Kingdom

Chapter 4

MAY 1164: CAIRO

John’s horse trotted into the Nile, kicking up water that shone silver in the moonlight. He could just see the king ahead of him, urging his horse across the river, while all around he could hear the splashing of men and horses, visible only as dim shapes in the darkness. John looked upstream. A bright spot on the horizon told him where Cairo lay. His horse was swimming now, and the warm water of the Nile came up to John’s waist. A moment later, his mount climbed up a sandy bank on to a low island. Knights were all around him, their horses nickering in the darkness. John was the only one amongst them not in armour. He had come in his role as a priest and translator, to offer his services after the battle.

After nearly a month of facing Shirkuh’s army across the Nile, each side unable to attack, Shawar had devised a plan to surprise the enemy. He had provided one hundred members of the Egyptian army’s Armenian cavalry, elite troops who fought for the caliph despite the fact that they were Christian. They had joined four hundred Frankish knights and snuck north under the cover of darkness, riding downstream while a slender crescent moon climbed across the sky. Finally, when the moon stood at its apex, their Egyptian guide had stopped at the riverbank and pointed to where an island split the river in two, making crossing on horseback possible.

John crossed the island and urged his horse into the water again. He emerged on the far bank where the men were forming a column five riders wide. He rode to the rear. At the front, Amalric rose in his stirrups to address his troops. ‘Tonight, we ride for God, to drive the Saracen scourge from these lands!’ he shouted. ‘Ride hard and ride fast, men, and when we reach their camp, show no mercy! Fill the Nile with the blood of these arse-faced, stone-worshipping bastards! For Christ!’

‘For Christ!’ the men roared back, and the army moved out at a trot. The sounds of hooves pounding on the sandy road and the jangle of tack joined the chorus of frogs along the banks of the Nile. The frogs went silent as the sky began to lighten, revealing broad green fields on either side of the river. In the distance, John could see the pyramids and the village of Giza huddled at their foot. South of the city, hundreds of cooking fires glimmered in the dawn light.

‘For Christ!’ Amalric roared and spurred to a gallop. The men surged after him, their horses kicking up plumes of sand. John slowed his mount to a walk, content to let the knights race ahead. They galloped into the enemy camp, and John heard screaming. But these were not cries of surprise or pain, but of disappointment. As John reached the camp, he saw why. The smouldering cooking fires were the only remaining trace of the enemy army. They had left before the Franks arrived.

John heard more shouting; cries of pain mixed with the terrified screams of women. He looked to see smoke rising above Giza. Finding the camp empty, the knights had moved on to sack the town. A particularly piercing wail rose above the other cries, and John winced. He thought of Zimat, of what he would do if a Frankish knight raped her.

John was riding towards Giza when he came across Humphrey, who was kicking angrily at one of the smouldering cooking fires. ‘The currish maggot-ridden bastards!’ the constable sputtered. ‘God-cursed infidels! Onion-eyed donkey cocks!’

‘Pardon, my lord,’ John said, interrupting the stream of curses. ‘Perhaps you should restrain the men.’

‘Let them have their fun. Their blood is up, and they need some sport.’

‘The Egyptians are our allies. The caliph will not look kindly on our men raping and pillaging his people.’

‘The people of Giza gave shelter to the enemies of Egypt. They made their own bed.’

John frowned. The people of Giza could hardly have refused to supply and house Shirkuh’s army. As he turned away in disgust, he spotted Amalric kneeling on the sandy shore, his hands clasped before him. John cantered over and dismounted. The king rose. ‘The craven bastards,’ he muttered and then yawned. ‘I sacrificed a night’s sleep for nothing.’ The king noticed John’s expression. ‘You look as if you had lost a friend, John. What has happened?’

‘The men are pillaging Giza.’

‘So they are.’

‘It is unholy work, sire.’

‘It is the way of war, John.’ Amalric began to walk away.

John bit back a choice curse. Then he had a sudden inspiration. ‘This is precisely why Bernard visited you, sire!’

Amalric stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Bernard said you are a poor Christian. He is right, but it is not because of what you do in the bedroom, much though that may displease God. No, it is because of moments like this, sire. When you let innocents perish by the sword, you make yourself unworthy to wear the true cross.’

Amalric’s brow knit. ‘Perhaps you are right. Humphrey! Humphrey!’

