Outcasts

by Martin Lake

  Al-Adil nodded before leaning towards him. ‘You left Jerusalem two nights ago. The pool is how far?’

  ‘Sixty miles, Excellency,’ Khalid answered.

  ‘Only sixty miles. Then why were you still at the pool? And what happened to the weapons that I gave you and the fine horses?’

  Bernard licked his lips, uncertain how to answer. Matthew had no such compunction. ‘Bernard and John had been captured by Templars, Excellency. They beat them and stole everything they had including your gifts. Then they trussed them up like capons for the market.’

  Al-Adil and Khalid exchanged glances. Khalid translated his words into Arabic for the benefit of the officers. They looked horrified.

  ‘Why are you so surprised?’ al-Adil said. ‘The Templars are like mad dogs. We fight to expel them from our lands.’

  ‘We fight to expel all Christians,’ said an old officer, speaking in passable French for the westerners’ benefit.

  Al-Adil shook his head. ‘No. Some Christians were here before God gave the land to us. We let them abide in peace. Our war is with the sons of wolves who joined the crusade and stole our land.’

  ‘Especially the knights of the Temple and the Hospital,’ said Khalid.

  ‘Especially them.’ He turned towards Bernard. ‘Would you recognise these Templar scum again?’

  Bernard nodded.

  ‘Then,’ al-Adil said, ‘when we capture them I shall give them to you. They shall be your slaves.’

  ‘We cannot keep fellow Christians as slaves,’ John said.

  Al-Adil shrugged. ‘Then kill them. I care not.’

  Bernard and John bent to their meal. John could see Bernard was troubled and feared his anguish at being kept from pursuit of his family might lead him to do something dangerous. Al-Adil was clearly a man who dealt death as easily as he dealt life.

  Yet the men around him looked totally at ease. John struggled with this. He had been told that all Saracens were devils and Saladin and his kin the greatest devils of all. Yet here I am, sitting with them. They enjoy their meal like Christians. They are not terrified of al-Adil, nor do they want to slay us. How can this be?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of three soldiers bearing scimitars and shields. They salaamed and al-Adil pointed out the Christians to them. They placed the weapons at their feet.

  ‘What are these, Lord al-Adil?’ John asked.

  ‘They are your weapons,’ he answered. He drew a scimitar from its sheath. ‘They are fine, indeed. The scimitars are from Toledo, the shields from Samarkand.’

  ‘Why do you honour us in this manner, lord?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you. I bought you from my brother for ten dinars each and then, within days of giving you freedom, I find I have to pay another ten dinars for you again. Enough is enough. You will remain my men from now on. And as such you will wield Muslim weapons not Frankish ones.’

  Bernard wiped his face and bowed low to the ground. ‘I am honoured, Excellency. But I beg to remind you that I was searching for my wife and family.’

  ‘What of it? You can find a new wife, a Muslim wife and beget more children.’

  ‘I love my wife, lord.’

  Al-Adil sighed. ‘I am sure you do. But you do not know where they have been taken. And if you were to find them, what would you do? Have you money to buy them back from their owners? Would you seek to rescue them from some mighty emir?’

  He shook his head. ‘Forget them, my friend. Get yourself a new wife, a Muslim wife, and breed fine Muslim sons who will make you proud.’

  CHAPTER 20

  SETTING OUT FOR BAGHDAD

  Damascus

  ‘Please take my two boys,’ Agnes cried.

  The fat man looked at her and said something to one of his soldiers. The whole troop laughed. The fat man looked pleased with his own jest.

  When the laughter had ended he turned to her, pouted, and shook his head. ‘I’ve told you already,’ he said. ‘The Caliph has no use for boys.’

  ‘I’ll do anything if you buy them,’ she said. ‘Anything.’

  The fat man gazed at her, his eyes wondering.

  She had learnt this lesson in her last days in Jerusalem. It was the most potent tool she had.

  She straightened up and tilted her head to one side, looking up at the fat man, glancing shyly away and turning her gaze back once again to hold his eyes with hers.

