Eagle

Chapter 3

JULY 1148: DAMASCUS

Yusuf buckled his new sword belt tight about his waist and drew the curved blade, marvelling at its beauty. It had been made not far from the room where he now stood, in the famed forges of Damascus, and the bright steel was covered with interlacing patterns of darker grey. Yusuf tested the blade with his thumb and winced as the razor-sharp edge drew a thin trickle of blood. He carefully sheathed the sword, then pulled on the conical helmet that his father had given him. It was too large: only his ears kept the hard iron from sinking down over his eyes. Yusuf stepped in front of the polished bronze mirror in his room and frowned. The slate-grey chainmail that he wore was too long, covering his hands and hanging well below his knees, and the tip of the sword hanging from his waist almost touched the ground.

Turan entered behind Yusuf. His new armour was a perfect fit. ‘You look like a scarecrow,’ Turan smirked, and he slapped Yusuf on the back of the head so that his helmet slid down over his eyes.

Ayub stepped into the doorway. ‘You look a true warrior, Turan.’ Yusuf pushed up his helmet to see Turan grinning proudly. Ayub looked at Yusuf and frowned.

‘When will we fight the Christians, Father?’ Turan asked.

‘Inshallah, you will not have to fight, not if Emir Unur finally acknowledges Nur ad-Din as his overlord in return for aid against the Christians. I only pray that Nur ad-Din arrives before the Franks.’

‘If Nur ad-Din becomes Unur’s overlord, will he force the emir to return Baalbek to you?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Perhaps. In time, I might even be given something more.’ Ayub cracked a rare smile. ‘But that is for the future. Now, we must look to save ourselves. The Franks are many, and if Nur ad-Din does not arrive in time, the city may fall. You must be prepared to fight, to the death if needs be. I will not have my sons taken as slaves.’

Turan drew his sword and slashed it from side to side. ‘I will kill any Frank who dares stand before me.’

Ayub nodded. ‘If you must fight, then I am certain you will bring honour to our family. Now come. It is time that you both begin your education as warriors. I will show you how the walls are to be defended.’

Yusuf followed his father and Turan out into the narrow street that ran in front of their home. They turned right, Abaan and four other mamluks marching around them as an escort. Ayub nodded towards a man hammering up boards to cover the windows and doors of his home. ‘Little good it will do him if the Franks take the city.’

They reached the city’s main street, which was crowded with men and women lugging their possessions in heavy sacks, fleeing east, away from the Christians. A long train of camels passed, each bearing two heavy chests. The caravan was surrounded by heavily armed guards.

‘Moneychangers,’ Ayub spat. ‘Always the first to flee. And taking good men with them.’ Once the camels had passed, Ayub turned towards the city’s eastern wall. It was squat — as thick as it was tall — and built of brown bricks made from clay dredged from the river that flowed through Damascus. It did not look very imposing. Yusuf followed his father up a ramp to the top of the wall beside the Bab Tuma, the city’s eastern gate. From where he stood, Yusuf could see only a dozen troops, staggered along the wall at wide intervals.

‘Where are the emir’s men?’ he asked.

‘To the north and west,’ Ayub replied. ‘The walls are at their weakest here, but the desert offers its own protection.’ He gestured past the wall to the dry, cracked earth that stretched away to the horizon. ‘No army can last long out there.’

Ayub led them north. As they walked, the wall rose higher beneath them and became more and more crowded with mamluk soldiers. They passed through the upper rooms of the Gate of Peace, where a huge vat of oil sat over a smouldering fire, ready to be poured on any attackers who came too close to the gate. As they neared the Gate of Paradise, the empty waste beyond the wall gave way to fields, then to the lush orchards of Damascus. They continued to the western gate, the Bab al-Jabiya, where they paused to watch the mamluk warriors pouring out of the city and heading into the orchards.

‘The orchards are the key to Damascus,’ Ayub told them. ‘Always remember: strength of numbers, bravery and steel are important, but an army cannot survive without food and water. Whoever controls the orchards controls the lifeblood of the city. The emir will concentrate his forces there. If they are taken, his men will fall back to the walls. They might hold them for several months. But eventually the city will run short of food and it will fall.’

Yusuf gazed over the orchards, which ran for miles towards the rocky foothills of the nearby mountains. It was from these that the Franks would come. Yusuf was looking away when he saw something out of the corner of his eye — the flash of the sun off steel. There it was again. Squinting against the bright morning light, he could just make out tiny figures moving over the hills, headed for Damascus. ‘ Look!’ he said, pointing.

‘The Franks,’ Ayub whispered. A moment later one of the sentries in the nearby tower caught site of the enemy, and a trumpet blast shattered the air, followed by another, then another. ‘Allah protect us. They are here.’

John gritted his teeth against the pain in his back and legs as he trudged up the steep hill. His heavy pack dug into his shoulders, his armour chafed against his sides, and his feet were swollen after days on the long march from Acre. He reached a flat spot and sighed in relief as he stepped aside and dropped his pack, letting the other soldiers plod past. He looked back at the long line of men. The mounted knights had mostly passed, leaving the foot-soldiers to slog on, bent under their heavy packs, their spears held aloft and bobbing up and down as they walked. Behind them came a ragged band of pilgrims, with no armour and lightly armed with bows, spears or simple wooden staffs. They had come to pray in Damascus after the Christian victory, but they would fight if necessary. John turned his gaze to the sun, hazy brown through the thick cloud of dust kicked up by the army. Grit was everywhere, in John’s nose, his eyes, his mouth. He unstopped his waterskin and held it to his lips, but it was empty. ‘’Sblood,’ he spat. Even his spit was brown.

‘Keep moving, Saxon!’ Reynald called as he rode past. ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ John muttered under his breath as he shouldered his rucksack. Bone-tired, he walked on with his head down, eyes on the parched, rocky ground before him. He was so intent on putting one foot in front of the other that he did not immediately notice when the slope began to level off. When he finally looked up, he saw that he stood atop the crest of a long rise, with Damascus, the garden of Syria, spread out on the valley floor below. A dark brown wall enclosed a warren of narrow streets that cut between square houses of creamy white and light brown. In the centre of the city, rising above it all, was the dome of a giant mosque. Beyond the walls, a verdant expanse of gardens and orchards — ancient Roman aqueducts rising high above the thick trees — spread west from the city towards the ridge where John stood. The brilliant green of the gardens was a sharp contrast to the cracked, dry landscape that the crusaders had marched across and which resumed on the far side of the city. A thin stream flowed through those parched lands, entering the city and flowing out again just to the south of the gardens. John licked his parched lips. He could almost taste the cool water.

He marched with renewed vigour as he descended to where the army was drawing up ranks on the plain before the orchard. There he found a dozen men from his company of fifty sitting on their helmets before one of the narrow paths leading into the orchards. They were all covered in dust. Some sat with their heads between their legs. Others stared vacantly ahead. John flung down his pack and sat beside Rabbit. The young man held out his waterskin.

