The Saracen

by Tony Roberts

  Ascalon held out for a week but lack of food soon compelled Sir Rudolf to seek terms and his garrison joined the Templars in awaiting transportation back to land of their choice. Salah-ed-Din had his port and now he made plans for Jerusalem.

  As they filed in through the gates the sky darkened and the people muttered in alarm, the soldiers paused and gazed skywards. The birds had gone quiet and Casca saw that an eclipse of the sun was beginning to occur. He’d witnessed a fair few of these and knew it would only last a few moments. But to those who had never before seen one, it was an unnerving moment.

  “Have heart, followers of the Faith,” Salah-ed-Din boomed out in the eerie stillness, “it is a portent; the sun of the Christian kingdom is fading and the light of the new will be born from it. Wait and see.” And a few moments later the sky brightened as the sun reappeared from behind the moon. Voices exploded in relief and gladness at Salah-ed-Din’s words, and they truly believed what he had said was going to be true. Casca grinned at the opportunistic speech. That’s what marked out good leaders from the ordinary.

  Awaiting the Saracen leader in the city palace was a delegation from Jerusalem. Salah-ed-Din had sent for them during the siege of Ascalon and the fall of the city had been a blessing for the Saracen leader. It reinforced his position of strength.

  He was anxious to secure the Holy City without bloodshed. He offered the delegation an honorable surrender. He offered to leave their city alone until the feast of Pentecost, six months or more ahead. If by that time there was no likely relief, then the garrison would surrender. Casca couldn’t believe the terms; they were too generous for words. Yet the delegation refused it flat. They refused to bow to an enemy and would keep the city of God in their hands, come what may. Salah-ed-Din sighed and told them, his voice full of regret, that he would then take it by the sword and all those therein would be enslaved.

  The delegation departed hurriedly. They knew the response would have taken that form, but they cared not, for they had a leader they trusted to defend them from the Saracens, a man whom they believed in.

  And so the two sides met at Jerusalem.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Balian d’Ibelin leaned out from the north-west bastion and surveyed the Saracen lines assembling to the west of the city. He smiled, realizing that this place was possibly the worst position the besiegers could have chosen. The wall defenses at this spot were strong, including the Castle of the Pisans, and the flanking tower of Tancred could also pour down missiles onto the attackers. If that was where they wished to attack, then so be it. It would make his task that much easier.

  He turned to his aides and pointed at the horde gathering opposite the gates of David and St. Lazarus. “They will be at a severe disadvantage there. Let them attack; our defenses will throw them back.”

  “Do we have enough men to keep them at bay?” Roland de Beaucaire questioned, aghast at the multitude that were taking up positions. He was one of the few nobles left to support d’Ibelin, and had been readily accepted into Balian’s inner council. Balian had arrived only a few weeks before, and then ironically with permission from Salah-ed-Din. Balian’s wife and children had been trapped in Jerusalem and Balian, safely ensconced in Tyre, had sent a plea to the Saracen emir to allow him to go fetch them from Jerusalem.

  Salah-ed-Din had agreed and Balian had traveled to the isolated former capital. But when he had arrived he had been surrounded by the inhabitants pleading with him to stay and lead their defense, so he had been persuaded. The patriarch, that old rogue Heraclius, had absolved him from his oath so Balian had apologized to Salah-ed-Din in a letter stating why he was going to remain. The Saracen leader accepted it with a philosophical shrug; he was used to being betrayed by the word of the Crusaders.

  Consequently by the time the Saracens turned up Balian had prepared the city’s defenses well enough. Church roofs were stripped to raise cash to pay for troops to defend the ramparts, and there was no shortage of people in the city; it was the safe haven in the collapsing kingdom. The one thing he was short of however was knights. He was shocked to find only two in the city, including de Beaucaire, and he was not as young as he had once been, and was well past his prime.

  “How do we keep them all at bay?” de Beaucaire queried, studying the length of walls and working out quickly there were not enough trained men to go round the lot.

