Defender of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  And then something slammed into their left flank with so much force that the horses screamed and staggered. Centurion momentarily lost his footing and stumbled, jolting Balian so violently that he lost one of his stirrups as he was pitched forward onto the stallion’s neck. Ibelin felt himself slipping to the left, losing his seat and with it his life—for if he hit the ground he would be trampled to death. Instinctively he let go of the shield grip and grabbed at Centurion’s long, flowing mane with his left hand. He struggled to stay in the saddle, while the stallion scrambled to get his feet under him. Balian was still half out of the saddle and barely holding on as Centurion spun on his haunches and joined in a stampede of other horses, running away from the Saracen cavalry that had so forcefully attacked from the left.

  It was all Ibelin could do to pull himself back into the saddle and collect the reins as Centurion galloped. He could not recover his lost stirrup, but once he had the reins he started to check Centurion’s headlong charge. Looking around to assess the situation, he realized that the threat to Salah ad-Din had drawn men not only from the left but from the right as well. Ahead of them, between the horns of Hattin, a gap had opened up again. Not only that, he could see infantry surging down the southern horn, running to follow them out—as they had so singularly failed to follow Tripoli.

  Ibelin checked Centurion a second time to enable the remnants of his cavalry to close around him again. Then he pointed with his sword at the gap, and that was all.

  They crashed over the edge, and suddenly their horses were whinnying in fear as they slipped and slid on the gravel of the steep slope. Balian leaned back and Centurion sat on his haunches, still skidding and scrambling. This was madness, Balian registered. Tripoli had been right about the slope being too steep for horses—but there was no return.

  Around them Christian infantry was running past, sliding and tumbling, even rolling down the hill as they lost their footing. They set off cascades of gravel and avalanches of sand that crashed and clattered down the slope. Balian flung his right leg over Centurion’s rump and tried to stand, but he lost his footing on the rolling stones and his knees crumpled up under him. He slid several feet on his knees in the gravel, clinging to Centurion’s reins just to stay upright. Finally he came to a halt and got his feet under him. He took hold of the reins right behind the bit so he could steady the stallion, and then led him down the gravel-filled gully. Around him, his men and utter strangers did the same thing.

  With each step, the sound of battle receded behind them. Ibelin looked back several times, hoping to see, if not King Guy, the Constable or the Hospitallers reinforcing the gap and cresting the lip of the hill. Instead, the flood of infantry turned into a trickle and then stopped altogether.

  He stopped and looked up the steep bank, now silhouetted against the bright afternoon sky. Men appeared on the crest and began shooting arrows at them. The Saracens had managed yet again to close the gap before the bulk of the Christian army could escape.

  Ibelin only realized he was weeping when his vision started to blur. He had no articulate thoughts—just a sense of complete and utter loss. He did not know what was happening behind him on the Horns of Hattin, but he was certain that it was the end of the Christian army and with it, the Kingdom of Jerusalem. This was a defeat from which they could never recover.

  Then he stumbled and got a grip on himself. He and the men around him were still in mortal danger. For the moment the Saracens had contented themselves with firing a single round of arrows, but once they had captured or killed King Guy and the men still with him, they would come after the men who had temporarily escaped.

  Ibelin looked back down the slope. He could count about seventy knights, maybe thirty squires, two hundred-some Turcopoles, and, at a rough estimate, maybe three thousand infantrymen. How many men had made it out with Tripoli? Maybe twice that many knights and Turcopoles, but no infantry.

  One by one, they reached the foot of the steep slope. It seemed dark and cool and quiet here. No one spoke. Men just kept stumbling forward, drawn irresistibly by the water of the lake. Many men were wounded, Ibelin noted, and the horses were in terrible condition. He looked with concern at Centurion’s bloody hocks, and then tried to take stock of which of his men were still with him. Amazingly, old Sir Bartholomew was still alive, and he gave Balian a weary smile. Three other Ibelin vassals were with him as well. Twice as many of his household knights had also made it out. The mighty Sir Galvin was carrying an unconscious Sir Sylvester in his arms. Ibelin recognized several of the knights of Nablus and Ramla as well, nodding to them to acknowledge them one by one as their eyes met. But half the men were strangers.

