Holy War

Chapter 18

November 1190: Acre

‘Any word from the Almohad caliph?’ Yusuf asked.

Imad ad-Din flipped through the stack of letters at his side. He shook his head. ‘Still nothing, Malik.’

Two months earlier, Yusuf had sent a request for aid to Al-Mansur, who ruled most of North Africa and Iberia from his capital in Marrakesh. With the request, he had sent rich gifts: a Koran covered with jewels; musk, aloe and balm of Judea; a dozen amber necklaces; and a hundred bows, seven hundred arrows, twenty saddles and the same number of sword blades. The gifts looked to have been wasted. Yusuf sighed and rubbed his temples. He could have used those bows. The German army had sacked Konya months ago and was due to arrive at Acre any day. Some said their king marched with twenty thousand men; others said it was fifty thousand or even a hundred thousand — so many men that the line of their march stretched for five miles and the broad trail of trampled ground left behind looked like a huge scar upon the earth.

‘What do you have for me?’ Yusuf asked.

Imad ad-Din had brought the previous day’s correspondence to Yusuf’s tent, as he did every day after noon prayers. He selected a tiny scrap of paper from the pigeon post. ‘Your nephew Taqi ad-Din has reached Aleppo.’

Yusuf had sent Ubadah north to raise troops. When his nephew had taken his leave, Yusuf had embraced him. ‘God keep you safe, Nephew,’ he had told him.

Ubadah had returned the embrace stiffly. ‘Farewell, Malik.’ He had mounted his horse and ridden away without looking back. Yusuf hoped that when they met again, they could put the past behind them.

Imad ad-Din finished scanning the message from Ubadah. ‘He writes that the city is well ordered and that he has been able to secure an additional one hundred mamluks. He is sending them-’ Imad ad-din stopped short as Az-Zahir rushed into the tent.

‘Father! The Germans are here!’

Yusuf rose at once. He stepped out of the tent and squinted against the bright winter sunshine. He could see the Frankish lines — the deep ditch backed by a spiked rampart with a palisade built atop it. He scanned the line but saw nothing out of the ordinary. ‘Where are they?’

‘There.’ Az-Zahir pointed north.

Yusuf could just make out a distant line of men marching along the coast. ‘There can’t be more than five thousand of them. Where are the rest?’

‘That is all of them, Father. You can see better from the tower.’

By the time Yusuf reached the top of the tower, the first Germans had reached the Frankish lines and he had a clear view of them. They stumbled into the camp looking like disinterred corpses. Their cloaks were tattered, and he could see rents in their armour. And they were painfully thin. With each step they took, many of the men’s legs shook, hardly able to support them.

‘What do you think happened to them?’ Az-Zahir murmured.

‘I do not know, but I thank Allah for it.’

This was the first good news in some time. Yusuf had attacked the Franks twice last spring, but his men had broken against their fortifications. The last supply ships to force their way through the Frankish blockade had arrived months ago, and Qaraqush and his garrison must be desperately short of food. Yusuf did not know for sure, because in August the swimmer Isa had washed up dead on the shore, a Frankish arrow in his back. Yusuf now had no way to communicate with the defenders in the city. Worst of all, the Franks continued to come from overseas in wave upon wave. Just after Isa died, three thousand more had arrived with Henry of Champagne. He had taken command of the siege. The cousin of both Richard and Philip, he was a great lord and a clever man, though you would never guess it to look at him. When Yusuf had first met him, he was surprised to see a dough-faced young man with lumpy features and muddy brown eyes.

Yusuf, meanwhile, was struggling to hold his army together. With winter looming, dozens of his emirs had returned home. The emir of Ibril had died of a fever while in camp, and Gokbori had left for Al-Jazirah to take possession of his lands. With Gokbori and Ubadah gone, Yusuf had given his sons Al-Afdal and Az-Zahir command of the right and left wings. They were brave but still young; only nineteen and sixteen. Still, Yusuf had been no older when he won his first battles. If they were not tested, they would never learn to lead.

Yusuf looked back to the Germans. There, at last, was a reason to smile. Yusuf knew that food was short in the Frankish camp. The pyres had been lit again to burn those who had died from disease or hunger. Most days they consumed several dozen corpses, though Yusuf’s men had once counted as many as two hundred men laid upon the pyres. And from the tower, he had seen fights break out at the stew pots as the men accused each other of taking more than their fair share. From the look of them, the Germans brought no food, only more mouths.

Yusuf turned to Az-Zahir. ‘Let us make the new arrivals welcome. Send a messenger to invite their commander to supper. Invite Henry of Champagne as well. And the king, Guy.’

