‘Keep moving, Saxon!’ Reynald called as he rode past. ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ John muttered under his breath as he shouldered his rucksack. Bone-tired, he walked on with his head down, eyes on the parched, rocky ground before him. He was so intent on putting one foot in front of the other that he did not immediately notice when the slope began to level off. When he finally looked up, he saw that he stood atop the crest of a long rise, with Damascus, the garden of Syria, spread out on the valley floor below. A dark brown wall enclosed a warren of narrow streets that cut between square houses of creamy white and light brown. In the centre of the city, rising above it all, was the dome of a giant mosque. Beyond the walls, a verdant expanse of gardens and orchards – ancient Roman aqueducts rising high above the thick trees – spread west from the city towards the ridge where John stood. The brilliant green of the gardens was a sharp contrast to the cracked, dry landscape that the crusaders had marched across and which resumed on the far
side of the city. A thin stream flowed through those parched lands, entering the city and flowing out again just to the south of the gardens. John licked his parched lips. He could almost taste the cool water.
He marched with renewed vigour as he descended to where the army was drawing up ranks on the plain before the orchard. There he found a dozen men from his company of fifty sitting on their helmets before one of the narrow paths leading into the orchards. They were all covered in dust. Some sat with their heads between their legs. Others stared vacantly ahead. John flung down his pack and sat beside Rabbit. The young man held out his waterskin.
‘I saved some,’ he said.
John took the skin and shook it, feeling the water slosh inside. He took a sip, just enough to rinse the dust from his mouth. ‘By God, that’s good,’ he said, handing the skin back.
Shortly after the last of the men had joined them, Reynald rode up. The men rose, groaning and cursing at the pain in their feet and backs. ‘Well done, men!’ Reynald shouted. ‘Damascus is almost within our grasp. The kings have decided to push through the orchards to the walls. We are to march through on this path, clearing out any enemy that we find, and reconvene at the river on the far side. Stop for nothing. Any man who breaks ranks to collect spoils will be flogged on orders of King Louis himself. Is that understood?’ Reynald glared at the men. ‘Ernaut, you will take the lead. I will follow with the rest of the men.’ Reynald spurred his horse towards the rear of the troop.
‘All right, you heard him!’ Ernaut shouted from horseback. ‘Let’s get going. The sooner we reach that river, the better.’
The company formed into a column, and John and Rabbit found themselves at the front, just behind One Eye and the old crusader Tybaut. They marched down a narrow path that ran between shoulder-high mud walls. The branches of tall walnut trees heavy with nuts hung out over the walls and met overhead, casting dark, ever-shifting shadows on the trail. The air
was thick with dust from marching feet, mingled with the smell of ripening fruit. Walnuts crunched underfoot, adding their rich aroma.
Looking beyond the walls and the thick trunks of the walnut trees, John could see plots of green vegetables, rows of vines heavy with ripening grapes, tall palms crowded with coconuts and closely planted trees weighed down with apples and cherries, as well as a variety of exotic fruits: bright yellow and green ones; oblong fruits that ranged from dark red to fiery orange; and dark-brown pods that dangled like earrings.
‘It’s like Eden,’ John said.
‘And you can be sure there’s a snake somewhere in here,’ Tybaut grumbled. ‘Just waiting to strike.’
At that moment a long howl of pain came from somewhere off to their left. They all froze, and John dropped his hand to his sword hilt. More cries of agony pierced the silence, joined now by loud shouting.
‘What’s that?’ Rabbit asked, his nose twitching.
‘Pick up the pace!’ Ernaut ordered from where he rode just behind John.
Tybaut and One Eye moved ahead at a jog, and John hurried to keep up. He could hear shouting all around him now, growing fainter as the walls on either side rose high above them. The path turned sharply to the right, and as they rounded the corner they stopped short before a five-foot-high barricade of logs, laid across the trail.
‘Christ, what’s next!’ Ernaut complained. ‘Let’s get this moved!’
Tybaut and One Eye put their shoulders against one of the logs, and John stepped forward to join them. They strained, but the heavy log did not budge.
‘By God, it’s heavy,’ One Eye cursed.
‘We could go over the top,’ John suggested, ‘and pull the logs down from the other side while you push from this side.’
‘Do it!’ Ernaut ordered.
