“I will lead the second party out of the Postern of St. Mary Magdalene, and we will attempt to destroy the mangonels opposite Tancred’s Tower. Both parties will be accompanied by Greek engineers with pots of Greek fire.” He gestured toward a half-dozen men wearing leather armor and heavy leather gloves with large leather satchels over their shoulders.
“The siege engines are heavily defended, and the enemy is expecting us. He knows we must make an effort to destroy his engines. The only thing he doesn’t know is when and from which direction we will attack, but he will expect us to attack under cover of darkness. He probably expects us now.”
Sir Galeran was getting more nervous the longer the baron spoke.
“The Brothers of St. Lazarus have offered to provide a diversion. They are going to sally out of the St. Lazarus Postern and make a direct assault on the two nearest siege towers that have Tancred’s Tower under crossfire.” He paused. “They have no chance of regaining the safety of the city, as we must close the postern behind them. We, on the other hand, will strike our targets and then race back around the back of the city to the Tanner’s Gate and the Gate of Jehoshaphat respectively, where the watch will be expecting us and ready to open the gates. We will be mounted, and I expect some of us will be able to outrun the pursuing enemy. Any questions?”
“Do we mount up at once?”
“No, we will attack after Matins—when, hopefully, the enemy has become tired of waiting for us and has started to doze in weariness.” Ibelin turned to Sir Constantine. “Pick your men.”
Sir Galeran wished they had attacked at once. They had been told to “catch some sleep” as soon as they were sure their horses and equipment were ready, but how could you sleep in advance of such an action? At least in Bethlehem they had been taken completely by surprise and had had no time to get nervous. Like many others, he sought out a priest, confessed his sins, and then lay down on his pallet in the great hall of the palace and thought about his short life.
Sir Galeran had no idea what had become of his father or his elder brothers. They simply hadn’t returned from Hattin. His mother had died when he was very small, and he had never gotten along with his stepmother. She was staying with the sisters of St. Anne and hadn’t even come to his knighting. If he died tonight, he wasn’t sure anyone would even notice, much less care. Unless you counted his father’s steward, who had brought him, along with the rest of the manor household, from their smallholding near Hebron to the alleged safety of Jerusalem. Only he hadn’t seen anything of the steward since his knighting. Sir Galeran turned over on his other side, trying to make himself comfortable, but it was no good. He couldn’t sleep.
Shortly after midnight, Sirs Gabriel and Dawit came to the great hall to wake the knights. Most, like Sir Galeran, had been unable to sleep and quickly got to their feet. Only a handful had to be shaken awake.
Thanks to the hour of the night, even those knights usually prone to chatter and boasting were silent. Sir Galeran was glad of that at first, but then he missed the joking. Maybe some stupid wisecracks would have taken the edge off the tension.
Sir Galeran tacked up his horse, careful to tighten the girth sufficiently this time, collected a lance, and joined the party led by Sir Gabriel that was joining Ibelin. They mounted but kept to a walk, the horses unsettled by the smell of smoke that hung in the air—although most of the fires had by now been quenched, and there were no incoming fireballs at the moment.
Ibelin did not join them until they had reached the Postern of Mary Magdalene. Sir Galeran was amazed by how fresh and rested he looked; he had even shaved. He was accompanied by three of the men with the pots of Greek fire. “Maintain absolute silence during the advance,” Ibelin ordered in a low voice that carried surprisingly well. “Keep behind me; and remember, no one is more important than the engineers with the Greek fire. If every one of us dies ensuring they can deliver the Greek fire, that is acceptable. The lepers are giving their lives tonight. I presume than none of you wish to be less valiant than they.”
Then he closed the aventail of his hauberk over his mouth and chin, pulled on his helmet and mittens, and turned his gray charger toward the postern, with his lance propped upright on his right stirrup. He raised his hand and the gate opened.
They rode out into the darkness, and then down into the ditch that surrounded the city. The dry moat was not deep enough to completely conceal them, but it did greatly reduce what the enemy could see, particularly in the darkness. On the other hand, it was darker there, and the surface was uneven and littered with stones. The horses were unnerved by the novelty of the experience and they nickered, snorted, and shied.
