the concentrated barrage decimated them. None of the attackers could see ahead until they had got close to the walls because the sun was glaring into their eyes. Nobody knew what flying towards them until it was too late.

  Appalled at the devastation Salah-ed-Din recalled the attack and the survivors ran back as fast as they could, pursued by jeers and hoots of derision. Bodies littered the ground and the Saracen emir shook his head sadly. “Verily have I chosen the wrong time to attack. With the sun in our eyes we cannot see to do Allah’s work properly.” He turned to his amirs, grouped around him. “Inform the men the next attack shall commence in the afternoon when the sun will shine into the Christians’ eyes.”

  The Saracens regrouped and licked their wounds. Casca listened to the groans of the wounded and the mutterings of the others, frustration in their voices. Casca sat up and ran an experimental finger over his scar. It was healing nicely and now was no more than a thin line, but he had no idea what it looked like. It throbbed deeply and he supposed it would continue to be uncomfortable for some time. He had excused himself from the morning attack, pleading a headache and dizziness, and his commanding officer had taken a look at his pale face and sweating forehead and agreed he was in no fit condition to take part.

  He desperately wanted to recover. He had to get a message to de Beaucaire somehow, and lying here like an invalid wasn’t the way to do that. Sabat entered the tent, bowing low, a concerned look on his face. “Captain, are you any better?”

  “Yes, I think I’m on the way to recovery. What of the men?” His voice was a touch stronger, but still husky.

  “Ah it is not good,” Sabat’s mouth went down. “Four dead, two wounded. It was impossible to attack, as none of us could see. But this afternoon we try again.”

  “It’ll be useless; the defenses are too strong here. We need to move to another location. I will try to see Salah-ed-Din and suggest another location.”

  “I pray you will move his mind, Captain. It is most fearful attacking those walls.”

  Casca waved Sabat out and sat up. He flexed his body and gingerly stood up, and was pleased there wasn’t too much dizziness. He decided to try to drink. He smiled; he’d not had the guts to try it before as he had a gruesome but silly thought that by taking a drink it might spurt out through his throat!

  As expected his throat was watertight but it hurt like hell. He’d have to wait on eating for a while. Cursing, he grabbed his soiled gambeson and made sure his outfit concealed his throat, then stepped out. The guards snapped to attention. Sabat came over, concern on his face. “Captain! You are well enough to venture forth?”

  “I am, Sabat. I must go to the thuql and see to my dirty laundry.” Sabat bowed and watched as his captain wandered off through the camp towards the shops and assorted merchants that accompanied the baggage train, and shook his head. Certainly an odd man, but a good soldier.

  Amongst the people of the baggage train were washer women and one took the gambeson and looked at it in shock.

  Casca grinned. “I slaughtered a goat and it bled a lot.”

  The woman shook her head in disgust and took it. “Tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

  Casca thanked her. He made his way back, but detoured to Salah-ed-Din’s tent. His amir was there and he reported to him that he was well enough to take part that afternoon if needed. His amir agreed and made sure he was fit to his satisfaction before dismissing him. Casca then made his way to the edge of the camp where a large oval pool shimmered. He knelt at the edge and peered in, uncovering his throat. A thin red line marked his throat, but nothing more. He grunted in satisfaction. In a day or more it would be healed sufficiently to leave it uncovered. The redness would fade, leaving a thin scar which would be hardly noticeable. He returned to his tent and prepared himself for the afternoon attack, donning his armor and helmet, and making sure his throat was still covered. One must look good for the men before one goes into battle, he mused sardonically.

  ____

  The attack was directed against the wall area in between the Castle of the Pisans and Tancred’s Tower. The Saracens crossed the road that came from David’s Gate and threw themselves in fury at the battlements. The sun was behind them and this time it was the defending soldiers who were blinded, so that their shot was not as deadly as it had been in the morning. But the two great bastions poured out a steady hail of deadly barbs that cut down attacker after attacker, while their war machines hurled stone after stone out into the screaming mob.

  Casca kept his shield up ahead of him, grimacing every time a stone, arrow or some other projectile struck it. Men were toppling left and right and every few seconds he had to leap over some poor bastard lying on the ground. Ladders were thrown up against the wall but burning pitch was thrown down, incinerating the men trying to climb up, setting the ladders ablaze at the same time. The smell of burning flesh became very strong, and with no breeze it wasn’t blown away. Casca hated that part of any battle. The memory of his own burning in Persia all those years ago still turned his stomach.

