The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  “Very good my lord. I shall be vigilant.”

  De Beaucaire smiled tiredly. “I know you will, Guillaume.”

  ____

  The loss of the mangonels was a blow to Salah-ed-Din. It made him realize that the current place the army was attacking from was not going to work, so he sent scouts round the city to find a better place to attack from. Soon enough they reported back that the north-east corner was a more likely spot, as the wall seemed weaker there. Also the Mount of Olives close by provided good height to position the war machines upon.

  So it was that the Saracens packed their camp up and moved away from the western wall. Cheers and cries of delight echoed out from the wall, as the watching garrison believed the enemy were giving up. But by daybreak the next morning they saw to their horror the new positions to the north and north-east, and forty mangonels already set or being constructed. This time they were better protected and sappers were being set to work to undermine the walls. Casca was happier here; this was where the Crusaders had broken through before and it was likely here that an attack would be more successful.

  Archers were massed and began shooting clouds of arrows up at the defenders who found they couldn’t put up an effective deterrent to stop the miners from approaching. Slowly the miners crept towards the walls which were suffering from the pounding from the mangonels, and it was clear this time the Saracens meant business. Balian desperately sent out his troops to try to stop it, but the attack was poorly planned; they went out of the Jehosaphat Gate into the Kidron valley, and so they were vulnerable to any cavalry charge that might be launched from the Mount of Olives, which is exactly what Salah-ed-Din did.

  Casca watched as the Saracen cavalry poured down the slope into the Crusader flank, smashing deep into them, sending panic throughout their ranks. He shook his head sadly and wondered who the hell had planned such a stupid move. Bodies littered the floor of the valley as the defenders were driven back into the city by the triumphant cavalry.

  The next couple of days the mines got closer to the walls and then it was fired, and with a thunderous crash a large section of wall came tumbling down, greeted by cheers from the watching troops on the Mount of Olives. Casca nodded to himself slowly. Now would come the moment of truth. It would be up to the infantry to take the breach.

  And he would be part of the attack.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  They waited patiently in the sun. Each man was preparing himself for the battle to come. Ahead, down the slope and across the valley, the ruins of the section of wall faced them, together with a mass of waiting defenders. The clerics were whipping up religious fervor, and the amirs exhorting the men to perform great feats of valor as they walked up and down in front of the expectant troops. They all felt something this morning. This was their Holy City. This was why they were here, to retake it from the Christians.

  Casca clapped Sabat on the shoulder and wished him luck. Sabat grinned, but it was forced and he knew he probably felt the same way as he did; he desperately wanted a piss but it was only a natural reflex action. Adrenalin was rushing around his system and it was nature’s way of the body trying to protect itself by sending signals to the bladder to empty, so that if any damage was done then there was no possibility of infection from the stored urine.

  The urge would pass once they got going, but Casca hoped all the men around him would resist. He had no wish to be sent on his way down the slope on a wave of piss. Archers stepped forward and began sending volleys of arrows over the waiting men’s heads and down onto the defenders massed in the breach.

  “Allah akhbar!” screamed an amir, pointing at the broken wall. The cry was taken up five thousand fold as the men surged forward, running or sliding down the slope and across the valley.

  Casca ducked involuntarily as a stone smashed into the man right in front of him. The luckless man went toppling in a blur of white and brown. Then he was past and running for the hole, yelling. He was aware of the men around him and hoped they would keep going. The ground changed and they were now climbing up to the gap. They slowed as the leading group reached the defenders and hand to hand fighting began.

  Stones and arrows flew down from the walls to either side, hitting many attackers, but more came on, pushing forward. Casca found he was in a crush, being pushed on from behind, but blocked by those in front. The noise was deafening; shouts, curses and the crash of blade upon blade filled the air. The heat was intense and the smell of hundreds of unwashed bodies overpowering. “Stuff this,” Casca muttered and began kicking out, trying to create a space for him to move his blade in. The pressure eased and Casca found he was close to the front and now stepping over bodies of the fallen, hideous wounds marking their heads or chests.