Ibelin led at a walk to reduce both noise and the chance of stumbling. They rode under the arches supporting the bridge that led to St. Stephen’s Gate, and then Ibelin had them dismount, lances in hand, and lead their horses back out of the ditch to the backside of the Leper’s Pool. Here they paused to remount, right beside the main road to Ramla.
They were now between the main camp of the enemy, on the hill to their right, and the units protecting the siege towers at the base of the wall to their left. Their targets, the three mangonels targeting the north wall, were clearly visible, about two hundred yards behind the siege towers and higher up the slope. There were a least a hundred men around them, some of them diligently loading, winding, and firing the great machines, others watchfully protecting them.
Ibelin sat on his great gray courser, his head swiveling from left to right as he watched for any sign that the enemy had sighted them. All remained still and silent.
Suddenly a shout went up to their left. It was echoed by other excited shouts. Sir Galeran wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard “St. Lazarus!” shouted out, and then came the scream of people in pain. He heard the Baron of Ibelin suck in his breath, and Sir Galeran became aware that he was holding his own.
The shouts and screams continued, punctuated by the occasional clash of steel. But most of the lepers were unarmed, untrained in warfare, and incapable of fighting anyway. They were being slaughtered, and there was no indication that they had succeeded in setting even one of the siege engines alight.
Ibelin’s stallion stirred uneasily, stamped his foot on the stony earth, and flicked his tail in irritation, the only indication of his master’s distress. The other knights looked at one another, but dared not speak.
And then suddenly a flash of light startled all the horses, making several leap sideways. Something had ignited after all.
The shouting increased in intensity and volume. Flames were devouring the inside of the nearest siege tower. Someone had managed to get past the protective vinegar-soaked hides and into the tower itself. The unprotected wooden steps leading upward to the fighting platforms were apparently tinder-dry, as were the woven mats behind the hides. In alarm, men started to rush down the hill from the mangonels to try to save the siege tower.
“Now!” Ibelin ordered, and his stallion leapt from a standstill into a canter as he raced forward, leaving the Greek engineers behind on their less well-trained horses. Ibelin soon recognized his mistake and checked Centurion’s stride enough for the other knights and Greek engineers to catch up with him.
They were more than halfway to their target when they were sighted. With a new shout, the Saracens turned and started running back uphill toward the mangonels, leaving the siege towers to burn. Although Sir Galeran had not seen the moment when it happened, the second siege tower had also caught fire and was now burning, too, albeit less spectacularly than the first. He couldn’t watch what happened there, however, as he had to focus on their own target.
As soon as the Saracen soldiers started running back toward the mangonels, Ibelin ordered Sir Gabriel and the Greeks to continue while he wheeled around, shouting for the knights to join him in cutting off the Saracens. Sir Galeran, however, noticed that the crews of the mangonel had grabbed their weapons and were rushing toward the Christians. He made a split-second decision to reinforce Sir Gabrie
l rather than follow Ibelin.
Galeran lowered his lance, holding it firmly under his right arm, while his stomach did somersaults. He had charged a quintain hundreds, maybe even thousands of times, but never in his life had he aimed at a live human. The man running toward him held an enormous ax—probably used for cutting the ropes of the siege engine rather than for fighting. Luckily. It slowed him down. Galeran lowered the tip of his lance and spurred forward. His aim was off and it wasn’t a clean kill, but it was enough to make the man drop to his knees with a howl of mixed outrage and agony. He was not mortally wounded, but he had dropped the ax. Galeran was past him, drawing his sword in time to bring it down on the back of a man trying to stab the horse of one of the Greeks with the pots of Greek fire.
Again Galeran’s aim was less than perfect and he failed to kill his victim, but he succeeded in knocking him away from the Greek. The latter was free to ride up beside the mangonel and start smashing his pots of Greek fire on the base, the coils of rope, and the wheels. A second later the fire ignited explosively, causing Daniel’s horse to bolt in terror. He found himself galloping downhill toward the fight between Ibelin and the Saracen guardsmen, but Ibelin was shouting for them to withdraw.