  Ibelin caught sight of Gabriel walking beside a horse that still had a rider slumped on it, and a moment later recognized the limp body of Ernoul on the horse Gabriel was leading. “Is he badly hurt?” he called to his squire.

  “Yes. It’s a neck wound, and he’s passed out,” Gabriel answered.

  Ibelin could only nod. There was nothing he could do for anyone at the moment. They had to get to the Sea of Galilee. There they would water the horses, wash the worst of the blood away, and then take stock.

  Ibelin looked toward the waters that had shimmered and beckoned all day long. They did so no longer: the sun was too low and the great lake was in shadow. It was so near they could smell it. It smelled fresh and clean and restorative, but that was deceptive, Balian knew.

  When he reached the lake, like the others who had reached it before him, Ibelin walked straight in, letting the comparatively cool water seep through his chain-mail leggings, his surcoat, hauberk, and gambeson. Centurion, like his fellows, walked until the water reached his sweat-dripping belly and then lowered his head to drink loudly. Ibelin saw several men cup water to their mouths to drink as well, and he shouted: “Don’t drink! It could kill you! There are springs less than a mile away! Let the horses refresh themselves, but not drink too much or too fast. Then we’ll proceed to the springs!”

  While the men closest to him obeyed, Ibelin saw that many farther away did not. They would regret it later, but he could not help them if they ignored him.

  God—he caught himself and looked back toward the Horns of Hattin. It wasn’t just King Guy and the bulk of the barons and fighting men of Jerusalem that were caught up there—it was the True Cross as well. Since the relic had been discovered, it had never before been present at a Christian defeat. And now? Now it was almost certain to fall into Saracen hands. Balian had no illusions about what they would do with it. The Muslims viewed Christian reverence for relics as something between idiocy and idolatry. They would either just toss the fragment of the Cross away or, worse, spit and piss upon it to show their utter contempt.

  Ibelin felt rage surging up in his chest at the thought of that, but it was a rage that encompassed Guy de Lusignan and Gerard de Ridefort. The Saracens had only taken advantage of their own weaknesses. If they captured the True Cross, it was not because God had abandoned them, but rather because Ridefort and Lusignan had abandoned God in their arrogance and hubris!

  With difficulty Ibelin waded out of the Sea of Galilee, his exhausted body hardly able to drag the weight of his water-soaked clothes, armor and reluctant Centurion. At the bank, he staggered and then sank down onto his knees. He folded his hands and started praying aloud. “Christ, forgive us our sins and the sins of our brothers. Forgive us our foolishness and our arrogance. Forgive us for our weaknesses, and have mercy upon us, such as we are. Amen.”

  To his astonishment, scores of voices seconded his amen, and when he looked around he saw that many men had followed his example. Was it them—the way they were gazing at him for reassurance and leadership—or was it the figure walking across the water toward them that gave him strength?

  What care I for the wood on which I shed my mortal blood? a voice asked in his head. The blood of mortal man holds not the spirit. Immortality is with me, and he who liveth and believeth in me, though he be dead, yet shall he live. Rise up and
lead my people out of the jaws of slavery.

  So Balian dragged himself to his feet and started organizing the roughly three thousand three hundred survivors of the great Christian army into a coherent force, putting the wounded on litters or sledges behind what horses they had, and surrounding the horses with infantry. Then they dragged themselves north along the west bank of Galilee, angling up into the hills making for the Templar castle of Safed.

  Chapter 19

  Damascus, July 6, 1187

  WAKING OR SLEEPING, HUMPHREY KEPT RELIVING that moment when the True Cross had fallen. The Saracens were clearly targeting it with their arrows. Spread out before the wagon with the True Cross, the corpses of the Christian dead had lain like slaughtered porcupines, while a half-dozen canons of the Holy Sepulcher lay sprawled upon the wagon itself, their limbs limp and their heads hanging lifelessly as blood soaked their white robes. Then the Saracen infantry surged forward, walking on the bodies of the dead and dying. With one horrible whack, a big turbaned man dropped his sword on the junction of the Bishop of Acre’s neck and shoulder. The blade cut halfway to his heart and stuck so fast the sword was wrenched from the Saracen’s hand when the bishop’s body keeled over like a felled tree.

