Knight of Jerusalem

by Helena P. Schrader

  “I’ll escort you to the Constable’s residence,” he concluded, and turned to lead them through the barbican and gate.

  The city of Ascalon lay in the basin formed by the semicircle of man-made walls that enclosed it to landward. The sea wall was lower than the land wall; this meant that much of the city had a view to the Mediterranean, and there was almost always a pleasant breeze.

  Balian had not remembered Ascalon like this. He had been about eight years old when Hugh took him on a trip to the city. In his memory, the city had been dusty and dry. Thinking back, he realized there had been a lot of construction going on: wagons straining under loads of stone had creaked and waddled through the potholes, tearing up the surface even more, and wooden scaffolding had been slapped up everywhere, while huge wooden cranes blocked the alleys and his brother warned him sharply to keep away from them.

  Now the city appeared much more prosperous than Balian remembered. When the Christians captured Ascalon, there had been no massacre as at Jerusalem a half-century earlier; the lives of all residents and the Muslim garrison had been spared. But the terms of surrender also stated that no Muslim inhabitants were to be allowed to remain in the city; instead, they were given forty days to pack up their valuables and depart with everything they could carry. As a result the city had been underpopulated, and parts of it eerily abandoned, when Balian had visited as a child.

  Judging by what he saw, Balian concluded that many people had settled here since his boyhood visit, and they had fixed up the buildings. Fresh paint covered the plaster exteriors; bright awnings, new shutters, and balconies marked the houses. The skyline, however, was still dominated by domes and minarets; the domes mostly marked Greek churches that had been here before the Muslims came, while the minarets remained silent reminders to the centuries of Muslim domination.

  Shortly inside the Jerusalem Gate was the large, cross-shaped Greek Church of St. Mary, set in a pleasant garden with tall cypress trees, and not far away was a paved square surrounded by an arcade used as a marketplace. Another large, imposing building with Roman columns incorporated into heavy masonry was identified by their guide as the Bishop’s palace, and he added, “But some say it was Herod’s palace first.” Just beyond this structure, Balian’s guide turned left and then right again, stopping before a wide two-story structure with a battery of grilled windows on either side of a tall, peaked door reinforced with iron. In front of the door stood a man-at-arms wearing the arms of Jerusalem.

  Balian’s guide duly announced him to the sentry. The man looked up at Balian, both amazed and alarmed, but then stepped through the doorway and, with considerable clatter and creaking, opened half of the large door to admit Balian and Walter, still mounted, into a cool passageway giving access to a cobbled courtyard. The courtyard was completely surrounded by an arcade on the ground and first floors; a covered octagonal well stood in the center. Weeds were pushing up between the cracks of the cobbles and the well grew grass that swayed slowly in the water, but the four horses plunged their heads down into it and sucked the water up their throats gratefully, stamping on the worn, yellow paving stones as if to ask why it had taken their riders so long to get them here.

  A black-haired boy with olive skin came running out from under the arcade, announcing loudly, “I’ll take them! I’ll take them!”

  “No, you won’t!” a deeper voice commanded from the shadows, and a moment later a big man with a rough-hewn face, red-brown from the sun, caught the boy in the crook of his arm and held him back in an iron grip. His blue eyes quickly appraised Balian and Walter and their horses, and even before the guards could tell him Balian’s identity, he had guessed it. “My lord? You are the new Constable of Ascalon?”

  “I am,” Balian agreed, swinging down from the saddle. The father at once ordered his boy to “fetch Mathewos and Dawit. Then run for Father Laurence.”

  “But I can—”

  “No! Do as you’re told!” The man straightened and bowed his head to Balian. “My name is Roger Shoreham, my lord, and I am the Senior Sergeant of the garrison here in Ascalon, charged with holding the city until a successor to Sir Godfrey would be named.”

  “A pleasure, Master Shoreham.” Balian held out his hand. “The name sounds English,” he noted.

  “It is, my lord. I came out on pilgrimage, took part in the siege of Ascalon, then married a local girl and decided to settle here.”

