Richard shook his head, but he continued to stare at the wall. Ibelin began to fear that while the fever had broken, so had the Lionheart’s vaunted spirit. He did not like this reaction at all.
Champagne stepped closer to the bed. “Salah ad-Din knows you are ill and thinks we are helpless. Maybe we should undertake a quick offensive to demonstrate we are not without claws?”
Richard nodded, but so wearily that Champagne didn’t know if he really approved or not. He looked to his father-in-law.
“Maybe a different envoy would be more successful, my liege,” Ibelin suggested softly.
King Richard’s head rolled back, and he stared at him. “Why do you say that?” His voice was definitely stronger than it had been at their last meeting, and that was encouraging. His eyes were more focused, too.
Ibelin shrugged. “He offered me all of Palestine and I turned it down. That annoyed him.”
“I daresay. It would have annoyed me, too,” the King of England quipped with a flicker of humor. “Why did you turn it down?”
“The price was my soul.”
“Conversion?”
“Yes.”
King Richard nodded and tried to sit up, gesturing for his nephew to help him. Champagne jumped forward, grasped him under the arm, and helped him to sit up, as one of his squires hastened over to stack pillows up against the headboard for him. Sitting up, King Richard no longer looked like a man about to die, and there was a spark of more than life in his eyes as well. There was still fire in his soul. “Look, Ibelin—if he respects you that much, then you are the best man for the job. Now tell me this: what do you honestly think he might concede?”
“He will never sign a peace treaty, because he has vowed to drive us into the sea. To accept in writing the Christian right to a sovereign presence here—no matter how small—is anathema to him. The most you can hope for is truce.”
“Fair enough. I intend to go home and teach Johnny a lesson he won’t forget—and Philip, too. But I will come back and finish what I started.” The Lionheart’s voice was not yet strong enough to carry across a battlefield, but the flame of determination was clearly burning again.
Ibelin smiled. “In that case, my lord, we have common ground. How many years do you need to teach your brother a lesson?”
“Two; but then I’ll need time to mobilize resources and build a fleet. Make it three.”
“Good,” Ibelin agreed.
“Next: the True Cross. What do you think, Ibelin? Can we get it back?” the King asked.
“No,” Ibelin admitted.
King Richard was astonished. “Why ever not? It means nothing to them.”
“That’s exactly why we won’t get it back. They’ve long since melted down the reliquary for its valuable metals and stones, and they’ve tossed away the wood inside.”
Richard was so appalled that he sat bolt upright. “Ibelin! Are you serious? You think it’s irretrievably lost?”
“Yes. To them it was just a piece of wood. A worthless piece of wood.”
“Even when I was negotiating for its return at Acre? You think they didn’t have it then?”
“Very probably not. That may be one reason the Sultan delayed and prevaricated. He might have been trying to find it—or something he could pass off as the sacred relic. He had something that he made Guy de Lusignan swear upon when he let him go—but between then and when you came, he had precious little use for a relic he did not revere.”
Richard thought about this and shook his head in disbelief, but he was also a practical man. He moved on. “What about the Sultan’s territorial demands?”
“Salah ad-Din cannot in any circumstances leave Ascalon in your hands. It controls the flow of men and treasure from Egypt, upon which he depends to maintain power in Damascus.”
King Richard didn’t answer at once, but the glitter in his eyes was enough to make Ibelin understand how much he resisted this concession. Ibelin could still picture the King of England stripped to the waist as he helped heave stones up from the beach to rebuild the defenses. When Richard spoke, however, he took Ibelin by surprise with his reasoning. “I need Ascalon to be able to attack Cairo. That’s what I intend to do when I return—without the damn French or anyone else to get in my way!”
Ibelin nodded understanding, but he remained certain that Salah ad-Din would not give up Ascalon. Then he had an idea. “Well, if your main concern is using it as a base for a future campaign, would it be good enough if we agreed to both leave it vacant for the duration of the truce?”
