Holy War

Chapter 10

July 1187: The Horns of Hattin

The night was dark; the moon only a thin sliver in the sky. The camp was silent save for a faint rustle as a wind from the east blew over the tents of the mamluks, Bedouin and Turkmen. But Yusuf could not sleep. He never could on the eve of battle. He stood outside his tent, which had been erected on a ridge overlooking the plain where the Franks had camped. Yusuf could see their white tents, lit a hellish red by the brush fires blazing around them. The smoke would rob the Franks of sleep, leaving them awake to be tormented by their thirst. The fires had been Ubadah’s idea. Yusuf’s nephew had grown into a valuable commander. Tomorrow, he would command the army’s right wing.

From near by, Yusuf heard the slow rasp of a whetstone on steel. He motioned for Saqr to stay behind and walked amongst the luxurious tents of his emirs until he found the source of the sound. Al-Afdal was seated outside his tent with a sword in hand. Yusuf stopped in the shadows of a nearby tent and studied his son. Al-Afdal had narrow shoulders like his father, but his hands were strong and his forearms well muscled. He had his mother’s sharp cheekbones, covered now with a thin adolescent beard. His son was nearly sixteen. When had he become a man? Yusuf frowned. He had seen little enough of his father as a child, and he had resented Ayub’s distance. But he had been no better with his sons. No, he had been worse. There had been no time. He had a kingdom to rule.

Perhaps it was not too late. Yusuf stepped from the shadows. ‘Trouble sleeping?’

Al-Afdal looked up, startled. He set the sword aside. ‘Father. I–I wished to be certain my blade was sharp.’

The dry grass crunched beneath Yusuf as he sat. ‘You did well at Cresson, my son. I am proud of you.’

‘I killed five men.’ It was not a boast. Al-Afdal’s voice was soft and his eyes were fixed on the moon above. ‘The last was a foot-soldier, one of their sergeants. I struck him from behind as he fled. He fell, and I dismounted to finish him. He rolled on to his back. .’ Al-Afdal trailed off. He took a deep breath. ‘He was no older than me. When I raised my sword, he begged me to spare him. “Please! Please!” Those were his last words.’

Yusuf wanted to put his arm around his son’s shoulders, to whisper words of comfort to him, but he could not. His son was a man now. Instead, Yusuf took up his son’s sword and whetstone. He tested the blade’s edge with his thumb, and began to sharpen it with long, practised strokes. ‘I killed my first man when I was ten.’

Al-Afdal looked up, curious.

‘It was at Damascus. A great host of Franks had come from overseas to lay siege to the city, but we drove them off. My father rode out with the other warriors to harry the Franks as they withdrew. He was unhorsed and my brother Turan and I rode out, thinking to save him.’

‘Did you?’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I was a foolish child playing at war. Were it not for my brother, I would have died.’ Yusuf stopped short. He had not thought of Turan in years. The memory made his stomach churn. Forgive me, Brother.

‘And the man you killed? Do you remember him?’

‘He was an old man with scrawny arms and a long white beard. His clothes were little better than rags and he fought with a pitchfork. He had a mouth of brown, rotting teeth. I split his skull with my sword. .’ If he closed his eyes, Yusuf could still see the mad grin on the old man’s face as blood ran down his cheeks to stain his white beard scarlet. ‘You never forget your first, but it grows easier with time.’

Al-Afdal nodded but said nothing. The only sound was the rasp of the whetstone. Yusuf tested the edge again, rose and handed the sword to his son.

‘Will there be battle tomorrow?’ Al-Afdal asked.

‘The Franks have no choice. They must have water, and we block their path. In their arrogance, they have wandered into our trap.’

Al-Afdal grinned, and Yusuf could see the boy in him again. ‘It will be a great victory.’

‘Inshallah. I will see you at sunrise, my son.’

Yusuf returned to stand outside his tent. His conversation with Al-Afdal had got him thinking of the past. It had been after the battle at Damascus that Yusuf had first met John. He had found him caged and dying in the slave market. Yusuf exchanged the sandals on his feet for the man who would become his closest friend. He looked again towards the Christian camp. Through the smoke, he glimpsed the True Cross rising in the midst of the tents. John was there with the Franks. If Yusuf triumphed tomorrow, then his friend would likely die.

