Soon enough Baibars came to Safita, white castle of the Templars. The Grand Master did not resist.
Next he appeared before Krak, mighty fortress of the Hospitalers. For two weeks incessant rain prevented him from using catapults. But on the fifteenth of March after a fierce bombardment his mameluks forced the outer enceinte. Two weeks later they broke into the fortress. Defenders held out ten days longer in the south tower, then seeing no hope for it they surrendered and were granted safe passage to Tripoli.
Now did providence intercede. Baibars died on the first day of July in that year of our Lord 1277, before he could subjugate Tripoli. By certain accounts he died of wounds. Others claim he drank too much kumiz, this being the fermented milk of mares. Yet again, some say he poisoned the prince of Kerak, who had insulted him, and thoughtlessly sipped from the fatal cup. What cannot be doubted is that he plunged head downward into hell, the gravest threat since Saladin to Christianity oversea.
Baibars’ eldest son found himself unable to control rebellious subordinates. So now the emir Qalawun, who commanded Syrian troops, marched on Cairo and declared himself sultan. Christians ignored such turmoil. Rather than exploit the weakness of Islam they fought among themselves.
Guy de Gibelet, vassal to Prince Bohemond VII, took up arms against his lord and promptly fled to the Templars for protection. Bohemond attacked certain Templar buildings and destroyed a forest they owned near Montroque. Templars demonstrated against him and burnt the castle of Botrun. Guy de Gibelet next thought to seize Tripoli but was betrayed, so he fled to the Hospital. Bohemond pledged to spare his life and the lives of his followers. Instead, what did Lord Bohemond do but blind them all, every one, save Guy with his brothers and a cousin, buried up to their necks in a ditch at Nephin and left to starve. Enemies of the Gibelet family celebrated. Merchants from Pisa staged a theatrical performance gleefully enacting the horrible death of Guy de Gibelet.
Thus, with foolish quarrels did citizens of Christ’s kingdom ignore the Turk to set about their own destruction. All began to rot and decompose, fell apart like the body of Baldwin the leper a century before.
King Henry of Cyprus came to Acre in the year of our Lord 1286, expecting to govern the tumultuous remnant of Christianity oversea. He was fourteen years old and reminded everyone of a foolish girl. At times he would fall unconscious. His mouth watered. Attendants mocked him. Nevertheless his arrival brought joy and hope. Not for a hundred years had the kingdom witnessed such festive pageants and tourneys. They mimicked the Round Table, played at the Queen of Feminia where knights costumed as ladies jousted together. Knights garbed as nuns jousted pleasurably with monks. They impersonated Tristan, Lancelot, Palamides, lost themselves in a frenzy of carnal delight as if they knew the Turk would appear.
Philip and Baldwin d’Ibelin, uncles to this girlish youth, counseled him wisely enough that a truce could be arranged with Sultan Qalawun, after which Henry returned to Cyprus. Meanwhile ships from Genoa and Pisa bombarded one another in the port. William de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the Temple, warned against civil war, pointed to Saracen armies north and south. Citizens jeered, beseeched him not to terrify them with rumor.
On the twenty-sixth of April in the year of our Lord 1289 the sultan appeared at Tripoli leading forty thousand horsemen. Genoese and Venetians hastily embarked with all they owned. Tripoli, pride of the Levant, fell in six days. The chronicle of Abul Feda describes people rushing toward the quai. Few escaped. Men were cut down, children and women enslaved. Qalawun ordered the buildings destroyed lest a new army of pilgrims try to recapture it. On a rocky islet offshore stood the church of Saint Thomas where hundreds sought refuge. Saracen horsemen urged their mounts into the water and swam to the islet, butchered priests, merchants, scholars, physicians, craftsmen. Abul Feda visited the church a little later but could scarcely breathe. He did not stay long.
Among those few to escape was the bishop of Tripoli who got to Rome and appealed for help. Also, the youthful king of Cyprus despatched an envoy. His Holiness Nicholas IV listened in sorrow. It is said he wrote to princes and sovereigns throughout the West and urged clerics to preach a new crusade, but there was little response save in the north of Italy.
