Holy War

by Hight, Jack

  Yusuf saw a mamluk step away from the ovens only for a gull to swoop down and carry off his piece of steaming flatbread. The man cursed at the bird.

  Yusuf took a deep breath of the salty sea air and set out for the centre of the line. Past the baths, the ovens and the sprawling camp market, he entered amongst the tents of his men. These tents belonged to the Egyptian troops. They had arrived last November and replaced the men of Al-Jazirah, who had returned home for winter before heading north to defend the passes into Antioch from the German king. Selim had brought from Egypt a thousand mamluks and close to five thousand infantrymen. He had brought siege engines, too. A line of ten catapults stood just beyond the tents. Day and night, they hurled stones large and small into the Frankish camp. After any skirmish between the two sides, they would hurl the bodies of dead Franks. Next to them were four ziyars – huge crossbows that shot bolts four feet long. They were wicked instruments. Yusuf had seen a single bolt skewer four men, like pieces of meat on a spit. As he passed, one of the ziyars fired, sending a bolt arcing through the sky and into the Frankish camp.

  The tower loomed at the end of the line of siege engines. It had been his son Az-Zahir’s idea, and Yusuf had rewarded him by giving him charge of the siege equipment. The tower was sixty feet tall, the base built of whole pine trunks taken from the hills north-east of Acre. The sides were covered with hides that the men kept wet to protect the tower from flaming arrows. From the top, lookouts could see down into the Frankish camp. Yusuf would not be surprised by his enemies again.

  He climbed the twisting staircase to the top and found Az-Zahir looking out towards Acre. His son heard Yusuf’s footsteps and crossed the tower to greet him. The injury to his calf had healed, but Az-Zahir still limped slightly.

  ‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Father.’

  ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘Look for yourself.’

  One side of the tower was open save for a wood railing to prevent falls. Standing at the rail, Yusuf could see dozens of Frankish ships riding at anchor on the glittering waters outside the harbour of Acre. Fifty Egyptian galleys had managed to force their way past the blockade to resupply the city, but that had been in late October, more than five months ago. Food had to be running short in the city. Qaraqush and his men would be suffering.

  Yusuf shifted his gaze to look at the enemy siege lines, which cut the city off from Yusuf’s army. The Franks had completed their wall while he lay ill. It was wooden, ten feet tall and fronted by a ditch four feet deep. Winter had turned the land between the Frankish and Muslim lines into a sea of mud, making attack impossible. Yusuf had been forced to bide his time until the spring.

  Winter, at least, had taken a heavy toll on the Franks. Dozens of men had deserted. They had crossed the lines to Yusuf’s army, willing to be taken as slaves if only they would be fed. The deserters brought horrible stories. Food was so scarce that the lords began to eat their horses. King Guy was said to be nothing more than skin and bones, and his wife Sibylla was losing her hair in clumps. For the common men, it was worse. There was no horsemeat for them. Some of the truly desperate had eaten the dead, of which there was a rich supply. Starving men were easy prey for disease, and the bloody flux had swept through the Frankish camp. Pyres had burned day and night. Disease had struck Yusuf’s camp as well. He had isolated the sick, but nevertheless, nearly three hundred men had died. At least his men had not suffered from hunger. The camp market had continued to grow throughout the winter. There were now dozens of bread ovens and soup kettles, along with more than a hundred blacksmiths and several thousand small shops selling provisions and comforts.

  Yusuf looked from the Frankish ramparts to their tents, which were clustered beside the river. He saw men sharpening swords or sitting on the ground to eat their breakfast. A dozen men were practising swordplay in the open square at the centre of the camp. Along the river, men were fishing.

  ‘What am I looking for?’ he asked Az-Zahir.

  ‘Look at the ramparts facing Acre. Near where the Belus enters the sea.’

  Yusuf looked and saw that a ship’s hulk had been pulled up on the beach. The deck had been removed, and Frankish carpenters were at work pulling apart the rest. At least one other ship must have already suffered the same fate, because there was a large pile of timbers further up the beach. The Franks were using them to build three towers. One already rose fifteen feet. The others were less than ten feet high, but judging by the size of their bases, they would be at least nine times that tall when complete. Each had huge wooden wheels to make it mobile.

  ‘They are making quick progress,’ Yusuf noted. ‘They must have started under cover of darkness.’

