Holy War (26 page)

‘You have my thanks.’

Caelin grinned and slapped John on the shoulder. ‘By God, it is good to have you back.’

‘It is good to be home, Brother.’

C
hapter 14

August 1189: Beaufort

The day will soon come when I hold you in my arms once more, Shamsa. My conquest is almost complete. My men have swept through Antioch, taking Al-Arqah, Jabala, Latakia, Sayhyun, Burzey, Saminiqa, Bakas Shoqr, Darbsaq and Baghras. In the south, the great fortress of Kerak has finally fallen.

Yusuf’s quill paused over the sheet of parchment. Near the end, the defenders of Kerak had been so desperate that they had sold their women and children to the besiegers in return for food. Not even that measure had saved them. They had been slaughtered to a man when the fortress fell, but Shamsa did not need to know the grisly details. Yusuf dipped his quill in the inkpot and continued.

Now all that remains to our enemies are the cities of Tyre, Antioch and Tripoli and a few scattered fortresses. My army is at the castle the Franks call Beaufort, what we know as Qala’at al-Shaqif
.

‘The castle high on the rock.’ It was a fitting name. Yusuf’s tent sat in the shade of Beaufort, which sat at the edge of a cliff that rose over a thousand feet above the plain below. It was a mighty citadel, but its imposing limestone walls could not protect its defenders from starvation.

Once Beaufort falls, Tripoli will be next, then Tyre and Antioch. And then I will come home.
And once he did, there would be no more war. Yusuf would build, not destroy. He would construct mosques and places of learning. He would secure the caravan routes to encourage trade. He would rebuild Jerusalem into a thriving city. Yusuf dipped the quill a final time.
And once I return, nothing will drag me from your side. You have my word, habibi
.

Yusuf was rereading the letter when the tent flap opened and Az-Zahir stepped inside. Looking at him was like looking into a mirror that reflected a younger version of himself. Yusuf’s third son had a dark adolescent beard, a thin face and narrow shoulders. His armour was covered in dust. Az-Zahir looked to have just returned from Tyre, where Yusuf had sent him to keep an eye on the Christians. Conrad of Montferrat had refused Guy entrance to Tyre, and in response the King of Jerusalem had brought his knights and laid siege. Yusuf had stayed clear, happy to let his enemies tear one another apart.

Yusuf rose and kissed his son on the cheeks. ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Az-Zahir.’

‘Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam, Father. I bring dark news from Tyre. Christian warriors from overseas have arrived outside the city. King Guy has taken command of them. He has left the city and is marching on Acre with an army of three thousand men.’

Yusuf frowned. Three thousand men were not enough to take Acre, which was garrisoned by over four thousand mamluks under Qaraqush. Still, he had hoped that after Hattin, he was done with Guy. ‘When I freed him, the King swore he would never again take up arms against Islam.’

‘I spoke with some merchants who had visited Guy’s camp. They say King Guy wished to sail for France, but his wife Sibylla refused. It is she who urges him on.’

‘Sibylla swore no oath to me. Guy did. The man is an oath breaker, and he shall be punished accordingly. We will march for Acre. Have my emirs meet me here.’

Az-Zahir did not move. ‘There is more, Father. The merchants also spoke of a new crusade.’

Crusade
. The word struck Yusuf like a punch to the gut. For the first time in months, his stomach began to burn.

‘The French and English kings are gathering troops,’ Az-Zahir continued. ‘And the German emperor Barbarossa is said to already be on the march. One of the merchants saw his army cross the Danube. He said he had never seen so many men. He said the army is without number, like the stars in the sky.’

Yusuf forced himself to remain impassive. ‘Go. Bring my emirs,’ he said curtly. But when Az-Zahir had left, he slumped against the tent pole. He was tired of war, so very tired. Now it was coming again. A host without number. And that was just one of three armies. How could he defeat so many? Even if he gathered every mamluk, Bedouin and Turcoman in all his kingdoms and emptied the treasuries to purchase mercenaries, he could not field an army larger than thirty thousand men. Yusuf took a deep breath and stood straight. He had to be strong for his men. He poured himself a cup of water to quench the fire in his gut. He was drinking when Gökböri entered, followed shortly by Al-Mashtub, Nu’man and Imad ad-Din. Yusuf’s sons Al-Afdal, Al-Aziz and Az-Zahir entered together. Ubadah did not come.