  “Simple, my friend,” Balian smiled, “we make more of the soldiers knights. That will inspire them to greater things, don’t you think?”

  “Make the ordinary people knights?” de Beaucaire repeated, amazed. “Are you mad?”

  “Why not? These are desperate times and they call for desperate measures. All the knights we had at Hattin are either dead, in the slave markets of Damascus or trapped in places like Tyre. Which of those would worry if I made a hundred men knights here?”

  Heraclius, the old patriarch of Jerusalem, and one of King Guy’s staunchest supporters, growled in disapproval. “Knights are blessed by Christ and of noble blood. If you raise the rabble to knighthood you mock the very chivalrous nature of the title.”

  “What is a knight, Heraclius?” Balian countered, “is it a nobleman given to talking well and saving damsels from distress, or is it a man brave enough to face an enemy and fight for the Holy City of Jerusalem?” Heraclius scowled and his beard bristled. He had very set ideas of how the world should be and disliked anything that changed it. “Well?” Balian insisted, staring at his small group of advisors.

  “No objection,” the third man present, Henry of Blanchegarde, shrugged. He was a fighting man and if it meant more motivated men to help drive the Saracens back, so much the better.

  “Neither have I,” de Beaucaire added. Balian smiled; he knew full well the elderly noble disliked Heraclius and the Patriarch’s opposition to Balian’s plans had swung de Beaucaire fully behind the proposal.

  “Good, then that’s settled. I’ll knight all the men over sixteen years of age who have been born into noble families, and I’ll select a group of the best fighting men and knight those too. I’ll look them over myself.”

  “What about my objections?” Heraclius complained.

  “You can object, Patriarch,” Balian smiled, “but you are no fighting man and this is a military matter – a secular one - rather than an ecclesiastical one. I have made my decision.”

  Heraclius snorted in disgust and left. Balian sighed and turned once more to look out over the enemy positions. He watched for a moment, then tensed in anticipation. He heard de Beaucaire’s indrawn breath and knew he’d seen the same thing himself. From the Saracen lines a group of men were approaching, one holding a flag of truce. He knew full well what they were going to ask and he knew full well he was going to refuse, but it would be useful to listen to what they were about to say. He waved his small party to follow him along the walls to the spot close to where the enemy parley group would approach, near the Leper House of St. Lazarus.

  The group of Saracens passed by the leper house, and walked until they were in the shadow of the great walls, looking up at the defenders massed atop them, staring down on their enemy. Casca stood looking up at the walls thinking here I go again. A hundred years after attacking this city I’m doing it again. Things never change. He’d been chosen to speak because of his proficiency with the Frankish language, the fact he had a fair pair of lungs, and he was a fighting man. Imad wasn’t the man to do this sort of thing. With Casca were three others; one was the flag carrier while the other two were senior amirs of Salah-ed-Din’s retinue. They were there to give weight to the Emir’s offer to the defenders.

  Casca drew in his breath and yelled out to the men on top of the ramparts. “I bring words from the Emir of Damascus and the Sultan of Egypt, Salah-ed-Din, victor at Hattin, keeper of the King of Jerusalem, Guy de Lusignan. He offers generous terms to the brave men who defend this city. He offers to those of you who wish it, free passage out of the city to a place of your choice, provided you surrender this city t
o him without any blood being shed. What say you?”

  Heads turned to where Balian was leaning out listening to the words that were now fading echoes in the heat of the day. De Beaucaire grabbed Balian’s arm in excitement. “My lord, I know this man!”

  “You do?” Balian swung his head in surprise to look at his officer. “How?”

  “He was a guard on a merchant caravan and saved my life – and that of my daughter’s. Twice, in fact. He endangered his own life to save her. I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. He’s called Rufus Longue. What he’s doing in Saladin’s army I have no idea!”

  “Then you speak to him, de Beaucaire. It may help the negotiations. But we will not surrender.”

