Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

“They will come now to try and retake their city, and they will take the shortest route, the road that leads from Acre straight through the plain of Hattin. The virtue we must preach to ourselves today is patience. Even my uncle Shirkuh with his monumental impatience would, were he alive today, agree with me. Let us return to the camp and find a pleasant place from where we can observe Guy with his Templars and Hospitallers. The sky is clear, the sun burns like a furnace, and we control the water.”

The battle of Hattin

SALAH AL-DIN KNEW THAT the noble Raymond of Tripoli would try to devise an alternative, more defensive plan. His wife was in the citadel of the captured city. Raymond would be aware that Salah al-Din had yet to confront the Franj when they were in a strong and entrenched position. The Sultan was depending on the rashness and stupidity of the Franj leaders. He was confident that the blind mistrust and hatred of the Count of Tripoli felt by Guy and Reynald of Châtillon would lead them to ignore any plan that Raymond might suggest.

On the third day of July, a Friday, the scouts who had been watching the movements of the Franj rode back to our camp in great excitement. Keukburi accompanied them to the entrance of the Sultan’s tent. He was resting, and I was teaching one of his guards the basic moves of chess. Here, underneath the lemon trees, we all waited for him to finish his rest.

The faces of the two scouts were lined with dust. Their eyes were dark with lack of sleep. Their posture suggested that the news they carried was important. They were under strict orders from Taki al-Din to speak directly with Salah al-Din. It was I who suggested that the Sultan might be happy to be disturbed, and Keukburi entered his tent. Salah al-Din walked out bare-chested, a cloth round his waist.

The scouts whispered their message in his ear. It confirmed his predictions. A much-relieved Sultan allowed his emotions to show. He roared with delight.

“Allah o Akbar! They have abandoned the water and are in the grip of Satan. This time I have them.”

Trumpets and drumrolls alerted emir and soldier alike. The speed with which our army made ready for war was a sign of the high morale and discipline that had been achieved during the weeks of training at Ashtara. The fall of Teveriya had a feverish effect on those who had stayed behind. The Sultan, fully dressed in his armour, his green turban in place, and his sword strapped on by attentive retainers, was giving his final orders to Taki al-Din and Keukburi. The two men bowed and withdrew after kissing his cheeks.

Like beasts awaiting their prey, the Sultan’s archers prowled anxiously on the ridge. Their impatience for the kill made them simultaneously nervous and eager. Despite my best efforts to remain calm I could not control my excitement. I broke bread that day with the great Imad al-Din. He was hard at work writing his account of the battle that was about to begin. As he left the tent to relieve himself I read and copied his opening paragraph: “The vast sea of his army surrounded the lake. The ship-like tents rode at anchor and the soldiers flooded in, wave upon wave. A second sky of dust spread out in which swords and iron-tipped lances rose like stars.” He wrote with such ease, the words flowing from his pen quicker than the ink that gave them shape. It did make me wonder, once again, why the Sultan had chosen me and not him to compose this work.

At midday, we caught our first sight of the enemy. The sun was reflecting on the heavy armour of the Franj knights, and the flashes pierced the dust.

As the Franj moved towards the ridge, the Sultan gave the signal. Taki al-Din and Keukburi took their squadrons on a flanking manoeuvre that should not have surprised the Franj. They surrounded the enemy, cut them off from their water supply, and blocked all possible retreats. The Sultan continued to hold the ridge.

I had remained on the ridge next to al-Afdal, near the Sultan’s tent, far from the fighting. Salah al-Din would ride away to observe the battle from different positions, listen to first-hand reports, and then return to his banner where we stood. Then he would send out new instructions. His eyes shone like lamps and his face was free of worry. He was clearly satisfied, yet his caution never deserted him, not for a moment. I had occasion to observe him closely that day.

He was not an interfering commander. He had planned the battle carefully, and provided his orders were carried out he saw no reason to intervene. Throughout the day messengers on horseback, their faces full of dust, would come to him with information and return with orders. One of the most important victories in the annals of Islam was a surprisingly calm affair.

The sight of our dead and wounded soldiers touched me deeply. It upset me that neither the Sultan nor the Emir — nor, for that matter, the men themselves — seemed to show much sympathy for those who had been lost that day. It is strange how, even after one day of war, it is difficult to remember what normal life was like before the battle and all its afflictions.

As the Franj knights slumped and fell, the only emotion I felt was one of relief. By temperament, I am not a vengeful person, but as I saw the sand darkened by the blood of the Franj I recalled the accounts of what they had done to my people in Jerusalem and other towns. I offered a silent prayer pleading with the Almighty to hasten the victory of our Sultan. Not that he needed my prayers that day. His tactics had worked well and, though none of us realised it at the time, it won him the battle of Hattin. Unlike the Franj, we lost few men on that first day. We could have followed them, and finished the job by the evening, but the signal given by al-Afdal from outside the Sultan’s tent was to let them retreat. They had nowhere to go. Every exit had been sealed. Every well was under our control. The supplies on which the Franj had been relying had been diverted, and some of them were already being unloaded at our camp.

The Franj had thought that, as in the past, their knights would charge and break through the encirclement, opening up a path for their entire army to retreat. But they underestimated the size of our army. What they wanted to do had become impossible.

That night, as both sides made camp, neither was aware that the battle was over. On our side, the Sultan conferred anxiously with the emirs. He wanted the names of the skirmishers from each squadron. He demonstrated his own prodigious memory by naming the archers he wanted in position the next day. He had carefully watched the new archers at Ashtara and noted the names of those who hit the mark most often. They were given 400 loads of arrows. The Sultan watched the supplies being distributed and addressed his favourite archer by name.

“Tell your men, Nizam al-Din, that, despite the temptation, they must never waste arrows by aiming at the knights of the Franj. Their armour cannot be pierced. But mark the horse, and aim well, so that the beast falls. A Franj knight without his horse is like an archer without a bow. Useless. Once you get the horses, Taki al-Din and our horsemen will ride like a wave and decapitate these infidels as they stagger nervously to their feet. Is that clear?”

The reply came from all the archers who had been straining their ears to catch the Sultan’s words.

“There is only one Allah, and he is Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

“I agree,” muttered the Sultan, “but I don’t want Him to welcome too many of you into Heaven too soon. This war is not over.”

Before the battle began again, the Sultan gave firm instructions to his emirs regarding Raymond of Tripoli.

“He is a good man, who was once our friend. Even though he has been compelled by the worshippers of icons to fight against us, I harbour no ill-will against him. He must not be killed. I want him taken alive. If that is not possible, let him escape. We shall find him again.”