That evening, Yusuf stood in the private section of his tent and examined his reflection in a silver mirror. He had bathed and had his servants oil his hair and perfume him with the scent of jasmine. He was dressed in a black silk caftan with geometrical patterns stitched in gold at the collar and cuffs. He wore sandals decorated with emeralds and sapphires, and tucked into his belt was his dagger with the gold hilt in the shape of an eagle. He would have preferred a simple cotton tunic and leather sandals, but tonight that would not do. He wished to impress his Christian guests. He wanted them to return to their camp with stories of his fabulous wealth. They could not know that the once seemingly inexhaustible coffers of Egypt were now issuing glass in lieu of coin; that he was not sure how much longer he could keep his men in the field on half pay. So Yusuf would dress as a great king, though in truth these robes were the last he had. He had sold the rest of his finery to pay his men.

It was a game, and it was not the first time he had played it. The siege was fifteen months old, and it had long since grown tedious. The winter rains had set in the previous month, turning the battleground into a sea of mud. Both camps huddled behind their barricades and tried to stay warm. Two months ago, Yusuf had decided to invite the Frankish commanders to dine with him in order to relieve the tedium. At first, the Franks had been wary, but now it had become a regular practice. They came for the food, and he was happy to feed them in return for information.

Saqr stuck his head through the curtain that separated Yusuf’s quarters from the rest of the tent. ‘The Franks have entered camp, Malik. They will arrive shortly.’

Yusuf stepped out into the main portion of the tent. In the centre was a low table surrounded by silk cushions piled high on the thick goat-hair carpet. The table was set with gold plates and goblets. Before each setting was a basket of steaming flatbread and a bowl filled with an aromatic dip of eggplant, toasted walnuts and raw onion. He had obtained a barrel of wine for his Frankish guests. That would help to loosen their tongues.

Yusuf sat on a camp-stool to wait. He had learned as much about the German commander as he could before the meal. It seemed that Frederick Barbarossa was dead. The Germans were now led by one of his sons, a man named Frederick of Swabia, wherever that might be.

Saqr entered. ‘Your guests, Malik.’ He stepped aside and held the tent flap.

Frederick entered first. He was a tall man with a long, gaunt face, a ruddy complexion and hair so blond it was almost white. He looked about the tent and frowned. Henry of Champagne entered next, wearing hose and a blue tunic that ill-suited his bulky figure. Guy followed. When Yusuf had last seen him, at Hattin, the king had been a heavy-set man. Now he was painfully thin, his skin hanging in folds from his jowls and neck. Yusuf was surprised to see a fourth man enter. He was stooped beneath his luxurious priest’s robes and the greyish skin of his face was as lined as the dry desert floor east of Damascus. He seemed half dead but for his eyes, which were a deep turquoise blue.

‘And who is this?’ Yusuf asked in French.

‘The Patriarch Heraclius,’ Guy replied. ‘He has recently returned from England. I thought you would wish to meet him.’

Yusuf nodded to the priest. ‘God grant you joy. You are welcome in my tent.’

‘We are honoured by your invitation,’ Henry replied. He made a small bow. Heraclius shuddered as he coughed into a silk cloth. Guy and Frederick remained stiff-backed. The German murmured something to Henry in a harsh, guttural tongue. Henry answered quietly.

‘What did he ask?’ Yusuf queried.

‘He wished to know why there are no chairs save yours, Malik. You must forgive him. Frederick is new to these lands.’

‘Of course. Please, sit.’

All save Frederick settled on the cushions around the table. The German remained standing for a moment but finally sat, awkwardly folding his long legs beneath him. Yusuf addressed him in Latin. ‘I apologize for not speaking your tongue.’

Frederick’s eyes widened. ‘How do you come to speak Latin?’

‘My father thought it wise that I know my enemy.’ Yusuf gestured to the food. ‘Please, eat.’

Yusuf scooped up some dip, whispered ‘Bismillah’ and ate. The Franks murmured their own prayers before eating. Henry, Guy and Heraclius eagerly scooped up the dip. Frederick stared at it for a long time before dipping his index finger and tasting it. He nodded and scooped up more dip. He finished his piece of bread in three bites and grabbed another. Yusuf signalled for a servant to bring more bread.

‘Frederick,’ he said. ‘Allow me to offer my condolences for the death of your father.’

