Eagle

Chapter 15

MAY 1157: ALEPPO

John jerked upright in bed, his heart pounding. The room was dark and the house quiet. He looked over at Zimat, who lay beside him. She stirred, blinking away sleep. ‘What is it?’ She yawned. ‘Another nightmare?’

John nodded. ‘I dreamt you were being stoned.’

‘It was only a dream,’ Zimat murmured, gently stroking his arm. ‘I am safe, here with you.’

John pulled away and moved to sit at the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. ‘In my dream, Yusuf cast the first stone.’ He turned to look at her. ‘Your brother trusts me. Every time I come to you, I betray him.’

Zimat’s lips pressed together in a hard line. ‘I do not wish to have this discussion again. Either we betray my brother, or we betray our love. We have made our choice.’

‘It is not that simple,’ John muttered. He rose and began to dress.

Behind him, Zimat sat up in bed. ‘Do not go, not yet.’

‘It will be dawn soon,’ John replied as he laced up his boots. ‘The army leaves just after sunrise. I must help Yusuf organize the men.’

‘Yusuf’s shadow,’ Zimat said bitterly. She turned away from him. ‘You love him more than me.’

John sat beside her. ‘I owe Yusuf my life.’ He reached out and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘But you are the reason that I remain in the East. In Tripoli, I could have taken a ship for England. I stayed because of you. I love you, Zimat.’

‘I know.’ She turned to John, and he kissed her, pulling her close to him. Finally she pulled away. ‘When will I see you again?’

‘I do not know when we will return.’

Zimat looked away, blinking back tears. John kissed her forehead, then rose. He went to the door and put his head against it, listening to make sure the hallway was empty before cracking the door open.

‘John,’ Zimat called softly. He turned. ‘Come back to me.’

‘I will,’ John whispered, and left.

MAY 1157: NEAR BAALBEK

‘O Allah, have mercy upon me,’ Yusuf murmured. He knelt on his prayer rug, which he had laid out on the sand beside the Orontes River, facing south-east towards Mecca. Men knelt all around him. As Yusuf prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Nur ad-Din, who knelt a few feet to his left. Beyond the malik were thousands more men, stretching for over a mile along the banks of the river, all facing Mecca and all with their foreheads to the ground. Only John stood out. He was kneeling nearby under a tree on the riverbank, praying in his own way.

Yusuf sat back on his heels, and as he spoke the final words of the magrhib — the evening prayer — he looked across the river at the green fields, which stretched away to craggy mountains, their peaks lit golden red by the setting sun. The last time Yusuf had visited those mountains, he and John had tracked and killed the panther that Yusuf now wore as a winter cloak. That seemed so long ago. They had left Aleppo over a week ago, and tomorrow they would pass through Baalbek on the way south to the Frankish stronghold of Banyas. And then the war against the Franks would begin.

Yusuf finished his prayers and began to roll up his mat. All around him men were heading up the gentle rise that separated the riverbank from their camp. Yusuf stood and began to follow them.

‘Yusuf!’ It was Nur ad-Din. A servant had taken his prayer mat, and he was standing alone beside the river, his shoulders slumped. ‘Come here.’ Yusuf walked over, his boots crunching softly on the wet sand. Nur ad-Din turned to face him. ‘We will reach Banyas soon. Do you think the men ready?’

‘Yes, malik.’

‘Good, good,’ Nur ad-Din murmured. He sighed and turned to look out over the river. The glow had left the distant mountains, and the fields beneath them were now grey in the darkness. A single locust in one of the trees along the riverbank began its song, and a moment later the evening was full of their sound. Yusuf noticed that Nur ad-Din had closed his eyes. Yusuf opened his mouth to speak, but Nur ad-Din spoke first. ‘Asimat miscarried last night. It was a boy. I should not have brought her with me on this campaign.’

‘Is she well?’

Nur ad-Din glanced at him sharply, then nodded. ‘She is alone in her tent. She has sent away the doctors, the midwife, even her servants.’

Yusuf placed his right hand on Nur ad-Din’s shoulder. ‘It is not your fault, malik. Such matters are in the hands of Allah.’

Nur ad-Din shrugged off Yusuf’s hand. ‘Then why has Allah cursed me?’ he demanded, his voice rising. ‘I have built mosques to glorify Him. I have given to the poor. I have launched this campaign against the Franks in His name. What more must I do before He gives me a son?’ He glared at Yusuf, who shifted uncomfortably, uncertain of what to say. Nur ad-Din sighed and turned back to the river. When he spoke again his voice was soft. ‘Perhaps when I have driven the Franks from our lands, then Allah will bless me. Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ Yusuf echoed.