‘King Guy is marching on Acre,’ Yusuf told his emirs. ‘It is the key to Palestine. It must remain in our hands. Imad ad-Din, you will send word to Saif ad-Din to bring the army of Egypt north. When our forces are combined, we will grind the Franks to dust against the walls of Acre. I mean to have Guy’s head on a pike.’

‘Guy’s men are no threat to Acre,’ Nu’man pointed out. ‘Why not wait to march until after we have taken Beaufort?’

‘Because Guy must be defeated quickly. The Christians’ Pope has called a new crusade, larger than any before it. The Franks are coming in the thousands.’

His words were met with silence. Imad ad-Din looked as if he might be sick. Al-Mashtub and Gökböri were scowling. They were old warriors who had seen the second crusade and knew what Yusuf’s words meant. Nu’man’s face was impassive. Al-Afdal and Al-Aziz both grinned. They were too young to know better.

‘Let the Christians come!’ Al-Afdal exclaimed. ‘More fuel for the fires of hell.’ The older warriors glared at him, and his smile faded.

‘The Franks will outnumber us by many thousands,’ Yusuf continued. ‘We have fought these many years to drive them from our lands. Now, we fight for our very survival. Al-Aziz, you will go north and secure the passes that lead to Antioch. You will halt the Germans before they reach our lands.’ Yusuf spoke firmly, disguising his own doubts. In truth, Al-Aziz had as much chance of stopping the emperor’s vast army as a fly had of halting a rolling boulder. ‘Inshallah.’

‘Inshallah,’ the emirs murmured.

‘The rest of you go and prepare your men to march. We leave tomorrow for Acre.’

Yusuf followed his emirs out. The sun had set and the light was fading fast, draining the world of its colours. He strode across the camp to Ubadah’s tent. He waved the guards aside and entered to find his nephew flat on his back with a woman riding him. Yusuf recognized her as a Frankish slave that Ubadah had taken at Hattin. She was plump and pale, with hair as red as flame and large breasts that bounced with each thrust of Ubadah’s hips.

‘Nephew!’ Yusuf snapped.

Ubadah’s eyes widened. He pushed the girl off and pulled a robe about himself as he rose. ‘Leave us, Elena!’ he shouted. His voice was slurred with drink.

Yusuf watched the girl go. He turned to his nephew. ‘I have been patient with you, Ubadah, but my patience is at an end.’

Ubadah stared at the carpeted floor of his tent, refusing to meet Yusuf’s eye. He swayed and grabbed the tent pole to keep from falling.

‘Look at you! You can barely stand. I expect more from you. You are one of my most important commanders. You are my nephew.’

‘And the son of a Frank.’ Ubadah looked up, and Yusuf could see hurt in his eyes. ‘Is it any wonder I drink like an infidel?’ He pushed past Yusuf and left the tent.

Yusuf followed and grabbed his nephew’s arm. ‘It is your actions that matter, Ubadah, not your parentage.’

‘Is that why you lied to me?’ Ubadah snarled and shrugged off Yusuf’s hand. ‘You were ashamed of the truth. Ashamed of me!’ He was shouting now. ‘I am nothing, Uncle! I am the son of a dog!’

‘You are wrong,’ Yusuf replied evenly. ‘John is honest, and he is the bravest man I have ever known. A better man than Khaldun was.’

His nephew struck him, a backhanded blow that snapped Yusuf’s head to the side. Behind him, Yusuf could hear the whisper of steel leaving the scabbard as Saqr drew his blade.

The blood had drained from Ubadah’s face, but he did not flinch when Yusuf met his eyes. ‘You knew!’ Ubadah hissed. ‘You should have killed him, and instead you did nothing!’

‘I love you, Nephew, else I would have your hand for striking me. Hate me if you will, but do your duty. That is all I ask.’

‘Yes, Malik.’ Ubadah’s voice was stony. He strode away, and Yusuf watched him disappear into the darkness before heading for his tent. He sat heavily on his camp-stool and leaned forward, his head in his hands. His gaze fell on the letter to Shamsa. Yusuf picked it up and held it to a lamp until it caught fire. He dropped the still burning scrap in his brass chamber pot and went to his portable desk to start a new letter.

