The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Things moved fast. The day after the battle Salah-ed-Din moved down the road to Tiberias and persuaded Raymond’s wife, Eschiva, to surrender the citadel in return for safe passage for her and her children and attendants to the city of Tripoli. This secured Salah-ed-Din’s rear and now he could turn and conquer the former kingdom of Jerusalem without worrying about his lines of supply.

  He sent Taqi west to secure the surrender of Acre but the garrison refused to give in. Salah-ed-Din himself had to arrive at the walls before they changed their minds. Casca watched as the terms were delivered by the garrison commander, Joscelin de Courtenay. He’d been one of the lucky ones to escape the trap of Hattin but his nerve had gone and now all he wanted was to get away with his life intact.

  Two days later they entered the city and Salah-ed-Din handed it over to his son to govern. Al-Afdal immediately began distributing gifts to those he favored and these people would form the beginning of his court in the city. Casca wandered on his day off from guard duty around the city and saw to his dismay the great sugar factory had been pillaged. Some of the houses were damaged or destroyed in fires that had been caused when the populace rioted upon hearing news of the surrender, but the city was mostly intact.

  Al-Afdal was generous; the immense wealth that had accumulated in Acre was being handed around – after the one-fifth share had been taken by Salah-ed-Din – and many became richer than their wildest dreams. Casca didn’t miss out but he accepted his gifts with a more sober attitude; he knew that riches didn’t last long and they would be gone tomorrow. Still, he knew what to do with his temporary riches.

  After doing a deal with another of the guard captains over the duty rota, he headed to the market area, or the bazaar as it would now be renamed. Most of the merchants had fled with the arrival of the Saracens, but a few remained, hoping to make a killing in trade. With little competition they had an opportunity now to make themselves rich, as there were plenty of soldiers who wanted to sell their newly acquired goods for coin, or to barter for other items.

  Casca was after better armor and weaponry; he wanted the best there was and found an armory along St. Andreas Street, close to the harbor. The merchant rubbed his hands; he knew here was a man who wanted something special, and would have to pay to get it.

  “I want to see what you have, merchant,” Casca said, looking around the cluttered shop, eyeing suits of chain mail on stands, and helmets on poles. Swords were piled in corners and spears stood in racks along the walls. Shields of all shapes and sizes lay scattered around, and piles of cloth, linen and other items lay in heaps on the floor. It was a maze of goods and all too much to take in.

  Lamps gave off flickering light in the depths of the shop, for the window that looked out onto the street was small and the interior gloomy to say the least. The smell of oil filled the air; much of the armor had been cleaned which was a good sign. No letting these items rust with neglect here. “Of course, esteemed sir,” the shopkeeper smiled, bowing and indicated Casca to follow him. “You are looking for something special?”

  “The best armor you have. One that fits, naturally,” he added dryly.

  “Ah of course, I have just the thing. Come over here, good sir, and view this beautiful work of art.” He led Casca to the far corner where a pile of chain armor lay folded neatly on a bench. “This was to be collected this week by a Christian knight but I am afraid he left in a hurry. Without paying,” the shopkeeper added hastily.

  Casca smiled. Of course he had paid; the shopkeeper would hardly have ordered a complete mail suit without some payment in advance. He picked up the mail and held it up. It was fairly heavy and Casca could see it contained leg mail, just what he wanted. The sleeves were half length which seemed to be the current fashion, and it did appear big enough to fit him. “Okay, how much for this?”

  “Ah, for you sir? It is a special size of course, and not one normally found. Ah, well,” the shopkeeper assessed Casca carefully. He was an officer so he ought to be richer than the average soldier. “A thousand bezants.”

  Casca eyed the shopkeeper, and promptly dropped the armor. “You give me a realistic price and I’ll listen. You had an advance payment of at least half to buy the material. Don’t deny it, I know my armor, shopkeeper.”

  The merchant screwed his face up. “Well yes, that is true, the Christian knight did pay an advance amount, but it wasn’t half. I can drop the price to 750 bezants.”

  “Three hundred, and you’re making a profit what with what you’ve already had.”

