by K. M. Ashman
‘Because, Brother Tristan,’ said the Seneschal, ‘our esteemed predecessor refused them access and watched from the towers as the streets ran with blood. That is a situation that will not be repeated while we are here.’
‘I still don’t understand why Saladin covets this place,’’ said Tristan, there are so many others along the coast that would be of a better value strategically.’
‘There are minds greater than ours who believe this place is the gateway to the north,’ said the Seneschal, ‘and as such we are tasked to keeping it safe until the king decides what to do to about Saladin. Any army of the size needed to attack Jerusalem will need to pass within ten leagues of here, so we are to act as a barrier should they come.’
‘We cannot stop an army,’ said Tristan.
‘We do not have to,’ Just slow them up using shock tactics and using Gaza as a base.’
‘They may not come at all.’
‘Perhaps not but there are enough spies at Baldwin’s disposal that suggest otherwise.’
The sound of their horses’ hooves changed as they crossed the wooden bridge leading up to the castle gates and the whole column filed slowly inside. Soon the small courtyard was filled with tired men and exhausted horses.
‘Master Seneschal,’ said a knight striding towards him from the keep. ‘You and your men are expected. Welcome to Gaza.’
Brother Valmont looked at the knight. He knew that to judge was a sin, but he couldn’t help but notice how pristine his clothing was in comparison to the filth of his own men. He looked up at the dozen Templars staring down from the parapets, each bedecked in their pure white cloaks emblazoned with the blood red cross.
‘You must be Brother Harold,’ said the Seneschal, returning his attention to the man bidding him welcome.
‘I am,’ said the knight, ‘castellan of Gaza.’
‘Castellan?’ mused the Seneschal. ‘The title infers ownership and I recoil from anything that suggests governance over those less fortunate than ourselves.’
‘My apologies, my lord,’ said the knight, ‘the term was a slip of the tongue and of course, Gaza castle is occupied in the name of the order. I used the term loosely as my role is to ensure this place is managed as best as it can be under the circumstances.’ He waited as the Seneschal and Marshal dismounted and brushed the dust from their surcoats. ‘So,’ he continued eventually, ‘how was the road, did you have any trouble?’
‘None that meant we needed to draw blades,’ replied the Marshal, ‘but it was harder than expected and the men need respite.’
‘They will be well looked after,’ said Brother Harold, ‘as will you. Please, come this way and I will find you something to drink.’
‘Just point us toward the chapel, Brother Harold,’ said the Seneschal, ‘we would first give thanks for our safe arrival. After that, I will meet you in the hall and expect to be fully briefed on the situation. Please ensure you have all the information to hand.’
‘Of course,’ said the castellan, nodding his head in deference. ‘The chapel is built in to the walls in the north east corner. Alas, it is big enough for twenty men only, but we could arrange a service for all your men in the hall later this evening.’
‘Do that,’ said the Seneschal and turned away to find the chapel, closely followed by the Marshal
----
An hour later, both Templar officers stood at a table in the main hall alongside Brother Harold and the castle steward.
‘My lords,’ said the castellan, ‘this is Master Robert, a trader from Bristol who made this place his home many years ago. He was granted the role when Miles of Clancy was murdered a few years ago.’
‘You were here when he was killed?’ asked the Seneschal with interest looking at the steward.
‘I was, my lord. I worked as his treasurer at the time but after he died, the Grand Master recognised my skills and made me the castle steward. This place and the staff herein are at your complete disposal.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Seneschal, ‘so let’s start with my men. Where will they be quartered?’
‘There are some rooms available within the castle walls,’ said the steward, ‘and more within the keep. In addition, we have the two halls and the chapel. It will be crowded but I believe we can house everyone without the need of tents.’
The Seneschal nodded his approval.
‘And the horses?’
‘They will be stabled just outside the castle walls but can be brought inside with a moment’s notice. There is plenty of fodder and the grooms are the best available.’
‘Stores?’ asked Brother Valmont.
‘The granary is full, and the cellars are stocked with barrels of salted fish, dates and dried mutton. Fresh vegetables are bought from the markets every other day as are eggs and fruit as required. I have no worries regarding feeding your men but of course, that could change if Saladin isolates the city.’
‘That is a concern,’ said the Seneschal, ‘so I suggest increasing our stores of dried food wherever possible. This posting will be hard enough as it is, so we do not need the worry of starvation should it come to a siege. What about water?’
‘We benefit from our own well,’ said the steward, ‘though I think we may struggle to service your column as it is limited in what it can provide. We store what we can in barrels, but thirst would be a concern should we be besieged.’
‘Again,’ said the Seneschal, ‘increase the storage. Bring in barrels of water from elsewhere if needs be. Stack them wherever there is space.’
‘Like I said, my lord, space is limited. We would have to stack them outside in the sun.’
‘Then so be it. A thirsty man does not judge water by its temperature, but by its availability.’
The steward nodded and waited as the Seneschal turned to the Castellan.
‘So, Brother Harold. Tell me about the garrison.’
