by J. K. Swift
“Then I shall be here to meet him,” Foulques said. The grand master gave him a scathing look.
“You do not have to return to Cyprus?” Grandison asked.
A horn sounded in the distance, so small and insignificant at first, Foulques found himself automatically blocking it out. But then the City Watch Tower’s bells started echoing its blasts, followed by more bells as the city’s churches joined in. The three men looked at one another as the ringing escalated, culminating in a violent frenzy.
“What is this?” Foulques asked, having to almost shout over the din. When the grand master spoke, his words were a whisper.
“The Mamluks are coming for the wall,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Say something,” Badru said.
He had wanted to tell Yusuf what Turuntay had revealed to him sooner, but he had been forced to wait until this moment, for he knew he needed total privacy. Looking at the disbelief on Yusuf’s frozen face as he stared into his teacup full of cold tea, Badru was glad he had waited. They had marched with the army to Acre and now sat across from one another in their newly erected tent. It was in disarray, for their belongings were not yet unpacked, but Yusuf had spread a thick, silk carpet on the ground for them to sit on. In an army of a hundred thousand men, this was as alone as they would ever be.
“Yusuf?”
His eyes fluttered upward to meet Badru’s. “And you believed him?”
“He had no reason to lie,” Badru said. “And it would take a lot to drive a man like Turuntay to lie.”
Yusuf shook his head and let out a long, slow breath. “Then this would make you and Sultan Khalil brothers.”
“Half-brothers,” Badru said.
“You being the elder.”
Yusuf stared at Badru. His large hazel eyes seemed to grow larger still. Badru knew where Yusuf’s mind was going, and he did not like it.
“No one need know,” Badru said. “I suspect only Turuntay had any knowledge of this.”
“And if you are wrong? How long do you think you will live if the sultan finds out? No, Badru, the risk is too great. We must leave this place. Go far away, somewhere beyond his reach. We have a ship. We could go anywhere. We could—”
“Start over? Is that what you want to say? I am tired of starting over. And there is no glory in hiding.”
Yusuf was quiet for a moment. His voice quavered when he next spoke. “You know I will support you no matter what your decision. But what exactly is it that you want, Badru? Do you wish to be sultan?”
“Sultan?” The question caught him completely unawares. He lowered his voice again. “Never would I wish that. I was put in this world to serve. I see that now, but I will not accept just anyone as my master. You taught me that.”
Yusuf shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it and settled for shaking his head once again.
Voices sounded outside the entrance of the tent. Moments later, the guard Badru had posted ducked inside.
“Forgive me, Emir. The sultan has summoned you.”
Yusuf closed his eyes as Badru rose to his feet.
“Do you trust him?” Ibn al-Salus asked.
“Of course not. I am sultan, now. I cannot afford to trust anyone,” Khalil said. The two of them were alone, if a sultan could ever truly be alone, in the newly relocated Dihliz. The red tent sat atop a small rise near the southern shore of the sea, not far from the walls of Acre. It was well out of the Franks’ crossbow range, but many of the Royal Emir did not approve of Khalil’s choice of locations. They questioned the wisdom of putting the sultan’s pavilion so near the enemy, but Khalil had argued it was a show of confidence. He said he wanted to torment the Franks by dangling himself before them, so near, but yet untouchable by any means within their power.
Four guards stood outside the tent’s entrance, while another twenty patrolled the surrounding grounds. They were all Mamluks of the Royal Guard, trained since childhood in the Cairo Tabaqa. Their lives had been so dominated by the codes of the Furusiyya that it was said they were above politics, beyond all forms of bribery. They had one purpose, and one purpose only: to protect the sultan of Egypt from any and all threats to his person, be it in times of peace, or war. These men had sworn allegiance to Qalawun, and earlier that day, they had renewed their vows to his son.