  De Beaucaire nodded. “I know we will not. Very well, my lord.” He gripped one of the stone battlements and leaned out, facing the figure of the man he knew as Rufus Longue, a diminutive dark shape a long way down. “Well met, Rufus Longue!”

  Casca stared in surprise at the words, then recognized the man. He removed his spiked helm and bowed formally. “It is good to see you alive, Lord de Beaucaire! I feared you dead!”

  “Thanks to that Syrian doctor I live yet! It is strange seeing you here in a Saracen army.”

  “Long story, my lord. How are your daughter and Guillaume?”

  “They are well, thank you. I shall pass on your regards to them. Now I am afraid to inform you that we cannot possibly surrender Jerusalem to your master, as I expect you understand.”

  “Aye, I expected that. In your place I would say the same. But I must advise you he’s well prepared and has the manpower and machines to knock these walls down, and when he does he’ll order your men to be killed or enslaved. I’d not like the thought of your daughter enslaved in some harem in Aleppo.”

  Balian gripped de Beaucaire’s shoulder. “I’ll respond to that, my friend.” He leaned out. “Nothing will happen to any lady in this city, because you won’t win. Now please go tell your master he’s wasting his time.”

  Casca replaced his helmet firmly. “Very well. I’d watch your heads if I were you; he’s got a nasty surprise for you coming up.” He waved the other three to follow him back to the Saracen camp, informing the two amirs of the conversation. The amirs nodded; they had expected the Christians to resist, and so much the better. Now there would be booty and slaves guaranteed. This was good.

  Casca was depressed. He’d been shocked to see de Beaucaire there and learn that Eleanor was within the walls. He’d seen the insanity of the last sacking of Jerusalem and dreaded what could happen if the Muslims broke through. Would they exact revenge for the slaughter nearly a century before, or would Salah-ed-Din show restraint? He’d try to convince the Emir to show mercy.

  One man watched the departing Casca from the walls with a hostile expression. He had arrived in Jerusalem a few days before, on a mission of his own. His master had died and he had to find out who had done the deed. Thanks to his persuasive means he had successfully interrogated a witness to the act, a hapless Muslim Sufi fanatic who had fallen into his clutches in Tiberias where he had been skulking around for information. The description of the man who had killed his master was unmistakable, and the scarred man who had just parleyed with Balian and de Beaucaire matched it perfectly.

  Jarret licked his lips. He would sneak out that night into the Saracen camp, find this Rufus Longue and slit his throat in revenge for slaying his master, Reynauld de Chatillon. He was the best spy in Outremer and he had never failed.

  Rufus Longue would die that night!

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The campfires lit the night air, casting flickering shadows across the ground, turning it a deep red from the glow of the flames, drawing the men round them like moths to a candle. Casca wandered from fire to fire, talking to his men, sharing a joke or a story, or even some food. He knew the siege would be a long and drawn out affair and some of these men would not live to see the finish, whoever triumphed.

  The men were in good spirits, confident that the holy city of Jerusalem would fall into their hands and that the prayers of Islam would once more be heard within its walls. Although he smiled and encouraged them, Casca felt no joy or expectation; too many times he had built up his hopes only for them to be cruelly dashed. The experience of the last time he had besieged Jerusalem had etched itself into his memory.

  He found a quiet spot, on an outcrop of rock near the Ramla road that overlooked much of the Saracen camp. Sounds of laughter and drum beats floated up to him, increasing his irritation, and he felt alone. Above him the night sky glittered with millions of stars, and the half moon bathed him in its light. Insects buzzed and chirruped and he sat there, staring into nothing as his memories of that terrible day on the fifteenth of July, 1099, flooded into his brain.

  The defense had been fierce and many men had perished, but the martial valor of the Franks had overcome the desperate men inside the city and the streets had run red with blood; Casca had tried to prevent it but the madness had been too much to bear. Children were impaled or dashed against walls, women raped and then slaughtered like pigs before a feast. The men were slain outright without a second thought. Casca had wept at the frenzied massacre and in disgust and despair had thrown off his Crusader emblems and stolen a horse, and ridden out of the doomed city. He had not been back to this part of the world since.

