Holy War

Chapter 14

August 1189: Beaufort

The day will soon come when I hold you in my arms once more, Shamsa. My conquest is almost complete. My men have swept through Antioch, taking Al-Arqah, Jabala, Latakia, Sayhyun, Burzey, Saminiqa, Bakas Shoqr, Darbsaq and Baghras. In the south, the great fortress of Kerak has finally fallen.

Yusuf’s quill paused over the sheet of parchment. Near the end, the defenders of Kerak had been so desperate that they had sold their women and children to the besiegers in return for food. Not even that measure had saved them. They had been slaughtered to a man when the fortress fell, but Shamsa did not need to know the grisly details. Yusuf dipped his quill in the inkpot and continued.

Now all that remains to our enemies are the cities of Tyre, Antioch and Tripoli and a few scattered fortresses. My army is at the castle the Franks call Beaufort, what we know as Qala’at al-Shaqif.

‘The castle high on the rock.’ It was a fitting name. Yusuf’s tent sat in the shade of Beaufort, which sat at the edge of a cliff that rose over a thousand feet above the plain below. It was a mighty citadel, but its imposing limestone walls could not protect its defenders from starvation.

Once Beaufort falls, Tripoli will be next, then Tyre and Antioch. And then I will come home. And once he did, there would be no more war. Yusuf would build, not destroy. He would construct mosques and places of learning. He would secure the caravan routes to encourage trade. He would rebuild Jerusalem into a thriving city. Yusuf dipped the quill a final time. And once I return, nothing will drag me from your side. You have my word, habibi.

Yusuf was rereading the letter when the tent flap opened and Az-Zahir stepped inside. Looking at him was like looking into a mirror that reflected a younger version of himself. Yusuf’s third son had a dark adolescent beard, a thin face and narrow shoulders. His armour was covered in dust. Az-Zahir looked to have just returned from Tyre, where Yusuf had sent him to keep an eye on the Christians. Conrad of Montferrat had refused Guy entrance to Tyre, and in response the King of Jerusalem had brought his knights and laid siege. Yusuf had stayed clear, happy to let his enemies tear one another apart.

Yusuf rose and kissed his son on the cheeks. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Az-Zahir.’

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Father. I bring dark news from Tyre. Christian warriors from overseas have arrived outside the city. King Guy has taken command of them. He has left the city and is marching on Acre with an army of three thousand men.’

Yusuf frowned. Three thousand men were not enough to take Acre, which was garrisoned by over four thousand mamluks under Qaraqush. Still, he had hoped that after Hattin, he was done with Guy. ‘When I freed him, the King swore he would never again take up arms against Islam.’

‘I spoke with some merchants who had visited Guy’s camp. They say King Guy wished to sail for France, but his wife Sibylla refused. It is she who urges him on.’

‘Sibylla swore no oath to me. Guy did. The man is an oath breaker, and he shall be punished accordingly. We will march for Acre. Have my emirs meet me here.’

Az-Zahir did not move. ‘There is more, Father. The merchants also spoke of a new crusade.’

Crusade. The word struck Yusuf like a punch to the gut. For the first time in months, his stomach began to burn.

‘The French and English kings are gathering troops,’ Az-Zahir continued. ‘And the German emperor Barbarossa is said to already be on the march. One of the merchants saw his army cross the Danube. He said he had never seen so many men. He said the army is without number, like the stars in the sky.’

Yusuf forced himself to remain impassive. ‘Go. Bring my emirs,’ he said curtly. But when Az-Zahir had left, he slumped against the tent pole. He was tired of war, so very tired. Now it was coming again. A host without number. And that was just one of three armies. How could he defeat so many? Even if he gathered every mamluk, Bedouin and Turcoman in all his kingdoms and emptied the treasuries to purchase mercenaries, he could not field an army larger than thirty thousand men. Yusuf took a deep breath and stood straight. He had to be strong for his men. He poured himself a cup of water to quench the fire in his gut. He was drinking when Gokbori entered, followed shortly by Al-Mashtub, Nu’man and Imad ad-Din. Yusuf’s sons Al-Afdal, Al-Aziz and Az-Zahir entered together. Ubadah did not come.