The constable strode over. ‘Sire?’

‘Go to Giza and bring the men to order. Tell them that any man who so much as touches a citizen of Giza will lose their head.’

‘But sire-’

‘Tell them!’

The king watched as Humphrey departed. Soon, the cries emanating from Giza ceased.

‘You have done God’s work today,’ John told Amalric.

‘Hmph.’ The king took the chain with the piece of the true cross from the pouch at his belt and hung it around his neck. ‘Look here, John!’ he cried as he spotted a barge surging across the Nile under the power of twin banks of oars. Shawar stood in the stern. ‘Come. You will translate for me.’

They met the barge where it ran ashore. Shawar stepped from the ship, a cup of wine in hand. ‘God grant you good day, King Amalric! I am sure you are parched after your long ride.’ He handed the king the cup.

Amalric drained it, wine dribbling from the sides of his mouth to stain his blond beard violet. ‘The craven bastards escaped our trap.’

‘Indeed. My lookouts say that Shirkuh’s army began to leave a few hours after midnight. They headed upstream, into Upper Egypt.’

‘We must follow them. How long until you can have your army across the Nile?’

‘By tomorrow afternoon.’

Amalric frowned. ‘Can they not move faster?’

‘There is no hurry, King,’ Shawar assured him with a smile. ‘Shirkuh has made a fatal blunder. He is headed south into desert lands. If he leaves the Nile, his men will die of thirst. We can follow in our own good time. He cannot escape us now.’

JUNE 1164: AL-BABEIN

John wiped sweat from his brow and rewrapped the strip of cloth that kept the harsh sunlight off his head. They had been pursuing Shirkuh’s army for three weeks, and summer had arrived in full force. A mile ahead, the hilltop town of Al-Babein shifted and wavered in the heat. It was mostly ruins, half-buried stones rising from the hillside like the bleached bones of some giant beast.

‘A bunch of arse-faced pignuts!’ Amalric cursed nearby, speaking to no one in particular. The king’s face was bright red. ‘Every time we get close, they flee. Why will the cowards not stand and fight!’

The reason was not hard to guess. John glanced back to the combined Frankish and Egyptian army marching behind them. Ranks of foot-soldiers four deep formed moving squares with cavalry riding in the middle. There were ten squares in all, comprising well over two thousand knights and eight thousand infantry.

‘Shirkuh is no coward, sire,’ John said. ‘But nor is he a fool. We outnumber his forces nearly two to one.’

Amalric grunted sceptically.

‘My lord!’ It was the constable Humphrey, pointing upstream.

They were rounding a curve in the river, and ahead John could see that Shirkuh’s army had formed a long battle line that stretched west away from the river.

A broad grin spread over Amalric’s face. ‘Praise God!’ he roared. ‘A fight at last! Constable, have the army form a line. I want my knights and infantry in the middle. Put the Armenians and Egyptian cavalry on our flanks, and hold the native cavalry in reserve.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Humphrey rode away and began shouting orders.

Amalric turned to John. ‘What do you say, Father? Does God favour us?’

‘God does not speak to me, sire.’

‘But you are a priest.’

‘I do not believe that God decides the battles of men, sire.’

Amalric frowned. ‘We cannot be too sure, though, can we?’ He kissed the fragment of the true cross that hung about his neck and then closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer.

‘Sire!’ John shouted. ‘Look!’ The Saracen ranks were dissolving as first dozens, then hundreds of men turned and galloped upstream. Within seconds, Shirkuh’s entire army was in flight.

‘God damn them, not again!’ Amalric cursed. ‘The milk-livered, craven-’ He stopped short and took a deep breath. ‘No. They will not escape this time.’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘Constable! Constable!’

‘Yes, sire?’ Humphrey called as he cantered back to join the king.

‘We will leave the infantry behind and give chase.’

‘Are you certain, sire? They will outnumber us.’

‘One of our knights is worth three of their men. We will catch them, and we will kill them, every last one of the bastards.’

‘Yes, sire.’

Amalric turned to John. ‘Bless me, Father.’ John hesitated. He had never blessed anyone. ‘Damn it! I haven’t all day. Do it, man!’