They stood in silence, listening to the locusts and the gentle burble of the river. Finally, Nur ad-Din turned to face Yusuf. ‘I did not call you here to burden you with my troubles. I want you to go to Asimat. She refuses to speak with me, and besides, I have little talent for gentle words.’ He placed a hand on Yusuf’s shoulder. ‘She likes you. Make sure she is well. Comfort her for me, if you are able.’

‘Yes, malik.’

‘Good.’ Nur ad-Din released Yusuf and straightened, all sign of weakness suddenly gone. He nodded curtly. ‘Now go. Her guards will be expecting you.’

Yusuf walked up the sandy hill that bordered the river. At the top, he looked back. Nur ad-Din was still standing alone on the riverbank. Yusuf turned and headed down the far side of the hill. Before him, the plain was dotted with hundreds of white tents, like flowers after a rain. He headed for Nur ad-Din’s huge tent, which was easy to find. Asimat’s smaller tent sat beside it, guarded by a dozen eunuch soldiers. As Yusuf approached, their captain gestured for him to enter and then followed, taking up a position just inside the door.

The tent’s interior was brightly lit by two oil lamps that hung from the ceiling. Thick carpets covered the floor, and a screen of thin cloth divided the tent in half. Beyond the screen, Yusuf could make out the dark outline of a hammock slung between two tent posts, and standing beside the hammock, the form of Asimat. She moved to the flap in the middle of the screen and passed through. Her eyes were red and her face pale, but she managed to smile when she saw Yusuf.

‘Salaam, Yusuf. I am glad that you came. Sit.’ She took a seat amidst silk cushions, and Yusuf sat across from her. ‘I have news for you. I have found you a wife.’

Yusuf’s eyebrows shot up. He had not expected this. ‘A wife?’

‘As I promised. She is Usama’s daughter — a good match. She is beautiful, and healthy. She will bear-’ Asimat faltered, looking away to hide her tears. ‘She will bear you many children.’

‘Are you well, Khatun?’ Yusuf asked softly. ‘Your child-’

‘I do not wish to speak of it,’ Asimat snapped and angrily wiped away her tears. ‘I am fine, as well as can be expected while travelling with an army.’

‘You did not wish to come?’

‘No. I do not like war. I have never understood this eagerness of men to kill one another.’

‘But the Franks have broken their treaty with us. They have slaughtered innocent Bedouin.’

‘So we shall slaughter them in turn?’

‘We only return in kind the suffering that they visited upon us when they took our lands. They do not belong here.’

‘They do not belong?’ Asimat laughed, a hollow sound with no merriment in it. ‘Tell me, Yusuf. Do you remember a time when the Franks were not here?’

‘No, my lady. They arrived before I was born.’

‘And your father?’ Yusuf shook his head. ‘If the Franks have held their kingdom for longer than you or your father have been alive, then what gives you more of a right to the land than they? The Romans held these lands before us. Perhaps the Franks feel that they, too, have merely reclaimed lands that were once theirs.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘But it is our duty to fight them.’

‘Perhaps,’ Asimat murmured. ‘But I have had enough of death.’ She looked away, her hand on her stomach.

Yusuf reached out to comfort her, then glanced at the eunuch guard still standing in the doorway and thought better of it. ‘What happened to your child is different,’ he said gently.

Asimat looked back to him, and her eyes glistened with tears. ‘Death is death. Each ifranji you kill has a mother, too.’

‘But they are men who can defend themselves. Your child-’

‘My child never had a chance to defend himself,’ she said bitterly. ‘Allah took him.’ She began to sob. ‘What did I do to anger him?’

‘It is not your fault,’ Yusuf soothed. ‘It is Allah’s will.’

‘Then I curse Allah!’

Yusuf’s eyes went wide. ‘Do not say such things.’

‘Why? Allah has taken my child from me after all these years of waiting. What more can He do to me? What could be more cruel than that?’

‘You are right,’ Yusuf said. ‘Allah was cruel to take your child. If you wish to hate Him, then that is your right. But you are not weak, Asimat. If Allah has wronged you, then spit in His face. Do not spend your days crying. Have another child.’

Asimat said nothing, but after a moment she wiped away her tears and straightened. ‘You are right. Thank you.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘Allah only tests you. He would not curse one as beautiful as you.’

Asimat flinched. ‘Be careful what you say, Yusuf. Nur ad-Din is a kind man, but he will defend his honour. He will have you killed at the slightest suspicion.’

‘I am sorry if I offended you, my lady.’ Yusuf glanced at the eunuch guard. ‘It was not my intention.’

She waved away his concern. ‘It is nothing. I am not my self since-’ Asimat broke off and took a deep breath. ‘I am not myself.’

‘I will go and let you rest.’ Yusuf stood and bowed. ‘I am sorry for your loss, Khatun.’ He headed for the tent flap.

