by Jan Guillou
In the embarrassed silence that now arose, Saladin pointed out that God had still guided the events to the best outcome. It was better for Arn and for himself that the Templar knight was captured at the Horns of Hattin and not before. Arn didn’t understand just then what Saladin meant, but he had no desire to prolong this topic of conversation by asking.
Soon Saladin made it clear that he wanted to be left alone with his son, his brother, and Arn, and he was obeyed at once. When they were alone they went into another room and reclined comfortably among soft cushions with their ice-cold goblets of water. Arn wondered how they produced this delightful cold, but he didn’t want to ask about such trifles now that they would undoubtedly be speaking of the gravest matters, although he could not predict what they might be.
“A man named Ibrahim ibn Anaza came to me once,” Saladin began slowly and contemplatively. “He brought with him the most marvelous gift, the sword that we call the Sword of Islam, which had been lost for a long time. Do you understand what you did, Arn?”
“I know Ibrahim well; he is a friend,” replied Arn cautiously. “He seemed to believe that I had earned this sword, but I was convinced that I was unworthy. So I sent the sword to you, Yussuf. Why, I can’t really say, but it was a moment of great emotion, and something made me do what I did. I’m glad that old Ibrahim carried out my wish.”
“But you didn’t understand what you did?” Saladin asked softly, and Arn noticed at once the tense silence that fell over the room.
“I felt that I was doing the right thing,” said Arn. “A sword that is holy to Muslims is not for me to keep, but perhaps, I thought, it should belong to you. I can’t explain it any better than that. Perhaps God was guiding my action.”
“No doubt He was,” said Saladin with a smile. “It’s as if I would have sent you what you call the True Cross, which is now held in safety in this house. It was written that he who once recovered the Sword of Islam would unite all believers and conquer all the infidels.”
“If that is true,” Arn replied, somewhat shaken, “I am not the one you have to thank, but God, who guided me with that sudden decision. I was merely His simple tool.”
“That may be, but I owe you a sword in any case, my friend. Isn’t it odd how I seem to keep landing in your debt?”
“I have found a sword now, and you owe me nothing, Yussuf.”
“But I do. If I had sent you the so-called True Cross you probably wouldn’t think you could free yourself from debt to me with the gift of even the most beautifully carved piece of wood. We’ll talk about my debt later. I want to ask you a favor.”
“If I can in good conscience, I will do whatever favor you ask, as you well know, Yussuf. I am your prisoner and you can never get a ransom for me.”
“First, we will now take Ashkelon. Then Gaza, and after that Jerusalem. What I want is for you to be my advisor when that happens. Then you shall have your freedom and you shall not leave here unrewarded. That is what I ask of you.”
“What you’re asking me to do is truly appalling, Yussuf. You’re asking me to be a traitor,” Arn objected, and everyone could see his plight.
“It’s not what you think,” Saladin said calmly. “I don’t need your help to kill Christians. As far as that matter goes, I have countless helping hands at the moment. But I recall something from our conversation that night, the first time I ended up indebted to you. You said something about a Templar rule that I have often pondered: “When you draw your sword—do not think of who you shall kill. Think of who you shall spare.” Do you understand now what I mean?”
“That is a good rule, but I feel only partially relieved. No, I don’t entirely understand what you mean, Yussuf.”
“I have Jerusalem here in my hand!” Saladin exclaimed, holding up his fist before Arn’s face. “The city will fall when I want it to fall, and that will be after Ashkelon and Gaza. To win a victory is one thing, but to win a victory well is another. As to what is good and evil here, I must speak with someone other than my emirs, who are convinced that we must do as the Christians did.”
“Kill all the people and all the animals in the city and let nothing but the flies survive,” said Arn, bowing his head.
“What if it were the other way around?” Fahkr said, now joining the discussion for the first time, although without waiting for his older brother to ask his opinion. “What if we were the ones who had taken Jerusalem from you almost a century ago, and what if we had ravaged the city the way you did? What would then be your reasoning in your camp outside the holy city, when you knew that you would soon be taking it back?”
“The most foolhardy kind,” said Arn with a grimace of distaste. “Men such as your two captives, Gérard de Ridefort and Guy de Lusignan, would for once be in complete agreement. No one would speak against them. Not a single person would object when they claimed that now must come the hour of vengeance; now we must do even worse than the enemy did when they desecrated our city.”
“That is how we all reason, except my brother Yussuf,” said Fahkr. “Can you persuade us that he is right when he says that vengeance is wrong?”
“The longing for vengeance is one of the strongest emotions in men,” said Arn, sounding resigned. “Muslims and Christians are this way, perhaps Jews as well. The first argument against such reasoning is that one should behave with greater dignity than the enemy who acted in an ungodly way. But those who seek revenge don’t care about that. The second argument is what I heard both from a Christian, Count Raymond, and from a Muslim, Yussuf: that the war will never end as long as all pilgrims do not have access to the holy city, including Jews. But those who seek revenge don’t care about that either; they want to see blood flowing today, and they don’t think about tomorrow.”
