Holy War

Chapter 12

September 1187: Jerusalem

‘Too many people on this road,’ John observed to no one in particular. He wished, not for the first time, that he had someone with whom he could share his worries. But Aestan had died at Hattin, and Raymond had succumbed to a lingering wound not long after John reached Tripoli. Reginald of Sidon was a prisoner of Saladin, along with Guy and most of the other great lords. ‘Too many mouths to feed,’ he muttered, ‘and not enough swords.’

He had left Tripoli with fifty sergeants. As they made their way down the coast, they had been joined by refugees carrying their possessions on their backs and their young children in their arms. After they turned inland towards Jerusalem, the band following them had swollen into the thousands. The people came from every corner of the Kingdom. Tiberias had surrendered the day after Hattin. Acre, the Kingdom’s main port and most populous city, had fallen a few days later. After that, Saladin’s army had split up and swept through the Kingdom. The list of their conquests was sobering: Nazareth, La Sephorie, La Feve, Daburiyya, Mount Tabor, Jenin, Sebaste and Nablus in the south; Haifa, Caesarea, Arsuf and Jaffa along the coast; Toron and Beirut north of Acre. In the last few weeks, the southern strongholds of Ascalon and Gaza had surrendered after long sieges. Only scattered outposts remained. Kerak and Shawbak were in Christian hands but were isolated and besieged. Tyre had been rescued when Conrad of Montferrat arrived from Europe with his men. And at the heart of the Kingdom, Jerusalem still stood. For now.

Saladin was marching north from Ascalon to besiege the Holy City. The men and women on the road knew this as well as John. He could see it in their eyes. They were dull, devoid of hope. Yet what choice did they have? They had nowhere else to go. John would do his best to protect them, but his steel would not save them from hunger. With so many people flooding into the city, food would run short after only a few days. The people would be reduced to eating rats. And when the rats were gone, they would turn on each other. It would make hell look a pretty place.

The road ran upwards through olive groves, and when they reached the top of the slope, Jerusalem came into view. Refugees clogged the road leading to the city. The pace slowed to a crawl, giving John ample time to study the city’s defences. Mangonels had been mounted on the walls, which had been hung with leather skins and bales of hay to reduce the impact of a bombardment. That was good, but there were far too few men walking the walls. John counted only twenty heads over David’s Gate and only two men each on the square towers that dotted the wall to the north and south. As he rode closer, John saw shirtless men working with picks to deepen the dry moat that circled the city. Guards in mail framed David’s Gate. They briefly stopped each refugee. As John approached, a broad-shouldered guard with a thick beard stepped forward.

‘You’re a welcome sight, si-’ He blinked as he noticed the gold cross hanging from John’s neck. ‘Father. Nice to see a man with steel at his side instead of just another hungry mouth.’

‘How many are in the city?’

‘God only knows. More than I can count.’

Another guard laughed. He held up his two hands and wiggled his fingers. ‘You can’t count past ten, Ragenaus.’

‘Twenty,’ Ragenaus shot back. ‘You forgot my toes.’

John was glad to see them joking. When food grew short, humour was the first casualty. ‘Who rules in the city?’ he asked.

‘Balian. You’ll find him at the palace. Your men can stay in the Temple.’

‘What of the Templars?’

Ragenaus shrugged. ‘What Templars? They’re all dead on the fields of Cresson and Hattin. Only priests, old men and stable-boys remain. You’d best move on now, father.’ He nodded to the long line behind John. ‘Or I’ll have a riot on my hands.’

Inside the city, the press on David Street was so great that John had to dismount and lead his horse. Most in the crowd were newly arrived refugees, stumbling along glassy-eyed as they searched for a place to stay. The earlier arrivals lined the narrow street with hands out. Some offered to buy food, giving as much as a gold bezant for a handful of apples, and a few amongst the new arrivals were fool enough to take the money.

John noticed that many of the boys begging had shaved heads. One of them, a bony young lad with a face smeared with dirt, grabbed at John’s tunic. ‘Please, father. Food. Food for a starving child.’ The boy had a high, fluting voice and green eyes that seemed impossibly large in his thin face. He had delicate features for a boy.

