Holy War

Chapter 9

January 1187: Damascus

‘Your son Az-Zahir writes from Aleppo to say that the Seljuks are gathering in the north, Malik.’

Yusuf turned away from the window of his private study. His secretary sat cross-legged before him, a writing desk balanced on his lap. ‘What else, Imad ad-Din?’

‘The caliph An-Nasir has sent an envoy to congratulate you on your overlordship of Mosul and to encourage you to make war on the Franks.’

‘Hah. You mean to encourage me to send the gifts he feels are his due.’

‘As you say, Malik. Your brother writes from Egypt. The Almohads are moving in the west. They threaten to retake Tripoli.’

‘If it falls, it falls. Tell my brother that peace with the Almohad caliph is more important than Tripoli.’

‘And the rest, Malik? The Seljuk army numbers in the thousands. Perhaps it would be best to delay your pilgrimage to Mecca until your borders are secure?’

‘No. I have delayed long enough.’ The hajj was a duty that every Muslim was expected to fulfil at least once in life. There would be no better time than now. The truce with the Franks still had two years to run. After that, he would go to war. Yusuf wanted Allah’s blessing first. He already wore the clothes of a pilgrim — sandals and the ihram, a sort of toga comprising two white sheets held at the middle with a sash. The ihram was meant to demonstrate that all pilgrims were equal before Allah. It was also a reminder to focus on pure thoughts. Yusuf should not be conducting affairs of state in it, but he had no choice. He was a king. He could not shed his responsibilities as easily as his royal robes.

‘Write to Az-Zahir,’ he told Imad ad-Din. ‘Tell him that if the Seljuks march against us, he is to wait for reinforcements before attacking. Al-Mashtub will lead the army of Damascus north to add to his strength. As for the Caliph’s envoy, my son Al-Afdal will meet with them. See that he sends the envoy on his way with the appropriate gifts. Fifty horses and a hundred silk robes should be sufficient.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘Anything else?’ Yusuf asked, and the secretary shook his head. ‘Then go.’

Yusuf returned to the window. It was a clear winter evening and he could see to the walls and the plain beyond, where hundreds of cooking fires winked in the twilight. Men and women from as far as Homs and Edessa had come to join the royal caravan. Tomorrow, Yusuf would lead them south on the pilgrim road. It was paved near Damascus, but for the rest of the journey it was nothing more than a track in the desert, formed by the passage of countless feet over countless years. Forts along the route, many dating to Roman times, would provide shelter and water. They would pass through Mafraq, Zarqa, Jiza and Qal’at al-Hasa. They would ride within twenty miles of the crusader castles of Kerak and Shawbak before reaching Ayla. Even accounting for the winter rains, which each year turned the floor of the great Wadi Al-Hasa south of Kerak into a sea of mud, the journey would take no more than two weeks. From Ayla, Yusuf and his private guard would take a ship for the week-long journey down the Red Sea to the port of Jeddah. From there, it was a two-day ride to the Holy City. He would arrive a week before the start of the festivals associated with the hajj. Yusuf was taking the sea route to save time. He had already sent much of his household — including his sister Zimat and her two eldest daughters — ahead with a caravan led by Al-Muqaddam. They would take the safer land route, heading south from Ma’an instead of going on to Ayla.

‘Habibi.’ Shamsa stood in the doorway of his study. Her caftan of tight-fitting red silk showed off a form that was still slim and athletic, despite giving him two sons and three daughters. And her dark eyes still held that mixture of challenge and invitation that had first drawn him to her. She came to his side and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I shall miss you, my love.’

‘I shall return before the barley is ripe in the fields.’

‘You make too much haste. The Red Sea is dangerous. Imad ad-Din speaks of pirates, of hidden reefs that tear the bottoms from ships.’

‘If you would see me sooner, then you should be glad of the route I have chosen. Travelling by sea will save me two weeks.’

She wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘You could stay.’

‘I will only be gone for two months.’ Two months free of the daily burdens of rule. On the road to Mecca, he would be just one more pilgrim. He could feel the tension in his gut easing at the thought. He kissed Shamsa’s forehead. ‘I have been gone much longer on campaign. Why are you now so reluctant to see me go?’

‘Perhaps because you go to war only reluctantly,’ she pouted. ‘You could at least pretend you will miss me.’

‘You could come with me, Shamsa.’

