For most of the men in the room, their spirits were also buoyed up by the knowledge they would soon be going home. But Ibelin could not share that joy; he had no home to return to.
Chapter 23
Acre, October 1192
KING RICHARD SAILED FOR HOME ON October 9. His wife and sister had already departed in a separate ship, but the King remained to pay his debts and collect as many of his men returning from captivity as possible. The weather was turning unpredictable, however, with the frequent rain showers and sudden squalls that made the Mediterranean treacherous at this time of year. Henri worried that his uncle had left his departure too late, but King Richard was confident that he’d make a quick crossing and be back in Normandy by Christmas, ready to take on his brother and Philip of France with the start of the New Year.
While the crusaders departed by sea, the returning captives began to straggle in through the landward gates. They came in uneven, sporadic groups, herded together by the officials responsible for reporting the numbers of repurchased slaves to the Sultan. Once the Sultan had paid the owners their fixed fee, the former slaves were kept together in local prisons all across the Sultan’s territories until the local authorities deemed there were enough to justify an escort to Frankish territory.
Beatrice and Constance had found one another before they left Aleppo, but Beatrice was saddened that Father Francis had died months earlier and would not be granted the grace of a Christian burial. As they had a year earlier, Bart and Amalric also joined them, and this time Constance’s younger daughter Anne was tossed in with the other women. She was now thirteen, overly thin, and so timid that she hardly dared look anyone in the eye, even her mother. Her French was fragmenting, too, all but lost under a layer of Arabic, but none of that mattered to Constance now that they were together again.
When, however, they were told they were being transported to Acre, both women resisted vehemently—Beatrice because her youngest son, Joscelyn, was still missing, and Constance because her older daughter Melusinde had not been brought to the collection center, either. No one listened to the protests of a couple of female slaves (or former slaves), however, and both women were unceremoniously tied to the others in the convoy. They had the option of walking or being dragged.
Constance reacted by screaming abuse at the soldiers in charge. Her fit of anguished fury frightened her sister much more than the indifferent Saracen guards. Beatrice put her arm around her sister’s shoulder and tried to calm her, while Anne clung to her waist in evident terror. “Connie, calm down. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Melusinde may have ended up in a different city and be on her way to Acre just as we are, or she might be there already. If not, once we’re safe we can make inquiries.” Then, leaning closer to speak directly into her sister’s ear, she pleaded, “Please hush; you’re upsetting Anne.”
The appeal to her maternal duties seemed to penetrate Constance’s brain, and she stopped screaming. Putting her arms around her little girl, who was now almost as tall as she was, she laid her cheek on the girl’s head, and together they shuffled forward with the rest of the freed—but still bound—slaves.
Since the women and even many of the youths, like Bart, were not used to walking distances, the slave column made very slow progress. They managed little more than ten miles a day, and they often slept in the open, or in barns with livestock. The food was sparse and of low quality, since those responsible had more interest in pocketing a portion of the allotted upkeep funds than in the welfare of their charges. Only the fact that the Sultan wanted twenty thousand humans delivered across the border alive induced the men in charge of them to feed them at all.
The Sultan’s orders did not provide any other form of protection, however, and the guards felt entitled to the sexual services of these long-since dishonored women and former slaves. They routinely picked out girls to sleep with, some keeping a girl with them as their personal sex partner for the whole journey, others changing partners at whim. Occasionally they fought over one girl or another. Beatrice and Constance were considered far too old and ugly to be of interest anymore, but one of the younger guards took a fancy to Anne. When he beckoned to her, she turned her face into her mother’s chest and started trembling so violently that even the guard was shocked.
While the guard stood looking perplexed, Bart, in obvious terror that something terrible would happen to the rest of the family if she did not obey, hissed to Anne that she “shouldn’t make a scene” and tried to push her over to the guard. Amalric, in contrast, walked over to the guard belligerently. He was taller than the guard and much more muscular. He didn’t stop until he was no more than a foot away, and he looked down on the guard from his superior height. “If you touch my cousin, I’ll kill you,” Amalric snarled.
“You wouldn’t dare!” the guard retorted.
Amalric answered by punching him so hard in the kidney that he crumpled up in pain. Then, before he could cry for assistance, Amalric kicked him in the balls as well. He collapsed on his knees, his face screwed up with pain. Amalric spat on him. Then he turned and herded his family through the astonished crowd of ex-slaves to the far side of the barn.
Beatrice had been terrified that the other guards would take some sort of revenge upon them, but either they had not seen what happened or they didn’t care. The young man himself was so ashamed of being bested by a slave that he kept as far away from them as possible after that.
After almost a month, the slave convoy finally reached the border with Frankish territory. They knew they had reached the border because suddenly the land was empty and untended. The fields lay fallow and the pastures were thick with scrub growth. Worse: the abandoned villages were slowly falling to ruin, the doors and shutters unhinged, the kitchen gardens gone to weeds, the livestock pens all broken down.