  The Bishop of Lydda was still clinging to the golden cross containing the precious relic, but the Saracens swarmed around him and pulled the cross down from the wagon, bishop and all. As it toppled, a wild cheer of “Allahu Akbar!” went up, followed by the ululations of victory.

  The sound seemed to wake King Guy from his trance, and with a roar like that of a wounded beast, he lunged forward. His brother tried to hold him back, but King Guy was faster, and a second later the Saracens had swarmed around him and dragged him from his saddle. It looked at first as if they were tearing him to pieces—until Henri d’Ibelin, although he’d been unhorsed hours earlier, plunged into the horde of Saracens on foot with a violence that sent heads and arms flying through the air. He was able to reach the fallen King and pull him to his feet. Guy, however, was staggering as if he’d taken a blow to his head, and he offered his sword hilt-first to the nearest Saracen.

  Instantly the shouts and ululations of triumph rose to a great crescendo, while behind them the King’s great red tent collapsed as the stakes were yanked out. Around the wagon on which the True Cross had stood, the Christian infantry fell on their faces in abject submission.

  Humphrey saw the Constable throw down his shield and sword and raise his hands over his head in surrender. He hastened to imitate the Constable as the Saracens rushed forward. He was grabbed on all sides by what seemed like dozens of men. They dragged him from his horse and then buffeted and pulled him this way and that, shouting at each other over his head in Arabic.

  They were squabbling over whose prize he was. “I got him first!” “No, he’s mine!” “Get your paws off my prisoner!”

  Humphrey had been limp and helpless, disinterested in who claimed him.

  Eventually all the Christian leaders and men had been dragged, stumbling and dazed, back to the Saracen camp. Humphrey saw many men crumple up or vomit from exhaustion and despair, while the shouts and ululations of triumph continued all around them. He had been too confused to take note of very much. Someone had handed him a pottery mug filled with hot, murky water. It tasted foul, but he’d drunk every drop. A moment later his bowels started working and he’d had to crouch and drop his braies.

  He was taken to a tent and (not knowing he spoke Arabic) they just pointed for him to sit on the floor. He did as he was told; he seemed to have no will of his own.

  Nor did he have any sense of how long he had been there when they came for him and led him toward a larger, more luxurious tent. Just before the door of this tent, a spiked pole had been thrust butt-end into the earth. It was sagging and leaning to one side from the weight of the head stuck on it. Humphrey caught his breath in horror and then staggered as he recognized the bald head and staring eyes of Reynald de Châtillon. Much as he hated Châtillon, he was still shocked into paralysis by the sight of his severed head. From behind, someone roughly shoved him forward, causing him to almost trip over the headless body of the Lord of Oultrejourdain that lay just beyond the pole—still bleeding from the stump of the neck and a stomach wound.

  Inside the tent Humphrey found it hard to focus at first, and then he realized that King Guy was seated beside Salah ad-Din, looking ghastly white, as he held a goblet wet with condensation in obviously trembling hands. Henri d’Ibelin was still beside him, a bloody cloth tied around his sword arm, and Aimery de Lusignan stood behind his brother the King, looking nearly as shaken, but not trembling. The old Marquis de Montferrat, father of Sibylla’s first husband and grandfather of Baldwin V, had been offered a seat, apparently on account of his white beard and hair. He sat with hunched shoulders and slack arms, clutching a goblet in both hands. Standing behind him were Hebron and his eldest son, the latter nursing a dislocated shoulder, and Walter of Caesarea with a ugly gash on the side of his face. The lords of Bethsan, Nazareth, Haifa, Jubail, and Scandelion, were here as well, filthy and drenched in sweat, but apparently without serious injury. And Gerard de Ridefort. The Templar Master was the only one among them who still looked defiant.

