Holy War

Chapter 22

September 1191: Near Arsuf

John’s aching back woke him before sunrise. He sat up and felt another stab of pain. He had spent the last sixteen days in the saddle as the army crept south from Acre. The Saracens had harassed them constantly, shooting arrows into the column before peeling away. Their attacks forced the foot-soldiers to shuffle along in close formation. Richard was content to cover only a few miles a day. The army marched only in the morning before the day grew hot, and they stopped whenever they reached fresh water. Each afternoon, they set up a stockade before bedding down for the night.

John had not spent so much time in the saddle since he was a much younger man, and he was suffering for it. Sleeping on the hard ground had done nothing to help. He reached back to massage the tense muscles for a moment. Then he rose and went outside. The air was cool, which was a refreshing change from the past weeks. The autumn rains would come soon. The camp was silent and the tents around him barely visible in the dim light. As he made his way towards the river, the cicadas started up, filling the air with their song. The guard at the gate yawned as he waved John through.

John stripped off his caftan and waded into the stream just outside the stockade. He scooped up a double handful of the cold water. It was brackish this close to the sea, but still drinkable. On the far side of the stream, trees were appearing out of the darkness as the sky brightened. They were massive oaks, some of their canopies spreading so wide that two hundred men could have gathered beneath them. Yesterday, the army had marched through those woods, accompanied by the pungent odour of the acorns they ground to dust beneath their feet.

John dunked his head and came up shivering. He bathed every morning, even on cold days. It was a habit he had learned years ago in the household of Yusuf’s father. John found his thoughts returning to that time more and more often. He had been a slave, yet those had been some of the sweetest years of his life. He had spent his days studying and teaching Yusuf to fight, and his nights with Zimat. Closing his eyes now, he could still see her long black hair, her dark eyes, her skin the golden colour of desert sands. She had asked him to take her away with him, and he had refused. He had spoken to her of duty and honour. He had been a fool.

He left the river and made his way back to camp. Yawning men were stumbling from the large barracks tents. They moved stiffly, sore after days of marching. John fetched his helmet and followed them to where the cooks stood over their huge cauldrons. He joined the line of men waiting to have tasteless boiled wheat ladled into their upturned helmets. John ate as he returned to his tent.

As secretary to the king, he had his own small tent and a servant to tend to his needs. The servant — a serious boy with a milky-white, pudgy face that had earned him the unflattering nickname Suet — had scrubbed John’s mail and laid it out. John dressed in leather breeches, a padded jerkin, a long mail hauberk that fell to his knees and a mail coif to protect his head and neck. Suet helped him pull on a surcoat bearing Richard’s three lions, and then handed him the round, open-faced helm, which was now cleaned. John buckled his mace at his side and stepped outside. Men were everywhere — pulling on armour, packing up the barracks tents, sharpening blades, taking down the barricade and loading the logs and other supplies aboard longboats to be rowed through the surf to the ships that mirrored the army’s progress each day. John wove through the chaos to Richard’s tent.

Each morning, the king met with the native lords to ask about the terrain ahead. John would have preferred to absent himself, but Richard had made it clear that if he did not attend, his loyalty would be called into question. So each day John went and stood tight-lipped. He would be damned if he was going to do anything more to help Richard.

Today, John was the first to arrive. Robert de Sable came next. The Frenchman was a fleshy man with red cheeks and close-set eyes. He had served Richard for years, and as a reward, the king had installed him as Grand Master of the Temple. As such, de Sable felt he had a place at the council of native lords. The Hospitaller Grand Master, Garnier of Nablus, scowled at Robert as he entered. There was no love lost between those two. Nablus had been raised in the Holy Land and thought Robert a fool. Balian and Guy came next. King Guy, John corrected himself. Before leaving Acre, Richard had declared him to be the king of Jerusalem, with Conrad as his heir. Conrad had taken his men back to Tyre in protest. That was another eight hundred men lost, including Reginald of Sidon, who had taken Conrad’s side. The army, which had numbered nearly twenty-four thousand on the day that Acre fell, had been reduced to half that number. The Saracen army was still twenty thousand men strong.

