The Islam Quintet

by Tariq Ali

  “They will come now to try and retake their city, and they will take the shortest route, the road that leads from Acre straight through the plain of Hattin. The virtue we must preach to ourselves today is patience. Even my uncle Shirkuh with his monumental impatience would, were he alive today, agree with me. Let us return to the camp and find a pleasant place from where we can observe Guy with his Templars and Hospitallers. The sky is clear, the sun burns like a furnace, and we control the water.”

  THIRTY

  The battle of Hattin

  SALAH AL-DIN KNEW THAT the noble Raymond of Tripoli would try to devise an alternative, more defensive plan. His wife was in the citadel of the captured city. Raymond would be aware that Salah al-Din had yet to confront the Franj when they were in a strong and entrenched position. The Sultan was depending on the rashness and stupidity of the Franj leaders. He was confident that the blind mistrust and hatred of the Count of Tripoli felt by Guy and Reynald of Châtillon would lead them to ignore any plan that Raymond might suggest.

  On the third day of July, a Friday, the scouts who had been watching the movements of the Franj rode back to our camp in great excitement. Keukburi accompanied them to the entrance of the Sultan’s tent. He was resting, and I was teaching one of his guards the basic moves of chess. Here, underneath the lemon trees, we all waited for him to finish his rest.

  The faces of the two scouts were lined with dust. Their eyes were dark with lack of sleep. Their posture suggested that the news they carried was important. They were under strict orders from Taki al-Din to speak directly with Salah al-Din. It was I who suggested that the Sultan might be happy to be disturbed, and Keukburi entered his tent. Salah al-Din walked out bare-chested, a cloth round his waist.

  The scouts whispered their message in his ear. It confirmed his predictions. A much-relieved Sultan allowed his emotions to show. He roared with delight.

  “Allah o Akbar! They have abandoned the water and are in the grip of Satan. This time I have them.”

  Trumpets and drumrolls alerted emir and soldier alike. The speed with which our army made ready for war was a sign of the high morale and discipline that had been achieved during the weeks of training at Ashtara. The fall of Teveriya had a feverish effect on those who had stayed behind. The Sultan, fully dressed in his armour, his green turban in place, and his sword strapped on by attentive retainers, was giving his final orders to Taki al-Din and Keukburi. The two men bowed and withdrew after kissing his cheeks.

  Like beasts awaiting their prey, the Sultan’s archers prowled anxiously on the ridge. Their impatience for the kill made them simultaneously nervous and eager. Despite my best efforts to remain calm I could not control my excitement. I broke bread that day with the great Imad al-Din. He was hard at work writing his account of the battle that was about to begin. As he left the tent to relieve himself I read and copied his opening paragraph: “The vast sea of his army surrounded the lake. The ship-like tents rode at anchor and the soldiers flooded in, wave upon wave. A second sky of dust spread out in which swords and iron-tipped lances rose like stars.” He wrote with such ease, the words flowing from his pen quicker than the ink that gave them shape. It did make me wonder, once again, why the Sultan had chosen me and not him to compose this work.

  At midday, we caught our first sight of the enemy. The sun was reflecting on the heavy armour of the Franj knights, and the flashes pierced the dust.

  As the Franj moved towards the ridge, the Sultan gave the signal. Taki al-Din and Keukburi took their squadrons on a flanking manoeuvre that should not have surprised the Franj. They surrounded the enemy, cut them off from their water supply, and blocked all possible retreats. The Sultan continued to hold the ridge.

  I had remained on the ridge next to al-Afdal, near the Sultan’s tent, far from the fighting. Salah al-Din would ride away to observe the battle from different positions, listen to first-hand reports, and then return to his banner where we stood. Then he would send out new instructions. His eyes shone like lamps and his face was free of worry. He was clearly satisfied, yet his caution never deserted him, not for a moment. I had occasion to observe him closely that day.

  He was not an interfering commander. He had planned the battle carefully, and provided his orders were carried out he saw no reason to intervene. Throughout the day messengers on horseback, their faces full of dust, would come to him with information and return with orders. One of the most important victories in the annals of Islam was a surprisingly calm affair.