John managed to pull himself up to the top of the barrier and dropped over to the far side, followed by Rabbit, Tybaut and One Eye. They immediately went to the barricade and grabbed hold of one of the logs. ‘On three!’ John shouted. ‘
One
,
two
,
three
!’ The log shifted, then rolled free. John and the others jumped back as it fell with a loud thud.
‘Only a dozen more to go,’ Tybaut grumbled.
John grabbed hold of the next log. One Eye, however, was in no hurry. He had wandered over to the side of the trail, where the branches of a fruit tree hung over a mud wall. He plucked one of the oblong, fiery-orange fruits and sniffed at it.
‘Get back to work, One Eye,’ John growled.
‘Cool it, bath-boy,’ One Eye replied, leaning back against the wall. ‘It’s cursed hot, and I’m hungry.’ He took a bite of the fruit. It was golden and pulpy inside. One Eye closed his eye as juice dripped from his beard. ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he sighed. ‘It’s delicious.’ The words were hardly out of his mouth when the iron point of a spear burst from his chest. He dropped the fruit and stared down at the bloody spear tip. A second later the spear was withdrawn, and One Eye collapsed, dead. There was no sign of any attacker.
‘Christ! What was that?’ Rabbit shouted.
A scream came from the far side of the barricade, then another and another. ‘It’s an ambush!’ John cried out, drawing his sword and crouching behind his shield, his back to the barrier. He pulled Rabbit down beside him.
‘Where are they?’ Tybaut demanded. Sword in hand, he went and knelt beside One Eye. He touched the wound in One Eye’s back, and then looked up to the wall. John followed his gaze and noticed that there were dozens of round holes, each just wide enough for a spear to fit through. ‘The wall!’ Tybaut whispered. A spear shot through one of the holes, catching him in the shoulder. He cried out in pain and scrambled backwards. Another spear shot out from the opposite wall, catching him in the back and dropping him.
‘We’re going to die,’ Rabbit whimpered. ‘We’re going to die!’
‘Your shield!’ John snapped, and Rabbit raised his shield just in time to deflect yet another spear. ‘We’re not going to die, follow me.’
John climbed up to the top of the barricade and pulled Rabbit up after him. The ground on the far side was littered with dead and wounded men. Ernaut’s horse had been killed beneath him, and he lay pinned beneath it, screaming for help. Four knights were hurrying forward from further down the column. An arrow struck one, dropping him, and the others hugged the walls, only to be cut down by the spears. As John watched, an arrow sank into the barricade just in front of him. He looked past the wall to a tall building set amongst the fruit trees. There, in the windows of the upper floor, stood four archers. One took aim at John, and an arrow whizzed past his ear.
‘Come on!’ John shouted as he grabbed Rabbit’s arm. They scrambled to the wall, which rose four feet above the barricade. John pulled himself up and dropped over the other side. He landed on top of a Saracen, knocking the man unconscious and sending them both sprawling. John sprang to his feet to find himself facing three more men. The closest stabbed at John with a spear. John blocked the blow with his shield and thrust with his sword, impaling the man through the chest. Another man attacked, and John was forced to jump aside, leaving his sword with the dead Saracen. He backed away, his shield raised, as the two remaining Saracens advanced, their spears pointed at him. One of them screamed ‘
Allah
!
Allah
!
Allah
!’ and had started to charge when Rabbit landed on him from above, knocking him flat. John rushed the other Saracen, taking advantage of the surprise. He slammed his shield into the man’s face, dropping him. He turned to see that Rabbit had slit the other man’s throat. The boy was white-faced and shaking.
John clapped him on the back. ‘Well done. You saved my hide.’
‘Th-that’s the first man I ever killed.’
‘You did well,’ John replied as he wrenched his sword free from the chest of the dead Saracen. ‘We have to deal with those archers.’ He pointed towards the tall building before them. ‘Are you up for it?’ Rabbit nodded. ‘Let’s go, then.’
John kicked the door of the house open and rushed inside. The bottom floor was empty. He and Rabbit hurried up the stairs on the far wall. The door at the top was locked. John raised his shield, then kicked the door hard. As it swung open, a volley of arrows thumped into his shield. John threw it aside and charged. Four archers stood along the far wall, each frantically trying to nock another arrow to his bow. John slashed across the face of the one furthest to the right, dropping him before his arrow was free of the quiver. The next in line had managed to nock an arrow, but John sliced the man’s bow in two before he could shoot, then finished him with a thrust to the chest. He turned to see a third archer kneeling and holding up his bow in a vain attempt to block Rabbit’s sword. Rabbit’s blade sliced through the bow and cleaved the Saracen’s head in two, spilling blood and pink brains on wooden floor. Rabbit turned away and vomited.