  Then the space in front of him cleared and he was moving past a fallen block of stone, then another. A spear jabbed against the stone next to him and he chopped the shaft in two. The man in front fell aside with a cry and Casca was there in the breach. The defender who faced him was a dirty, bearded, burly man wielding an axe, and it narrowly missed Casca’s head. The mercenary countered, jabbing forward, then swung his shield forward to block the anticipated axe blow which rang hard against the shield.

  Casca stepped forward and slashed down, making the Crusader back away, and Casca gained another foot. The ground was uneven and treacherous with stones and blood, or the soft yielding corpses that lay everywhere. Men pushed and fought to left and right, and the line swayed like a snake back and forth. Casca dodged a huge blow from the ax, stepping back suddenly and bumping into a Saracen right behind him. “Get out of my way,” Casca growled over his shoulder.

  The axe wielder stepped forward, his weapon raised again, but this time Casca was ready and he ducked forward, shield high over his head, and stabbed, running the man through the stomach. The Crusader cried out and folded over the blade and Casca pulled it out, stepping forward. Two men blocked the way, one jabbing a spear and the other swinging a sword. From somewhere a ball of fire arced through the air and smashed into the gap, sending burning liquid naft over the knot of struggling men. Instantly these men were turned into human torches, screaming wildly, and the area cleared for a moment. Once again Casca smelt burnt flesh.

  With a roar both sides poured men into the vacuum, and the fighting resumed once more, trampling the charring bodies underfoot. Casca couldn’t make headway against the two Crusaders, and he sensed a turning of the tide amongst the attackers. They had expected to break through, but the desperate defenders had held firm.

  Suddenly, as these things do, the mass of Saracens turned and ran back the way they had come, leaving a high tide mark of corpses washed up against the wall and the breach. Casca stepped back and retreated, warily watching out for any nasty stuff from above, but fortunately none came his way.

  He made it back to his lines and sat breathing heavily on a rock. Men dispersed to their units and some cried out for medical help, nursing wounds. Casca groaned and stood up, looking round for his men. One or two he recognized and waved them to the camp. He followed and threw his equipment into his tent, then watched as the unit returned in ones and twos, dispirited.

  Sabat was not there. Casca went up to the group with whom Sabat normally hung out. “You seen him anywhere?”

  “No Captain. He was with us but got separated in the fight.”

  Casca waited with a sinking feeling. All the men were back except three. One or two had wounds but they were minor and could be dealt with easily. He wandered back through the camp to the edge of the valley and looked across at the corpses strewn about. Nothing moved outside of the walls. Sadly, he turned and passed back through the Saracen lines, looking out for anyone straggling behind, but there were none.

  He sent a man to the medical tents to see if any of the three missing were there, but the man returned with a shake of the head. Casca thanked him and went to the amir with the sad news Sabat and two others were missing, believed dead. The amir nodded in response, placing a hand on his sh
oulder. “Do not be so sad, Kasim, they are in paradise this day for falling in the fight against the infidel.”

  “Yes, Amir, they died as they would have wished.” It didn’t help though, as he had become used to seeing Sabat’s reassuring form around camp, fetching and taking things for him. Another one gone yet I continue. He sat in his tent depressed, cleaning his equipment.

  The ritual helped ease the sense of loss but he knew it would be a few days yet before he got over it. By that time it might be all over. Then what? Would he continue in Salah-ed-Din’s service? And if so, in what role? The army would be disbanded some time in the near future, most of the volunteers and irregulars returning to their homes, and the regulars like himself would be left to garrison the new territory.

  Garrison life was boring and he didn’t want that. He’d see what the conquest of Jerusalem would bring. He was sure the city would fall now, it was inevitable. There was no relief, the walls were broken and the garrison cut off from any hope of help.