  “Who is this?” asked Salah ad-Din.

  “Humphrey de Toron,” Aimery de Lusignan answered the Sultan, and someone shoved Humphrey from behind so that he fell forward onto his knees.

  “There’s no need to be rough,” Salah ad-Din admonished whoever had given the push, adding to Humphrey: “You have nothing to fear. You are my prisoner.” Then to a slave he ordered again in Arabic, “Give him something to drink.”

  That water had been chilled and clean, but it had been the last courtesy Humphrey had received since his capture. When they were taken from the Sultan’s tent, their hands had been bound behind their backs, and they had spent the night like that, bound, with no food. On the morning of July 5 they were untied long enough to relieve themselves in a pit and then given bread, but afterwards their hands were bound again. The knights and lords were put on packhorses, and their feet tied together by a rope leading under the belly of the horse. The horses were on leads, and around them were mounted archers, grinning and pleased with being assigned to escort duty, because it would take them back to the pleasures of Damascus while their colleagues continued with the conquest of the Christian kingdom.

  Humphrey caught sight of thousands of Christian foot soldiers being herded together by men with whips. Their legs were bound together so that they could only shuffle, and many stumbled. As he watched, Nubian foot soldiers started tying ropes around their necks to lead them like camels in a caravan. He shuddered as he realized they were all now slaves: thousands and thousands of Christian men. Men who yesterday had been prosperous shopkeepers, master craftsmen, and sturdy journeymen were now nothing but property. And their wives and children . . . He couldn’t bear to think of them. Who would defend them, with the entire army dead or enslaved?

  The escort, eager for Damascus, gave their prisoners little rest. They were barely given time to relieve themselves and drink. There was no food until they reached Damascus, and that only after they had run the gauntlet of cheering crowds, hooting and mocking them. Humphrey, who understood the insults and taunts, suffered more than the knights and squires who did not speak Arabic so well.

  They were taken to the citadel, and here the noblemen were separated from the less important prisoners, including Henri d’Ibelin, who had not left the King’s side since their capture. They were put into what appeared to be some kind of storeroom, for there were barrels in it and some dusty chests, but the windows were high above their heads and had heavy metal grilles to discourage thoughts of escape—not that any of them had the strength for it. Here they were given a bowl of rice with pieces of spiced lamb in it. They were also given some wine with their water, and straw pallets to soften the stone floor.

  Guy de Lusignan grumbled about “hardly bedding for a king,” but his brother hissed so
mething at him that sounded to Humphrey like “good enough for a defeated king!”

  “He said he would treat me like a king!” Guy protested.

  “He said, ‘A king does not kill a king’—that doesn’t mean he has to give you silks and feather beds. Have you forgotten our father died in a Saracen prison?” Aimery reminded him sharply, making Guy catch his breath and stare in horror at his brother. It was as if it were the first time this possibility had ever occurred to him.

  Without guards for the first time since their capture, the tongues of the Christian prisoners were loosened, and Hebron asked, “Do we know who got out?”

  “Tripoli!” Guy snapped bitterly, harvesting silence from the others.

  Then Hebron pointed out bluntly, “If you’d given the order to follow him, we would all be free.”

  “But the True Cross—” King Guy started to protest in self-justification.

  His brother broke him off: “—is lost anyway.”

  “Did anyone see what happened to the Bishop of Lydda?”

  They looked around at each other. He should have been with them if he lived; he too was a nobleman. They noted another missing face: Gerard de Ridefort. But no one mentioned the latter, and William de Montferrat suggested, “If Lydda was badly wounded, he might have been unfit to ride, and left with the other wounded.”

  Caesarea crossed himself in silent prayer, and the others followed his example. Then Jubail picked up the conversation. “I saw Caymont go down, trampled to death.”

  “Wasn’t his son killed on the march?”

  “Yes. He took an arrow in the throat and died in camp.”

  “Who is his heir, then?”

  Aimery laughed harshly, “Salah ad-Din.”