‘I saved some,’ he said.

John took the skin and shook it, feeling the water slosh inside. He took a sip, just enough to rinse the dust from his mouth. ‘By God, that’s good,’ he said, handing the skin back.

Shortly after the last of the men had joined them, Reynald rode up. The men rose, groaning and cursing at the pain in their feet and backs. ‘Well done, men!’ Reynald shouted. ‘Damascus is almost within our grasp. The kings have decided to push through the orchards to the walls. We are to march through on this path, clearing out any enemy that we find, and reconvene at the river on the far side. Stop for nothing. Any man who breaks ranks to collect spoils will be flogged on orders of King Louis himself. Is that understood?’ Reynald glared at the men. ‘Ernaut, you will take the lead. I will follow with the rest of the men.’ Reynald spurred his horse towards the rear of the troop.

‘All right, you heard him!’ Ernaut shouted from horseback. ‘Let’s get going. The sooner we reach that river, the better.’

The company formed into a column, and John and Rabbit found themselves at the front, just behind One Eye and the old crusader Tybaut. They marched down a narrow path that ran between shoulder-high mud walls. The branches of tall walnut trees heavy with nuts hung out over the walls and met overhead, casting dark, ever-shifting shadows on the trail. The air was thick with dust from marching feet, mingled with the smell of ripening fruit. Walnuts crunched underfoot, adding their rich aroma.

Looking beyond the walls and the thick trunks of the walnut trees, John could see plots of green vegetables, rows of vines heavy with ripening grapes, tall palms crowded with coconuts and closely planted trees weighed down with apples and cherries, as well as a variety of exotic fruits: bright yellow and green ones; oblong fruits that ranged from dark red to fiery orange; and dark-brown pods that dangled like earrings.

‘It’s like Eden,’ John said.

‘And you can be sure there’s a snake somewhere in here,’ Tybaut grumbled. ‘Just waiting to strike.’

At that moment a long howl of pain came from somewhere off to their left. They all froze, and John dropped his hand to his sword hilt. More cries of agony pierced the silence, joined now by loud shouting.

‘What’s that?’ Rabbit asked, his nose twitching.

‘Pick up the pace!’ Ernaut ordered from where he rode just behind John.

Tybaut and One Eye moved ahead at a jog, and John hurried to keep up. He could hear shouting all around him now, growing fainter as the walls on either side rose high above them. The path turned sharply to the right, and as they rounded the corner they stopped short before a five-foot-high barricade of logs, laid across the trail.

‘Christ, what’s next!’ Ernaut complained. ‘Let’s get this moved!’

Tybaut and One Eye put their shoulders against one of the logs, and John stepped forward to join them. They strained, but the heavy log did not budge.

‘By God, it’s heavy,’ One Eye cursed.

‘We could go over the top,’ John suggested, ‘and pull the logs down from the other side while you push from this side.’

‘Do it!’ Ernaut ordered.

John managed to pull himself up to the top of the barrier and dropped over to the far side, followed by Rabbit, Tybaut and One Eye. They immediately went to the barricade and grabbed hold of one of the logs. ‘On three!’ John shouted. ‘ One, two, three!’ The log shifted, then rolled free. John and the others jumped back as it fell with a loud thud.

‘Only a dozen more to go,’ Tybaut grumbled.

John grabbed hold of the next log. One Eye, however, was in no hurry. He had wandered over to the side of the trail, where the branches of a fruit tree hung over a mud wall. He plucked one of the oblong, fiery-orange fruits and sniffed at it.

‘Get back to work, One Eye,’ John growled.

‘Cool it, bath-boy,’ One Eye replied, leaning back against the wall. ‘It’s cursed hot, and I’m hungry.’ He took a bite of the fruit. It was golden and pulpy inside. One Eye closed his eye as juice dripped from his beard. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he sighed. ‘It’s delicious.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth when the iron point of a spear burst from his chest. He dropped the fruit and stared down at the bloody spear tip. A second later the spear was withdrawn, and One Eye collapsed, dead. There was no sign of any attacker.

‘Christ! What was that?’ Rabbit shouted.

A scream came from the far side of the barricade, then another and another. ‘It’s an ambush!’ John cried out, drawing his sword and crouching behind his shield, his back to the barrier. He pulled Rabbit down beside him.

‘Where are they?’ Tybaut demanded. Sword in hand, he went and knelt beside One Eye. He touched the wound in One Eye’s back, and then looked up to the wall. John followed his gaze and noticed that there were dozens of round holes, each just wide enough for a spear to fit through. ‘The wall!’ Tybaut whispered. A spear shot through one of the holes, catching him in the shoulder. He cried out in pain and scrambled backwards. Another spear shot out from the opposite wall, catching him in the back and dropping him.

‘We’re going to die,’ Rabbit whimpered. ‘We’re going to die!’

‘Your shield!’ John snapped, and Rabbit raised his shield just in time to deflect yet another spear. ‘We’re not going to die, follow me.’

John climbed up to the top of the barricade and pulled Rabbit up after him. The ground on the far side was littered with dead and wounded men. Ernaut’s horse had been killed beneath him, and he lay pinned beneath it, screaming for help. Four knights were hurrying forward from further down the column. An arrow struck one, dropping him, and the others hugged the walls, only to be cut down by the spears. As John watched, an arrow sank into the barricade just in front of him. He looked past the wall to a tall building set amongst the fruit trees. There, in the windows of the upper floor, stood four archers. One took aim at John, and an arrow whizzed past his ear.

‘Come on!’ John shouted as he grabbed Rabbit’s arm. They scrambled to the wall, which rose four feet above the barricade. John pulled himself up and dropped over the other side. He landed on top of a Saracen, knocking the man unconscious and sending them both sprawling. John sprang to his feet to find himself facing three more men. The closest stabbed at John with a spear. John blocked the blow with his shield and thrust with his sword, impaling the man through the chest. Another man attacked, and John was forced to jump aside, leaving his sword with the dead Saracen. He backed away, his shield raised, as the two remaining Saracens advanced, their spears pointed at him. One of them screamed ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ and had started to charge when Rabbit landed on him from above, knocking him flat. John rushed the other Saracen, taking advantage of the surprise. He slammed his shield into the man’s face, dropping him. He turned to see that Rabbit had slit the other man’s throat. The boy was white-faced and shaking.

John clapped him on the back. ‘Well done. You saved my hide.’

‘Th-that’s the first man I ever killed.’

‘You did well,’ John replied as he wrenched his sword free from the chest of the dead Saracen. ‘We have to deal with those archers.’ He pointed towards the tall building before them. ‘Are you up for it?’ Rabbit nodded. ‘Let’s go, then.’