‘A terrible blow.’ The German’s voice was hollow. His eyes tensed, as if he had seen something painful. He started to speak again, and the words tumbled out. ‘We had come across Anatolia with the army intact — twenty thousand men, three thousand of them knights. They all rushed to my father’s banner when he took up the cross. A mightier force you have never seen. We reached a river in Armenia, the Saleph, may God curse it. There was a bridge, but it was small and the crossing slow. My father grew impatient. He decided to ford the river on horseback. His horse stumbled, and he fell. He disappeared beneath the waters and hit his head on a rock. By the time I found him, he had drowned.’

‘When God issues his summons, none can refuse,’ Yusuf said, ‘not even kings.’

Frederick shrugged and took a long drink of wine. ‘After that, the army fell apart. We were less than a hundred miles from Antioch, but many of the lords decided to return home. As our numbers dwindled, the Turks attacked with increasing impunity. We lost hundreds to their arrows, and hundreds more to your men guarding the passes leading to the Holy Land. After that, supplies ran short. Thousands died of hunger during the long march to Acre.’ Frederick shook his head. ‘I feel as though I have seen hell.’

‘And you have come through it.’ Yusuf raised his glass of water. ‘To your safe arrival.’ Frederick and the other Franks drank glumly. Yusuf whispered ‘Alhumdillah’ before he drained his glass. Surely Frederick’s death was the work of Allah.

Servants entered with the next course: a dish of jazariyyah — tender chunks of lamb swimming in a rich sauce alongside carrots, whole garlic cloves, pearl onions and toasted walnuts. The conversation ceased as the Franks ate. They were like hungry wolves after a long winter. Yusuf was content to let them fill their bellies. He made certain that the servants kept them well supplied with wine. He had instructed them to refill the Franks’ cups after each time they took so much as a sip.

The food and wine proved too much for Frederick, who nodded off where he sat. He snorted, and his head jerked up. He murmured something in his guttural tongue and his chin fell back to his chest.

‘Forgive him,’ Henry said. ‘He travelled far today.’

‘Forgive him? We should be thanking him,’ Guy muttered. ‘The man is an interminable bore. All he speaks of is death. He’s much better company asleep.’

‘I wish him pleasant dreams,’ Yusuf said. ‘We must all seize any opportunity to escape the suffering around us. I see the pyres have been lit in your camp. It pains me to see your people suffer so. Hunger and disease are cruel enemies.’

Heraclius nodded. ‘We have lost good men.’ He paused to cough into his handkerchief. From the look of him, Yusuf guessed Heraclius would be joining those men soon enough. ‘And women, too,’ the priest added, looking to Guy.

The king drained his cup and held it up for more. ‘My wife Sibylla is dead,’ he said flatly. ‘The flux took her. Her hair fell out first, her beautiful hair. My daughters. .’ He trailed off and took another drink of wine.

Henry shot Guy and Heraclius a sharp glance. ‘Surely Saladin does not wish to hear of our suffering. It will rob him of his appetite.’

‘On the contrary, I am happy for any news you care to share. The siege drags on day after day, month after month, and there is little enough to entertain me.’ Yusuf paused as the next course arrived. Two servants carried a platter whereon pieces of roasted lamb were piled on a bed of chickpeas and bread, which soaked up the juices from the meat. More servants entered with bowls of spiced lentils for each of the guests.

‘It’s a bloody mess,’ Guy stated. His words were slurred from drink. ‘With Sibylla dead, Conrad has challenged my claim to the throne. The bastard thinks he should be king.’

‘Guy!’ Henry hissed.

‘He will know soon enough, Henry,’ Heraclius said. ‘There are no secrets in our camp.’ The priest turned to Yusuf. ‘Sibylla’s sister Isabella is next in line for the throne. Conrad has annulled her marriage to Humphrey of Toron and married her himself, although some say he left a wife behind in Constantinople. They have returned to Tyre, where Conrad has declared himself King of Jerusalem.’

‘The cocksucker!’ Guy put in.

‘I see.’ Yusuf would need to find a way to take advantage of this split amongst the Franks. He would send an envoy to Conrad. Perhaps if Yusuf recognized him as king and agreed to support his claim, Conrad would agree to withdraw his troops from Acre.

Guy finished another cup of wine and slammed it down on the table. ‘It will all be settled soon enough. Richard and Philip will be here come spring, and Conrad will be put in his place.’

‘Spring? So the French and English kings have decided to winter on Sicily?’

Henry’s lips pressed into a thin line. ‘King Guy was only speculating. We have had no news from Sicily.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Guy slurred. ‘I misspoke.’

He was a poor liar. So Richard and Philip would not arrive until spring. That was a small reprieve, but a welcome one. It gave Yusuf four more months to prepare; four more months to try to save Acre.