  It was a common enough story, and Balian simply nodded. “I will need your assistance in becoming familiar with Ascalon’s defenses and garrison, Master Shoreham—but at the moment I would appreciate a bath, a change of clothes, a meal, and a clean bed. Is there a household steward?”

  “I’ve sent my boy for him, my lord. He is a cleric and chose to live with the Augustines while awaiting a new constable. That way the household could be dispersed and expenses spared. But your chambers are ready, and I will fetch you a hot meal from a nearby tavern. A bath might have to wait for tomorrow, or there is a good public bath not far away,” he added tentatively.

  A tall, slender black man, and a youth so similar that Balian assumed it was his son, emerged from under the arcade. The man bowed to Balian, while the youth immediately went to untie the lead of Balian’s destrier. Balian watched automatically to see that his precious warhorse was properly and competently handled, but the black youth clearly knew what he was doing, and exuded so much calm that the normally fussy stallion was as docile as the palfrey the youth took in his other hand. The older man, meanwhile, took Walter’s horse and the packhorse.

  Sergeant Shoreham led Balian under the arcade to a broad, shallow stairway, and at the top of the stairs proceeded along the upper gallery to the central room at the far side of the court from the street. Here he opened the door and stood back so that Balian could enter first. Balian found himself in a large rectangular chamber with a marble floor in a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, tiled walls, and a vaulted ceiling. In front of him were three eight-foot-tall arches closed by shutters, which Shoreham hastened to open. Beyond was a rooftop terrace with a magnificent view across a second courtyard to the Mediterranean.

  Balian was drawn to the terrace like a moth to light. He stepped out onto an imperfect mosaic floor and crossed the terrace. Although immediately below him was a working courtyard that housed stables, kitchen, and warehouses, his eyes automatically sought the sea, turquoise near the shore and deep blue in the depths. The waves were crested with white, and the sound of them meeting the shore was clearly audible, although the beach was a couple hundred yards away.

  Shoreham was beside him again, anxiously pointing to a door leading off from the main room. “The bedroom is there on the left, my lord.”

  Somewhat reluctantly Balian left the terrace to cross the room, his spurs making a soft chinking sound on the marble, to open the indicated door. The adjoining room was half the size of the central room and dominated by a raised four-poster bed. It had bedding already and rugs on the floor, all a little dusty. But it was his.

  “Is there a hall?” Balian asked Shoreham.

  “Not really, my lord. This was a caravansary. It has two courtyards and thirty-two rooms, in addition to kitchens, stables, pantries, and storerooms around the back courtyard, but no hall, I’m afraid.” He seemed worried that Balian was displeased, so Balian let him in on the secret and grinned at him.

  “I think it will do. Don’t you, Walter?” he asked his squire, who was looking as amazed as he felt.

  “Yes, sir—I mean, my lord.”

  By the next morning the whole city knew they had a new Constable, and a crowd began to gather in the street in front of the “palace” to get an audience or at least a glimpse of him. Meanwhile the household, which had been dispersed during the vacancy, returned to take up their duties. From every corner of the caravansary came the sound of sweeping, sloshing, and talking as women with brooms, mops, and pails of water set to cleaning out the unused rooms. From the kitchen courtyard came the sound of someone chopping wo
od, someone else hauling bucket after bucket from the well on a squeaky pulley, and the cackling of disturbed fowl.

  The steward, Father Laurence, had presented himself the previous evening, but only briefly because Balian had been tired. He was a vigorous, healthy man in his early forties who also had charge of the accounts, and he was anxious for Balian to look these over. Very much to the priest’s disapproval, Balian turned him over to Walter, opting for a tour of the city with Roger instead.

  This morning Roger’s face and hands were red from scrubbing. His beard and hair had been trimmed and he was wearing a fresh tunic as well. Balian smiled at him. “You look like you’re going to either a wedding or a funeral.”

  Roger cleared his throat. “Ah, no, sir, it’s just my wife, sir. She thinks—ah, she wanted me to make a good impression on you, my lord.”

  “And so you have, Roger. It started with the guards searching everyone entering the city yesterday. I noticed the number of men on the walls as well. And so far I have not seen a single man-at-arms who looked drunk or disorderly.”