  The sight of our dead and wounded soldiers touched me deeply. It upset me that neither the Sultan nor the Emir—nor, for that matter, the men themselves—seemed to show much sympathy for those who had been lost that day. It is strange how, even after one day of war, it is difficult to remember what normal life was like before the battle and all its afflictions.

  As the Franj knights slumped and fell, the only emotion I felt was one of relief. By temperament, I am not a vengeful person, but as I saw the sand darkened by the blood of the Franj I recalled the accounts of what they had done to my people in Jerusalem and other towns. I offered a silent prayer pleading with the Almighty to hasten the victory of our Sultan. Not that he needed my prayers that day. His tactics had worked well and, though none of us realised it at the time, it won him the battle of Hattin. Unlike the Franj, we lost few men on that first day. We could have followed them, and finished the job by the evening, but the signal given by al-Afdal from outside the Sultan’s tent was to let them retreat. They had nowhere to go. Every exit had been sealed. Every well was under our control. The supplies on which the Franj had been relying had been diverted, and some of them were already being unloaded at our camp.

  The Franj had thought that, as in the past, their knights would charge and break through the encirclement, opening up a path for their entire army to retreat. But they underestimated the size of our army. What they wanted to do had become impossible.

  That night, as both sides made camp, neither was aware that the battle was over. On our side, the Sultan conferred anxiously with the emirs. He wanted the names of the skirmishers from each squadron. He demonstrated his own prodigious memory by naming the archers he wanted in position the next day. He had carefully watched the new archers at Ashtara and noted the names of those who hit the mark most often. They were given 400 loads of arrows. The Sultan watched the supplies being distributed and addressed his favourite archer by name.

  “Tell your men, Nizam al-Din, that, despite the temptation, they must never waste arrows by aiming at the knights of the Franj. Their armour cannot be pierced. But mark the horse, and aim well, so that the beast falls. A Franj knight without his horse is like an archer without a bow. Useless. Once you get the horses, Taki al-Din and our horsemen will ride like a wave and decapitate these infidels as they stagger nervously to their feet. Is that clear?”

  The reply came from all the archers who had been straining their ears to catch the Sultan’s words.

  “There is only one Allah, and he is Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

  “I agree,” muttered the Sultan, “but I don’t want Him to welcome too many of you into Heaven too soon. This war is not over.”

  Before the battle began again, the Sultan gave firm instructions to his emirs regarding Raymond of Tripoli.

  “He is a good man, who was once our friend. Even though he has been compelled by the worshippers of icons to fight against us, I harbour no ill-will against him. He must not be killed. I want him taken alive. If that is not possible, let him escape. We shall find him again.”

  It was our skirmishers who began the fight, testing the intentions of the enemy. The Sultan, flanked by Taki al-Din and Keukburi, waited awhile before committing his army to battle. The Franj charged the skirmishers and we suffered some losses, but Salah al-Din signalled to another group of mamluks to join the skirmishing. This time the Franj knights retreated. Imad al-Din, who was with me that day, laughed at the sight.

  “The lions have been transformed int
o hedgehogs,” he said, but a look from the Sultan silenced him. Shadhi had taught Salah al-Din that celebrating a victory before it had been won always brought bad luck.

  Salah-al-Din ordered his two wings to begin their outflanking operation and his trusted archers moved into position at the same time. Now, at his signal, their bows quivered and their arrows rained on the Franj, unhorsing many knights. A further signal was given and the scrub was set alight, enhancing the miseries of the Franj. The flames were almost invisible in the bright light. The terrified knights and their horses surged to and fro, feeling they could not remain still, wanting to do something, but they confronted an impossible situation. The smell of scorched flesh, human and animal, began to waft in our direction with the breeze of the late afternoon. Those Franj knights who rode through the fire and charged desperately up the wadis found the Sultan’s archers waiting for them. Some collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Others were burnt alive. The Sultan received the news without emotion. Only once did he speak to me directly, and that was to remark that some of the finest-pedigreed horses of Arabia had perished and this was a cause for regret.