  The mangonels continued their pounding and the wall was subjected to incessant artillery bombardment, driving the defenders away from the breach. Nobody now wanted to man it for fear of being smashed to pieces by the rain of stones that were hammering down across the gap. Balian realized the game was up, and so he sent a message to Salah-ed-Din that he wanted to meet to discuss terms. Balian was escorted through the lines of the army and into the Emir’s tent. Casca was on duty and their eyes met as Balian arrived. The commander of the Jerusalem garrison took a step aside to approach Casca.

  “Your message was received, Rufus, or whatever your name is,” Balian said, “and the Lord de Beaucaire thanks you for your warning. Nothing has yet occurred but he and his entourage are guarded well.”

  Casca smiled and bowed. “Glad to hear it, lord. Pass on my regards to him and his daughter.”

  Balian nodded. “I shall do that.” He then stepped up to the tent and was announced by the amir in charge of the guard. He was permitted to enter and Balian stepped inside to confront his adversary, the Emir of the Saracens.

  Balian was shown a seat opposite the emir and others stood around, watching. Balian was surprised to see representatives of the Orthodox Christians present and realized they had been negotiating separately with the Saracens. He felt a surge of anger but suppressed it. Getting mad now would achieve nothing, and he had much to lose.

  “Greetings my friend and welcome to my humble abode,” Salah-ed-Din began, smiling widely. He was in a position of strength and knew it. “It is always pleasing to see you in good health.”

  “And it is good to see you in good health also, Emir,” Balian responded.

  The words carried out to Casca clearly, standing close to the tent. He listened intently, cocking his head sideways. His amir, passing by, saw it and nodded. The deal was that Casca would be allowed to stay there listening as long as he reported to his amir everything that transpired. His amir reckoned that because Kasim could speak and understand the Frankish tongue he would report any discrepancy to what the translators passed on. Such knowledge may one day be of benefit to the Emir.

  “You are here to discuss the surrender of the city, am I correct?” Salah-ed-Din smiled.

  “On honorable terms, Emir, of course.”

  “Honorable terms? Were you not offered such before, when we arrived? Did you not turn these down? Should we now not take the city by storm and slaughter the inhabitants as your compatriots did a century ago?” Salah-ed-Din leaned forward menacingly. “We would be fully justified in doing such. I have sworn to take Jerusalem by storm and you know that I am a man of my word.”

  Balian refused to show any emotion. He was in a no-win situation but he wasn’t going to show any sign of weakness to the emir. “Emir Saladin, I know you are a man of your word, and for that I judge you an honorable man. You have shown great chivalry in allowing my wife and children safe passage, and I respect you for that. But I believe you also regard me as a man of my word, and I shall now give you mine.”

  Balian jabbed a forefinger towards Salah-ed-Din. “If you do not agree to my offer, then I shall order all 5,000 prisoners of your armies we hold to be butchered. Furthermore, we shall slay our own women and children, and all the animals in the city.”

  Salah-ed-Din stared at his rival, aghast; was he serious?

  Balian wasn’t finished. He went on remorselessly. “Then we shall destroy every treasure within the walls and level the Dome of the Rock to the ground, as well as your sacred Aqsa Mosque. Then, after all that has been achieved, I will lead every last warrior out of the city and do battle with you unto the death. You may prove victorious; but will it be worth the cost? An empty shell of a city full of corpses? No treasures worth taking? No holy buildings in which to worship? The bodies of thousands at your feet! All because you would not accept my offer of honorable surrender!”

  There was silence. The two leaders stared at each other at a distance of five feet, measuring each other’s words. Even those outside the tent paused, sensing something was in the balance. Casca trembled; surely Salah-ed-Din wouldn’t go down the same road as the Crusaders. Surely not another bloodbath!

  “I see you are prepared to fight like a true warrior,” Salah-ed-Din said at length. “And as a warrior an honorable surrender is the next best thing to a victory. I, too, do not wish for unnecessary spilling of blood, nor do I want the holy places defiled and destroyed. I shall accept your offer of an honorable surrender, my friend. Truly are you a man to be wary of. I thank Allah you were not in command of the kingdom, or else I fear we would not be in this position today.”