  Az-Zahir nodded. ‘And look there.’ He pointed to Acre. Dozens of Franks were digging up the ground near the walls and dumping cartfuls of dirt into the moat. ‘They mean to roll those towers to the walls. As at Jerusalem.’

  Yusuf did not need to be reminded of what had happened at Jerusalem. When the Franks first conquered it, they had used mobile towers just like these to enter the city.

  ‘The towers will be complete in two or three days,’ Az-Zahir continued. ‘The moat may take up to a week to fill. When that is done—’

  Yusuf finished for him. ‘Allah save Qaraqush and his men.’

  Aah-hoo! Aah-hoo!

  Yusuf woke to the sound of a horn. He had slept in his armour, and he grabbed his sword as he left his tent. It was still dark. Saqr stood at his post beside the tent flap. Yusuf’s brother Selim, who had had charge of the night-watch, was striding up the hill towards him.

  ‘What is happening?’ Yusuf called.

  ‘The towers. The Franks have rolled them to the walls.’

  The towers had been completed a week ago and the moat filled in earlier that day. Yusuf had wondered how long the Franks would wait before they attacked. Not long, it seemed. He peered in the direction of Acre. Torches on the wall flickered in the darkness like stars in the heavens, but he saw nothing of the towers. Then a bright flame shot from his camp, hurled towards the walls by one of the catapults. It arced through the night sky and exploded against one of the towers, outlining it in flames. The tower was over ninety feet tall, and it loomed high over the wall. Franks on the top levels were shooting arrows and crossbow bolts down on the wall’s defenders, while men at a lower level tried to force their way on to the ramparts. A moment later, the flames went out, and the tower and the men were swallowed up by the night. Yusuf had watched the Franks cover the towers with skins soaked in vinegar. It was a better fire retardant than water.

  Five more jars of naphtha were hurled towards the towers. These missed, shattering against the wall of the city and coating it in the viscous, burning liquid. By the light of the flames, Yusuf could see all three towers, side by side. At the foot of the wall, a ram with a peaked roof over it was rolling towards the land gate. Yusuf heard a loud boom as the ram struck for the first time.

  The flames burned out, and in the darkness, Yusuf spotted another jar of naphtha arcing towards the towers. This one went over the wall and into Acre. ‘Messenger!’ Yusuf called, and one of the dozen young mamluks stationed outside his tent stepped to his side. ‘Tell Az-Zahir to stop firing. He will burn down Acre before he destroys one of those towers.’ The messenger sprinted down the hill into the darkness. ‘My horse!’ Yusuf shouted. ‘Saqr, sound the call to arms.’

  Saqr took the horn that hung from his belt and blew a long blast, followed by two more. As the last note faded, deep drums began to beat throughout the camp, calling the men to the line. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Yusuf rode down the hill followed by Selim and Saqr. In the camp, men were stumbling from their tents and heading for the line. Yusuf reached the barricade to see that the night-watch had already taken up their posts along the top of it. His commanders waited for him beside the tower. Ubadah and Gökböri were grim-faced. They knew the danger the towers posed.

  ‘With me,’ Yusuf told them. He dismounted and climbed to the top o
f the rampart. The defenders in Acre were now shooting flaming arrows at the towers. It was all they had. There were no fire masters in the city who knew how to make naphtha. Each tower was bristling with burning shafts, but the flames were guttering out before the flames spread.

  Yusuf turned back towards his emirs. ‘We must draw the Franks from the walls. Az-Zahir, throw fire at the Franks’ tents. That should bring them running. While their tents burn, we will attack along the Frankish rampart. They cannot concentrate on taking the city if they must also defend their own lines. Keep half of your men in reserve. This will be a long battle. So long as those towers stand, we fight. Each of you, send a man to let me know when you are ready to strike. Go, and Allah protect you.’

  His emirs left to prepare their troops. ‘Ubadah!’ Yusuf called, and his nephew turned back.

  ‘Yes, Malik?’ There was a hostile tone in his voice. Yusuf had hoped Ubadah would have forgiven him by now.

  ‘You have served me well these last few months, Nephew. You have my thanks.’

  ‘I know my duty, Malik,’ Ubadah said stiffly. After a pause, he continued, ‘What is it all for, Uncle? If you love John and the Franks so much, then why do you fight them?’

  Yusuf opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped. Once, he would have had an easy answer. Now he was not so sure. He took a deep breath. ‘I should have told you about your father, Ubadah, but I feared you would hate Zimat, hate yourself.’