  And now here he was once again in front of the walls with a besieging army. He shook his head at the irony of it all.

  The sound of someone behind him registered at the same time as he caught sight of a dark shadow closing in on him, and the pain of a sharp blade slicing across his throat cut out any further thought. Blackness overcame him and he pitched forward unknowingly.

  Jarret wiped his blade and looked down at the body at his feet. One more pig dealt with. Next, he would offer his services to Balian d’Ibelin and thereby escape Outremer, but while neither the Lord de Beaucaire nor his bodyguard could identify him, de Beaucaire’s daughter Eleanor could, so he’d have to enter the de Beaucaire household surreptitiously and kill her first.

  Taking one last look at the dark figure he spat, then walked off into the shadows of the rock formation and crept back towards the city and the postern gate of St. Lazarus where he had made his egress.

  ____

  Pain. Agony. Casca groaned as consciousness returned and with it a searing pain in his throat. He had no idea what had happened and he lay there writhing, clutching his throat. He levered himself up on one arm and gazed around, still holding his throat. On the ground where he had lain a great stain of dark could be seen, even in the pre-dawn darkness.

  Sitting up he rested his back against the rock and tried to collect his scattered thoughts. He must have been lying there for five or six hours at least, maybe more. What did he last remember? He massaged his throat and felt a thin, neat groove that hurt like hell if he touched it. He realized some bastard must have cut his throat from behind while he sat there thinking about Jerusalem.

  Why?

  And more importantly, he thought: who? He had no idea, but whoever did it now considered him to be dead, and that might work in his favor. But it had to be either someone in the camp who saw him going out and had followed him, or was it a desert robber who had wandered onto him by accident?

  He felt his belt and discovered his pouch with its coins to still be there. So, no robber. It was a deliberate murder personal to him. He’d return to camp and see if anyone looked shocked at his appearance. He checked his clothing and swore. The gambeson was soaked in blood. That would have to be washed. Lucky he had a spare, but he disliked wearing his ‘best’ for battle. Still, the blood would have to be explained and he could hardly pass this off as a nosebleed.

  He stood up and swayed as his vision swam.

  “Fuck. I must have lost a lot more blood than I thought.” Casca’s voice was a husky whisper. Dammit, his vocal chords must have been cut too. He swayed again and clutched the rock, keeping himself from falling. His body must be working o
vertime to replace the lost blood, but it would take time, not to mention drinking a lot of fluid. He felt dizzy and sick, and totally unable to do anything that involved sudden movement. That’d rule him out of any fighting today.

  The sky was beginning to lighten ahead of him, to the east, and he stumbled down across the road and into camp, making sure his throat was obscured from guards. His tent was near and the men were still sleeping around their campfires, most of which had gone out. Those on sentry duty saluted him as he made his way to his tent and he waved back at them hurriedly. Luckily it was still too dark to make out full details of his messy tunic. Once inside his tent he threw off his gambeson and regarded it in disgust. It was beyond his cleaning ability, but perhaps one of the camp followers might be able to clean it. He’d pay the thuql a visit later.

  He had a length of cloth that was used as a turban that had been given to him but he didn’t go in for that piece of head gear. But now it would come in use. He wrapped it around his neck and covered the scar. He’d have to examine it in one of the two pools that lay close to camp to see how bad it was.

  For now he’d best act as though he was unwell. He grunted in amusement. In a way he was! He would be unable to do much that day and could only hope his incredible healing abilities would do their work and get him up and running the day after. Whoever had attacked him last night wouldn’t stay idle once he learned he was still alive. But he still wondered why he had been sought out.

  He lay in his bed and thought on it. Who wanted him dead? Not the Brotherhood of the Lamb; they knew he was immortal and besides, who knew where they were at this time? They had been scattered after their mass arrest during the crusade ninety years or so before at Antioch, and he had no idea how many were left or where they were. Neither, he supposed, did they know where he was. No, not the Brotherhood. So who?