John kicked the door of the house open and rushed inside. The bottom floor was empty. He and Rabbit hurried up the stairs on the far wall. The door at the top was locked. John raised his shield, then kicked the door hard. As it swung open, a volley of arrows thumped into his shield. John threw it aside and charged. Four archers stood along the far wall, each frantically trying to nock another arrow to his bow. John slashed across the face of the one furthest to the right, dropping him before his arrow was free of the quiver. The next in line had managed to nock an arrow, but John sliced the man’s bow in two before he could shoot, then finished him with a thrust to the chest. He turned to see a third archer kneeling and holding up his bow in a vain attempt to block Rabbit’s sword. Rabbit’s blade sliced through the bow and cleaved the Saracen’s head in two, spilling blood and pink brains on wooden floor. Rabbit turned away and vomited.

The final Saracen, a beardless man no older than John, raised his bow and shot. But the man’s hands were shaking, and the arrow flew wide, embedding itself in the wall. The Saracen threw down his bow and drew a knife. As John approached, sword held high, a puddle of urine formed at the feet of the wide-eyed Saracen. ‘Drop it!’ John ordered, and the archer threw down his weapon.

‘No hurt! No hurt!’ he babbled in broken Frankish. ‘I prisoner!’

‘There you are, Saxon,’ Ernaut said as he limped into the room, sword in hand. Four arrow shafts protruded from his chest; they had penetrated his breastplate but not made it past the thick leather vest beneath. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’ve taken a prisoner.’

Ernaut shoved John out of the way and impaled the archer through the chest. He turned back to John. ‘We don’t have time for prisoners.’

‘He could have told us about other ambushes,’ John protested.

Ernaut frowned. ‘You’re a smart bugger, aren’t you,’ he said as he snapped off the shafts of the arrows protruding from his chest. He pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘God, I could use a drink. We found a path that leads around the barricade. Let’s get to that damned river.’ He turned to leave, but then stopped in the doorway. ‘You two chop off those sons-of-whores heads and bring them with us on spears. Maybe that will make the bastards think twice before they attack us.’

‘’Sblood,’ John cursed as he turned to his gruesome task.

Yusuf and Turan stood on the wall above the al-Jabiya gate and watched as Muslim troops poured out of the orchard and splashed across the river, heading for the open gate. Behind the troops, a procession of disembodied heads approached through the orchard, bobbing high above the trees. A moment later, the first Frankish knights stepped out of the orchard, carrying spears with the heads of Muslim soldiers impaled atop them.

‘They are savages,’ Yusuf whispered.

‘They will pay for this indignity,’ Turan spat.

‘Inshallah.’ On the far side of the river more Christians were emerging from the orchards. Most went straight to the waters to drink. A few shouted up at the wall and made crude gestures. Below Yusuf, the gate slammed shut behind the last of the Muslim warriors. Yusuf looked beyond the orchard to the horizon, where the sun was just setting. The battle for the orchards had taken the best part of a day. He looked away from the blood-red sun to see his father approaching along the wall.

‘The Franks have taken the orchard, Father!’ Turan shouted to him.

Ayub nodded. ‘Unur will have no choice now but to ally with Nur ad-Din. He has invited us to dine at the palace. Come, we are expected.’

‘Should we change into finer clothes?’ Yusuf asked. He and Turan both wore plain white cotton caftans.

‘No. Unur prefers simplicity.’ Yusuf followed his father through the city to the emir’s palace, a jumble of domed buildings and simpler wooden structures that sat behind a tall wall and deep moat. A dozen mamluks guarded the bridge across the moat. Their commander nodded respectfully as Ayub approached. ‘You are expected,’ the mamluk said, and the soldiers parted to let them pass.

They entered the palace entrance hall and found themselves before a pair of tall bronze doors guarded by two muscular Nubians. ‘Remember,’ Ayub said to his sons, ‘you are here as guests. Do as I do. Do not speak unless the emir speaks to you first. And if you must speak, keep your answers short. Everything you do and say will reflect upon our family. We can ill afford the emir’s disfavour.’ Ayub nodded to one of the Nubians, who knocked on the door three times and then pushed it open.

‘Najm ad-Din Ayub,’ the Nubian declared.

Yusuf followed his father and brother into a large, circular room, brilliantly lit by candelabras mounted on the marble-clad walls that rose to a vaulted dome high above. The dome’s interior was covered in ornate script in gold-leaf, with Emir Unur’s seal at the centre. Generals and ministers of the emir sat on cushions that had been placed in a circle around the edge of the room. They were already eating, selecting their food from dozens of platters placed on low stands. Emir Unur sat directly across from the door, on a dais that raised him two feet above the others. He wore robes of white silk embroidered with an interlocking pattern of red roses and green thorns. Unur was fit and olive-skinned, with a clean-shaven chin and scalp and crinkles around the corners of his bright, hazel eyes. He smiled broadly when he saw his guests. ‘Welcome, Ayub,’ he said in a pleasant baritone. ‘These, I take it, are your sons?’

‘Turan and Yusuf,’ Ayub affirmed. The two boys approached and bowed low.

‘Fine young men,’ Unur approved. ‘Sit here, beside me. Eat. Now that you have arrived, we shall have entertainment. Afterwards, we shall talk.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Bring the girls!’

Yusuf and Turan were directed to cushions just to the left of the emir’s dais. Their father took his place on the emir’s right. No sooner had they sat down than four young women entered wearing veils and loose, diaphanous silk robes that shifted as they walked, revealing glimpses of firm breasts and long, golden-brown legs. A drummer had entered behind them, and at the first sound of his drum the girls began to dance, circling slowly to the beat. Their arms and feet traced intricate patterns while their waists and hips swayed slowly side to side. One of the girls paused for a moment before Yusuf, fixing him with dark eyes ringed with kohl. Yusuf blushed and looked away towards his father.

Ayub had begun to eat, scooping up stew with a piece of flatbread. Yusuf followed his example, tearing off a piece of the warm bread and using it to scoop up a delicious mouthful of chickpeas, onions and roast lamb. He noticed that Turan had not touched his food. His eyes were fixed on the dancers. Yusuf looked back to the girls, who were each bending forward now, allowing the men to see the curves of their breasts. He shrugged and scooped up more of the lamb. He could not understand his brother’s fascination.

The drum began to beat faster, and the dancers moved in time, spinning and leaping. Suddenly they stopped circling and fell to their knees. They shook their chests, then leaned backwards so that the back of their heads touched the floor. Turan was transfixed, his mouth hanging open. Yusuf looked over and saw that his father, too, had stopped eating to watch. The dancers lifted their hips off the floor slowly, then faster and faster, moving to the ever more rapid beat. They rolled over, pushed themselves to their feet and began circling again. They were now a blur of seductive curves and firm limbs. Then, with a final crescendo, the drum fell silent and the dancers fell to the floor, kneeling motionless with their foreheads touching the ground. Only their heaving sides betrayed the recent exertions.

Emir Unur rose from his dais and stepped down amongst the dancers. He walked slowly around the edge of the circle, then touched the shoulder of the dancer opposite the dais. She rose and left the room, head held high.

‘Lucky bastard,’ Turan murmured, just loudly enough for Yusuf to hear him.