  The Saracen counter-shot hardly touched the defenders, because of the height of the walls. Only mangonel shot could
do any damage and there weren’t enough yet constructed to make much impression.

  Salah-ed-Din watched the tide of men reach the base of the walls and for a moment he thought the ladders would do the job, but as more and more collapsed, sending their climbers screaming to their deaths, he realized this attack would do no good either. “We need more mangonels to break these walls,” he announced. “Call the men back, they are dying uselessly there.”

  Casca, urging his men on to reach the ladders, heard the recall trumpet. “Back! Back! Retreat!” he yelled, pushing two men back who were slow in reacting. A stone bounced and struck the butt of one the man ahead of him who yelped in pain. A missile glanced off Casca’s helmet and he cursed loudly, throwing his shield across his right shoulder. He scuttled back in a sideways motion, like a crab, presenting less of a target to the enemy.

  He began to climb up the slope across the road and was soon out of arrow range, and he slowed, panting heavily. What a suicide mission! They had no chance down there with so many defenders throwing things onto them. He took off his helmet and wiped his brow, watching anxiously as the straggling men made their way past, faces etched with the strain of the ordeal they’d just survived. They left behind many of their comrades, lying scattered across the killing ground in front of the walls. He needed a drink.

  Sabat came up to him, breathing heavily. “Ah, Captain, not a good place. We need more men to break through that wall.”

  “Men aren’t what we need, Sabat,” he replied, “but better war machines. Or even better still, a new place to attack. We won’t get anywhere with those two towers pouring flanking shot onto us. It’s a trap. A butcher’s field. Go find out who is missing and who survives. Report to my tent in an hour.”

  “Captain,” Sabat bowed and departed.

  Casca looked at the unbroken wall and then at the two gates. Both were covered by one of the towers. To get through those would only happen if the towers were taken or destroyed. He cursed and questioned Salah-ed-Din’s wisdom in picking the strongest spot in the Jerusalem defenses to assault. “Heck, the Crusaders got in round the other side all those years ago; surely we can too!”

  He turned and followed the last of his men back to the camp, muttering and grumbling about suicidal plans of attack. He wondered what the following day would bring and hoped the emir would see sense and go for another less well defended position. Either that or he’d have more of his army bleed to death against that wall.

  ____

  Balian sat in his chair in his chamber and smiled. Things were going well. The first two attacks had been beaten back with minimal losses, but the Saracen mangonels were beginning to be a nuisance. They were beginning to chip away the walls and some of his men were reporting cracks opening in the battlements. The mangonels would have to be destroyed.

  He called for Henry of Blanchegarde. Henry arrived soon after, an excited look in his eyes. He reveled in war and killing the enemy was what he wanted more than anything else. “You wanted me, Lord d’Ibelin?”

  “Yes Henry. I want you to arrange a sortie tonight out into the enemy camp. I want those mangonels destroyed. Can you do it?”

  Henry grinned. “Of course my lord. The mangonels are in an exposed position, away from their main camp. We should be able to drive the enemy back and wreck these machines before they can bring reinforcements from their main lines.”

  Balian smiled. “Then go with God.”

  Henry bowed and left, a spring in his step.

  ____

  Casca massaged his throat, glad the deep pain had gone, and now only a faint tingling remained. The scar that was left was a thin line, almost invisible to the eye, and he dispensed with the improvised neck scarf. He had suggested to his amir about trying a different position to attack but had been told such things were not for him to decide but for the emir. In other words mind your own business. He wiped his helmet and studied it in the candle light. It was tough and had received a couple of dents from stones but was otherwise in fine condition.

  He thought more on his intention to warn de Beaucaire. He would have to somehow get to one of the gates, get in and find the nobleman. Well, he’d need to change his surcoat, helmet, sword and shield. All those were unmistakably Saracen, and at that moment he didn’t have access to anything else. He fumed and continued to wipe his helmet, then set about cleaning his sword.

  A sudden shout brought him to his feet. “They’re burning the war machines!”

  Casca shot out of his tent, clutching his sword. The sky was alight with flames. Cursing, he ran in the direction of the burning mangonels. They had been left exposed forward of the main camp. The enemy had sortied out and attacked the wooden war machines, killing many of the guards in the process. Casca gritted his teeth. This would further delay the next attack until these machines had been repaired or replaced. He ran forward, accompanied by a group of others, chasing the last of the Crusaders away from the burning war machines. It had been a hit and run attack.

