Kingdom (41 page)

‘But my lord—!’ Qaraqush began. He was stopped with a hard stare from Yusuf. ‘Yes, Malik.’ The mamluk general strode away, yelling for the men to mount up and ride.

Yusuf called for his horse and then turned to Saqr. ‘The khaskiya will come with me. We will ride west and form a rearguard.’ Saqr’s brow furrowed, but that was the extent of his disapproval. He began shouting orders to the men of Yusuf’s private guard, and they quickly formed a column.

Yusuf swung into the saddle. Qaraqush was galloping from well to well, shouting and waving his sword. Men were running everywhere, getting in one another’s way as they searched for their horses. The camels and mules of the baggage train were still being loaded. If they lost them, then the campaign would be over. They would have to return to Damascus to gather fresh supplies.

Yusuf looked to the ridge, which was now covered with thousands of warriors, their helmets glinting in the sunlight.

‘What are they waiting for?’ Saqr asked.

‘Perhaps they were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Inshallah, they will continue to wait.’

Yusuf led his personal guard through an orange grove and then across a field of brilliant green wheat that brushed his horse’s chest. They reached the edge of the irrigated land, and the wheat gave way to hard, dry ground. ‘We will hold here!’ Yusuf shouted.

His men spread out in a line one hundred yards across and five rows deep. With so few men they had no chance of stopping a charge, but they could perhaps delay it long enough to give the rest of the army a chance to regroup. Yusuf took his curved bow from his saddle and strung it. He then tucked the bamboo shaft of his light spear under his right leg, where it would be ready when he needed it. On the ridge a single rider was galloping along the enemy lines, waving a sword above his head.

‘They will come soon!’ Yusuf shouted to his men. ‘Arrows when they come in range, then spears. We will feint forward and then retreat!’ Yusuf took his bow from his shoulder and nocked an arrow while his message was relayed down the line. His horse nickered and flicked its ears. It could sense his tension.

There was a loud cry from atop the ridge, then another, and then a wall of noise as ten thousand men shouted at once. A wave of riders poured down from the ridge. Yusuf picked out a target and stretched his bow taught. To either side he could hear the twang of bowstrings as his men began to shoot. Yusuf let out his breath and then released. His arrow joined dozens of others, all black against the blue sky. Before his arrow reached its apex Yusuf had already nocked another and let fly. He shot again and again as all around him his men’s bowstrings sang. Dozens of enemy riders fell to be trampled by their comrades, but thousands more galloped on, closing rapidly. Yusuf slid his bow into his saddle and slipped his small, circular shield on to his left forearm. He looked back to the wells. His men were now all in the saddle, and the first of the camels were loaded and lumbering away.

Yusuf raised his voice. ‘We must hold them until the army is safely away. Now, men! Make those sons of whores eat dust!’

He spurred forward and his men fell in behind him. They surged across the plain like a spear tip driving towards the centre of the oncoming army. The men in the enemy ranks were close enough now for Yusuf to make out their faces. He picked out an older man with a greying beard and then rose in the stirrups and hurled his spear. It caught the man in the chest, knocking him from the saddle. Yusuf drew his sword just before he reached the enemy line. An enemy warrior thrust a spear towards his chest, and Yusuf veered away and raised his shield. The spear glanced off of it, but the blow was enough to knock him back in the saddle. He straightened and lashed out at the next rider, catching him in the throat and filling the air with a spray of blood. There were enemy warriors all around now, and
Yusuf’s
horse slowed as it weaved between oncoming attackers. He deflected blows with his shield and hacked to the left and right, while his men followed close behind to finish off those he missed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the enemy flanks turning inward to encircle them. They had stood their ground long enough. ‘Back, men!’ he shouted. ‘
Retreat
!’

Yusuf reined in, and he and his men wheeled their horses as if one. His guard allowed him to ride to their centre, and then they dug in their spurs and galloped away across the hard ground. Yusuf could hear the thunder of hooves behind him as the enemy gave chase. Arrows soon began to fall around Yusuf and his men. One hit Saqr in the shoulder, but the mamluk rode on as if unaware, crouching above the saddle, his head forward beside his horse’s neck.