Unur returned to his seat and clapped his hands. The other women left, followed by the drummer. The doors slammed shut behind them. ‘Lovely, are they not?’ Unur said with a wink towards Yusuf and Turan. ‘Even in trying times like these, we should not ignore life’s simple pleasures. Who knows when they will be taken from us?’ He turned towards Ayub. ‘I trust you saw the Franks arrive?’

‘I did. My sons and I stood on the walls for much of the day.’

‘And how do you rate our chances, wise Ayub?’

‘The Franks are many, and now that they have taken the orchards, the city will run short of food. Forgive my impertinence, Emir, but I do not believe you will be able to hold the walls for long. You need Nur ad-Din’s help.’

Unur frowned. ‘I fear that if I call on your lord to drive off the Franks, then I will only replace one master with another.’

‘Perhaps, but a Muslim master, one who will leave you your throne and not pillage your city. All you have to do is acknowledge his lordship and promise to send troops when he calls for them. Is that so much?’

‘ Hmph,’ Unur grunted. He looked around the circle at his generals. ‘Are you in agreement with Ayub?’ One by one, the generals nodded. Unur sighed. ‘So be it. Write to your master, Ayub, and tell him to send his army. But warn him that he must hurry if he wishes to win me as his vassal, for I plan to do better than merely hold the city until he arrives.’ He turned to face Turan. ‘Tell me, young Turan. What would you do in order to drive the Franks away from our city?’

‘I would strike now, before they dig in,’ Turan replied. ‘I would send men out from the eastern gate to circle behind the Franks.’ Turan used his right hand to show the movement of the soldiers. ‘And then I would attack from both sides.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘The Franks will be crushed!’

‘A bold manoeuvre,’ Unur mused. Turan grinned. ‘Although one which would leave us with too few men to defend the walls, and which would split our army in order to attack a defensive position. If the Franks learned of our men leaving by the east gate, then they would attack and the city might well be lost.’ Turan blushed. Unur turned his penetrating gaze upon Yusuf. ‘What of you, young man? What would you do?’

Yusuf took a deep breath. ‘So long as the Franks hold the orchards, we are weak. They have food and water enough to last for months, while our supplies will grow smaller every day. We must drive them from the orchards at any cost.’

‘Agreed, but how? As I told your brother, we cannot send enough men to drive them out without leaving our walls vulnerable.’

Yusuf’s forehead creased as he considered the problem. ‘Perhaps there is another way.’

‘Indeed?’

Yusuf lowered his eyes. ‘But there is no honour in it. It is best forgotten.’

‘Speak, young Yusuf,’ Unur insisted. ‘I wish to hear this idea of yours.’

Yusuf looked past Unur to his father, who nodded. ‘If the Franks cannot be driven out, then perhaps they can be lured,’ Yusuf suggested. ‘Aleppo is a better military target than Damascus. The Franks must have come here because they seek riches. If gold is what they have come for, then give it to them. Pay them to leave the orchards.’

‘That is a coward’s answer,’ Turan muttered. Several of the men in the room nodded their agreement.

‘Forgive me.’ Yusuf hung his head. ‘I should not have spoken.’

‘No, it was a wise answer,’ Unur said. He turned towards Yusuf’s father. ‘You have raised clever sons, Ayub. They do you great honour.’ Ayub inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. ‘Now I must bid you and your sons goodnight so that I may speak with my generals. We have much to discuss.’

The Frankish camp was set up at the edge of the orchard, near the river. John’s troop erected their tents in a clearing and dined on dark brown pods that they shook from the trees. The flesh was chewy but filling, with an earthy taste not unlike the black bread that John had grown up eating. His belly full, he removed his chainmail and crawled into his tent, where he collapsed into an exhausted sleep.

He dreamt of his home in Northumbria, of a crisp autumn day, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. He was walking through a green field of knee-high oats, their stalks rippling in a gentle breeze. He crossed the field towards his family manor, a rectangular building of grey stone, surrounded by a broad moat. His father stood in the doorway, waving to him. But something was wrong. As John approached, his father fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth. Behind him, John’s brother appeared. Loud screams echoed from within the manor.

John awoke with a start, but the screaming did not stop. Cries of agony came from outside his tent, joined now by shouts of alarm. John sat up just as a spear ripped through the side of his tent, plunging into the ground where he had lain only a moment before. He grabbed his sword and rushed outside, wearing only his linen tunic. The camp was overrun with ghostly figures, barely visible in the darkness — Saracens in dark armour, stabbing at the tents with their spears. One of the attackers saw John. With a cry, the Saracen charged, his spear pointed at John’s chest.

John sidestepped the spear, knocking the point aside with his sword, and then stuck out his foot, tripping the Saracen as he charged past. He hacked down, finishing the man, then looked up just in time to twist out of the way of another spear thrust, which ripped through his tunic. John grabbed the shaft and pulled his attacker to him, impaling the Saracen on his sword. As he pulled his blade free, John looked about for another foe, but he saw only other Christians, some in armour, some still in their tunics. The Saracens were fleeing as quickly as they had come, disappearing back into the dark trees.

‘Come on!’ John shouted and charged into the trees, weaving between the closely set trunks. He caught glimpses of the Saracens just ahead, and he could hear his own men crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He had not gone far when he heard an arrow whiz past. Another embedded itself in the tree beside him. John took shelter behind a thick tree trunk as the air filled with the buzz of arrows. Around him, the night echoed with cries of pain and curses in French and German.

The arrows stopped and John continued his pursuit. He left the trees and crashed through a row of grapevines. He peered into the dark shadows ahead, but could see neither friend nor foe in the thick darkness, although he could hear the other Christians around him. Then he caught a flash of movement off to his left and headed that way, entering another stand of trees. As he pushed on, the sounds around him faded.

John squeezed between two trees and found himself at the edge of a clearing where two men stood talking. Instinctively, John stepped back into the shadows. The man facing John was a Saracen in a white turban and chainmail. The other had his back to John. ‘It shall be as you say,’ he was saying. The man turned. It was Reynald.

John caught a flash of steel out of the corner of his eye and ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated. He turned to find himself face to face with Ernaut. ‘Ernaut! It’s me, John!’

Ernaut stepped back and lowered his sword. ‘Sorry, Saxon. I thought you were one of them. It’s damn near impossible to see out here.’

‘Saxon!’ It was Reynald, marching across the clearing towards them. The Saracen was gone. Had John imagined him? Reynald grabbed John’s tunic and pulled him close. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was chasing the Saracens.’

Reynald’s eyes narrowed as he examined John; then he released him. ‘Very well. Since you are here, come with me. I must meet with the other leaders to discuss our response to this attack. Ernaut, you get back to camp and look after the men.’

John fell in behind Reynald. As he walked he looked back to catch a glimpse of Ernaut marching into the darkness, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.

