Holy War (18 page)

‘Your son Az-Zahir writes from Aleppo to say that the Seljuks are gathering in the north, Malik.’

Yusuf turned away from the window of his private study. His secretary sat cross-legged before him, a writing desk balanced on his lap. ‘What else, Imad ad-Din?’

‘The caliph An-Nasir has sent an envoy to congratulate you on your overlordship of Mosul and to encourage you to make war on the Franks.’

‘
Hah
. You mean to encourage me to send the gifts he feels are his due.’

‘As you say, Malik. Your brother writes from Egypt. The Almohads are moving in the west. They threaten to retake Tripoli.’

‘If it falls, it falls. Tell my brother that peace with the Almohad caliph is more important than Tripoli.’

‘And the rest, Malik? The Seljuk army numbers in the thousands. Perhaps it would be best to delay your pilgrimage to Mecca until your borders are secure?’

‘No. I have delayed long enough.’ The hajj was a duty that every Muslim was expected to fulfil at least once in life. There would be no better time than now. The truce with the Franks still had two years to run. After that, he would go to war. Yusuf wanted Allah’s blessing first. He already wore the clothes of a pilgrim – sandals and the ihram, a sort of toga comprising two white sheets held at the middle with a sash. The ihram was meant to demonstrate that all pilgrims were equal before Allah. It was also a reminder to focus on pure thoughts. Yusuf should not be conducting affairs of state in it, but he had no choice. He was a king. He could not shed his responsibilities as easily as his royal robes.

‘Write to Az-Zahir,’ he told Imad ad-Din. ‘Tell him that if the Seljuks march against us, he is to wait for reinforcements before attacking. Al-Mashtub will lead the army of Damascus north to add to his strength. As for the Caliph’s envoy, my son Al-Afdal will meet with them. See that he sends the envoy on his way with the appropriate gifts. Fifty horses and a hundred silk robes should be sufficient.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

‘Anything else?’ Yusuf asked, and the secretary shook his head. ‘Then go.’

Yusuf returned to the window. It was a clear winter evening and he could see to the walls and the plain beyond, where hundreds of cooking fires winked in the twilight. Men and women from as far as Homs and Edessa had come to join the royal caravan. Tomorrow, Yusuf would lead them south on the pilgrim road. It was paved near Damascus, but for the rest of the journey it was nothing more than a track in the desert, formed by the passage of countless feet over countless years. Forts along the route, many dating to Roman times, would provide shelter and water. They would pass through Mafraq, Zarqa, Jiza and Qal’at al-Hasa. They would ride within twenty miles of the crusader castles of Kerak and Shawbak before reaching Ayla. Even accounting for the winter rains, which each year turned the floor of the great Wadi Al-Hasa south of Kerak into a sea of mud, the journey would take no more than two weeks. From Ayla, Yusuf and his private guard would take a ship for the week-long journey down the Red Sea to the port of Jeddah. From there, it was a two-day ride to the Holy City. He would arrive a week before the start of the festivals associated with the hajj. Yusuf was taking the sea route to save time. He had already sent much of his household – including his sister Zimat and her two eldest daughters – ahead with a caravan led by Al-Muqaddam. They would take the safer land route, heading south from Ma’an instead of going on to Ayla.

‘Habibi.’ Shamsa stood in the doorway of his study. Her caftan of tight-fitting red silk showed off a form that was still slim and athletic, despite giving him two sons and three daughters. And her dark eyes still held that mixture of challenge and invitation that had first drawn him to her. She came to his side and leaned her head on his shoulder. ‘I shall miss you, my love.’

‘I shall return before the barley is ripe in the fields.’

‘You make too much haste. The Red Sea is dangerous. Imad ad-Din speaks of pirates, of hidden reefs that tear the bottoms from ships.’

‘If you would see me sooner, then you should be glad of the route I have chosen. Travelling by sea will save me two weeks.’

She wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘You could stay.’

‘I will only be gone for two months.’ Two months free of the daily burdens of rule. On the road to Mecca, he would be just one more pilgrim. He could feel the tension in his gut easing at the thought. He kissed Shamsa’s forehead. ‘I have been gone much longer on campaign. Why are you now so reluctant to see me go?’

