Eagle st-1

by Jack Hight

  On a blazing hot afternoon three days later, John sat in the shade of his tent, his stomach growling as he stared at the unappetizing piece of salted beef he held in his hands. The beef was as tough as leather, and one side was splotched with green. John sniffed at it and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He shook his waterskin and sighed. Only a couple of mouthfuls of water remained to wash down the salty, putrid meat. He was about to toss it aside when his stomach growled loudly. ‘By God, I’m hungry,’ he muttered to himself.

  John glanced over his shoulder, beyond the rows of low tents and past the huge pavilion at the centre of camp that served as a church, to the bulky wall of Damascus, shimmering in the summer heat. After three days of bloody fighting, the wall still stood, and already the army was short of food and water. Moving east had taken them further from the river, and whenever men went to fill their waterskins, the Saracens rode out to drive them off. The fruit and vegetables from the orchards that had not been eaten had already spoiled in the sweltering July heat. This loathsome salted beef was all they had left. John rubbed the tough meat between his fingers, trying to remove as much of the mould as possible. Then, he tore off a piece with his teeth and chewed slowly.

  ‘Get up, Saxon.’ It was Ernaut, approaching in full armour.

  ‘On your feet, all of you!’ he bellowed to the other men crouched in the tiny squares of shade cast by their tents. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘When?’ John asked.

  ‘Now. Pack up and form ranks. We’ve been assigned to the rearguard.’

  John ducked into his tent and stuffed his possessions into his rucksack. Then he untied and removed the tent’s woollen covering, revealing its skeleton — two poles at either end that crossed at the top to form triangles, and a longer pole that ran between them. He wrapped the poles in the tent fabric, tied up the bundle and stuffed it in his rucksack. He looked around him as he shouldered the bag. What had been a city of tents only minutes before had vanished, reverting to a dusty plain.

  The rest of the company was forming up in a long column, five men wide. As John walked over to join them, he wrapped a long strip of white linen around his helmet, to prevent the blazing sun from transforming the metal into an oven. He joined the column near the end, and Rabbit fell in beside him. A moment later, they set off with Ernaut riding at their head.

  ‘Isn’t the rearguard the most dangerous?’ Rabbit asked, his nose twitching.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ John replied. ‘Stick close to me and I’ll look after you.’

  They were marching past the rest of the army now. First came the foot-soldiers of the kingdom of Jerusalem, thousands of men in chainmail packed close together, their ranks bristling with spears. They surrounded King Baldwin and his four hundred knights, whose impatient chargers snorted and stamped at the hard ground. The ranks of Baldwin’s men gave way to the tall Germans, who had also formed up around their king. Last of all came the French troops around King Louis and his knights. Reynald rode amongst them, and as John passed, their eyes met.

  Ernaut marched his troops to the end of the line and took up his place in the centre of them. John found himself on the outside edge of the column, only a few rows from the end of the long line of warriors. Behind him, the thousands of pilgrims were clustered together in a shapeless mass.

  ‘Listen up, men!’ Ernaut roared to his troops as the column began to move forward. ‘King Louis has issued strict orders. If the enemy attacks, you’re to stay in close formation. I don’t care what those bastard Saracens do. If any man leaves the column, I’ll have his eyes!’

  The column headed around the city to the south, the men of Jerusalem leading the way and the pilgrims straggling along in the rear. After only a few minutes of marching, John was already soaked in sweat and choking at the dust stirred up by the men ahead. He rearranged the strip of linen around his helmet so that it covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

  The hard ground gave way to sand as it sloped down to the Barada River. John splashed into the water, sighing in relief as it washed over him up to his waist. He filled his waterskin as he waded across, then took a long drink. He lowered the skin at the sound of shouting amongst the pilgrims behind him. Looking back, he saw the southern gates of Damascus swinging open. Hundreds of Saracens on horseback poured out, galloping towards the pilgrims. In a panic the pilgrims rushed forward, eager to cross the river before the horsemen reached them.

  ‘Keep moving, damn it!’ Ernaut shouted. ‘Tighten the ranks! Shields up!’