‘Yusuf,’ Asimat called, and he turned. She was staring at him, her head tilted to the side. Her eyes met his, and there was something in her gaze that both excited and unnerved him. He forced himself to look away. ‘I am returning to Aleppo tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I hope to see you again when you return.’

MAY 1157: BANYAS

John stood at the edge of a broad ledge high up on the slopes of Mount Hermon. Yusuf was beside him, and past him, Nur ad-Din stood surrounded by emirs and advisors. A spring gushed from a cave behind them and flowed over the cliff face to John’s left, plunging down to the valley floor far below, where it formed a silver ribbon that flowed through the walled town of Banyas and past its castle. The castle was an imposing structure with towering walls of white limestone rising straight from the hillside on which it sat. There was only one possible path of attack: a road that ran up the spine of the hill. The road passed through a series of gated, walled courtyards, each of which would have to be conquered before reaching the thick-walled, central keep. And before attacking the fortress, they would have to take the town. Squinting, John could just make out the tiny figures of townspeople leaving through the town gate.

‘The Franks are taking shelter in the keep,’ he said, speaking loudly over the roar of the waterfall. ‘They know we are here.’

Yusuf nodded. ‘The castle will not be easy to take.’

‘Nevertheless, it will fall,’ Nur ad-Din said confidently. ‘The Frankish army has been drawn north by Shirkuh’s approach. There is no one to help Banyas.’ He turned to Yusuf. ‘Take your men and seize the town. Your men will have until noon to loot as they wish.’

‘Thank you, malik.’ Yusuf nodded to John. ‘Let’s go.’

They went to their horses and mounted. John followed Yusuf down the narrow track that led from the ledge in a series of cutbacks. The trail was wet with spray from the waterfall, and it was a perilous ride. John kept his eyes on the track before him, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought of the townspeople he had seen leaving Banyas. As a crusader, he had sworn to protect such people from the Saracens and to help his fellow Christian knights when they were in need. If he helped Yusuf take the town, then he would be violating his crusader’s oath. He would be putting yet more blood on his head.

John looked up as they reached the valley floor, where the army waited in the shadow of the mountain, hidden from the city by low hills. Yusuf’s troops were gathered beside the stream, watering their horses. Yusuf rode straight to Turan, who stood on the sands of the riverbank, sharpening the grey steel of his sword.

‘We have been ordered to take the town,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Ready the men, and provide a dozen of them with torches.’

‘Yes, Brother.’ Turan turned and roared to the men. ‘Saddle up and get in formation! There’s fighting to be done!’

‘Yusuf,’ John said to his friend in a low voice. ‘Do you think it wise to have brought Turan? Perhaps he should be left behind when you attack Banyas?’

‘No, he will ride with us. He is a changed man since the death of Nadhira. And besides, I like to keep an eye on him.’

‘There is something else.’ John took a deep breath. ‘I cannot fight against my fellow Christians. I swore an oath.’

Yusuf examined him for a moment, then nodded. ‘You may remain in camp, friend. I do not expect you to fight your own kind.’

John frowned. ‘But I am the commander of your khaskiya. I cannot let you ride into battle alone.’ He had already betrayed Yusuf with Zimat, he would not fail him here as well. The creases on John’s forehead melted away as he reached a decision. ‘I will not fight to take Banyas, but I will kill to protect you, if I must.’

Yusuf grasped John’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, friend.’

The men had mounted and formed ranks three deep along the riverbank. Yusuf commanded his own mamluks from Tell Bashir, as well as the men his father had sent from Damascus — over three hundred warriors in all. They wore chainmail and each carried a small, circular shield along with three weapons: a curving, compact bow; a light spear; and a sword.

Yusuf rose in his stirrups to address them. ‘We have been ordered to clear the town. We will attack from the east, where the river enters the city and the wall is weakest. Qaraqush, you will take the Tell Bashir men and set fire to the eastern gate to distract the Christians. Once Qaraqush has attacked, Turan will lead forty Damascus men to the right of the gate, where they will scale the wall. I will lead my personal guard to the left where the river passes under the wall. We will enter there. The rest will wait in reserve with Al-Mashtub, ready to charge when the gate opens. Understood?’ There was murmured assent from the ranks.

‘For Allah!’ Yusuf shouted, and the men roared back, ‘For Allah!’ John said nothing. He turned his horse and followed Yusuf along the river, with Yusuf’s guard following in a column three wide. Qaraqush and his men came next, their burning torches leaving a trail of black smoke. They followed the river through low hills, and as they rounded a last bend, the town of Banyas came into view, its pale stone houses huddled behind eight-foot-high limestone walls. ‘Keep together!’ Yusuf shouted back to the men. ‘Wait for my signal.’