Next summer the bishop came to Acre with a host of Tuscans and Lombards, not proud servants of Christ but unemployed rabble, peasants committed to nothing nobler than their bellies, dregs hoping to earn salvation while poking about for gold, pilgrims such as would not be understood by Christian kings of the past. They found the marketplace crowded, caravans arriving from Damascus thanks to King Henry’s truce. Also, there had been a good harvest. What happened next is argued to this day. It might be that some infidel took advantage of a Christian lady and her husband sought vengeance. Whatever the cause, these dregs of Italy rushed about looking for God’s enemies, pushed drunkenly through markets howling of Muslim Vespers and laid the sword to hundreds. Bearded Greeks met the blade that fateful afternoon, mistaken for unbelievers.
Sultan Qalawun demanded the extradition of those responsible, which would mean their death. The barons debated. Should Christian pilgrims be surrendered to enemies of the Lord? However guilty, should they not be tried before Christian judges? The barons could not bring themselves to acquiesce, nor would the common people. Also, many in Acre considered the Saracens themselves to blame.
Now the sultan asked himself why he should respect King Henry’s truce. He sent word to the governor of Damascus, Rukn al-Din Toqsu, to assemble troops at Caesarea. He ordered up the armies of Egypt, pretending he would move against Africa.
Grand Master William de Beaujeu again warned the Franks. Again they stopped up their ears. He sent an ambassador to Cairo with a proposal, hoping to mollify the sultan. Qalawun replied that he would spare Acre in exchange for as many Venetian pennies as there were inhabitants. Grand Master William therefore preached in the Church of Saint Cross, setting forth how he had prevailed upon Qalawun to fix the damaged truce with a single penny. Thus everything might be settled and quiet. He advised the people to accept, declaring that worse evil would follow if they did not. But the people cried out with one voice that he betrayed the city, that he deserved death for treason because he corresponded with those who hate our Lord. And the Grand Master hearing this tumult left the auditorium and scarce got out with his life.
Qalawun addressed a letter to the king of Armenia vowing that not until every Christian was dead would he leave Acre. He marched from Cairo on the fourth day of November but fell sick at Marjat, two leagues from his palace. Before expiring he commanded his son Ashraf Khalil to devastate Acre, saying his body should not be buried while the city existed.
Ashraf Khalil prudently decided to wait for good weather in the spring. During this respite the barons sent Lord Philip Mainboeuf and a Templar, Bartholomew Pizan, to placate him but he would not receive them. Nor did these envoys return. If they languished in shackles for years or got their throats cut is not known.
Early in March this host of unbelievers moved north from Egypt, passing by Acre to Damascus where Ashraf Khalil lodged his concubines and assembled his armies. The chronicle of Abul Mahasin declares that soldiers came from throughout Islam, such was their zeal to participate in the annihilation of Christianity.
On the fifth day of April this multitude came to Acre. Soldiers pitched their tents side by side, yet they covered the plain as far as Samaria. Certain accounts place the sultan’s army at six hundred thousand men arranged in three companies so that one hundred thousand might besiege the city while an equal number waited to relieve them. Two hundred thousand stood before the gates, the rest supplying what was needed. They brought with them numerous catapults to stroke and break apart the walls, more than ever had been gathered. One very large called Victorious. Another called Furious. They brought mangonels called Black Oxen.
Inside were no more than eight hundred mounted knights and sergeants with some fourteen thousand men afoot, considering those Italian dregs whose slaughter of peasants and
merchants infuriated Sultan Qalawun.
For eight days Ashraf Khalil loitered in his vermilion tent, which they call dehliz, set on a pleasant hill with gardens and vines that belonged to the Templars. One entrance of his tent opened toward Acre, meaning he would go that way. For eight days Ashraf Khalil contemplated the city. When all had settled in his mind he directed his cavalry to advance, each animal carrying a log across its neck. So his cavalry rode to the edge of the moat and delivered logs to protect miners burrowing at the walls. He directed mangonels to throw pots of explosive liquid. Now with fire and stones they assaulted Acre while the morning stiffened with arrows. A Christian knight preparing to hurl his lance found it notched by Muslim arrows before it left his hand.
