Kingdom (12 page)

‘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.