Khalil had watched his father rule for his entire life, and he thought he knew what being sultan would be like. He had assumed it meant freedom. Freedom from his father, perhaps, but it was definitely not the freedom he had envisioned. Still, with this lack of freedom came a certain power. Power over the lives of others, if not his own. It would take some getting used to, but he felt he was adjusting quite well.
The first official act he had performed, of course, was to dismiss Turuntay as vice-sultan. He was not worried about upsetting the other emir, as this was not an unusual act for a new sultan. A sultan needed to appoint a respected and capable man as vice-sultan, for if anything happened to the sultan himself, the vice-sultan must be able to rule until the emirs elected their new permanent leader. Khalil had promoted Baydara, his father’s vizier, to the role. It was not a popular move, for although Baydara was a Mamluk, he was a scholarly, thin man who spoke in nasal tones. He had been recruited by Khalil’s father fifteen years ago, and was a new breed of Mamluk at the time. One who had been brought up with a quill in his hand rather than a sword. Qalawun had realized the need for men such as Baydara early in his reign. Many of the emir looked down on Baydara and joked openly to his face. But Baydara did have his supporters, for he had made many connections during his time in Qalawun’s court.
Promoting Baydara to vice-sultan provided a certain continuity to the sultanate and therefore, Khalil’s detractors could not risk protesting openly. Baydara, himself, was overjoyed at his good fortune. Khalil could still feel the unpleasant dryness of his lips pressing against the back of his hand over and over again, his annoying voice swearing to serve him faithfully as he had done Khalil’s father for so many years.
With the vice-sultan position filled, that left an opening for the vizier. As personal secretary and head adviser to the sultan, the vizier’s duties were as varied as they were vague. When Khalil appointed his boyhood friend, Ibn al-Salus, to the position, there was a general grumbling in the assembly of emirs, but no one really cared enough to make it a public point of dissension. Yes, Ibn al-Salus was only the son of a merchant, but a very rich merchant. Truth be told, Khalil felt many of the emir were happy they had not been chosen for the task. Who wanted to be the personal scribe for the new boy-sultan? He was, after all, not even a true Mamluk.
“Have you learned anything new about Badru Hashim?” Khalil asked.
“Only that he was indeed at the Royal Tabaqa. I have sent messages to some of my father’s contacts in Cairo. Perhaps they will know something, but I am doubtful. It has been almost twenty years since Badru Hashim was sold. What about Baydara? As vizier he may have known why he was sold. He could have even done it without the sultan’s knowledge.”
Khalil shook his head and leaned back in his cushioned chair. “He did not become vizier until a couple of years later. Of my father’s court, only Turuntay was around at the time.”
“And now he is dead,” Ibn al-Salus said.
“And now he is dead,” Khalil echoed, unable to resist a slow smile from spreading across his face. He stood up. He needed to move. These past few days had lifted a thousand pounds of weight from around his neck, weight he had endured for as long as he could remember. Now, it was time for Khalil to open his wings and fly.
He stretched his arms wide, took a deep breath, and paced a circle around Ibn al-Salus, who watched him with curious eyes. How quickly one’s life could change. He had been scared when his father died, for the sultan had told him time and time again how difficult it was going to be for Khalil to win over the emirs and become sultan. But it had proved to be simple. Maybe it was only Qalawun who did not want his son to be
come sultan, and when he died, Allah was able to see Khalil and shower him with favor for a change. Why else would a Mamluk such as Badru Hashim, an educated emir with no political affiliations, suddenly appear out of nowhere at exactly the moment Khalil needed him? He even commanded thirty seasoned Mamluk warriors who worshiped him, along with a handful of foot soldiers. How could Badru Hashim not be a gift from Allah?
“Call him in,” Khalil said.
A moment later, Badru Hashim knelt before the sultan and his vizier.
“Imagine for a moment, that you were sultan, Badru Hashim. Imagine this were your army. How would you direct it at the Christian forces?”