He frowned. Such thoughts were unworthy of him. What he did, he did for Allah. What did the life of one more Frank matter?

‘Well, bugger me,’ Reginald grumbled as he ran a hand over his bald head.

John had to agree with the sentiment. His lower back ached after a restless night on the hard ground. The smoke had kept him awake, praying for dawn, but when it came, he soon regretted his prayers. He now stood with Guy and the other great lords atop a small rise at the centre of the Christian camp. Black smoke was thick in the air. A sudden gust of wind blew it aside, and John could see the Horns of Hattin in the distance to the north-east. The wind shifted again, revealing the road to Tiberias. Thousands upon thousands of mounted Saracens lay across it.

Reginald spat. ‘As thick as flies on a corpse.’

‘We will never fight through that way.’ John’s voice was scratchy after a night of inhaling smoke, but he had no water to ease his raw throat.

‘And retreat is not an option,’ Raymond said. He nodded to the west. The smoke was thinner there, and they could see the force Yusuf had sent to block the road back to La Sephorie.

‘A charge will break those lines,’ Reynald retorted. ‘There can be no more than five thousand men there.’

‘The force is small for a reason,’ John said. ‘Saladin wants us to go that way. Another day without water and our horses will fail.’

‘The men will give out before the horses,’ Reginald said. ‘If I tell my sergeants they must march back to La Sephorie, I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.’

Reynald looked to Guy. ‘What do you say, Your Grace?’

‘Reginald is right. La Sephorie will not do. We must reach water, and soon.’ He licked his lips. ‘These are your lands, Raymond. Is there another way? A well or spring north or south of here?’

‘The Springs of Hattin lie to the north, beyond the Horns. They are only three miles distant. But the Saracens will oppose our march, and if the springs are poisoned like the wells we passed yesterday-’

‘A chance we must take,’ Guy decided. ‘Amalric, prepare the army to move.’

‘Yes, Your Grace. Raymond, you know the way. You will march in the vanguard. Reynald, the King and I will follow with the Cross. John, you will march with us. Joscelin and Reginald will form the rearguard, along with the Templars and Hospitallers. The native cavalry will stay to our left, to protect us in case the Saracens seek to flank us. The foot-soldiers will march between us and the enemy, to shield our horses from their arrows. You must all see that your sergeants stay in formation. Tell them that any man who leaves the column will be hanged.’

‘We will march before the day grows hot,’ Guy concluded. ‘God save you all.’

John fell in with Raymond as they headed for their tents. ‘If I die,’ Raymond told him, ‘give my love to my wife Eschiva. Tell her that my last thoughts were of her.’

John nodded.

‘Is there anyone-?’

‘No.’ No one would care if John died, except perhaps Yusuf, and he stood with the enemy.

Raymond stopped at his tent and put a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Good fortune, friend. God willing, I will see you at the springs.’

‘God willing. Guard yourself well, Raymond.’

John continued to where his tent had stood. It had already been struck and his one hundred and fifty sergeants formed up in a square. The men had dark circles under their eyes and stood with shoulders slumped. The smoke had left many with loud, ragged coughs. John went to Aestan, who stood ready with his horse.

‘The men are thirsty and tired, domne. They’re in no mood to fight, unless they are fighting for water. They’d kill Christ himself to reach that lake.’

‘It will not come to that.’ John pulled himself into the saddle and raised his voice. ‘Men! We march for the Springs of Hattin, where we will find water. They lie beyond the Horns, no more than three miles from here. The Saracens will press us close, but if you stay in close formation, their arrows will be wasted. If you leave the column, you will die. If the Saracens do not kill you, the King will.’

His speech was met with sullen silence. ‘You’re not much of a one for words, are you, domne?’ Aestan whispered. ‘Perhaps you ought to say something to fire their blood?’