A thick-necked man saw John staring and pulled the child away. ‘Keep away from my daughter!’

John reached into his saddlebag and held up an orange. ‘Why have you shaved her head?’

The man’s eyes widened at the sight of the fruit. ‘I don’t want the Saracens raping her. If they think she’s a boy, maybe they’ll leave her be.’

John tossed the man the fruit and continued into the square where David Street met the Street of the Armenians. He handed his reins to one of his sergeants. ‘Take the men to the temple and see that my horse is stabled. I will meet you there this evening.’

John turned south towards the palace. The Street of the Armenians was less crowded, although he did pass several families who had set up camp on the side of the road. He came upon a procession of monks with scourges in their hands, their upper bodies bared to reveal bloodied backs. They were chanting, begging God for mercy. Every four steps, they whipped themselves. John hurried to the palace. The guards recognized him and waved him through the gate. After the chaos of the streets, the courtyard was an oasis of calm. The guards had kept the populace out, and other than a pile of horse dung, the cobbled courtyard was empty. John crossed to the palace doors, where the guards told him that Balian was in the king’s chambers with the queen.

John entered to find Sibylla lounging against the window. She wore a belted silk tunic that showed off her slim figure. Her auburn hair fell loose to her pale shoulders. She would have looked lovely were it not for the scowl that marred her features.

Balian was standing beside the cold fireplace. He too was glowering, but when he saw John, his face brightened. ‘John! Thank God you have come.’ He embraced John and nodded towards Sibylla. ‘Perhaps you can talk some sense into her.’

John turned to Sibylla and knelt. ‘My queen.’

Sibylla nodded coolly. She pointed at Balian. ‘This fool refuses to ransom my husband, his king.’

‘Saladin demands fifty thousand dinars. We cannot pay, my queen. You have seen the people crowding into the city. We need every last denier to purchase food.’

‘We need our king!’

John cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, my queen, but Balian is in the right.’

Sibylla’s face had flushed red before John finished speaking. She drew herself up and looked down her thin nose at him. ‘You are traitors, both of you,’ she hissed. ‘When Guy is freed, he will have your heads!’ She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

‘You see what I have been dealing with, John?’ Balian went to a side table and poured himself a cup of wine. He took a long drink. ‘She grows worse each day. I should send her out to walk the streets. There are more than eighty thousand people in Jerusalem — three times the population before Hattin — and more are arriving every day. Food is already short and Saladin has not even arrived.’ He took another drink. Balian had always been strikingly handsome, but now his face was lined and there were dark shadows under his eyes. ‘Your arrival is the first good news in weeks. You have brought men?’

‘Fifty sergeants.’

‘No knights?’ John shook his head. ‘What of Raymond? You come from Tripoli. Will the count march soon?’

‘He is dead.’

Balian’s cup froze halfway to his mouth. ‘God help us. How?’

‘At Hattin an arrow penetrated his mail and lodged in his chest. It was not a deep wound; but it mortified and the foul humours entered his lungs. He died two days after I reached Tripoli.’

‘Who rules now?’

‘His godson, Raymond.’

‘Bohemond of Antioch’s boy?’

John nodded. ‘I tried to persuade him to march for Jerusalem, but the young Raymond chose to follow his father’s lead. Both Tripoli and Antioch have signed a truce with Saladin. Raymond, at least, gave me leave to take volunteers. The fifty men who came with me were all I could find.’

‘By his nails!’ Balian took another drink.

‘How many knights do we have?’

‘True knights? One — me. But I have knighted several hundred sergeants, and I have also made it known that I will knight any man over sixteen who will bear arms. Thus far, I have raised an additional thousand knights.’

‘They are farmers and tradesmen with swords, Balian, not knights.’

‘Aye.’ Balian raised his cup again, only to find it empty. He frowned and set it aside. ‘But they are all we have.’