‘Perhaps because you go to war only reluctantly,’ she pouted. ‘You could at least pretend you will miss me.’

‘You could come with me, Shamsa.’

Her nose wrinkled. ‘I have been on the hajj, with my father just after I became a woman. I will never forget the crowds – thousands of sweating men packed together in the scorching desert heat. More people than stars in the sky, it seemed to me. During the stoning of the devil, a man missed one of the columns and his rock struck me in the face. I had a black eye for weeks.’

Ramy al-Jamarat, the stoning of the devil, commemorated the trials suffered by Abraham on the way to sacrificing his son Isaac. The story went that when Abraham was leaving the city of Mina, only a few miles east of Mecca, he came to a rocky defile where the devil appeared to him beside a column of rock. Abraham threw seven stones to drive him away. The devil appeared again beside another heap of stones, and then again. Each time, Abraham drove him away with seven stones. The stoning was re-enacted on the third day of the hajj, and then again in the following days. It was one of the most dangerous parts of the hajj, both because of the crushing crowds and the flying rocks.

Yusuf gently brushed Shamsa’s cheek. ‘No one would dare to cast a stone at you now.’

‘Perhaps not, but even you cannot protect me from the hot sun or the stink of the crowd. I will stay.’ Her hand moved down his side and she began to untie the sash that held up the lower half of his ihram. ‘I shall have to give you a reason to hurry back to me.’

He caught her hand. ‘I wear the ihram. My thoughts should be on Allah.’

Shamsa smiled wickedly. ‘You will be thanking him soon enough.’ She kissed his neck as she finished untying the sash. She kissed his chest and next his stomach as she knelt before him.

There was a knock at the door. ‘
Yalla
!’ Yusuf cursed. ‘Will they not leave me one moment of peace?’

Shamsa rose. ‘I will be waiting for you,’ she said as she stepped into his bedroom.

Yusuf secured his ihram around his waist. ‘Enter!’

‘Malik.’ Imad ad-Din’s face was pale. He clutched a scrap of paper in his hand. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you.’ He held out the paper.

Yusuf’s jaw clenched as he read. ‘I will kill the bastard myself! I swear it.’

‘Who?’ Shamsa stood in the doorway to the bedroom. ‘What has happened?’

Yusuf was too angry to speak. It was Imad ad-Din who answered. ‘The one called the Wolf raided the pilgrim caravan from Damascus. Al-Muqaddam and his men fought him off , but not without many losses. Reynald has thrown his captives in dungeons at Kerak. He raped and murdered many others—’ Imad ad-Din’s voice trailed off .

‘My sister was one of them.’ Yusuf’s voice was flat. ‘Zimat is dead.’

Shamsa went to him. ‘I am sorry, my love.’

Yusuf shrugged her off. ‘This is not the time for sorrow. Reynald’s butchery has broken our treaty with the Franks. Imad ad-Din, send letters to every corner of the kingdom. Tell my emirs to come with all their men. The hajj can wait. Come summer, we are going to war.’

July 1187: La Sephorie

Sergeants in mail and native Christians in vests of leather or padded cotton stepped reluctantly aside as John and Raymond rode into the Christian camp at La Sephorie. The Saracens had crossed the Jordan, and a mighty army had gathered to face them. The men’s angry faces were lit by the flickering light of cooking fires. Some spat as Raymond passed. Others grumbled curses. A pair of Lombards made the sign of the evil eye,  touching their thumb and forefinger and shaking them.

‘They look at me as if I killed the Templars myself,’ Raymond muttered. ‘Cresson was not my doing. If Gerard were not such a rash fool—’

John placed a hand on Raymond’s arm. The grumbling amongst the men had grown louder. ‘Best to keep such thoughts to yourself,’ he said in a low voice. Right or wrong, these men blamed Raymond for the massacre at Cresson. It was not a good idea to speak ill of those who had died or been captured there.

It had been an unexpected disaster. Three months ago, when Guy had gathered an army to force Raymond to recognize him as king, Raymond had looked to Saladin for support. Saladin had sent his son Al-Afdal with several thousand men. Raymond had never intended to bring the Saracens into battle against his fellow Franks. They were a bargaining chip, nothing more, a way to force Guy to stand down.

