The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  Jesus Himself had said: ‘Soldier, you are content with what you are. Then that you shall remain until we meet again.’ Yes, he would remain a soldier, but not necessarily an ordinary one. He had gathered experience over the centuries, learning tactics and strategy. Not that of the instinctive brilliance of those born to lead, but rather that learned from fighting and losing, and winning too. He’d learned the teachings of Sun Tzu thanks to his long dead friend Shiu Lao Tze, and applied that. He was surprised at how successful he had become, and that made him a leader on occasion.

  Not that he craved the power of leadership; no, leave that to those who want it badly enough to kill for the pleasure. He would continue to be what he was and if sometimes he was put into a position of leadership, well then he’d do it. But he knew that in time he’d fall and start all over again at the bottom. Life was a circle, endlessly repeating itself. Yes, a very wise saying.

  So now Salah-ed-Din had made him a captain of his guard. He’d have a tent to himself and not have to share it with some farting, snoring colleague with a liking for rancid cheese. Sometimes things did fall in his favor. Salah-ed-Din appraised his new officer once more, then spoke again. “Kasim, what do you think of the military situation? What would you do?”

  Casca put down his empty cup and the slave girl retrieved it and stepped away. “What would I do? You are not asking me for advice, surely, lord?” He looked sharply at his leader, who was smiling slightly. Ah, he thought, the sneaky guy is testing me. Okay, let’s think a moment. “Here you are doing nothing except tying down a small part of the Crusader army and keeping one of their bad leaders away from the king. Once the pilgrims are safely through I’d move back to the main army and push into Outremer past Tiberias. Raymond is allied to you so you have an entry point there, and it is well watered.”

  “And then?”

  “Then? Bring the enemy to you. Choose a place you can defend and has access to water. Try to deny that to the enemy. It will be the hot season soon. If you move into their land, you will have to make sure you have water and they do not.”

  Salah-ed-Din inclined his head. This man has brains and knowledge of tactics. He could be useful. “This is what I intend to do. Do you know much of their tactics and means of waging a fight upon us?”

  “Only what you’ve learned yourself. Don’t get in close to them; pick them off at range and wear them down. They haven’t many leaders with intelligence, apart perhaps from Raymond. The leadership is riddled with hot headed fools, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Very good! You have shown you can use your head. I need officers like you in my army. I have chosen well, it would seem. But I must ask one last question of you, Kasim. I have noticed that you do not partake in prayer. May I ask why, if you profess to be of the Faith?”

  Casca sighed and leaned back in his seat. “My lord, I have been a member of many religions in the past. None have kept me for very long, for I have traveled widely and lived amongst those who are fanatical about their god or gods. For that reason religion is to me transient. Here today, gone tomorrow. I have fought for Christians against Muslims, for Muslims against Orthodox, and vice versa. I have been a slave as well as a soldier. But I do fight hard and fight well. And have been punished on occasions too, my lord.”

  Salah-ed-Din listened politely. He was a follower of Islam and he could not have infidels leading his troops. No matter how sensible the argument was by this man, he would have to persuade him to show to his men he was of the Faith. “Kasim, I must ask of you that as an officer you must show the men the way of my army. An officer not only must be a valiant fighter and a good military man, he must also lead, and to lead is not only of the physical sort, but the spiritual too. Faith sometimes holds men to me rather than fight. Do you understand?”

  Casca smiled. “Yes, lord, that I do. I want you to understand that I am not a follower of the Faith by conviction, but by necessity in this situation.” Salah-ed-Din nodded. Casca shrugged. “I shall do as you say, lord. I shall show the men that I am of the Faith and join in the prayer ritual, if only to please you.”

  “That is all I ask, Kasim. Your open honesty is a refreshing change, and I shall respect you for that. But be warned that I could make you an ordinary soldier once more if you go back on your word.”

  “I realize that, my lord. I shall keep my word; it is something important to me. And I think to you too.”

  Salad-ed-Din agreed. “What is a man if he is not honest to himself and others? I may be an enemy of Christianity but I keep my word, for in the eyes of Allah a man who breaks his word is a treacherous man and as such shall never enjoy the fruits of paradise.”