  The fat man licked his lips. The soldiers laughed.

  He turned to them in fury and beat his hand against his thigh, making a soft, plopping noise. It was as effective as the crack of a whip. The soldiers fell silent and cast their eyes to the ground.

  Agnes placed her hand upon her hip. ‘Two boys,’ she said. ‘That’s not asking for much. And I will do anything you need. Anything you desire, anything.’

  She gave him a long look which she forced herself to become brazen.

  The fat man stared at her for a moment longer, stripping her naked in his mind's eye.

  ‘I will hold you to this,’ he said at last. ‘Point out the boys.’

  Agnes searched in the crowd for Gerard and Claude-Yusuf. They were nowhere to be seen. Then she heard Gerard call to her. He was already on the platform and people were making their bids.

  ‘They are on the platform, Excellency,' she cried. 'Please don’t let them be bought by anyone else. Please buy them for the Caliph.’

  The fat man nodded and one of the soldiers hurried off the auctioneer. He was angry at the interruption but when he saw four more soldiers hurrying towards him he acquiesced. He threw the boys off the platform and they were caught by the soldiers.

  ‘The Caliph prefers virgins,’ the fat man said to Agnes. ‘But he is flexible when there is a very beautiful woman such as you.’ He reached out and stroked her cheek.

  ‘Although he will not thank me if I bring him goods more soiled than when I bought them. Sometimes, he gets bored with his women and passes them on to his vizier or even to Habib, his factotum.’

  He bowed slightly. ‘It is then that I will hold you to the promise that you have made.’

  Gerard and Claude-Yusuf hurried over to Agnes. She kissed and hugged them, trying in vain to stem their tears. She turned and raised her hand to Peter who was watching them with a curious look upon his face.

  ‘Come,’ said the fat man. He turned and led them through the crowd.

  For a fat man he could walk remarkably quickly. Within minutes they had left the hubbub of the square behind them and were walking along a shady road with large houses on either side. Ten minutes later they turned left into a small square fringed by palm trees. In the centre of this were two camels with howdahs upon their backs. A lean man was sitting on a stool beside them, swatting flies from his face with a whisk.

  ‘Habib,’ he cried. ‘You were quicker than I expected.’

  ‘I know the Caliph’s appetites, Dawud,’ he said. ‘I did not need to spend much time searching.’

  ‘Why this one?’

  Habib turned and stared at her.

  ‘She is ordinary, a woman you might glimpse shopping in a souk, yet she is beautiful. She has the freshness of youth but I can sense experience in her glance. She is no stranger to a bed and I imagine she will be generous with herself once she learns to trust.’

  ‘All this from just looking at her?’

  ‘I have selected two hundred women for the Caliph’s harem. Do you think I would still have this head upon these shoulders if I didn’t know who best to choose?’

  ‘And people think you are a eunuch.’

  ‘It suits me for them to think so. Women feel safe around me.’

  Dawud grinned. ‘I think that you choose not merely to suit the Caliph’s appetites. You are considering who he may cast off and toss in your direction.’

  Agnes took a step towards them. ‘I can speak Arabic,’ she said.

  The two men looked nonplussed.

  ‘I understand every word you have said about me.’ She glanced back. ‘A
nd so can the boys, the big one especially.’

  Habib bowed. ‘I apologise for my friend’s comments.’

  Dawud smiled. ‘And I apologise for Habib’s. Tell me, how do you know our tongue?’

  ‘If you are married to an inn-keeper you have to know many languages.’

  ‘The language of love best of all, I trust,’ Habib said.

  Agnes glared at him.

  Dawud got up and walked across to the two boys. ‘And how does this fellow know Arabic.’

  ‘My mother was a Saracen,’ Claude-Yusuf said. ‘She converted to the true faith when she married my father.’

  ‘A half-breed,’ Dawud said with a look of distaste. ‘They will pollute the whole world.’

  ‘That is nonsense,’ Habib said. ‘You cannot judge a person by his parents. Only by his deeds. Perhaps this one can be won back to the faith.’