They rode closer and closer, until John could see the faces of men peering over the walls. An arrow fell from the sky and shattered against the hard ground to John’s right. He heard a scream and turned to see a mamluk with an arrow in his gut drop his torch and slump from the saddle. John raised his shield, just before an arrow thumped into it.

‘Qaraqush, charge!’ Yusuf roared.

Qaraqush and his men galloped towards the city. One of the mamluks fell, then another, but the rest arrived to throw their torches at the base of the gate. They wheeled away, as the wood began to smoke. Two Franks appeared atop the gate with a cauldron of water and poured it over the side, dousing the flames. Qaraqush led his men galloping back, firing arrows that dropped the two men.

‘Turan, now!’ Yusuf yelled, and with a roar, Turan led his men away to the right. ‘My men, follow me!’ Yusuf cried and spurred to the left.

John followed close behind Yusuf. Arrows whizzed past as they streaked along the wall towards the mountain stream, which narrowed into a deep channel as it approached the town. As they neared the water, Yusuf dismounted, and John also slid from the saddle. They ran to where the water flowed under the wall. Yusuf was about to jump in when John grabbed his arm. ‘What if the passage under the wall is barred?’

‘Uwais!’ Yusuf called, and a mamluk ran forward. ‘Go!’ The mamluk plunged into the stream and disappeared under the water. John counted to a hundred; Uwais did not reappear. He glanced at Yusuf.

‘He must have made it,’ Yusuf said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Yusuf plunged into the water.

John took a deep breath and jumped in after him. His armour pulled him down in the cold water. The current was pushing him towards the wall. He could see Yusuf just ahead. Then John passed under the wall and everything went black. As the current pulled him along, he reached out and felt the slick side of an algae-covered stone tunnel. The next moment he slammed into something, knocking some of the precious air from his lungs. He reached out in the darkness and felt crisscrossed lengths of iron; a grate was blocking the tunnel. John’s hands moved along the grate until he came to a limp, unmoving form — Uwais, or Yusuf. Someone grabbed John and began to pull him back against the current. Suddenly a mamluk slammed into them both, knocking them on to the grate. Another mamluk piled into them, then another. John was growing short of air. He tried to scramble past the mamluks when he felt an elbow slam into his jaw, then a foot hit him in the stomach. In their panic to escape the tunnel, the men were only getting in each other’s way. More mamluks came down the tunnel, making matters worse. There was no going back.

Desperate, his lungs burning, John twisted around and pulled his dagger from his belt. He began to chisel frantically at the mortar that held the grate in place. He felt a small piece of mortar float loose, and redoubled his efforts. He could see spots floating before his eyes in the darkness now, and it was all he could do not to open his mouth and breathe in the water. A chunk of mortar came free. Then another mamluk slammed into John, pinning him to the grate and knocking his dagger from his hand. John felt for it in the darkness, but the dagger was lost. His temples were pounding, and he could hold his breath no more. He started to open his mouth. But then several more mamluks slammed into the mass of men and the grate gave way.

John tumbled through the black tunnel, pushed ahead by the current, then he saw daylight above him. He managed to crawl up the side of the channel and broke the surface, gasping for breath. He pulled himself from the water and lay on his back, his chest heaving and blood pounding in his ears. Yusuf’s face appeared over him.

‘This is not the time to rest, John.’ He held out a hand and pulled John to his feet.

‘You’re not even breathing hard,’ John gasped, his hands on his knees.

‘I’m used to holding my breath,’ Yusuf replied as he went to help pull another mamluk from the water.

John looked about him. The wall stretched away in either direction, with a twenty-foot space of hard-packed earth separating it from the houses of the town. A dozen mamluks had already dragged themselves from the river and were helping to pull out their comrades. John could hear the shouts of men fighting in the distance.

‘Follow me, men!’ Yusuf shouted.

John drew his sword and followed Yusuf as he ran up the steps to the top of the wall and then sprinted along it. They rounded a corner, and the city gate came into view. There was no sign of Turan, but outside the gate, Qaraqush and his men were still fighting. Inside, there were at least a hundred Franks, some standing on the wall and firing arrows, others massed behind the gate. They were focused on Qaraqush’s men beyond the wall.

‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Yusuf cried as he neared the Christians.

Behind him, John heard the mamluks take up the cry. The Frankish defenders on the wall looked over in alarm. The nearest archer turned and fired, but the arrow flew high. Yusuf impaled the man with his sword and shoved him aside. The next defender had drawn his sword. He slashed at Yusuf, who ducked the blow and came up under it, slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest and knocking him off the wall. Further along the wall, the remaining defenders were grouping behind a wall of shields, blocking off the stairs that ran down to the gate.