  “Oh, you’ll see plenty of those if you go out the Water Gate to the harbor, my lord; that’s where the taverns and brothels are. But I—um—if I catch ’em drunk on duty, I give ’em a kick in the backside they don’t forget so easy. Still, we’ve been too long without a Constable, my lord. With this firebrand Salah-ad-Din preaching jihad, we’re on pins and needles awaiting the next attack.”

  Balian nodded at that. It was astonishing that Salah-ad-Din had bypassed Ascalon on his way to Damascus two years ago. Had he succeeded in taking the city, it would have bolstered his position and might have made it easier for him to lay claim to Damascus. On the other hand, a defeat might have shattered his chances in Damascus, and he had evidently preferred to go for the jugular by taking Damascus directly. This left Christian Ascalon a thorn in his side, however, constantly threatening his lines of communication between Damascus and his power base in Egypt. Balian mused that the Kingdom of Jerusalem was lucky Salah-ad-Din had faced so many internal revolts and plots against him that he had no time or troops to focus on his jihad.

  “Come, Roger. I want to walk all the way around the city while you tell me everything I need to know.”

  “Yes, my lord. Let’s slip out the back, then, so we won’t get caught by the crowd outside.”

  Balian agreed and followed Roger through the kitchen courtyard, past the stables, and out into the street by a service entry. Roger led him through a series of narrow alleys to a stone stairway that led up the back of the wall to the wall walk, and here Roger paused to point out the major landmarks of the city spread out at their feet.

  “As you can see, the walls are essentially a semicircle on the landward side and straight here along the shore. There are just four gates to the city. The Sea Gate that gives access to the harbor and shore is there.” He pointed to a tall, modern gatehouse with the peaked arches that were becoming popular, and Balian nodded—although he couldn’t see much of the harbor itself, since it was hidden behind the wall.

  “If you follow the wall past the harbor you see the Gaza Gate, leading south to Gaza and Egypt.” Roger pointed to the massive square gate that loomed over the wall to the south. It was crenelated and windowless, sporting only narrow slits at strategic places.

  Roger continued. “Then, over there, on the far side of the city, is the Jerusalem Gate by which you entered—and finally, way over there is the Jaffa Gate, leading north along the coast.” The gates were relatively easy to find, because the barbicans reared up above the walls themselves, and Balian’s eye turned inward to the city itself. From here Balian could also see how green the city was, with countless inner courtyards filled with palm trees, cypress, and lemons.

  “The Muslim population of the town was expelled when we took the city,” Roger explained.

  “I know. My brother Hugh was there,” Balian told the Sergeant.

  “Ah, good.” Roger seemed to digest this fact and then remarked, “Then you know that there was a large Coptic Christian population that remained when their Muslim masters left. They lived mostly in the northern quarters, but after we had control of the city, many Copts moved here from Egypt. They took over many of the areas vacated by the Muslims.” He pointed as he spoke.

  “How much of the population is Coptic today?” Balian wanted to know.

  Roger weighed his head from side to side and then made a guess. “Fifty per cent, my lord. There are also remnants of a Greek community that survived the centuries of Arab domination—maybe 15 per cent of the population now. They have three churches. Then there’s the Ethiopian community with a church, and the Jewish quarter is up there.” He pointed toward the Jaffa Gate. “It is quite small. About two hundred souls, I’m told.

  “Near the Gaza Gate there is one mosque that is allowed to operate for visitors, and there are also four caravansaries run by Arabs who have been allowed to resettle here. The largest Latin church is St. Paul’s Cathedral—that large, domed building there. It was built on Greek foundations, but was almost completely rebuilt by Baldwin III because the roof had caved in and the Arabs had used it as a quarry. St. Mary’s by the Sea is also a Latin church, and the Venetians have their own church, of course, St. Mark.” He pointed. “St. Mary’s gets lots of donations from seafarers who make it safely to Ascalon after a difficult voyage, and from pilgrims blown off course heading for Jaffa.”

  Balian nodded, taking it all in. Roger waited but then prompted, “Shall we continue?”

