by Jan Guillou
Armand sat with his head bowed, staring at the tabletop, and could feel his cheeks aflame. He had been reprimanded, even though the words of Jerusalem’s Master were friendly and his tone brotherly.
“Now we’ll start again,” said the older man with a weary little sigh that didn’t sound quite genuine. “What happened and what did you accomplish in the battle, my good young sergeant?”
“Jerusalem’s Master,” Armand began, feeling his head turn to air and all his thoughts flee like birds, “we had been tracking the robbers for a week, we had studied their tactics, and we realized that it would be hard to catch them in the act. We had to find a position where we could meet them face to face.”
“Yes? And then…did a good situation present itself?”
“Yes, Jerusalem’s Master, at last it did,” Armand went on with renewed courage, having convinced himself that he only had to present a normal account of battle. “We discovered them as they were pursuing three Saracens unknown to us up into a wadi which formed a trap like a sack. It was just what we were hoping for when we saw them begin pursuit from a distance, because they had used that tactic before. We took up position and attacked when the time was ripe; my lord Arn first, of course, and I on his flank behind him as the rules prescribe. The rest was easy. My lord Arn signaled to me with his lance how he would first launch a feint against the robber on the left in front, and that opened a good gap for me to aim and strike with my lance.”
“Did you feel fear at that moment?” asked Jerusalem’s Master in a suspiciously gentle voice.
“Jerusalem’s Master!” replied Armand loudly yet hesitantly. “I must admit that I did feel fear.”
He looked up to see how the others around the table reacted to this. But neither Jerusalem’s Master nor Arn, or the other two high knight-brothers, betrayed by their expressions what they thought about a sergeant who showed fear in battle.
“I felt fear, but also resolve. This was the opportunity we had waited for so long, and now we could not fail! That was what I felt,” he added so rapidly that his words stumbled over each other.
Now Arn carefully pounded his Syrian wineglass on the table and then Jerusalem’s Master did the same, followed by the two knight-brothers, and then they all burst out in laughter that was hearty but not malicious.
“So you see, my good young sergeant,” said Jerusalem’s Master, shaking his head and chuckling to himself, “what one must endure as a brother in our Order. You confess to fear, eh? But let me tell you this. Any one of us who does not feel some fear at the crucial moment is a fool. And we have no need for fools among our brothers. So, when can he be initiated as a brother in our Order?”
“Soon,” said Arn. “Very soon indeed. I shall go through the first conversations prescribed by the Rule as soon as we return to Gaza.”
“Excellent! Then I will make a visitation in person for the initiation, and I will be the one to give you the second welcome kiss after Arn.”
The Master raised his wine glass to Armand, and the other Templar knights followed suit. With heart pounding Armand tried to keep his hand from shaking as he raised his glass and bowed in turn to his four superiors before he drank. He felt suffused by a great joy.
“But right now the situation is critical, and it may be difficult to find the three days required for the initiation ceremony, at least in the near future,” said Arn, just as the talk should have taken a less somber turn. There was no comment, but they all shifted their attention to Arn to hear what he had to say.
“Among the three Saracens whom we rescued from a tight situation was no less than Yussuf ibn Ayyub Salah al-Din,” Arn began abruptly. “In the evening we broke bread and conversed, and from that talk I understood that we shall soon have war upon us.”
“You broke bread and sat with Saladin?” Jerusalem’s Master said harshly. “You ate with the greatest enemy of all Christendom and you let him escape alive?”
“Yes, it is true,” replied Arn. “And about this there is much to say, but the easiest is that he was allowed to get away alive. First of all, we have a truce, and second, I gave him my word.”
“You gave Saladin your word?” asked the Master in astonishment, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes, I gave him my word before I realized who he was. But now we have more important things to discuss,” Arn went on in the tone he used on the battlefield.
Jerusalem’s Master sat in silence for a moment, rubbing his fist on his chin. Then he pointed suddenly at Armand, who was now sitting with his gaze fixed on his lord Arn with wide, frightened eyes, as if only now did he understand what had happened, and with whom he too had broken bread.
“My good sergeant, now you must leave us,” commanded Jerusalem’s Master. “Brother Richard Longsword here will show you around our quarters and our part of the city. Then he will escort you to the sergeants’ night quarters. May God be with you. May I soon have the pleasure of giving you a welcome kiss.”
One of the Templar knights then stood up and indicated to Armand the direction they would be going. Armand stood up, bowed hesitantly to the now grim-visaged knights at the table, and left.
When the iron-clad wooden door closed after Armand and his high escort, a heavy silence settled over the room.
“Now I’ll begin,” said Jerusalem’s Master after a moment. “You know Brother Guy, who has just been made weapons master here in Jerusalem. You two hold the same rank, and the three of us have serious problems that concern us all. Shall we start with the matter of breaking bread with our enemy?”
“By all means,” said Arn lightly. “What would you have done? We have a truce, which is hanging by a thin thread, as we all know, and Saladin knew it as well. The robbers were the ones who had to be punished, not peaceful travelers of one faith or another. I gave him the word of a Templar knight. And he gave me his word. A moment later I understood to whom I had granted safe passage. So, what would you have done?”