‘We must open the gate!’ Yusuf cried and jumped from the wall, straight into the Frankish knights massed below. He landed on top of a knight, and both of them fell sprawling. As Yusuf plunged his sword into the fallen man’s chest, another knight behind Yusuf raised his blade to finish him.

‘Crazy bastard,’ John muttered and leapt from the wall. He landed on top of the knight behind Yusuf, tackling him. John rolled off the man, but before he could get to his feet, he saw a sword flashing down towards his head. It was stopped at the last second by Yusuf’s blade. John stabbed out, dropping the attacker. ‘God forgive me,’ John whispered, but he had no time to dwell on what he had done. He sprang to his feet and stood back to back with Yusuf as more Franks closed in. John parried and lashed out, fighting desperately to keep the men at bay. He glanced to the wall above, where the mamluks were blocked by the Franks. John saw one mamluk try to jump down, but the knights below were ready now. The mamluk landed on the point of a Frankish sword.

‘We’ve got to get to the gate!’ John shouted.

‘Right!’

Inch by inch, they made their way forward, fighting in perfect tandem, each blocking when the other was exposed. Finally, they reached the gate, pressing their backs against it. ‘What now?’ John asked. He dodged an axe blow, and the weapon embedded itself in the wood beside his head. John thrust his sword into the man’s chest, dropping him, but another knight took his place. His sword sneaked through and glanced off the chainmail on John’s side. Another knight slashed John’s leg, and he gritted his teeth in pain. ‘We can’t hold out much longer!’

‘We won’t have to,’ Yusuf shouted.

A loud cry of ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ went up behind the knights, and a moment later Turan and his men slammed into the Franks, who turned away to face the new threat. John struck down the man before him and found himself with no one to fight.

Yusuf grabbed his arm. ‘Help me remove the bar!’ John nodded and put his shoulder to the heavy oak log that held the gate shut. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, he heaved. The two men barely managed to raise the bar out of its brackets, then dropped it on the ground with a thud. A second later, the gate ground inward as Qaraqush pushed his way in, followed by the rest of the mamluks. The Franks began to retreat. John stood aside as the mamluks flooded through the gate and pursued them down the main street of the town.

When all the mamluks had poured past, Yusuf walked over to John and clapped him on the back. ‘We did it!’

John looked about him at the men he had killed and shook his head. ‘The crusader’s oath I swore had three parts,’ he muttered. ‘I was to make pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to protect the people of the kingdom from the Saracens, and to aid my fellow Crusaders. I failed to reach Jerusalem, and now I have betrayed my oath twice over.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘I am sorry, John.’

‘It was them or you. I made my choice long ago.’ John wiped the blood from his sword. ‘The priests say those who die fighting the Saracens will go straight to heaven. Where shall I go when I die?’

Yusuf stood in the dusty central street of Banyas and watched as a dozen men with axes hacked at the beams of a wooden house and then pulled them loose. Nur ad-Din had sent the men, who would use the wood to build the first of the catapults necessary for besieging the citadel. John sat nearby, leaning against a wall in the shade as he rested his bandaged leg. The rest of Yusuf’s men had spread out through the town. Nur ad-Din had given them until midday to loot before the rest of the army entered. Yusuf looked to the sky. Their time was almost up.

Turan approached from a side alley, his face set in a grim line. ‘We have found little, Brother. The Christians left nothing of value when they fled.’

‘Then we shall have all the more riches when we take the castle,’ Yusuf replied.

A high-pitched cry, cut suddenly short, came from their right. It sounded like a child’s voice. ‘What was that?’ John asked, rising.

‘Sounds like the men have found something,’ Turan said.

John was already heading in that direction, his hand on his sword. Yusuf followed. They passed through an alley and out into another street. From a house across from them, Yusuf could hear a woman cursing in Frankish, and then the loud wailing of a child. John rushed to the house, and Yusuf followed.

In the centre of the home’s single room three mamluks were crouched over a red-haired Frankish woman. Her dress was torn, exposing one of her pale white breasts. Her eyes were wild, and she screamed and thrashed, trying to pull free of the two mamluks who were holding her down. The third mamluk was loosening the belt of his breeches. A blonde girl stood to the side, wide-eyed and sobbing. The mamluks ignored her, their eyes fixed on the Frankish woman.

John began to draw his sword, but Yusuf reached out to stop him. ‘I will handle this.’ He raised his voice. ‘What have we here, men?’

The mamluks looked up and released the woman. She scrambled over to her child and clutched the girl to her breast. The men turned to face Yusuf. He recognized Nazam — the bald-headed mamluk John had fought long ago, when they first arrived at Tell Bashir.

‘We’ve found no gold,’ Nazam said. ‘But we did find this prize. She’ll fetch a fine price on the slave market, if we don’t keep her for ourselves.’