“We have reasoned this far ourselves,” Saladin put in. “And we have come to the same conclusion; that those who want revenge, which is the majority of men, do not care about words or dignity or eternal war. So what more is there to say?”
“One thing,” said Arn. “All cities can be conquered, also Jerusalem, which you now shall do. But not all cities can be held as easily as they were taken. So your question must be, what do we do with such a victory? Can we hold on to the holy city?”
“At this time, when the Christians have only four cities left in Palestine, three of which we shall take very soon, no one doubts the answer, unfortunately,” said Saladin. “So is there anything more to say?”
“Yes, there is,” said Arn. “You want to hold Jerusalem for more than a year? Then ask whether next year you want to see ten thousand new Frankish knights in the country, or whether you prefer a hundred thousand. If you prefer a hundred thousand Frankish knights next year, then you must do with your victory what the Christians did. Kill every living thing. If you’ll settle for only ten thousand Frankish knights next year, take the city, reclaim your holy sites, protect the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and allow anyone to leave the city who so desires. It’s simple arithmetic. A hundred thousand Franks next year or only ten thousand? Which do you prefer?”
The other three men sat in silence for a long time. At last Saladin stood up, went over to Arn, pulled him to his feet, and embraced him. As he was known to do whenever he witnessed anything sensitive, cruel, or beautiful, he wept. Saladin’s tears were famous, much scorned and much admired in the world of both Christians and Muslims.
“You have saved me, you have given me the answer, and you have thereby saved many lives in Jerusalem next month, and perhaps have saved the city for us for all eternity,” Saladin sobbed.
His brother and son were moved by his tears, but they were able to control themselves.
A month later Arn found himself in Saladin’s army outside the walls of Ashkelon. He was dressed in his old clothes, which had been repaired and mended, as was his entire coat of chain mail; they were all in better condition than when he had lost them. But he was not alone in wearing the mantle of a Templar knight; the Grand Master, Gérard de Ridefort, was also c
lad in like attire. He and King Guy de Lusignan accompanied the army more as baggage than as riders. They each sat atop their own camel, holding on as best they could. Saladin had found it safer to put them on animals that they could not ride rather than on horses. The Saracens had amused themselves greatly, during five days of moving camp, as they watched the two valuable prisoners trying to ease their riding pains and at the same time look dignified as they rode in the file of camels just behind the cavalry itself.
Saladin had sent a fleet from Alexandria to meet them at Ashkelon, and the ships already lay at anchor, threatening the city, by the time the Saracen army arrived by land. But the fleet looked more menacing than it was, because it was a trading fleet without soldiers and with its holds empty.
When they pitched camp outside the city walls, Saladin allowed Guy de Lusignan to walk up to the locked city gate. There he called out for the inhabitants to surrender, and then their king would be set free. What was a single city compared with the king himself?
The residents of the city did not share this opinion, as they soon demonstrated. King Guy’s words had no effect but to incite the citizens to throw rotten fruit and rubbish at him from up in the tower by the city gate. They scorned him as brutally as any king had ever been scorned by his subjects.
Saladin was amused by the spectacle and refused to be disheartened by its result. He left the major part of the army in place to start work on taking Ashkelon by force, and he then continued south toward Gaza.
On the walls of Gaza stood a few Templar knights in white mantles, and a good number of sergeants. They did not let themselves be frightened by the insignificant army that now pitched camp outside their walls, nor did they have any reason to feel fear. The enemy had not brought up any catapults or other siege engines to knock down walls.
Nor were they affected by the fact that their Grand Master had just been led up to the city gate. They expected to be threatened, and if they did not surrender, they assumed their Grand Master would be executed before their eyes.
But they would not be budged by such a threat. The Rule was crystal clear in such circumstances. A Templar knight could not be ransomed for gold or other prisoners or in response to threats. The duty of the Grand Master was thus to die like a Templar knight without complaint and without showing fear. Besides, few of them would find it very lamentable to see Gérard de Ridefort’s head roll in the sand. Whoever they elected as the next Grand Master was bound to be better than the fool that had caused their great defeat.
But to their dismay and utter shame, something else now occurred. Gérard de Ridefort stepped forward and gave an order as Grand Master that the city was to be evacuated immediately. Every man would be allowed to take his own weapons and a horse with him, but everything else, even the well-filled treasure chests, must be left behind.
The Rule left no room to refuse to obey the Grand Master.
An hour later the evacuation of Gaza was completed. Arn sat on his horse and watched the march out of the city, and he wept with shame before Gérard de Ridefort’s treason.
When the last horses in the column of Templar knights had exited the city gates, Gérard was given his own Frankish horse and was bidden farewell and good luck by Saladin with cheerful but ironic words. Gérard said not a word; he turned his horse and rode off toward his Templar knights. Slowly and with heads bowed as if in a funeral procession, they set off to the north along the shore. Without speaking to any of them he moved to the head of the column.
Satisfied, Saladin declared that he had now won two victories. First, thanks to a man with no spine, he had captured Gaza and its well-filled coffers without having to shoot a single arrow. Second, he had made Gérard de Ridefort once again take command of the remnants of the Knights Templar army. A man like Gérard served Saladin better than he served his own forces.
