by Jack Hight
John looked up as they reached the valley floor, where the army waited in the shadow of the mountain, hidden from the city by low hills. Yusuf’s troops were gathered beside the stream, watering their horses. Yusuf rode straight to Turan, who stood on the sands of the riverbank, sharpening the grey steel of his sword.
‘We have been ordered to take the town,’ Yusuf told him. ‘Ready the men, and provide a dozen of them with torches.’
‘Yes, Brother.’ Turan turned and roared to the men. ‘Saddle up and get in formation! There’s fighting to be done!’
‘Yusuf,’ John said to his friend in a low voice. ‘Do you think it wise to have brought Turan? Perhaps he should be left behind when you attack Banyas?’
‘No, he will ride with us. He is a changed man since the death of Nadhira. And besides, I like to keep an eye on him.’
‘There is something else.’ John took a deep breath. ‘I cannot fight against my fellow Christians. I swore an oath.’
Yusuf examined him for a moment, then nodded. ‘You may remain in camp, friend. I do not expect you to fight your own kind.’
John frowned. ‘But I am the commander of your khaskiya. I cannot let you ride into battle alone.’ He had already betrayed Yusuf with Zimat, he would not fail him here as well. The creases on John’s forehead melted away as he reached a decision. ‘I will not fight to take Banyas, but I will kill to protect you, if I must.’
Yusuf grasped John’s shoulder. ‘Thank you, friend.’
The men had mounted and formed ranks three deep along the riverbank. Yusuf commanded his own mamluks from Tell Bashir, as well as the men his father had sent from Damascus — over three hundred warriors in all. They wore chainmail and each carried a small, circular shield along with three weapons: a curving, compact bow; a light spear; and a sword.
Yusuf rose in his stirrups to address them. ‘We have been ordered to clear the town. We will attack from the east, where the river enters the city and the wall is weakest. Qaraqush, you will take the Tell Bashir men and set fire to the eastern gate to distract the Christians. Once Qaraqush has attacked, Turan will lead forty Damascus men to the right of the gate, where they will scale the wall. I will lead my personal guard to the left where the river passes under the wall. We will enter there. The rest will wait in reserve with Al-Mashtub, ready to charge when the gate opens. Understood?’ There was murmured assent from the ranks.
‘For Allah!’ Yusuf shouted, and the men roared back, ‘For Allah!’ John said nothing. He turned his horse and followed Yusuf along the river, with Yusuf’s guard following in a column three wide. Qaraqush and his men came next, their burning torches leaving a trail of black smoke. They followed the river through low hills, and as they rounded a last bend, the town of Banyas came into view, its pale stone houses huddled behind eight-foot-high limestone walls. ‘Keep together!’ Yusuf shouted back to the men. ‘Wait for my signal.’
They rode closer and closer, until John could see the faces of men peering over the walls. An arrow fell from the sky and shattered against the hard ground to John’s right. He heard a scream and turned to see a mamluk with an arrow in his gut drop his torch and slump from the saddle. John raised his shield, just before an arrow thumped into it.
‘Qaraqush, charge!’ Yusuf roared.
Qaraqush and his men galloped towards the city. One of the mamluks fell, then another, but the rest arrived to throw their torches at the base of the gate. They wheeled away, as the wood began to smoke. Two Franks appeared atop the gate with a cauldron of water and poured it over the side, dousing the flames. Qaraqush led his men galloping back, firing arrows that dropped the two men.
‘Turan, now!’ Yusuf yelled, and with a roar, Turan led his men away to the right. ‘My men, follow me!’ Yusuf cried and spurred to the left.
John followed close behind Yusuf. Arrows whizzed past as they streaked along the wall towards the mountain stream, which narrowed into a deep channel as it approached the town. As they neared the water, Yusuf dismounted, and John also slid from the saddle. They ran to where the water flowed under the wall. Yusuf was about to jump in when John grabbed his arm. ‘What if the passage under the wall is barred?’