Her nose wrinkled. ‘I have been on the hajj, with my father just after I became a woman. I will never forget the crowds — thousands of sweating men packed together in the scorching desert heat. More people than stars in the sky, it seemed to me. During the stoning of the devil, a man missed one of the columns and his rock struck me in the face. I had a black eye for weeks.’

Ramy al-Jamarat, the stoning of the devil, commemorated the trials suffered by Abraham on the way to sacrificing his son Isaac. The story went that when Abraham was leaving the city of Mina, only a few miles east of Mecca, he came to a rocky defile where the devil appeared to him beside a column of rock. Abraham threw seven stones to drive him away. The devil appeared again beside another heap of stones, and then again. Each time, Abraham drove him away with seven stones. The stoning was re-enacted on the third day of the hajj, and then again in the following days. It was one of the most dangerous parts of the hajj, both because of the crushing crowds and the flying rocks.

Yusuf gently brushed Shamsa’s cheek. ‘No one would dare to cast a stone at you now.’

‘Perhaps not, but even you cannot protect me from the hot sun or the stink of the crowd. I will stay.’ Her hand moved down his side and she began to untie the sash that held up the lower half of his ihram. ‘I shall have to give you a reason to hurry back to me.’

He caught her hand. ‘I wear the ihram. My thoughts should be on Allah.’

Shamsa smiled wickedly. ‘You will be thanking him soon enough.’ She kissed his neck as she finished untying the sash. She kissed his chest and next his stomach as she knelt before him.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Yalla!’ Yusuf cursed. ‘Will they not leave me one moment of peace?’

Shamsa rose. ‘I will be waiting for you,’ she said as she stepped into his bedroom.

Yusuf secured his ihram around his waist. ‘Enter!’

‘Malik.’ Imad ad-Din’s face was pale. He clutched a scrap of paper in his hand. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’ He held out the paper.

Yusuf’s jaw clenched as he read. ‘I will kill the bastard myself! I swear it.’

‘Who?’ Shamsa stood in the doorway to the bedroom. ‘What has happened?’

Yusuf was too angry to speak. It was Imad ad-Din who answered. ‘The one called the Wolf raided the pilgrim caravan from Damascus. Al-Muqaddam and his men fought him off, but not without many losses. Reynald has thrown his captives in dungeons at Kerak. He raped and murdered many others-’ Imad ad-Din’s voice trailed off.

‘My sister was one of them.’ Yusuf’s voice was flat. ‘Zimat is dead.’

Shamsa went to him. ‘I am sorry, my love.’

Yusuf shrugged her off. ‘This is not the time for sorrow. Reynald’s butchery has broken our treaty with the Franks. Imad ad-Din, send letters to every corner of the kingdom. Tell my emirs to come with all their men. The hajj can wait. Come summer, we are going to war.’

July 1187: La Sephorie

Sergeants in mail and native Christians in vests of leather or padded cotton stepped reluctantly aside as John and Raymond rode into the Christian camp at La Sephorie. The Saracens had crossed the Jordan, and a mighty army had gathered to face them. The men’s angry faces were lit by the flickering light of cooking fires. Some spat as Raymond passed. Others grumbled curses. A pair of Lombards made the sign of the evil eye, touching their thumb and forefinger and shaking them.

‘They look at me as if I killed the Templars myself,’ Raymond muttered. ‘Cresson was not my doing. If Gerard were not such a rash fool-’

John placed a hand on Raymond’s arm. The grumbling amongst the men had grown louder. ‘Best to keep such thoughts to yourself,’ he said in a low voice. Right or wrong, these men blamed Raymond for the massacre at Cresson. It was not a good idea to speak ill of those who had died or been captured there.

It had been an unexpected disaster. Three months ago, when Guy had gathered an army to force Raymond to recognize him as king, Raymond had looked to Saladin for support. Saladin had sent his son Al-Afdal with several thousand men. Raymond had never intended to bring the Saracens into battle against his fellow Franks. They were a bargaining chip, nothing more, a way to force Guy to stand down.

But everything had gone horribly wrong. Raymond had given Al-Afdal permission to ride across his lands to scout. On their way back, a troop of Templars and Hospitallers had attacked them at Cresson. The Templar Grand Master, Gerard, led the knights in a charge, leaving his foot-soldiers behind. But Al-Afdal’s retreat had only been feigned. The Saracens turned and slaughtered the two halves of the Frankish force separately. Every single knight was killed, the Grand Master of the Hospitallers amongst them. Gerard was taken prisoner. When he was ransomed a few weeks later, he returned to the Kingdom raging against Raymond and blaming him for the disaster. He was not alone in calling for Raymond’s head.