John made the sign of the cross over the king. ‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus Sancti. Grant this man courage to face his enemies and strength to defeat them.’ An image of Yusuf flashed into John’s mind, and he added, ‘And the wisdom to show mercy in victory.’

‘Amen!’ Amalric declared. One of the king’s squires handed him his shield and long lance. The other knights had grouped around him. John made his way to the edge of the men.

‘God is with us!’ Amalric shouted. ‘For Christ!’ A trumpet began to blow and the king cantered forward, followed by his knights, the Armenians and the native cavalry. John hesitated for a moment and then he pulled a mace from his saddle and spurred after them. He would not let another slaughter happen, like at Giza.

John galloped along the river, past the fields and groves of palms that bordered the Nile’s dark waters below Al-Babein. He slowed as he caught up to the native cavalry and was enveloped in a thick cloud of dust. Suddenly the riders ahead of him veered to the right, heading across green fields and leaving a wide swathe of trampled wheat. There was less dust now, and John could see the front of the charge and the Saracens beyond. They had stopped and fanned out in a battle line. Beyond them, the cultivated fields gave way to hard-baked earth and then to dunes, the sand blindingly bright under the afternoon sun.

The Frankish charge slowed and then stopped. Amalric formed his line only a hundred yards from the Saracens, close enough to see the faces of their enemy. John found himself on the right wing, with the native Christians. He spotted Yusuf’s eagle standard waving over the centre of the Saracen line. A horn sounded, and the Christians surged forward.

John stayed where he was and watched as the Frankish knights slammed into the enemy’s centre, which melted away under the attack, turning to flee into the desert. Amalric and his men followed, disappearing amongst the low dunes. But the rest of the Muslim army had not retreated. The left and right wings swooped down on the Armenian and native Christian cavalry, neither of whom showed much stomach for a fight now that the Frankish knights had left the field. Several hundred other Saracen warriors turned and rode into the desert after the Frankish knights, cutting off their retreat. Amalric had been too eager. He had ridden into a trap.

John did not need to stay to know how this battle would end. He turned his horse and spurred to a gallop. He sped past a farmer, weeping as he knelt amongst his trampled crops. John was on the river road now, kicking up dust as he raced towards where the infantry had been left behind. As they came into view, John was surprised to see that they were making camp.

‘The Saracens!’ he yelled as he rode amongst men setting up tents and starting cooking fires. ‘The Saracens are coming!’ Several men glanced at him, but no one stopped what they were doing. John reined in beside a Templar sergeant. ‘You there! What’s your name?’ The man stared at John blankly. John raised his mace. ‘Your name!’

‘Renault, but they call me Carver, Father.’

‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, your superior before God. You must do as I say. The life of every man in this army depends on it.’

The man blinked a few times and then nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’

‘Our army has been defeated. The Saracens will be here soon, and if we are not ready they will cut us to pieces. Do you understand?’ The man nodded. ‘Good. Round up the Templar sergeants and tell them what I told you. Have the men form ranks. You have my permission to kill anyone who does not do as you ask. Understood?’ The man nodded again. ‘Good. Now go, and God help you!’

The Templar hurried off, and soon enough Templar sergeants were roaming about the camp, yelling at the Egyptian and Christian foot-soldiers to form ranks and striking at those few poor souls who hesitated too long. You could always count on the Templars to follow orders. John looked up river and could see a cloud of dust approaching. That would be the Armenians and native cavalry, fleeing for their lives. The Saracens would be close behind. John turned back towards the infantry, who had formed a long column.

‘Tighten those ranks!’ he called as he rode down the line of men. ‘Shield on the outside!’ he yelled to an Egyptian who had put his shield on the wrong arm. He stopped beside a dozen men who remained outside the column. They were busy loading heavy chests on to wagons. ‘What are you doing?’

‘This is the gold the Egyptians paid us,’ one of the men explained. John recognized him as one of Amalric’s clerks. ‘The King gave me charge of it.’

‘Leave it.’

The man was aghast. ‘Do you realize how much gold is in these chests?’

‘Two hundred thousand dinars. And if we leave it, then the Saracens will stop to collect spoils instead of running us down from behind and filling your arse with arrows like a pin cushion. Better to lose the gold than the lives of men.’

‘Is it?’ the clerk asked.

John raised his mace. ‘Leave the gold, or yours will be the first life lost, friend.’