  I heard with my own two ears the desperate cries of the Franj soldiers. Crazed by thirst and burnt by the sun, they pleaded for water, praying to their God and then to Allah, much to the disgust of their knights who belonged to the Orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers.

  I could see one of their commanders, that impure and infantile adventurer, Reynald of Châtillon, of whom I have already written. He had a frightening scar across his face, a permanent reminder of the skills of one of our unknown swordsmen. Reynald was riding on his sweaty black steed, which snorted arrogantly just like its master. He pulled his horse to an abrupt halt. The roar of the soldiers began to die down. A messenger rushed to the commander. Reynald dismounted and the man whispered something in his ear. Then I lost sight of him completely. Suddenly, and before our very eyes, the Franj lost their formation and appeared without aim or direction.

  They moved instinctively towards the lake of Tiberias, but our soldiers barred their way. Hundreds of Franj soldiers gave themselves up to the Sultan, falling on their knees and chanting “Allah o Akbar”. They converted on the spot to the religion of the Prophet, and were given food and water.

  Thousands of these soldiers climbed to the top of a small hill, effectively deserting their King. They refused orders to come down. They were thirsty and could not fight without water. Most of them were killed by being hurled over the rocks by their own side. Some were taken prisoner by us. It was clear to everyone that the Franj had been defeated.

  Salah al-Din received news of these victories with an impassive face. He was watching the tents which surrounded the symbolic Cross of the Franj. These housed the King and his immediate bodyguard, and had not shifted throughout the battle.

  As we watched, young al-Afdal began to jump up and down, shouting: “Now we have beaten them.” He was quickly silenced when a Franj charge drove our soldiers back, causing a frown to occupy the Sultan’s forehead for the first time during this battle.

  “Be silent boy!” he told his son. “We shall not defeat them until that tent falls.”

  Even as he pointed to the tent of King Guy, we saw it fall. We saw our soldiers capture the “True Cross”. Now Salah al-Din embraced his son and kissed him on the forehead.

  “Allah be praised! Now we have beaten them, my son.”

  He ordered the victory drumroll, and cries of joy erupted on the hills and plains around the village of Hattin. Taki al-Din and Keukburi came riding up, their arms filled with Franj banners. They threw them at the Sultan’s feet and leapt off their horses, their eyes filled with tears of joy and relief. They kissed Salah al-Din’s hands, and he lifted them both to their feet. With his arms round their shoulders, he thanked them for what they had achieved. Then Taki al-Din spoke to him.

  “I allowed Count Raymond to escape, O Commander of the Victorious, just as you had instructed, even though my archers were straining to unhorse him.”

  “You did well, Taki al-Din.”

  Now it was Keukburi’s turn.

  “Commander of the Victorious, we have captured most of their knights. Their so-called King Guy and his brother, Humphrey of Toron, Joscelin of Courtenay and Reynald of Châtillon are among our prisoners. Guy wishes to speak with you.”

  The Sultan was moved. He nodded appreciatively.

  “Pitch my tent in the heart of the field where this battle was won. Place our banners in front of the tent. I will see Guy and whoever he chooses to accompany him in that tent. Imad al-Din! I want an exact tally of how many men we have lost and how many were wounded.”

  The great scholar nodded sagely.

  “It will not take too much time today, O great Sultan. Compared to the Franj whose heads cover the ground like a plague of melons, our casualties are light. We have lost Emir Anwar al-Din. I saw him go down when the Franj charged us just before their final collapse.”

  “He was a good soldier. Bathe his body and send it back to Damascus. None of our men should be buried in Hattin, unless they belonged to this region.”

  “Who would have thought,” continued Imad al-Din in a more reflective mood, “that the success of your military tactics would transform Hattin, this little insignificant village, into a name that will resound throughout history?”

  “Allah decided the fate of the Franj,” was the Sultan’s modest reply.

  Imad al-Din smiled but, uncharacteristically, remained silent.