  John stepped closer to the man in front of him and raised his shield so that it overlapped that of the men before and after him, forming a moving wall. Behind him, he heard screams of pain as the Saracen’s first arrows hit home amongst the pilgrims. A few of the faster pilgrims were sprinting past the column now. A scattering of arrows followed them. Most shattered against the hard ground or skittered off the shields of the men in the column, but a few found their mark. John saw one arrow fly straight through a pilgrim’s chest. The man kept running for a few steps, then keeled over, dead.

  John glanced over his shoulder and saw that most of the pilgrims had been trapped on the far side of the river. The Saracen horsemen had swooped down and encircled them, cutting the pilgrims off from the river and the rest of the column. They were huddled in a mass as the Saracens circled them, firing arrows into the crowd. The pilgrims with bows fired back, but with no armour and few weapons, they had no chance of holding off their well-armed attackers. Already dozens lay dead, their bodies riddled with arrows like pincushions. When the Saracens tired of their bows and closed with swords, the carnage would truly begin.

  John raised his voice to address the men around him. ‘We’ve got to go back and help the pilgrims! They’ll be slaughtered!’

  ‘Shut your trap, Saxon!’ Ernaut shouted back. ‘Keep to your places men! If we break ranks, the Saracens will carve us up.’

  ‘But we can’t just let them die,’ John pressed.

  ‘Better them than us!’

  ‘’Sblood,’ John growled to himself. ‘This isn’t right.’ He had come to the Holy Land seeking redemption. What better way to achieve salvation than to die fighting to save others? He dropped his rucksack, then stepped from the line and sprinted towards the river and the pilgrims beyond.

  ‘Saxon, I’ll have your hide for this!’ he could hear Ernaut roaring. But John did not stop. Then he heard another voice, closer behind him.

  ‘John! Wait!’ John stopped, and Rabbit came up alongside him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ John demanded. ‘Get back to the line!’

  ‘You told me to stick with you.’

  ‘So I did.’ John drew his sword as he turned back to face the river. A few pilgrims had now reached it, and the Saracens were riding amongst them, chopping men down and staining the waters crimson. ‘Come on, then,’ John called. ‘Let’s save as many of them as we can! For Christ!’ he roared as he raised his sword and charged.

  Yusuf stood on the wall beside Turan and watched wide-eyed as Unur’s men butchered the Christian pilgrims. He and Turan were squeezed in amongst a crowd of spectators: bearded men in their white caftans and turbans; women in robes and veils. All of Damascus seemed to have turned out to watch the slaughter. They cheered each time a Christian fell. A tall, drunk man beside Yusuf yelled a non-stop stream of invectives at the fleeing Christians. ‘Go back to your whore-mothers, you sons of donkeys! Goat-fuckers! Male whores! Bastard scum!’

  A piercing wail of agony penetrated the roar of the crowd and the insults of the drunken man. Yusuf spotted the man — a pilgrim on his knees, an arrow protruding from his gut. As Yusuf watched, a horseman rode in close and fired an arrow directly into the wailing pilgrim’s mouth. The man’s cry ended abruptly as the arrow burst through the back of his head. The crowd roared their approval. Yusuf turned away, sick to his stomach.

  He glanced at Turan, who was watching the action intently, his eyes shining and his head nodding at each Christian death. Suddenl
y, Turan extended his arm, pointing towards the river. ‘There’s Father!’ Yusuf looked and saw Ayub in his distinctive, silvery chainmail. He sat straight-backed in the saddle, sword in hand as he galloped down the sandy bank towards the river. Several of the pilgrims had managed to reach the water, and a pair of Christian knights had left the column to help them. The knights stood in the river as the pilgrims scrambled for safety up the bank behind them.

  Yusuf watched as his father’s horse splashed into the river and headed for the larger of the two knights. To Yusuf’s surprise, the knight charged straight for Ayub, wading through the waistdeep water with his sword held high. Ayub prepared to deliver his blow, but at the last second the knight seemed to trip and disappeared beneath the water. Ayub reined in his horse, looking for his foe. A moment later, the knight burst from the water beside Ayub’s horse. He grabbed hold of Ayub and pulled him from the saddle. As Ayub disappeared beneath the water, the Christian knight pulled himself into the saddle. He slapped the flank of the horse with the flat of his sword and rode downstream to confront another Muslim warrior. The waters behind him stilled. There was no sign of Ayub.