The muezzins in camp began to cry the call to morning prayers as Yusuf emerged from his tent. It had been erected atop the hill called Golgotha — Place of the Skull — so named for the caves that made the hillside look like a grinning skull, or perhaps for the executions carried out there in ancient times. This was where the prophet Jesus had been crucified; unless you believed the Christian priests, who claimed that the hill they called Cavalry was at the site of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. ‘Church of the Dunghill,’ Yusuf’s people called it, and the name adequately conveyed their opinion of whether or not Jesus had died there.

Yusuf could see the dome of the church from where he stood. It towered over the western portion of the city. His gaze moved from it to the Dome of the Rock, its gilt roof glinting in the morning sun. Movement along the wall caught his eye, and he looked to see that a postern had opened. A dozen sergeants marched out, followed by two men riding under a white flag. Another delegation had come to negotiate the city’s surrender. Fifty mamluks galloped out to meet them. They surrounded the Christians and led them into camp. Soon after, Qaraqush cantered up the hill and slid from the saddle before Yusuf.

‘Who did they send this time?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Balian of Ibelin, who commands the city, and John the priest. They must be truly desperate.’

Or they know that after last night they are finally in a position of strength.

Yusuf stroked his beard as he stared at the breach that his sappers had opened in the wall the previous night. He had sent in thousands against the Christians, but their greater numbers had not mattered in the narrow gap. Two hundred and twelve of his bravest men had died. Their bodies had been removed, but the debris remained, spilling out to fill the moat before the wall. At the high point of the rubble, the Franks had erected a wooden palisade. The catapults would make short work of it, but still, taking the gap would be no easy thing. The Franks had shown that much. The siege was ten days old. How many more days would be needed to take the city? How many more lives? Yusuf knew his men were prepared to martyr themselves. They wanted revenge for the slaughter the Franks inflicted when they took Jerusalem. But John’s words echoed in Yusuf’s head. Evil done in the name of God was still evil.

‘Show the Franks to my tent,’ Yusuf said. ‘And have my emirs and secretaries come as well.’

Qaraqush scowled, but that was the extent of his disapproval. ‘Yes, Malik.’

Inside the tent, a servant helped Yusuf don his golden scale armour and wrapped a black turban lined with gold about his head. He had just sat down on his camp-stool when Imad ad-Din arrived with ink and paper. The emirs of Al-Jazirah, fat Gokbori and squat Nu’man, entered after him, followed by Al-Afdal. Ubadah entered a moment later. Yusuf could smell wine on his breath as he took his place standing beside Yusuf. His nephew had taken to drink after learning the truth of his parentage. He only emerged from his tent when absolutely necessary.

Qaraqush came last of all. ‘Balian of Ibelin and John of Tatewic,’ he declared.

Balian entered first, and Yusuf studied the knight carefully. He was a handsome man of middle age, with long dark hair and a curly beard that looked as if it had once been neatly groomed but had recently been allowed to grow unchecked, leaving it long along his jaw and shorter at his neck and cheeks. John followed, and Yusuf noticed Ubadah’s jaw clench. John was thinner than when Yusuf had last seen him, and there was even more silver in his sandy hair. He and Balian knelt.

‘You are welcome in my tent,’ Yusuf told them, speaking in Arabic. He knew Frankish well enough, but he wished them to see that he was the master here.

John translated for Balian. ‘Greetings, Al-Malik al-nasir,’ the knight said. ‘We are honoured to be in your presence.’

‘Sit.’ Yusuf gestured to the two stools set before him. ‘You have come to beg for the lives of your people?’

‘We have come to save lives, yes, both yours and ours,’ Balian replied.

Ubadah snorted upon hearing John’s translation. ‘Idle threats. There is no need to bargain with these hell-bound dogs. Let us crush them! The blood they shed when they took Jerusalem cries out for revenge!’

The other emirs nodded their agreement.

‘Ask the men who died last night if our threats are idle,’ Balian said. ‘Many thousands of men stand ready to defend our city. More men even than in your army.’

‘Pig farmers and cloth merchants,’ Gokbori spat. ‘Not warriors.’