  The amirs around Salah-ed-Din breathed sighs of relief, and Balian puffed out his cheeks once Imad’s translation had finished. Salah-ed-Din raised a finger of caution. “But as a victorious general I must insist on certain terms to the defeated garrison.”

  “I expected as much. Name your terms, Emir.”

  The Saracen Emir leaned back and linked his fingers. “All Latin Crusaders are to leave Jerusalem. However any non-Latin Christian may stay,” he bowed at the Orthodox representative. Balian glanced balefully at the man.

  “For every man released, he must pay 10 dinars. Every woman 5 dinars and each child will cost 1.” Salah-ed-Din waited until the translation had finished before continuing. “I will accept 30,000 bezants for the poor people you have within the city, since they would not be able to meet these costs. You will have forty days to meet these demands or I shall enslave those who remain unable to pay.”

  Balian nodded, drawing in a deep breath. “And the personal possessions?”

  “If they can take them, they may do so.”

  Casca resumed his patrol route, having heard all he needed. His amir stopped him part of the way round and asked for details, which Casca relayed. The amir looked surprised. “They will be permitted to take their belongings?”

  “All they can carry. I expect they will sell much in the merchants’ tents here before taking the long journey to the coast.”

  “Ah yes, Kasim, that is true. Perhaps a deal can be made…” the amir moved off, already devising schemes to cheat the defeated garrison out of their possessions. Casca looked at him with disgust before continuing on his way. He would now enter the city without the prospect of slaughter and rapine, something he was relieved of. Fighting soldiers was one thing but he really hated the senseless slaughter that some delighted in.

  He looked over at the city. All had gone quiet. No more rocks or arrows were hurled across the distance, and the dead would soon be buried. Once more the city could return to a settled life, and people like him move on to other conflicts. He looked across the rooftops and made a promise to himself. Before he left, he would do one thing. Something perhaps he should have done the previous times he’d been in the city but hadn’t.

  He would go to the place of his ‘re-birth’.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The streets of Jerusalem were packed with people shuffling along carrying their possessions. They f
iled towards the Jaffa Gate in the western wall where they were to pass out of the city and pay their ransom. It was a pathetic sight and Casca watched them for a while, wondering if the Christians would return one day to reclaim the city. He turned and made his way through the streets, now patrolled by members of the elite guard to make sure nothing stupid happened.

  Casca went about his business unmolested, but he did attract a few looks from people with his scarred face, light blue eyes and Saracen armor. He didn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought. He was headed for a special place and nothing would stop him. He turned the corner and saw a huge church standing on the spot. The entrance was up a stone flight of stairs into a porch topped with a circular roof. Entry was by way of huge arches, and Casca went up and entered the porch. There was a door to the left and he pushed it open.

  The interior was gloomy but illuminated by candles. The chamber had that typical church-type hush to it, of an immense space oppressed by what it represented. The familiar basilica-type smells filled the still air; a mixture of candles and incense. To the far side was an altar, and in front of it the floor had been prized up and a jumble of rocks revealed. This was it. Almost reverently, Casca made his way over to it, as if in a dream. He removed his helmet and approached the spot, staring down onto the stones.

  It was here, 1154 years before, that he, Casca Rufio Longinus, soldier of the tenth legion based in Jerusalem, thrust his spear into the side of the crucified Jew, Yeshua. And in that moment he had been cursed to remain as he was until the Second Coming. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes, reliving that moment once again.

  The wind blew and the rags of the condemned men flapped as Casca approached the cross, spear held in both hands. “Well,” he had said, “let’s get this over with.”

  Jesus had looked at him, then shuddered in agony from the nails that had been used to fix him to the cross. The wind had screamed as Casca had taken deliberate aim before sending the blade into the Jew’s side. He had missed his target, wounding the man instead.