Eagle (50 page)

‘You are injured,’ Yusuf said.

‘It is nothing.’ Nur ad-Din raised his voice: ‘To me, to me! Stay and fight!’

‘It is no use, my lord. Your army has fled. You must retreat.’

‘I will not let these dogs defeat me,’ Nur ad-Din growled.

Yusuf met his lord’s eyes. ‘They have already defeated you, malik. Do not let them kill you as well.’

Nur ad-Din’s shoulders slumped. ‘Very well,’ he whispered, but he did not move. All energy seemed to have suddenly left him.

Yusuf looked back to the onrushing mass of Frankish
foot-soldiers, only fifty yards off now. One of the soldiers hurled his spear, and it landed only a few yards short of Yusuf’s horse. Other Franks stopped and nocked arrows to their bows. Yusuf turned back to Nur ad-Din. ‘We must ride, malik!’ He grabbed Nur ad-Din’s reins and then spurred away, pulling the malik’s horse after him. The guard fell in around them. They had not gone far when arrows began to fall all about them. One struck Yusuf’s horse in the flank, and the beast stumbled, throwing him. Yusuf jumped clear and rolled to his feet. Nur ad-Din had reined to a stop, seemingly oblivious to the arrows striking the ground around him.

‘Ride!’ Yusuf shouted to him, but the king did not move. ‘Qaraqush, al-Mashtub! Get him out of here! We will hold them off long enough for you to escape.’

‘Allah preserve you, Yusuf!’ Qaraqush called as he grabbed Nur ad-Din’s reins and led him away at a gallop.

Yusuf turned to face the Franks. ‘Come on, men!’ he shouted as he charged towards the enemy. ‘For Islam! For Nur ad-Din!’

‘Christ’s blood! He’s gone mad,’ John whispered. The retreating Muslim army rushed past him as he sat astride his horse on a low hill, watching as Yusuf and a dozen men charged into a mass of thousands of Franks. The two sides collided, and for a moment Yusuf’s charge held. From this distance, his men in their dark chainmail looked like a steel blade as they drove deep into the Frankish ranks, the foot-soldiers in their lighter armour dividing left and right. Then the charge faltered as one mamluk fell, then another and another. A moment later the cluster of Muslim warriors disintegrated, engulfed by the Franks.

John gritted his teeth as a blinding rage swept though him, obliterating all thought. He drew his sword and spurred down the hill, riding at a gallop past the long line of retreating Saracens. The mounted Frankish knights had given up the chase and had turned to looting the dead. John flew past them without a glance, heading for the mass of Frankish foot-soldiers. Their
charge had stopped. As John drew closer, he saw through the dust shrouding the Franks that Yusuf was still alive and standing in a clearing with four other mamluks. The Christians had their backs to John; they were toying with Yusuf and his men, poking at them with long lances. Two soldiers turned at the sound of an approach, but it was too late. John’s horse knocked one man aside and crushed the other under its hooves. He slashed to the left and right as he drove through the crowd.

‘Yusuf!’ he screamed as he pushed through the last few Franks and rode into the ring. Without stopping, he reached out and grabbed Yusuf’s arm, swinging him into the saddle behind him before crashing into the Franks on the other side of the clearing. His horse pushed through the crowd, John hacking at the men on his right and Yusuf protecting their left. But the Franks pressed closer and closer. John felt a sword glance off the chainmail on his side. Another slashed across his thigh, opening a painful wound. A flail slammed into his helmet, and he saw bright lights flash before his eyes. With a roar, he lashed out wildly. Then he was through, galloping out on to the plain.

‘Are you crazy?’ Yusuf shouted in his ear.

‘You are my friend, I will not let you die alone.’ John glanced over his shoulder to see that a dozen foot-soldiers had given chase on foot. They fell back, five yards, then ten, and gave up running. ‘We’ve made it!’ John cried. Then one of the Franks reared back and threw his spear. It missed, but a second spear buried itself in the flank of John’s horse. The beast stumbled, then collapsed beneath John and Yusuf, who threw themselves to the side to avoid the crushing weight of the animal. They rose to see the soldiers rushing towards them.

‘We’ll never outrun all of them,’ John said.

‘Then we’ll die fighting.’

‘No. I owe you my life, Yusuf. It is time I paid my debt.’

Yusuf shook his head. ‘I will stay with you.’