Richard arrived last, as always. He spent the mornings with his men, breakfasting each day with a different set of common troops. The king’s sunburnt face was finally starting to heal, and he was in good spirits, despite the hardships of the march. He grinned. ‘What lies before us today, men?’

‘We should reach Arsuf,’ Nablus said in his high, reedy voice.

‘What is the road like?’

‘Open, Your Grace,’ Balian said. ‘No river crossings, no obstacles. The coastal plain is more than a mile wide.’

‘A good place for Saladin to attack,’ Nablus noted.

Richard nodded. ‘We will march in close formation. De Sable, you will ride in the vanguard with Hugh of Burgundy. I will march in the centre with King Guy. Nablus, you will command the rear. Our strength is in our discipline. If any man leaves the column without my order, I’ll have his tongue. Is that understood?’ The lords nodded. Richard ended each morning council with those words.

Balian caught up to John outside the tent. ‘There will be a battle today, John. I can feel it.’ He arched his back and it cracked. ‘War is a young man’s pursuit. I feel as if I’ve been on the rack.’

‘I have been on the rack,’ John replied. ‘It is much worse.’

‘Hah. I suppose it is.’ Balian became suddenly serious and lowered his voice. ‘Keep yourself alive, John, but do not strive too mightily to keep the Saracens from bashing in Richard’s brains. He would have died at Acre were it not for you. We might all be better off if he had.’

John looked about and was relieved to see that none of Richard’s knights were near by. He was glad to know he was not the only one who did not care for Richard, but he did not want to end his days swinging from a noose. ‘Careful, Balian. Such words could get you killed. We will talk more of this later. God save you.’

John strode to where Suet held his horse, an even-tempered chestnut. He hauled himself into the saddle. The column was forming up along the coast, the foot-soldiers making a box around the cavalry. The ranks of sergeants were five rows deep on the landside. They were the men Richard liked to call pincushions, who were there to protect the knights’ horses from the arrows of the Saracen skirmishers. At the fore and rear of the army, the ranks of foot-soldiers were fifty across and twenty men deep. Three divisions of cavalry, each four hundred strong, would ride at the centre of the box. Altogether, the column covered nearly half a mile.

John took his position with Richard and the English lords. As they set out, the sun was smouldering just above the hills to the east, transforming the sea into a swirling cauldron of gold and pink and red. The longboats were cutting through the waves, headed towards the twenty ships that carried the army’s baggage. A cool sea breeze brought the tang of salty air and the cry of gulls. Wet sand crunched beneath the hooves of John’s horse. As they rode, the coastal plain widened, the hills retreating inland until they were barely visible on the horizon. There was no sign of the Saracens. Then John heard it: the beat of distant drums, low and steady, like a pulse.

‘They are late this morning,’ Richard noted. ‘Perhaps they grow tired of this game.’

The drums grew louder and were joined by the piercing wail of war horns. Haa-room! Haa-room! The foot-soldiers in the column nervously eyed the hills to the east. John saw a few of them take their shields from their backs, but there was still no sign of the enemy. The tide was coming in, the crashing surf competing with the beat of the drums. Above all the noise, the war horns continued to wail. Haa-room! Haa-room!

‘There they are!’ de Preaux called.

Young eyes. John squinted to the east but saw nothing. Richard had seen them though. ‘Tighten ranks!’ the king roared. ‘Shields up!’ The command was relayed forward and back down the line. The foot-soldiers unslung their shields from their backs and held them so that they overlapped, forming a wall around the outside of the formation. The pace slowed to a crawl and the column shrank to no more than a quarter-mile as the men tightened ranks.

They shuffled along in this formation for what seemed to be ages before John finally caught sight of the Saracen standards rising above the horizon. A black line of men appeared, rushing forward like flood water to fill the sandy coastal plain. There were thousands upon thousands of men formed in a crescent that stretched for more than a mile from tip to tip. Those were no mere skirmishers. Saladin was committing his infantry. Balian was right; the Saracens meant to do battle.