Documents relate that one moonlit evening Grand Master William and Otto de Grandson, who commanded the English, led three hundred knights to burn a catapult. They got among the tents, but the man who should have thrown fire at the catapult was alarmed and threw it short and tent ropes entangled the horses. Eighteen Franks were lost, including one who fell into a cesspool. Those who got back boasted that they had killed many Saracens in the moonlight and displayed shields, trumpets, and kettledrums for proof. God’s enemies also boasted. Prince Abul Feda, who commanded the Victorious, told how the Franks abandoned their dead when they retreated. Next morning, said he, my cousin al-Malik al-Muzaffar, who was lord of Hama, strung Frankish heads around the necks of captured horses to make wreaths for the sultan.
William de Beaujeu led another sortie through the gate of Saint Anthony some nights later, before moonrise. But the Turks had been expecting this. All at once torches blazed throughout the Muslim camp and by torchlight many Franks were slain.
King Henry arrived from Cyprus, forty vessels bringing one hundred mounted knights and two thousand foot soldiers, welcome reinforcement. With him was Archbishop John Turco of Nicosia, so the people lit bonfires to celebrate. Yet the boom of Muslim kettledrums resounded through the city. All understood that something must be done. King Henry therefore instructed two knights to speak with Ashraf Khalil and find out why he did not observe the truce. Discourteously he received the knights outside his tent. He demanded keys to the city. At this moment a stone loosed by a Frankish perrier struck not far away. Ashraf Khalil drew his sword a hand’s breadth as if to kill these envoys, but was prevented by Emir Shujai who implored him not to defile his blade with the blood of pigs.
Now the Saracens began to fill bags with sand, which they brought forward and threw down in order to level the ground. Meantime the sappers went about their work. Soon it became apparent that the old tower named for King Hugh could not be defended so the Franks withdrew, setting it afire. A few days later the English tower and that named for the Comtesse de Blois started to break apart. The wall near Saint Anthony’s Gate began to crumble.
On the eighteenth of May just before dawn Ashraf Khalil ordered his men to take the city. Muslim regiments led by emirs wearing white turbans advanced through the almond orchards shouting insults and war cries, hidden from view by dense mist, encouraged by three hundred drummers mounted on camels. Cymbals and trumpets sounded. What happened that day was recorded in the Gestes des Chiprois, by the Templar of Tyre, by Ashraf Khalil himself in a letter to King Hethoum of Armenia, and by others.
These Muslims got in through the Accursed Tower, according to some. Others say they entered by way of a breach in the king of Jerusalem’s castle. The first carried long shields, followed by those hurling Greek fire. Next came archers. Noble Christian ladies, girls, peasant women, nuns, all ran shrieking toward the harbor, some with babies in their arms. Saracens caught them. One would seize a woman, another would fling her baby into the street and horses would trample it. Or they would fight to have the woman but end by killing her. And because of Christian wickedness a furious storm arose, hindering the flight of any who would escape to Cyprus. Those on the quai beheld a roiling evil sea, green and black. Documents speak of highborn ladies rushing toward the boats with gold jewelry, crying for a mariner to take all their wealth and save them, transport them naked if need be, or have them for a wife. One whose name is not known accepted as many passengers as he could and bore them to Cyprus, requested nothing, and sailed on. Yet there was Roger Flor, a greedy Catalan, who offered passage only to rich women in exchange for all they had, thereby pocketing a fortune.
King Henry with his brother Amalric escaped to Cyprus. Few thought he should have remained since he could do nothing and would add his name to the roster of Muslim captives. Nicholas de Hanapé, aged patriarch of Jerusalem, was helped aboard a skiff that would carry him to a galley offshore. He would not leave by himself, insisting they wait for others, whereupon so many struggled into the skiff that it sank, all drowned. Jean de Villiers, Grand Master of the Hospital, was brought to the quai leaking blood, meanwhile protesting that he should not depart.