There were still two intact siege engines standing ominous and brooding a couple of hundred yards away, but beyond them the orange glow in the sky suggested that Sir Constantine’s squadron had also been successful. Ibelin apparently decided they had achieved enough to live to fight another day, and Galeran was not arguing with him. He sheathed his sword and leaned forward as he turned and then urged his horse to greater speed.
The Saracen guards around the siege engines had been infantrymen, but by now the entire Saracen camp had been raised by the burning towers, and Saracen cavalry began to charge down on their left flank. They were too numerous to count, and Daniel knew nothing would save him but speed. He had to get around the northeast corner of the city and into the—hopefully open—Gate of Jehoshaphat.
Galeran was praying blindly and mindlessly. Praying that his stallion wouldn’t stumble on the uneven ground. Praying that he was fast enough. Praying that the gate was open. Praying that the Saracens weren’t archers. But before he finished this prayer, the first arrow slammed into the horse of the knight on his left. The stallion reared up with a squeal of pain, tossing his rider.
They couldn’t stop for him.
The next instant an arrow sliced into Galeran’s thigh and embedded itself there as he screamed, “Jesus God!” The shock and pain both blinded and winded him. He found himself clinging to his horse’s mane with both hands, sobbing in terror and agony as the horse just kept galloping, the herd instinct of the beast driving him forward with the other knights.
They careened around the corner of the wall and another horse went down, apparently breaking his leg in a rabbit hole or gully. His rider rolled away, tried to rise, and then flopped back, apparently injured or in despair. He knew they couldn’t stop for him, either.
On this side of the city it seemed abruptly dark. The light from the burning siege towers and engines was blocked by the massive height of the wall. But Galeran at last registered that men were shouting to them, encouraging them. “Come on! Come on! We’re holding them, my lord!” a voice shouted. “Keep coming!”
Only then did Galeran register that during their mad dash along the northern wall, Christian archers on the ramparts had been providing a barrage of cover, showering arrows at their pursuers.
The Jehoshaphat Gate yawned open: a blacker patch in the dark wall. With a last effort, the horses bunched together, bumping against one another as they charged over the bridge and then through the narrows of the gate in a close-knit pack.
A cheer went up from all around them. The men on the walls, the Syrian shopkeepers, and even the nuns of St. Anne’s were jumping up and down, shouting and cheering. Some shouted “Ib-e-lin! Ib-e-lin!” while the nuns were singing a Te Deum in a frail soprano chorus.
“Here, I’ll give you a hand, lad,” someone offered, and Galeran passed out as they pulled him from his blood-soaked saddle.
Jerusalem, September 25, 1187
On the following morning, Sir Roger led a sortie of almost four thousand infantry out of David’s Gate. The Saracens, still dazed by the loss of two siege towers and three mangonels, responded with sheer panic. They fled for their camp, abandoning much of their equipment, including wagons loaded with arrows. Sir Roger chased them all the way to the wooden palisade surrounding their camp, but then wisely withdrew. However, he took the opportunity to vandalize the still-intact siege engines, and to drag the carts loaded with arrows inside the city wall on his way back down the hill.
A pause followed.
At first Ibelin hesitated to reduce the men on the walls even a little, expecting a rapid sally, perhaps under the personal command of the Sultan. He surmised that Salah ad-Din would be furious with his troops and emirs and would not accept this result. But after waiting in the burning sun for over an hour, Ibelin gave the order for the bulk of his troops to stand down and get some rest and refreshment.
Ibelin remained on the walls for another hour, vigilantly watching the enemy camp for the first indication they were about to sally forth for a new assault on Jerusalem. But then exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he knew he had to lie down for a bit. Leaving orders to wake him at the first sign of movement from the enemy camp, he withdrew to the Ibelin palace, and he was asleep before Georgios could pull his boots off his feet.