Richard was grinning. ‘At last. I was beginning to fear Saladin had no taste for blood.’ The king turned to his young cousin. ‘Henry, ride forward and remind Hugh’s Frenchmen to hold their place until my order. John, go and tell Nablus the same.’

John was happy to be away from Richard. He wheeled his mount and cantered down the line, his horse kicking up wet sand as he rode in the gap between the cavalry and infantry on the ocean side. The men of the rearguard had already turned around to march backwards so that their shields formed a wall protecting the army’s back. Behind the shield wall came ranks of spearmen and then crossbowmen. John found Nablus riding just behind the crossbowmen.

‘Grand Master,’ he greeted him.

‘John. Saladin means to test us today.’ Nablus nodded towards the advancing Saracens. They were armoured in a mix of pale padded cotton and dark boiled leather. Spears rose above the enemy ranks.

‘Richard bids you keep tight formation. Do not charge until his signal.’

‘I know my duty.’

‘I did not doubt it. God keep you, Nablus.’

‘And you, John.’

By the time he returned to Richard’s side, the Saracen infantry were only a hundred yards off. John spied mostly black Nubians and tanned Egyptians amongst their ranks. A horn sounded and was joined by the beat of drums, the wail of bagpipes and the war cries of thousands of men. The enemy charged as one, and the ground rumbled under the pounding of their feet.

John took his long, kite-shaped shield from his saddle and thrust his left arm through the leather straps. The enemy was only fifty yards away. Now forty. . The archers on the seaward side of the Frankish line let fly, and their shafts arced over the column to fall amongst the Saracens. The effect was no more than swatting at a cloud of gnats. A few Saracens fell, but the rest charged on. When the front ranks of the enemy were only twenty yards away, they stopped and hurled their spears. Most clattered off the wall of shields, but there were scattered cries of pain as a few struck home. The Frankish foot-soldiers wore mostly leather or padded cotton armour, which provided poor protection if anything got past their shields. Holes appeared in the ranks as men collapsed. They were carried to the coast, where longboats waited to take them out to the ships. Fresh men stepped out to take their places.

‘They are sticking it to the pincushions!’ Richard roared merrily.

The front ranks of the Saracens peeled back, and more men stepped forward to hurl their spears. They aimed higher this time, sending the javelins over the ranks of the infantry. One of the spears hurtled straight towards John. He blocked it, and the force of the impact set his shield quivering and left his arm numb. The onslaught continued as the column crept up the coast. Rank after rank of Saracens ran forward to hurl their spears before peeling back. The Christian arrows took their toll, leaving dozens of the enemy dead or injured on the field, but the Christian losses were worse. Finally, the last of the Saracen infantry cast their spears. As they peeled back, light cavalry galloped forward, shooting arrows as they rode. The air filled with the hiss of deadly shafts. Most were absorbed by the wall of foot-soldiers, but a few fell amongst the cavalry. One hit John in the chest. He snapped the shaft off. At this distance, the blow had been too weak to penetrate the padded vest beneath his mail, but it would leave a bruise all the same. Another arrow lodged in the leather of his saddle. The Saracens were trying to take out the knight’s horses. De Preaux’s mount was struck in the neck, and the beast stumbled and fell, taking the young knight with it. De Preaux’s leg was pinned beneath the dying beast, but he finally managed to pull free. He cut the horse’s throat and limped after Richard. He would have to go on foot until a fresh mount was brought for him.

The Saracen cavalry had wheeled away long before they reached the range of the Frankish spears. Another wave of mounted archers followed, and another after that. The air was constantly filled with arrows. The men on the outside of the Frankish line stayed for only a moment before retreating inward, while fresh men stepped out to take their place. The sun rose above them, and John was soon sweating beneath his mail. And still the column shuffled forward, leaving the bodies of the dead behind on the plain.