Yusuf walked over to the woman, who shrank back in fear. He bent down and grabbed her jaw, turning her head towards him. She spat in his face. As Yusuf backed away, wiping the spit from his cheek, one of the mamluks stepped over and back-handed the woman, knocking her down. She pushed herself up, blood dripping from her lip, and the mamluk raised his fist to strike again.

‘That is enough,’ Yusuf said. ‘Leave her to me. You shall each have a dinar to compensate you.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Nazam said.

‘Now leave us,’ Yusuf ordered. ‘Report to Turan.’

‘Yes, my lord. Enjoy yourself.’ Nazam winked at Yusuf, and the men trooped out, chuckling.

When they were gone, the woman turned to John. ‘You are not one of them. Kill me. Do not let him defile me. Don’t let him sell my child.’

‘I will not hurt you,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. The woman’s eyes went wide. ‘You are free. I will escort you and your daughter to the citadel.’

‘Thank you,’ the woman sobbed in relief. She knelt before him and kissed his hand. ‘Thank you, my lord.’

‘We haven’t much time,’ Yusuf said, taking her hand and raising her up. He stepped outside, and the woman followed, holding her daughter. John brought up the rear. They reached the gate leading out towards the citadel without incident. It was open.

‘Go,’ Yusuf said. The woman lifted her daughter and ran up the slope towards the citadel.

‘Thank you,’ John said from behind Yusuf. ‘You did not have to do that.’

‘I did not do it for you,’ Yusuf said, his eyes still on the woman. She reached the citadel gate, and it opened just enough for her to slip through. Yusuf turned to John. ‘The Franks raped my mother when she was young. Now come. We must see to the building of the catapults.’

The next morning Yusuf stood atop the wall surrounding Banyas and looked out towards the citadel, rising high above on its hilltop. At the foot of the hill were the three enormous catapults that Nur ad-Din’s engineers had constructed. Yusuf watched as one of catapults fired. The heavy counterweight — stones and dirt gathered in a wooden bin — fell, and the long arm of the catapult rose into the air. Trailing from the far end of the arm was a leather sling, which now snapped upwards, hurling a three-hundred-pound boulder. The stone arced through the air and then shattered against the wall in a cloud of dust. When the dust cleared, the wall still stood, apparently undamaged. Then a few stones fell away and went tumbling down the hillside. A cheer went up from the Muslim camp, which was spread in a circle all around the hill on which the citadel stood. Yusuf smiled. The walls were strong, but they would fall.

From the corner of his eye Yusuf noticed movement, and he looked away from the citadel to the north. Beyond the tents of the camp, he saw a plume of dust rising into the sky. Squinting, he could make out a horse charging towards the town — a messenger. From the way he was pressing his mount, Yusuf guessed he had important news.

Yusuf left the wall and hurried to the two-storey merchant’s home in town where Nur ad-Din had established himself. Yusuf arrived just as Nur ad-Din stepped out of the house.

‘Who could this be?’ Nur ad-Din asked, looking up the street to the distant rider.

Yusuf squinted. ‘Khaldun,’ he said, recognizing his brother-in-law through the dust that covered him.

‘Salaam, Khaldun!’ Nur ad-Din hailed as the rider reined to a stop.

Khaldun dismounted and bowed before Nur ad-Din. ‘Salaam, malik.’

‘You bring news from Shirkuh?’ Nur ad-Din asked.

Khaldun nodded. ‘The Christians sent only a small force to confront Shirkuh. The main army is marching for Banyas. They will be here tomorrow.’

‘So soon,’ Yusuf whispered.

‘When will Shirkuh arrive with the rest of my men?’ Nur ad-Din asked.

‘A week, my lord.’

Yusuf looked to Nur ad-Din. ‘What shall we do? The Franks will outnumber us two to one.’

Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘We do what the Christians expect us to do: retreat.’

MAY 1157: JACOB’S FORD

John stood on the ridge of a long line of dusty, brown hills and looked down upon the Christian army as it moved through the narrow valley below, heading south alongside the silvery ribbon of the Jordan River. The Franks marched in a square formation, with foot-soldiers on the periphery providing protection for the horses of the mounted knights at the centre. But the ranks were loose. A constant stream of men left their places to go to the river and refill their skins. Most of the men marched with their helmets off and their shields strapped to their backs. A few had even removed their armour to better enjoy the beautiful spring day. Multicoloured pennants flapped gaily overhead in a cool breeze, giving the army a festive appearance. They had reason to celebrate, only three days before they had driven the Saracens from Banyas.