‘King Guy is marching on Acre,’ Yusuf told his emirs. ‘It is the key to Palestine. It must remain in our hands. Imad ad-Din, you will send word to Saif ad-Din to bring the army of Egypt north. When our forces are combined, we will grind the Franks to dust against the walls of Acre. I mean to have Guy’s head on a pike.’

‘Guy’s men are no threat to Acre,’ Nu’man pointed out. ‘Why not wait to march until after we have taken Beaufort?’

‘Because Guy must be defeated quickly. The Christians’ Pope has called a new crusade, larger than any before it. The Franks are coming in the thousands.’

His words were met with silence. Imad ad-Din looked as if he might be sick. Al-Mashtub and Gokbori were scowling. They were old warriors who had seen the second crusade and knew what Yusuf’s words meant. Nu’man’s face was impassive. Al-Afdal and Al-Aziz both grinned. They were too young to know better.

‘Let the Christians come!’ Al-Afdal exclaimed. ‘More fuel for the fires of hell.’ The older warriors glared at him, and his smile faded.

‘The Franks will outnumber us by many thousands,’ Yusuf continued. ‘We have fought these many years to drive them from our lands. Now, we fight for our very survival. Al-Aziz, you will go north and secure the passes that lead to Antioch. You will halt the Germans before they reach our lands.’ Yusuf spoke firmly, disguising his own doubts. In truth, Al-Aziz had as much chance of stopping the emperor’s vast army as a fly had of halting a rolling boulder. ‘Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ the emirs murmured.

‘The rest of you go and prepare your men to march. We leave tomorrow for Acre.’

Yusuf followed his emirs out. The sun had set and the light was fading fast, draining the world of its colours. He strode across the camp to Ubadah’s tent. He waved the guards aside and entered to find his nephew flat on his back with a woman riding him. Yusuf recognized her as a Frankish slave that Ubadah had taken at Hattin. She was plump and pale, with hair as red as flame and large breasts that bounced with each thrust of Ubadah’s hips.

‘Nephew!’ Yusuf snapped.

Ubadah’s eyes widened. He pushed the girl off and pulled a robe about himself as he rose. ‘Leave us, Elena!’ he shouted. His voice was slurred with drink.

Yusuf watched the girl go. He turned to his nephew. ‘I have been patient with you, Ubadah, but my patience is at an end.’

Ubadah stared at the carpeted floor of his tent, refusing to meet Yusuf’s eye. He swayed and grabbed the tent pole to keep from falling.

‘Look at you! You can barely stand. I expect more from you. You are one of my most important commanders. You are my nephew.’

‘And the son of a Frank.’ Ubadah looked up, and Yusuf could see hurt in his eyes. ‘Is it any wonder I drink like an infidel?’ He pushed past Yusuf and left the tent.

Yusuf followed and grabbed his nephew’s arm. ‘It is your actions that matter, Ubadah, not your parentage.’

‘Is that why you lied to me?’ Ubadah snarled and shrugged off Yusuf’s hand. ‘You were ashamed of the truth. Ashamed of me!’ He was shouting now. ‘I am nothing, Uncle! I am the son of a dog!’

‘You are wrong,’ Yusuf replied evenly. ‘John is honest, and he is the bravest man I have ever known. A better man than Khaldun was.’

His nephew struck him, a backhanded blow that snapped Yusuf’s head to the side. Behind him, Yusuf could hear the whisper of steel leaving the scabbard as Saqr drew his blade.

The blood had drained from Ubadah’s face, but he did not flinch when Yusuf met his eyes. ‘You knew!’ Ubadah hissed. ‘You should have killed him, and instead you did nothing!’

‘I love you, Nephew, else I would have your hand for striking me. Hate me if you will, but do your duty. That is all I ask.’

