Defender of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  “You say they attack when the Sultan is away?” Balian asked the youth, as he was led to one of the washing basins for scrubbing down.

  “The Sultan is a good man,” the bath attendant said firmly. “He follows the Koran, which says we are ‘of the book’ and should not be killed or harassed. When he is here, no one attacks us.” The boy shrugged. “But he is rarely here, and they teach hatred of us in the madrassas.”

  Balian nodded sadly.

  “Tell me about Jerusalem,” the youth begged, as he vigorously scrubbed the last vestiges of ingrained dirt from Balian’s body before soaping it down a last time.

  “It is a walled city like any other, except that it contains the sites of Christ’s passion. Tens of thousands of pilgrims flood it each year as a result.”

  “And there are churches there?”

  Balian laughed. “More than I can count.”

  “And they have bells? My father says that in Christian countries the churches have big bells that can be heard from far away and that they ring out more times each day that the muezzins call to prayer.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Balian confirmed.

  “And priests read the Mass out loud in them?” the boy asked skeptically.

  “Of course,” Balian answered. “That’s what Mass is.”

  “Here no one is allowed to read the Christian service out loud—not in our meeting places, nor even in our homes. We have to read all holy texts silently; that way only literate people can learn Christ’s word, and the poor forget their faith. Others convert to avoid the taxes.” There was scorn in his voice.

  Balian nodded as the youth poured cold water over him to wash away the soapsuds and the last of the dirt. It was good to be reminded of what was at stake, Balian told himself. If they failed to defend Jerusalem, all Christians in the Holy Land would again be oppressed like this, and the bells—even those of the Holy Sepulcher—would be silenced.

  Their host recommended a place for dinner near the Great Mosque, but one of the bathhouse attendants said that another Christian owned a restaurant just a few blocks away, and he agreed to show the Christian emissaries the way. They would not have found it otherwise, since on the street there was no sign or other indication that here was a place to eat. Rather, they were taken into a shop selling spices and led between the open sacks of saffron and nutmeg, cumin and cinnamon, to a door at the back with a curtain across it. Beyond the curtain it was so dark that Ibelin instinctively dropped his hand to his hilt, but a youth with a glass lantern bowed deeply and led them deeper into the house. They emerged in a small courtyard open to the stars where half a dozen low tables had been set up around a small, gurgling fountain. The largest table was vacant, and they were led straight to it and asked to sit down.

  Sitting involved lowering themselves onto cushions spread on the cobbles of the courtyard—but except for the elderly Moulins, they were used to that. They had hardly settled down before they were offered bowls of water to wash their hands and towels to dry them with. The proprietor emerged to welcome them heartily, bowing over and over as he expressed his honor to have them in his humble establishment. At last he inquired if they wanted wine, at once offering red wine from Armenia and rosé from Cyprus. After taking their drink orders, the proprietor offered a choice of lamb stewed with dates or cheese pasties, with rice or unleavened bread. They ordered and the proprietor withdrew, only to be replaced by a man in the long black-and-red robes and unique round black hat of a Jacobite priest.

  “My lords,” he bowed deeply, “I have been told you are from Jerusalem; may God’s blessings be upon you.”

  Ibelin started to get to his feet out of respect as he translated for his companions, but the Jacobite priest gestured for him to stay seated, instead pointing to a spare cushion and asking if he could join them. Moulins agreed at once, and told his Turcopole to go after the landlord to order wine for the guest as well.

  “It is a great honor to have you among us,” the priest continued as he settled himself. “You come to treat with the Sultan, it is said?” The question was directed at Moulins as the oldest member of the party, and Ibelin translated for him.

  “Yes, that is our purpose,” Moulins agreed.

  “Peace is sorely needed,” the priest confirmed, nodding seriously. “The rains failed here for the third year in a row. There is hunger among the poor, and some villagers”—he gestured vaguely—“have nothing left. They are selling their wives and daughters—even their sons—to the Bedouins and the harems of the rich.”