John translated, and Balian’s brow knit. ‘Some are common men, yes, but even common men will fight like warriors if given no choice. At the moment, they keep away from the walls, hoping to be spared as you have spared those in the other towns you have conquered. But if the people of Jerusalem see that death is inevitable, then by God, every last one of them will take up arms, ready to die as martyrs.’

‘We have our martyrs as well, father, men who will gladly sacrifice their lives to retake Jerusalem,’ Al-Afdal put in. ‘You will find thousands of volunteers ready to try the breach again. You have but to ask.’

John replied at once, without having bothered to translate. ‘You may take the city by storm, Yusuf; I do not deny it. But if you do, your prize will turn to dust in your hands. Before the city falls, we will kill our children and wives so you may not rape and enslave them. We will burn our homes and possessions. We will slaughter our Muslim prisoners, kill every horse and animal we possess. We will leave behind nothing but blood and ashes.’

Nu’man stepped forward. ‘If they wish to slaughter themselves, let them,’ the short man said in his harsh voice. ‘It is nothing less than they deserve.’

‘You may not care for the lives of our women and children,’ John said, ‘but what of your holy places? Do you wish to conquer the city, only to find the Al-Aqsa mosque a smoking ruin?’

‘Ruins can be rebuilt,’ Nu’man replied.

Gokbori nodded. ‘The blood the Franks have spilled must be avenged, Malik.’

‘Enough,’ Yusuf said. ‘Leave me with our guests. All of you.’

The men trooped out. Ubadah spat at John’s feet before leaving. When they were alone, Yusuf turned to Balian and spoke in French. ‘John says you will leave Jerusalem a smoking ruin rather than see it in our hands. What do you say to this?’

‘He speaks truly. And after the slaughter is done, the blood of the dead will cry out to be avenged. When Edessa fell to the sword, men came in the thousands to avenge it. If Jerusalem falls the same way, how many tens of thousands will cross the sea to take it back?’

‘If I spare your people, then how am I to know that I will not soon find myself defending these very walls from them?’

‘Your man spoke true,’ John replied. ‘Most of those inside are farmers and craftsmen. They will fight for their lives, but they will not fight to retake Jerusalem. And if you doubt it, then take their weapons before they go.’ John’s blue eyes found Yusuf’s. ‘You are better than the man who slaughtered the Templars at Hattin, Yusuf. I know it. Do not stain Jerusalem’s holy places with the blood of innocents. These people do not need to die. Reynald was a murderer of women and children. You are better than that. You are a righteous man.’

Was he? Yusuf felt the familiar stab of pain in his gut. Would a righteous man kill his brother? His wife? Yusuf swallowed the bile that had risen in the back of his throat. He looked to Balian. ‘What do you propose?’

‘Give us three days to prepare, and we will turn the city over to you. Allow those who wish it to leave. We will march to Tyre, and Jerusalem will be yours.’

‘You will march to Tyre and take your riches with you. That will not do. You may take as much as you can carry, but no beasts of burden will leave the city. As for your people, their lives are in my hands. You have told me so yourself. If they wish to have them back, they must pay for them. Ten dinars a head.’

‘And what of those who have no money?’ John asked.

‘Let them sell what they possess to my men. Any who still cannot pay at the end of forty days will be enslaved.’

Balian’s jaw set. ‘I will not send my people into slavery.’

‘Slavery is preferable to death.’

‘Very well,’ Balian muttered. ‘But ten dinars is too much.’

‘It is a low price to purchase a slave.’

‘A male slave, perhaps,’ John said. ‘The price should be lower for women and children.’

‘That is fair. Five dinars for women. Two for children under twelve.’

‘And old men?’ John asked. ‘What use are they as slaves?’

‘I will let those too old to be of use go free.’

Balian looked to John, who nodded. Balian stood. ‘John said you are an honourable man, Saladin. I am pleased to see he was right.’ He extended his hand. Yusuf rose and clasped it. ‘In three days, Malik, Jerusalem will be yours.’

John sat on his bed in the archdeacon’s residence at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and listened to the bells ringing to call the people to morning prayers. It would be the last time those bells sounded. In but a few hours, Jerusalem would cease to be a Christian city.