But everything had gone horribly wrong. Raymond had given Al-Afdal permission to ride across his lands to scout. On their way back, a troop of Templars and Hospitallers had attacked them at Cresson. The Templar Grand Master, Gerard, led the knights in a charge, leaving his foot-soldiers behind. But Al-Afdal’s retreat had only been feigned. The Saracens turned and slaughtered the two halves of the Frankish force separately. Every single knight was killed, the Grand Master of the Hospitallers amongst them. Gerard was taken prisoner. When he was ransomed a few weeks later, he returned to the Kingdom raging against Raymond and blaming him for the disaster. He was not alone in calling for Raymond’s head.

Now, the Saracens had invaded with an army larger than any John had ever seen. Raymond had put aside his hatred of Guy and marched his men to join the Christian army at La Sephorie. John had joined him. Judging from the murderous looks of the men they had passed, they might well be riding to their deaths. They were through the camp now and at the base of the hill on which the squat keep stood. They dismounted, and John handed his reins to Aestan.

‘You’re not likely to receive a warm welcome, domne,’ the sergeant said in a low voice. ‘There is still time to leave. We could ride for the coast, take a ship for the old country.’

‘We are needed here.’

‘You’d best hope King Guy feels the same way. If you hang, I’ll see that you’re buried properly.’

John followed Raymond up the hill. A dozen of the king’s men, their surcoats emblazoned with the gold Jerusalem cross, guarded the entrance to the keep. Their captain spat at Raymond’s feet. ‘Your weapons,
milords
.’ He said the last word as if it tasted of shit.

Raymond unbuckled his sword belt and John turned over his mace. The guard led them into the keep and up a narrow flight of stairs to a thick, iron-bound door. The guard pounded on it, and it opened a crack. ‘Raymond of Tripoli to see the King.’

There was a short pause, during which Raymond leaned close to John. ‘We must master our passions,’ he whispered. ‘We are here to fight in defence of the Kingdom. Nothing else matters.’

The door swung open. John had to duck as he passed through the low doorway. Inside, Guy sat at the centre of a long table set with food and drink. To his left and right, all facing the doorway, sat his brother Amalric, Reynald, Humphrey of Toron, Reginald of Sidon, Gerard of Ridefort and William of Montferrat, known as William the Old to distinguish him from his son of the same name. He had fought in the Second Crusade and the year previously had returned to fight again. He was a short, compact man with a ruddy face and hair so blond that it was almost white.

Gerard, the Templar Grand Master, was the first to break the silence. ‘So, the butcher of Cresson dares show his face.’

Raymond ignored him. ‘I have come to fight for the Kingdom.’

‘If you wanted to fight, you should have stayed in Tiberias,’ Reynald said. ‘Saladin is there now, besieging your wife. It seems you are running away from battle yet again, Raymond.’

Raymond’s jaw clenched, but he swallowed his anger and managed to speak in a calm voice. ‘My men would do no good trapped inside the castle.’

‘So you admit you run.’ Reynald turned to Guy. ‘Gerard is right. You should string him up, Your Grace, him and his Saxon lapdog. They are traitors.’

‘Traitors?’ John demanded. ‘It is your madness that has put the whole kingdom at risk, Reynald. Had you not broken the treaty by attacking the pilgrim caravan, we would still have peace.’

‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’ Reynald smirked. ‘Peace with your friend Saladin.’

‘Better than a war that might destroy us all,’ Raymond put in.

‘We must fight them sooner or later. We are not all of us willing to bend the knee to Saladin.’ Reynald looked to John. ‘Or to bend over for him.’

John’s hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He would have liked to beat Reynald senseless, but that might well end with John dangling from a rope. He ground his teeth, not trusting himself to speak.

Reynald rose and came around the table to stand before John. He leaned close, and John could smell the wine on his breath and the grease that had dribbled into his grey beard while he ate. ‘You do love the sand devils, don’t you, Saxon? I found your Saracen whore when I raided the caravan. She spoke of you when she begged for her life. She said you would ransom her. What was her name again?’

‘Zimat,’ John growled between clenched teeth.