Richard’s eyebrows lifted for a second, and then he nodded. “Yes. As long as they have no garrison in it, I should be able to take it immediately—a first strike before he knows I’m coming, if I time it right.” Ibelin had the impression that just thinking about coming back with fresh troops and no nagging allies was revitalizing the sick King.
“But Jaffa’s mine and Henri’s!” Richard hastened to declare. “Nothing will induce me to give it up!”
“Salah ad-Din knows that,” Ibelin answered with a faint smile. “And so does everyone in his army. They have mentally already conceded everything from Acre to Jaffa.” He paused as the English King nodded, and then risked broaching the next topic. “My lord, I took the liberty of suggesting a prisoner exchange.”
“Of course,” King Richard readily agreed. “Total. Both sides return their prisoners, with no additional ransom demands.” Ibelin was relieved that he had read the English King’s concern for his men correctly. Richard added, “We have a lot more of them than they have of us, anyway, so that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
Ibelin stiffened. “My lord King,” he started, and stopped.
“Yes?”
“That’s not strictly true. I mean, we may have captured more Saracen fighting men since your arrival, but they still hold thousands of men taken at Hattin, and more than thirty thousand women and children.”
The look the Lionheart gave Ibelin belied all slanders that he was a man most concerned with his own glory; he was stricken. “Christ forgive me, Ibelin! I had completely forgotten that,” he murmured sincerely. Then, after a stunned moment, he asked, “What can we do for them? What would we have to give up?”
“Darum,” Ibelin answered, noting, “Gaza is untenable without Ascalon anyway.”
Richard understood about Gaza, and he turned to his nephew. “It’s your kingdom, Henri. Can you defend it without Darum?”
Henri glanced at his father-in-law and announced, “Uncle, my wife, the Queen of Jerusalem, has begged me not to forget the women and children in captivity. She would willingly give up Darum for the prisoners.”
Richard was looking hard at his nephew, and after a moment he pointed out, “That wasn’t my question.”
Ibelin came to his son-in-law’s rescue. “The Kingdom is defensible without Darum, my lord King, as long as we have Ibelin to protect Jaffa’s flank.”
“Hmm.” Richard considered Ibelin critically. “That’s why it was built—at a time when the Saracens controlled Ascalon.”
“All right; if you two are in agreement on this, I won’t stand in your way,” King Richard declared.
Ramla, August 1192
Ibelin had the impression that his reception was much warmer this time. Khalid al-Hamar came out to greet him before he even dismounted and graciously escorted him to the Sultan’s tent. Furthermore, it was the Sultan’s brother, rather than Imad ad-Din, who saw that he was made comfortable and received refreshments while he waited in the luxurious silk chamber. Al-Adil also stayed to chat with him while they waited for the Sultan.
“We hear that Malik Rik is recovering these days,” al-Adil opened, in a tone that made it sound like he was delighted by the news.
“Indeed; did your spy also try to take credit for his improving health?” While this remark was a joke, Ibelin wanted al-Adil to know that they were perfectly aware of his spy network.
Al-Adil laughed. “No, no, but he suggested the Sultan’s fruits ha
d been decisive.”
“A loyal slave to the Sultan would be wise to suggest that,” Ibelin suggested, and they both laughed.
“Tell me, how is the stallion I sent to my friend Malik Rik doing?”
“He seems to be recovering from the sores in his mouth. I have been riding him with only a halter, and he behaves so well I may never put a bit in his mouth again.”
“Ah, interesting. You think he had something wrong with his mouth?” al-Adil pretended innocence.
“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Ibelin assured him.
“I hear very good things about your stud,” al-Adil continued jocularly. “Maybe if we conclude a truce, you will allow me to visit?”
“I would be honored, my lord,” Ibelin said dutifully. The thought that Sir Bartholomew’s grandson Joscelyn was probably the source of al-Adil’s information about his stud, however, made him sad.
The Sultan’s arrival ended their small talk. Ibelin was relieved to see he had left his son out of this meeting. After the usual pleasantries, they got down to business. Salah ad-Din was clearly pleased with the notion of a three-year truce, adding eight months to the duration for reasons Ibelin did not need to know. The Sultan didn’t even blink at the refusal to surrender Jaffa (as Ibelin had predicted), and he frowned at the notion of both sides abandoning Ascalon, but after a moment he agreed, on the condition that the Franks first dismantled the walls.
