“Salah Ed Din must be feeling very pleased with himself,” Talon remarked to Yosef, as they trotted their horses along the stony and dust-laden track which passed for a main road between the city of Acre and Tiberius. He spotted yet another band of mounted archers lurking along the skyline ahead of them. “Those are Turks without question, and they will sting,” he muttered.
“We should be very careful not to become too exposed ourselves, Lord,” Yosef cautioned. They were by this time some way ahead of the van of the army, which was being led by the King, Guy de Lusignan, and Lord Raynald de Châtillon with his unruly men. The Templars, under the leadership of Grand Master Rideford, took up position at the rear of the army, while in the middle, ostensibly protected by the heavy cavalry at either end and the spearmen, marched the Genoese archers, the ragged majority of the volunteers in charge of the wagons, and donkeys carrying the rations and baggage of the army. There were almost no trees other than low shrubs in small patches on the sides of the hills, hence no shade whatsoever from the blazing sun.
As they ascended into the foothills that formed a low barrier before the basin of the Sea of Galilee, Talon became uncomfortably aware of how exposed they were. It was not long before his fears were confirmed. Salah Ed Din had sent light, mounted bowmen to harass their progress. Talon wanted to see one thing for himself before he rejoined the army and relative safety.
“Come, Yosef, we will be able to check the position of the Sultan’s army from the crest of that hill over there. We have to move fast. Follow me!” he called to the scouts.
They set their horses into a gallop and drove them hard up the shallow incline, their bows ready for trouble should it appear on the crest. They were lucky; the enemy horsemen were intent upon a much larger and easier target, and a few distant, isolated horsemen didn’t present any danger to them. As they crested the hill Talon reined his blowing horse in and stared around, then gazed east towards the great lake, shading his eyes from the glare of the sun.
His heart sank. The army still had fifteen leagues to go before it came within reach of the precious waters. Slightly to the north were twin peaks of bare lava rock hills known as the Horns of Hattin. Just below and between the horns he knew there was a spring that lasted well into the summer, but he realized that the dark mass in the distance was an army, and it was encamped with the spring behind it, protecting it from the Christians. They would not reach it without a fight.
He wiped his brow with a cloth. “We will need to conserve every drop of water that we have, Yosef. The Sultan has positioned himself well.”
Yosef wiped his own brow. Even this early, the heat of the day was well advanced. “Why do you stay with these people, Lord?” he asked. “They do not respect your advice, nor the Count’s. They insist upon doing stupid things and getting themselves killed for it, and they will again this time.”
Talon smiled at his longtime companion. “It is about honor, Yosef. Something you understand perfectly well. The Count needed my help, so I am here; I cannot leave now and live with myself. I am not a coward, and neither are you. We must go where the dice are thrown now, and God protect us in doing so.”
“We had better get back to the army then, Lord,” Yosef remarked, pointing. A small group of curious Turkish horsemen had appeared on the top of another hill adjacent to theirs and had seen them. Their shouts and yells could be clearly heard as they raced their horses down the slopes with the aim of cutting Talon and the scouts off from the Christian army. Talon, Yosef and the scouts had enough distance, however, and easily evaded them to rejoin the van of the Christian army
The danger was not past. The Turkish horsemen took advantage of the ability of their smaller, nimble-footed mounts to scramble up and down the slopes of the hills, while the lumbering Christian army was confined to the road, which in places was narrow enough for only four men to ride abreast. The Turks, shouting their battle cries, loosed arrow after arrow into the ranks of the Christians, who would have had to stop and shoot their crossbows to respond. The King, looking hot and confused, ordered the army to continue its march. Casualties began to mount as the arrows found the less well armored men and horses.
“What did you see?” Tripoli demanded of them. He already looked exhausted and was coughing again.
Talon spoke for the scouts. “The Sultan has taken up a position astride the springs of Hattin. We will have to fight to get to the water.”
