Authors: Jack Hight
‘Did you?’
Yusuf shook his head. ‘I was a foolish child playing at war. Were it not for my brother, I would have died.’ Yusuf stopped short. He had not thought of Turan in years. The memory made his stomach churn.
Forgive me, Brother
.
‘And the man you killed? Do you remember him?’
‘He was an old man with scrawny arms and a long white beard. His clothes were little better than rags and he fought with a pitchfork. He had a mouth of brown, rotting teeth. I split his skull with my sword . . .’ If he closed his eyes, Yusuf could still see the mad grin on the old man’s face as blood ran down his cheeks to stain his white beard scarlet. ‘You never forget your first, but it grows easier with time.’
Al-Afdal nodded but said nothing. The only sound was the rasp of the whetstone. Yusuf tested the edge again, rose and handed the sword to his son.
‘Will there be battle tomorrow?’ Al-Afdal asked.
‘The Franks have no choice. They must have water, and we block their path. In their arrogance, they have wandered into our trap.’
Al-Afdal grinned, and Yusuf could see the boy in him again. ‘It will be a great victory.’
‘Inshallah. I will see you at sunrise, my son.’
Yusuf returned to stand outside his tent. His conversation with Al-Afdal had got him thinking of the past. It had been after the battle at Damascus that Yusuf had first met John. He had found him caged and dying in the slave market. Yusuf exchanged the sandals on his feet for the man who would become his closest friend. He looked again towards the Christian camp. Through the smoke, he glimpsed the True Cross rising in the midst of the tents. John was there with the Franks. If Yusuf triumphed tomorrow, then his friend would likely die.
He frowned. Such thoughts were unworthy of him. What he did, he did for Allah. What did the life of one more Frank matter?
‘Well, bugger me,’ Reginald grumbled as he ran a hand over his bald head.
John had to agree with the sentiment. His lower back ached after a restless night on the hard ground. The smoke had kept him awake, praying for dawn, but when it came, he soon regretted his prayers. He now stood with Guy and the other great lords atop a small rise at the centre of the Christian camp. Black smoke was thick in the air. A sudden gust of wind blew it aside, and John could see the Horns of Hattin in the distance to the north-east. The wind shifted again, revealing the road to Tiberias. Thousands upon thousands of mounted Saracens lay across it.
Reginald spat. ‘As thick as flies on a corpse.’
‘We will never fight through that way.’ John’s voice was scratchy after a night of inhaling smoke, but he had no water to ease his raw throat.
‘And retreat is not an option,’ Raymond said. He nodded to the west. The smoke was thinner there, and they could see the force Yusuf had sent to block the road back to La Sephorie.
‘A charge will break those lines,’ Reynald retorted. ‘There can be no more than five thousand men there.’
‘The force is small for a reason,’ John said. ‘Saladin wants us to go that way. Another day without water and our horses will fail.’
‘The men will give out before the horses,’ Reginald said. ‘If I tell my sergeants they must march back to La Sephorie, I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.’
Reynald looked to Guy. ‘What do you say, Your Grace?’
‘Reginald is right. La Sephorie will not do. We must reach water, and soon.’ He licked his lips. ‘These are your lands, Raymond. Is there another way? A well or spring north or south of here?’
‘The Springs of Hattin lie to the north, beyond the Horns. They are only three miles distant. But the Saracens will oppose our march, and if the springs are poisoned like the wells we passed yesterday—’
‘A chance we must take,’ Guy decided. ‘Amalric, prepare the army to move.’
‘Yes, Your Grace. Raymond, you know the way. You will march in the vanguard. Reynald, the King and I will follow with the Cross. John, you will march with us. Joscelin and Reginald will form the rearguard, along with the Templars and Hospitallers. The native cavalry will stay to our left, to protect us in case the Saracens seek to flank us. The foot-soldiers will march between us and the enemy, to shield our horses from their arrows. You must all see that your sergeants stay in formation. Tell them that any man who leaves the column will be hanged.’
‘We will march before the day grows hot,’ Guy concluded. ‘God save you all.’