  “Yes,” Balian agreed.

  Roger led first to the Sea Gate, where they had a splendid view of the harbor, enclosed by a man-made sea wall.

  “The port is not particularly busy,” Roger admitted. “Mostly coastal traffic. Some wood and iron from Cyprus. Almost no pilgrims, unless they get blown off course, as I mentioned. There’s good fish, however, especially octopus and squid, in the dockside taverns, and a daily fish market where your cook gets the best of the daily catch.” Balian nodded, satisfied, and Roger continued with the tour.

  On the Gaza Gate Roger explained, “This is where the wealth of the city is made. Through this gate pass some of the most valuable caravans in the world. They bring gold all the way from the source of the Nile, along with incense, ivory, rock salt, papyrus, scents, and spices. All the cargoes from the Nile and many from the Red Sea funnel up through here on their way to Damascus, Aleppo, Antioch, Constantinople, and beyond. The traffic going the other way includes sugar, grain, olives, horses, silks, jade, other gemstones, and silver—a lot of silver.”

  Balian nodded. This was what made Ascalon so important to whoever controlled it—and was also what made it vulnerable.

  “Tell me about the garrison. For a start, how large is it?”

  “We are just 114 men at the moment, my lord, mostly men-at-arms and eight sergeants. But really, we are many more.” Roger paused again and turned toward the city. “I wasn’t the only crusader who chose to stay here after the siege ended, my lord. See there, that smithy: the smith’s an old comrade-in-arms, an Englishman like myself. And there, that fine house with the bright red shutters—that belongs to Joachim, a German crusader, now owner of the best carpentry shop in Ascalon, with five or six journeymen and twice that many apprentices. He’s made half the furnishings in your palace, but he’s just as skilled at building siege engines. I can’t name all the crusaders still here, my lord, but in an emergency we can reinforce the garrison with another hundred men at least—good, experienced men. Add their sons and sons-in-law, and we can mount a defense three hundred strong.”

  “How many knights?”

  “Ah,” Roger licked his lips. “Ah, is the young man who rode in with you yesterday a knight?”

  “Not yet,” Balian admitted.

  “Then I think you are the only knight in Ascalon, my lord.”

  Balian laughed, unsure whether the King was unaware of this, or if the joke was on him. “My predecessor—how many knights did he command?”

  �
��None, that I know of, my lord,” Roger confessed, adding, “Ascalon controls almost no land, my lord, no knight’s fiefs.”

  “And the militant orders? The Templars and Hospitallers are not here?”

  “The Templar castle of Gaza is less than twenty miles south of here, my lord. It has a very strong garrison: I think over a hundred knights and three times that number of sergeants and Turcopoles. The Hospitallers maintain that large hospice over there,” he continued, pointing to a large square building with a tall tower. “There are at least five priests and a score of lay brothers, but no fighting men.”

  Balian didn’t like the sound of that, but he nodded and kept his opinion to himself. They continued with the tour.

  It was midmorning before they returned to the governor’s residence by the same route they had left it. The crowd in front was greater now, and Balian was glad to avoid it by entering at the back. Here the smells from the kitchen were mouth-watering, and Balian decided to stop and meet his kitchen staff.

  There were a dozen men and boys engaged in a variety of activities: dicing carrots, slicing onions, gutting chickens, stirring steaming pots, feeding wood to the fireplace, or pumping the bellows to fan the embers. One fat man covered in flour was pounding dough with massive fists, sweat dripping from his brow, and another man was pounding meat with a wooden hammer. Gradually, as the boys and men caught sight of Roger followed by a knight in a bright red-andyellow surcoat, they stopped whatever they were doing to gape at the knight.

  Roger stopped in front of a dark, wiry man who was frowning as he measured out wine into a saucepan. The rolling silence caught his attention at last and he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened, and—flustered—he spilled wine as he tried to set the jug down and dry his hands on his apron before going down on one knee before Balian.

  “This is Demetrius, my lord,” Roger introduced the cook. “He’s Syrian Christian.”

  “My lord,” Demetrius concurred humbly.