‘We have twenty knights, my lord, all Templars, and fifty lancers. We also have fifty archers and a hundred foot-soldiers. Our arrow supplies are healthy and our horses well-tended. We patrol the city walls every day at dawn and dusk and have local shepherds acting as our eyes out in the hills. So far there are no reports of any Saracen activity.’
‘Place permanent sentry posts a hundred paces apart along the city walls,’ said the Seneschal, ‘closer if they cannot see each other from their positions and increase the patrols to every hour. From tomorrow, I want our own men out in the hills watching the approaches from the south and east. I will not entrust the safety of Jerusalem to the opinion of a shepherd.’
‘With respect, my lord,’ said Brother Harold nervously, ‘I do not have that sort of strength available.’
‘After a night’s rest,’ replied the Seneschal, ‘our own men will reinforce your garrison. We will patrol the surrounding hills and increase our presence in the town. No doubt the place will be infested with Saladin’s spies, but I want them to see we are strong and confident. I want him to think that Gaza is a formidable obstacle in his path.’
‘Will that not increase the risk of an assault where previously there may have been none?’
‘Possibly, but every day Saladin hesitates means King Baldwin has a chance to consolidate his armies. Like I said, our task is one of delay and containment and if we are successful, then with God’s will we may avoid a war.’
For the next hour or so, the four men discussed strategies and tactics until finally the castellan and steward left the room to make the arrangements. When they had gone, Brother Valmont poured two goblets of watered wine and handed one to the Marshal.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you make of him?’
‘He seems competent enough. His administration of this place is impressive, yet I wonder about his skills in the field. There is a fatness about him that suggests a life overly luxurious and I have no time for self-indulgence. In the coming months we will need men as hard as steel, toughened by life in the saddle and adept with sword in hand. I feel that at this moment
in time, Brother Harold falls somewhat short. I just hope his men are more suitable.’
‘I share your concerns,’ said the Seneschal, ‘so perhaps you can reintroduce them to the reason they serve in our order.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Task them with the harder roles. Include them in our patrols of the eastern mountains and when they are stood down, arrange sword practice until they are equal to our own men in skill at arms. I need warriors, not lords and though it should not be needed, I feel they need reminding.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said the Marshal
----
In the east, Cronin and Hassan led their horses along a mountain path. The sun beat down relentlessly and they knew they should seek shade, but the rocky slopes held no trees or heavy brush to provide shelter.
‘How much further?’ asked Cronin eventually.
‘Hassan looked up at the ridge still several hours away.
‘We should be there by nightfall,’ said Hassan, ‘though I still think we should turn back.’
‘Our journey is almost done,’ said Cronin, ‘we will see it through.’
‘I do not understand why you are so determined to see this place,’ said Hassan. ‘Mehedi could have been playing games with you and sends you to your death.’
‘Because I have no other quest to pursue, so before I return to meet my fate at the hands of my betters, I will see this place for myself and if there is nothing there, we will make our way back.’
‘You live a dangerous life, my lord,’ sighed Hassan, ‘and so far, God has been merciful. I just hope he is also patient.’
The two continued climbing the hill before stopping just below the crest near an outcrop of enormous rocks. After watering the horses, they collapsed into the shade and removed their jerkins to take advantage of the slight breeze.
Cronin took a drink from his flask before looking up at the sky.
‘It is almost dark,’ he said, ‘and we will need to make a camp.’ He looked around the rocks. ‘This place is as good as any, we will stay here tonight.’
‘I will see if I can find some wood for the fire, said Hassan.’ He got to his feet and walked out onto the hill as Cronin took another drink from his flask.
The sergeant stared westward, back over the foothills of the Negev desert to the mountains they had crossed only a few days earlier. Beyond those were the much more fertile lands that stretched down the coast from Antioch to the borders of Egypt. Life was certainly a lot easier there and he longed to head back to sit in the shade of a leafy tree or drink clear water from a running stream, but first he had to settle his mind about the Makhtesh Ramon. The boy had been right and Mehedi could well have sent him on a fool’s errand, but something ate at his insides, and even if it led to nought, at least he would return to the column with his conscience clear. Slowly his eyelids grew heavy and within moments, his chin fell to his chest as he slept the sleep of the exhausted.
----
It seemed like it had been only minutes when the sound of Hassan’s nagging voice dragged him from his troubled dreams, an urgent demand couched in a nervous whisper.
‘Master Cronin, wake up.’
He opened his eyes suddenly. No matter how deep the sleep, the path he had chosen as a man of war meant his nerves were always alert for danger and his mind needed no second invitation to return to full consciousness
‘What is it? he asked as is hand automatically sought the hilt of his sword.
‘You need to come with me,’ said Hassan. ‘There is something you should see.’
Cronin looked around and realising there was no immediate danger, reached for his water bottle. Hassan waited patiently as the sergeant drank sparingly, fully aware that they were down to their last water skin.
‘Tell me what concerns you, Hassan,’ he said turning back to the boy.
‘Master,’ replied Hassan, ‘there is no explaining to be done. You need to see for yourself.’
Cronin sighed and got to his feet.
‘Lead the way,’ he said and within moments was scrambling up a steep slope towards the top of the hill. As he went he realised the sky seemed slightly lighter, despite it being the depths of the night and deep inside, his stomach turned at the implications.