By noon, the foot-soldiers along the line did indeed look like pincushions, with arrows protruding here and there from their padded armour. John had half a dozen arrowheads lodged in his mail. A chance arrow had caught him in the left calf just below the knee, and his boot was slowly filling with blood. He was lucky to still have his horse. They had lost well over a hundred mounts, forcing many of the knights to go on foot. They grumbled and cursed as they stumbled on in their heavy armour. Richard rode grim-faced, clutching his sword.

And they had been spared the worst. The Saracens had focused their attack on the rearguard. John glanced back. The air was so thick with arrows that it looked as if the heavens had begun to rain down death. Thousands of mounted mamluks swarmed around the lines. A few had begun to dismount to take better aim, and to deadly effect. Richard had been forced to reinforce the rearguard with men from the rest of the column.

‘Arsuf at last!’

John turned to see Guy pointing ahead. He could just make out the city, squatting on the coast a little over a mile away. Even from this distance, John could see that the walls had been toppled to prevent the Franks from using Arsuf as a stronghold.

‘And none too soon,’ Richard said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He turned in the saddle at the sound of shouting from the rear of the army. ‘By the devil’s hairy balls, what now?’

Exhausted by the constant onslaught and the long march backwards, the rearguard had begun to lag behind. Gaps opened up in the shields of the line connecting it to the rest of the army. The Saracens had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Hundreds of mamluks in mail, spears in hand, galloped forward and burst through the gaps. The ranks of foot-soldiers opened further. For a moment, John thought the line was breaking, but they were only parting to let the knights through. Nablus thundered through the gap at the head of his knights. The Saracens who had dismounted to shoot were cut down. The rest fled, Nablus and his knights close on their heels. But even as they drove the enemy back across the plain, more Saracens were slipping into the space they had left behind.

‘Curse the fool!’ Richard growled. ‘He leaves me no choice. Signal the charge!’

John took his mace from his belt as de Preaux sounded his horn. Its call was answered by horns all along the column. The line of foot-soldiers on the landward side divided to the left and right. Richard raised his sword and with a roar charged through. John put his spurs to his horse and galloped after the king.

The mamluks melted away before them, riding in headlong flight across the plain. The few Saracens who stood their ground were trampled or impaled on lances. Ahead, Richard was grinning fiercely as he drove his sword into the back of a mamluk fleeing on foot. John looked beyond him to the distant hills, where the enemy was headed. He caught the flash of sun off steel. There it was again. He knew what he was seeing. The Saracens had fled too easily. They were laying a trap. John had to tell Richard. It was his duty. Instead, he reined in. To hell with duty. To hell with Richard. The rest of the knights charged on to their doom.

Guy flashed past him. ‘Richard!’ he was shouting as he spurred his horse after the king. ‘Richard! We must stop! Stop!’

Yusuf sat in the saddle and watched as the Frankish knights thundered across the plain, driving his men before them. The mamluks and Bedouin and Turkmen skirmishers were racing towards the hills, keeping just close enough to ensure that the Franks followed. Yusuf nodded in satisfaction. ‘They have taken the bait, Saqr. It is time we withdrew. Give the signal.’

Saqr blew a long blast on his horn, and other horns answered. Yusuf turned his horse and spurred to a canter. His khaskiya, five hundred strong, came after him. The hills loomed before Yusuf, and then he was amongst them, cantering along a twisting path between two high slopes. He rounded a corner and reined to a halt. Two hundred of his spearmen waited just ahead in ranks ten deep. Archers crouched high on the slopes to either side. Once the Franks rode into the trap, more spearmen would cut off their escape.

Yusuf turned his horse on to a trail that zigzagged up the slope to his left. Az-Zahir waited atop the hill. Yusuf had given him charge of the ambushes.

‘All is ready?’ he asked his son.

‘It will be a slaughter, Father.’

From the hilltop, Yusuf had a good view of the coastal plain. His men were nearing the hills now, and the Frankish knights were still in pursuit. Beyond them, the field was littered with hundreds of dead, mostly his men. Along the coast, the Christian foot-soldiers were continuing into Arsuf. Yusuf looked back to the retreat. The first of his men had reached the hills. He saw a dozen mamluks gallop past on the trail at the base of the hill. The spearmen opened ranks to let them pass through. Four Frankish knights had followed the mamluks. They rounded the corner and charged straight on to the spearmen’s lances. Their horses fell, and the knights were cut down.