  In the distance, we observed the Sultan’s tent established on the plain below. He spurred his horse and our whole party—al-Afdal and a hundred guards, with Imad al-Din and myself bringing up the rear—galloped past corpses already beginning to rot in the sun and stray arms and legs to the place where the tent had been pitched.

  Such was the feeling of euphoria that had gripped us all that the only thought to cross my mind was that the wild beasts would be having a feast tonight.

  Imad al-Din as his chief secretary and I, the humble chronicler of his life, sat on either side of his chair. He told a guard to inform Keukburi that he was now ready receive the “King of Jerusalem”. And so it happened. Guy, accompanied by Reynald of Châtillon, was brought in by Keukburi, who spoke now with a formality which surprised me.

  “Here, Commander of the Victorious, is the self-styled King of Jerusalem and his knight, Reynald of Châtillon. The third man is their interpreter. He has just decided to become a Believer. I await your orders.”

  “I thank you, Emir Keukburi,” replied the Sultan. “You may give their King some water.”

  Offering Guy hospitality was the first indication that he would not be beheaded on the spot. Guy drank eagerly from the cup, which contained cooled water. He passed the cup to Reynald, who also took a sip, but the Sultan’s face became livid with anger. He looked at the interpreter.

  “Tell this King,” he said in a voice filled with contempt and disgust, “that it was he, not I, who offered this wretch a drink.”

  Guy began to tremble with fright and bowed his head to acknowledge the truth of Salah al-Din’s words. Then the Sultan rose and looked into Reynald’s blue and ice-cold eyes.

  “You dared to commit sacrilege against our Holy City of Mecca. You further compounded your crimes by attacking unarmed caravans and by your treachery. Twice I swore before Allah that I would kill you with my own hands, and now the time has come to redeem my pledge.”

  Reynald’s eyes flickered, but he did not plead for mercy. The Sultan drew his sword, and drove it straight through the prisoner’s heart.

  “May Allah speed your soul to Hell, Reynald of Châtillon.”

  Reynald collapsed on the ground, but he was not yet dead. The Sultan’s guards dragged him outside and, with two blows from their swords, they removed his head from his shoulders.

  In the tent there were wrinkled noses as a terrible stench arose. The Franj King, frightened by the fate of his knight, had soiled his clothes.

  “
We do not murder kings, Guy of Jerusalem,” said the Sultan. “That man was an animal. He transgressed all codes of honour. He had to die, but you must live. Go now and clean yourself. We will provide you with new robes. I am sending you and your knights to be shown to the people of Damascus. I will set up camp outside al-Kuds tonight, and tomorrow what your people once took by force will be returned to the People of the Book. We shall sit where you sat. Yet unlike you we shall dispense justice and avoid tasting the elixir of revenge. We shall repair the injuries that you did to our mosques and to the synagogues of the Jews, and we shall not desecrate your churches. Under our rule, al-Kuds will begin to flourish again. Take the prisoner away, Keukburi, but treat him well.”

  Thus it was that Guy and his chief nobles left for Damascus. Even as they were being led away, they could see three hundred knights of the two military orders of the Hospital and the Temple being led to their execution.

  They must die, the Sultan had decreed, for if we let them live they will only take arms against us once again. It was the deadly logic of a conflict that had long poisoned our world. All I could think of was the moment we would enter Jerusalem.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The Sultan thinks of Zubayda, the nightingale of Damascus

  SALAH AL-DIN PERMITTED ONLY a modest celebration on the night of our great victory. Couriers were dispatched to Baghdad and Cairo, carrying news of the battle that had been won. The count of the Franj dead had revealed that they had lost 15,000 men. Imad al-Din confirmed the figure, and wrote that the prisoners numbered 3,000 nobles, knights and soldiers.

  The letter to the Sultan’s brother al-Adil in Cairo also carried a command. He was to bring the army of Egypt to Palestine, where it was needed to complete the jihad.

  The Sultan was happy, but, as always, he permitted nothing to overwhelm his caution. He told Taki al-Din that Hattin was not a decisive victory. A lot more needed to be accomplished, and he warned against overestimating our strength.