  “Surely Christians do not do that!” Moulins protested indignantly after Ibelin had translated the Syrian priest’s remarks.

  “No, I was not speaking of Christians. Christian families are smaller and Christian communities more urban—and we help each other as much as we can.” The priest smiled mildly, but his eyes remained sad. “And Jerusalem, is it suffering, too?” Rather than answer directly, Ibelin translated again for Moulins.

  “Not so severely,” Moulins reported. “We favor peace to let our King grow up, but if the Sultan gives us war, we are united behind a strong Regent.” He was speaking on the assumption that the priest was one of the Sultan’s spies. Although Ibelin was not so sure, he faithfully repeated Moulins’ words in Arabic.

  The priest nodded. “Will help come to you from the West?”

  “There are always armed pilgrims from the West in Jerusalem, and my Order provides continuous support, as do the Templars,” Moulins answered steadily when Ibelin put the question to him in French.

  “Yes; but once, when I was a boy, kings came from the West and nearly liberated us from the Turks.”

  “I don’t expect any repeat of that in the foreseeable future,” Ibelin answered directly without translating for Moulins, glad that the arrival of the proprietor with their drinks provided a break in the conversation. Ibelin did not want to be confronted with pleas for assistance and support. The Christian kingdoms were far too weak to go on the offensive—and yet he found himself feeling guilty when confronted with the plight of Christians here.

  The priest seemed to understand him, for he gave Ibelin a sad but understanding look, and Ibelin changed the subject. “Tell us more about Yusuf ibn Ayyub, who is called Salah ad-Din.”

  “Who is pleased to call himself ‘Salah ad-Din,’” the Syrian Christian corrected Ibelin with a cynical smile.

  Ibelin raised his eyebrows. “You think his subjects do not see him as Righteousness of the Faith?”

  “The Shiites most certainly do not view the suppression of the Fatimid Caliphate as righteous, but they do not count for much in Syria. As for the Syrians . . .” The priest shrugged.

  “What are you talking about?” Moulins demanded, irritated that Ibelin was carrying on the conversation rather than translating for him.

  “About the Sultan’s popularity among his people.”

  “Ah, good. Carry on and tell me later,” Moulins conceded, leaning forward to focus on his food.

  Ibelin asked the Syrian priest, “Surely the Syrians are impressed with the Sultan’s successes.”

  The priest shrugged. “Impressed, yes, for with success comes the power to silence dissent, but do not mistake respect for admiration. The old elites despise the Kurds even more than the Turks, while the Turks resent the fact that he has beaten them at their own game—playing them off against one another, murdering where necessary, bribing where convenient. Yusuf ibn Ayyub has attained power—not popularity. He trusts no one but members of his own family and men like Imad ad-Din, who owes everything to him.”

  “But you believe he is firmly in power?” Ibelin wanted to know.

  “Absolutely—at least for the moment. You see, Yusuf ibn Ayyub’s greatest strength is his practicality: his ability to back down if the cost is too high, his willingness to postpone battles he cannot win. He is the consummate opportunist.”

  That boded well for this mission, Ibelin thought, but he couldn’t resist asking, “Why do the ‘old elites’ despise
him?”

  “Because he is a Kurd, as I said.”

  “And that’s all?” Ibelin found such an attitude bigoted.

  “Among the Arab elites, both the Turks and Kurds are seen as barbarous peoples—like the Franks. People good at war, but little else. The Arab elites, remember, are no longer fighting men: they are Sufis and Qadis, who believe that knowledge of the Holy Koran is all a man needs. Nur ad-Din won their support by taking up their call for jihad and seeming to fulfill it—and, of course, by using some of his spoils to build new madrassas that preach this version of the Koran. Salah ad-Din is doing the same thing.”

  Ibelin did not like the sound of that. “That means that war against us is a vital component of his own legitimacy,” he summarized.

  The Syrian priest shrugged. “Yes, that’s exactly what it means.”

  “He’s saying Salah ad-Din will not receive you, my lord,” Ibelin translated for Moulins.