John and Reynald emerged from a dense grove of apple trees into a clearing that was almost entirely filled by a huge tent. From inside, John could hear the heated voices of many men. At the entrance, Reynald paused and leaned close to John. ‘You are brave, Saxon. You will go far with my help. But if you cross me, you will regret it. Do you understand?’ John hesitated. What had he seen, anyway? He nodded, and Reynald clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good man.’

They entered the tent, and Reynald shouldered his way through the crowd to where King Louis stood with the German king Conrad and Baldwin, King of Jerusalem. John stayed at the edge of the crowd.

‘They came in through your section of the camp!’ King Conrad was shouting as he pointed at King Louis.

‘You’re the one who insisted that we camp here,’ Louis retorted. ‘There are hundreds of paths through the orchards. It is impossible to guard every one of them. My men’s blood is on your hands!’

‘How dare you!’ Conrad roared

‘Enough! Enough!’ King Baldwin shouted. ‘This is just what our enemy hopes for. They wish to set us against one another. We must not let them. If you wish to blame someone, then blame me.’ He looked to both kings. Neither spoke. ‘Very well. We must fortify our position immediately. We will build walls to separate the orchards from the city, and we will post guards.’

‘Pardon me, King Baldwin, but is that wise?’ It was Reynald who spoke, and all eyes turned to him. ‘The orchards will be hard to hold, no matter what fortification we build. We will never be safe from these night-time raids so long as we stay here.’

‘What are you proposing?’ Conrad asked.

‘The walls are weaker on the eastern side of the city. I suggest we move our camp there.’

‘After we lost so many lives to take the orchards?’ King Louis asked. ‘And what will our men eat? The land to the east is desert.’

‘We will take supplies from the orchards. We only need enough for a few days. The Saracens do not expect an attack from the east. In less than a week, we will be feasting in the halls of the emir’s palace!’

‘It is too great a risk, Reynald,’ Louis said.

‘No,’ Conrad countered. ‘You should listen to your man. If moving east can bring the siege to an end sooner, then I am for it. I have been too long away from my kingdom already.’

‘What do you say, King Baldwin?’ Louis asked. ‘You know these lands better than any of us.’

‘It is true that the eastern walls are weaker,’ Baldwin began. ‘But moving our camp brings great risk. If we do not conquer the city swiftly, then we will run short of food. And retaking the orchards will be difficult, if not impossible.’ He looked around the tent. ‘If it were left to me, I would stay and fortify our position here, but I am not the only king present. We shall vote. Those in favour of staying?’ Louis shouted his approval and was joined by a handful of men. ‘Those in favour of moving camp to the east?’ A deafening chorus of approval greeted Baldwin’s words. The choice was clear. ‘Tomorrow at dawn,’ Baldwin declared, ‘we break camp.’

On a blazing hot afternoon three days later, John sat in the shade of his tent, his stomach growling as he stared at the unappetizing piece of salted beef he held in his hands. The beef was as tough as leather, and one side was splotched with green. John sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He shook his waterskin and sighed. Only a couple of mouthfuls of water remained to wash down the salty, putrid meat. He was about to toss it aside when his stomach growled loudly. ‘By God, I’m hungry,’ he muttered to himself.

John glanced over his shoulder, beyond the rows of low tents and past the huge pavilion at the centre of camp that served as a church, to the bulky wall of Damascus, shimmering in the summer heat. After three days of bloody fighting, the wall still stood, and already the army was short of food and water. Moving east had taken them further from the river, and whenever men went to fill their waterskins, the Saracens rode out to drive them off. The fruit and vegetables from the orchards that had not been eaten had already spoiled in the sweltering July heat. This loathsome salted beef was all they had left. John rubbed the tough meat between his fingers, trying to remove as much of the mould as possible. Then, he tore off a piece with his teeth and chewed slowly.

‘Get up, Saxon.’ It was Ernaut, approaching in full armour.

‘On your feet, all of you!’ he bellowed to the other men crouched in the tiny squares of shade cast by their tents. ‘We’re leaving.’

‘When?’ John asked.

‘Now. Pack up and form ranks. We’ve been assigned to the rearguard.’

John ducked into his tent and stuffed his possessions into his rucksack. Then he untied and removed the tent’s woollen covering, revealing its skeleton — two poles at either end that crossed at the top to form triangles, and a longer pole that ran between them. He wrapped the poles in the tent fabric, tied up the bundle and stuffed it in his rucksack. He looked around him as he shouldered the bag. What had been a city of tents only minutes before had vanished, reverting to a dusty plain.

The rest of the company was forming up in a long column, five men wide. As John walked over to join them, he wrapped a long strip of white linen around his helmet, to prevent the blazing sun from transforming the metal into an oven. He joined the column near the end, and Rabbit fell in beside him. A moment later, they set off with Ernaut riding at their head.

‘Isn’t the rearguard the most dangerous?’ Rabbit asked, his nose twitching.

‘Don’t worry,’ John replied. ‘Stick close to me and I’ll look after you.’

They were marching past the rest of the army now. First came the foot-soldiers of the kingdom of Jerusalem, thousands of men in chainmail packed close together, their ranks bristling with spears. They surrounded King Baldwin and his four hundred knights, whose impatient chargers snorted and stamped at the hard ground. The ranks of Baldwin’s men gave way to the tall Germans, who had also formed up around their king. Last of all came the French troops around King Louis and his knights. Reynald rode amongst them, and as John passed, their eyes met.

Ernaut marched his troops to the end of the line and took up his place in the centre of them. John found himself on the outside edge of the column, only a few rows from the end of the long line of warriors. Behind him, the thousands of pilgrims were clustered together in a shapeless mass.

‘Listen up, men!’ Ernaut roared to his troops as the column began to move forward. ‘King Louis has issued strict orders. If the enemy attacks, you’re to stay in close formation. I don’t care what those bastard Saracens do. If any man leaves the column, I’ll have his eyes!’

The column headed around the city to the south, the men of Jerusalem leading the way and the pilgrims straggling along in the rear. After only a few minutes of marching, John was already soaked in sweat and choking at the dust stirred up by the men ahead. He rearranged the strip of linen around his helmet so that it covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

The hard ground gave way to sand as it sloped down to the Barada River. John splashed into the water, sighing in relief as it washed over him up to his waist. He filled his waterskin as he waded across, then took a long drink. He lowered the skin at the sound of shouting amongst the pilgrims behind him. Looking back, he saw the southern gates of Damascus swinging open. Hundreds of Saracens on horseback poured out, galloping towards the pilgrims. In a panic the pilgrims rushed forward, eager to cross the river before the horsemen reached them.

‘Keep moving, damn it!’ Ernaut shouted. ‘Tighten the ranks! Shields up!’

John stepped closer to the man in front of him and raised his shield so that it overlapped that of the men before and after him, forming a moving wall. Behind him, he heard screams of pain as the Saracen’s first arrows hit home amongst the pilgrims. A few of the faster pilgrims were sprinting past the column now. A scattering of arrows followed them. Most shattered against the hard ground or skittered off the shields of the men in the column, but a few found their mark. John saw one arrow fly straight through a pilgrim’s chest. The man kept running for a few steps, then keeled over, dead.