‘Yes, Malik.’ Ubadah’s voice was stony. He strode away, and Yusuf watched him disappear into the darkness before heading for his tent. He sat heavily on his camp-stool and leaned forward, his head in his hands. His gaze fell on the letter to Shamsa. Yusuf picked it up and held it to a lamp until it caught fire. He dropped the still burning scrap in his brass chamber pot and went to his portable desk to start a new letter.

October 1189: Acre

Yusuf stood before his tent at the edge of a low, flat-topped hill. The day had dawned clear, and he could see the mighty walls of Acre one mile distant. Beyond those walls, the city sat on a promontory that curved out into the waters of the Mediterranean. The sea was indigo now, but when the sun rose higher, it would transform into a brilliant turquoise. A gust of chill wind blew off the water, bringing with it the tangy smell of the ocean.

Yusuf’s gaze shifted from the sea to the enemy. The Frankish besiegers were concentrated south of the city, along the banks of the Belus River where it entered the sea. To protect themselves from Yusuf’s army, they had built a line of earthen bulwarks topped with spears and fronted with ditches. The Frankish ramparts ran from their camp near the river to the coast north of the city, cutting Acre off from the mainland. Another set of ramparts facing the city protected the camp from sorties by the Muslim garrison. Dozens of different flags flew in the space between the ramparts. In the month since Yusuf arrived at Acre, two thousand Franks from overseas had joined Guy. There were Danes and Frisians, Frenchmen and Germans, and two cohorts of Italians, all eager to avenge the fall of Jerusalem. And as of last night, another new flag flew above the camp. It was silver and crowned with a band of scarlet — the arms of Conrad of Montferrat. The marquis had set aside his differences with Guy and come from Tyre with nearly two thousand men, a hundred of them knights. Although Yusuf still had more men when his forces were combined with those in the garrison, the Christians now outnumbered his army in the field. Selim could not arrive from Egypt soon enough.

‘Malik,’ Saqr said as he appeared at Yusuf’s side. ‘Your horse is ready.’

‘Good. Ride with me.’

Yusuf climbed into the saddle and started down the hillside. He made a tour of the lines each morning and evening. His uncle had taught him that. ‘You must be one of the men before you can lead them,’ Shirkuh had said before giving Yusuf his first command. Yusuf had never forgotten those words. Even now, when he was king of Egypt and Syria, and the conqueror of Jerusalem, he knew that he was only as strong as the men who fought for him. And those men would fight harder for a leader they could see and hear than for one who remained aloof in his tent.

Yusuf had ordered his troops to pitch their tents in a crescent that mirrored the enemy lines. He headed for the left flank. On the way, he passed through the camp market. At first, it had been only a few tents, but it had grown larger every day as merchants flocked to serve the army. Now the market sprawled across the coastal plain, spreading for a quarter-mile in every direction. There were hundreds of shops, selling everything from armour to fine carpets to Frankish slaves. Near the heart of the market, Yusuf heard the clang of steel on steel. Some of the hundreds of blacksmiths in the market were already at work, repairing armour or weapons. Further on, he passed cooks busying themselves at giant kettles. Just beyond them were the baths. A dozen holes had been dug in the ground and lined with clay. A series of wooden stalls had been built over them. A line of soldiers stood waiting to pay their two fals admission. For a silver piece, they could even have hot water.

Yusuf continued on to a cluster of tents pitched beside the smooth waters of the Belus. Mamluks returning from the night-watch were removing armour before crawling into tents. Others sat breakfasting beside fires. They recognized Yusuf in his gold armour and rose as he passed on his way to the front lines, where yawning men were leaning against an earthen bulwark topped with spears. The mamluks straightened as Yusuf approached. Their commander stepped forward.

‘Morning, Malik.’ Husam’s gold tooth glinted as he spoke. A seasoned warrior ten years Yusuf’s senior, he commanded Shirkuh’s old regiment, the Asadite mamluks. They were Yusuf’s most trusted troops, which was why he had placed them across from the Christian’s main camp.