Now, the Saracens had invaded with an army larger than any John had ever seen. Raymond had put aside his hatred of Guy and marched his men to join the Christian army at La Sephorie. John had joined him. Judging from the murderous looks of the men they had passed, they might well be riding to their deaths. They were through the camp now and at the base of the hill on which the squat keep stood. They dismounted, and John handed his reins to Aestan.

‘You’re not likely to receive a warm welcome, domne,’ the sergeant said in a low voice. ‘There is still time to leave. We could ride for the coast, take a ship for the old country.’

‘We are needed here.’

‘You’d best hope King Guy feels the same way. If you hang, I’ll see that you’re buried properly.’

John followed Raymond up the hill. A dozen of the king’s men, their surcoats emblazoned with the gold Jerusalem cross, guarded the entrance to the keep. Their captain spat at Raymond’s feet. ‘Your weapons, milords.’ He said the last word as if it tasted of shit.

Raymond unbuckled his sword belt and John turned over his mace. The guard led them into the keep and up a narrow flight of stairs to a thick, iron-bound door. The guard pounded on it, and it opened a crack. ‘Raymond of Tripoli to see the King.’

There was a short pause, during which Raymond leaned close to John. ‘We must master our passions,’ he whispered. ‘We are here to fight in defence of the Kingdom. Nothing else matters.’

The door swung open. John had to duck as he passed through the low doorway. Inside, Guy sat at the centre of a long table set with food and drink. To his left and right, all facing the doorway, sat his brother Amalric, Reynald, Humphrey of Toron, Reginald of Sidon, Gerard of Ridefort and William of Montferrat, known as William the Old to distinguish him from his son of the same name. He had fought in the Second Crusade and the year previously had returned to fight again. He was a short, compact man with a ruddy face and hair so blond that it was almost white.

Gerard, the Templar Grand Master, was the first to break the silence. ‘So, the butcher of Cresson dares show his face.’

Raymond ignored him. ‘I have come to fight for the Kingdom.’

‘If you wanted to fight, you should have stayed in Tiberias,’ Reynald said. ‘Saladin is there now, besieging your wife. It seems you are running away from battle yet again, Raymond.’

Raymond’s jaw clenched, but he swallowed his anger and managed to speak in a calm voice. ‘My men would do no good trapped inside the castle.’

‘So you admit you run.’ Reynald turned to Guy. ‘Gerard is right. You should string him up, Your Grace, him and his Saxon lapdog. They are traitors.’

‘Traitors?’ John demanded. ‘It is your madness that has put the whole kingdom at risk, Reynald. Had you not broken the treaty by attacking the pilgrim caravan, we would still have peace.’

‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’ Reynald smirked. ‘Peace with your friend Saladin.’

‘Better than a war that might destroy us all,’ Raymond put in.

‘We must fight them sooner or later. We are not all of us willing to bend the knee to Saladin.’ Reynald looked to John. ‘Or to bend over for him.’

John’s hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He would have liked to beat Reynald senseless, but that might well end with John dangling from a rope. He ground his teeth, not trusting himself to speak.

Reynald rose and came around the table to stand before John. He leaned close, and John could smell the wine on his breath and the grease that had dribbled into his grey beard while he ate. ‘You do love the sand devils, don’t you, Saxon? I found your Saracen whore when I raided the caravan. She spoke of you when she begged for her life. She said you would ransom her. What was her name again?’

‘Zimat,’ John growled between clenched teeth.

Reynald sneered. ‘Ah, yes. That was it.’ He leaned close and whispered in John’s ear. ‘If she had not mentioned you, I might have spared her. I raped the bitch before I gutted her.’

John slammed his shoulder into Reynald’s chest and drove him backwards into the table. Plates and goblets clattered to the floor as the two men grappled. John’s hands closed on Reynald’s throat. Reynald head-butted him, and John stumbled back.

‘Enough!’ Guy shouted. ‘Guards!’

John ignored him. He raised his fists and surged towards Reynald, but before he reached him, he was grabbed from behind. Two guards dragged him back across the room; a third man held a knife to his throat. John ceased struggling.

Reynald pointed a thick finger at him. ‘You see! He is a demon. He should be hanged as a traitor.’