  With that he waved Casca out of his tent and his new captain left to arrange his new quarters and obtain from the traveling stores a strip of green cloth that would denote him as a captain. Salah-ed-Din remained in his tent alone and thought long and hard into the night on what he was to do once he made his mind up where to attack. The alternatives flashed through his head one after the other, choosing one then casting it aside. He knew it was something he’d have to choose carefully because everything was so finely balanced.

  But to the north, events were unfolding that would change things overnight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Balian d’Ibelin and his party had spent the night comfortably at his castle at Nablus, just over halfway between Tiberias and Jerusalem. They had taken their time as there seemed no rush; de Beaucaire was still getting used to riding again and Eleanor wasn’t one to hurry. Balian took the opportunity to show off his estate to his guests, hoping to impress them, which it did.

  South of Nablus they received a shock. Coming up the road from Jerusalem was a huge host, banners flying, armor glinting. “What in the name of God?” Balian exclaimed, reining in across the road. “It’s the king’s army!”

  De Beaucaire and his little group remained where they were while Balian and two of his men rode forward to speak to the vanguard which was under the command of Gerard of Ridfort. “Where is the king? I must speak to him!” Balian demanded.

  “Why?” Ridfort replied, put out that the nobleman wasn’t interested in him. “He’s busy.”

  “So am I!” Balian replied and rode on into the main part of the army, spotting the king’s standard. Balian rode up to the king and pulled alongside. “What are you doing, my liege?” he demanded.

  “What?” Guy seemed amazed that anyone should ask the question. “Why, marching on Tiberias to punish the traitor Raymond, of course!”

  “Are you insane?” Balian bawled, causing heads to turn. “Do you want Raymond’s ally Saladin to come rampaging in and devastating your kingdom? You touch Raymond and you’ll have the entire Saracen army battering at your walls before you could say Mary, Mother of Jesus!”

  “But-but,” Guy blustered, completely confused by what he’d been told, “Raymond is guilty of treason, isn’t he, Ridfort?”

  Gerard de Ridfort had galloped back to listen to what Balian had to say. “Yes and he deserves to be destroyed!”

  “So are matters of state determined by the king or by your overriding desire for vengeance, Gerard?” Balian shouted. “Do you decide the kingdom’s policy?”

  Guy sat in his saddle dumbly. He didn’t know what to do. He’d wait to see who shouted the longest, loudest and last of all.

  “Oh for the love of God!” Balian said, pouring scorn on the Templar leader, “your petty argument with Raymond leads the king into danger! Do you know a huge Saracen army is being assembled right across the border from Tiberias? Do you? If it hears you’re marching on Saladin’s ally it’ll come down on you like the Wrath of God! And how will you fight it without Reynauld de Chatillon, without Raymond or without me, too, for that matter?”

  Ridfort sat there, face red as the cross on his surcoat. Balian turned to the king. “My liege, return to Jerusalem and we will decide on a proper course of action to take against Raymond. There are other ways to punish a traitor than by trying to besiege
his town. We can send an embassy to make him see reason.”

  “He deserves to die for his treason,” Ridfort persisted angrily.

  “Then challenge him to single combat, Ridfort,” Balian replied, “that way we would see an end to this tiresome feud between the two of you. The king does not wish to be brought to ruin by your hot-headed impetuosity.”

  The Grand Master of the Hospital, Roger, rode up. “Balian is right, my liege,” he said, “to advance on Tiberias with the enemy army on our flank would be folly. If the army were destroyed our kingdom would be open to rapine and plunder.”

  Guy sagged in his seat; he’d not really wanted to attack but Ridfort had seemed so right at the time. “Very well, turn the army round and return to Jerusalem.”

  The men sighed or groaned, but the mass of men stopped, swung about and began the march back the way they had come. Ridfort glared furiously at Balian. “You’re another traitor, d’Ibelin,” he snarled.

