Jack Hight - Holy War

Yusuf had hoped that peace might spare the city, but he was starting to believe that John’s plan was only a mirage. Richard had consented; but the weeks had slipped by as the Lionheart prepared his campaign, and no answer had come from Rome. And now it was most likely too late. If Jerusalem fell, it would not matter what response the Pope gave. Yusuf should have accepted Conrad’s offer of an alliance.

‘Malik.’ It was Saqr. ‘The emirs have gathered in the palace.’

The palace was only a short walk south from the Jaffa Gate. It had been built by the Frankish kings in the Frankish style. The walls were thick, the windows topped with rounded arches. But some eastern touches had been adopted. Shallow pools of water sat at the centre of the many courtyards, which were ringed with colonnaded walkways. Not for the first time, Yusuf reflected how strange it was to be walking the halls of his enemies. He had first come to this palace as a hostage to King Amalric. Now he ruled here as king. But for how much longer?

Nearly a hundred emirs were waiting for him in the barrel-vaulted audience chamber. They fell silent as he entered. Yusuf strode through their ranks and turned to face them. He searched their faces. There were his sons: Al-Afdal and Az-Zahir, and the younger ones, Ishaq, Mas’ud and Yaqub. Beside them stood Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and Saqr. Yusuf had known them since they were young men. Qaraqush’s beard was grizzled now, and he was bald. Al-Mashtub had never completely recovered from the fighting at Acre. He would walk with a limp for the rest of his life. Even Saqr, who Yusuf still thought of as a boy, now had a trace of grey in his beard. Yusuf recognized other faces, too. There were men who had fought for his uncle, Shirkuh. There were men of Egypt, Aleppo and Al-Jazirah. Many of them bore scars from their many battles at his side. Yusuf looked from man to man, meeting their eyes. Some held his gaze; others looked away. Yusuf said nothing. He let the silence do its work, let the men who thought to betray him stew in their guilt. That was a trick he had learned from his father. Some of the men began to shift uncomfortably.

Finally, Yusuf spoke. He started softly, so that the men in the back had to lean in to hear. ‘When I was a boy, my father told me the story of Jerusalem’s fall. After the Franks breached the wall, the city’s defenders fled. They left the people behind to suffer. The Franks spared no one; not women, not children, not old men. The streets ran with blood. The alleyways echoed with the screams of the women they violated. I swore that I would avenge their suffering, that I would retake Jerusalem.

‘I kept my oath. The city is ours once more. And once more, the Franks are at our gates. Today, you are the defenders of Islam. Only you can save this city. Only you can protect our people. If you fail, then the streets will run red once more, and not just in Jerusalem but also in Damascus, then Aleppo, Cairo, perhaps even in Baghdad. Our enemies will roll up our lands as if they were rolling up a scroll.’ Yusuf paused to let his words take eff ect. When he spoke again, his voice was firmer.

‘That will not happen! I know you. You are more than my men. You are my brothers. You fought at my side when we retook Jerusalem, when we swept through the Franks’ Kingdom like a scythe through a field of wheat. You stood firm outside the walls of Acre. And you will stand firm here in Jerusalem.’ His voice was growing louder, filling the hall. ‘Allah has set this test for us. The lion roars at our gates. This is our greatest battle. This is the line that we cannot let the enemy cross. Will you stand up to defend Islam? To defend our people? Will you fight beside me, my men? My brothers?’

Silence. Yet Yusuf’s words had had their effect. The men who had met his gaze before now stood straighter. Many of those who had looked away now had their eyes fixed squarely on the floor. It was Al-Mashtub who finally spoke. ‘My lord, you call us your brothers,’ the huge mamluk rumbled. ‘You honour us, for in truth, we are but your servants and your slaves. You have made us mighty and rich. Before you, we had little more than our necks. They are in your hands. By Allah, I will fight beside you until I die. I know every man here feels the same.’

‘Aye! Till the death,’ Qaraqush echoed.

There was a murmur of agreement. His speech had won over some of them and would no doubt shame others into staying, but it would not win them all. Yusuf took careful note of those who seemed less than enthusiastic. There were more of them than he would have liked, including some powerful emirs, such as Muhammad. He would need to keep them under close watch.

‘You are true warriors,’ he said. ‘I expected no less from you. We will stand together and die together, if needs be. And tonight we will feast together to celebrate the bond that unites us. You will be my guests at the palace, and afterwards, you will all stay here, with me.’

‘But Malik-’ Muhammad began.

‘I insist. Until this evening, men.’

As the emirs filed out, Yusuf called for Qaraqush to stay behind. The thick-necked mamluk came to him. ‘A powerful speech, Malik.’

‘But still only words. I want you to seal the city gates. No one is to leave. Take charge of this yourself, and use only our most trusted men.’

‘Of course, Malik.’ Qaraqush bowed and left.

Yusuf went in the other direction. He had done all he could. The rest was in the hands of Allah. He would go to Al-Aqsa to pray.

Crack ! John blinked awake just as his tent collapsed on top of him. He could hear the wind howling outside. It had snapped his tent pole in half. John was not surprised. Dozens of other tents had already suffered the same fate. He struggled out from under the heavy canvas and into the driving rain. No, not rain. Snow. The fat flakes stung his face, and he shivered. He had slept in his armour, with his cloak wrapped around him, but everything was long since soaked. Richard had decided to wait for the storm to stop before moving on to Jerusalem, but it had yet to let up. John’s feet and hands had gone numb with cold the first night they had arrived in Beit Nuba, five days ago. The shallow wound in his chest had become inflamed, making him feverish. That only made the cold worse.

John pulled his damp cloak more tightly about him as he examined the wreckage of his tent. There would be no fixing it so long as this wind lasted. He looked to the sky. The clouds that hung low overhead were lightening. Dawn had broken, such as it was. That meant the cooks would already be at work.

John slogged through ankle-deep mud to the cooks’ tents. The endless rain had ruined the stores of biscuit and grain that they had brought, but the men had not gone hungry. A cook handed him a chunk of charred horsemeat. The knights’ mounts were dying from cold and lack of feed, but at least they kept the men’s bellies full.

John took his meal towards the fort, where he joined a dozen other men eating in the lee of the wall. No one acknowledged him. His fellows were hunched glumly over their breakfasts. The man next to him had blue lips and was shivering so violently that he had difficulty bringing his meat to his mouth. He looked like he might not survive the day. None of them would last much longer if this madness did not end. Someone had to talk sense to Richard.

John finished his breakfast and trudged through the mud to one of the squat houses in the village. Inside, more than twenty nobles were packed into the tiny space, which smelt little better than a latrine. Still, it was dry and warm. These men were the lucky ones. John spotted Balian and stepped over the bodies of sleeping men as he made his way to him. There was snot crusted on Balian’s nose and lip, and he was snoring loudly. John shook him awake. ‘I would speak with you,’ he whispered. ‘About Richard.’