The clerk hesitated for a moment and then called for his men to join the column. It was just in time. Already, the first of the Armenians were galloping past. John could see the front ranks of the Saracen cavalry rounding a bend upstream.

He raised his voice. ‘All right, men! Keep close together now! March!’

Yusuf’s Arabian horse moved nimbly in the deep sand as it galloped around a dune. His men had split up after they rode into the desert, and now he rode with only Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and ten other men. The Frankish knights had also scattered in their pursuit. Although Yusuf could not see them amidst the maze of dunes, he had heard their loud cries — ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’ — grow steadily more dispersed. Now he raised his curved bow in one hand as he reined to a halt on some flat land between the dunes. He looked over to Qaraqush. ‘No more running, friend. It is time to do some hunting.’

Yusuf led them back the way they had come, following their tracks as they wove between the maze of short dunes. The scattered war cries of the Franks had ceased, replaced by cries of agony as Shirkuh’s men turned to attack. The Franks’ heavy horses would be clumsy in the deep, shifting sands, making them easy prey. Yusuf rounded one of the dunes and sighted seven knights a dozen yards off, their horses struggling through the sand.

‘For Islam!’ Yusuf cried as he nocked an arrow to his bow.

‘For Christ!’ the lead knight roared back. His yell was cut short as Yusuf’s arrow lodged in his throat. The other knights charged, and Yusuf’s men divided, riding in a circle around the Franks and shooting arrows into their ranks. Two of the Franks’ horses fell, and the other knights fled.

Yusuf shouldered his bow and then took up his shield and drew his sword. ‘For Allah!’ he yelled and galloped after the knights. Yusuf’s horse gained quickly on the heavy Frankish chargers. He reached the rearmost knight and slashed at him. The man blocked the blow with this shield, and chopped at Yusuf, who veered away to avoid the attack. He was angling back towards the knight when he rounded a dune and rode straight into a group of twelve more knights.

Yusuf just had time to recognize the king’s standard flying above them before he found himself surrounded and fighting for his life. A sword flashed towards his head, and he parried. He deflected another blow with this shield. He spurred forward, trying to escape the press of men, but before he could ride free a sword slammed into his back. His mail stopped the blade, but the force of the blow knocked him forward against his horse’s neck. He straightened just in time to parry a strike that would have decapitated him. Yusuf’s heart beat faster when he saw his attacker’s face. It was the king. Yusuf slashed for his head, but Amalric knocked the blow aside with his shield. The king raised his sword and then froze as an arrow thudded into his chest.

Another dozen mamluks, with Shirkuh at their head, had rounded one of the dunes and were now circling the Christians and shooting arrows. Another shaft slammed into the king’s chest. Yusuf saw no blood. The arrows had penetrated the king’s mail, but not the leather vest beneath.

‘To me!’ Amalric cried. ‘Retreat! Retreat!’ He parried a final blow from Yusuf and spurred away, his heavy horse knocking aside the mamluks’ lighter mounts. The remaining half-dozen knights galloped after him.

‘It’s the King! Don’t let him escape!’ Yusuf shouted as he spurred his horse to a gallop. He came alongside the rearmost Frank. The man hacked at him, but he turned the blow aside with his own sword before swinging backhanded and catching the man in the chin. Blood spattered the sand as the knight fell.

There were still five knights between him and the king. Yusuf spurred his mount still faster, flashing by one knight, then another and another. He knocked a blow aside with his shield as he sped past the final knight. The king was just ahead now.

And then a group of knights appeared from around the side of a dune to Yusuf’s right. Yusuf just managed to raise his shield before a lance slammed into it, sending him flying. He landed in the soft sand and rolled into a ball as the Frankish horses galloped over him. He stayed huddled as he heard the clash of steel above him, the thud of hooves, then quiet. He rose slowly. The knights were gone, the king with them. Shirkuh and Yusuf’s men were gone too, no doubt in pursuit. Yusuf’s horse was nowhere to be seen. He whistled loudly, but it did not return. Yusuf sat down in the sand. There was no sense in trying to walk back to camp. He would only get lost amongst the dunes.

It seemed a long time later when he heard the drum of approaching hoofbeats. ‘There you are, young eagle!’ Shirkuh called as he rounded a dune. He slid from the saddle and embraced Yusuf. ‘Thank Allah, you are alive!’ He grinned. ‘The Franks have fled. And we have their gold.’