John’s forehead creased. He had ridden beside Yusuf for years, and his friend had always seemed to find the right words to encourage his troops. What would Yusuf say now? ‘We march for God to face the infidel,’ he told the men. ‘We march with the True Cross at our back. We must not let it fall!’ A few men were listening intently now, but many more still stood dejected, their eyes on the ground. John changed tack. ‘We are the last shield of the Holy Land,’ he shouted. ‘If we fall, there will be no one left to defend your homes, your wives, your children.’ More were listening. Some were nodding. ‘We march for the King! For our home! For Jerusalem!’

Perhaps half of the men returned the cry. ‘For Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’

‘For water!’ someone shouted, and this time the men took up the cry enthusiastically. ‘For water! Water! Water!’

‘We’d best reach those springs soon, domne,’ Aestan murmured as he pulled on his great helm, a flat-topped steel cylinder with slits for his eyes and mouth.

John led his men to join the column and then rode on to where Amalric and a hundred knights with lances in their hands were clustered under the king’s standard. More knights joined until their ranks had swelled to five hundred, with twice as many native Christian cavalry. A dozen Templars approached with the True Cross, which was mounted on a cart drawn by two mules. The king and Reynald came behind the cross.

‘Are the men ready?’ Guy called. His brother Amalric nodded. ‘Give the order to march.’

‘For Jerusalem!’ Amalric roared. ‘For the Kingdom!’

‘For the Kingdom!’ a few men shouted. ‘For water! For water!’ cried others, drowning them out.

Amalric’s squire blew a long note on a curved ram’s horn. A moment later, Raymond’s vanguard moved forward, followed by the king’s men and then the rearguard. They left behind the smoke thrown up by the still smouldering brush. John could now see the enemy more clearly. There were tens of thousands of men on horseback, arrayed in a crescent. They held formation as they began to ride north. The tip of the crescent now blocked the path of the Christian army. A horn sounded amongst the Saracens, followed by the loud beat of drums. Boom. Boom. Boom.

‘They are coming,’ John said.

Several thousand mamluks broke away from the formation and rode at a trot for the Christian column. The drums beat faster and the Saracens spurred their horses to a gallop. A wave of sound swept over John as the enemy shouted their war cry. ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’

‘Shields up, men!’ Amalric roared. ‘Close together now! Hold formation!’

The sergeants on the outside of the column stepped close to one another so that their shields overlapped. A moment later, arrows began to skitter off them. The Saracens were streaking towards the line, shooting as they rode. Near John, a sergeant fell screaming, an arrow through his calf. The thunder of approaching hoofbeats now drowned out the Saracen war cries. John could feel the ground shake beneath him.

Amalric was shouting to be heard over the din. ‘Keep those shields together! Spears out!’

The line bristled with spears. The Saracens turned their horses just before reaching them. They galloped along the line, shooting arrows into the men. One mamluk rode too close and a spear jabbed out from the Christian ranks, plucking him from the saddle. The rest of the Saracens peeled away to return to the main body.

A ragged cheer went up amongst the men, but it died out as another wave of Saracens came on. Arrows again filled the sky, clattering off shields and hissing amongst the knights. John grunted as a shaft hit his chest. The arrow lodged between the links in his mail. As he broke off the shaft, another arrow pinged off his helmet, jarring him. The knight beside him screamed as a shaft struck him in the eye. The man yanked it out, taking blood and gore with it, then slumped from the saddle.

The Saracens came at them in wave after wave as the column crawled towards the Horns. The sun climbed in the sky, and soon heat rose in waves off the dry land. John’s horse began to labour, despite the slow pace. The poor beast was flagging after the previous day’s long march with no water. The foot-soldiers stumbled along beneath their heavy packs. Their shield arms grew heavy and the shields dropped lower, leaving them vulnerable. Each wave of Saracens left more and more fallen sergeants in its wake. The sun stood straight overhead by the time Raymond’s vanguard marched between the Horns of Hattin, the tops of which rose steeply to either side, more than two hundred feet above the surrounding plain.

‘Stay tight, men!’ John shouted to his sergeants. ‘The springs lie only two miles beyond the Horns!’ The men shuffled on, too tired to cheer.