John fell in with Raymond as they headed for their tents. ‘If I die,’ Raymond told him, ‘give my love to my wife Eschiva. Tell her that my last thoughts were of her.’
John nodded.
‘Is there anyone—?’
‘No.’ No one would care if John died, except perhaps Yusuf, and he stood with the enemy.
Raymond stopped at his tent and put a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Good fortune, friend. God willing, I will see you at the springs.’
‘God willing. Guard yourself well, Raymond.’
John continued to where his tent had stood. It had already been struck and his one hundred and fifty sergeants formed up in a square. The men had dark circles under their eyes and stood with shoulders slumped. The smoke had left many with loud, ragged coughs. John went to Aestan, who stood ready with his horse.
‘The men are thirsty and tired, domne. They’re in no mood to fight, unless they are fighting for water. They’d kill Christ himself to reach that lake.’
‘It will not come to that.’ John pulled himself into the saddle and raised his voice. ‘Men! We march for the Springs of Hattin, where we will find water. They lie beyond the Horns, no more than three miles from here. The Saracens will press us close, but if you stay in close formation, their arrows will be wasted. If you leave the column, you will die. If the Saracens do not kill you, the King will.’
His speech was met with sullen silence. ‘You’re not much of a one for words, are you, domne?’ Aestan whispered. ‘Perhaps you ought to say something to fire their blood?’
John’s forehead creased. He had ridden beside Yusuf for years, and his friend had always seemed to find the right words to encourage his troops. What would Yusuf say now? ‘We march for God to face the infidel,’ he told the men. ‘We march with the True Cross at our back. We must not let it fall!’ A few men were listening intently now, but many more still stood dejected, their eyes on the ground. John changed tack. ‘We are the last shield of the Holy Land,’ he shouted. ‘If we fall, there will be no one left to defend your homes, your wives, your children.’ More were listening. Some were nodding. ‘We march for the King! For our home! For Jerusalem!’
Perhaps half of the men returned the cry. ‘For Jerusalem! Jerusalem!’
‘For water!’ someone shouted, and this time the men took up the cry enthusiastically. ‘For water! Water! Water!’
‘We’d best reach those springs soon, domne,’ Aestan murmured as he pulled on his great helm, a flat-topped steel cylinder with slits for his eyes and mouth.
John led his men to join the column and then rode on to where Amalric and a hundred knights with lances in their hands were clustered under the king’s standard. More knights joined until their ranks had swelled to five hundred, with twice as many native Christian cavalry. A dozen Templars approached with the True Cross, which was mounted on a cart drawn by two mules. The king and Reynald came behind the cross.
‘Are the men ready?’ Guy called. His brother Amalric nodded. ‘Give the order to march.’
‘
For Jerusalem
!’ Amalric roared. ‘
For the Kingdom
!’
‘
For the Kingdom
!’ a few men shouted. ‘For water! For water!’ cried others, drowning them out.
Amalric’s squire blew a long note on a curved ram’s horn. A moment later, Raymond’s vanguard moved forward, followed by the king’s men and then the rearguard. They left behind the smoke thrown up by the still smouldering brush. John could now see the enemy more clearly. There were tens of thousands of men on horseback, arrayed in a crescent. They held formation as they began to ride north. The tip of the crescent now blocked the path of the Christian army. A horn sounded amongst the Saracens, followed by the loud beat of drums.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
‘They are coming,’ John said.
Several thousand mamluks broke away from the formation and rode at a trot for the Christian column. The drums beat faster and the Saracens spurred their horses to a gallop. A wave of sound swept over John as the enemy shouted their war cry. ‘
Allah
!
Allah
!
Allah
!’
‘Shields up, men!’ Amalric roared. ‘Close together now! Hold formation!’
The sergeants on the outside of the column stepped close to one another so that their shields overlapped. A moment later, arrows began to skitter off them. The Saracens were streaking towards the line, shooting as they rode. Near John, a sergeant fell screaming, an arrow through his calf. The thunder of approaching hoofbeats now drowned out the Saracen war cries. John could feel the ground shake beneath him.