‘Uwais!’ Yusuf called, and a mamluk ran forward. ‘Go!’ The mamluk plunged into the stream and disappeared under the water. John counted to a hundred; Uwais did not reappear. He glanced at Yusuf.
‘He must have made it,’ Yusuf said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘There’s only one way to find out.’ Yusuf plunged into the water.
John took a deep breath and jumped in after him. His armour pulled him down in the cold water. The current was pushing him towards the wall. He could see Yusuf just ahead. Then John passed under the wall and everything went black. As the current pulled him along, he reached out and felt the slick side of an algae-covered stone tunnel. The next moment he slammed into something, knocking some of the precious air from his lungs. He reached out in the darkness and felt crisscrossed lengths of iron; a grate was blocking the tunnel. John’s hands moved along the grate until he came to a limp, unmoving form — Uwais, or Yusuf. Someone grabbed John and began to pull him back against the current. Suddenly a mamluk slammed into them both, knocking them on to the grate. Another mamluk piled into them, then another. John was growing short of air. He tried to scramble past the mamluks when he felt an elbow slam into his jaw, then a foot hit him in the stomach. In their panic to escape the tunnel, the men were only getting in each other’s way. More mamluks came down the tunnel, making matters worse. There was no going back.
Desperate, his lungs burning, John twisted around and pulled his dagger from his belt. He began to chisel frantically at the mortar that held the grate in place. He felt a small piece of mortar float loose, and redoubled his efforts. He could see spots floating before his eyes in the darkness now, and it was all he could do not to open his mouth and breathe in the water. A chunk of mortar came free. Then another mamluk slammed into John, pinning him to the grate and knocking his dagger from his hand. John felt for it in the darkness, but the dagger was lost. His temples were pounding, and he could hold his breath no more. He started to open his mouth. But then several more mamluks slammed into the mass of men and the grate gave way.
John tumbled through the black tunnel, pushed ahead by the current, then he saw daylight above him. He managed to crawl up the side of the channel and broke the surface, gasping for breath. He pulled himself from the water and lay on his back, his chest heaving and blood pounding in his ears. Yusuf’s face appeared over him.
‘This is not the time to rest, John.’ He held out a hand and pulled John to his feet.
‘You’re not even breathing hard,’ John gasped, his hands on his knees.
‘I’m used to holding my breath,’ Yusuf replied as he went to help pull another mamluk from the water.
John looked about him. The wall stretched away in either direction, with a twenty-foot space of hard-packed earth separating it from the houses of the town. A dozen mamluks had already dragged themselves from the river and were helping to pull out their comrades. John could hear the shouts of men fighting in the distance.
‘Follow me, men!’ Yusuf shouted.
John drew his sword and followed Yusuf as he ran up the steps to the top of the wall and then sprinted along it. They rounded a corner, and the city gate came into view. There was no sign of Turan, but outside the gate, Qaraqush and his men were still fighting. Inside, there were at least a hundred Franks, some standing on the wall and firing arrows, others massed behind the gate. They were focused on Qaraqush’s men beyond the wall.
‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Yusuf cried as he neared the Christians.
Behind him, John heard the mamluks take up the cry. The Frankish defenders on the wall looked over in alarm. The nearest archer turned and fired, but the arrow flew high. Yusuf impaled the man with his sword and shoved him aside. The next defender had drawn his sword. He slashed at Yusuf, who ducked the blow and came up under it,
slamming his shoulder into the man’s chest and knocking him off the wall. Further along the wall, the remaining defenders were grouping behind a wall of shields, blocking off the stairs that ran down to the gate.
‘We must open the gate!’ Yusuf cried and jumped from the wall, straight into the Frankish knights massed below. He landed on top of a knight, and both of them fell sprawling. As Yusuf plunged his sword into the fallen man’s chest, another knight behind Yusuf raised his blade to finish him.