‘Anything to report?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Last night five of our men crossed the lines to visit the red tents.’

Yusuf scowled. A week ago, three shiploads of Frankish whores had arrived and set up their red tents just beyond the Frankish palisade, where they could cater to Christian and Muslim alike. For only a dirham, they would raise their ankle bracelets to touch their earrings and let the men have their way.

‘Shall I cut off their balls?’ Husam asked.

‘No.’ If he cut the balls off of every man who visited those tents, he would soon have an army of eunuchs. ‘Ten lashes for each of them.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf continued up the line, nodding to the men and stopping to speak with those he knew well. He passed Gokbori’s men; then the Kurdish troops under Al-Mashtub. The huge emir was leaning against the barricade and breakfasting on a roast leg of lamb.

‘What news?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Nothing, Malik. The Franks are as silent as death.’

Yusuf looked towards the enemy ramparts, which began a hundred yards from his own. Beyond them, he could see tents topped by standards fluttering in the wind. ‘They celebrated late into the night after Conrad’s arrival,’ he noted. ‘No doubt they are still sleeping off their excesses. Keep a careful eye on their lines, nonetheless.’

‘I always do.’

Yusuf urged his horse on to the centre of the line, where he had placed his personal mamluks, who were commanded by his sons Al-Afdal and Az-Zahir. Az-Zahir had the morning watch, and he smiled at him as Yusuf rode past. Only fifteen, Az-Zahir still had a boy’s enthusiasm. The ground was higher here, and Yusuf could see the line of his men stretching away before him: the Mosul regiments under the emir Zahir ad-Din, Nu’man’s men from Diyar Bakr, the mamluks of the eunuch Qaimaz an-Najmi and finally Ubadah’s men securing the far wing. Yusuf was just approaching Nu’man when a horn sounded in the Frankish camp. Ahh-hoo. Others joined it. Ahh-hoo. Ahh-hoo. Ahh-hoo. .

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Nu’man grumbled. The short man pulled the battle-axe from his back and scrambled to the top of the barricade.

Yusuf pulled on his helmet, dismounted and joined him. The call of the Frankish horns faded, and the only sound was the distant crash of the waves. Yusuf searched the Frankish lines but saw no activity. His stomach twisted with nervous tension. ‘Bring more men forward,’ he told Nu’man. ‘Send the message-’

His voice was drowned out by a mighty roar from the Franks. All down the enemy line, sergeants poured over the barricades. Crossbowmen came first, followed by spearmen, all screaming war cries. ‘For Christ!’ ‘For the Kingdom!’ ‘Death to the infidel!’ As the Franks sprinted across the open ground between the lines, archers took to the ramparts behind them and let fly, filling the sky with arrows.

‘Get down, Malik!’ Nu’man shouted as he pulled Yusuf down behind the barricade. The arrows hissed past to shatter on the earth behind them. Others buried themselves in the top of the earthen barricade.

Yusuf ignored the arrows as he ran for his horse. He swung into the saddle, drew his sword and waved it over his head. ‘To the barricade, men!’ he shouted as he rode down the line. ‘To the barricade!’

The mamluks on watch had already mounted the bulwarks and were shooting arrows into the onrushing Franks. More men were rushing towards the lines. Yusuf galloped past a half-dressed man, his mail worn over bare legs and feet. Another soldier rushed by in only a tunic, his spear and shield in hand. Yusuf reached the centre of the line and reined in. He shouted for Az-Zahir and then saw his young son on the rampart. The first Franks were reaching the line and scrambling up the earth bank. Az-Zahir hacked a man down with his sword. He impaled another. Then he fell.