  Dawud stretched. ‘Enough of talk. It is five hundred miles to Baghdad. We should start now.’

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Habib asked Agnes.

  ‘A little. This morning. The children will be hungry.’

  ‘Have they ridden on a camel before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I think it best if they do not eat until we halt for the night.’

  He helped Agnes and the children into one of the howdahs before clambering in himself. Dawud got into the other one and the drivers urged the camels to their feet.

  Agnes thought she was going to be thrown out of the howdah and gripped Eleanor tight. The camel started off. Eleanor began to cry at the swaying but the boys grinned with excitement.

  ‘You like this?’ Habib asked.

  ‘It's wonderful,’ Gerard said. ‘Better than a horse.’

  ‘Much better. Horses may be pretty and camels ugly but a camel is ten times the beast. He is strong and hardy and wise. He will go where no horse dare.’

  ‘Can we see out?’ Gerard asked.

  Habib nodded and pulled back the curtains on the howdah. Eleanor howled still louder but the boys peered out with joy.

  CHAPTER 21

  THE REFUGEES REACH TYRE

  The Gates of Tyre

  Balian pulled his horse to a halt and pointed to the western horizon. Just visible in the distant haze were the towers of the city of Tyre.

  Simon slouched in his saddle, hardly daring to believe that they had reached safety.

  The Christians raised their voices in a prayer of thanks.

  Eraclius did not join them in this; his mind was solely on how to safeguard the treasure of the Church.

  In the course of the march the donkeys bearing the treasure had become less ordered and now straggled hundreds of yards up and down the line. Eraclius ordered Simon to herd them together and move them out to the side of the column.

  On the march the people had been concerned solely with their survival. Now that they were within sight of safety they would begin to realise that they had lost their former wealth. The treasure of the Church might prove too tempting a target, an easy way to recoup what they had lost. If the donkeys were grouped together Simon’s guard would have a better chance of preventing pilfering.

  It was a long and difficult job but eventually Simon and his men had manoeuvred the donkeys into a more ordered group.

  ‘You did well, Simon,’ Eraclius said. ‘A man who can herd donkeys led by priests will surely command armies with ease.’

  Simon stared at him, uncertain whether he was mocking him or perhaps prophesying his future.

  The sun passed noon but none of the refugees felt inclined to stop for rest or food. The front of the column was now only three miles from the walls and the far-sighted claimed they could see Christian flags upon the battlements.

  No order was given but everyone began to pick up speed, finding from somewhere the energy to force their legs faster.

  Simon stared at Eraclius who was riding at the front of the churchmen with his concubine Pasque de Riveri and their daughter. The Patriarch kicked at his horse, keen to reach the city as soon as possible.

  What are his plans, Simon wondered. He knew he had been useful to Eraclius on the march but would he continue to be so in Tyre? The Patriarch would be able to call on scores of servants and he could be easily dismissed.

  He gnawed upon his bottom lip, plotting how best to make himself indispensable to his master.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw that the Saracen horsemen who had guarded them steadfastly all the way were silently peeling away from the column. A number of them glanced to the south, far beyond the rear of the column and one man pointed something out to his comrade. A knot of fear curled inside Simon’s stomach.

  He turned in his saddle and peered through the dust of the column to the hills to the south.

  A Saracen army was pouring down to the plains from the hills beyond. The sun glinted upon their spears.

  Simon turned his donkey and kicked it savagely, racing past the churchmen until he reached Eraclius.

  ‘My lord,’ he said. ‘It’s Saladin. His army is a few miles behind us.’

  Eraclius turned and gazed at the Saracen army for the briefest moment. Then he cried out to Simon to come with him, whipped up his horse and galloped to the front of the column to find Balian.

  Balian and Jerome were already cantering back down the column. They too had seen the Saracen army and wanted to get a better view of it.

  Eraclius skidded to a halt beside them.

  ‘What will we do?’ he asked. ‘We cannot fight.’