He rose and began to gather his things. Of most value was his priest’s garb: the alb and amice of white linen; the maniple and long silk stole; the chasuble, heavily embroidered with gold and silver. He stuffed them into a rucksack, along with the dried fruit, salted beef and hard cheese he had purchased in the market the Saracens had set up in the city. No horses or beasts of burden were allowed to leave Jerusalem, so he would have to carry his possessions on his back. He already wore his boots, a pair of linen breeches, a plain cotton tunic and cloak, and the gold cross that always hung round his neck. He took his mace from where it lay on his bed and ran a finger along the worn leather of the handle before setting it down. He would have to leave it behind. Saladin had decreed that no weapons would leave the city.

John left the archdeacon’s residence through a narrow stone passage that led directly to the sanctuary. He frowned. The tapestries had been removed from the church’s stone walls and the candelabra taken. Even the gold inlay had been stripped from the altar. Only two of the canons had bothered to come to prayers. Their voices sounded small in the vastness of the church. John knelt before the sepulchre and crossed himself. He whispered a prayer for the people of the city and then exited into the southern courtyard. Three large wagons stood there, each piled high with crates, barrels and burlap sacks. Since horses could not leave the city, men had taken up the traces. Heraclius stood at their head. He was studying a sheet of parchment as he spoke with the treasurer.

‘The hangings?’ Heraclius asked. ‘You are sure you packed them?’

The treasurer nodded, setting his fat cheeks to jiggling. ‘Yes, Your Beatitude. I believe so.’

‘You believe?’ Heraclius’s eyebrows arched. ‘Those hangings are worth more than you are, you fool. Make certain.’

The treasurer nodded and scurried off. John crossed the courtyard to confront Heraclius. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

‘Have you not heard, John? The city has fallen. The treasures of God must be protected. I am taking them to Tyre.’ He went back to examining the sheet.

John plucked the parchment from his hand. It was a list of the church’s wealth — the silks, the golden candelabra and goblets, the relics in their ornate reliquaries, the chests of gold and silver. ‘There are more than fifteen thousand people who cannot afford their ransom,’ John said. ‘There is wealth enough here to free them all. Balian will hear of this.’

‘He already knows.’ Heraclius sneered. ‘He has no power over me. These treasures belong to God, not the poor.’

‘The women will be raped, Heraclius, and their children sold into slavery.’

The patriarch looked down his nose at John. ‘And their suffering shall reap them a great reward in the next life. Blessed by the Spirit are the poor, for theirs is the-’

John punched him, and Heraclius landed hard on his rump, blood trickling from his broken nose. John raised his fist again, but two knights of the Holy Sepulchre held him back. John spat, catching Heraclius in the face. ‘You will burn in hell,’ he growled as he shrugged off the knights’ hands and strode away.

He walked south, heading past Saint George’s Church on his way towards David’s Gate. The pig and grain markets that normally stood near the church had been transformed into huge bazaars featuring every sort of good imaginable. John saw chairs and tables, rugs, pots and pans, a table laid out with a blacksmith’s tools and another with the mortar and pestle, scales and vials of a druggist. Anything the Franks of Jerusalem could not carry with them, they sought to sell here. Even themselves. Young women, their tunics torn down the front to reveal their cleavage, lounged amongst the goods, hoping to sell their bodies for enough to buy their freedom. They were desperate, and the price was correspondingly low. Saracens and the Syriac Christians who had been allowed to stay in the city were snapping up women and goods for next to nothing.

Past the markets, John joined the line of refugees waiting to leave, their possessions slung over their backs as they shuffled forward with heads bowed. Half the day was gone before he reached the gate. It was framed by mamluks who demanded the ransom due from each person leaving. When they paid, their coins were handed to a scribe, who made a note of the money collected and dropped the coins in an iron-bound chest. Some sought to pay in kind. If the scribe approved, he would give a curt nod. If he rejected the offering, then the guards would roughly shove the unfortunate soul back into the city.