October 1189: Acre

Yusuf stood before his tent at the edge of a low, flat-topped hill. The day had dawned clear, and he could see the mighty walls of Acre one mile distant. Beyond those walls, the city sat on a promontory that curved out into the waters of the Mediterranean. The sea was indigo now, but when the sun rose higher, it would transform into a brilliant turquoise. A gust of chill wind blew off the water, bringing with it the tangy smell of the ocean.

Yusuf’s gaze shifted from the sea to the enemy. The Frankish besiegers were concentrated south of the city, along the banks of the Belus River where it entered the sea. To protect themselves from Yusuf’s army, they had built a line of earthen bulwarks topped with spears and fronted with ditches. The Frankish ramparts ran from their camp near the river to the coast north of the city, cutting Acre off from the mainland. Another set of ramparts facing the city protected the camp from sorties by the Muslim garrison. Dozens of different flags flew in the space between the ramparts. In the month since Yusuf arrived at Acre, two thousand Franks from overseas had joined Guy. There were Danes and Frisians, Frenchmen and Germans, and two cohorts of Italians, all eager to avenge the fall of Jerusalem. And as of last night, another new flag flew above the camp. It was silver and crowned with a band of scarlet – the arms of Conrad of Montferrat. The marquis had set aside his differences with Guy and come from Tyre with nearly two thousand men, a hundred of them knights. Although Yusuf still had more men when his forces were combined with those in the garrison, the Christians now outnumbered his army in the field. Selim could not arrive from Egypt soon enough.

‘Malik,’ Saqr said as he appeared at Yusuf’s side. ‘Your horse is ready.’

‘Good. Ride with me.’

Yusuf climbed into the saddle and started down the hillside. He made a tour of the lines each morning and evening. His uncle had taught him that. ‘You must be one of the men before you can lead them,’ Shirkuh had said before giving Yusuf his first command. Yusuf had never forgotten those words. Even now, when he was king of Egypt and Syria, and the conqueror of Jerusalem, he knew that he was only as strong as the men who fought for him. And those men would fight harder for a leader they could see and hear than for one who remained aloof in his tent.

Yusuf had ordered his troops to pitch their tents in a crescent that mirrored the enemy lines. He headed for the left flank. On the way, he passed through the camp market. At first, it had been only a few tents, but it had grown larger every day as merchants flocked to serve the army. Now the market sprawled across the coastal plain, spreading for a quarter-mile in every direction. There were hundreds of shops, selling everything from armour to fine carpets to Frankish slaves. Near the heart of the market, Yusuf heard the clang of steel on steel. Some of the hundreds of blacksmiths in the market were already at work, repairing armour or weapons. Further on, he passed cooks busying themselves at giant kettles. Just beyond them were the baths. A dozen holes had been dug in the ground and lined with clay. A series of wooden stalls had been built over them. A line of soldiers stood waiting to pay their two fals admission. For a silver piece, they could even have hot water.

Yusuf continued on to a cluster of tents pitched beside the smooth waters of the Belus. Mamluks returning from the night-watch were removing armour before crawling into tents. Others sat breakfasting beside fires. They recognized Yusuf in his gold armour and rose as he passed on his way to the front lines, where yawning men were leaning against an earthen bulwark topped with spears. The mamluks straightened as Yusuf approached. Their commander stepped forward.

‘Morning, Malik.’ Husam’s gold tooth glinted as he spoke. A seasoned warrior ten years Yusuf’s senior, he commanded Shirkuh’s old regiment, the Asadite mamluks. They were Yusuf’s most trusted troops, which was why he had placed them across from the Christian’s main camp.

‘Anything to report?’ Yusuf asked.

‘Last night five of our men crossed the lines to visit the red tents.’

Yusuf scowled. A week ago, three shiploads of Frankish whores had arrived and set up their red tents just beyond the Frankish palisade, where they could cater to Christian and Muslim alike. For only a dirham, they would raise their ankle bracelets to touch their earrings and let the men have their way.

‘Shall I cut off their balls?’ Husam asked.

‘No.’ If he cut the balls off of every man who visited those tents, he would soon have an army of eunuchs. ‘Ten lashes for each of them.’

‘Yes, Malik.’

Yusuf continued up the line, nodding to the men and stopping to speak with those he knew well. He passed Gökböri’s men; then the Kurdish troops under Al-Mashtub. The huge emir was leaning against the barricade and breakfasting on a roast leg of lamb.