  ‘No,’ said Balian. ‘And we will not get the whole of the column into Tyre until sundown at the earliest. Three hours or more. Saladin could be upon us in two.’

  ‘Then what will we do?’

  Balian turned and glanced towards the west. Far off he thought he could glimpse soldiers upon the battlements of the city but he realised that this might only be his fancy.

  ‘Can you negotiate with Saladin?’ Eraclius asked.

  Balian gave an empty laugh. ‘I think I have exhausted all my stock with the Sultan. No, I think we had better put more faith in our legs than in our tongues at this point.’

  Eraclius wiped his mouth quickly. ‘Our wives and children? The treasures of the church?’

  Balian stared at him for a long while in silence. ‘I will not stop you seeking to protect those things if that is your wish, Patriarch.’ His voice was cold.

  ‘It is my wish.’

  ‘And for yourself?’ Balian continued. ‘I presume you will do as I intend to. You will stay with your flock and succour them in their time of need.’

  Eraclius looked from Balian to Jerome and back again. He licked his lips, gazed back at the advancing Saracens and returned his gaze to Balian. ‘Of course, Lord Balian. Of course.’

  He gestured to Simon and they rode back to the treasure.

  ‘Do you really mean to stay?’ Simon asked.

  ‘For as long as possible,’ he answered. He grasped Simon by the arm. ‘Whatever my enemies may say of me they will not say I am a coward.’

  As they hurried back along the line it became clear that the people at the back had now seen the Saracens. A dismal wailing began to break from the crowd. They had thought themselves safe, thought they had been delivered out of hell. Now they realised their long march had been for nothing. Yet despite their anguish, they forced their legs to quicken and their walk became a stumbling run.

  ‘They will not be able to keep up this pace,’ Eraclius said. He watched in horror as they sped past, a frightened, stumbling rabble.

  He held his hands up high above his head.

  ‘People of Jerusalem,’ he cried, ‘listen to me now.’

  It took a while and many such cries but eventually the column slowed slightly and heads turned towards him.

  ‘Have faith in the Lord God and his Son Jesus Christ,’ he cried. ‘You will be saved, you will reach Tyre before the infidels. But you will only do so if you remain disciplined. Do not become a mindless rabble. Do not run, do not push y
our fellow man. Walk quickly, walk more quickly than you have ever walked before. But do not run.’

  Ten miles to the south, Saladin and al-Adil stood in their stirrups and saw their prey defenceless before their gaze.

  CHAPTER 22

  HARD DECISIONS

  South of Tyre

  Al-Adil ordered Khalid to lead his personal retinue closer in case he had swift need of them.

  The rest of the vast army did not move.

  ‘What will you do, brother?’ al-Adil asked.

  Saladin did not answer for a while.

  His scouts had only just told him the refugees were close to the city. He had assumed that the gates would be open to receive them. His plan had been to swoop down when almost all had entered the city, leaving only fifty or so still streaming in. The defenders would be sure to leave the gates open for them.

  That would be the moment for him to launch his attack.

  Too many refugees would impede his horsemen; fifty or so would not.

  If he timed it correctly his warriors would be able to secure the gates before the defenders could close them.

  But the column of refugees had inexplicably slowed down.

  Saladin shook his head in confusion.

  They were still a mile from the walls. If the defenders of the city lifted their gaze from the refugees they would see his army. They might well decide not to open the gates at all.

  ‘Curse these Franks,’ he said. ‘Why have they slowed?’

  ‘I know not,’ al-Adil said. ‘But it makes our plan difficult.’

  Saladin turned to two young men who sat on black stallions beside him.

  ‘My sons,’ he said. ‘You see now, no matter how carefully a Sultan may plan, it is Allah who makes the final decisions.

  'Instead of being a terrified mob, which would serve my purpose best, the Frankish refugees have become a disciplined body and stand between me and my goal. What would you advise?’

  The eldest boy, al-Adfal, spoke first.

  He pointed at the isthmus which led to the city. On either side of the battlements were marshy strands leading a sandy beach.