  “I have to make a living, good sir!” the shopkeeper was outraged. “Seven hundred is the lowest I could possibly go.”

  Casca picked up the armor again and examined it. “Four hundred and fifty. And I would buy a felt-lined helmet to go with it, in the Saracen style of course, together with that blue padded gambeson over there to fit underneath.”

  The shopkeeper totted up the cost. “Oh, that would certainly cost eight hundred altogether.”

  “I’m sure, merchant. If you charged six hundred for this, but I would accept five hundred as a fair price and pay you two hundred for the gambeson and helmet. Seven hundred altogether.”

  The shopkeeper looked up to the ceiling in exasperation. “Seven hundred and fifty!”

  Casca laughed briefly. “Okay, it’s a deal. Over charged but I’ll accept that.” They shook hands and Casca left with a nice new suit of armor, a helmet and a comfortable padded gambeson of deep blue to rest underneath his mail. And he still had plenty of coin left.

  After dumping his new purchases in his temporary room, he walked out again and made his way to the Venetian Quarter, right on the harbor front. Here were the taverns – now shut of course – and other buildings of entertainment that catered for the discerning visitor. The Crusaders might have gone, along with the majority of the merchants, but he knew absolutely that one group of people would remain, and sure enough he spotted one right away.

  Whores would always make a living in the seaports of the world, no matter where it may be, and Casca had enjoyed the delights of many a seaport brothel in his time. After hacking his way through hordes of enemy soldiers in battle, the one thing that would guarantee to soothe him was a damned good night in a brothel. And here was one being patronized by a fair number of men. Some, he noticed with surprise, were Europeans.

  The harbor was empty at present so these guys must have elected to remain behind when the others left. He wondered why. Maybe they thought using a brothel was better than traveling through the Levant Coastal area with a bunch of defeated miserable Crusaders. Casca couldn’t blame them.

  The madam stared at Casca, trying to gauge him. His facial scar drew her attention, and Casca felt a tingle run down it; he’d got that one some time before he’d become immortal. It had been in a Greek brothel, too, after he short changed a whore. It had taught him to pay up what was due in these places after that. “You a Muslim?” she asked in badly accented Arabic.

  “No madam,” he replied in Greek, “just a mercenary making a living.”

  The Greek proprietress opened her mouth in surprise, then smiled. “In which case, my big boy, you’ll have the coin to cater for any need you may have.”

  Casca leaned forward. “A large jug of your finest wine plus two women to carry it to my room.” He dropped a few coins into the plump Greek woman’s palm. She closed her hand, winked, and passed a key to him. “Room number four, top of the stairs, turn left, first door.”

  Casca grinned and pushed past two sweaty sailors who were sampling the breasts of a Syrian woman, discussing if she merited an all-nighter or a quickie. A bouncer stood at the bottom of the stairs, a bare-chested, shaven-headed Egyptian with a huge mustache. He glared at Casca who glared back, then went back to watching the two sailors who now decided they’d have her one at a time.

  Casca made his way to the room and went in. It was basic, as he’d expected. A double bed, a side table, a grimy window overlooking the har
bor, and that was about it. Unless you counted the threadbare rug in the center of the floor.

  Casca took his boots off – he had some manners – and lay on the bed, his hands behind his head. A few moments later he heard giggling, and the door opened to reveal two women carrying a very large jug and a tray with some flasks upon it. The first girl was a dark-haired Turkic woman, dusky, dark eyed and looked the athletic type, while the other was a mixed race woman, part north European and part Arab. There were plenty of those in the Holy Land, a legacy of a hundred years of Crusader occupation. She was voluptuous and large breasted, and had a mole on her chin.

  “Well, a muscular boy we have here,” the Turkic woman announced in French.

  “I like muscular men,” the other said coyly.

  “That’s what you say to all the boys,” Casca said, reaching for the flasks.

  The whore giggled and pushed Casca back onto the bed. “Leave the wine until after I’ve warmed you up!”

  Casca smiled and allowed the big-breasted half-caste to straddle him. “I’ll have you know I’m one of the conquering heroes that have taken this city.”