Saladin’s men had immediately stormed into the conquered city, but some of them came back, looking agitated and bringing to Saladin two horses which they claimed were Anaza. Such horses were not owned by Saladin or even the Caliph of Baghdad.
Saladin said that he was happier for this gift than for all the gold that was found in the Templars’ coffers inside the fortress. When he asked those around him whether these horses found with the Templar knights could indeed be Anaza, Arn told him it was so. The horses had once belonged to him, given to him by Ibrahim ibn Anaza at the same time as he received the holy sword.
Saladin did not hesitate to give them back to Arn at once.
Three days later Ashkelon fell. Saladin spared the city’s inhabitants even though they had not voluntarily surrendered the city. He let them all go aboard the waiting fleet that would take them to Alexandria. Since Alexandria had extensive trade across the sea with both Pisa and Genoa, it was only a matter of time before all these Franks from Ashkelon would be back where they belonged.
Now only Tyrus and Jerusalem were left.
On Friday the seventh day of the month of Rajab, the very day when the Prophet, peace be unto him, had climbed to the seventh Heaven from the Rock of Abraham after his miraculous journey from Mecca that night, Saladin began his entry into Jerusalem. According to the Christians’ reckoning of time, it was Friday the second of October in the year of Grace 1187.
The city had been impossible to defend. The only knight in the city of any importance outside the almost eradicated orders of knights was Balian d’Ibelin. Besides himself he had counted only two knights among the defenders and had therefore knighted every man over the age of sixteen. But mounting a defense would have been meaningless; it would only have prolonged the torment. More than ten thousand refugees from the immediate surroundings had streamed in behind the city gates the week before Saladin arrived. This meant that the city’s supplies of both water and food would not hold out in the end.
The city was not plundered. Not a single inhabitant was murdered.
Ten thousand of the city’s citizens were able to pay for their freedom: ten dinars for men, five for women, and one for a child. Those who paid for their freedom were also allowed to carry away their belongings. But twenty thousand inhabitants of Jerusalem were left in the city because they were unable to pay. Nor could they borrow from the patriarch Heraclius or from the two spiritual orders of knights, who like Heraclius had chosen to take with them their treasures in heavy loads instead of saving Christian brothers and sisters from the slavery that threatened those who could not afford freedom.
Many of Saladin’s emirs wept in despair when they saw the patriarch Heraclius happy to pay his ten dinars and then leave with a cargo of gold that would have been enough to pay for the safe conduct of most of the remaining twenty thousand Christians.
Saladin’s men found their own leader’s generosity as naïve as they found Heraclius’s greed detestable.
All the Christians who could pay for their freedom then left for Tyrus, escorted by Saladin’s soldiers so that they wouldn’t be plundered by robbers and Bedouins on the way. When they were gone Saladin remitted the debt for the remaining twenty thousand people who would have been forced to go into slavery because they couldn’t pay the ransom or had received no mercy from the patriarch or the knights.
When the Christians were gone, Muslims and Jews began to move in at once. The holy sites that the Christians called the Temple of the Lord and the Temple of Solomon were cleansed with rose water for several days; the cross on top of the cupola was removed and dragged in triumph through the streets, now rinsed clean and free of blood; and the crescent moon was raised for the first time in eighty-eight years over Al Aksa and the Dome of the Rock.
The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was closed for three days and closely guarded while they argued what should be done with it. Almost all of Saladin’s emirs thought that the church should be razed to the ground. Saladin rebuked them by saying that the church was only a building; the grave crypt in the rock beneath the building was the actual holy site. It would be an empty gesture to tear down the church itself.
Af
ter three days he won them over in this matter as well. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher was reopened and entrusted to Syrian and Byzantine priests. It was guarded by the forbidding Mamelukes against any attempt at desecration.
A week later Saladin was able to hold prayers in the newly cleansed and most remote prayer site, the third most important holy site in Islam, Al Aksa. As usual, he wept. No one was surprised at this. He had finally fulfilled the promise he had made to God, to liberate the holy city of Al Quds.
From the point of view of a business transaction, Saladin’s conquest of Jerusalem was one of the worst undertaken during the entire long war in Palestine. And for that he had to endure both laughter and scorn by his contemporaries.
But in terms of posterity he had done something extraordinary. His name became immortal, and forever after he was the only Saracen on whom the Frankish lands looked with genuine respect.
Arn had not been present during Saladin’s conquest of Jerusalem. Saladin had spared him from those sights, although he did take the city with the gentle measures that Arn had recommended.
Arn now wanted to leave for home, but Saladin pressed him to stay a while longer. It was a peculiar situation; at the same time that Saladin assured Arn that he was free to go whenever he chose, he spared no efforts to persuade him to stay and help.
As everyone could predict, a new crusade was imminent. The German Emperor Friedrich Barbarossa was on his way through Asia Minor with a mighty army. The king of France, Philippe Auguste, and the king of England, Richard the Lionheart, were sailing across the Mediterranean.