‘What of the King? Did he escape?’

‘Escape? Ran away, more like it.’

‘Should we not give chase?’

‘Patience, young eagle. Their infantry is intact, and they still outnumber us, even after their losses. We will let them retreat to Cairo to lick their wounds.’

‘And where shall we go?’

Shirkuh grinned his crooked-tooth smile. ‘What better way to kill a snake than to cut off its head?’

‘Cairo, then.’

‘No, Alexandria. Cairo holds the Caliph, but it is Alexandria that furnishes the wealth of Egypt and gives them access to the sea. It is the emporium of the world, where East meets West, where the caravans end their long journey from India. And we, Yusuf, are going to take it.’

JUNE 1164: ALEXANDRIA

The Shining Pearl of the Mediterranean, the City of Spices, Silk City, City of Wonders — Iskandariyya. The city lay spread out below Yusuf as he stood at one of the windows high up in the lighthouse of Alexandria. The ships in the harbour looked like toys. Cleopatra’s needles, the twin obelisks that stood near the harbour, seemed no larger than toothpicks.

They had arrived in Alexandria that afternoon. A delegation of citizens had met them outside the walls and presented Shirkuh with the head of the Fatimid governor. The people of Alexandria were mostly Sunni Muslims and Coptic Christians, both of whom resented the rule of the Shia caliph in Cairo. They had welcomed the army into Alexandria. While the men occupied the towers that studded the walls, the city’s administrator, a Copt named Palomon, had led Yusuf and Shirkuh to the lighthouse so that they could survey the city and plan its defence.

Yusuf had heard of the lighthouse, of course. His childhood tutor, Imad ad-Din, had told him it had been constructed by the Greeks over a thousand years ago. He had described it as one of the wonders of the world, the tallest structure ever built by man, a work to rival that of God himself. None of those descriptions did the lighthouse justice. The broad base alone was taller than Alexandria’s massive walls. The lighthouse rose from the base in three steps, the first of which was a huge square block at least twice as tall as the tallest tower Yusuf had ever seen. An octagonal tower rose from the block, and a circular tower rose from that, its tip touching the clouds. It was unbelievable that something so tall could stand. The secret, Palomon had told him, was that the huge blocks of white stone were soldered with lead.

The sun was setting by the time they reached the top. Shirkuh had huffed with every step, turning so red that Yusuf had worried his stout, bow-legged uncle would not survive the climb. But finally the stairs had ended and they had stepped into a circular room surrounded by arched windows. Shirkuh had staggered to a window and leaned against the embrasure. Yusuf had joined him there, and neither man had spoken a word since.

‘This must be how Allah feels,’ Yusuf murmured at last.

‘She is spectacular, is she not?’ Palomon said as he came up behind them. ‘Still, Alexandria is smaller than she once was. The ruins beyond the walls mark the boundaries of the ancient city. Canals bring water from Lake Mareotis, which is used to water the public gardens, there.’ He pointed to an expanse of green in the south-eastern corner of the city. ‘The gardens may be used for food in the event of a siege.’ He pointed to the opposite side of the city, where there stood a huge structure of white stone buildings piled one atop the other. ‘That is Dar al-Sultan, the palace complex. You will stay there, Emir.’

Yusuf was only half listening. He was busy examining the city walls. They were twenty feet high and nearly as thick as they were tall. ‘Four gates,’ he counted, ‘and twenty-one towers.’

‘How many men can the city offer for the defence of the walls, if it comes to that?’ Shirkuh asked Palomon.

‘The Fatimid troops are all in prison or have fled. We can put maybe five thousand men in arms, but they are not soldiers.’

‘We will hold them in reserve.’ Shirkuh addressed Yusuf. ‘We have six thousand of our own men remaining. They will guard the walls. We’ll post fifty men in every tower and a hundred at each of the four gates. That leaves-’ He began counting on his fingers.

‘Forty-five hundred,’ Yusuf supplied.

‘Forty-five hundred men in reserve,’ Shirkuh agreed. ‘Plus the men of Alexandria. We’ll position half near the palace and half in the east, near the gardens.’