  “Oh, I think I’m going to do some conquering of my own!” she replied, pulling off her brief blouse, freeing her ample breasts.

  “And after her I’m going to have my turn!” the Turkic whore announced, commencing a corrupted version of the belly dance Casca had seen a few times.

  He lay back and sighed in pleasure. This is what the rewards of war ought to bring!

  ____

  Acre was left behind a few days later. Salah-ed-Din had received submissions from a number of towns and castles, eager to pay homage to the new lord of the land and so avoid the terror of his army. Only Toron and Jaffa held out, and Jaffa was stormed by Salah-ed-Din’s brother who had marched up from Egypt. There were so many slaves taken from there, sold in the markets of Aleppo, that the prices tumbled in the glut. Toron negotiated an honorable surrender and its garrison was allowed to leave unmolested.

  It was clear the majority of the refugees were making their way to Tyre, the other great sea port along the Levant Coast. Balian had fled there with most of the Hattin survivors and the defenses were too strong for a quick siege, so the Saracen army passed it by and took Sidon without a fight. Its lord, Reynauld of Sidon, fled to his stronghold of Beaufort Castle further inland. Beirut fell soon afterwards and by the end of the summer only a few strongholds remained south of Tripoli. The main cities that held out were Tyre, Ascalon, Gaza and Jerusalem.

  Salah-ed-Din decided Ascalon was to be the next to be besieged, since it was fairly close to Egypt and would provide a supply route over the sea from there to Jerusalem. Casca went with the army. Not having yet worn his new outfit, it remained with the thuql, that immense baggage train that lumbered ponderously in the wake of the soldiers. There was even a mobile bazaar there, so many of the soldiers could buy and sell items as they went.

  Ascalon stubbornly refused to give in, so Salah-ed-Din used a new tactic to try to get them to surrender. Casca was standing on guard close to the emir when two prisoners were hurried in by smartly-dressed guards, and Casca’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw who they were.

  King Guy and Gerard de Ridfort.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Casca listened intently from his position off to one side of the Emir’s seat. The Emir was surrounded as was usual by courtiers, spear-toting guards and other officials. The king and the Grand Templar looked a little thinner and more haggard than when Casca had last seen them, but they were reasonably clean and not covered in dust, ash and blood.

  Casca saw Guy look in his direction and he tugged Ridfort’s sleeve. Gerard looked over too and he went white. Casca grinned and played with the hilt of his sword for a moment, and Guy swallowed and took a step away. Salah-ed-Din smiled and welcomed the two prisoners, requesting they be seated. The two sat and guards came to stand close by, still a respectful distance away, but close enough to stop any stupid business if the two men had an insane moment and tried anything.

  “Ah, King Guy, and Grand Master Gerard,” Salah-ed-Din could have been welcoming back long-lost cousins from the tone of his voice. Imad, as usual close to his master, translated. “I trust you are enjoying good health?”

  Guy muttered an affirmative and stole a look again over to Casca who was fixing the King with a level stare. It was clearly unnerving Guy. Salah-ed-Din caught on and regarded Casca, dressed in his new armor and gambeson, and on his head rested a shiny new spiked helmet with an aventail covering the back of his neck. “Ah, my guard captain, one called Kasim. I believe you have met him already?”

  “Yes, at Hattin!” Gerard said in a strangled voice.

  “He is a fearsome sight, I grant you. But rest assured, he will not perform any throat cutting unless I command it.”

  The two men clearly didn’t entirely trust his words but they settled into their seats a little more and took the cups of water offered. “No alcohol, gentlemen, as it is banned by the Prophet, all praise to Him.”

  Casca had found that aspect one of the most difficult to deal with whenever he had been in Islamic territories. Even so, he’d managed to procure alcohol sooner or later, and the fact it was frowned upon made it that much more enjoyable.

  Salah-ed-Din placed his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Now, to the matter as to why I brought you here from Damascus. I am contemplating terms for your releases, but it will be in the form of an exchange.”