John glanced over his shoulder and saw that most of the pilgrims had been trapped on the far side of the river. The Saracen horsemen had swooped down and encircled them, cutting the pilgrims off from the river and the rest of the column. They were huddled in a mass as the Saracens circled them, firing arrows into the crowd. The pilgrims with bows fired back, but with no armour and few weapons, they had no chance of holding off their well-armed attackers. Already dozens lay dead, their bodies riddled with arrows like pincushions. When the Saracens tired of their bows and closed with swords, the carnage would truly begin.

John raised his voice to address the men around him. ‘We’ve got to go back and help the pilgrims! They’ll be slaughtered!’

‘Shut your trap, Saxon!’ Ernaut shouted back. ‘Keep to your places men! If we break ranks, the Saracens will carve us up.’

‘But we can’t just let them die,’ John pressed.

‘Better them than us!’

‘’Sblood,’ John growled to himself. ‘This isn’t right.’ He had come to the Holy Land seeking redemption. What better way to achieve salvation than to die fighting to save others? He dropped his rucksack, then stepped from the line and sprinted towards the river and the pilgrims beyond.

‘Saxon, I’ll have your hide for this!’ he could hear Ernaut roaring. But John did not stop. Then he heard another voice, closer behind him.

‘John! Wait!’ John stopped, and Rabbit came up alongside him.

‘What are you doing?’ John demanded. ‘Get back to the line!’

‘You told me to stick with you.’

‘So I did.’ John drew his sword as he turned back to face the river. A few pilgrims had now reached it, and the Saracens were riding amongst them, chopping men down and staining the waters crimson. ‘Come on, then,’ John called. ‘Let’s save as many of them as we can! For Christ!’ he roared as he raised his sword and charged.

Yusuf stood on the wall beside Turan and watched wide-eyed as Unur’s men butchered the Christian pilgrims. He and Turan were squeezed in amongst a crowd of spectators: bearded men in their white caftans and turbans; women in robes and veils. All of Damascus seemed to have turned out to watch the slaughter. They cheered each time a Christian fell. A tall, drunk man beside Yusuf yelled a non-stop stream of invectives at the fleeing Christians. ‘Go back to your whore-mothers, you sons of donkeys! Goat-fuckers! Male whores! Bastard scum!’

A piercing wail of agony penetrated the roar of the crowd and the insults of the drunken man. Yusuf spotted the man — a pilgrim on his knees, an arrow protruding from his gut. As Yusuf watched, a horseman rode in close and fired an arrow directly into the wailing pilgrim’s mouth. The man’s cry ended abruptly as the arrow burst through the back of his head. The crowd roared their approval. Yusuf turned away, sick to his stomach.

He glanced at Turan, who was watching the action intently, his eyes shining and his head nodding at each Christian death. Suddenly, Turan extended his arm, pointing towards the river. ‘There’s Father!’ Yusuf looked and saw Ayub in his distinctive, silvery chainmail. He sat straight-backed in the saddle, sword in hand as he galloped down the sandy bank towards the river. Several of the pilgrims had managed to reach the water, and a pair of Christian knights had left the column to help them. The knights stood in the river as the pilgrims scrambled for safety up the bank behind them.

Yusuf watched as his father’s horse splashed into the river and headed for the larger of the two knights. To Yusuf’s surprise, the knight charged straight for Ayub, wading through the waistdeep water with his sword held high. Ayub prepared to deliver his blow, but at the last second the knight seemed to trip and disappeared beneath the water. Ayub reined in his horse, looking for his foe. A moment later, the knight burst from the water beside Ayub’s horse. He grabbed hold of Ayub and pulled him from the saddle. As Ayub disappeared beneath the water, the Christian knight pulled himself into the saddle. He slapped the flank of the horse with the flat of his sword and rode downstream to confront another Muslim warrior. The waters behind him stilled. There was no sign of Ayub.

‘Where is he?’ Yusuf whispered. He grabbed Turan’s arm and shouted, ‘Where’s Father?’

‘We’ve got to help him,’ Turan said.

Yusuf shook his head. ‘Father told us to stay here.’

‘Stay, then. You’d be of no use anyway.’ Turan turned away and ran for the ramp that led down from the wall.

‘No, wait!’ Yusuf shouted as he hurried after his brother. The two sprinted down from the wall and flew through the streets, back to their house. They burst inside to find the building deserted. The warriors had all left to fight with Ayub, and the servants had gone to the walls to watch.

Yusuf banged open the door to his chamber. The suit of chainmail that his father had given him hung from a hook on the far wall, next to Yusuf’s sword and helmet. He pulled on the heavy armour and conical helmet, then buckled his sword around his waist. He stumbled towards the stables, clumsy in the ill-fitting chainmail.

Yusuf entered the stables to find Turan saddling a horse. He looked at Yusuf and frowned. ‘You should stay here. You’ll get yourself killed.’

‘I will help to save Father,’ Yusuf replied as he grabbed his own saddle and heaved it on to another horse. ‘And if I cannot, then I will avenge his death.’ Turan smirked, but said nothing as he led his horse to the stable door and pulled it open. Yusuf pulled tight the girth that held his horse’s saddle in place, and then followed his brother out into the street, where Turan swung himself easily into the saddle and galloped away, the hooves of his horse kicking up dust.

Yusuf closed the stable door and then struggled to haul himself up into the saddle. Gritting his teeth with a final effort, he pulled himself up and spurred after Turan. The jolting of his horse kept knocking Yusuf’s helmet down so that it covered his eyes, and it was all that he could do to catch up with his brother. The two of them raced down the main street and past the towering mosque. They thundered across a wooden bridge that spanned the Barada River where it flowed through the centre of Damascus, and headed for the southern gate. Ahead, Yusuf could see hundreds of people crowded atop the wall. As he and Yusuf neared, several men turned and cheered. Then the gate flashed by, and they were beyond the wall.

Yusuf’s horse stopped and reared, shying at the strong scent of blood on the air. His helmet fell over his eyes and he felt himself falling backwards. He reached out blindly and managed to grab hold of his horse’s mane, keeping himself in the saddle. He hung on desperately until his horse settled. When he pushed his helmet back from his eyes he saw utter chaos. Unur’s warriors had shouldered their bows and closed with swords, and the pilgrims had scattered in all directions. Two Christians in brown robes sprinted by Yusuf’s horse, not ten feet away. A horseman galloped after them, slashing left and right as he brought down first one, then the other.

‘The river!’ Turan yelled, pointing to their right. He spurred forward, and Yusuf followed. They galloped down the sandy bank and splashed into the cold water.

‘Father!’ Yusuf cried as he peered into the clear waters around him. ‘Father!’ Dead bodies, weighed down by armour, littered the river bed, but there was no sign of Ayub. Shouting in Frankish drew Yusuf’s eyes from the water. Just downstream, eight Christian pilgrims were wading across the river, led by two knights, one on foot and the other on horseback. As Yusuf watched, the one on horseback shouted something, then turned and rode back to gather more pilgrims.