  ‘Where is he?’ Yusuf whispered. He grabbed Turan’s arm and shouted, ‘Where’s Father?’

  ‘We’ve got to help him,’ Turan said.

  Yusuf shook his head. ‘Father told us to stay here.’

  ‘Stay, then. You’d be of no use anyway.’ Turan turned away and ran for the ramp that led down from the wall.

  ‘No, wait!’ Yusuf shouted as he hurried after his brother. The two sprinted down from the wall and flew through the streets, back to their house. They burst inside to find the building deserted. The warriors had all left to fight with Ayub, and the servants had gone to the walls to watch.

  Yusuf banged open the door to his chamber. The suit of chainmail that his father had given him hung from a hook on the far wall, next to Yusuf’s sword and helmet. He pulled on the heavy armour and conical helmet, then buckled his sword around his waist. He stumbled towards the stables, clumsy in the ill-fitting chainmail.

  Yusuf entered the stables to find Turan saddling a horse. He looked at Yusuf and frowned. ‘You should stay here. You’ll get yourself killed.’

  ‘I will help to save Father,’ Yusuf replied as he grabbed his own saddle and heaved it on to another horse. ‘And if I cannot, then I will avenge his death.’ Turan smirked, but said nothing as he led his horse to the stable door and pulled it open. Yusuf pulled tight the girth that held his horse’s saddle in place, and then followed his brother out into the street, where Turan swung himself easily into the saddle and galloped away, the hooves of his horse kicking up dust.

  Yusuf closed the stable door and then struggled to haul himself up into the saddle. Gritting his teeth with a final effort, he pulled himself up and spurred after Turan. The jolting of his horse kept knocking Yusuf’s helmet down so that it covered his eyes, and it was all that he could do to catch up with his brother. The two of them raced down the main street and past the towering mosque. They thundered across a wooden bridge that spanned the Barada River where it flowed through the centre of Damascus, and headed for the southern gate. Ahead, Yusuf could see hundreds of people crowded atop the wall. As he and Yusuf neared, several men turned and cheered. Then the gate flashed by, and they were beyond the wall.

  Yusuf’s horse stopped and reared, shying at the strong scent of blood on the air. His helmet fell over his eyes and he felt himself falling backwards. He reached out blindly and managed to grab hold of his horse’s mane, keeping himself in the saddle. He hung on desperately until his horse settled. When he pushed his helmet back from his eyes he saw utter chaos. Unur’s warriors had shouldered their bows and closed with swords, and the pilgrims had scattered in all directions. Two Christians in brown robes sprinted by Yusuf’s horse, not ten feet away. A horseman galloped after them, slashing left and right as he brought down first one, then the other.

  ‘The river!’ Turan yelled, pointing to their right. He spurred forward, and Yusuf followed. They galloped down the sandy bank and splashed into the cold water.

  ‘Father!’ Yusuf cried as he peered into the clear waters around him. ‘Father!’ Dead bodies, weighed down by armour, littered the river bed, but there was no sign of Ayub. Shouting in Frankish drew Yusuf’s eyes from the water. Just downstream, eight Christian pilgrims were wading across the river, led by two knights, one on foot and the other on horseback. As Yusuf watched, the one on horseback shouted something, then turned and rode back to gather more pilgrims.

  ‘Bastards!’ Turan shouted. ‘You will pay for the death of my father!’ He drew his curved sword and spurred towards the Christians, who drew together in a compact mass, bristling with spears and pitchforks. Turan charged into them, batting aside spears with his shield and bowling men over with his horse. He lashed out to his right and a Christian stumbled away, his face a mask of blood. The other pilgrims closed around Turan, stabbing at him from all sides. He fought furiously, turning his horse in a circle and knocking spears away with his shield while hacking with his sword. A spear sneaked through his defences and gashed his side. Turan roared in pain but kept fighting.

  ‘Turan, I’m coming!’ Yusuf yelled. He cast his bulky helmet aside and drew his sword. He kicked his horse’s flanks, charging through the river towards the mass of pilgrims. Two of the Christians — the young knight in chainmail and a wiry, greybearded man dressed in tattered linens — turned to face Yusuf. The knight held a sword, its blade flashing in the sunlight, while the old man wielded a pitchfork. As Yusuf neared, the old man smiled madly, revealing rotting, crooked teeth.

