Jack Hight: Holy War

Nasir ad-Din’s cheeks had flushed scarlet. ‘But Malik-’

‘Go, or I will have your tongue after all!’

The young man bowed and backed from the room.

Yusuf turned to Ubadah. ‘And you! Where have you been? Your place is here. These men fought for you. They are dying for you.’

Ubadah’s nose wrinkled in disgust as he took in the wounded men. ‘What of it? They are mamluks, bought and raised as slaves. It is their duty to die.’

Yusuf slapped him. ‘I was like you once, Nephew,’ he said, his voice as sharp as a sword’s edge. ‘When I was given my first command, I thought that I could force the men to obey me with threats and beatings. I was lucky they did not wring my neck. My uncle Shirkuh taught me what I now tell you: each time you go into battle, you put your life into your men’s hands. Men who despise you will let you die; men who respect you, love you even, will give up their lives to protect you. But you cannot win your men’s respect by keeping apart from them. You must share their joys, and their pains, too.’

‘Yes, Uncle,’ Ubadah murmured as he stared at his feet. He cleared his throat. ‘I came to tell you that there are messengers from the Caliph. They have been shown to your tent.’

‘You stay here. Talk to the men. Comfort them as you are able. I will speak with the Caliph’s emissaries.’

Outside, the rain was now coming down in sheets. Yusuf was cold and splattered with mud by the time he reached his tent. He stepped inside to find three bearded men in robes of black silk enjoying food and drink with Qaraqush and Yusuf’s secretary, the grey-haired scholar Imad ad-Din. Yusuf walked to his camp-stool. He sat and gestured for the messengers to approach. ‘The servants of Caliph Al-Nasir are always welcome in my tent. What message do you bring?’

The shortest of the messengers stepped forward and gave a small bow. ‘The Caliph prays for your success and the prosperity of your kingdom. And he sends this. .’ The man produced a scroll from his robes.

Yusuf took it and broke the seal. It was all he could do to keep his face impassive as he scanned the text. This was not the diploma of investiture for which he had hoped. I confirm you as king of Syria and Aleppo , the caliph wrote, but I cannot turn my back on my loyal servant Izz ad-Din. It pains me to see conflict between two great men of the faith. I urge you to make peace and to turn your attentions to the Franks in the west. He stopped reading. The rest was compliments and false piety: empty words.

Yusuf set the scroll aside. The three messengers were shifting nervously. No doubt they knew the contents of the message and feared his wrath. Yusuf smiled at them. The caliph had failed him this time, but Yusuf might have need of him again. Sweet words would help his cause more than threats and curses. ‘My thanks for bringing this message,’ Yusuf told them. ‘My servants will show you to a tent while I prepare my response.’

When they had gone, Yusuf rose and tossed the letter on the brazier. It smoked for a moment and burst into flames. ‘The blind fool!’ he growled. ‘He takes my gifts and spits in my face. He tells me to make peace with Izz ad-Din.’

‘Perhaps you should,’ Imad ad-Din ventured. ‘Mosul-’

‘Must be mine if I am to take Jerusalem. I cannot turn west while Izz ad-Din sits on my borders, waiting to pounce.’

‘The walls of Mosul are thick and its defenders many,’ Qaraqush cautioned. ‘Today’s defeat was just a taste of what lies in store, Malik. You will lose thousands if you attempt to take the city by storm.’

‘And I will gain as many men when the city falls.’

‘Men who were once your enemies; men you cannot trust.’

‘We could starve them into submission,’ Imad ad-Din suggested.

‘We are not prepared for a long siege,’ Qaraqush countered. ‘Who will feed us while we wait for them to starve? Mosul is a prize for another day, Malik. First isolate Izz ad-Din. Take his lands in the west. Aleppo is the prize you should seek now.’

Yusuf frowned as he gazed at the smouldering coals in the brazier. It pained him to retreat, but Qaraqush was right. ‘Izz ad-Din can keep Mosul. We will take everything else from him. Once Aleppo is ours, he will surrender, or he will die.’

December 1182: Jerusalem

A snowflake stung the tip of John’s nose before melting. He looked up at the narrow strip of slate-grey sky that was visible between the buildings crowding the street on either side and saw more flakes drifting down. John normally preferred a coat of mail to his priest’s vestments, but for once he was grateful for the warmth of his tentlike chasuble. It was made of thick white silk and was heavily embroidered with silver to reflect his new station. After saving the king’s life at the battle of Montgisard, he had been appointed Archdeacon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, second only to the patriarch in Jerusalem.

John glanced to the king. Despite his silk robes and heavy cloak lined with ermine, Baldwin was shivering, making the crown of the Kingdom of Jerusalem dance atop his head. Baldwin spent most of his days huddled before the fire in his chambers, but he had insisted on walking in the Christmas procession. It had been five years since Montgisard, and memories of his victory were fading, replaced by rumours of his failing health. The king had suffered from leprosy since he was a child. He had lost his eyebrows and the skin on his brow had thickened, making him look much older than his twenty-one years. The lesions on his face were only partly covered by his blond beard. He wanted to show the barons that he was strong and capable, but the long trip across the city from the palace to the Templum Domini and then back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had taken its toll. Baldwin’s legs were shaking with fatigue. It would not do to have him fall. John stepped forward and took the king’s arm.

‘I do not need your help,’ Baldwin snapped.

‘Of course, Your Grace. It is only that the way is long, and I have grown faint. I would be grateful for your support.’

Baldwin gave John a nod of thanks and allowed himself to be supported.

His sister Sibylla smirked. ‘Thank the Lord my strong brother is here to lend you his arm, priest. We would not want you to fall on your face before our beloved people.’ A year Baldwin’s senior, Sibylla was everything he was not. Her long auburn hair framed a fine-boned face with large blue eyes and skin that glowed with health. She walked with her head held high and her shoulders thrown back. And where her brother was reflective and patient, Sibylla was all fiery passion. Two years ago, on the eve of her betrothal to Balian of Ibelin, she had been found in bed with the French crusader Guy of Lusignan. Baldwin had been furious, but when a week later she was found to be with child, there was nothing to be done but for Guy and Sibylla to marry. John suspected that the king’s mother Agnes was behind the whole affair. She was the one with the key to Sibylla’s chastity belt, and Guy was one of her creatures.

Agnes was walking beside Sibylla’s son from her first marriage. With his uncle rendered impotent by leprosy, the younger Baldwin would inherit the throne. The sickly child rode in a shaded chair carried by four servants. He was pale as milk and painfully thin. Sibylla had not wanted him to take part in the procession, but Agnes had insisted. The entire populace of Jerusalem would turn out for the Christmas Mass, and Agnes thought it important that they see their future king.

The towering dome of the church was just ahead. The Templars carrying the True Cross led the procession into the church courtyard, and then stepped aside. Patriarch Heraclius paused just inside the Gate of the Crucifixion, which led into the church. ‘What now?’ Baldwin grumbled. His lips had taken on a bluish tint.