Raymond of Tripoli beat his hand on his thigh. “Do you hear, Your Highness?” he called out. “Salah Ed Din has placed himself on the wells of Hattin. We must now fight for water, as we cannot go around him.”
The King threw him a resentful look, but then just stared ahead, saying nothing. His brother, Lord Aimery, looked apprehensive, and even the normally arrogant Châtillon, sweating copiously in the heat, seemed uneasy. He was continually wiping sweat off his sun-reddened face.
The army had been marching for two hours but had covered only about five leagues. Little was said by anyone now; they were too thirsty. The only sounds were the creak of leather, the clop of hooves or a click as the they struck a protruding stone, and the muted rattle of accoutrements. Abruptly there would be a flurry of yells as the Turks galloped up to within fifty or so paces and discharged arrows, the whisper of death and the thump of the missiles striking a shield or a man, or worse, a horse. The beast would whinny and either fall, taking the rider down, or stand trembling from the shock of its wound while the rider took what he could carry and abandoned it to the mercies of the Arabs and Turks, who were becoming ever more bold.
The heat was taking its toll. The surrounding air all about was dense with the dust raised by the plodding hooves of horses and feet of marching men. The men who wore heavy chain mail hauberks, the knights of the Orders or those who served as knights for a lord, suffered the most. There was no relief within these leather and iron corsets, the links of which became hotter and hotter as the sun beat down on the luckless men. By mid afternoon men were suffering from acute dehydration. Some fainted and slid off their horses, or just lay down by the side of the road, and no amount of shouting could persuade them to get up and rejoin the ranks.
Then the Turkish riders began to circle around the army to come in from behind to attack the closed ranks of the Templars. They would ride as close as twenty paces and loose off arrows directly into the stolid ranks of the knights. Sergeants and commanders shouted to their men, “Do not leave the ranks. Stay closed up! March on!” The order had come back for no one to retaliate. Men and horses fell from the arrows, to be abandoned and plundered where they fell. Briefly, some of the exasperated knights broke ranks and chased the cavalry off, but they knew they were running into traps, so they didn’t pursue them far. To the jeers of the enemy they would return to their ranks, even more frustrated than before.
Genoese bowmen were used to drive the Turks off if they came too close, but their bolts, although very dangerous, were nowhere near as effective as the slim arrows of the hated Saracen. Talon yearned for a few Welsh archers, who would have inflicted horrendous damage upon these roving bands with the greater range of their strong bows, but there were none to be had with this army.
The Christians had few men who could ride and shoot bows, only Talon and Yosef and a few of the scouts, but the Count of Tripoli insisted that they stay with him.
“Their leader knew what he was doing when he sent these men to harass us,” Sir Matthew said to Talon, as he wiped his dusty face and beard with a rag.
“There is worse to come, I fear,” Talon answered, watching the numbers of enemy increase. They were nearing the crest of the low hills to arrive at a point where a sharp eye could just make out the Sea of Galilee and the city of Tiberius in the haze. By now the army was almost entirely out of water and desperately thirsty. Men who were not experienced at marching in the desert had drunk their water and had none left, having been assured that there would be a plentiful supply at the end of the day. But by late afternoon, as the army crawled with
in sight of the lake, the realization that they were in serious trouble became apparent even to the most ignorant of the men-at-arms.
Arrayed before them was most of the army of Salah Ed Din, and it was in possession of the only available water before the lake itself, and that was to be denied the Christian army.
Raymond no longer bothered to be polite to the King. “If you had only listened to me, we would not be in this predicament!” he snarled. “The Sultan has achieved what we could have had if only you listened to the right voices, but no! You listened to that imbecile Rideford who whispered in your ear. Now we are to die on the Sultan’s terms! Our only hope is to break through the Sultan’s army to get to the water, and I suggest we do this without delay!”