‘Sit down, Reynald!’ Guy commanded. He stepped around the table to face Raymond and John. ‘I am glad you have come, both of you. We can use every man we can find. But I will not have you if you are not willing to serve. I must have your oaths.’

Raymond and John knelt and clasped their hands before them as if in prayer. They spoke in unison. ‘I promise on my faith that I will be loyal to you, King Guy, loving all that you love, shunning that which you shun, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. My men, my sword, and the arm that wields it are yours.’

‘I accept your fealty.’ Guy returned to his place at the table. ‘You must be hungry after your travels. Sit.’

A place was made for John and Raymond at one end of the table, beside bald Reginald of Sidon. Servants entered to clear away the mess and to bring more food and wine. The roast lamb was tough and the wine sour, but they were welcome all the same.

‘Raymond!’ Guy called from down the table. ‘Before your arrival, we were discussing marching on Tiberias. You know these lands better than any of us. What do you say?’

‘I council against it, Your Grace.’

‘You would leave Tiberias to the enemy?’ Gerard demanded. ‘He condemns himself with his own words, Your Grace.’

‘Enough, Gerard!’ Guy snapped. ‘I will hear him out.’

‘For twenty years and more,’ Raymond began, ‘I have fought the armies of Islam, but I have never seen a force equal to the one that Saladin has brought against us. He has more than twelve thousand mamluks, with an equal number of Bedouin and Turkmen. We have had to empty all our garrisons to gather a force that can match him. If we are defeated, there will be no one left to defend the Kingdom.’

John nodded. ‘It is not just the size of the enemy army that should give us pause. Raymond and I have just ridden from Tiberias. Saladin controls the southern road, along the valley. We will be forced to take the north road — fifteen miles across arid land with only a few wells. If we stay here, Saladin’s army will have to cover that ground. They will be tired; their mounts will be thirsty and weak. If we march, it will be we who suffer. We must stay at La Sephorie. Saladin will withdraw again, as he did the last time he invaded.’

‘I remember the last time.’ Reynald turned to Guy. ‘You did not fight, Your Grace, and it cost you the regency. Baldwin had you exiled to Ascalon. Raymond opposed your crowning. Now, he seeks to make a fool of you, to undermine your reign and cheat you of your chance at glory.’

‘He made a treaty with the infidel,’ Gerard added. ‘He let the Saracens into his lands. He is responsible for Cresson!’

‘And I have come to wipe the stain of that day from my honour,’ Raymond said stiffly. He leaned over the table so he could meet Guy’s eyes. ‘I want victory as much as the next man, Your Grace. But how much are you willing to risk in order to achieve it? If we suffer defeat, the Kingdom will fall. Make no mistake, Your Grace.’

‘We will not lose!’ Reynald insisted. ‘Saladin’s host is vast, yes, but so is ours. We have never before gathered so many men — twelve hundred knights, over eight thousand light cavalry and nearly ten thousand sergeants. We must not let them go to waste.’

Raymond opened his mouth to reply, but Guy held up a hand, silencing him. ‘I have heard enough.’ The king took a long drink of wine. ‘You have made your arguments. Now I would have your council. Who favours marching on Tiberias?’

‘We must attack, Your Grace,’ Gerard declared.

‘Aye,’ Reynald agreed.

Young Humphrey nodded his assent. ‘As my father-in-law says.’

Guy waited a moment, but no one else spoke. ‘And those against?’

Raymond and John spoke first. Reginald joined his voice to theirs, and to John’s surprise, so did the constable, Amalric. William the Old spoke last. ‘I fought during the Second Crusade, Your Grace. I saw what lack of water can do to an army. I say we stay here. If Saladin wants a fight, then let him come to us.’

‘Five against three, Your Grace,’ Raymond said. ‘The choice is clear.’

Reynald shook his head. ‘You are a king, Guy. Your duty is to lead, not count votes. The decision lies with you.’

Guy licked his lips. ‘We will stay.’

John woke with a start. Someone outside his tent was shouting. ‘Get your lazy arses up!’ The man banged his sword against his shield. ‘Up, I say! We march at sunrise!’

John stepped outside. The day had only just dawned and the horizon to the east was turning a purplish red, like a bruise. He looked about. Last night, tents had stood for as far as he could see in every direction, their shapes silvery in the moonlight. Now the plain around La Sephorie was almost bare. Men were calling to one another as they stowed the remaining tents. Others pulled on their armour or sharpened their swords. At the heart of the camp, the cooking fires were roaring. John could smell baking bread. His stomach rumbled. He spotted Aestan striding towards him.