Balian awoke feeling stiff, aching, and cold. His shirt and braies had been soaked with sweat, and as the air cooled, the wet clothes were clammy and chilling. He turned over on his bed with a groan and sat up, trying to judge the hour of the day. It was dusk, almost dark. He must have slept nearly seven hours. Since the start of the siege, he had never managed more than a couple of hours’ sleep at a stretch, mostly just snatching short naps of thirty minutes or so. Until now.
Georgios jumped up from the window seat and came to him at once. “Can I get you anything, my lord?” he asked eagerly.
“Help me out of my filthy underclothes,” Balian answered, determined to change and even sponge himself down if he could. “Still no sign of the enemy?”
Georgios shook his head vigorously. “No, my lord!”
Ibelin didn’t entirely believe it, but he was prepared to deceive himself long enough to get out of his stinking braies, shirt, and gambeson. Pointing, he told Georgios to find him clean undergarments and his spare gambeson (one Barry had left behind, actually) in one of the carved chests beside the window, then sent him to fetch water, soap, and a sponge.
It felt wonderful to get out of armor for the first time in five days. Balian felt refreshed by the sleep, and invigorated simply by not dragging the weight of his armor around with him. When Georgios returned, the squire wet and soaped the sponge and then vigorously scrubbed him down. When finished, Balian pulled on the clean underwear, Barry’s gambeson, and soft leather boots, over which he pulled a clean calf-length surcoat with wide, elbow-length sleeves and fur trim against the chill of the late September evening.
By the time he was dressed, his brain was fully functioning again. Salah ad-Din was clearly trying to lure them into a sense of complacency. He would almost certainly try a surprise attack at night. But Balian also noticed he was famished. As with sleep, he had only snatched bits and pieces of food over the last five days. He decided to risk indulging in a meal and sent Georgios to the kitchens with his request.
“Where do you wish to be served, my lord?” Georgios asked intelligently.
Balian opted for the solar, adding, “I’ll go there at once.”
He left his bedchamber and walked the length of the tiled floor past the other chambers, which had been overflowing until his wife’s departure. The nursery and schoolroom offered scenes of desolation, since no one had bothered to clean them up after the hasty departure of the Ibelin children. The toys they were not allowed to take were scattered on the floor. The tr
unks were open, disgorging abandoned clothing. The beds were left unmade. The sight stabbed hard at Balian’s heart, reminding him of all he had lost: not just the children themselves, but the chance to watch them grow up.
He shook his head against the melancholy and forced himself to stride vigorously to the end of the hall and down the flight of stairs to the first floor. Here he found Sir Mathewos patiently awaiting him. “My lord,” he bowed, but when he straightened he was grinning. “I bring you good news.”
Balian raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“We have sent scouts up to the Saracen camp. It is empty.”
“Empty?” Balian couldn’t believe his ears.
Mathewos grinned more broadly still, his whole dark face split by the white of his smile. “Yes, my lord. Not a man, horse, mule, or goat is left—just discarded clothes and broken pieces of equipment.”
As Mathewos spoke, Balian registered that singing was coming through the windows from the street. He turned and crossed the hall to exit by the far doors onto the loge. He went to the corner, where an ancient Roman pillar supported the floor above, and looked first to his left. Coming up the Street of Jehoshaphat behind a raised processional cross were the sisters of St. Anne; behind them the citizens of Jerusalem were falling in, joyously joining in their hymn. Looking right, he saw an almost identical sight on the Street of Spain, only here the procession was led by the brothers of St. Stephen’s. Directly below and opposite, excited citizens lined the streets, chattering as they waited to join the processions, which would clearly meet at this corner. Laughter frequently punctuated the steady murmur of the crowd, until all talk was overlaid by the approaching singing.
At the junction of the two main streets in front of the Ibelin palace, the two processions merged and turned together to continue down the Street of Furriers until they could turn right into the Street of the Holy Sepulcher. Behind him, Sir Mathewos explained, “The Patriarch is reading a Mass of Thanksgiving at the Holy Sepulcher. Do you wish me to tack up Treasure?”
Defender of Jerusalem Page 63