by Jack Hight
Nur ad-Din raised his fist as he reined to a stop, and Yusuf pulled up beside him. ‘I don’t understand,’ Yusuf said. ‘There is nothing in those hills to burn.’
Shirkuh grinned. ‘That is not smoke, Yusuf. It is dust, kicked up by an army on the move. The Franks are withdrawing.’
‘Damascus has held again,’ Nur ad-Din exulted. ‘The Franks must have feared being caught between the walls and our army.’
‘They are not far off,’ Yusuf said. ‘If we push hard, then we can catch them.’
‘Patience, Yusuf,’ Nur ad-Din replied. ‘Our men have ridden far today, and we want them fresh for the fight. We will camp in the orchards where there is plenty of food and water.’
‘And the Franks?’
‘You will take an advance guard and trail them, sending messengers back to keep me apprised of their movements. Keep your men out of sight. I want the Franks to think we have let them escape. Then, when the time is right, we will surprise them as we did at Jacob’s Ford. And this time, we will not stop until we have driven every last Frank into the sea.’
SEPTEMBER 1163: PLAIN OF BUTAIHA
Low, rocky hills rose to either side of Yusuf as his horse picked its way along the floor of a ravine, walking in the footprints left by the Frankish army less than an hour before. He and his men had been following the Franks for two days, angling south-west across the plains and low hills that lay between Damascus and the Jordan River. Yusuf turned in his saddle to look at the forty hand-picked mamluks riding behind him. It was a small enough force that if they were seen, the Franks might take them for a band of raiders. Yusuf knew that further back, on the broad plain a quarter of a mile behind them, Nur ad-Din sat with his army, waiting for Yusuf to spring the trap. John was with them, riding in the baggage train where he would not be forced to fight his fellow Christians. Yusuf wished his friend were with him now.
Yusuf turned forward again. Ahead, the ravine turned to the north, but the trail beaten by the Franks headed straight on, out of the ravine and over the low rise before him. Yusuf reined to a stop.
Qaraqush rode up beside him. ‘What do you think?’
‘It is time,’ Yusuf replied. ‘We will follow their tracks.’
He spurred his horse up the gentle rise, then reined in sharply when he reached the top. A grass-covered plain lay before him, running towards the thin, silver ribbon of the Jordan River. The Frankish army was spread out over the plain, their plate armour glinting in the sun, pennants snapping overhead. They had stopped to water their horses. As Yusuf watched, a knight near the edge of the army pointed to him. He heard shouting in Frankish, carried to him on the wind. Yusuf did not move.
‘By Allah,’ Qaraqush murmured as he rode up alongside Yusuf. The other mamluks joined them, spreading out atop the hill. On the plain, the Christians began to mount their horses. A single knight spurred across the plain, followed by three more, then a dozen. ‘We should retreat,’ Qaraqush said.
‘Not yet,’ Yusuf replied. Hundreds of knights with lances in hand were now charging towards them, followed by thousands of foot-soldiers. Yusuf waited until the closest knights were only a hundred yards off. ‘Now!’ he shouted as he wheeled his horse. ‘Retreat! Back to the army!’ Yusuf dug his spurs into his horse’s sides and galloped down the hill, his men thundering after him. He crouched in the saddle, his head close beside his horse’s neck as he raced along the wide ravine. He could hear the shouts of the Franks and the pounding of hooves. He looked over his shoulder to see the first Frankish knights cresting the hill behind him. ‘ Yalla!’ he cried and flicked the reins, urging his horse to go faster. ‘ Yalla! Yalla!’
Yusuf rounded a last curve and rode out of the hills and on to the plain where the Muslim army waited. The line of men stretched for a quarter of a mile. Mamluks on foot stood in front, long spears in hand. Behind them were thousands of mounted mamluks and Bedouin warriors, bows at the ready. Yusuf spotted Nur ad-Din’s banner at the centre of the line and headed for it. The line of foot-soldiers parted to let Yusuf through, and he pulled up before Nur ad-Din in a cloud of dust.
‘They’re coming! All of them!’
Nur ad-Din grinned. ‘Our time has come.’ He raised his voice to address the men around him. ‘Prepare to fight! Allah is with us!’