  ‘Instead, I hate you, Uncle.’ Ubadah met his eyes. ‘If you wish to thank me, then send me away from here, from you.’ He strode away down the rampart.

  Yusuf grimaced as he watched him go. He had raised Ubadah as a son, and his hatred stung. But Yusuf had done what he could. He had extended his hand, and Ubadah had slapped it away. Perhaps his nephew was right. Time away might cool his anger.

  Yusuf turned to watch the battle at the city wall. He could hear the regular boom of the Frankish ram. A flaming jar of naphtha arced over him towards the Frankish camp. It flew too far and was extinguished in the waters of the Belus. The next jar exploded amongst the Frankish tents, scattering fire in all directions. Several tents went up in flames. Another jar hit, spreading the fire. Yusuf could see men in the camp rushing to the river with buckets in hand. A jar fell amongst them, and the men became staggering columns of flame. They stumbled shrieking into the river. The naphtha continued to burn as it floated atop the water.

  A messenger rushed up to Yusuf. ‘Saif ad-Din’s men are ready,’ he reported. More messengers arrived, bringing the same message from different points along the line. Az-Zahir’s catapults continued to hurl naphtha into the Frankish camp. As the last commander reported, a jar fell short and burst against the Frankish wall, covering it in flames.

  Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Sound the attack.’

  Haa-room! Saqr blew his war horn, and it was joined by the sound of other horns from down the line. The drums started again, beating faster this time. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom! Yusuf’s men rushed forward screaming their battle cry: ‘For Allah! Allah-Allah-Allah!’ To his right, men disappeared into the darkness between the two lines. On the left wing, Yusuf could see his men, who were lit by the flames licking up the Frankish wall. A few of the onrushing mamluks fell to Frankish arrows. The rest reached the wall, where the bowmen spread out and began to shoot up at the defenders. Other men raised ladders or hurled grappling hooks over the wall. Yusuf saw two mamluks head up a ladder, only for it to be pushed back. Another man started to climb a rope, but was cut down as he reached the top of the wall. Yusuf looked back to Acre. The combatants were lit by the flaming arrows protruding from the towers. Below, the ram slammed against the gate again. Boom!

  Yusuf began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. His men swarmed up the Frankish wall again and again. Here and there they reached the top, only to be pushed back. The bodies of the fallen mounted at the foot of the Frankish rampart. At Acre, the garrison bravely held the walls, but the Franks were pouring arrows into them from the towers. Qaraqush had to be losing many men. And the boom of the ram sounded again and again, regular as a heartbeat.

  Yusuf’s legs had grown weary from pacing when the sun crested the hills to the east. His standard still flew over Acre. The three towers still stood, though the skins that covered them were blackened. Along the Frankish ramparts, hundreds of dead mamluks lay amidst the remains of broken ladders and cut ropes. The fighting had slackened; both sides were clearly exhausted.

  ‘Saqr!’ Yusuf called. ‘Send messengers. Tell the emirs to pull back their men and send in fresh troops.’

  ‘Yes, Malik.’ Saqr hesitated. ‘Perhaps you should also retire to your tent for a moment.’

  ‘I will stay here. Bring my breakfast.’ Yusuf’s eyes were on the towers. Sooner or later, the Franks inside them would overpower the garrison and take the city. All the arms and gold that Yusuf had stored there would go over to his enemies. Worse yet, the Franks would control the greatest port in the east, giving them a secure base to which to bring more men from overseas. If Acre fell, the rest of Palestine might follow. He had to destroy those towers. ‘And Saqr!’ he called. ‘Bring me one of the fire masters.’

  Yusuf sat on a camp-stool atop the rampart and chewed on a spoonful of boiled wheat as the sun rose behind him and bathed the city in soft light. He had not left the ramparts in eight days, not since the Frankish attack began. The stool was his only concession to Saqr and Ibn Jumay’s fears for his health. He dozed off occasionally while seated, but never for long. The boom of the ram would wake him. There it was now. Boom. Yusuf counted to ten and it came again. Boom.