The sight of this neglect sent shivers down Beatrice’s spine, and for the first time since they had learned they were to be set free, she began to wonder about what lay ahead. She began to face not the abstract ideas of “freedom” and “home,” but the reality of returning to a rump state impoverished by five years of invasion, destruction, and war. No one had told them the terms of the treaty that had set them free, but no matter how good the overall terms might be, Beatrice recognized that her personal fate, and that of her children, depended on the fate of her father—and that of the Lord of Ibelin. What if both were dead?
She’d caught snatches of conversation between the guards that seemed to suggest “ Ibn Barzan” had played a key role in negotiating the release of the captives. Was that Ibelin? If so, he was apparently still a powerful and respected lord. Indeed, the Saracen officials seemed to be a little in awe of him, mentioning him in the same breath as the Sultan, but Beatrice couldn’t be 100 per cent sure that “ Ibn Barzan” was Balian d’Ibelin.
And even if, or particularly if, Ibelin was such a great and important lord, would he have time to help the former-slave children of a tenant? Beatrice knew her father had been a trusted vassal, a man Ibelin respected, liked, and valued, but her father had been nearing seventy year before Hattin. So many men had died in that horrible two-day battle, as many from heat stroke as from the blows of the enemy. Was it reasonable to imagine an old man would have survived? It was far more likely that he had been dead these past five years. And if he were indeed dead, who would remind Ibelin that he’d had two daughters and five grandchildren?
Beatrice concluded it was far more probable that Constance’s husband Gautier had survived. He’d been in his prime, and a competent knight. Yet even if it were more probable he had survived, there was no certainty of it. Nor did survival mean freedom. The overwhelming majority of the men who survived Hattin had been taken captive. If Gautier had been one of them, who would have paid his ransom? Beatrice did not know whether the truce terms included the release of captive fighting men, since all the slaves in their little convoy were women and youths.
Yet most disturbing of all was the thought that even if Gautier w
ere alive and free, he might not be willing to take Constance back. It was all very well for the Church to call marriage indissoluble, but was it reasonable to expect a man to receive back into his house, bed, and affections a woman who had known dozens of other men? The fact that Constance had wanted none of them and they had raped her was immaterial. Beatrice remembered her brother-in-law as a man proud to a fault. A wife who had been deeply humiliated and abused would not suit him.
Constance shared Beatrice’s assessment. The closer they got to release, the more frequently Constance whispered in growing distress, “Gautier will never take me back. Never. He’ll find some way to discard me.”
At least Beatrice didn’t have to worry about that; her husband had been buried three years before Hattin. But she did worry about how she, as a widow, was to raise her two sons—or three if they ever found Joscelyn. Even if their land were returned to them, who was to say the tenant farmers would also return—if they lived at all? If they didn’t, who would work the land?
It wasn’t that she personally shied from work after five years as a slave. On the contrary, she knew she was strong enough to do anything. But one woman would not be enough, and while Amalric was strong and likewise determined to survive, Bart was broken. As the incident with Anne had shown, he was not prepared to stand up for himself or his family. While things might get better once they left Saracen territory and control, Beatrice questioned whether he would ever recover his health, much less make up for the lost years of training.
Knights were not born; they were made—by intensive training at arms and on horseback, training Bart had not received. Nor could she imagine where she would find the money to buy the horses, arms, and armor he would need to begin learning his profession. Beatrice had no illusions: even if they could return to the manor that had been theirs before Hattin, it would look no better (and possibly worse) than the ghost towns they passed through. Amalric and she might be able to patch together a hovel to live in, but it would be years before they could eke out enough of a living to pay for armor or destriers for Bart. And what if they didn’t get their manor back?
As for Anne, from what little they had coaxed out of her, she had first had her genitals sheered in half with a crude knife and then been sold as a concubine to a man of middle age and—at least to Anne—repulsive appearance. Because of the genital mutilation, all intercourse was extremely painful, effectively torture. Furthermore, she found it and the other things he had done to her repulsive because of her tender age and her aversion to him. In short, she had been damaged both physically and mentally to the point that she could never be sent to marriage bed. While the peace of a convent would undoubtedly be the best for her, where was Constance to find a dowry? And would a convent take a former sex slave?
They had reached a small river, the banks overgrown with scrub brush and the water running muddy brown. Here the escort stopped, although it was hours before sunset. Someone asked what was going on and was brushed off with the word, “Wait.”
Beatrice descended the banks of the river to wash and cool her feet in the flowing waters. The sun was still high and hot, the banks of the river alive with insects, disturbed by the human invasion. Beatrice hitched up her skirts and stepped carefully into the slowly flowing water, unable to see the bottom because the muddy water was opaque. Her foot slipped on the slick stones underneath and she almost fell, but recovered before she landed completely in the water. As she straightened, her eye caught sight of something fluttering in the distance on the far side of the river. It was still far away, and yet something about it ignited inner excitement. It was horsemen, and after five years in Syria, Beatrice’s heart raced as she recognized the gleam of sunlight on chain mail and the naked helmets of Frankish knights. A second later she realized that the white banner streaming out behind them bore the splayed red cross of the the Knights Templar. “Templars!” Beatrice cried out and started scrambling up the far bank.