Just then an exhausted rider arrived from the back of the army and, bowing to the King, reported that Lord Rideford and his men could not continue but needed to stop and camp for the night. “They are exhausted and completely out of water, Your Highness,” the man said, through parched lips.
Guy, who was suffering as much as any one, turned glazed eyes on Raymond and croaked, “What should we do, Lord Tripoli?”
“There is no turning back now! Half our army would perish on the way back to the springs, and if we camp for the night we will be no less thirsty tomorrow! We will only be a target for raiders in the dark. We must continue whatever the cost, my Lord!” Raymond stated, his voice cracked with anger and thirst.
Then Rideford himself rode up and began to harangue the King. “We cannot continue in this condition. We have to rest. I am told there are wells near to the Horns. We cannot fight in this condition! I shall not move my men another step,” he shouted.
“The wells of Hattin are taken! You are madder than even I imagined!” Raymond raged. “Don’t you see what will happen? Salah Ed Din has not only denied us water but will surround us if we stop now. We must attack as soon as we can!”
But Rideford had the King’s ear yet again, and after more insults and shouting Guy gave the command to halt the army. Talon, himself close to despair and incredulous, watched as the Count turned away almost in tears at the utter stupidity of the order. “You, Rideford, will be the death of this army. You are a complete and utter fool!” he raged.
The King, still unable to understand the predicament they were in, again turned to Raymond. “What should we do now, Lord Tripoli?
Raymond shrugged and rudely turned his back on his King. As he walked away he called back, “We must take the high ground at the base of the horns and hope to God that we can live through this night. Make your tent up there,” he waved his hand towards the two peaks overlooking the Sultan’s encampment. They were a mere three leagues from the lake itself, but the vast army was between them and the water.
The King sent men up the boulder-strewn slopes to find out if the wells in the area of the horns were, as Rideford had insisted, full of water. The dismayed men, wild-eyed and half crazed with thirst, came staggering back, croaking from parched throats that there was none.
Talon cast a look at Rideford to observe his reaction, but that man just seemed to shrug and ignored the frightened men. By now many of the volunteers and mercenaries had had enough, and no amount of discipline could control what happened next. Groups broke away from the ranks of the main army and fled down towards the waters of the lake. The rest of the dust-caked, exhausted men watched with horror as the deserters were intercepted by light horsemen or spearmen from the Sultan’s army and butchered. None of them reached the lake.
The utterly dispirited army of King Guy de Lusignan dismounted and prepared to settle down for the night. Even under these conditions Guy’s servants were ordered to put up his royal tent; it was red and distinctive, clearly visible to the waiting army below. There was food, but it was of little use to those who were too parched to swallow. Talon and Yosef shared what water they had with Count Raymond, Matthew and Brandt, the burly Saxon of few words, but Talon was firm about not distributing it further. “We have little enough for you, Lord, so please do not ask me to spread it around. I most certainly will not be providing any to Rideford, nor the King.”
Raymond gave him a tired smile. “You have been a staunch friend, Talon. I am so sorry for this. Dear God, but I wish it were better circumstances. I absolutely fail to understand the workings of that man’s mind.” He was referring to Rideford, who was keeping clear of the Count. At least he had the wits to do that, Talon observed.
There was nothing to be done before dawn, when the battle would surely begin. Talon and Yosef kept a small supply of water for the morning and settled down to get what sleep they could. Exhausted men took their beds wherever they stopped, sleeping outside in the hopes that the cool night air would alleviate their misery. Many hoped that a few charges by the Knights of the Orders would see them clear to the waters of the lake, and went to sleep with that comforting thought in mind.
Salah Ed Din, however, had other plans. Talon woke to the acrid smell of smoke. He sat up, throwing his light covering aside, and found Yosef wide awake and staring down the hillside. The hill was no longer a dark black band above the lighter grey sheen of the lake. Instead, all about the Christian army were the bright glow of fires, consuming bushes and bone-dry grass. A choking cloud of smoke wafted over the dismayed men of the Christian army.