  At the last second Yusuf veered towards the knight, knocking him aside with his horse. The old man stabbed at Yusuf’s chest with his pitchfork, and Yusuf instinctively pulled on the reins, backing his horse so that the thrust missed him. He grabbed the shaft of the pitchfork and pulled, bringing the old man close. Then Yusuf hacked down, cleaving the old pilgrim’s head and spilling blood and brains into the river. Yusuf’s stomach turned. The man stayed standing for a moment, a lunatic’s smile still on his lips despite the sword lodged in his skull. Yusuf was still trying to withdraw his sword when the man fell, his weight yanking the sword from his grasp.

  Defenceless, Yusuf looked up to see a lanky pilgrim, spear in hand, wading towards him. The pilgrim stabbed at Yusuf, who jerked back on the reins. His horse reared, and the spear plunged into its chest. One of the horse’s hooves clipped the pilgrim in the head, knocking him unconscious. Then, whinnying in pain and fright, the horse fell. Yusuf jumped clear and landed on his back with a splash. He sank beneath the water, his armour pulling him down.

  Through the wavering waters, Yusuf could see the bright sun fixed in the cloudless sky high above him. He struggled to rise towards the air, but then collapsed back on the hard rocks of the river bed, weighed down by his chainmail. He began to panic as he grew short of air. Again he tried to sit up, but sank back down. His lungs ached now, and his hands strained towards the light, searching to grab hold of something. Yusuf closed his eyes, forcing himself to be calm. This was no different from one of his fits. If he did not panic, then he would survive. He managed to roll over on his stomach and pushed himself up on his knees. Then, with a last effort, he straightened, gasping for breath as he broke the surface. He knelt in the river, the water touching his chin as he struggled to recover his breath. Then he felt a shadow cross over him and looked up. Standing before him was a Christian knight, his sword raised high. The knight was beardless and thin — little older than Yusuf himself — and his nose was twitching violently. Yusuf looked past the boy’s face to his sword, glinting in the sunlight. He closed his eyes as the sword began its fatal descent.

  Nothing happened. Yusuf opened his eyes to see the young knight still standing before him. Only now the boy was staring wide-eyed at his own chest, and Yusuf followed his gaze to see a sword blade protruding from the young knight’s armour. The sword disappeared, and the boy toppled to the side. In
his place stood Turan.

  Yusuf took the hand that Turan offered him, and his older brother pulled him to his feet. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ Yusuf said. ‘I owe you my life.’

  ‘Don’t forget it,’ Turan said and stepped aside. Past him, Yusuf saw a Muslim warrior in silvery chainmail, facing off against the last of the pilgrims. The warrior sidestepped a spear thrust and hacked down, finishing off the pilgrim. Then the warrior turned, and Yusuf’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  ‘Father! You’re alive!’

  Ayub did not reply. His face was set in a grim mask as he waded over to Yusuf and slapped him hard across the face. Ayub bent down and grabbed Yusuf by the arms, pulling him close so that their faces were only inches apart. ‘By Allah, I told you to stay at the walls!’ he growled. ‘Were it not for your brother, you would be dead. Dead!’ Tears welled in Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Look at you, crying like a woman,’ Ayub said with disgust as he released Yusuf. ‘At least your brother has the makings of a warrior. You are worthless.’ Ayub turned and stormed out of the river and up the bank towards Damascus. Yusuf followed, his head hung in shame.

  ‘Stay together!’ John roared at the pilgrims massed behind him. He had managed to rally over three-dozen men and had arranged them in a column four wide, spears bristling on all sides. John rode at their head, leading them at a quick march towards the river. Many of the pilgrims had picked up shields from fallen Saracens, and they held the circular leather bucklers close together, forming a patchwork wall around the outside of the column. But the small shields offered only limited protection from the arrows of the Saracens, who circled the column on horseback, shooting into the mass of men. As John watched, one of the men just behind him went down with an arrow in his leg. Two pilgrims immediately picked him up and carried him to the inside of the column, while another man stepped out to take his place. A second later, that man fell dead, an arrow in his throat. At this rate, John reflected, he would be lucky to reach the main column with a dozen men. ‘Pick up the pace!’ he shouted back. ‘And keep together!’