Across the plain, the Franks began to pour out of the ravine, spreading out as they thundered towards the Muslim lines under a cloud of dust. Yusuf thought back to his discussions with John, long ago in Baalbek. Nothing could stand up to a Frankish charge, John had said. Yusuf looked to Nur ad-Din, who was still grinning fiercely. ‘Perhaps we should retreat before the initial onslaught,’ Yusuf suggested. ‘To draw them in before surrounding them.’
‘Retreat?’ Nur ad-Din roared incredulously. ‘No, we will stand firm, Yusuf. Allah will give us strength.’ The closest Christians were nearing the line. Nur ad-Din drew his sword and waved it over his head. ‘Let fly, men!’
Yusuf nocked an arrow to his bow and picked out one of the charging knights. He released the arrow and followed its path until it was lost amongst thousands of others. The arrows momentarily dimmed the afternoon sun as they arced through the blue sky. Then they fell hissing amongst the Franks. Yusuf saw a knight at the front of the charge take an arrow in the chest, but his armour was too thick for the missile to penetrate all the way to his flesh. Here and there knights fell, their horses shot out beneath them, but the Frankish charge did not falter. The knights rode on, arrow shafts protruding from their armour. The nearest knights were only thirty yards away now, and their deafening war cry rolled over Yusuf. ‘ For Christ! For the Kingdom!’
‘For Allah!’ Nur ad-Din shouted back, and all along the line the men echoed his cry. ‘ Allah! Allah! Allah!’ Yusuf tucked his bow into his saddle and readied his sword and shield.
Then the first Franks hit them. Yusuf saw a knight speared off his horse by one of the foot-soldiers. The next knight suffered the same fate, and the next. Yusuf began to hope that the line would hold, but then a solid mass of knights hit the line at once. They smashed through the wall of foot-soldiers, trampling them underfoot. A heavily armoured knight, his face hidden behind the visor of his helmet, charged towards Yusuf with lance lowered. At the last second, Yusuf jerked the reins and his horse stepped to the side. The knight’s lance missed Yusuf by inches. Yusuf slashed out as the knight rode past, catching him in the throat and knocking him from the saddle. Yusuf turned to see another knight bearing down on him, and this time he could not avoid the long lance. He managed to block it with his shield, but the force of the blow sent him flying from his saddle to land hard on his back. Yusuf staggered to his feet, ready to defend himself, but there was no one to fight. The wave of Frankish knights had thundered past, driving the Muslim army before them and leaving carnage in their wake. Dead mamluks lay all about, many with the long shafts of lances protruding from their chests. Riderless horses wandered everywhere — some galloping madly in fear, others cropping at the grass. Yusuf edged towards a horse, but it shied away, eyes rolling, and galloped off. Yusuf heard a roar behind him and turned to see an endless stream of Frankish foot-soldiers pouring from the hills and surging across the plain towards him.
Yusuf ran in the opposite direction, after his retreating army. The dust thrown up by the fleeing mamluks and pursuing Christians was far off, but closer, only a hundred yards ahead, Yusuf spotted Nur ad-Din surrounded by twenty mamluks of his personal guard. Nur ad-Din had halted his retreat and was waving his sword over his head, trying to rally the remnants of his army. Dozens of Frankish knights swarmed around Nur ad-Din’s guard, eager to strike down the Muslim king. As he ran, Yusuf glanced back to the Frankish foot-soldiers rushing across the plain. If Nur ad-Din did not retreat soon, he would be lost.
‘Yusuf!’ It was Qaraqush, riding up and leading a horse. Al-Mashtub and ten of Yusuf’s men were with him.
Yusuf swung himself up into the saddle. ‘To Nur ad-Din!’ he shouted and spurred across the field. They hit the Fran
kish knights from behind. Yusuf cut down two men before they could turn to defend themselves. The other Franks scattered as the rest of Yusuf’s men arrived. Yusuf rode up beside Nur ad-Din. The malik’s face was pale and his shoulder was stained with blood.
‘You are injured,’ Yusuf said.
‘It is nothing.’ Nur ad-Din raised his voice: ‘To me, to me! Stay and fight!’
‘It is no use, my lord. Your army has fled. You must retreat.’
‘I will not let these dogs defeat me,’ Nur ad-Din growled.
Yusuf met his lord’s eyes. ‘They have already defeated you, malik. Do not let them kill you as well.’
Nur ad-Din’s shoulders slumped. ‘Very well,’ he whispered, but he did not move. All energy seemed to have suddenly left him.