Ahead, the vanguard was moving faster now, striding up the slope towards the pass between the Horns. The Saracen attack had abated. John could see Yusuf’s men cantering away to the south, no doubt circling around the Horns to block the Franks on the far side, where the level ground would be more to their advantage. As he rode between the Horns, John lost sight of them.

Raymond’s men were also out of sight, having marched over the pass. John heard cheering from ahead and was forced to urge his horse to a trot to keep up with the column as the foot-soldiers surged forward.

‘Amalric, stop them!’ Guy shouted. ‘What is happening?’

At the top of the pass all was revealed. Lake Tiberias glittered to the south. John knew that it was nearly two miles away, but the water looked tantalizingly close. And there was nothing but brown grass between them and the water. Raymond’s sergeants had broken ranks and were rushing towards the lake. Two of the foot-soldiers near John left the column to join them.

‘You there, stop!’ Amalric shouted. ‘Another step, and I’ll have your heads!’

The men stopped. They looked back for a moment, but turned and ran. Three more men joined in, then a dozen, then the entire column of infantry broke for the lake.

‘Stop! Stop, damn you!’ Amalric shouted, then gave up. ‘Bloody hell!’

Beside him, Guy had gone pale. ‘Without the sergeants to protect our horses, the Saracen will cut us to pieces.’

Reynald turned to John. ‘You wished to prove your loyalty to the Crown, Saxon. Now is your chance.’

Guy nodded. ‘You must get them to turn back.’

John had a strong urge to smash his mace into Reynald’s smirking face, but instead he secured his kite-shaped shield on his left arm and nodded to the king. ‘As you command, Your Grace.’

He spurred after the foot-soldiers, his mount’s hooves throwing up divots as it flew across the gently sloping field. ‘Turn back!’ he shouted as he caught up to the rearmost sergeants. ‘Turn back!’

‘To hell with you!’ one of the men shouted back.

‘You’ll never reach the lake, you fools! Turn back! We must stay in formation or the Saracens will slaughter us!’

The men ahead of John slowed. Some stopped and turned back. ‘Back to the King!’ he cried. ‘Form the line!’ More and more men turned to run. He had done it. A moment later, he looked beyond the foot-soldiers and his stomach turned. It was not his words that had stopped the sergeants. The Saracen army had rounded the Horns to the south, blocking the path to the lake. They had reformed their formation and the left branch of the crescent was surging towards the sergeants, who were streaming past John. ‘To the King!’ he shouted in desperation. ‘Rejoin the column!’

But the men did not listen. The king and his knights were far, and the southern hill of the Horns close. They headed up its slope, seeking the high ground. The mamluks poured after them. Fighting together, in close formation, the sergeants could have turned back the charge. Fleeing in panic, they were easy pickings. The Saracens’ fastest riders caught up to the rearmost sergeants and began to run them down, spearing them from behind.

John rode towards the slaughter. ‘Stand and fight!’ he shouted. ‘We must stand and fight!’ Ten men rallied to him, then ten more. ‘Form a line! Shields together. Spears out!’ More men rushed to join in. They were two hundred strong now, but thousands of Saracens were galloping towards them, setting the earth atremble. The mamluks reached their line and split, like waters flowing around a rock.

‘Back now, men!’ John shouted. ‘Bring in the wings! March in step! Stay together!’

The line retreated, bowing as the ends curved in to prevent the Saracens from flanking them. But the sergeants were too few to hold against so many. The men at the ends of the line were not falling back fast enough. They were flanked and began to fall as the Saracens attacked them from behind. The line broke suddenly as the men at the centre panicked and fled past John. He found himself alone, facing a wall of charging Saracens. And then they were on him.

A bamboo spear shattered against John’s shield and another slammed into his shoulder. The point did not penetrate his mail, but the blow knocked him back in the saddle. He recovered and lashed out, feeling a jolt in his arm as his mace made contact. The man he struck rode past before John could see what damage he’d done. He knocked another spear aside with his shield and swung his mace, catching a mamluk in the throat. The man fell wide-eyed, his windpipe crushed and his screams dying in his throat. John was raising his mace to strike another rider when he felt his horse give out beneath him. A mamluk had planted his spear in the beast’s chest. John rolled clear as the horse fell. A Saracen was galloping straight for him. John huddled in a ball and felt a rush of wind as the animal galloped past.