“They cost the King of England a small fortune,” Ibelin protested. “You cannot expect him to just tear them down.”
“Either he tears them down or there is no truce,” Salah ad-Din shot back firmly, adding with a smile, “but I am prepared to compensate him for his investment. Would ten thousand gold bezants be enough?”
Ibelin’s first instinct was to bargain, but then he decided against it. The most important provision of the treaty was yet to come, so he agreed, and Salah ad-Din nodded satisfaction.
“That leaves the prisoner exchange,” Ibelin opened. “We are prepared to return all the prisoners we hold—”
“That you have not mercilessly executed,” the Sultan reminded him of Acre.
“Treaties must be upheld on both sides,” Ibelin replied calmly. “It was in your hands to save them.”
The Sultan dismissed this with a wave of his hand and urged, “Go on. You will return all the prisoners you hold in exchange for a Frank apiece?”
“No, for all Christians taken captive at and since Hattin,” Ibelin told him firmly, hoping his inner tension did not show.
“Impossible,” Salah ad-Din answered dismissively.
“Why?”
“It’s been five years. I have no idea where most of them are. They are the property of thousands of my subjects. I cannot just expropriate them.”
“You were prepared to return twenty-five hundred for the garrison of Acre.”
“Yes, and it was in large part because I had so much trouble finding even that many that I was late meeting the terms of the treaty. There is no way I can find over forty thousand men, women, and children.”
It would have been easier to argue with him if Ibelin had not believed him, but he did. He could imagine just how difficult it would be to find captives sold in markets as far away as Mosul and Cairo. But he could not just abandon them, either. The image of the slave column being driven out of Jerusalem still haunted him. “What is Darum worth to you, your Excellency?”
“Darum?” The Sultan looked interested. “You would abandon Darum as well as Gaza and Ascalon?”
“For as many captives as you can find, but on no account less than twenty thousand.”
“Twenty thousand Frankish slaves who may be anywhere?” The Sultan still sounded skeptical.
“If you offer to pay for them, people will come forward,” Ibelin insisted.
“If I offer to pay enough, you are right, but twenty thousand slaves will cost me at least two hundred thousand dinars, probably more.”
“Yes. What would it cost to take Darum from a Templar garrison?”
“Templars?”
“Of course. If they evacuate Gaza, they will be compensated with Darum.”
The Sultan glanced at his brother. Al-Adil asked pointedly, “Will you take the women back as well? Would they count towards the twenty thousand?”
“Yes, of course,” Ibelin assured him.
Al-Adil shrugged and looked at his brother as he said, “In that case, I don’t see why not. We can replace whores easily enough.”
Ibelin clamped his teeth to stop from reacting to the calculated insult. He forced himself to wait for the Sultan’s reply.
Salah ad-Din shook his head, narrowed his eyes slightly, and looked Ibelin straight in the eye. “No. For twenty thousand captives, Darum is not enough. I will need Ramla and Ibelin as well.”
Balian stopped breathing. He just sat there, knowing it was an impossible choice. A choice no man should be forced to make. Ibelin. His birthplace and happy childhood. His heritage and identity. The pomegranate orchards. The vineyards. . . . Or twenty thousand Christian slaves. Sir Bartholomew’s daughters, if they were still alive and could be found. The men and women Heraclius had abandoned for the sake of his gold plate. . . .
Ibelin let out his breath slowly. He could prevaricate, pretend he needed to consult with King Richard and the Count of Champagne, but in his heart he knew the decision was his. Champagne and King Richard would accept whatever decision he made about Ibelin and Ramla. But would Zoë and the children? They would have no choice but to accept his decision, but would they hate him for it? Would they ruin the rest of his life with recriminations and reproaches? Zoë might understand. She had spoken of a life in Christ’s footsteps as a “monument” to His glory. But what about the children, who were utterly dependent upon him for their future? The thought of John looking at him with resentment was torture, and he squirmed physically.