  “Why on earth not?” Moulins asked back indignantly.

  “The Sultan, it seems, views Hospitallers and Templars as enemies of the Faith” (Ibelin chose not to translate ‘pigs and defilers of the holy places’ literally) “and says you cannot be trusted.”

  Moulins sputtered indignantly and insisted that Ibelin protest, which he did, but the Sultan’s emissary was deaf to all arguments. He had his orders. Salah ad-Din would receive Ibn Barzan, but not the Grand Master of the Hospital of St. John.

  “We could withdraw,” Ibelin suggested uncertainly.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Moulins countered. “We need a truce to give Baldwin V time to grow up. We need a truce to refresh our manpower reserves. The armed pilgrims from the West are just starting to trickle in, and the taxes levied by England and France won’t bear fruit for another two to three years. We need breathing space! If Salah ad-Din won’t talk to me, then you must go!”

  “Alone?”

  “Take your men with you, if you like.”

  Ibelin looked at Mathewos and Gabriel; the former looked worried and the latter excited. He nodded and sighed. “If that is what you wish, my lord.”

  “It is! Go, and go with Christ!” Moulins made the sign of the cross over Ibelin’s bowed head.

  Ibelin expected luxury in the Sultan’s palace, and he had heard the old Baron de Toron talk of the stunning magnificence of the Caliph’s palace in Cairo, but again he was disappointed. The citadel of Damascus was less luxurious than the royal palace in Jerusalem; it lacked pleasure gardens and domestic tracts. It was more like the Citadel of David, with high, defensible walls. Furthermore, the fountains were small, almost functional, while the absence of visible women contributed to the sterility of the ambiance as well. Without doubt there could be great beauty in a monastery, Ibelin reflected—but women brought into a residence not only children and laughter, they brought flowers and colors and an intangible brightness that he associated with optimism. This citadel reminded Ibelin of a Templar fortress—a not particularly complimentary comparison. From what Ibelin was allowed to see, the Sultan’s reception hall was the only notable exception.

  Here the entire floor had been paved with carpets as if it were a mosque or a place of prayer, and Balian wondered if that was because the Sultan’s subjects were expected to kneel before him and bang their heads on the floor as they did before God. The very thought made him stand straighter and advance more vigorously—although he stopped in place when his escort collapsed into bows beside him. He stopped so suddenly that Gabriel almost ran into him from behind, while Mathewos opted to bow like the Mamlukes.

  Ibelin was now about five feet away from a raised dais, also paved with carpets, where five men were seated on cushions around a low but beautifully carved table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Four of the men were splendidly dressed in satin brocade tunics, camel-leather boots, and elaborate turbans, while the fifth was evidently some kind of scribe, who hung back and had writing utensils across his knees. The other men all had swords at their hips in magnificent scabbards, and jeweled rings on their fingers. Ibelin was glad he had dressed his best for the occasion. Not only had Gabriel oiled and scrubbed his chain mail until it gleamed, he was in black suede leather boots that folded back at the knee to reveal a camel-colored interior. His surcoat was white on the left side with the arms of Jerusalem embroidered in gold, and marigold on the right with the crosses of Ibelin in red. His sword belt consisted of enamel plaques with the Ibelin arms, and the pommel of his sword held a round gold disk in which a red enamel cross had been set; the scabbard, a gift from Maria Zoë, was of Byzantine craftsmanship with a beautiful cloisonné decoration.

  On closer examination, it was clear that one of the fighting men at the end of the table opposite was more youth than man. He was perhaps the most splendidly dressed, but his face sprouted only down rather than beard, and Ibelin guessed he was the eldest of the Sultan’s seventeen sons—the boy he had kept with him ever since he first went to Egypt, al-Afdal. The man at the other end of the table looked vaguely familiar, and was likewise too young to be the Sultan. Balian guessed he was Farrukh-Shah, the Sultan’s nephew, who had been Tripoli’s prisoner after the Battle on the Litani but had been exchanged as part of Barry’s ransom. The other two men, however, were both mature men with tanned faces lined with life. By Balian’s reckoning, the Sultan was approaching fifty years of age, and he suspected he might be the somewhat stocky man with the first shimmers of gray in his trimmed beard—but the other man hardly looked younger, just slightly less worn down. Since he was not sure which of them was the Sultan, Ibelin opted to simply bow deeply and greet them collectively: “My lords.”