John staggered to his feet. He had lost his mace. Another mamluk was bearing down on him, his spear raised. John bent down and wrested the spear from the hands of the dead sergeant at his feet. Just before the mamluk reached him, he raised the spear and planted its butt against the ground. The Saracen rode straight on to the weapon, and the tip burst from his back, carrying him from the saddle. His horse galloped past, and John turned to give chase.

‘Waqqaf!’ he called. ‘Waqqaf.’ The horse slowed to a walk, but as John caught up to the steed, it whinnied and pranced away. ‘Easy! Hudu.’ John managed to catch the reins. He gently stroked the horse’s neck and pulled himself into the saddle.

The left wing of the Saracen formation had ridden past, chasing the sergeants up the slope. The Christian foot-soldiers were not putting up much of a fight. The rush for the lake had taken the last of their strength. Many had already thrown down their weapons and collapsed, exhausted. John looked away. The rest of the Saracen army had moved on to confront the knights. As John watched, Raymond’s vanguard of five hundred men charged the northern wing of the enemy. The Saracens resisted for a moment, then split to let Raymond’s knights ride through. Once past, Raymond paused for a moment before leading his men galloping from the field.

Only six hundred knights, and twice as many native Christian cavalry, remained grouped around the king. Eighteen hundred men against more than twenty thousand. And many of the Christians were on foot, their horses having been shot out from under them. They were retreating, following the True Cross up the slope of the northern Horn while the Saracens massed below for the final assault. The battle was all but over.

Then John spotted Yusuf’s eagle standard flying over the centre of the Saracen ranks. Saladin. If he killed his friend, John might just save the Kingdom. It was their only chance. But he could not do it alone. ‘Yalla!’ he shouted and spurred his horse towards the northern Horn.

Yusuf sat in the saddle behind his lines and watched as Raymond of Tripoli’s men galloped north, leaving the battle behind. Beside him, his son Al-Afdal frowned. ‘Why did you let them escape, Father?’

‘By letting them go, I weaken our enemy. Raymond of Tripoli is not the one I want. I want the King.’ He could see Guy’s standard. It was flying beside the True Cross atop the northern Horn, where the king and his knights had retreated, leaving the lower slopes littered with the bodies of dead warriors and horses. As Yusuf watched, the king’s red tent went up atop the Horn. It was to serve as a rallying point, but there was no one to rally. The Christian foot-soldiers were trapped atop the other Horn. Yusuf saw a single knight gallop from the southern Horn to join the king. He was halfway up the slope of the northern Horn when a dozen mamluks met him. The knight soon had so many arrows protruding from his mail that he looked like a porcupine. A dozen knights from the top of the Horn rode to his rescue, driving off the mamluks. Together, they managed to reach the king.

‘A brave man,’ Yusuf noted.

‘A fool, Father. He would have done better to throw down his arms. The Franks have lost.’

‘Not yet. Not until the King’s tent falls. Saqr, signal the final attack.’

Haa-room! Saqr blew a loud blast, and the mamluks massed at the foot of the Horn surged forward. The sides of the hill turned black as they rode up it from all directions. They looked sure to overwhelm the knights; but they were fighting uphill, and the knights’ armour was strong. The wave of mamluks crashed against the knights ringing the top of the hill and was thrown back. Yusuf’s men surged forward again, but they could not break the Christian lines. For every knight that fell, four or five mamluks died. Yusuf clenched his reins, twisting the leather in his hands. A horn sounded from the hilltop.

‘Perhaps it is a signal to surrender, Father.’

‘No.’ Yusuf could see the few knights whose horses still lived gathering atop the hill with lances in hand. ‘It is a signal to attack.’

‘Ride for the eagle standard!’ John shouted to the knights grouped around him. ‘If Saladin falls, his men will not stand!’

‘This is suicide, Saxon,’ Reynald grumbled.

‘We will die either way. This is our only chance.’ John’s grip tightened on the sword he had taken from a dead knight. He raised it over his head. ‘Follow me. For the Kingdom!’