‘Crazy bastard,’ John muttered and leapt from the wall. He landed on top of the knight behind Yusuf, tackling him. John rolled off the man, but before he could get to his feet, he saw a sword flashing down towards his head. It was stopped at the last second by Yusuf’s blade. John stabbed out, dropping the attacker. ‘God forgive me,’ John whispered, but he had no time to dwell on what he had done. He sprang to his feet and stood back to back with Yusuf as more Franks closed in. John parried and lashed out, fighting desperately to keep the men at bay. He glanced to the wall above, where the mamluks were blocked by the Franks. John saw one mamluk try to jump down, but the knights below were ready now. The mamluk landed on the point of a Frankish sword.
‘We’ve got to get to the gate!’ John shouted.
‘Right!’
Inch by inch, they made their way forward, fighting in perfect tandem, each blocking when the other was exposed. Finally, they reached the gate, pressing their backs against it. ‘What now?’ John asked. He dodged an axe blow, and the weapon embedded itself in the wood beside his head. John thrust his sword into the man’s chest, dropping him, but another knight took his place. His sword sneaked through and glanced off the chainmail on John’s side. Another knight slashed John’s leg, and he gritted his teeth in pain. ‘We can’t hold out much longer!’
‘We won’t have to,’ Yusuf shouted.
A loud cry of ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ went up behind the knights, and a moment later Turan and his men slammed into the Franks, who turned away to face the new threat. John struck down the man before him and found himself with no one to fight.
Yusuf grabbed his arm. ‘Help me remove the bar!’ John nodded and put his shoulder to the heavy oak log that held the gate shut. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg, he heaved. The two men barely managed to raise the bar out of its brackets, then dropped it on the ground with a thud. A second later, the gate ground inward as Qaraqush pushed his way in, followed by the rest of the mamluks. The Franks began to retreat. John stood aside as the mamluks flooded through the gate and pursued them down the main street of the town.
When all the mamluks had poured past, Yusuf walked over to John and clapped him on the back. ‘We did it!’
John looked about him at the men he had killed and shook his head. ‘The crusader’s oath I swore had three parts,’ he muttered. ‘I was to make pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, to protect the people of the kingdom from the Saracens, and to aid my fellow Crusaders. I failed to reach Jerusalem, and now I have betrayed my oath twice over.’
Yusuf frowned. ‘I am sorry, John.’
‘It was them or you. I made my choice long ago.’ John wiped the blood from his sword. ‘The priests say those who die fighting the Saracens will go straight to heaven. Where shall I go when I die?’
Yusuf stood in the dusty central street of Banyas and watched as a dozen men with axes hacked at the beams of a wooden house and then pulled them loose. Nur ad-Din had sent the men, who would use the wood to build the first of the catapults necessary for besieging the citadel. John sat nearby, leaning against a wall in the shade as he rested his bandaged leg. The rest of Yusuf’s men had spread out through the town. Nur ad-Din had given them until midday to loot before the rest of the army entered. Yusuf looked to the sky. Their time was almost up.
Turan approached from a side alley, his face set in a grim line. ‘We have found little, Brother. The Christians left nothing of value when they fled.’
‘Then we shall have all the more riches when we take the castle,’ Yusuf replied.
A high-pitched cry, cut suddenly short, came from their right. It sounded like a child’s voice. ‘What was that?’ John asked, rising.
‘Sounds like the men have found something,’ Turan said.
John was already heading in that direction, his hand on his sword. Yusuf followed. They passed through an alley and out into another street. From a house across from them, Yusuf could hear a woman cursing in Frankish, and then the loud wailing of a child. John rushed to the house, and Yusuf followed.
In the centre of the home’s single room three mamluks were crouched over a red-haired Frankish woman. Her dress was torn, exposing one of her pale white breasts. Her eyes were wild, and she screamed and thrashed, trying to pull free of the two mamluks who were holding her down. The third mamluk was loosening the belt of his breeches. A blonde girl stood to the side, wide-eyed and sobbing. The mamluks ignored her, their eyes fixed on the Frankish woman.
John began to draw his sword, but Yusuf reached out to stop him. ‘I will handle this.’ He raised his voice. ‘What have we here, men?’
The mamluks looked up and released the woman. She scrambled over to her child and clutched the girl to her breast. The men turned to face Yusuf. He recognized Nazam — the bald-headed mamluk John had fought long ago, when they first arrived at Tell Bashir.