The man’s unnerving gray eyes snapped up and looked directly into Khalil’s own. The breath caught in Khalil’s chest and he focused all his power of self-restraint to not look away. Just as suddenly, Badru dropped his stare to the floor.
“I would not know, My Sultan. I have no experience in commanding such an immense body of soldiers.”
“No one has,” Khalil said. “But you have met the Christians in battle, yes?”
Badru nodded.
“And the knights of their holy orders. You have come up against them as well?”
“Many times, My Sultan.”
“Then tell me of your experience. That is all. Tell me what you have seen, what you have learned from these encounters.”
Badru took a breath and a moment to think before he spoke.
“Their knights are formidable warriors, especially those of the cross. The Templars, Hospitallers, and the Germans. They are all dangerous and very difficult to unhorse once set in their saddle. I would imagine they are even more difficult to remove from a wall.”
“Go on,” Khalil said, when Badru’s words slowed down.
“Some men give up hope when they are cornered. There will be many of those in the city. But the men of the cross fight like cornered lions when others would lie down. It will cost our army dearly to take the walls of Acre.”
Khalil considered the Mamluk’s words for a moment. He leaned forward in his chair.
“Picture in your mind, Emir, that you stood before, not a thousand, but only one of these knights. He stands upon a wall looking down at you. How will you defeat him?”
Badru replied without hesitation. “I would get him to come down off his wall, make him face me on open ground, where my speed and strength could not be diminished, and his could not be enhanced.”
Khalil sat back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “Unfortunately, he would have to be a fool to do that. The Christians are many things, but I do not consider them fools.”
Badru shrugged. “I may not know how to command great armies, My Sultan. But I know more than one way to make a man go where I want.”
Khalil’s eyebrows arched. He told Badru Hashim to continue with his train of thought. He listened, and as he did so, he settled back into his chair. A voice in the back of his mind kept repeating the same thought.
How could this man not have been sent by Allah?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The church in the Hospitaller compound took up the alarm. Its bells rang with a frenzy that sent shock waves through Foulques, shaking him to the marrow in his bones. The grand master shouted at a nearby sergeant standing guard at the door to the main keep. The brown-robed brother ran to where Grand Master Villiers, Grandison, and Foulques stood. “Tell the stable master to ready three horses as fast as possible.” As the sergeant turned and began to run toward the stables, the grand master shouted at his back. “And tell him they need not be destriers—any pacer will do, and if he has none available then saddle up mules!”
Grand Master Villiers turned to Grandison and Foulques. “Do you need anything, gentlemen, before we join our brothers at the wall?” They shook their heads and the three men set out at a fast walk toward the stables.
Three Icelandic ponies were saddled and waiting. Short, strong animals, normally used for traveling long distances because they had an extra gait somewhere between a canter and a trot, which was exceptionally smooth, and was a pace the sturdy horses could keep up all day. Foulques was debating which of the other men to help into his saddle first, but Grandison grabbed a handful of mane and swung effortlessly into his saddle with no help from the stirrup. The grand master also mounted with the ease of a man twenty years younger. “Follow me,” he shouted. The two men were already galloping out of the Hospitaller compound before Foulques was in the saddle. He swung up onto his own horse and put her into a full canter. There would be no need of a traveling gait this day.
Foulques caught up to the two men as they turned east and rode parallel to the wall that divided the city in two. North of that wall was the district of Montmusart, and near its center was a tiny home and workshop with a few bee hives standing outside. Foulques wavered when he passed the gate leading into Montmusart. His urge to check on Najya was strong, but he was needed at the wall. He decided that he would serve her best by seeing to the defenses of the city. After he helped turn back the first wave of the Mamluk attack, there would be time for him to search her out and make sure she was all right. He urged his pony on east, past the castle, and then toward the Gates of Saint Anthony.
Acre was situated on a large tract of land that jutted out into the Mid-Earth Sea. Its deep harbor and rocky coastline protected it from the west, north, and south, and a long line of two parallel walls ran from the north all the way down south to the water, cutting the city off from the east. Over the years, various powers that be had constructed towers along the walls to further add to the city’s already impressive fortifications.