  The man who answered was indeed the man with the sprinkling of gray hairs in his thick beard, but there was otherwise nothing remarkable about him. If anything, he seemed smaller and less imposing than the man beside him. “Monsieur d’Ibelin,” he opened in French that was practiced rather than natural, “we meet at last.”

  Ibelin bowed deeply again. “My lord.”

  “Please, sit down.” The Sultan reverted to Arabic and gestured to the vacant cushion on the front side of the table. Balian stepped on to the dais and settled himself cautiously on the cushion. Behind him Mathewos and Gabriel settled themselves cross-legged on the floor.

  The Sultan snapped his fingers, and black slaves emerged with a silver tray laden with silver goblets and bowls, which were quickly placed before all five men at the table, including Ibelin, but not the scribe. The water that was poured into the goblets from the silver pitcher was so cold that condensation formed almost instantly on the exterior of the silver. The Sultan gestured for Ibelin to drink, and he did so readily, because he knew the rules of Muslim hospitality: theoretically, once a guest had been offered and had accepted water, he was immune from violence of any kind. That didn’t mean that many a man hadn’t been murdered despite the rules of hospitality, but Balian was happy to avail himself of any form of protection offered.

  “So,” Salah ad-Din opened, after sipping from his own goblet and smiling faintly at Ibelin. “How was the harvest in Ibelin this year?”

  “Excellent, your excellency,” Ibelin assured the Sultan. “And in Ramla and Mirabel as well. Nablus, I admit, was not quite so good, but good enough.” Ibelin was telling the truth, and he knew the Sultan knew it. The drought was much worse to the east of the AntiLebanon.

  “Tripoli, I believe, had a poor harvest.”

  “You did a good job destroying the orchards, your excellency, but the grain harvest was better because of the fertilizer from the fires you set.”

  Salah ad-Din smiled and nodded before noting somewhat sourly, “Tripoli would not have been so blunt, I think.”

  “That may be, and the good Master des Moulins is also more diplomatic than I. I am a fighting man, your excellency.”

  Salah ad-Din nodded and sipped his water, his eyes fixed on Ibelin. “So is your brother, but you are very different.”

  “Indeed, I am only a poor shadow of my elder brother,” Ibelin countered,
bowing his head in self-deprecation.

  Salah ad-Din glanced to the man on his right, suggesting to Ibelin that this was one of his several brothers, perhaps even his most trusted lieutenant, al-Adil. Ibelin could not decipher any particular resemblance between them, however. Whereas Salah ad-Din was somewhat paunchy, the other man was slender, and while Salah ad-Din had a round face, the other man’s face was sharp and hawk-like. But then, they would have had different mothers, Balian reminded himself.

  “Your older brother must be very angry with Guy de Lusignan,” the Sultan surmised.

  “Yes, he is,” Ibelin conceded.

  “If a man had taken my intended bride to his bed, I would not have let either of them live.” The Sultan’s tone and expression left no doubt that he thought Ramla’s failure to kill Sibylla and Guy reflected poorly on him—and all Christians.

  “My brother is far too loyal to Jerusalem to let a personal matter endanger the fighting capacity of the Kingdom,” Ibelin tried to explain.

  “What harm would have come if your brother killed Guy de Lusignan—let alone this woman who has dishonored her family and your king?”

  Put like that, Balian almost wished his brother had killed them both—it certainly would have solved many problems. But murder was still murder, and had Barry laid a hand on Sibylla, the King would have used all the power of his office to see him punished. Ibelin bowed his head to the Sultan and admitted, “I appreciate that you, my lord, have the courage to murder even viziers, but we Christians have greater respect for God’s laws.”