Yusuf slid from the saddle and sprinted for the barricade. He could hear Saqr shouting, but he ignored him. He ran up the rampart, but saw no sign of his son. All along the line, Franks were swarming up the barricade. Some stopped to yank out the spikes that Yusuf’s men had placed on the face of the slope. Others paused to loose crossbow bolts. One zipped past Yusuf. He saw another Frank about to shoot and raised his shield just before a quarrel slammed into it. He shifted his shield to block a Frankish blade and lunged, slicing through his attacker’s throat. Saqr joined Yusuf on the wall and began shouting orders. Three mamluks stepped in front of Yusuf to protect him, and Saqr pulled him away from the fighting.

‘Az-Zahir!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Az-Zahir!’

‘Here, Father!’

The boy sat ten feet away, at the edge of the rampart. He was clutching his leg, and as Yusuf knelt beside him, he saw that there was a crossbow quarrel through his son’s calf. The boy was fighting back tears. Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘See that he is taken to safety and his wound looked after.’

Saqr’s reply was swallowed up by another roar from the Franks. Yusuf looked north down the line to where hundreds of fresh troops were striking the right flank. They swarmed up the barricade and Ubadah’s men gave ground, retreating down the far side of the rampart.

‘Yaha!’ Yusuf cursed. He had hoped that Ubadah’s troubles were over. He should never have given him such an important command. ‘Saqr! Go and bring my personal guard to strengthen the right flank.’

‘What of Az-Zahir?’

‘I will see to him. Go!’

Saqr scampered down the face of the rampart and mounted his horse. He was galloping away when Az-Zahir struggled to his feet and pointed towards the enemy lines. ‘Look, Father!’

Directly across from Yusuf, one of the gates that closed off a gap in the Frankish bulwark had opened and dozens of knights were charging forth, their mounts’ hooves kicking up plumes of dirt as they raced across the sandy soil.

‘Stand fast!’ Yusuf shouted to the men around him. ‘Spearmen to the fore!’

A line of mamluks stepped forward and braced the butts of their spears against the ground. Yusuf took a spear and joined them. The knights had reached the mid-point between the two barricades. They slowed to a walk so they could form a line, their horses shoulder to shoulder. The knights lowered their lances as they picked up speed again. The Frankish sergeants scattered to either side as the knights approached at a gallop. Yusuf dug his feet into the loose earth atop the bulwark and raised his shield.

The knights charged up the slope, shields in hand and lances couched. ‘For Islam!’ Yusuf shouted, and his men echoed his cry. The shout of the mamluk to his left was cut short as he was skewered by one of the Frank’s long lances. Yusuf took a lance on his shield and was knocked on his back. He curled into a ball as a horse galloped overhead. He started to rise when a hoof caught him in the ribs. He fell flat, struggling for breath. He spotted Az-Zahir a few feet away, crouched behind his shield. Yusuf crawled to him. ‘Can you walk?’ he shouted, and Az-Zahir nodded.

Yusuf looked about him. The knights had crashed through the line, leaving dead men in their wake. They were now galloping past tents as they drove deep into the Muslim camp. On the other side of the rampart, the Frankish sergeants were rushing towards the gap opened by the knights.

‘We must fall back; lean on me.’ Yusuf put his son’s arm around his neck and together they stumbled and skidded down the rampart. The first tents were only fifty yards from the barricade, but their progress was slow. Az-Zahir cried out in pain with every step. Yusuf glanced back to see the first sergeants cresting the ramparts. ‘Hurry!’ he urged his son. Az-Zahir gritted his teeth and limped faster. From behind, Yusuf could hear the Franks’ battle cries. He dared not look back. The hairs on his neck rose. He could almost feel the point of a Frankish spear driving into his back. And then they reached the tents. He pulled Az-Zahir behind the second one they came to. A sergeant rushed past a moment later, followed by another, and another.

‘Go on!’ Az-Zahir told him through clenched teeth. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, and it was all he could do to stand. ‘You will stand a better chance without me. You must rally the men.’

Yusuf nodded. He lowered Az-Zahir to the ground.

‘Give me a knife, Father.’

‘No.’ Yusuf knelt before him. ‘Do not throw your life away. If they find you, yield. I will ransom you.’