‘Hassan,’ he whispered, drawing the boy’s attention. ‘Is that a natural thing?’ He pointed upward to the illuminated clouds.
‘No, my lord,’ replied the boy. ‘It is not.’
Cronin swallowed hard and continued the climb to the top of the slope. Finally, they reached level ground and lowered themselves down to crawl the last few yards to where the ridge dropped away.
Despite the darkness, far below he could see an immense valley that disappeared leagues into the distance with no sign of ending. As it was the middle of the night, he should have been able to see nothing but to Cronin’s astonishment, the entire place was illuminated by thousands of camp fires, lighting the place up as if it was beneath the brightest moon.
Row after row of tents disappeared into the distance and amongst them, he could see dozens of roped corrals, filled with horses and camels. Other compounds contained sheep and goats and even at this hour, he could see lines of slaves carrying sacks of food or fuel between the camp fires, the whole place as busy as if it had been the middle of the day.
Saracen warriors walked everywhere, and as he watched, several columns containing dozens of riders appeared from the depths of the enormous camp to ride up the well-trodden paths that would take them from the hiding place and out into the countryside leading to the coast.
Hassan crawled up beside him and stared down into the camp.
‘What is this place?’ whispered Cronin.
‘My lord,’ said Hassan, ‘it is the Maktesh Ramon, the very place you wished to see. Normally there is nothing here but sand and the bones of those foolish enough to come here, but as you can see, it has been populated by those below.’
‘Do these hills surround this place on all sides? asked Cronin, looking around.
‘Yes, but there is no water or shelter, so few men ever come here. They must bring what they need from the nearest river which is many, many leagues away. It is a terrible place to make a camp.’
‘I disagree,’ said Cronin. ‘It is a fantastic place to make a camp, especially if you want an army to remain hidden. I suspect they replenish their water skins at night and with these hills shielding the light of their fires from interested eyes, they are able to hide from everyone except the most lost of men. The question is, who are they and what are they doing here?’
‘Is it not obvious?’ asked Hassan.
‘Why would it be obvious? This country seems to be populated by more tribes than I can recall, and I see no colours or banners. Can you tell who they are?’
‘Aye, my lord, I can,’ replied Hassan. ‘There is only one tribe who can muster such a force and have the resources to keep them fed and watered and that is the Ayyubid.’
Cronin’s head snapped around to stare at Hassan.
‘You must be mistaken. Every briefing I have attended reports that Saladin builds himself an army deep within the borders of Egypt.’
‘I am not mistaken, my lord,’ said Hassan. ‘The layout of the camp, the warriors’ clothing, the way they ride. Everything is as the Ayyubid do. These are Saladin’s people.’
Cronin turned to stare again at the camp. Again, he focussed on the many corals of horses, and this time also noticed the racks of spears standing outside each tent. Whoever they were, they were certainly highly mobile and well-armed.
‘This is one of the largest armies I have ever seen camped in the field, Hassan,’ he said soberly, ‘and if you are right, they have already left Egypt and are mustering for an advance northward. I need to get to Gaza and let the Grand Master know.’
‘Why would he be in Gaza?’ asked Hassan.
Cronin turned to face the boy, realising his role as a servant in the rear echelons of the column from Acre meant he proba
bly knew very little about the political situation. For a few moments, the familiar feelings of mistrust swept over him and he hesitated to expand on the Templars’ mission.
Hassan noticed his hesitation and his head lowered.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘forgive me my impertinence. I overstepped my station and I know I have a long way to go to regain your trust.’
‘Hassan,’ said Cronin eventually. ‘I know I still exhibit wariness, but such traits often keep men at arms alive longer in times of war. However, whatever your true alliance, I do not believe you are a spy of Saladin.’ He paused, staring at the boy again, wondering whether to tell him the full truth. Finally, he realised that if he was to gain the full benefit of the Bedouin’s undoubted knowledge then he had to trust him.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘When we left Acre, our column was tasked with reaching Gaza as soon as possible to reinforce the city there. Saladin was reported as building an army in Egypt with the intention of marching northward along the coast. Our task there was to defend the road north and hold him up as long as possible until the king managed to muster his forces and come south to reinforce the city. If this is indeed Saladin’s army, then Gaza and Ashkelon are already in great danger and the Grand Master must be informed as soon as possible.
Hassan’s brows knitted in confusion.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cronin. ‘Can you not see the urgency?’
‘My lord, ‘said Hassan, ‘I think you misunderstand. If this is Saladin, then he is not interested in Gaza.’
‘Why not?’
‘For it lays many leagues to the south west. To reach this place he has had to come inland a long way and then travel north, far further than Gaza, to one of the most inhospitable places in the Negev desert. Why would he come so far and suffer so much hardship only to turn south again to take a small city such as Gaza? Surely he has bigger things on his mind?’
Cronin stared at Hassan, his mind working furiously. What the boy said made a lot of sense but every piece of intelligence they had heard on the trip south from Acre suggested that Saladin intended to advance north along the coast road to take advantage of the supply routes, both by land and sea.