“If I had given my word I could have done no differently than you,” agreed Jerusalem’s Master. “You worked here under Odo de Saint Armand, didn’t you?”
“Yes, that’s true, and it was when Philip de Milly was the Grand Master.”
“Hmm. You and Odo became good friends, I heard?”
“True. And we still are.”
“But now he is Grand Master, and that’s good. That solves the problem of supping with the greatest enemy of Christendom. Some brothers may be upset by it, as you know.”
“I do. And what do you think about this matter?”
“I’m on your side. You kept your word as a Templar knight. And if I understood correctly you gained some information?”
“Yes. War will be upon us in two weeks at the earliest, and no later than two months from now. That is what I believe I learned.”
“Tell us. What more do we know? And what can we believe?”
“Saladin knew a great deal: that Philip of Flanders and a vast host of the worldly armies and the Hospitallers are on their way up into Syria, presumably heading for Hama or Homs, not for Damascus and Saladin himself. But having learned of this, Saladin is traveling with great haste and without an escort south toward Al Arish, I believe, though he told me he was on his way to Cairo. He is not making this journey because he wants to flee the Christian army in the north. So his intention is to attack us from the south now that he knows that more than half our forces are located far to the north. That is my conclusion.”
Jerusalem’s Master exchanged a glance with his brother and weapons master Guy, who gave him a curt nod of agreement to his unspoken question.
War was on its way. Saladin trusted that his forces in the north were sufficiently prepared to be able to hold the enemy in place. If at the same time he could drive an Egyptian army up through Outremer, then he could penetrate deep without meeting stiff resistance, perhaps all the way to Jerusalem. It was a terrifying thought, but they could not close their eyes to the possibility.
In that case the first battle would tak
e place near Gaza, where Arn was in command as master of the fortress. The castle in Gaza was by no means one of the stronger ones, and it was defended by only 40 knights and 280 sergeants. It was inconceivable that Saladin would stop there and beat himself bloody against the walls. With a large enough army and good siege engines he could take Gaza. Few castles were as impregnable as Krak des Chevaliers or Beaufort. But the effort would cost him much more than it would benefit him. No one took a castle of the Knights Templar without great losses. And if they won, there would be no captives of any value to make up for all the costs; such a long and bloody siege would also mean a great loss of time.
So Saladin’s army would probably bypass Gaza, possibly leaving a small siege force outside the walls. But what would be their next objective? Ashkelon. Taking back Ashkelon after twenty-five years would not be a stupid idea. It could be a victory of significance and provide a Saracen stronghold along the coast north of Gaza. It would cut off the Knights Templar in Gaza from Jerusalem. Ashkelon was a plausible objective.
But if Saladin did not meet particularly great resistance, and it didn’t look as though he would, what would prevent him from heading straight for Jerusalem itself?
Not a thing.
The unpleasant conclusion was impossible to avoid. Saladin had first united Syria and Egypt under one commander and one sultan, just as he had said he would do. But he had also sworn to retake the holy city, which the infidels called Al Quds.
Decisions had to be made. The Grand Master, Odo de Saint Armand, who was now in Acre, had to be warned. Brothers of the Order had to be called in to reinforce both Jerusalem and Gaza. The king, that unfortunate leprous boy, and his court riddled with intrigue had to be warned. Messengers would have to ride off that very night at full speed in many directions.
Because momentous decisions are often easier to make than small, unimportant ones, the whole matter was soon settled. Weapons master Guy left the other two alone to take care of all the tasks that had to be accomplished before dawn.
Arnoldo de Torroja, Jerusalem’s Master, had remained seated at the table the whole time he was leading the discussion and issuing orders. But after the iron-clad door had closed behind the swiftly departing weapons master, he stood up with an effort and gestured to Arn to follow him. The two men then crossed the big, empty space of the Order Hall, heading for a side entrance that led out to an arcade with a view. They stood there a while with their hands propped on the stone railing, looking out over the darkened city and taking in the smells carried on the mild summer breeze: meat frying and spices, garbage and decay, perfumes, incense, and camel and horse droppings, all combined in the same sort of mixture that God had created of life itself: high and low, ugly and beautiful, delightful and loathsome.
“What would you have done, Arn? I mean if you were Saladin, if you’ll pardon the impudent comparison,” asked Arnoldo de Torroja at last.
“There’s nothing to apologize for; Saladin is a magnificent foe and we all know it, even you, Arnoldo,” replied Arn. “But I know what you’re thinking; both you and I would have done something altogether different in his place. We would have tried to draw the enemy into our area, extending the test of strength, harassing the enemy with constant small attacks by Turkish knights, disturbing his sleep, poisoning the fountains in his path—all the things that Saracens usually do. If we had the chance to defeat a large Christian army, then we would have seen a huge advantage before spring, when we would have moved on Jerusalem.”
“But Saladin, who knows how much we know of him and the way he usually thinks, will instead do something completely unexpected,” said Arnoldo. “He will purposely risk Homs or Hama because he has set his sights on a larger prize.”