Az-Zahir shook his head. ‘I will not dishonour you, Father.’

Yusuf slapped him. ‘This is no game, boy! Honour counts for nothing if you are dead. Do as I say.’

Yusuf did not wait for a response. He turned and ran, dodging between the tents. He heard shouting from behind. ‘There! The one in gold! He’s their king!’ Yusuf swerved left behind a tent, where he ran headlong into a man on foot, knocking both of them down. The man Yusuf had hit was a fellow Muslim, and judging by the stains on his tunic, a cook. Wide-eyed, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the three saddlebags he had dropped. A thief. The man sprinted away, but he had not got ten feet when a knight at his back ran him down. The knight’s lance hit him between the shoulder blades and exploded from his chest in a shower of blood. The knight reined to a stop as he tried to free his lance from the dead man’s body. He saw Yusuf rushing at him, but too late. Yusuf’s thrust caught the knight in the armpit, where there was no armour. The Frank’s eyes widened in surprise, and he mouthed a silent Oh! Then he slumped to the ground, landing with a crash.

Yusuf pulled himself into the saddle and quickly surveyed the field. Ubadah’s wing had rallied and was now pushing the Franks back. On the left, Gokbori had led his men in a charge, covering for Al-Mashtub, who had brought his mamluks down the line to cut off the Franks who had broken through. The Frankish foot-soldiers had spread out to loot the tents of Yusuf’s men. Most of the knights had continued into camp and surrounded the hill where Yusuf’s tent stood. A hundred members of Yusuf’s private guard stood atop the hill, fending off twice that number of Franks. If the tent fell, then Yusuf’s men would think him dead. The entire army might collapse.

Yusuf waved his sword over his head. ‘Your king is here! To me, men! To me!’

Men stepped out from behind the tents where they had been hiding. Soon, a dozen mamluks surrounded Yusuf, with more on their way. ‘You,’ he instructed a man. ‘Run to Taqi ad-Din. Tell him to send men to my tent. You, go to Al-Mashtub and say the same. The rest of you, come with me.’

There were thirty mamluks with him now. As they came clear of the tents, Yusuf spurred his horse and shouted, ‘For Allah!’ His men echoed the cry and sprinted after him. They struck the Frankish knights in the rear. Yusuf drove between two men. His sword glanced off the helm of the one on the right, and he slammed his shield into the face of the one on his left. His men came after him and dragged the knights from their saddles. Yusuf pressed on, hacking left and right. He felt a sword glance off his side. Another struck the side of his helm, setting his head ringing. He roared and swung blindly. He felt his sword dig into flesh, and when he swung again, a spray of crimson blood flew from the blade.

On the hill above, the men of his khaskiya had seen him and were fighting with renewed vigour, pushing the Franks back. Yusuf lowered his gaze just in time to see a Frank driving his sword towards his gut. He twisted out of the way and hacked down, catching the Frank on the wrist and severing his hand. Another knight raised his sword to strike, but he was grabbed from behind by his mail coif and pulled from the saddle. Ubadah rode over him as he came alongside Yusuf. His nephew’s face

was spattered with blood.

‘Shukran, Nephew.’

Ubadah had struck the knights’ flank with three dozen mamluks, and fifty more, with Saqr and Al-Mashtub at their head, were driving into the Christians from the other side. One of the knights shouted for the retreat. The Franks wheeled their horses and drove past the mamluks that Yusuf had led into battle.

‘For Allah, men!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘With me!’ He galloped after the knights, across the plain and in amongst the tents. The Frankish foot-soldiers were also retreating, lugging their loot with them. Yusuf slashed one of them down from behind. Another sergeant dropped the heavy bag he was carrying and turned to give battle. Yusuf took his spear thrust on his shield and slashed down, catching the man in the neck. The Frank twisted as he fell, spraying blood in an arc.