Yusuf looked back to the onrushing mass of Frankish foot-soldiers, only fifty yards off now. One of the soldiers hurled his spear, and it landed only a few yards short of Yusuf’s horse. Other Franks stopped and nocked arrows to their bows. Yusuf turned back to Nur ad-Din. ‘We must ride, malik!’ He grabbed Nur ad-Din’s reins and then spurred away, pulling the malik’s horse after him. The guard fell in around them. They had not gone far when arrows began to fall all about them. One struck Yusuf’s horse in the flank, and the beast stumbled, throwing him. Yusuf jumped clear and rolled to his feet. Nur ad-Din had reined to a stop, seemingly oblivious to the arrows striking the ground around him.
‘Ride!’ Yusuf shouted to him, but the king did not move. ‘Qaraqush, al-Mashtub! Get him out of here! We will hold them off long enough for you to escape.’
‘Allah preserve you, Yusuf!’ Qaraqush called as he grabbed Nur ad-Din’s reins and led him away at a gallop.
Yusuf turned to face the Franks. ‘Come on, men!’ he shouted as he charged towards the enemy. ‘For Islam! For Nur ad-Din!’
‘Christ’s blood! He’s gone mad,’ John whispered. The retreating Muslim army rushed past him as he sat astride his horse on a low hill, watching as Yusuf and a dozen men charged into a mass of thousands of Franks. The two sides collided, and for a moment Yusuf’s charge held. From this distance, his men in their dark chainmail looked like a steel blade as they drove deep into the Frankish ranks, the foot-soldiers in their lighter armour dividing left and right. Then the charge faltered as one mamluk fell, then another and another. A moment later the cluster of Muslim warriors disintegrated, engulfed by the Franks.
John gritted his teeth as a blinding rage swept though him, obliterating all thought. He drew his sword and spurred down the hill, riding at a gallop past the long line of retreating Saracens. The mounted Frankish knights had given up the chase and had turned to looting the dead. John flew past them without a glance, heading for the mass of Frankish foot-soldiers. Their charge had stopped. As John drew closer, he saw through the dust shrouding the Franks that Yusuf was still alive and standing in a clearing with four other mamluks. The Christians had their backs to John; they were toying with Yusuf and his men, poking at them with long lances. Two soldiers turned at the sound of an approach, but it was too late. John’s horse knocked one man aside and crushed the other under its hooves. He slashed to the left and right as he drove through the crowd.
‘Yusuf!’ he screamed as he pushed through the last few Franks and rode into the ring. Without stopping, he reached out and grabbed Yusuf’s arm, swinging him into the saddle behind him before crashing into the Franks on the other side of the clearing. His horse pushed through the crowd, John hacking at the men on his right and Yusuf protecting their left. But the Franks pressed closer and closer. John felt a sword glance off the chainmail on his side. Another slashed across his thigh, opening a painful wound. A flail slammed into his helmet, and he saw bright lights flash before his eyes. With a roar, he lashed out wildly. Then he was through, galloping out on to the plain.
‘Are you crazy?’ Yusuf shouted in his ear.
‘You are my friend, I will not let you die alone.’ John glanced over his shoulder to see that a dozen foot-soldiers had given chase on foot. They fell back, five yards, then ten, and gave up running. ‘We’ve made it!’ John cried. Then one of the Franks reared back and threw his spear. It missed, but a second spear buried itself in the flank of John’s horse. The beast stumbled, then collapsed beneath John and Yusuf, who threw themselves to the side to avoid the crushing weight of the animal. They rose to see the soldiers rushing towards them.
‘We’ll never outrun all of them,’ John said.
‘Then we’ll die fighting.’
‘No. I owe you my life, Yusuf. It is time I paid my debt.’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I will stay with you.’
‘Save yourself!’ John roared and pushed Yusuf towards the distant Muslim army. ‘Run, damn you!’ Then John turned and sprinted towards the oncoming Franks. He sidestepped the spear of the first soldier to reach him and slashed at the man’s throat, taking him down. A second Frank came at John with a mace, and John ducked the blow before cutting at the man’s legs, sending him tumbling. The next two knights attacked John together. One thrust his sword at John’s chest, while the other cut at his head. John parried the first blow and ducked the second, then threw his body into the two men, sending them all sprawling on the ground. John stabbed one with his sword, leaving it in the man’s chest. The other was scrambling to his knees, sword raised, when John punched him in the jaw. The Frank’s eyes went blank and he slumped to the ground. John took his sword and stood to see that the rest of the Frankish soldiers had formed a ring around him.