They galloped back across the green fields around the wells and out on to the dusty plain beyond. In the distance Yusuf could see the mound where his army was gathering. Beneath him, his horse was beginning to labour, its breath coming in explosive bursts. Yusuf glanced over his shoulder. The enemy riders were so close they had begun hurling spears. One of his men was struck in the back and fell from the saddle. Yusuf flicked the reins. ‘
Yalla
!
Yalla
!’ he cried, urging a last burst of speed from his tiring mount. Ahead, his men had formed a battle line before the mound. They drew back their bows and a cloud of arrows filled the sky, arcing over Yusuf and his men to fall amongst the enemy. Yusuf heard cries of pain. He looked back and saw that his pursuers were falling back.

He slowed his horse and trotted to the line. Qaraqush came out to meet him. ‘Subhan’allah!’ the grizzled mamluk said. ‘You live.’ He noticed the arrow protruding from Saqr’s shoulder. ‘Bring a doctor!’

Saqr waved away his concern. ‘It barely penetrated the armour.’

Qaraqush turned back to Yusuf and handed him a waterskin.
‘When
you charged into their lines, I thought you were a dead man. But we needed the time you bought us.’

Yusuf rinsed the dust from his mouth and spat. ‘Had they attacked sooner, they would have routed us.’

‘We were lucky. Allah favours us.’

Yusuf looked back to where Saif ad-Din’s army was occupying the wells and beginning to water their horses. He grinned. ‘He does, Qaraqush. We have found them at last!’

Yusuf stared up at the star-strewn sky. He located the constellations Al-Hirba’ and Al-A’sad: the Chameleon and the Lion. It had been a long time since he traced their shapes, but tonight he could not sleep. He had awoken with his heart racing after a particularly vivid dream. He could not remember its particulars, only that it had involved Asimat. It had been years since he saw her last. If he defeated Saif ad-Din’s army tomorrow, then he would see her again soon, in Aleppo. If he lost, he might well never see her again. He would lose Damascus, and Cairo would be next.

A gentle breeze blew from the west, bringing with it the sound of a distant drum beating a rapid tattoo beneath the merry notes of a flute. He could see the enemy campfires from where his tent had been pitched atop the tall mound called Tell al-Sultan. His own camp was quiet, the campfires long since extinguished. Those who could manage sleep were in their tents. Others sat awake, sharpening their swords and checking their armour ahead of tomorrow’s battle. Some, like Yusuf, stared up at the heavens and wondered if they would soon be joining their forefathers there, in paradise.

‘Uncle?’

Yusuf turned to see Ubadah approaching. He was a man now, and Yusuf had given him lands and a new name: Taqi ad-Din, ‘Strong of Faith’. He hoped it would remind his headstrong nephew of his duty. This was Ubadah’s first campaign, and Yusuf had placed him in charge of over a thousand men.
He
stopped beside Yusuf and looked out towards the enemy camp. Yusuf saw that he held a twig, which he rolled back and forth between his forefinger and thumb. The boy was nervous.

‘I often have trouble sleeping before a battle,’ Yusuf told him.

Ubadah nodded. ‘My eagerness to fight has robbed me of my sleep,’ he boasted. Then after a moment he asked in a quieter voice, ‘How many men will we face?’

‘More than ten thousand.’

‘And we have only half so many.’ Ubadah licked his lips nervously.

‘Does the wolf run from the sheep, simply because he is outnumbered?’

‘Sheep do not carry swords, Uncle.’

‘Even if they did, they would still be sheep.’ Yusuf clapped his nephew on the back. ‘And we are wolves!’

Ubadah nodded, but he continued to roll the twig back and forth. Then he tossed it aside and turned to face his uncle. ‘Why did you lead the rearguard today? You could have sent me.’

Yusuf smiled. His nephew was so eager to prove himself. He, too, had been like that once. ‘There will be opportunity enough for you to win glory tomorrow. Today I had to act fast, and my khaskiya was ready to ride when the rest of the army was not.’

‘But you could have died.’

‘A good leader must be willing to risk his life for his men.’ Yusuf placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Get some sleep, Ubadah. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

‘Yes, Uncle.’

Ubadah walked away, and Yusuf returned to his tent. He eventually drifted into a restless sleep, only to be woken what seemed moments later by Saqr. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya told him. Yusuf performed his prayers, and then Saqr helped him into his armour. He wore leather leggings and a padded vest, over which he pulled on a mail shirt that hung to just below his waist, and over that his suit of golden jawshan, which laced up at the side. Last of all, Saqr
attached
a mail collar that would protect Yusuf’s neck and then handed him a pointed steel helmet with a crossbar that ran down before his nose. Saqr wrapped a piece of white cloth around the helmet to keep the sun from turning the metal into an oven.