Ahead, knights were riding over the barricade and sergeants were scrambling after them. Yusuf struck down two more as he rode up the rampart. Before him, the Franks were sprinting for the safety of their lines. To his right, he could see that Ubadah’s men were driving the Franks before him. On the left flank, Gokbori’s men had reached the ramparts of the Frankish camp. A horn sounded behind the Frankish lines, and Yusuf saw sergeants running from the rampart facing the city to reinforce the barricades across from Yusuf’s camp. The blast of the horn had hardly faded before the gates of Acre opened and the Muslim garrison poured out to strike the now abandoned ramparts. Some of the sergeants turned back to meet the threat. Others milled about, unsure what to do.

‘We have them now!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘We will drive the infidels into the sea from which they came! Yalla! Yalla!’ He spurred his horse down the far side of the bulwark and galloped across the sandy ground. He raised his sword as he closed on the rearmost of the fleeing sergeants.

‘Malik! Malik! Stop!’

Yusuf pulled back on the reins. Ubadah, Al-Mashtub and Saqr drew alongside with only a dozen mamluks. ‘What has happened? Where are the rest?’ Yusuf looked back and his eyes widened in disbelief. His men had turned back and were returning over the barricade and into camp. The men on the left and right flanks had also turned back. ‘We had victory in hand. Where are the cowards going?’

‘We had best join them, Malik,’ Al-Mashtub urged. ‘We cannot remain here.’

Yusuf gave a last look to where the Franks were still fleeing towards their camp. He had been so close. When he spoke, his voice was as sharp as a well-honed sword. ‘To camp, men.’

As they reached the top of the bulwark, Yusuf dismounted and took Ubadah aside. ‘You fought bravely today, Nephew. You saved my life.’

‘Each time I kill a Frank, I pray that he is John. That is why I fight; not for you.’ Ubadah turned and stalked away.

‘Father!’

Yusuf looked to see Az-Zahir limping up the rampart. His anger faded, and he went to embrace his son. ‘Alhumdillah. You are safe.’ Yusuf pulled back and then noticed that the camp before him was nearly empty of men. ‘Where is the army?’

‘The merchants and some of the rearguard thought we were defeated when the Franks breached our lines. They plundered our own men’s tents and fled. I tried to stop them, Father, but they would not listen. When our men saw what was happening, they abandoned the attack to retrieve their belongings.’

The stupid fools! Yusuf’s jaw clenched, and he could feel the veins at his temples throbbing. He turned to where his emirs where gathered. ‘Saqr! Gather up the enemy dead and have them dumped in the river, downstream of our camp. Al-Mashtub, round up the thieves. Bring all that they have taken back to camp and see that it is returned to its owners.’

‘And the men who took it?’

‘I will have no thieves in my camp. They ran from the Franks; let them keep running. Take everything they own, including their clothes, and send them on their way.’

Rain drummed on the roof of Yusuf’s tent. He stared at the cup in his hand before draining it. The medicine left a bitter taste in his mouth, but it worked. His gut had been troubling him again. It felt as if there were coals burning in his stomach. The medicine extinguished them, if only for a time. ‘Shukran, Ibn Jumay.’

The Jewish doctor touched Yusuf’s forehead. ‘You are feverish.’ He poured another cup of water, to which he added several powders from his supplies. ‘Drink this as well.’

‘What is it?’

‘Crushed coriander seeds and anise with poppy extract. It will ease the pain in your head.’

Yusuf swallowed the draught and grimaced at the taste. He waved to Ibn Jumay, dismissing him, but the doctor did not leave. ‘May I speak with you, Malik?’ he asked, and Yusuf nodded. ‘You push yourself too hard. You are only human. Remember what happened at the siege of Aleppo. You almost died.’

‘I did not have you with me that time.’

‘I am no miracle worker. My medicines can ease your pain, but they cannot cure what ails you. Only rest can do that, Malik. Pull back, at least until the men of Egypt arrive.’

‘And let the Franks fortify their position even more?’

‘It is not the Franks you should fear, Malik. Sickness in the enemy camp is spreading. You must pull your men back or risk infection. Disease will kill more surely than the Franks, and you cannot fight it.’

