Jack Hight - Holy War

‘I will do what I can for you, John,’ Joscelin said just before the dungeon door slammed shut.

March 1183: Jerusalem

John started awake. His cell was dark; he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He groaned as he sat up. He was sore all over from weeks spent sleeping on the stone floor with only his cloak for covering. He cocked his head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Breakfast already? His stomach turned at the thought. Breakfast was rancid boiled wheat with dead weevils in it. At first, John had picked the weevils out. Now, he ate them first. At least they weren’t spoiled.

The footsteps stopped, and torchlight filtered in through the grille in the cell door. John was rising as the door swung open. He blinked against the light.

‘You smell awful, John.’ It was William, torch in hand.

John embraced him. ‘And you smell sweet as a rose. Thank God you have come.’

William’s brow furrowed. The cell door shut behind him. ‘I am sorry, John. I have not come to free you.’

It was as if John were a marionette, and the string holding him up had been cut. He started to fall, but William caught him and helped him to the wall to sit. ‘I have no influence in Jerusalem now. Sibylla and Reynald rule; Guy is their stooge. I have come to say farewell.’

‘Farewell? Where are you going?’

‘To Rome.’ William sighed. ‘Guy removed me from my post as chancellor, and Heraclius has excommunicated me. I am travelling to Rome to ask the Pope that I be reinstated as Archbishop of Tyre.’

‘No. You must stay here. Fight them! When Baldwin recovers-’

‘It has been two months now, John. Baldwin is only rarely lucid. The doctors say he will not recover.’

‘So you will leave me here to rot?’

‘I have done all I could, but I fear any further efforts on my part will only make matters worse for you. And if I do not leave soon, I may be joining you in the dungeons. I am sorry, friend.’

John’s head fell. William bent down and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You do have friends in the Kingdom. Raymond and Reginald have demanded your release. Agnes, too.’ John’s head jerked up. ‘I do not know what game she plays, but she can be a powerful ally. Be patient. You are a noble and a man of the cloth. They cannot hold you here forever without a trial.’

The cell door creaked open. The gaoler stood there with mace in hand. ‘Your time is up, priest. You must go, unless you have more coin.’

William stood. John rose and embraced him again. ‘I will pray for your success in Rome.’

William stepped from the cell and handed the gaoler a heavy pouch of coins. ‘This is for my friend. See that he is treated well.’

The gaoler grunted affirmatively.

William looked back to John. ‘God save you, friend.’

April 1183: Diyarbakir

‘I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah, and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.’ Yusuf looked to his right and murmured, ‘Peace be upon you.’ He looked left and repeated the phrase. He rose, his morning prayers completed, and stepped outside his tent. The hundreds of tiny plates of his golden jawshan armour flashed in the light of the newly risen sun. Before him, the Tigris River valley was covered in a low mist pierced by the roofs of hundreds of tents. Beyond them, his men had drawn up ranks on the plain. The thousand closest to Yusuf were mounted, but the rest were on foot and the mist came up to their chests. Spears as numerous as blades of grass poked up from the ranks.

Beyond the army rose the black walls of Diyarbakir. They were fifteen feet thick and reached a height of forty feet. Massive towers studded the wall and framed each of the city’s four gates. They were the most impressive fortifications Yusuf had ever seen, and they had made the emir of Diyarbakir bold. Yusuf had spent the last months isolating Aleppo by subduing the towns and fortresses between it and Mosul. The cities of Edessa, Saruj, Rakka and Nisbin had surrendered with hardly a fight. But Ishfaq of Diyarbakir had decided to resist. Yusuf would make an example of him. After today, none of the other minor emirs would dare oppose Yusuf.

‘As-salaamu ‘alaykum, Malik,’ Qaraqush called as he approached along the spine of the hill with Ubadah at his side. Behind them came Muhammad. The carefully groomed emir of Hisn Kaifa had soft hands, an immaculately trimmed beard and a tongue of silver. He looked uncomfortable in a coat of heavy mail. He was one of three emirs of Al-Jazirah who had joined Yusuf in return for new lands. Muhammad had been promised Diyarbakir.

Saruj had gone to Gokbori, the governor of Harran, who was huffing along after Muhammad. He was as fat as Muhammad was thin, with red cheeks and a curly black beard that hung down to his ample belly. ‘A beautiful day for a battle!’ he declared with a grin as he tucked his beard inside his suit mail. ‘Been growing this since I was a boy. Don’t want it to get cut off, Malik.’

‘You know what they say about men with long beards,’ muttered Nu’man. The emir of Al-Birah was short, almost a dwarf, with pinched features and a scowl that never seemed to leave his face. He wore a suit of oft-repaired mail that looked to have seen a dozen battles, and strapped to his back a massive battle-axe. Yusuf had given Nu’man the rich city of Edessa, and he had not regretted it. He would not have wanted the man as a foe.

‘And what would you know about the size of my cock?’ Gokbori asked the short man. ‘Did your mother give you a full report? Hah !’

Nu’man’s scowl deepened. Qaraqush guffawed but then grew serious as he turned to Yusuf. ‘The men await your command.’

Yusuf kept his instructions simple, so there would be no misunderstandings. ‘When the horn sounds, Ubadah will lead the first wave. His men will strike the western wall, forcing the defenders to spread themselves thin. The torchbearers will strike there.’ Yusuf pointed to where three weeks of tunnelling and bombardment had opened a ten-foot gap in the wall. The city’s defenders had built a wooden wall atop the rubble. ‘Once that wall begins to burn, the drums will signal for the second wave to attack. Qaraqush and Gokbori, you will lead five hundred men through the gap and open the gate.’

Muhammad stepped forward. ‘As Diyarbakir has been promised to me, I request the honour of leading the-’

‘I will lead the cavalry charge myself,’ Yusuf said. ‘Once we have taken control of the central square, Muhammad will move on to secure the north gate and Nu’man the south. I will take the east gate. You all understand your roles?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Take your positions, and Allah yasalmak.’

As his emirs departed, Yusuf went to his horse and swung into the saddle. He checked to see that his shield, light spear, bow and quiver were all in place, and looked up to Diyarbakir. The sun had risen clear of the horizon and was gilding the city’s tallest minaret with golden light. On the plain before the city, Ubadah was galloping towards the front ranks of the army. His red standard dipped when he was in position.

Yusuf nodded to Saqr. ‘Signal the attack.’

Haa-room ! Saqr blew a piercing blast on a curved ram’s horn. Before the sound had faded, the front ranks of Yusuf’s army were already surging forward, spreading out across the golden plain like ink spilling over parchment. A cloud of arrows flew from the wall. Most fell harmlessly to the ground or thumped into the shields that the foot-soldiers had raised over their heads. The stones hurled by catapults mounted on the towers struck with more devastating effect. They splintered shields, crushed helmets and ripped off limbs. But the catapults were too few to slow the charge. Yusuf’s men reached the wall and began to throw up ladders. Other men hurled grappling hooks and climbed up the ropes. A soft breeze from the east brought Yusuf the din of battle — screams of pain and rage mixed with the clang of steel upon steel.