The knights holding back the Saracens parted, and John galloped past and straight into a crowd of mamluks. His horse shouldered aside one of their mounts, and John cut down a second mamluk. A spear glanced off his shield, and then he was through, charging down the hillside with forty knights thundering after him. Hundreds more mamluks galloped towards them, and John charged straight into them. The knights on their destriers came close behind, encased in thick mail and wielding death. They drove through the Saracen ranks like a sword through cloth. John struck out to his left and right. He caught a man in the neck and a spray of blood filled the air. He could see Yusuf’s standard only fifty yards distant.

But the ranks of men ahead grew thicker and thicker. Spear after spear shattered against John’s shield. One dug into his left shoulder, penetrating the mail just enough to send a wave of agony down his arm. A sword glanced off his right side. Another flashed towards his face. He ducked, and the blade struck the crown of his helmet, setting it to ringing. The men facing him now wore the saffron-yellow surcoats of Yusuf’s private guard. John spurred his mount, trying to hack his way through, but the Saracens were pushing back. The charge stalled, and John found himself fighting for his life. He swung his sword in wide arcs, trying to keep the enemy at bay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mamluk raise his sword to strike, but suddenly the man fell, impaled from behind. It was Reynald. Ten more knights joined them, driving back the Saracens.

‘Are these men all that remain?’ John shouted over the cries of combatants and the clash of steel.

Reynald grunted in affirmation. ‘Where is that bastard Saladin?’

John looked beyond the sea of men before him and spotted Yusuf only twenty yards away, waving his sword to rally his men. ‘There! With me, men! For Christ! For the Kingdom!’

John spurred forward, driving into the enemy ranks. The knights came after him, hacking their way through the mamluks. John could clearly see Yusuf’s face now. He was only ten yards away. His eyes widened as he recognized John. Then John heard shouting from behind.

‘This way, men!’ Reynald roared. ‘With me if you want to live!’

John looked back to see that Reynald had veered away from Saladin and towards a weak point in the Saracen line. The knights were following. They burst through the mamluk ranks and out on to the plain. Reynald galloped away without looking back.

‘Bastard!’ John growled. He gave a final glance in Yusuf’s direction, turned and galloped after Reynald. He followed him north across a field of brown grass and towards a wadi that led into low hills. Arrows began to fall around him, and he looked back to see hundreds of mamluks giving chase. John’s mount was lathered and tiring, its breath coming in laboured bursts. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ he shouted, flicking the reins and urging one last effort from the beast. It surged forward and John pulled alongside Reynald.

‘We must turn back!’ he shouted. ‘We must strike Saladin!’

Reynald ignored him. John slashed backhanded and his blade caught Reynald in the chest, tearing his surcoat but not penetrating the mail beneath. Reynald countered, and his sword slammed into John’s forearm. John felt his arm go numb, and his sword dropped from his hand. He turned his horse into Reynald’s and grabbed him, pulling Reynald from the saddle. John fell with him. He hit the ground and rolled several times before coming to a stop. His lower back felt as if a sword had been plunged into it, and each breath brought a stab of pain in his chest. He pushed the pain from his mind and climbed to his feet. He was facing the northern Horn. The king’s tent had fallen. John turned to see the other knights galloping on without them. A few feet away, Reynald was on his hands and knees, crawling towards his sword. He grasped it and rose.

‘You traitorous shit!’ he roared as he staggered towards John.

John looked about for a weapon, but there was only knee-high brown grass. He backed away.

‘Come here, Saxon,’ Reynald growled. ‘I’ll kill you before I die.’ He lifted his sword over his head and charged, then stopped short as an arrow struck him in the wrist, the arrowhead bursting out the far side. Reynald cried out and dropped his sword. Three more arrows slammed into his chest, and he staggered backwards.

John turned to see hundreds of mamluks galloping towards them. An arrow struck John in the stomach and lodged in his mail. He turned away and crouched low to make himself a smaller target.

Reynald had fallen to his knees and was cradling his wrist. ‘Fool!’ he snarled at John. ‘We could have escaped. You have killed us both.’

John began to smile, but then winced in pain; he had split his lip. ‘So long as I see you die first, I shall die happy.’