Tariq Ali - The Book of Saladin

It was our skirmishers who began the fight, testing the intentions of the enemy. The Sultan, flanked by Taki al-Din and Keukburi, waited awhile before committing his army to battle. The Franj charged the skirmishers and we suffered some losses, but Salah al-Din signalled to another group of mamluks to join the skirmishing. This time the Franj knights retreated. Imad al-Din, who was with me that day, laughed at the sight.

“The lions have been transformed into hedgehogs,” he said, but a look from the Sultan silenced him. Shadhi had taught Salah al-Din that celebrating a victory before it had been won always brought bad luck.

Salah-al-Din ordered his two wings to begin their outflanking operation and his trusted archers moved into position at the same time. Now, at his signal, their bows quivered and their arrows rained on the Franj, unhorsing many knights. A further signal was given and the scrub was set alight, enhancing the miseries of the Franj. The flames were almost invisible in the bright light. The terrified knights and their horses surged to and fro, feeling they could not remain still, wanting to do something, but they confronted an impossible situation. The smell of scorched flesh, human and animal, began to waft in our direction with the breeze of the late afternoon. Those Franj knights who rode through the fire and charged desperately up the wadis found the Sultan’s archers waiting for them. Some collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Others were burnt alive. The Sultan received the news without emotion. Only once did he speak to me directly, and that was to remark that some of the finest-pedigreed horses of Arabia had perished and this was a cause for regret.

I heard with my own two ears the desperate cries of the Franj soldiers. Crazed by thirst and burnt by the sun, they pleaded for water, praying to their God and then to Allah, much to the disgust of their knights who belonged to the Orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers.

I could see one of their commanders, that impure and infantile adventurer, Reynald of Châtillon, of whom I have already written. He had a frightening scar across his face, a permanent reminder of the skills of one of our unknown swordsmen. Reynald was riding on his sweaty black steed, which snorted arrogantly just like its master. He pulled his horse to an abrupt halt. The roar of the soldiers began to die down. A messenger rushed to the commander. Reynald dismounted and the man whispered something in his ear. Then I lost sight of him completely. Suddenly, and before our very eyes, the Franj lost their formation and appeared without aim or direction.

They moved instinctively towards the lake of Tiberias, but our soldiers barred their way. Hundreds of Franj soldiers gave themselves up to the Sultan, falling on their knees and chanting “Allah o Akbar”. They converted on the spot to the religion of the Prophet, and were given food and water.

Thousands of these soldiers climbed to the top of a small hill, effectively deserting their King. They refused orders to come down. They were thirsty and could not fight without water. Most of them were killed by being hurled over the rocks by their own side. Some were taken prisoner by us. It was clear to everyone that the Franj had been defeated.

Salah al-Din received news of these victories with an impassive face. He was watching the tents which surrounded the symbolic Cross of the Franj. These housed the King and his immediate bodyguard, and had not shifted throughout the battle.

As we watched, young al-Afdal began to jump up and down, shouting: “Now we have beaten them.” He was quickly silenced when a Franj charge drove our soldiers back, causing a frown to occupy the Sultan’s forehead for the first time during this battle.

“Be silent boy!” he told his son. “We shall not defeat them until that tent falls.”

Even as he pointed to the tent of King Guy, we saw it fall. We saw our soldiers capture the “True Cross”. Now Salah al-Din embraced his son and kissed him on the forehead.

“Allah be praised! Now we have beaten them, my son.”

He ordered the victory drumroll, and cries of joy erupted on the hills and plains around the village of Hattin. Taki al-Din and Keukburi came riding up, their arms filled with Franj banners. They threw them at the Sultan’s feet and leapt off their horses, their eyes filled with tears of joy and relief. They kissed Salah al-Din’s hands, and he lifted them both to their feet. With his arms round their shoulders, he thanked them for what they had achieved. Then Taki al-Din spoke to him.

“I allowed Count Raymond to escape, O Commander of the Victorious, just as you had instructed, even though my archers were straining to unhorse him.”

“You did well, Taki al-Din.”

Now it was Keukburi’s turn.

“Commander of the Victorious, we have captured most of their knights. Their so-called King Guy and his brother, Humphrey of Toron, Joscelin of Courtenay and Reynald of Châtillon are among our prisoners. Guy wishes to speak with you.”

The Sultan was moved. He nodded appreciatively.

“Pitch my tent in the heart of the field where this battle was won. Place our banners in front of the tent. I will see Guy and whoever he chooses to accompany him in that tent. Imad al-Din! I want an exact tally of how many men we have lost and how many were wounded.”

The great scholar nodded sagely.

“It will not take too much time today, O great Sultan. Compared to the Franj whose heads cover the ground like a plague of melons, our casualties are light. We have lost Emir Anwar al-Din. I saw him go down when the Franj charged us just before their final collapse.”

“He was a good soldier. Bathe his body and send it back to Damascus. None of our men should be buried in Hattin, unless they belonged to this region.”

“Who would have thought,” continued Imad al-Din in a more reflective mood, “that the success of your military tactics would transform Hattin, this little insignificant village, into a name that will resound throughout history?”

“Allah decided the fate of the Franj,” was the Sultan’s modest reply.

Imad al-Din smiled but, uncharacteristically, remained silent.

In the distance, we observed the Sultan’s tent established on the plain below. He spurred his horse and our whole party — al-Afdal and a hundred guards, with Imad al-Din and myself bringing up the rear — galloped past corpses already beginning to rot in the sun and stray arms and legs to the place where the tent had been pitched.

Such was the feeling of euphoria that had gripped us all that the only thought to cross my mind was that the wild beasts would be having a feast tonight.

Imad al-Din as his chief secretary and I, the humble chronicler of his life, sat on either side of his chair. He told a guard to inform Keukburi that he was now ready receive the “King of Jerusalem”. And so it happened. Guy, accompanied by Reynald of Châtillon, was brought in by Keukburi, who spoke now with a formality which surprised me.

“Here, Commander of the Victorious, is the self-styled King of Jerusalem and his knight, Reynald of Châtillon. The third man is their interpreter. He has just decided to become a Believer. I await your orders.”

“I thank you, Emir Keukburi,” replied the Sultan. “You may give their King some water.”

Offering Guy hospitality was the first indication that he would not be beheaded on the spot. Guy drank eagerly from the cup, which contained cooled water. He passed the cup to Reynald, who also took a sip, but the Sultan’s face became livid with anger. He looked at the interpreter.

“Tell this King,” he said in a voice filled with contempt and disgust, “that it was he, not I, who offered this wretch a drink.”

Guy began to tremble with fright and bowed his head to acknowledge the truth of Salah al-Din’s words. Then the Sultan rose and looked into Reynald’s blue and ice-cold eyes.