‘Bastards!’ Turan shouted. ‘You will pay for the death of my father!’ He drew his curved sword and spurred towards the Christians, who drew together in a compact mass, bristling with spears and pitchforks. Turan charged into them, batting aside spears with his shield and bowling men over with his horse. He lashed out to his right and a Christian stumbled away, his face a mask of blood. The other pilgrims closed around Turan, stabbing at him from all sides. He fought furiously, turning his horse in a circle and knocking spears away with his shield while hacking with his sword. A spear sneaked through his defences and gashed his side. Turan roared in pain but kept fighting.

‘Turan, I’m coming!’ Yusuf yelled. He cast his bulky helmet aside and drew his sword. He kicked his horse’s flanks, charging through the river towards the mass of pilgrims. Two of the Christians — the young knight in chainmail and a wiry, greybearded man dressed in tattered linens — turned to face Yusuf. The knight held a sword, its blade flashing in the sunlight, while the old man wielded a pitchfork. As Yusuf neared, the old man smiled madly, revealing rotting, crooked teeth.

At the last second Yusuf veered towards the knight, knocking him aside with his horse. The old man stabbed at Yusuf’s chest with his pitchfork, and Yusuf instinctively pulled on the reins, backing his horse so that the thrust missed him. He grabbed the shaft of the pitchfork and pulled, bringing the old man close. Then Yusuf hacked down, cleaving the old pilgrim’s head and spilling blood and brains into the river. Yusuf’s stomach turned. The man stayed standing for a moment, a lunatic’s smile still on his lips despite the sword lodged in his skull. Yusuf was still trying to withdraw his sword when the man fell, his weight yanking the sword from his grasp.

Defenceless, Yusuf looked up to see a lanky pilgrim, spear in hand, wading towards him. The pilgrim stabbed at Yusuf, who jerked back on the reins. His horse reared, and the spear plunged into its chest. One of the horse’s hooves clipped the pilgrim in the head, knocking him unconscious. Then, whinnying in pain and fright, the horse fell. Yusuf jumped clear and landed on his back with a splash. He sank beneath the water, his armour pulling him down.

Through the wavering waters, Yusuf could see the bright sun fixed in the cloudless sky high above him. He struggled to rise towards the air, but then collapsed back on the hard rocks of the river bed, weighed down by his chainmail. He began to panic as he grew short of air. Again he tried to sit up, but sank back down. His lungs ached now, and his hands strained towards the light, searching to grab hold of something. Yusuf closed his eyes, forcing himself to be calm. This was no different from one of his fits. If he did not panic, then he would survive. He managed to roll over on his stomach and pushed himself up on his knees. Then, with a last effort, he straightened, gasping for breath as he broke the surface. He knelt in the river, the water touching his chin as he struggled to recover his breath. Then he felt a shadow cross over him and looked up. Standing before him was a Christian knight, his sword raised high. The knight was beardless and thin — little older than Yusuf himself — and his nose was twitching violently. Yusuf looked past the boy’s face to his sword, glinting in the sunlight. He closed his eyes as the sword began its fatal descent.

Nothing happened. Yusuf opened his eyes to see the young knight still standing before him. Only now the boy was staring wide-eyed at his own chest, and Yusuf followed his gaze to see a sword blade protruding from the young knight’s armour. The sword disappeared, and the boy toppled to the side. In his place stood Turan.

Yusuf took the hand that Turan offered him, and his older brother pulled him to his feet. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ Yusuf said. ‘I owe you my life.’

‘Don’t forget it,’ Turan said and stepped aside. Past him, Yusuf saw a Muslim warrior in silvery chainmail, facing off against the last of the pilgrims. The warrior sidestepped a spear thrust and hacked down, finishing off the pilgrim. Then the warrior turned, and Yusuf’s eyes widened in disbelief.

‘Father! You’re alive!’

Ayub did not reply. His face was set in a grim mask as he waded over to Yusuf and slapped him hard across the face. Ayub bent down and grabbed Yusuf by the arms, pulling him close so that their faces were only inches apart. ‘By Allah, I told you to stay at the walls!’ he growled. ‘Were it not for your brother, you would be dead. Dead!’ Tears welled in Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Look at you, crying like a woman,’ Ayub said with disgust as he released Yusuf. ‘At least your brother has the makings of a warrior. You are worthless.’ Ayub turned and stormed out of the river and up the bank towards Damascus. Yusuf followed, his head hung in shame.

‘Stay together!’ John roared at the pilgrims massed behind him. He had managed to rally over three-dozen men and had arranged them in a column four wide, spears bristling on all sides. John rode at their head, leading them at a quick march towards the river. Many of the pilgrims had picked up shields from fallen Saracens, and they held the circular leather bucklers close together, forming a patchwork wall around the outside of the column. But the small shields offered only limited protection from the arrows of the Saracens, who circled the column on horseback, shooting into the mass of men. As John watched, one of the men just behind him went down with an arrow in his leg. Two pilgrims immediately picked him up and carried him to the inside of the column, while another man stepped out to take his place. A second later, that man fell dead, an arrow in his throat. At this rate, John reflected, he would be lucky to reach the main column with a dozen men. ‘Pick up the pace!’ he shouted back. ‘And keep together!’

John turned forward. Ahead, the terrain sloped down to the blood-stained waters of the river. A hundred yards downstream, he saw the group of pilgrims that he had sent off with Rabbit, hoping to get the young warrior safely off the battlefield. John frowned. At least half of the pilgrims were dead, their motionless bodies floating away on the current. Two Saracen warriors were finishing off the last of the pilgrims. Just upstream from them, Rabbit stood with his sword held high, preparing to strike a third Muslim. John watched in horror as one of the Saracen warriors approached him from behind.

‘Rabbit, look out!’ he shouted, but it was too late. The Saracen impaled Rabbit from behind. He withdrew his sword, and Rabbit slumped into the river. ‘ No!’ John roared. His knuckles whitened where he gripped his sword, and his face flushed crimson. He turned to the man behind him. ‘Give me your spear!’ The man offered him the weapon, and John sheathed his sword and took it. ‘Keep in order and march fast,’ John told him. ‘If you hurry, you should be able to catch up the column.’

‘Where are you going?’

But John was already riding away, his horse kicking up plumes of sand as it galloped down the slope towards the man who had killed Rabbit. The man was walking up the riverbank towards him, flanked by the two other Saracens. He was only fifty yards off now, close enough that John could make out some of his features. He was thickly built, with dark hair, tanned skin and the first beginnings of a beard on his broad face. John raised the spear, preparing to hurl it, when four Saracen warriors rode between him and his target.