Yusuf stepped outside into the grainy light of early dawn. He found Qaraqush, Al-Maqaddam and Ubadah waiting for him.

‘A good morning, Malik,’ Al-Maqaddam said.

‘Did you hear their camp last night?’ Qaraqush asked. ‘Sounded like a tavern.’

‘Let us hope they are feeling the effects of their merrymaking,’ Yusuf said, and proceeded to give his instructions for the battle, keeping them short and simple. He had found that the more complex the plans a commander laid out, the more likely they were to go astray. ‘We will form the battle line and march at sunrise. Taqi ad-Din, you will command the left, Al-Maqaddam the right. Qaraqush, you will be in the centre. I will keep my guard of five hundred men in reserve. We advance at the sound of my horn and charge at its second sounding. Once battle is joined, you must each hold the line. When I detect a weakness in their ranks, I will strike. At the trumpet’s third blast, you will all advance together and drive them from the field. Understood?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Allah yasalmak.’

The emirs left to organize their men. Yusuf stood outside his tent and breakfasted on a bowl of boiled wheat as he watched his men form the line: eight men deep and stretching across the plain for two ghalvas – over a quarter of a mile. The men busied themselves stringing their bows and checking their armour. In the distance the enemy line was forming on the plain east of the wells. The men and their horses were tiny at this distance. Yusuf turned to study the sky behind him. It was coloured soft pink and there was a bright spot on the horizon where the sun would soon rise. He handed his bowl to a servant and turned to Saqr. ‘My horse.’

Yusuf rode down from the mound and through the ranks of
the
reserve force. He nodded in greeting to those he knew well: Liaqat and Manzur, who had been young men when Yusuf first met them, and were now hardened warriors with streaks of grey in their long beards; Uwais, a deadly archer; and Nazam, the bald-headed warrior who Yusuf had fought once long ago upon his arrival at Tell Bashir.

Yusuf reached the front of the reserve force. Ahead, the line of the army stretched far to either side, the men’s helmets glinting orange-red as the sun crept above the horizon behind them. It was time. Yusuf raised his voice and shouted, ‘
For Islam
!’

‘
For Islam
!’ the men behind him roared back, echoed by the mamluks all along the line.

Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Signal the advance.’

Saqr held a curved ram’s horn to his lips and blew. The piercing sound drowned out the nicker of horses and the jingle of tack. The front line rode ahead at a walk. Yusuf led the reserve force into the dust they kicked up. A series of horn blasts sounded from across the field, and through the dust ahead Yusuf could see that the enemy army was on the move. Those at the centre of their line wore mail and those at the edges were dressed in the leather or quilted armour favoured by the Bedouin. The horn sounded again, and the enemy line accelerated, their horses moving at a trot. The gap between the two lines was closing fast. A few men amongst the enemy let loose arrows, and the shafts shattered on the hard ground ahead of Yusuf’s army.

‘Signal the charge!’ Yusuf called to Saqr, who immediately sounded the horn. The line spurred their mounts to a trot and then a canter, quickly pulling away from Yusuf’s reserve force. The opposing army had continued to gain speed. The drumming of their horses’ hooves sounded like thunder. They shot arrows as they rode, and Yusuf’s men shot back, aiming directly into the line of advancing horsemen. Yusuf reined in and raised his bow to signal the men behind him to begin shooting. He nocked an arrow and aimed high, shooting over his men. His
arrow
joined dozens of others arcing towards the enemy line. He saw a man in the front ranks of the enemy fall from the saddle with an arrow in the gut. He was lost in the dust, trampled by the horses behind him. The armies raced closer and closer and then slammed together. It was difficult for Yusuf to make out what was happening in the deadly fighting that followed. There were screams of pain, terror and rage. Swords flashed in the light of the morning sun. A horse whinnied loudly. A spray of blood filled the air as one of Yusuf’s men was nearly decapitated.

Gradually it became clear that Yusuf’s men were falling back under the weight of the enemy’s greater numbers. He could hear Qaraqush’s deep voice raised over the din of the battle. ‘Hold the line, men! Damn you, hold the line!’ The enemy advance slowed and then stopped.