More mamluks were entering the hills to Yusuf’s left and right, with a handful of Franks in pursuit. The main body of knights was galloping closer and closer. They were almost to the hills when a horn sounded. It blew again and again, and the Frankish charge stopped just short of the hills. The knights turned and cantered back towards Arsuf.

‘Ya Allah!’ Az-Zahir cursed. ‘Why did they turn back?’

Yusuf thought he knew. John. His friend would have anticipated the ambushes. Once again, he had put his duty to the Franks ahead of his friendship with Yusuf. Damn him! Yusuf had needed this victory, and not just to stop Richard. Each night brought more desertions, and Al-Mashtub reported that the men of Al-Jazirah were still bitter that Yusuf had not let them attack at Acre when Richard murdered the garrison. A victory would have put an end to their grumbling. With defeat, it would only grow louder.

‘Shall I order the men to give chase, Father?’

‘No.’ Perhaps Yusuf could turn this setback to his advantage. ‘Have the army withdraw beyond the hills. I want no skirmishers out tomorrow during the Franks’ march to Jaffa. Let them think they have driven us off with a great victory. Inshallah, it will make them careless, and then we will strike again.’

September 1191: Jaffa

Yusuf pushed a leafy branch out of the way as he crept forward through a stand of trees. The thick undergrowth scratched against his leather breeches and tore at the dark caftan that covered his armour. He reached the edge of the woods and found Az-Zahir waiting. His son pointed across the coastal plain to where Jaffa sat, a quarter-mile distant. In the hazy light of early dawn, Yusuf could just make out the ruins of the fortress sitting high on a hill overlooking the city. His men had destroyed it and torn down the city wall before the Franks invested the town. Yusuf squinted and could see smoke against the pale sky. Campfires. The nobles had taken up residence in the city, but most of their men were camped in tents beyond the walls. They had yet to build a palisade. Why would they? They believed they had routed Yusuf’s army.

Yusuf turned to his son. Az-Zahir had command of Yusuf’s scouts. He had been watching the Franks ever since the battle of Arsuf, five days ago. ‘You say you have seen men leaving the city?’

Az-Zahir nodded. ‘Heading north to Acre.’

‘How many?’

‘Hundreds. Thousands maybe.’

‘Are they going for supplies?’

‘I think not. They take no wagons, and those who return are empty-handed. Something else draws them.’

Yusuf could guess what that was. Since the fall of Acre, Franks had been flooding into the city from overseas. The merchants, farmers and craftsmen who had fled after the fall of Jerusalem were returning. And with them came whores, eager to service the men of Richard’s army.

‘You have done well, my son. Stay here. Let me know at once if the Franks make ready to march.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Yusuf made his way through the stand of trees to where a dozen members of his khaskiya waited with his horse. He cantered back to his camp, which was hidden beyond the hills two miles from Jaffa. He had ordered his emirs to gather when he left that morning, and he found them crowded into his tent. Qaraqush, his old companion-in-arms, stood beside Al-Mashtub, who leaned on a staff to spare his ruined knee. Al-Afdal stood with two of Yusuf’s younger sons, who had joined the army after Arsuf. Mas’ud was now sixteen, and Yaqub, fourteen. Yusuf had hardly recognized them when they arrived. They had been children when last he saw them, and now they were young men, their sparse beards filled out with kohl. Muhammad and Nu’man stood with dozens of lesser emirs from the Al-Jazirah. Yusuf frowned. He had only asked for his closest advisors. The presence of these additional men boded ill.

He addressed his emirs curtly. ‘Today, we march on Jaffa. The Franks think us defeated and their pride has made them careless. The city is but poorly defended. They have not built a proper palisade, and many of their men are gone to Acre. We will charge in crescent formation, cutting them off from all escape. Al-Afdal will command the right wing and Az-Zahir, the left. I will have charge of the centre. You all know your positions, and you know your duty. The eyes of Allah are upon us. Let us make this a day of glory in his name. Let us drive the Franks back into the sea from whence they came!’