  Most of the Saracens stopped and tended the wounded or dying guards, but Casca continued, running hard after the last of the Crusaders. He bounded down the hill towards the gate of St.Lazarus which was still open. He caught up with the nearest man and bowled him over, slamming his head into the ground. The Crusader groaned, stunned, so Casca pulled him round and stared him in the face, slapping him a few times to get his attention.

  “Listen to me and live. Try anything stupid and you die, you understand?”

  The terrified Frank nodded, scared witless by the scarred apparition kneeling on his chest. Casca gripped him by the throat. “I want you to pass a message on to the Lord de Beaucaire. Tell him that the man who caused him pain in Beteras is in Jerusalem. Tell him that, you understand?”

  “Yes! Yes! De Beaucaire, pain, Beteras. Please let me go!”

  Casca pulled himself away and stood back to allow the man to scuttle off towards the gate as if the hordes of Satan were on his ass. Casca coughed, spat, then turned around and trudged back to the glow of the mangonels, wondering if he had passed the message on in time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Roland de Beaucaire was surprised to get a call to attend Balian d’Ibelin’s chambers that very same evening. He had been sleeping but the hammering on his door had been insistent. Guillaume had been given orders to get his lord out of bed no matter what, and so he’d raised hell to awaken the nobleman.

  De Beaucaire groaned in pain; his hip was giving him discomfort again and it would soon force him to stop this adventuring. But until then he’d bear the pain. He eased himself into the high-backed chair nearest the door and awaited Balian’s words.

  “What happened in Beteras?” Balian began.

  De Beaucaire eyed the commander of Jerusalem, then Henry de Blanchegarde who sat next to him. By the fireplace stood a guard with a disheveled looking man, clutching his poor quality helmet nervously. “I was wounded by an unknown man. Why do you ask?”

  Balian pointed at the disheveled man. “This soldier here took part in the attack tonight that damaged or destroyed some of the enemy war machines. As he was returning he was set upon by a man matching the description of your Rufus Longue.” He turned to the nervous man. “Tell him what you were told.”

  The soldier stepped forward, accompanied by the guard who wore an expression of contempt. “Your grace, ah, he told me to beware of the man who caused you pain in Beteras. He said this man was in Jerusalem.”

  “What!” de Beaucaire was on his feet, pain forgotten. He transfixed the man with a hard look. “Are you absolutely certain of this?”

  “Yes-yes your grace!” the soldier said miserably, hoping he wasn’t going to be disemboweled or fed to the dogs.

  De Beaucaire slowly sank back into his chair, staring into the distance. “Oh my God!”

  Balian gave the stunned nobleman a long look before turning to the soldier. “Thank you for your information. Here, a coin for your trouble.” He flipped a bezant to the surprised man, who bowed hurrie
dly and was escorted rather promptly by the humorless guard out of the chamber. After the door had shut Balian came to stand by the shaken man. “What is it?”

  “This man who caused me pain, he was Reynauld de Chatillon’s creature. He abducted Eleanor. She is the only one who knows what he looks like. I fear for her safety.”

  Balian turned to Henry. “I want a guard doubled on Roland’s chambers at all times.”

  Henry nodded. “I’ll put my own men there. That way we can guarantee none of them have had any contact with de Chatillon at any time.”

  “I’m grateful, gentlemen,” de Beaucaire said. “I just wonder how in the name of Heaven Rufus learned of this.”

  “Is he reliable, this Rufus Longue? I mean, he’s in the Saracen army. Could it be a plan to sow dissention amongst us?” Henry queried slowly.

  “A reasonable question, Henry. I think this Rufus is sincere, at least the brief time I employed him I found him to be so. An odd fellow to be sure, but one you can trust. Yes, I believe him, else why would be spare the life of one of our soldiers? Surely if he was a true Saracen he would have killed him?”

  Balian and Henry nodded slowly. It made sense. “So you have no idea what this man looks like, this former associate of the late Lord of Kerak?” Balian said with a troubled look on his face.

  De Beaucaire shook his head. “He may be an Assassin for all I know. He knows how to get into secure places. My God! I’d better get back to my chambers and warn Eleanor!”

  “Go, my friend,” Balian urged, “and pass on my regards to your daughter.”

  “Thank you,” de Beaucaire heaved himself up and departed, his mind troubled. He found to his relief nothing had happened in his absence, but he took Guillaume aside and told him of the latest development. The French soldier bared his teeth in anger. “I shall slit him from groin to throat,” he stated.

  “Please do. I intended to inform Eleanor but I think it best she is ignorant of this; it would only upset her.”