  The two prisoners stared at each other, then at the Saracen leader. “Release? No ransom?” King Guy could hardly believe his ears. “So what terms do you have in mind, Saladin?”

  “The surrender of Ascalon. A king surely can command his subjects, no? So, command the defenders of the city to surrender and they will be allowed to go free. My word is on these terms.”

  Guy opened his mouth, then nodded. “I agree. What of Gerard here?”

  “Ah. Well I understand that a little way distant from Ascalon the fortress of Gaza is being held by Templars. The terms are the same there. If Gerard commands their surrender, and they obey, he will be set free.”

  Gerard clenched his fists. It ate at his soul to deal with the enemy, but if it meant his release, and the Templars in Gaza would be unharmed, then he could see little wrong with it. “And they will not be……dealt with as he did at Hattin?” the Grand Master pointed at Casca.

  “I commanded Kasim to execute those prisoners. I will command Kasim to allow the Templars at Gaza to go unharmed if they surrender upon your request.”

  “Then I agree,” Gerard said, still suspiciously watching a smiling Casca.

  Salah-ed-Din clapped his hands in delight. “Excellent! Then we shall escort you to the walls and there you can command your subjects to hand the city over to me.”

  They walked out of the tent and went the short distance across the stony ground to the walls, immense fortifications that rose up thirty feet high. Defenders could be seen manning the ramparts and cries went up at the approach of the party, protected by a flag of truce. A man leaned over the wall and stared at the approaching group, and his face betrayed shock at seeing the king led by Saracen guards.

  “I am King Guy of the Kingdom of Jerusalem,” Guy called out after he stopped. “I command you to turn the city over to these people and you shall all be allowed to leave unharmed. You have my word on that – as well as that of Saladin!”

  “You were King Guy,” the response came tersely from the man leaning over. “Not a king any more. You were never my choice as king, a weak and foolish man and you proved that. You have brought this disaster upon us all with your misrule. Go burn in Hell you pathetic coward!”

  Guy could hardly believe his ears. “I am the King! Who are you?”

  “Sir Rudolf of Betenoble. We met some months past and I pleaded with you to show restraint. Remember?”

  Guy clucked his tongue, then made a noise of understanding. “Yes, I do remember you, good sir. I plead with you now as your king�
��”

  Sir Rudolf scoffed loudly. “King of what? You threw that away. Where is your crown? Where is your sword? You have no army, no symbols of authority. You are a dog being led on a lead by the heretics. Go lick their feet, that is all you are fit for!”

  “How dare you insult the King!” Gerard roared. “You will be punished for such insolence!”

  “You are Ridfort, are you not?” the man said, sneering. “A fool courtier for a fool King. You wanted a war, and you got one. Your stupidity has brought a calamity upon us all. Now go away and play your war games in your cell; at least there the only harm you can bring is upon yourself.”

  “Why are you so insolent?” Guy asked, perplexed.

  “I lost my two sons in the glorious war you two wished; they listened to your foolish words rather than the ones of caution from wiser people than yourselves, and now I mourn their deaths. I hope you will face the judgment of the Lord for the evils you have brought to this land, and that you will be cast down to eternal damnation! You have done the work of Satan very well, for you have lost His Holy Land to the heretics! I bid you goodbye!”

  Guy shrugged and turned to Salah-ed-Din. “They refuse.”

  “A King you are no longer,” the Saracen emir replied, and led Guy away from the hoots of derision that echoed from the walls. Casca saw that the King was a broken man; his own people no longer did as he bade them. He waved Gerard to follow. “Lets hope Gaza fares better for your sake, mm?”

  Ridfort blanched and hurried after Guy, leaving Casca to laugh silently in their wake as they made their way back to the tent. Gerard was lucky; the Templars, more disciplined and inclined to obey their superiors, readily surrendered Gaza and Ridfort was allowed to go free. All the Templars were escorted to Alexandria in Egypt for safe passage to a place of their choice, once transport was arranged. But the King was sent away to Balian’s former stronghold of Nablus to await Salah-ed-Din’s decision as to what to do with him.