Salah ad-Din and al-Adil could see that he was struggling with himself, and they waited with bated breath for his answer.
Balian found it difficult to speak, but he could not sit there in silence forever. He forced himself to say it: “You may have Ibelin, Excellency—and Ramla. But,” Ibelin’s voice gathered strength as he continued, “you must document the return of at least twenty thousand Christian slaves,” his voice had turned forceful, almost threatening, “or the treaty will be invalid. God is my witness,” and he raised his right hand in a gesture of swearing an oath, “if you break your word in this regard, King Richard will return with a new Western army. He has promised me that, and his word is good.”
Salah ad-Din’s nostrils flared slightly, and his lips tightened. He did not doubt King Richard’s determination to return once he had settled his problems at home—whether the treaty was broken or not. Their war was not yet over. The truce served both sides merely as a means to gain the strength to attack again. They both knew that. It was Ibn Barzan whom the Sultan did not understand. He shook his head. “I do not know if I should laugh or weep for you, Ibn Barzan. As a Believer you could be prince of all Palestine, but for your childish religion with its worship of idols and females, you make yourself a pauper.”
Balian smiled sadly, the worst over now. He had spurned temptation and committed himself. “Christ was born and died a pauper,” he reminded the wealthy master of Syria and Egypt. “Should I disdain to follow in His footsteps?”
The Sultan could only shake his head in bafflement.
Jaffa, September 2, 1192
The entire Saracen delegation, headed by al-Adil and al-Afdal, was ushered into King Richard’s presence. For the occasion he had left his bed and was dressed in a brilliant marigold shirt and yellow hose, over which he wore a red silk surcoat with golden lions embroidered upon it. He wore knee-high, red suede boots, golden spurs, and the crown of England. He was propped up in an armed chair on the dais, surrounded by the highest clergy of the land. In the hall, the barons of Jerusalem and the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and Templars stood with King Richard’s vassals and kn
ights. They were all in armor and the best surcoats they could find after so many months campaigning.
The Saracen delegation looked considerably more magnificent. Peacock feathers and glittering jewels adorned their turbans. The gold and silver on the hilts of their swords and daggers glinted in the sunlight. Their bodies were encased in bright-colored silk brocade woven into elaborate patterns, their boots were tasseled, and gold embroidery traced quotes from the Koran on their sleeves.
In addition to the Sultan’s brother and eldest son, all the emirs granted land along the new border were present to swear their agreement with the truce, and Ibelin noted that the ambitious red-haired Khalid al-Hamar was among them; apparently he had been awarded an iqta at last. Altogether, it made a gaggle of almost twenty.
At the sight of al-Adil, King Richard pushed himself to his feet, and the English King and the Kurdish general embraced in a gesture of friendship. Then al-Adil stepped back, removed a copy of the treaty from his tunic, and handed it to King Richard with a bow. King Richard handed it on to the Patriarch with the words, “I have not the strength to read it, but I have agreed to the terms. Here is my hand on it.” He held out his hand to al-Adil, who took it with a smile that seemed sincere. “As for the oath,” Richard continued, “kings do not swear, but my nephew, the Masters, and the barons will swear to maintain the peace for the designated time.”
Al-Adil nodded, because all this had been agreed in advance—just as it had been agreed that when a return Frankish delegation went to Ramla on the following day to swear the oath in front of the Sultan, Salah ad-Din would not personally swear. Instead, the men representing them would do that twice: once here and once in Ramla.
Richard sank back onto his chair, and the Patriarch and the imam accompanying the Saracen delegation alternated reading the terms of the treaty in Latin and Arabic. At the end, the assembled nobles raised their hands and swore to uphold the terms for three years and eight months.
The formalities over, the Franks and Saracens sat down together for a good-natured feast accompanied by jokes, laughter, and apparent goodwill. The mutual respect most of these men had for one another as fighting men was real enough, and the relief that—for the moment—they need not fear death on the morrow was genuine. The Third Crusade was over, and they were glad of it.
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