John turned his back on the Frankish army to look down the opposite side of the ridge, where thousands of mounted Saracen warriors were gathered out of sight of the Christians. John knew that Nur ad-Din was waiting with an equal number of men behind the hills on the other side of the valley. After leaving Banyas, Nur ad-Din had only pretended to retreat before turning south to shadow the Christians. Yesterday, he had driven his army through the night in order to lay a trap for the Franks.

John picked out Yusuf’s eagle standard amongst the men below. He would not ride with his friend today. Since taking the town of Banyas, John had been troubled by bloody nightmares. Fighting Reynald’s bandits was one thing; Reynald was a savage who had betrayed him. But John knew that he had put his soul in jeopardy by killing his fellow Christians. He did not wish to die in battle before he had received absolution.

‘The Franks have reached the ford,’ Imad ad-Din noted. He and a dozen other scribes had joined John atop the ridge, ready to record the coming battle for posterity. They sat on the ground around him, their writing tables across their laps, quills ready.

John turned back towards the Frankish army. They had reached the shallow waters of Jacob’s Ford, the safest crossing point over the Jordan River. The first foot-soldiers were already wading across, the water reaching up to their waists at the deepest point. Behind them, the army had broken its square formation, forming a column in order to cross the narrow ford. John’s stomach tightened with nervous tension. When half the foot-soldiers had reached the far bank, the first of the mounted knights entered the water, the standard of the King of Jerusalem flying above them. They were halfway across when a horn sounded from the hills on the far side of the river. As the low, mournful cry of the horn faded, the Christian army stopped, knights and foot-soldiers looking about nervously. In the silence, John could hear the distant Frankish horses, their anxious whinnies borne to him on the wind.

The blast of another horn sounded behind John, drowning out the sounds of the Frankish army. He turned to see the Saracen army on the move, Yusuf’s eagle standard flying at their head. They headed for a gap in the hills that led out to the valley.

‘Look!’ Imad ad-Din cried.

John turned to see the other half of the Saracen army pouring from the hills on the far side of the river, the sound of the pounding horses’ hooves rolling like thunder across the plain. There was disorder in the Christian ranks as the mounted knights hurried to cross the river to meet the threat. But the narrow ford slowed their efforts. Some entered the river south of the ford to avoid the bottleneck and were swept away by the current. Meanwhile, the foot-soldiers hurriedly formed a line, pikes out.

The horsemen led by Nur ad-Din split in two as they reached the foot-soldiers, riding parallel to the Christian lines and shooting arrows into their enemies. Christians fell by the dozen, but the line did not break. Behind the foot-soldiers, the last of the mounted knights were crossing the river to group around the standard of the Frankish king. A horn blast sounded out from the Christian ranks as the knights prepared to charge. Then, behind them, the other half of the Saracen army galloped forth from the hills, Yusuf’s banner at their head. Shooting arrows as they rode, they cut through the Frankish foot-soldiers who had not yet crossed the river and then splashed across the ford to attack the Christian knights from behind. Trapped between the two halves of the Saracen army, the Franks panicked. Individual knights attempted to ride to safety, but their horses were shot out from under them. The line of foot-soldiers dissolved as men fled, only to be ridden down from behind. Hundreds of Franks stripped off their armour and leapt into the river, swimming downstream to safety.

A piercing horn sounded again and again as the Frankish king sought to rally his men. Only two hundred or so knights remained, encircled by the Saracen army, which closed in to finish them. John spotted Yusuf’s standard at the heart of the fighting, pushing towards Baldwin’s banner. If the king fell, the battle would be over. And then, after a final, long blast of the horn, the Frankish knights charged, heading straight towards Yusuf. Nothing could stand in the way of the Franks’ plate armour and strong horses. They crashed through the Saracen ranks, spearing men off horses with their long lances and then crushing them underfoot. For a moment Yusuf’s standard stayed aloft as he and a handful of mamluks held their ground. John thought he spotted Yusuf at the head of the mamluks, his sword flashing in the sunlight. And then the mamluks were swept away and Yusuf’s standard fell. Yusuf was nowhere to be seen.

‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Yusuf stood in the saddle, screaming as he slashed out at the Frankish knights streaming past. Then a knight’s lance hit Yusuf’s horse directly in the chest, killing it instantly. Yusuf managed to jump free of the saddle as his horse collapsed. He landed in the path of a charging warhorse and rolled to the side. Another horse was bearing down, and Yusuf curled into a ball as the horse galloped straight over him. He sprang to his feet and jumped to his right to avoid a knight’s lance. As the Frank rode past, Yusuf knelt and slashed out, slicing through the girth that held the knight’s saddle in place. The saddle slid off and the knight crashed to the ground, to be trampled. Yusuf ran after the horse, which had slowed to a walk. He grabbed its mane and swung himself on to its back. The last of the Christian knights were now flying past, and Yusuf kicked his mount’s sides, urging it after them.