Yusuf did not reply. He had thrust his head out of the window to look straight down at the base of the tower. He felt suddenly unsteady, as if he were standing on a ship at sea, the deck moving beneath him. He gripped the sides of the window embrasure, but the tower would not stop moving. He turned away and vomited.

‘It happens to many on their first visit,’ Palomon said. ‘Come. There is a Coptic church atop the lighthouse. The priests are allowed to worship there in return for tending the fire. They will have water for you to rinse your mouth.’

He led them upstairs to a room identical to the one below, except that there was an altar along the east wall with a cross hung over it. It was surprisingly warm. There was no one in the room. ‘The priests will be upstairs, tending the fire,’ Palomon said, continuing up a second staircase.

When Yusuf stepped into the room above, a sudden blast of heat made it seem as if he had walked into an oven. A huge fire burned within a giant bronze brazier set in the middle of the floor. Smoke rose through a soot-covered hole in the ceiling. Two priests were throwing cords of wood on the fire. They wore nothing but loincloths, and their skin glistened in the firelight. A third priest in a brown robe was poking at the fire with a long, bronze rod. Yusuf could only look at the fire for a moment. It was so hot in the room that even breathing was painful.

Palomon waved at the priest who was tending the fire. ‘Father Josephus! Water!’

‘Water!’ the priest shouted back over the roar of the flames. He set the bronze rod aside and went to a barrel, from which he took a cup of water. He crossed the room and handed it to Yusuf. The water was warm. Yusuf rinsed his mouth and spat out of the window.

‘Shukran!’ he shouted and then turned away. He could not stand the heat any longer. He hurried down the stairs and stood at one of the windows, gulping the cool sea air.

Shirkuh joined him at the window and pointed to the city below. A last ray of sunlight illuminated the city, transforming the canals into molten gold. ‘Look at it,’ Shirkuh whispered to Yusuf. ‘The most magnificent city in the world. And it is ours!’

Yusuf stood at one of the windows of the lighthouse and looked down to where the waves crashed upon the rocks at its base. The dawn light tinged the white foam pink. Yusuf climbed to the top of the tower each morning. At first, he had come to conquer his weakness — the dizzying sensation that left him retching on the floor. After a week the sick feeling had left him, and he found that he enjoyed being so high above the world. He raised his gaze to look out to sea. The endless waves stretching to the horizon appeared motionless from this height. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the salty sea air.

‘Pardon me, sayyid.’

Yusuf opened his eyes. It was Saqr, the boy that he had found in the desert long ago, after Reynald and his men had slaughtered his family. But Saqr was no boy now. He had been a mamluk for nearly a year. He had been posted as a lookout because of his sharp eyes. Saqr claimed that he could spot a hare sitting motionless in the desert sands at eight hundred paces.

‘I think I see something,’ the young mamluk said. ‘In the east.’

Yusuf crossed the room and looked out, squinting against the newly risen sun. He thought he could make out a cloud of dust in the distance. ‘A dust storm?’

‘Look again, sayyid. You can see the reflection of sunlight off steel. There are riders in the dust.’

‘Hmm. Yes.’ In fact, Yusuf saw nothing. He was only twenty-eight and his eyes were growing feeble. He felt old for the first time in his life. Then he saw it, a flash of steel. He saw another, then dozens more, then hundreds. It was an army.

‘Well done, Saqr! Hurry to the palace and inform Shirkuh. Tell him to meet me here.’

By the time Shirkuh arrived, red-faced and panting, the Frankish and Egyptian army covered the plains east of the city, stretching from within a mile of the walls all the way to the horizon.

‘How many?’ Shirkuh asked as he joined Yusuf at the window.

‘More than ten thousand. Too many to fight.’

Shirkuh frowned. ‘They have no need to fight. They will block up the canals and then sit outside the walls while we run short of food and water. They will let hunger and thirst do their work for them.’

‘What shall we do?’

Shirkuh scratched at his beard while he thought. ‘We will leave,’ he said at last.

‘But we cannot abandon the people of Alexandria. We promised to defend the city.’

‘And so we shall. You will stay with a thousand men; enough to man the walls. I will take the rest of the army south into Upper Egypt. Hopefully, my raids there will draw the Frankish army away from Alexandria.’

Yusuf looked back to the enemy troops, who were still pouring over the horizon. ‘And if the Franks do not leave?’

‘Then you must hold the city for as long as you can.’