Amalric was shouting to be heard over the din. ‘Keep those shields together! Spears out!’
The line bristled with spears. The Saracens turned their horses just before reaching them. They galloped along the line, shooting arrows into the men. One mamluk rode too close and a spear jabbed out from the Christian ranks, plucking him from the saddle. The rest of the Saracens peeled away to return to the main body.
A ragged cheer went up amongst the men, but it died out as another wave of Saracens came on. Arrows again filled the sky, clattering off shields and hissing amongst the knights. John grunted as a shaft hit his chest. The arrow lodged between the links in his mail. As he broke off the shaft, another arrow pinged off his helmet, jarring him. The knight beside him screamed as a shaft struck him in the eye. The man yanked it out, taking blood and gore with it, then slumped from the saddle.
The Saracens came at them in wave after wave as the column crawled towards the Horns. The sun climbed in the sky, and soon heat rose in waves off the dry land. John’s horse began to labour, despite the slow pace. The poor beast was flagging after the previous day’s long march with no water. The foot-soldiers stumbled along beneath their heavy packs. Their shield arms grew heavy and the shields dropped lower, leaving them vulnerable. Each wave of Saracens left more and more fallen sergeants in its wake. The sun stood straight overhead by the time Raymond’s vanguard marched between the Horns of Hattin, the tops of which rose steeply to either side, more than two hundred feet above the surrounding plain.
‘Stay tight, men!’ John shouted to his sergeants. ‘The springs lie only two miles beyond the Horns!’ The men shuffled on, too tired to cheer.
Ahead, the vanguard was moving faster now, striding up the slope towards the pass between the Horns. The Saracen attack had abated. John could see Yusuf’s men cantering away to the south, no doubt circling around the Horns to block the Franks on the far side, where the level ground would be more to their advantage. As he rode between the Horns, John lost sight of them.
Raymond’s men were also out of sight, having marched over the pass. John heard cheering from ahead and was forced to urge his horse to a trot to keep up with the column as the foot-soldiers surged forward.
‘Amalric, stop them!’ Guy shouted. ‘What is happening?’
At the top of the pass all was revealed. Lake Tiberias glittered to the south. John knew that it was nearly two miles away, but the water looked tantalizingly close. And there was nothing but brown grass between them and the water. Raymond’s sergeants had broken ranks and were rushing towards the lake. Two of the foot-soldiers near John left the column to join them.
‘You there, stop!’ Amalric shouted. ‘Another step, and I’ll have your heads!’
The men stopped. They looked back for a moment, but turned and ran. Three more men joined in, then a dozen, then the entire column of infantry broke for the lake.
‘Stop! Stop, damn you!’ Amalric shouted, then gave up. ‘Bloody hell!’
Beside him, Guy had gone pale. ‘Without the sergeants to protect our horses, the Saracen will cut us to pieces.’
Reynald turned to John. ‘You wished to prove your loyalty to the Crown, Saxon. Now is your chance.’
Guy nodded. ‘You must get them to turn back.’
John had a strong urge to smash his mace into Reynald’s smirking face, but instead he secured his kite-shaped shield on his left arm and nodded to the king. ‘As you command, Your Grace.’
He spurred after the foot-soldiers, his mount’s hooves throwing up divots as it flew across the gently sloping field. ‘Turn back!’ he shouted as he caught up to the rearmost sergeants. ‘Turn back!’
‘To hell with you!’ one of the men shouted back.
‘You’ll never reach the lake, you fools! Turn back! We must stay in formation or the Saracens will slaughter us!’
The men ahead of John slowed. Some stopped and turned back. ‘Back to the King!’ he cried. ‘Form the line!’ More and more men turned to run. He had done it. A moment later, he looked beyond the foot-soldiers and his stomach turned. It was not his words that had stopped the sergeants. The Saracen army had rounded the Horns to the south, blocking the path to the lake. They had reformed their formation and the left branch of the crescent was surging towards the sergeants, who were streaming past John. ‘To the King!’ he shouted in desperation. ‘Rejoin the column!’