February 1191: Acre

Thick clouds hid the moon, and the night was dark and cold. Yusuf was sure his breath was fogging in the air, but he could not see it. He could just make out the dim shapes of the three thousand men around him. The loud crash of waves drowned out the jangle of their mail. They were volunteers all, each carrying a heavy pack filled with grain. They would be led by Al-Mashtub. The giant mamluk stood in the surf, waves foaming about his feet. He was staring out to sea.

‘The men are ready?’ Yusuf asked as he approached him.

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘The tide is out. You should just be able to round the Frankish ramparts if you stick close to the water. With the help of the dark and the roar of the waves, you should be inside their camp before they know you are there. Send a dozen men screaming towards the heart of their camp. That will be our signal to attack. In the confusion, you will push on to Acre. If you make it into the city-’

‘Send up three burning arrows,’ Al-Mashtub finished for him. ‘I know, Malik.’

Yusuf gripped his shoulder. ‘You do not have to go.’

Al-Mashtub turned towards him. The mamluk’s face was lost in shadows. When he spoke, his voice was soft. ‘I have known Qaraqush for fifty years and more. We trained together to become mamluks. We were freed in the same year. He has held the city with no reinforcements for a year now. He needs my help.’

Yusuf embraced him. ‘Keep yourself alive, friend. I need you, too.’

Al-Mashtub grinned, and Yusuf could see his teeth in the dark. ‘I don’t plan on dying, Malik. It will take more than a few thousand Franks to kill me.’

‘Allah yasalmak, Al-Mashtub.’

‘Allah yasalmak.’

Al-Mashtub moved away. Yusuf called softly after him. ‘Al-Mashtub.’ The mamluk stopped. ‘If Acre is lost, then all we have done will start to unravel. Do not surrender the city.’

Al-Mashtub nodded and went to join his men. He issued several whispered orders, and the mamluks formed a column. They set off at a jog for the Frankish ramparts, which were lit by torches burning along the palisade. Farther in the distance, lights winked on the wall of Acre.

Yusuf mounted his horse and rode back to camp with Saqr at his side. The two men climbed to the top of the tower. Looking towards the sea, he saw no sign of Al-Mashtub and his men. That was good. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and forced himself to appear calm, though his stomach was churning with nervous tension.

‘Saqr,’ he said. ‘Do you remember the night I found you?’

‘Of course, Malik.’

‘It was a night much like this. Dark, with low clouds. Not a breath of wind.’

‘I do not remember the weather, Malik. I was hiding beneath a dead man — my uncle — with a knife in my hand. I thought you were one of Reynald’s Franks, come back to kill me.’

‘I remember.’

There was a loud shout from the direction of the Frankish camp, and Yusuf’s gaze snapped to the line. There was another shout, and then a loud war cry, taken up by a dozen men. Yusuf could faintly hear it: ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Al-Mashtub’s men were behind the Frankish lines. There were answering shouts of alarm amongst the Franks.

‘Sound the charge,’ Yusuf called.

Saqr sounded his horn, and Yusuf’s men surged forward. He could hear the clink of mail and the drumming of their feet, but he saw nothing of them in the darkness. Then there they were, lit up by the Frankish torches. As the light hit them, they roared their battle cry. Horns sounded in the Frankish camp, and men rushed to the barricades. Soon, Yusuf could hear the clash of steel alongside screams of rage and pain. But the battle was not what interested him. His gaze moved to the wall of Acre in search of arrows. Al-Mashtub had fought beside him since Yusuf was a boy, since his first command at Tell Bashir. He had always been there. He was a rock that Yusuf could lean on.

He glanced back to the battle at the Frankish ramparts. A mamluk reached the top of a ladder and clambered over the palisade, only to be hacked down from behind by a huge Frank wielding a war-axe. The Frank was speared in the side by the next man up the ladder and tumbled off the wall. Yusuf looked back to Acre. Still nothing. The battle continued and the night crawled on. A gap in the clouds let in the moonlight, turning the sea silver. There was no sign of Al-Mashtub’s men on the coast. The clouds closed again. At the barricade, the battle began to slacken as the combatants tired.

‘It has been too long,’ Yusuf murmured. ‘They should have reached the city by now.’

‘There, Malik!’

Yusuf looked in the direction Saqr was pointing and saw a flaming arrow arcing from the wall of Acre to fall in the ocean. Another arrow followed, and then another.

Saqr grinned. ‘They made it.’ He blew his horn to signal the men at the barricade to fall back.

‘Alhamdulillah,’ Yusuf whispered, his voice swallowed up by the blast of the horn. ‘Thank God.’