‘Morning, domne.’ The sergeant handed John a piece of steaming bread.

‘Why are we breaking camp?’

‘I’ll be damned if I know. I was sound asleep when that bastard started shouting outside my tent. I had half a mind to gut him, but he was in full mail.’

‘Whose arms did he wear?’

‘Reynald’s.’

John felt a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. ‘Help me with my armour, Aestan.’

Dressed, John headed for the keep. He had reached the hill on which it stood when he saw Raymond coming down towards him. The lord of Tripoli’s face was grim. ‘By the devil’s hairy balls!’ he cursed. ‘Of all the boil-brained, senseless-’

‘My lord,’ John greeted him.

‘John. You had best start praying, friend.’

‘Tiberias?’

Raymond nodded. ‘I had it all from the king. Gerard and Reynald came to him late last night. They persuaded him to march. It seems they have spent the gold that King Henry of England sent ahead for when he comes on crusade. They used it to hire more men-at-arms. Gerard has convinced Guy that if they do not have something to show for the coin they spent, there will be hell to pay when Henry finally arrives. Guy might even lose his throne.’

‘He will lose it just as surely if Saladin defeats us.’

‘I know it, John, but he will not be swayed. By his nails! I cannot believe I knelt to that spineless bastard.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Maybe it is God’s will, as Gerard insists. Perhaps we shall be victorious again, as at Montgisard.’

‘Perhaps.’ John looked up to where ravens were circling overhead. ‘Perhaps we will all be food for crows before the day is done.’

‘The Horns of Hattin,’ Raymond declared. In the distance, two round hills with a saddle between them rose to dominate the surrounding plain. Their steep sides were covered with scrubby brush. ‘On the far side the land slopes down to the lake, three miles distant.’

John nodded. His mouth was too dry and sticky to speak. The army had marched all day while the summer sun beat down and transformed the arid plain around them into a sea of mirages. The Saracens had harassed them continuously, swarming about the two-mile-long column and filling the sky with arrows. Few lives were lost, but the march had slowed to a crawl as the foot-soldiers drew together and shuffled along with their shields overlapped. The villages they had passed had all been burned to the ground. When the men went to water their horses, they found that the corpses of dogs had been thrown in the wells. John had finished the last of his water before they were halfway to Tiberias. By mid afternoon, his horse was lathered in sweat and he had a blinding headache. Some of the men had become so desperate for water that they removed the dead animals from the third well they reached and drank. Within a mile they were sick, dropping to their knees on the side of the road to retch.

The day finally began to cool as the sun sank towards the horizon, casting long shadows ahead. They had nearly reached the Horns when William of Montferrat came galloping up the column to join them where they rode in the vanguard. ‘Guy has called for a halt,’ the old crusader said.

‘Why?’ Raymond demanded.

‘He did not see fit to share his reasoning with me.’

‘We cannot stop,’ John said. ‘We must reach the lake.’

‘I will speak with him,’ Raymond said.

‘I will come with you.’

They cantered down the column to where the king’s banner flew. They found Guy nervously licking his lips while Reynald and Reginald of Sidon shouted at one another.

‘Are you blind as well as stupid?’ Reginald roared. He pointed to the horizon. ‘The lake is there! We cannot stop now.’ He fell silent as John and Raymond approached.

‘Why have we stopped, Your Grace?’ Raymond asked.

It was Reynald who replied. ‘We will not reach the lake before sunset. It is best to make camp before dark falls.’

‘No. Reginald is right. We must push on.’

Reynald sneered. ‘Afraid of a night under the stars, Raymond?’

John answered for him. ‘The men and the horses are thirsty. If we wait until tomorrow, they will be in no condition to fight.’

‘That’s what I tried to tell him,’ Reginald grumbled.

‘You would have us stumble on in the dark?’ Reynald asked. ‘We will march straight into a Saracen ambush.’

John shook his head. There was no use trying to speak reason to this fool. He turned to the king instead. ‘Your Grace?’

Guy licked his lips. ‘We will halt.’

‘But my lord-’ Reginald began.

‘I have made my decision.’ Guy raised his voice. ‘Make camp! Where are my squires?’ He walked his horse away from the column. Reynald followed.

Reginald spat dust from his mouth. ‘This is madness.’

‘We have no choice.’ Raymond grimaced. ‘Guy is our king. We are sworn to follow him.’

‘Straight to hell,’ John muttered.