‘Save yourself!’ John roared and pushed Yusuf towards the distant Muslim army. ‘Run, damn you!’ Then John turned and
sprinted towards the oncoming Franks. He sidestepped the spear of the first soldier to reach him and slashed at the man’s throat, taking him down. A second Frank came at John with a mace, and John ducked the blow before cutting at the man’s legs, sending him tumbling. The next two knights attacked John together. One thrust his sword at John’s chest, while the other cut at his head. John parried the first blow and ducked the  second, then threw his body into the two men, sending them all sprawling on the ground. John stabbed one with his sword, leaving it in the man’s chest. The other was scrambling to his knees, sword raised, when John punched him in the jaw. The Frank’s eyes went blank and he slumped to the ground. John took his sword and stood to see that the rest of the Frankish soldiers had formed a ring around him.

‘Come on,’ he growled, raising his sword. ‘Come and get me, you bastards!’ One of the soldiers rushed forward, but stopped short. John took a step towards the man. Then he felt something slam into the back of his head, and the world went black.

Yusuf jogged past the ragged remnants of Nur ad-Din’s army. Some of the foot-soldiers were carrying companions or helping their friends to limp along. Others walked alone, heads down. Mounted mamluks rode amongst them, staring vacantly ahead, stunned by defeat. Bone-weary, Yusuf forced himself to keep running until he reached a small stream where the army had stopped to set up camp and count their losses. Yusuf knelt beside the water and began to scoop it into his mouth.

‘Yusuf!’

He looked up to see Shirkuh approaching. Yusuf stood, and his uncle embraced him. ‘Well met, Uncle.’

‘Well met, indeed. I thought we had lost you, young eagle. Come, I will take you to Nur ad-Din.’

Shirkuh led him across the stream and to a tent. Inside, Nur ad-Din was sitting on a camp stool, his head in his hands. His
shirt was off, and a doctor was busy sewing up the ragged wound in his shoulder. Nur ad-Din was mumbling to himself: ‘I have built mosques and schools, given to the poor. Why has Allah punished me?’

‘My lord,’ Yusuf said, announcing his presence.

Nur ad-Din looked up and a smile spread across his face. ‘Yusuf! You have survived. It is a miracle!’

‘Yes,’ Yusuf murmured, thinking of John. ‘A miracle.’

‘You saved my life, Yusuf. I am in you debt.’

‘I only did my duty, malik.’

‘You were one of the few who did,’ Shirkuh said.

‘He is right,’ Nur ad-Din agreed. ‘You have proven your worth, Yusuf. When others fled, you stayed to fight for your lord and for Allah. You shall have new lands, and a new name to honour you. From this day on, you shall be known as Saladin.’

‘Thank you, malik,’ Yusuf said. Saladin: righteous in faith. It was a good name.

‘It is I who should thank you, Saladin.’

SEPTEMBER 1163: DAMASCUS

Two days later, the army of Nur ad-Din trudged into Damascus. There was no cheering as Yusuf followed the king through the gate and down the wide avenue towards the palace. The people lining the street watched in silence as the troops filed past.

Yusuf’s father, Ayub, met them in the entrance hall of the palace. ‘Welcome, malik,’ he said and bowed. ‘Thank Allah, you have returned safely.’

‘There is nothing to be thankful for,’ Nur ad-Din grumbled. ‘I have failed. My army is in tatters, and I shall be forced to make peace with the Franks. We shall never drive them from our lands.’

‘I have news that will perhaps cheer you.’ Ayub gestured towards a man standing behind him. The man was tall and thin,
with prominent cheekbones and darkly tanned skin. His face and head were clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows had been shaved. ‘Allow me to introduce Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’

‘Greetings, Nur ad-Din,’ Shawar said as he stepped forward. His voice was soft, and he spoke with a slight lisp. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’

Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘What brings the Vizier of Egypt to my court?’

‘Treachery,’ Shawar replied. ‘I have been chased from Cairo, and the caliph is in the hands of traitors.’

‘And what do you want from me?’ Nur ad-Din asked, his voice weary.

‘Your help to retake my kingdom.’

Nur ad-Din laughed bitterly. ‘With what? My army is in ruins.’

‘They are strong enough. The people of Cairo will welcome me. I am their rightful ruler.’

‘I see,’ Nur ad-Din murmured. ‘And why should I help you?’

‘Because I will send you a third of Egypt’s revenues each year as tribute. And I will recognize you as my lord. You will be King of Egypt.’

‘King of Egypt,’ Nur ad-Din whispered. For a moment his eyes gleamed with the old fire. Then his shoulder slumped again. ‘I am tired of war.’

‘Send me, malik,’ Shirkuh urged. ‘I will conquer Egypt for you.’

Nur ad-Din looked to Shirkuh, then back to Shawar. ‘I shall think on it,’ he said. ‘You may go, Shawar.’ The Egyptian nodded and was led away. Nur ad-Din turned to Ayub. ‘I wish to bathe. And then I will eat.’