There was a time — before Acre, before Arsuf — when such a speech would have been met with cheers. But today the emirs made not a sound. They shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet his gaze. Yusuf felt a twinge in his gut. Something was wrong.

It was Muhammad who finally spoke. ‘Perhaps it would be better to wait a few days before we strike,’ he suggested in his silky voice. ‘The Franks will be more vulnerable on the march, once they have left Jaffa.’

‘They will not leave until they have finished repairing the walls and the city is lost to us. And when they do march, they will do so ready to fight. I tell you that the time to attack is now. Jaffa is only weakly held.’

‘Even in its ruined state, the citadel will not be easy to take,’ Muhammad countered. ‘The Franks will take shelter there, and we will find ourselves entangled in another siege, as at Acre. I need not remind you how that ended.’

‘Jaffa is not Acre. The Franks have only half as many men. The wall is in ruins. And this time, we have the element of surprise.’

‘I wonder why are you are eager to attack,’ Nu’man said in his rumbling baritone, ‘when you refused to strike the infidel outside Acre, after they massacred our men.’ Several emirs grunted their agreement. The pain in Yusuf’s gut sharpened.

‘If you want vengeance,’ he responded, ‘then you can have it now.’

‘How can we know this is not a trap?’ Nu’man demanded. ‘This Lionheart is a clever man. He bested us at Acre. He anticipated our ruse at Arsuf. Surely he would not leave his men defenceless.’

‘He is clever but arrogant. He thinks us defeated and has let down his guard. The city is ours for the taking!’ No one spoke. His men’s eyes were fixed on the carpeted ground. Yusuf felt anger rising within him, pushing aside the pain in his gut. His fists clenched. ‘Has Richard so unmanned you that you fear to face him? I am your king! Have you forgotten your duty?’

‘We have done our duty and more, Malik,’ Nu’man replied. ‘We have travelled far from our lands. I have not seen my wife or my children in more than two years. All that time, I have been at your side. My men have fought your battles. They have suffered hunger and cold.’

‘Perhaps if we were paid the gold we are owed-’ Muhammad started.

Yusuf’s jaw clenched. It was all he could do not to strike Muhammad. The fate of the kingdom was at stake, and Muhammad spoke of gold like some merchant. ‘The Franks carry with them the gold they took from Acre. You will have your coin when they are defeated.’

‘If they are defeated,’ Muhammad countered. ‘Pay us now if you wish me by your side in today’s battle. My men are done fighting for promises.’ The other emirs of Al-Jazirah added their assent.

Muhammad was a lost cause. He had always been more of a courtier than a warrior. Yusuf turned to Nu’man. ‘We have fought side by side many times, friend. I have saved your life, and you, mine. You would rebel against me?’

‘I am no rebel, Malik. I would fight for you even now. But my men will not.’

Yusuf’s hand went to his sword. ‘Then go!’ he shouted. ‘Go! Leave my tent before I have your heads!’ The emirs hurried out, but Qaraqush remained behind. ‘I should have them all executed,’ Yusuf muttered.

‘Your emirs are not to blame, Malik. Nu’man spoke true: the men have no heart for a fight. They fear the Lionheart.’

‘What sort of king am I, when I cannot command my own men?’ Yusuf went to a table to pour a glass of water, but then flung it to the ground. ‘Curse them all! We could have won!’

‘What will you do, Malik?’

Yusuf rubbed his beard — more grey than black now — and could feel the sharp angles of his cheekbones. He felt every one of his fifty-three years. He wanted nothing more than to return to Damascus, to spend his days with Shamsa. But that was not to be. He forced himself to stand straight.

‘Qaraqush, you will send men to destroy Ramlah, Lydda and Latrun. Take what crops are ripe from the fields and burn the rest. I will ride for Ascalon to tear down its walls. If I cannot stop Richard, then I will leave him nothing to conquer.’