The final Saracen, a beardless man no older than John, raised his bow and shot. But the man’s hands were shaking, and the arrow flew wide, embedding itself in the wall. The Saracen threw down his bow and drew a knife. As John approached, sword held high, a puddle of urine formed at the feet of the wide-eyed Saracen. ‘Drop it!’ John ordered, and the archer threw down his weapon.
‘No hurt! No hurt!’ he babbled in broken Frankish. ‘I prisoner!’
‘There you are, Saxon,’ Ernaut said as he limped into the room, sword in hand. Four arrow shafts protruded from his chest; they had penetrated his breastplate but not made it past the thick leather vest beneath. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’ve taken a prisoner.’
Ernaut shoved John out of the way and impaled the archer through the chest. He turned back to John. ‘We don’t have time for prisoners.’
‘He could have told us about other ambushes,’ John protested.
Ernaut frowned. ‘You’re a smart bugger, aren’t you,’ he said as he snapped off the shafts of the arrows protruding from his chest. He pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘God, I could use a drink. We found a path that leads around the barricade. Let’s get to that damned river.’ He turned to leave, but then stopped in the doorway. ‘You two chop off those sons-of-whores heads and bring them with us on spears. Maybe that will make the bastards think twice before they attack us.’
‘’Sblood,’ John cursed as he turned to his gruesome task.
Yusuf and Turan stood on the wall above the al-Jabiya gate and watched as Muslim troops poured out of the orchard and splashed across the river, heading for the open gate. Behind the troops, a procession of disembodied heads approached through the orchard, bobbing high above the trees. A moment later, the first Frankish knights stepped out of the orchard, carrying spears with the heads of Muslim soldiers impaled atop them.
‘They are savages,’ Yusuf whispered.
‘They will pay for this indignity,’ Turan spat.
‘Inshallah.’ On the far side of the river more Christians were emerging from the orchards. Most went straight to the waters to drink. A few shouted up at the wall and made crude gestures. Below Yusuf, the gate slammed shut behind the last of the Muslim warriors. Yusuf looked beyond the orchard to the horizon, where the sun was just setting. The battle for the orchards had taken the best part of a day. He looked away from the blood-red sun to see his father approaching along the wall.
‘The Franks have taken the orchard, Father!’ Turan shouted to him.
Ayub nodded. ‘Unur will have no choice now but to ally
with Nur ad-Din. He has invited us to dine at the palace. Come, we are expected.’
‘Should we change into finer clothes?’ Yusuf asked. He and Turan both wore plain white cotton caftans.
‘No. Unur prefers simplicity.’ Yusuf followed his father through the city to the emir’s palace, a jumble of domed buildings and simpler wooden structures that sat behind a tall wall and deep moat. A dozen mamluks guarded the bridge across the moat. Their commander nodded respectfully as Ayub approached. ‘You are expected,’ the mamluk said, and the soldiers parted to let them pass.
They entered the palace entrance hall and found themselves before a pair of tall bronze doors guarded by two muscular Nubians. ‘Remember,’ Ayub said to his sons, ‘you are here as guests. Do as I do. Do not speak unless the emir speaks to you first. And if you must speak, keep your answers short. Everything you do and say will reflect upon our family. We can ill afford the emir’s disfavour.’ Ayub nodded to one of the Nubians, who knocked on the door three times and then pushed it open.
‘Najm ad-Din Ayub,’ the Nubian declared.
Yusuf followed his father and brother into a large, circular room, brilliantly lit by candelabras mounted on the marble-clad walls that rose to a vaulted dome high above. The dome’s interior was covered in ornate script in gold-leaf, with Emir Unur’s seal at the centre. Generals and ministers of the emir sat on cushions that had been placed in a circle around the edge of the room. They were already eating, selecting their food from dozens of platters placed on low stands. Emir Unur sat directly across from the door, on a dais that raised him two feet above the others. He wore robes of white silk embroidered with an interlocking pattern of red roses and green thorns. Unur was fit and olive-skinned, with a clean-shaven chin and scalp and crinkles around the corners of his bright, hazel eyes. He smiled broadly when he saw his guests. ‘Welcome, Ayub,’ he said in a pleasant baritone. ‘These, I take it, are your sons?’