‘We’ve found no gold,’ Nazam said. ‘But we did find this prize. She’ll fetch a fine price on the slave market, if we don’t keep her for ourselves.’
Yusuf walked over to the woman, who shrank back in fear. He bent down and grabbed her jaw, turning her head towards him. She spat in his face. As Yusuf backed away, wiping the spit from his cheek, one of the mamluks stepped over and back-handed the woman, knocking her down. She pushed herself up, blood dripping from her lip, and the mamluk raised his fist to strike again.
‘That is enough,’ Yusuf said. ‘Leave her to me. You shall each have a dinar to compensate you.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Nazam said.
‘Now leave us,’ Yusuf ordered. ‘Report to Turan.’
‘Yes, my lord. Enjoy yourself.’ Nazam winked at Yusuf, and the men trooped out, chuckling.
When they were gone, the woman turned to John. ‘You are not one of them. Kill me. Do not let him defile me. Don’t let him sell my child.’
‘I will not hurt you,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. The woman’s eyes went wide. ‘You are free. I will escort you and your daughter to the citadel.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman sobbed in relief. She knelt before him and kissed his hand. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘We haven’t much time,’ Yusuf said, taking her hand and raising her up. He stepped outside, and the woman followed, holding her daughter. John brought up the rear. They reached the gate leading out towards the citadel without incident. It was open.
‘Go,’ Yusuf said. The woman lifted her daughter and ran up the slope towards the citadel.
‘Thank you,’ John said from behind Yusuf. ‘You did not have to do that.’
‘I did not do it for you,’ Yusuf said, his eyes still on the woman. She reached the citadel gate, and it opened just enough for her to slip through. Yusuf turned to John. ‘The Franks raped my mother when she was young. Now come. We must see to the building of the catapults.’
The next morning Yusuf stood atop the wall surrounding Banyas and looked out towards the citadel, rising high above on its hilltop. At the foot of the hill were the three enormous catapults that Nur ad-Din’s engineers had constructed. Yusuf watched as one of catapults fired. The heavy counterweight — stones and dirt gathered in a wooden bin — fell, and the long arm of the catapult rose into the air. Trailing from the far end of the arm was a leather sling, which now snapped upwards, hurling a three-hundred-pound boulder. The stone arced through the air and then shattered against the wall in a cloud of dust. When the dust cleared, the wall still stood, apparently undamaged. Then a few stones fell away and went tumbling down the hillside. A cheer
went up from the Muslim camp, which was spread in a circle all around the hill on which the citadel stood. Yusuf smiled. The walls were strong, but they would fall.
From the corner of his eye Yusuf noticed movement, and he looked away from the citadel to the north. Beyond the tents of the camp, he saw a plume of dust rising into the sky. Squinting, he could make out a horse charging towards the town — a messenger. From the way he was pressing his mount, Yusuf guessed he had important news.
Yusuf left the wall and hurried to the two-storey merchant’s home in town where Nur ad-Din had established himself. Yusuf arrived just as Nur ad-Din stepped out of the house.
‘Who could this be?’ Nur ad-Din asked, looking up the street to the distant rider.
Yusuf squinted. ‘Khaldun,’ he said, recognizing his brother-in-law through the dust that covered him.
‘Salaam, Khaldun!’ Nur ad-Din hailed as the rider reined to a stop.
Khaldun dismounted and bowed before Nur ad-Din. ‘Salaam, malik.’
‘You bring news from Shirkuh?’ Nur ad-Din asked.
Khaldun nodded. ‘The Christians sent only a small force to confront Shirkuh. The main army is marching for Banyas. They will be here tomorrow.’
‘So soon,’ Yusuf whispered.
‘When will Shirkuh arrive with the rest of my men?’ Nur ad-Din asked.
‘A week, my lord.’
Yusuf looked to Nur ad-Din. ‘What shall we do? The Franks will outnumber us two to one.’
Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘We do what the Christians expect us to do: retreat.’