  “Be silent. You will speak too much one of these days and it’ll cost you your head. If you think me a traitor, say so in front of the king and I shall cut you down like the fool you are.” Balian stared the Templar leader down. Ridfort muttered and rode off, vowing revenge.

  De Beaucaire came up with his small party. “That was admirable, Lord Balian.”

  Balian puffed out his cheeks. “But damned close! The king needs a strong hand to guide him, and we don’t need people like Ridfort around him. He’s a bad influence.”

  They rode back to Jerusalem and the de Beaucaires soon made themselves comfortable in their new quarters. Roland de Beaucaire even had an audience with the king but Guy didn’t wish to hear of any complaint about Reynauld. The man gave him a headache, what with attacking Muslim caravans and ignoring what he said. He was just a pain and the less said about him the better. He did enjoy the company of Eleanor however, and thought she was growing into a very beautiful woman. She would have suitors clamoring after her in no time, particularly here in Jerusalem where there were so many landless nobles. Eleanor had land in France and a marriage to her would be very advantageous.

  Balian had dressed in his finest clothes, and had made his way to the king’s chamber. Guy was seated on the throne, surrounded by attendants and scribes, and the other nobility were present. Some greeted Balian with a smile while others scowled and tried to ignore him.

  “Ah, Balian!” Guy stood up and welcomed the noble. “Welcome. Welcome. Have a drink.”

  “Thank you my liege.” Balian took the offered goblet of wine and tasted it. The grape was good, he admitted. Smacking his lips he faced the king. “Have you decided on what to do with Count Raymond?”

  Guy looked at Roger and Gerard de Ridfort. Balian sighed. Couldn’t the king make any decision of his own? Did he need to be talked into having a shit? “Ah, yes, Balian. What we…ah, I have decided is that a small party be sent to Raymond to reason with him and make him see the folly of his ways. We need a united kingdom to face the threat of Saladin and his army. With Raymond with us we stand a much better chance of success!” Guy looked pleased, as much the same a child did after reciting a rehearsed speech his parents had written for him.

  “And what of Reynauld?” Balian replied.

  “Uh, Reynauld?” Guy’s face clouded over. Ridfort folded his arms and glared at Balian.

  “How can you guarantee he won’t do something equally stupid again as he did a few months ago?”

  Guy looked helplessly at the Grand Templar. Ridfort sucked in his breath and strode forward. “We are discussing the Count of Tripoli, NOT the Lord de Chatillon!”

  “And if we make moves for peace with Raymond how can you guarantee, my liege, that this madman won’t cause yet another incident to ruin it all? For if Reynauld had not foolishly broken the truce, Raymond would not now be in the position of being accused of treason!”

  “Peace, peace, peace!” Ridfort sneered. “You are beginning to sound like Raymond’s puppet.”

  “And you, Grand Master, are beginning to sound like Reynauld’s.”

  “Gentlemen!” the king moved in between the two antagonists with a gesture of conciliation. “We must not fight amongst ourselves, yes?” His smile was so ingratiating that Balian felt sick and turned away.

  “I fail to understand why you, Lord d’Ibelin, side with a traitor who wishes to spare Muslims while you oppose a man like Reynauld who does the Lord’s work and slaughters them!” Ridfort was clearly not going to let it slip. Guy stood in the middle, wringing his hands, distress on his face.

  “I have killed plenty of Muslims, Grand Master,” Balian said softly, menace in his voice, “when the need arose. I however am not one who slaughters defenseless woman and children. It is, in my opinion, hardly worthy for a man of God to murder innocents!”

  Ridfort went to respond hotly but Roger intervened. “Well, why not let us ask Raymond to annul his alliance with Saladin and join us. I’m sure he’s had plenty of time to think on the folly of his course of action.”

  “Well put, Grand Hospitaller,” Guy beamed, relief on his face. “Well that’s settled then! I propose the two Grand Masters to put the offer to the Count, along with you, Lord d’Ibelin and the Archbishop of Tyre, Josias, who happens to be here in Jerusalem at this moment. Roger, you will arrange for an escort to Tiberias.”