William Beaujeu, Grand Master of the Temple, who vainly attempted to warn the citizens, was struck by an arrow near three o’clock that afternoon. He turned away from battle and some pilgrims from Spoleto thought he had lost heart.
My Lord, they cried, if you desert us the city will be lost!
He answered with a loud voice that he was slain and they saw the arrow buried in his side beneath the armpit. He twisted his neck, hurled the dart to the ground and almost tumbled from his mount. They lifted him down, put him on a long shield they found in the street and carried him to the Temple where he ascended to our Lord.
By sundown all belonged to Ashraf Khalil except that great Templar fortress jutting out to sea, sheltering a multitude of terrified citizens. Waves crashed against the walls, hammered bronze lions glared from the towers. For nearly a week it defied the Muslim horde. During that time women, children, and men who were unable to fight embarked on the few available boats, which departed hastily for Cyprus. Piteous cries from those left behind followed them out to sea.
Ashraf Khalil offered to let all in the fortress depart for Cyprus or any port they wished, if the ward and its goods were surrendered. Such terms being acceptable, the gate opened to admit one hundred mameluks and before long a white banner flew from the central keep. However, these Turks took to molesting Christian women and boys so the Templars killed them, threw the sultan’s flag at the corpses and shut the gate.
Next day Ashraf Khalil invited Marshal Peter de Sevrey to come forth under guarantee of safe conduct to explain what happened. But when Peter de Sevrey approached the Muslim camp he was seized, trussed up, and beheaded. Now those in the fortress understood the situation and looked to their defenses.
Ashraf Khalil set miners to work digging at the foundation.
On the twenty-eighth of May the landward side of the Templar fortress cracked. Two thousand mameluks at once entered the breach, but Ashraf Khalil had not waited long enough. Stones began to fall. Now with a rush the central tower folded inward upon itself, crushing mameluk and Frank, pagan and servant of God. Not one escaped, as related by the Gestes des Chiprois.
Ashraf Khalil vowed that never again would Acre play host to Christian armies. Houses and markets were looted, burnt, watchtowers dismantled, broken walls left to disintegrate. It is said that people throughout the East grieved over this destruction in plaintive song as they are wont to sing over tombs of their dead, bewailing a grandeur none would see again.
Some leagues north the city of Tyre had twice withstood Saladin, but now it was lightly garrisoned. When those Franks noticed a shadow on the horizon they made haste to embark for Cyprus.
Further north at Saida the Templars prepared to defend themselves. For a month they saw nothing. Then came a host of unbelievers led by Emir Shujai so they retreated to an islet just offshore, whence the commandant embarked for Cyprus to levy troops but did not return. Those left to defend the islet fought valorously until Saracens undertook to build a causeway, whereupon they gave up hope and sailed further north to Tortosa.
One week later Shujai approached Beyrouth. He ordered the leaders
out. When they anxiously complied he made them prisoner. At this the others fled, carrying off as many holy relics as they could. Shujai tore apart the walls. He tore apart the ancient castle of the Ibelin family. He made the wondrous cathedral of Beyrouth a mosque.
Not long after this Ashraf Khalil took Haifa. He burnt the monasteries on Mount Carmel, killed the monks.
What was left? Castles of Athlit and Tortosa. Neither resisted. Offshore from Tortosa half a league stood the isle of Ruad. Some few Templars clung to it a while as falcons might perch on a remote cliff looking toward the vanished kingdom.
Ashraf Khalil marched along the coast destroying and scattering anything the Franks might use if they returned. So the peasants watching vineyards devastated and fields scorched thought they must find a way to live in the mountains. Those with Frankish blood prudently denied their heritage because centuries of religious loathing had put out the flame of tolerance.
As for God’s servants who escaped the holocaust and got to Cyprus, what charity or love they met at first did not last long. Their presence on the island spoke loudly of Christian defeat. To this day old women on Cyprus wear black in memory of a lost kingdom oversea.
The sense of it, I, Jean de Joinville, do not presume to know.
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