John did not slow his mount as the four warriors turned towards him and fired a volley of arrows. One of the arrows embedded in John’s shield with a thump. Another penetrated his chainmail skirt and stuck deep in his thigh. John gritted his teeth against the pain, rose in the saddle and hurled his spear. It caught the lead rider in the chest, knocking him from his saddle. John drew his sword as he thundered towards the remaining three riders, who had shouldered their bows and now rode with spears in hand. As he flashed past the first man, John swung out and caught him in the throat, killing him instantly. John cried out in pain as the spear of another warrior deflected off his shield and drove into his shoulder. Then, John was past, his shield arm hanging uselessly at his side. He dropped the shield and used his knees to turn his horse to face the remaining two warriors.

‘For Christ!’ John cried out as he raised his sword and spurred towards the men. They charged him, one on his left and the other to his right, their spears pointed at his chest. At the last second John leapt from his horse, dodging the spear of the warrior on the right and slamming into him. They both went flying, and John heard the Saracen’s neck snap as he landed hard on top of him. John rolled off him and rose, standing unsteadily on his injured leg. The final Saracen had wheeled his horse and sat fifty yards off. He spurred his mount towards John.

John raised his sword, then thought better of it. He dropped the sword and stood over the body of the dead Saracen. The final horseman was only thirty yards off now, and John knelt, his head lowered. He could hear the hooves of his enemy’s horse pounding closer and closer. The Saracen was only ten yards away when John grabbed the spear of the dead warrior, rose, and with a loud cry, let it fly. The spear struck the Saracen’s horse in the chest. The beast collapsed, and the warrior went flying, landing in a heap. John picked up his sword and limped over to finish him. He stood over the Saracen’s broken body, then paused at the sound of another set of hooves pounding towards him. He looked up to see a Christian knight with sword in hand, riding straight towards him. It was Ernaut.

‘Well met, Ernaut!’ John called out as Ernaut reined in beside him.

‘You’re a tough bugger, Saxon,’ Ernaut replied. ‘I thought the Saracens would have finished you off by now.’

‘Not yet. Help me up.’ He held his good arm out towards Ernaut.

Ernaut clasped his hand. Then, as he pulled John close, he stabbed down with his sword, impaling John through the side. ‘You have seen too much, Saxon. That will keep your mouth shut,’ Ernaut spat as he withdrew the sword. John slumped to his knees, blood seeping from his side and staining his armour red.

As John watched Ernaut gallop away, the world began to spin around him. He felt himself falling, then everything went black.

‘Your father wishes to see you.’ Yusuf opened his eyes and blinked against the bright morning sunlight. A servant was shaking his arm. ‘Dress quickly.’

Yusuf rose and pulled on a linen caftan and sandals. He hurried to the entrance hall, where he found his father and Turan. When Ayub saw him, he frowned and turned away. ‘Come,’ he told his sons. ‘I have something to show both of you: the spoils of victory and the price of defeat.’

Yusuf followed his father out of their home and to the broad square that lay behind the Umayyad mosque. The square was often the site of a produce market. Now it held a market of a different sort. Everywhere Yusuf looked, he saw Christian captives manacled and standing despondently, heads down, or huddled in wicker cages. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of them. The men of Damascus walked amongst them, poking and prodding, inspecting the goods.

‘It is as the poet writes,’ Ayub told his sons. ‘ You must choose the point of the spears couched at you; or if you will not, chains.’ He fixed Yusuf with an intense stare. ‘Choose always the spears, my son. Better death than this.’ He turned to Turan. ‘Today, you will purchase your first slave. You fought like a man yesterday. You should have your own servant.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘What of me?’ Yusuf asked.

His father whirled on him. ‘Were it not for your brother, you would be in a cage like one of them! When you are a man, like Turan, then you may have a slave.’ Yusuf felt tears welling up and looked away. Ayub grabbed his chin with one of his calloused hands, forcing Yusuf to look at him. ‘No more tears, boy. Only women cry.’

Ayub released Yusuf and turned back to Turan. Yusuf wiped his tears away and followed, trailing behind as Ayub and Turan strolled through the market. ‘That one there is strong enough,’ Ayub said, pointing to a towering Frank with long red hair. ‘But he is too old. He will never forget his home, and you will never be able to trust him.’ He walked on and then pointed out another, a muscular blond boy of perhaps sixteen, who appeared to be sleeping. ‘That one is the right age and he looks strong enough. But look more closely at the way he lays there. He is unconscious, not asleep. He has been injured, probably a wound to the gut. He will not live.’

Yusuf stopped before the low wooden cage where the Frankish boy lay on his side, flies buzzing around him. Yusuf had never seen a Frank this close before. The slaves in his father’s household were mostly black men from Africa, along with a few Turks. The Frankish boy had a thin nose and square chin. His face was pale and covered with sweat, but he shivered as he lay there. The cost of defeat, Yusuf’s father had said. This was it: to die alone, far from one’s home, far from any who might care.

‘You wish to buy the boy?’ Yusuf turned to see a short, thickly bearded man with a heavy coin purse tied to his belt. ‘I’ll make you a good deal.’

‘I was only looking.’

‘You can have him for a song,’ the slave merchant insisted. ‘Two dirhams.’

‘Two dirhams!’ Yusuf exclaimed. ‘Look at him. He won’t live out the week.’

‘He’s hardly injured,’ the slave merchant protested. ‘With care, he’ll live to be older than me.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘Not likely.’

‘I see you know your business, young master,’ the slave merchant said with a wink. ‘Very well, I’ll let you have him for only six fals.’

Yusuf hesitated. Turan would soon have a slave. If Yusuf could show his father that he too knew how to deal with a servant, then perhaps he would realize that Yusuf too was a man. Yusuf examined the boy. Ayub had said he was the proper age, and he looked like he would be strong enough if he survived.

‘I can see you’re interested,’ the slave merchant said.

‘But I have no money.’

The slave merchant gave Yusuf an appraising look. His eyes moved from Yusuf’s linen caftan to his belt, and then settled on Yusuf’s leather sandals. ‘Your sandals. Give them to me and the boy’s yours.’

Yusuf looked down at his feet and hesitated. Did he really want to take responsibility for this dying Frank? What would his father say? He was on the verge of saying no, when the boy sat up. His hand shot out, gripping the bars, and he stared at Yusuf with clear blue eyes. ‘ Bro?or!’ he cried out. ‘ Bro?or!’ Then he fell back again, unconscious.

‘What did he say?’ Yusuf asked.

‘I don’t speak his heathen tongue, whatever it is. It wasn’t Frankish. Not German, either. This is an odd one. Allah knows where he’s from.’

‘I’ll take him,’ Yusuf said. ‘Provided that you deliver him to my home.’

‘And where might that be?’

‘The house of Najm ad-Din.’

The slave merchant’s eyes widened, and he gave a small bow. ‘I knew you were no common man. You have a deal, young master.’ Yusuf reached down and slipped off his sandals, which he handed to the merchant.

‘Yusuf!’ It was Ayub, calling from up the street. ‘Come here! See the slave your brother has bought.’

Yusuf hurried over barefoot, a smile upon his face.