‘Very well, my lord,’ Ayub said. ‘But first I have news from Aleppo. It is your wife, Asimat. She is pregnant.’

Nur ad-Din straightened, and a grin spread across his face. ‘A child. A son perhaps!’ he roared. He embraced Ayub and kissed
him on both cheeks, then turned to Yusuf. ‘Can you imagine that, Yusuf? A son, an heir at last!’

‘A son,’ Yusuf repeated. His son.

SEPTEMBER 1163: JERUSALEM

John awoke with a start as cold water splashed over him. He lay on his side on hard ground. His mouth was dry, his lips cracked, and his head ached as if someone had driven an iron spike deep into his brain. He winced as he gingerly touched his scalp and felt dried blood caking his hair. He cracked open an eye and saw that he was lying in a dim prison cell. Rough-hewn stone walls stood on three sides, and the fourth was closed off by iron bars. There were three other men in the cell – all Saracens. Two were unmoving, flies buzzing about them. The third sat against the wall, staring vacantly ahead. John looked to the entrance of the cell, where two men stood. One wore chainmail and leaned on the shaft of a tall spear. The other wore the dark robes of a priest.

‘This is the one?’ the priest asked. ‘The Frank?’

‘A Saxon, Father Heraclius,’ the soldier corrected as he pulled open the cell door. ‘He talks in his sleep, and he speaks their savage tongue.’

Heraclius stepped into the cell and kicked at John’s leg. ‘You awake, Saxon?’ John rolled over on to his back, moaning at the pain in his stiff joints. The priest knelt beside him. The man was clean-shaven, with deep blue eyes and blond hair. He had an effeminate beauty about him. ‘Do you understand me?’

John nodded. ‘Water,’ he croaked.

The priest snapped his fingers at the soldier. ‘Bring water.’ He turned back to John, reaching out and brushing John’s long hair away from his eyes. ‘Blue eyes,’ he murmured. ‘You are indeed one of us.’

The guard returned with a waterskin and handed it to the
priest, who gently lifted John’s head and held the waterskin to his lips. John drank greedily, the cool water a blessed relief. After a few swallows, Heraclius pulled the skin away. ‘That is enough for now. Can you talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have come to care for your soul, my son,’ Heraclius told John. ‘You were captured with the Saracen army. I am told that you fought for them, that you killed many of our men. How did you come to be with the infidels?’

‘I was captured at Damascus during the second crusade.’

Heraclius’s eyebrows rose. ‘That was fifteen years ago. You spent all that time amongst the infidels?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you remain true to our faith?’

‘I did.’

‘That is good, my son. But you have betrayed your oath and imperilled your soul by fighting for the enemies of God. However, you may still be saved. Tell me, do you desire salvation?’ John nodded. ‘Then you shall have it.’

John looked away as he felt tears welling in his eyes. After all this time, he had finally found redemption. The stain of his brother’s death, of the knights he had killed: it could all be wiped away. ‘What must I do?’ he whispered.

The priest smiled. ‘You must burn as a traitor and a heretic. The fire will purify your soul.’

Eagle
is based in fact. Yusuf ibn Ayub – or Saladin as he is known to history – was one of the greatest military and political leaders of his age, and his exploits have been celebrated by Muslims and Christians alike. We are lucky enough to have contemporary accounts of his life from people who knew him, including Imad ad-Din, who appears briefly in
Eagle
. However, we know relatively little about Yusuf’s early life – the period covered in this book. We know that he grew up mainly in Baalbek and Damascus. He played polo, was interested in religious studies and knew many poems from the
Hamasah
by heart. There are stories of him drinking and consorting with prostitutes as a young man, and in
Eagle
I attempt to show why this deeply religious young man might have engaged in such behaviour. At the age of fourteen, he joined his uncle Shirkuh in the service of Nur ad-Din and was given a fief – Tell Bashir in this novel. Aside from a few brief stints in Damascus, he spent the next twelve years in Nur ad-Din’s service. From these scraps of history I have woven together the story of Yusuf’s early life.

The major events in the story happened much as I described them. I drew heavily on William of Tyre’s account for my description of the Second Crusade. Nur ad-Din did conquer Damascus without bloodshed, and he did surround and rout the Christians at the battle of Jacob’s Ford in 1157. However, there were too many battles for me to include every one. The final battle in the book is actually a composite of two events. In 1158 Baldwin marched on Damascus and subsequently defeated Nur
ad-Din’s army on the plain of Buthaia. I combined this with Nur ad-Din’s defeat at Krak des Chevaliers in September 1163, the point at which
Eagle
ends.