Five minutes later, a patrol of Templar sergeants commanded by a single knight reached the river. The mere sight of the Templars produced a rush among the slaves. None of them could wait to reach the protection of these Christian soldiers, so they scrambled in undignified eagerness across the river, dragging their little bundles of belongings behind them, indifferent to getting wet or muddy.
The Templars tried to tell them to slow down, but no one heeded them. They wanted the Templars between themselves and the Saracens. At last the Templar knight, a very young man who spoke French with a heavy German accent, ordered the freed captives to stand still so he could check the inventory presented by the Saracen escort commander. Only after the number of slaves had been verified did he countersign one copy of the inventory and tuck the second inside his gambeson.
Finally the Saracen escort remounted and swung their horses around to return eastward. The Templars, meanwhile, assured the former slaves that they had only two more miles to go to a shelter where they would spend the night.
The Templars were emotionless, efficient, and all business as they led the freed slaves. They shook their heads in answer to all questions, indicating they would not answer, and they avoided eye contact. Indeed, they kept their eyes on the road ahead. It was as if they disliked or disdained their charges, Beatrice thought. Did they think they had betrayed Christ? Or was it because they considered them all whores?
After what seemed like a long hour, a sugar mill and refinery came into view. Without irrigation, the cane fields that once surrounded it had died. Cactus, thorns, and gorse had taken root instead. But the mill itself was clearly visible at one end with broken bronze vats heaped around it, and smoke wafted from one of the six chimneys.
“That’s pork!” someone cried out. “They’re roasting pork!”
With an exuberant cheer some of the younger ex-slaves, including Amalric, started running, but Beatrice didn’t have the energy. She also remained wary of what reception they would receive. Would the men here be as cool and disdainful as the Templars? Just then, from the far end of the refinery, a half-dozen figures emerged. They wore the habit of Hospitaller sisters—and to Beatrice’s unutterable relief, they were all smiling.
As they poured into the sugar mill, the released captives found themselves in an improvised kitchen, complete with stew brewing over the fire and fresh bread heaped in front of a converted oven. There was even a long sideboard laden with hard cheese, sausage, and apples, while fresh water was available from the well beside the mill. The former slaves, particularly the youths, fell upon the food like a ravenous horde of wolves, while others gathered around the well for a drink of the clean, cool water after the long march.
Beatrice and most of the other women, however, were more attracted to the piles of clothing neatly stacked up on the opposite sideboard. There were heaps of braies for both men and women, shifts, kirtles, and scarves for women, hose and shirts for men, sandals for everyone. One of the Hospitaller sisters came over, still smiling, to explain that these clothes were donations from the citizens of Acre and Tyre. Everyone could pick out one complete outfit for themselves.
Beatrice and Constance could not contain contain themselves. While Constance dived for the sandals and started trying on pair after pair until she found some that felt comfortable, Beatrice grabbed a pair of braies, took the first clean shift and kirtle that came to hand, and most precious of all, a linen scarf. For the first time in five years, she would be able to cover her hideously shaved head like a respectable woman.
As she wound the linen around her head, one of the sisters came to help her, bringing a pin. Only then did Beatrice realize her hands were trembling. “You don’t know how good it is to be able to cover my head,” she told the sister, embarrassed by her show of emotion.
The Hospitaller sister laid her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder reassuringly, “You are not the first returnee to tell us that. Take a second if you want. We can find more.”
Beatrice did take a second, not for herself but for Anne. Taking the scarf to her bewilder
ed-looking niece, she offered to show her how to wrap it. Anne looked up at her with wide eyes. “But—but I’m not—not clean—”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. Here, I’ll show you.” When she finished with the scarf, she led Anne back to the pile of clothes and helped her pick out a shift, a pretty kirtle, and a pair of sandals. The kirtle was a bright yellow color, and Anne kept stroking it as if she could not believe it was hers. Amalric, on the other hand, couldn’t find any hose big enough for him, and the pair he finally settled on ended two inches above his ankles. He loudly declaimed that he didn’t give a damn: the main thing was that they were breeches and not a kaftan. Bart seemed pleased to be wearing hose again, too, but he was increasingly silent.
Meanwhile the sun had set, and the Hospitaller sisters directed the former slaves to a large warehouse that stood at right angles to the factory itself. Here straw pallets lined the wall, each with a blanket. While some of the returnees took advantage of the pallets at once, most were still too excited to sleep just yet. Instead they gathered around the millstone, where the Hospitallers were offering a small ration of wine.
When the sister handed the pottery mug to Anne, she sniffed it and made a face, shaking her head vehemently. Bart, in contrast, gulped down the wine so fast that it went down the wrong way, and he ended up coughing up most of it.
Seeing what had happened, the sister returned to give him a second helping. “Here you go, young man, but not so fast this time,” she advised indulgently.
Bart, red-faced, muttered, “Thank you, ma’am.”
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