“You have to admit that it’s both a bold and a logical plan,” Arn continued the thought.
“Yes, I have to admit that it is. But thanks to your…unusual measures, or whatever we should call them, may God have mercy on you, at least now we are prepared. It could mean the difference between keeping Jerusalem in our hands and losing it.”
“In that case I believe God does have mercy on me,” Arn muttered in annoyance. “Any chaplain could set about praising the Lord and say that the Lord had sent the enemy into my arms in order to save Jerusalem for us!”
Arnoldo de Torroja, who was not used to being reprimanded by subordinates, turned in surprise and gave his young friend a searching look. But the dim light in the arcade made it hard to interpret the other’s gaze.
“You’re my friend, Arn, but don’t abuse that friendship, for it could cost you someday,” he said peevishly. “Odo is the Grand Master now, but you may not have that protection forever.”
“If Odo falls you will probably be the next Grand Master, and you too are my friend,” said Arn as if commenting on the weather.
This made Arnoldo completely lose all intention of showing stern leadership and instead he burst out laughing. If anyone had seen them, such behavior would have seemed extremely out of place at this difficult hour, both for the Knights Templar and for Jerusalem.
“You have been with us a long time, Arn, since you were very young, and you are like one of us in everything but your speech. Sometimes, my friend, one might think you were speaking with audacious candor. Is everyone of your Nordic race like this, or is it merely that we haven’t whipped the rascal out of your body yet?”
“My body has been well whipped, don’t worry about that, Arnoldo,” said Arn in the same unconcerned tone of voice. “It’s true that up there in the North, in what was once my home, we might speak with less fuss and fawning than do some Franks. But a Templar knight’s words must always be compared with his actions.”
“Still the same impudence, the same lack of respect for your superiors. And yet you’re my friend, Arn. But watch your tongue.”
“Right now it’s more my head that is at stake. Down there in Gaza we’ll be taking the first blow when Saladin arrives. How many knights can you spare me?”
“Forty. I’ll put forty new knights under your command.”
“Then we’ll be eighty knights and fewer than three hundred sergeants against an army that I suspect will be no less than five thousand Egyptian cavalry. I hope you’ll leave it to my judgment as to how to confront such an army. I wouldn’t care to receive an order to meet them out on the open field lance to lance.”
“Are you afraid to die for a holy cause?” Arnoldo de Torroja wondered, with clear irritation in his voice.
“Don’t be childish, Arnoldo,” Arn replied. “I find it almost blasphemous to fall in battle for nothing. We’ve seen far too much of that here in Outremer; new recruits who want to go straight to Paradise, causing the rest of us unnecessary losses and benefiting the enemy. In my opinion such stupidity should not be rewarded with the forgiveness of any sins, because such behavior is itself a sin.”
“So you think that the Templar knight who knocks on the gates of Paradise, out of breath after having rushed into death, might have an unpleasant surprise awaiting him?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t say that to any brothers except my closest friends.”
“I would agree with that wholeheartedly. Nevertheless, attend to your command in accordance with whatever situations arise and your own best judgment. That is my only order to you.”
“Thank you, Arnoldo, my friend. I swear I will do my best.”
“I don’t doubt that, Arn, I certainly don’t. And I’m glad that you were the one to be given the new command in Gaza now that the first battle of the war will take place there. We actually had not intended to put you there in such a high position; many men can handle a high position, but you are much too valuable in the field to sit and manage a fortress all day long.”
“But?”
“But that is how things have turned out. Odo de Saint Armand is holding a protective hand over you; I think he wants you to move up in the ranks. I’m holding my hand over you too, for what it’s worth. But God was apparently standing by us. Against all rhyme
and reason it was you, our Turcopole, who won the position, even though it meant a poor allocation of fighting forces.”
“And now it turns out that the enemy is coming to Gaza, of all places.”
“Precisely. God has a plan for everything. May He now stand by you and all your men when the storm comes. When are you leaving?”
“At dawn. We have much to build in Gaza, and very little time.”
The city of Gaza and its fortress represented the southernmost outpost of the Knights Templar in Outremer. Since the fortress was built, the city had never been besieged, and the armies that had passed by had always been their own, coming from the north on their way to war in Egypt. But now the roles would be reversed; the enemy was not going to be attacked, but would instead attack them. It could be regarded as a sign of the times, a warning that from now on the Christians would have to pay more attention to defense than to offense. They now had an enemy whom they had greater reason to fear than all the men who had come before—men like Zenki and Nur al-Din. But none of these Saracen leaders could measure up to the man who had now assumed leadership: Saladin.
For the new young master of Gaza it was an unusual assignment to be preparing himself for defense. For ten years Arn de Gothia had taken part in hundreds of battles out in the field, but almost always as part of the forces that attacked the enemy first. As a Turcopole he had commanded the mercenary Turkish cavalry who with light arms and light, fast horses rode against the enemy to spread turmoil and confusion. In the best case, the cavalry’s aim was to force the foe to close ranks so that the Frankish forces could attack. At the very least the cavalry would cause the enemy to suffer losses.