‘Come on,’ he growled, raising his sword. ‘Come and get me, you bastards!’ One of the soldiers rushed forward, but stopped short. John took a step towards the man. Then he felt something slam into the back of his head, and the world went black.
Yusuf jogged past the ragged remnants of Nur ad-Din’s army. Some of the foot-soldiers were carrying companions or helping their friends to limp along. Others walked alone, heads down. Mounted mamluks rode amongst them, staring vacantly ahead, stunned by defeat. Bone-weary, Yusuf forced himself to keep running until he reached a small stream where the army had stopped to set up camp and count their losses. Yusuf knelt beside the water and began to scoop it into his mouth.
‘Yusuf!’
He looked up to see Shirkuh approaching. Yusuf stood, and his uncle embraced him. ‘Well met, Uncle.’
‘Well met, indeed. I thought we had lost you, young eagle. Come, I will take you to Nur ad-Din.’
Shirkuh led him across the stream and to a tent. Inside, Nur ad-Din was sitting on a camp stool, his head in his hands. His shirt was off, and a doctor was busy sewing up the ragged wound in his shoulder. Nur ad-Din was mumbling to himself: ‘I have built mosques and schools, given to the poor. Why has Allah punished me?’
‘My lord,’ Yusuf said, announcing his presence.
Nur ad-Din looked up and a smile spread across his face. ‘Yusuf! You have survived. It is a miracle!’
‘Yes,’ Yusuf murmured, thinking of John. ‘A miracle.’
‘You saved my life, Yusuf. I am in you debt.’
‘I only did my duty, malik.’
‘You were one of the few who did,’ Shirkuh said.
‘He is right,’ Nur ad-Din agreed. ‘You have proven your worth, Yusuf. When others fled, you stayed to fight for your lord and for Allah. You shall have new lands, and a new name to honour you. From this day on, you shall be known as Saladin.’
‘Thank you, malik,’ Yusuf said. Saladin: righteous in faith. It was a good name.
‘It is I who should thank you, Saladin.’
SEPTEMBER 1163: DAMASCUS
Two days later, the army of Nur ad-Din trudged into Damascus. There was no cheering as Yusuf followed the king through the gate and down the wide avenue towards the palace. The people lining the street watched in silence as the troops filed past.
Yusuf’s father, Ayub, met them in the entrance hall of the palace. ‘Welcome, malik,’ he said and bowed. ‘Thank Allah, you have returned safely.’
; ‘There is nothing to be thankful for,’ Nur ad-Din grumbled. ‘I have failed. My army is in tatters, and I shall be forced to make peace with the Franks. We shall never drive them from our lands.’
‘I have news that will perhaps cheer you.’ Ayub gestured towards a man standing behind him. The man was tall and thin, with prominent cheekbones and darkly tanned skin. His face and head were clean-shaven. Even his eyebrows had been shaved. ‘Allow me to introduce Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’
‘Greetings, Nur ad-Din,’ Shawar said as he stepped forward. His voice was soft, and he spoke with a slight lisp. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
Nur ad-Din nodded. ‘What brings the Vizier of Egypt to my court?’
‘Treachery,’ Shawar replied. ‘I have been chased from Cairo, and the caliph is in the hands of traitors.’
‘And what do you want from me?’ Nur ad-Din asked, his voice weary.
‘Your help to retake my kingdom.’
Nur ad-Din laughed bitterly. ‘With what? My army is in ruins.’
‘They are strong enough. The people of Cairo will welcome me. I am their rightful ruler.’
‘I see,’ Nur ad-Din murmured. ‘And why should I help you?’
‘Because I will send you a third of Egypt’s revenues each year as tribute. And I will recognize you as my lord. You will be King of Egypt.’
‘King of Egypt,’ Nur ad-Din whispered. For a moment his eyes gleamed with the old fire. Then his shoulder slumped again. ‘I am tired of war.’
‘Send me, malik,’ Shirkuh urged. ‘I will conquer Egypt for you.’
Nur ad-Din looked to Shirkuh, then back to Shawar. ‘I shall think on it,’ he said. ‘You may go, Shawar.’ The Egyptian nodded and was led away. Nur ad-Din turned to Ayub. ‘I wish to bathe. And then I will eat.’