  Ridfort stood there, his mouth open, put out that he’d been cut off in the middle of an argument he’d been winning. He grumbled and nodded, eyeing Balian with dislike. Two cowards were two too many, he thought to himself.

  Back in the chamber of de Beaucaire, Balian brought the nobleman up to date with events. Eleanor sat next to her father, wearing a long brown dress that demonstrated her figure admirably. By the door the reassuring figure of Guillaume stood, sword point on the floor, hand resting on the pommel. He would never again allow his lack of attention imperil his master or the Lady Eleanor.

  “So you are journeying tomorrow to Tiberias?” de Beaucaire enquired. “Are you hopeful of success? Raymond is very bitter at his treatment by the king. He told me he’d like to get Beirut back. The confiscation of some of his lands and castles hurt him deeply.”

  “I will try to negotiate the best I can. I am not sure if it will be a success, what with Ridfort coming along too. But it makes sense in a way, because if we do strike a bargain, the fact Ridfort is present will make it unarguable at Court.”

  “And that horrid de Chatillon is unpunished?” Eleanor asked.

  “I’m afraid so, even after his latest atrocity. The king is frightened of him and hasn’t the balls…pardon me ma’am, the nerve to face up to him. So Reynauld will continue to do as he pleases.”

  Eleanor turned away in disgust. “God will punish him.”

  Balian nodded. “In time. Mark my words. In the meantime I’d advise staying away from him or any Templar. Be guarded at all times.”

  “I am,” she replied, indicating Guillaume. The knight flexed his arms in response. Balian noted it and grinned. “Yes, a very dedicated man. Very well, with your permission, Lady Eleanor,” he bent and kissed her hand. “Lord de Beaucaire,” he bowed, turned and left.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The men tensed, holding their breaths; their attention was focused solely on the tableau unfolding in front of them. The rocks seemed to tremble with expectation as each moment slowed down in time, so that every second was stretched to an eternity.

  The soldier moved slightly, his hand moving an inch. His concentration was absolute. No more than ten yards ahead of him, on the other side of a sandy rock, a small rabbit was chewing on some tough grass, oblivious of the proximity of the man hunting him. Suddenly the man moved and his foot dislodged stones, soil and grit. The rabbit shot away, tail bobbing while the soldier made a belated but vain dive to catch it.

  He missed by five feet, landing with a cloud of dust onto the rocks the rabbit had occupied just a moment before. The other men let out their breaths and jeered, most turning away in disappointment. Casca stood there gr
inning, shaking his head. The soldier dusted himself off and came up to him, a look of apology on his face. “Ah, Captain,” he said, “it has the feet of the wind and the luck of the devil.”

  “And you,” a loud voice announced from the right, “have the feet of a lame cow!”

  The men laughed, Casca included. The man who had spoken was a bull of a man, standing taller than Casca and weighing about as much. His face sported a curly black beard and his smooth brown face betrayed his Turkic origins. Sabat was his name, and he was not one to mess with. Plenty had tried to take him on but all had ended with injuries.

  The soldier who’d failed to catch the rabbit huffed, dusting himself off. “Ah Sabat, why don’t you try instead?”

  Sabat curled a lip in contempt. “And what if I caught it, Mansur? It is no more than a mere snack! I need something substantial, like an antelope! Now spot me one of those and I’ll catch that!”

  Mansur looked about. “You know there are none here, not in this barren place.”

  “So I cannot display my unrivaled skill to you envious amateurs,” Sabat sighed loudly.

  “Okay you lot,” Casca said in good humor, “we’ll have to do better if we’re to feed the unit tonight. Unless you want camp stores that is.”

  “Bah, unfit for consumption, that’s what it is,” Sabat said, pulling a face. “Captain, we might take food from the Christians.”

  The men stared at their spokesman, incredulous at the suggestion.

  Casca frowned. “The Christians? In the castle, Sabat? That is beyond even your skill to get in there!”

  Sabat laughed, throwing his head back. “No, Captain, I mean the village at the foot of the castle. There are plenty of animals being kept in pens at the rear of houses. We can take one or two for our use this night!”