Yusuf’s horse kicked up plumes of sand as it raced alongside the river. Two banners flew over the fleeing Franks: one a gold cross with four smaller crosses on a white background, the other royal blue and scarlet. Four knights rode under the blue and scarlet flag, surrounding a tall man in shining plate armour. That had to be King Baldwin.

‘ Yalla!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse forward. He pulled alongside the rearmost knight. The knight slashed at Yusuf, who veered away to avoid the blow. Yusuf urged his horse back towards the knight and thrust out, stabbing the Frank in the side. With a cry of pain, the man slid from the saddle, taking Yusuf’s sword with him.

Yusuf rode on. The king was just ahead now, with two knights flanking him. ‘ Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf cried as he surged forward into the narrow gap between the king and the knight on his right. The knight swung for Yusuf’s head, but Yusuf ducked the blow. He jumped from his horse, throwing himself at the king and dragging him from the saddle. Yusuf rolled as he hit the ground and sprang to his feet. A few feet away, the king lay on his back with sword in hand, struggling to rise in his heavy plate armour. The other Frankish knights were galloping away along the Jordan. None turned to come back for their fallen comrade.

Yusuf drew his eagle-hilt dagger and approached the king. The Frank swung at him, but Yusuf jumped the blow. He stepped on the king’s sword arm, pinning it, then kicked the weapon away. Yusuf knelt on the man’s chest and raised his dagger. ‘I yield!’ the knight roared and pushed back his visor. Yusuf blinked in surprise. It was not the Frankish king. It was Reynald.

‘You,’ Yusuf whispered. He raised his dagger to strike.

‘Do not kill me!’ Reynald begged. ‘I am the Prince of Antioch. My ransom will be worth a fortune.’

‘I do not want your gold,’ Yusuf growled as he put his dagger against Reynald’s throat. ‘Only justice for my friend.’

‘What have we here, Yusuf?’ a voice called, and Yusuf froze. He looked up to see Nur ad-Din approaching on horseback.

‘I am the Prince of Antioch!’ Reynald cried. ‘I am your prisoner. I beg your mercy.’

Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘Let him be, Yusuf.’ Reluctantly, Yusuf stepped away and sheathed his dagger. Two mamluks came forward and pulled Reynald to his feet. ‘You shall be our guest in Aleppo until you are ransomed,’ Nur ad-Din told him. ‘Take him away.’ The mamluks marched Reynald off to join the other Frankish prisoners. Nur ad-Din turned to Yusuf. ‘You led your men well, Yusuf, and Reynald will be worth his weight in gold.’

‘I had hoped to capture King Baldwin.’

‘In good time, Yusuf. The Frankish army is broken. Baldwin will beg for peace, but I will not grant it. I will drive him and his people into the sea!’

MAY 1157: NEAR ACRE

Two days later, Yusuf was riding beside Nur ad-Din at the head of the army when the walls of Acre came into sight, the city’s citadel rising high above them on its rocky perch. Nur ad-Din reined to a stop. ‘Acre, our first prize, Yusuf: it is the key that will unlock the Frankish kingdom.’

Yusuf grinned, but then his smile faded. Looking past Nur ad-Din, he saw a column of dust rising from the horizon to the north. He pointed. ‘Look! Do you think it is the Franks? Could they have regrouped so fast?’

Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘No, and besides, they fled south. This must be Shirkuh and his men. They have joined us at the perfect time. We will pause here and wait for them.’

Shirkuh arrived shortly, galloping up ahead of his men. He looked to have ridden far without stopping. He was covered in dust, and his horse was wet with sweat. ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing in the saddle.

‘Well met, Shirkuh!’ Nur ad-Din called, riding over and grasping his friend’s arm. He glanced at Shirkuh’s horse. ‘Your horse can hardly carry you. What have you done to it?’

‘We rode day and night to reach you. I fear I bring bad news. Manuel, the Roman emperor, is on the march from Constantinople.’

Nur ad-Din’s brow creased. ‘How many men does he bring?’

‘Twenty thousand.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘I saw his army with my own eyes. They are only a day behind me.’

‘ Yaha!’ Nur ad-Din cursed. ‘I was so close.’ He rode a short distance away and sat staring at Acre. Finally he looked away. ‘Yusuf, tell the men to turn around. We are returning to Aleppo.’

‘But why? We can defeat the Romans, too, as we defeated the Franks.’

Nur ad-Din shook his head. ‘The Franks will rally now that the Romans are on the march. We cannot fight them both. If we lose, then Aleppo and Damascus will be theirs for the taking. We must make peace.’

‘But the Franks are crushed!’ Yusuf protested. ‘We must strike now.’

‘No, this campaign is over. But never fear, Yusuf. My peace will be with King Baldwin, and he will not live forever.’