When John’s turn came he counted out ten bezants. Balian had given him a hundred to see him back to England, but John had kept only twenty. The rest he had returned to Balian to purchase the freedom of poor Franks. John handed the coins over, and the mamluks waved him through.

Beyond the gate, he joined the crowd on the road to Jaffa. From there, they would head north, following the coast road to Tyre, the last Christian stronghold in the Kingdom. At the port, John hoped to find a ship that would take him to England. There was nothing left for him in the Holy Land. He was abbot and archdeacon of churches in Saracen hands. The women he loved were dead, as were Raymond and Baldwin. The only people he still cared for were amongst the Saracens, and they had become his enemies.

The refugees ahead of John were stepping off the road to make way for a troop of mounted mamluks. John also stepped aside, and as the mamluks passed, he caught a flash of gold. It was Yusuf in his vest of gold jawshan, coming to claim the city. He rode looking straight ahead, and passed John without noticing him.

John felt a sudden heaviness in his chest. It was the last time he would see his friend, he was sure. He waited until Yusuf had entered Jerusalem, and then turned his back on the city.

Yusuf felt oddly numb as he rode through the Gate of David. The last time he had passed through the arch had been twenty years ago. He had been a hostage to King Amalric. Now, he was a conqueror. The moment was not how he had dreamed it. Instead of cheering crowds, Frankish refugees lined the roadside, held back by a line of mamluks. The Christians glared at Yusuf with undisguised hatred. A red-haired woman spat as he passed.

Yusuf’s son Al-Afdal saw it. ‘Guards! Bring me that woman’s tongue!’

‘Leave her be!’ Yusuf commanded. ‘I have promised to spare these people, Al-Afdal. I will not have you make a liar of me.’

‘But she insults you, Father.’

‘Look at these people. I have taken everything from them but their lives. Let them insult me if they wish. It is all they have left.’

Yusuf continued up David Street. The way narrowed and grew steeper until he was forced to dismount and lead his horse up a series of steps to the top of the hill, from where he could see the Dome of the Rock glinting in the distance. That was his destination. He mounted again and rode down into a valley, then up and across the bridge that led through the Gate of the Moors to the Haram Ash-Sharif, what the Franks called the Temple Mount. The Al-Aqsa mosque, which the Templars had claimed as their headquarters, sat to his right. The dome rose high on his left.

‘Al-Afdal, you will see that the cross is taken down from the roof of the Dome. And make certain that Al-Aqsa is cleansed in time for next Friday’s prayers.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Yusuf dismounted and headed up the steps to the Dome of the Rock. ‘Wait here,’ he told his guards. ‘I wish to pray alone.’

Inside, his boots sounded loudly on the marble floor. Light filtered in through windows above, illuminating the bare walls. The elaborate mosaics and Koranic inscriptions that had once covered them had been plastered over by the Franks. Yusuf would have them restored.

He crossed to the rock, which sat directly beneath the dome. The Christians had built an altar over it, but part of the smooth white stone was still exposed. The iron grate the Christians had installed in order to stop pilgrims chipping off pieces had already been removed by Yusuf’s men. He stepped on to the rock, turned to face Mecca and began to pray, speaking the words of the sura al-fatiha. ‘In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful: all Praises to Allah, Lord of the Universe. The Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. .’

When he had finished his prayers, he remained kneeling on the hard rock. It was from here that Mohammad had ascended to heaven. Yusuf looked up to the ceiling. Might the words he spoke here reach paradise?

‘I have done as you commanded, Father,’ he whispered. ‘I have driven out the Christians-’ Yusuf stopped short as he thought of John and of the others he had lost: Zimat, Faridah, Shirkuh, Turan, Asimat. ‘I sacrificed everything, Father. Those who stood in my way, even those I loved. I did it for you and for Allah.’ Yusuf rose. When he spoke again his voice was loud and firm. ‘But now my task is done. No more lies. No more murder. Once the last of the Franks are driven out, I will return to Damascus. I will see my daughters married. I will raise my sons to be better men than I. I will create a kingdom of peace and plenty, and when I die, I will be remembered for the good that I did, not the men I killed.’