‘I will think on what you have said.’

Ibn Jumay bowed and departed. Yusuf rose and the world spun for a moment, then steadied. The air is too close in my tent. He pulled on his cloak and stepped outside. After a few deep breaths, his head cleared. He could just make out the Frankish camp through the rain. Since the battle, they had spent their days digging a deeper trench before their bulwarks. They had also built a wooden wall around their camp. They had begun to extend it along their lines, starting at the river and moving north. Men were at work on it even now, despite the rain. Beyond them, Yusuf could see pyres burning in the empty piece of ground between the Franks’ two ramparts. The Christians were burning their dead.

Every day saw more bodies on those pyres. The Franks had pulled the bodies of their dead from the river, but too late. The flux was loose in their camp, and hundreds had died already. If the disease spread to Yusuf’s men, hundreds more would join them. Ibn Jumay was right to be afraid. Yet Yusuf could not retreat. Not now. If the Franks finished that wall, their siege would be that much harder to break. And their numbers were growing. For every one that burned on the pyre, three arrived from overseas. The spring would bring even more of them. And meanwhile, the German emperor Barbarossa had reached Constantinople. Yusuf had to strike now.

‘Saqr!’ he called. ‘My horse!’

Another wave of dizziness swept over him as Yusuf climbed into the saddle. He swayed but managed to straighten.

‘Perhaps you should rest, Malik,’ Saqr suggested. ‘One of your sons can inspect the lines.’

‘I am well enough,’ Yusuf grumbled and set off into camp. At the barricade, the men had erected canvas shelters and were huddled beneath them to keep out of the rain. Yusuf noticed that some were pale, with tight skin and dark circles under their eyes. He kept his distance. Had sickness already come to his camp? How?

‘Malik.’ Husam stepped out from beneath one of the shelters. He coughed — a deep, chest-rattling cough — and spat. ‘Three more men caught visiting the red tents last night.’

The red tents. That was it. ‘Show them to me.’

Husam barked an order and two of his men jogged off. They returned a moment later marching two men in tunics before them. The men were shivering in the cold. Their faces were drawn and their eyes red. ‘Where is the third man?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Too sick to walk, Malik,’ came the reply from one of the mamluks. ‘He collapsed in the mud, just outside the prison tent. I thought it best not to drag him here.’

‘You did well.’ Yusuf turned to Husam. ‘These men are to be placed in a tent on the edge of camp. Give them a guard and their own cook. No one else is to have contact with them. And the next man to be caught visiting the red tents will be beheaded. Let it be known.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf continued down the line. He rode in silence, nodding at the men as he passed. His teeth were soon chattering. He drew his cloak more tightly about him. He was always cold of late. Near the middle of the line, he rode up the rampart to look at the enemy lines. The wall the Franks were building now extended along a quarter of their line. In a week, maybe less, it would be complete.

‘Saqr,’ he called. ‘Have the emirs gather in my tent. I will want to speak to them when I return.’

Yusuf rode back down from the barricade. His mind was busy planning as he continued up the line. He would strike tomorrow. Tonight, he would need to send a message to Qaraqush in Acre to coordinate the attack. One of Yusuf’s mamluks — a man named Isa — had already delivered several messages. Isa was a great swimmer. He would enter the sea to the south of the Frankish camp and swim under their ships and into the harbour of Acre.

Yusuf returned to his tent and dismounted. He had to lean on his horse for a moment to steady himself. Ibn Jumay’s medicine was wearing off. The pain in his gut had returned. He entered his tent to find his emirs waiting. He strode past them and sat heavily on the camp-stool.

‘We have waited long enough,’ he began. ‘Tomorrow, we will strike. We-’ He paused and his hand went to his head. The faces of the men before him blurred. He blinked, but they refused to come into focus.

‘Father!’ he heard Az-Zahir say, but his son’s voice seemed far away. The world was spinning again. He felt himself falling. Then everything went black. .