The three men galloped through the first gate, leaving the guards scrambling to get out of their way. They veered left and pulled up at the base of the Hospitaller Tower.
As they all dismounted, the grand master looked at Grandison. “Will you not go to the English Tower?”
Grandison shook his head. “Sir Grailly is there with some of his French knights. The lads will fight for him as well as anyone.”
They dropped the reins of their horses and ran toward an open, man-sized doorway. The brilliant spring sun was high in the sky, illuminating everything around them except that rectangular patch of black at the base of the massive tower. One after another, with Foulques at the rear, the three men plunged into the darkness.
There were lanterns on hooks spaced evenly along the circular stairway’s wall, but it still took Foulques’s eyes a moment to adjust to the low light. Keeping his hand on one wall, he followed the two older men up the stairs. They took them two at a time, and after what seemed an eternity, Foulques emerged once more into blinding sunlight. As overloaded as his eyes were by the brightness, it was his ears that caused him the most pain, followed shortly by his chest. For the sight of the Mamluk army stole the air from his lungs and the blood from his heart.
The Sultan of Egypt had assembled a siege force two hundred years in the making. A hundred trebuchets and mangonels blotted out the far horizon, coming ever closer under the power of man and beast. In front of them marched what looked like four or five distinctly separate armies, enough men to spread along the entire length of Acre’s walls. Thousands of drummers beat their instruments as the sea of men and animals flowed inexorably forward.
Foulques stared open-mouthed. The sultan’s forces had to number more than a hundred thousand men. The last Foulques had heard, Acre’s defenses consisted of no more than twelve thousand, most of which were men-at-arms, or city militia. There were only eight hundred knights in all of Acre. He felt his faith waver. How could they possibly hold against such a formidable threat?
It was an unseen force that finally made Foulques tear his gaze from the fields below and look along the length of the wall. Fifty paces away, Marshal Clermont locked Foulques in place with a venomous stare. The marshal looked like he wanted nothing more than to cross that fifty paces and skewer Foulques with the sword he held at his side, but fortunately, they were separated by ranks of Hospitaller knights and serge
ants. Most were in red tunics, some in black. Many of the brown-clad brother-sergeants were armed with crossbows. The wall was wide enough to comfortably ride a horse along, if one could ever get an animal up the narrow staircases, but the crossbowmen worked in teams of three so it was crowded at the moment. One man would shoot from between the crenellations, while the other two stood behind him holding goat’s foot levers and bolts to reload the weapon. Sometimes they had a second crossbow to put into the mix.
The drums stopped all at once.
“Put me where you want me, Master Villiers,” Grandison said.
The grand master drew his sword. The lines on his face smoothed out and the weariness in his eyes brought on by the last few restless nights faded away. The waiting was over.
“Here is as good a place as any,” the grand master said. “May God hold you both in His graces on this day.”
Foulques, too, drew his sword and his arm hummed with energy he felt travel all the way to the base of his skull. Despite the odds, this was where he was meant to be. On the wall, defending his city from the enemy. He had never been so sure of anything in his entire life.
The great arm of a single trebuchet slung its load high into the blue sky with a grating whoosh of its counterweight. Its head-sized boulder gracefully sailed past the Hospitaller tower and disappeared somewhere in the city. Where it struck, Foulques could not hear, for the moment the missile passed overhead, the Mamluks charged. Their screams were so loud Foulques thought he might topple off the wall backward before the battle had even begun.
The first ranks of the approaching armies picked up their pace and began to separate from the main host. Each man carried a large shield at his side, and as they closed to within two hundred and fifty yards of the city walls, they swung the large, rectangular shields to the front. Then they slowed their approach and tightened their formations, banding together in groups of fifty or more to form shield walls. Completely protected from the tops of their heads to their ankles, they ceased their forward momentum and stood firm.