Talon seized Yosef by the arm. “Wet some rags and we will put them over our faces. We must try and protect our horses, too,” he said, his tone urgent. Yosef hurried to obey, and then they listened to the wailing and crying of the demoralized men all around them.
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The Battle for the Horns of Hattin
Chapter 15
The Horns of Hattin
See, yonder come the foes of Christendom,
And we must fight for God and Holy Faith.
Now say your shrift, and make your peace with Heaven;
I will absolve you and will heal your souls;
And if you die as martyrs, your true home
Is ready midst the flowers of Paradise.
—Song of Roland
As dawn arrived, the scene was one of turmoil and mounting despair. The choking smoke drifted slowly over the army in dark clouds. Worse, Talon saw that the enemy had encircled them during the night. There was no way out of the trap Salah Ed Din had devised.
The Christian army had shrunk during the night, but any deserters were probably dead or enslaved at the hands of the watchful enemy in the hills. There was no refuge left for anyone.
The Bishop of Acre set up the gold inlaid relic of the True Cross before the assembled men and blessed them in a cracked and dried-out voice. He failed dismally to keep the despair out of his voice.
“God bless this army of God Himself, who will protect us all in our time of need!” he bleated. “Today is the Feast of Saint Martin Calidus!” he called out, as though this made any difference to the mostly illiterate gathering.
“I wonder how many here appreciate the great irony,” Raymond said to Talon. “Our Lord preached his great sermon of peace for all men on this same day.” He gestured back towards the King with his thumb, no longer caring to hide his contempt.
“I despise that man as much for the vacancy of his soul as for the impoverishment of his mind! All three of them brought us to this. Châtillon, Rideford and Lusignan!”
Talon could only nod his agreement. Few were really paying much attention to the bishops after a day and a night without water; their attention was focused on the stretch of gleaming water that was just out of reach. But the knights of the Orders still shrove one another. This was their act of repentance before dying for the Cross. The red tent of the King and the few surrounding tents made a pretty backdrop for the bishops, but even while presenting a brave sight, the King’s red tent was stained dark with smut from the numerous fires that were still burning.
At that point Talon came very close to leaving the doomed assembly. In his opinion the King and his advisor Rideford could not have done a better job of destr
oying their own army with their ignorance, coupled with an astonishing and unwarranted degree of arrogance. He sighed in resignation, then turned to Yosef.
“I cannot leave, but you should, Yosef. This is not your battle. Save yourself while you can, my friend.”
Yosef stared back at him with red-rimmed eyes and dirt-caked features. “I do not leave you, Talon. You saved my worthless life in China and made me into a warrior! I shall not desert you now.” Talon almost wept, but he had no tears. He just wiped his face with a grimy hand and embraced Yosef.
“Then we die together. I can think of few others I would prefer to have with me. Other than perhaps Reza,” he grinned. He held Yosef by the shoulders with both hands to look at his long-time friend with deep affection. “But he would have had something to say about that, I dare say.” They both laughed, even with dry throats they laughed, and men nearby who had not understood what they were saying were puzzled by these two strange men among them who could laugh in the midst of this catastrophe.
Dawn was well advanced and the Orders had mounted up. Talon and Yosef, themselves mounted, joined the Count and his men; then they waited in serried lines for the King to join them. As they waited, morale broke altogether among the Genoese archers and the infantry. Abandoning all pretense at discipline, a large number of men-at-arms and volunteers panicked and broke ranks. Thirst-crazed, they charged on foot down the hill to attack the enemy and try to break through to the water they so craved. Once again the men on the hill watched in grim silence as the mob was butchered by the Arab army, or rounded up and bound to be sold into slavery. Their battle was over before it had even begun.
Talon was to ride next to Sir Matthew, who was to the right of the Count. Their horses, tired, agitated and thirsty, fidgeted and snorted as the smoke continued to burn eyes and nostrils.
Storms of Retribution Page 24