  The days had taken on a sort of routine. After that first night, Yusuf had divided his men into four waves, which alternated their attack on the Frankish ramparts. They had lost hundreds without breaching the Franks’ walls. Inside the Frankish camp, at least half their tents had been turned to ash. The rest had been struck to save them. At Acre, the Franks continued to pour forth from their towers, and the garrison turned them back again and again. At least the rain of arrows from the Franks had ceased. They had run out of ammunition. And all the time, the ram continued its work. Eventually, it would break through, or the Franks would force their way on to the wall. Unless Yusuf’s plan worked . . .

  The previous night, he had sent one of fire masters into the city. He had gone with the swimmer, Isa. The two of them had slipped through the Frankish fleet at night and swum for the walls. Or so Yusuf hoped. They might just as easily have drowned, or been spotted and killed. If they had made it, Yusuf would know soon enough.

  Haa-Room! A horn sounded, and the mamluks attacking the Frankish ramparts fell back. Fresh troops jogged across the open space between the lines to take their place. Yusuf turned his tired eyes back to the walls of Acre. It was nearly noon when he saw it: a jar flew from the city and soared over one of the towers. Three more were launched before one smashed against the side of the tower. There was no fire. Another jar flew, and another and another. Still no flames. Had his plan failed? Had the fire master drowned, or was he a fraud who did not know the secrets of naphtha?

  More jars came from the city, dozens of them hurled into each of the towers. Yet there were no flames. A gust of wind came from the sea, and for a moment Yusuf could hear the jeers of the Franks at the wall. Then a jar with flame trailing it flew from the city and hit the middle tower. The tower exploded, the fire so bright that Yusuf was momentarily blinded. He looked away, blinking tears from his eyes. He looked back to see that the tower was engulfed in flames. A flaming jar hit another tower, and it too was transformed into an inferno. The wind gusted again, and this time it brought with it screams of agony.

  ‘Allah is giving the Franks a foretaste of hell,’ Saqr murmured.

  Yusuf said nothing. The wind had also brought the stench of roasting flesh. It made his stomach turn.

  The last tower went up in flames. A moment later, several jars were dropped on the ram. The Franks manning it fled long before the last, flaming j
ar fell. The ram burst into flames and was quickly consumed. The Franks who had survived began to stream back to their camp, while behind them, the towers collapsed into piles of ash and charred timbers. The screams of the dying had ceased but the smell of roasting meat had grown stronger.

  ‘Father!’

  Yusuf turned to see Al-Afdal striding up the rampart, Az-Zahir trailing him. ‘You have done it! The city is saved!’

  ‘Alhamdulillah!’ Az-Zahir cried.

  Yusuf nodded. He could not share their joy. Acre was saved, yes, but for how long? All their attacks had failed to dislodge the Franks, and more of the enemy arrived every day. Yusuf’s gaze went to the sea. He remembered the crusade of his childhood, when he had watched in secret as his father and uncle talked in hushed tones about the barbarians from overseas. Now they were coming again. The German emperor’s great army was marching across Anatolia, creeping ever closer. And from across the sea came the King of France and the English King Richard, the one they called Lionheart.

  Chapter 17

  October 1190: Messina, Sicily

  ‘Sit still, man!’ Philip snapped. The French king was as ugly as Richard was handsome, and though he was eight years Richard’s junior, he somehow looked older. Philip had broad shoulders, thick stubby fingers and a plain face that would have suited a peasant better than a king. His hair was wild and unruly, and he had lost sight in his left eye, which drifted aimlessly, making it impossible for John to tell where he was looking. It was disconcerting.

  ‘I said stop,’ the king repeated, ‘or I’ll have your head.’

  John stopped pacing. He had worn a path on the ground before Richard’s tent. He turned in the direction of Messina. The city was out of sight beyond a range of hills, but when the wind blew from the east, he could hear distant cries of agony and rage, overlaid with the clash of steel. The latest breeze brought a whiff of smoke, too.

  John had arrived in Sicily two months ago after a long journey from England. He had stayed at Richard’s side throughout. In spring, they had crossed to France, where Richard had marshalled his men: a hundred knights, four thousand experienced men-at-arms, two thousand Welsh bowmen and another two thousand common soldiers, mostly thieves and farmers. Pincushions, Richard called these last. He considered them good for nothing but to serve as human shields. In July, they had joined forces with Philip at Vézelay, a fortress town three days’ march east of Orléans. Philip brought with him over six hundred knights – more than John had ever seen gathered in one place. Each knight had two horses and at least one squire. There were also five hundred French men-at-arms, though their purpose seemed to be mostly to see to the baggage train.