TWO OF OUR SPIES within the Franj camp, both merchants of the Coptic persuasion, had informed Taki al-Din of developments within the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was being torn asunder by a furious battle between the two principal knights of King Guy. Count Raymond of Tripoli was advising the King to be cautious and defensive, which meant staying in Jerusalem and not marching out to fall straight into the trap being prepared by Salah al-Din. The King himself was more inclined to the view championed by Reynald of Châtillon. This knight had smelt blood. He questioned the integrity of Count Raymond, accusing him of being a friend of Salah al-Din and a false Christian. Reynald believed that the balance of strength favoured the Franj. He argued that their knights and foot-soldiers could outmanoeuvre and outflank the Sultan’s armies.
At one stage the two men had almost come to blows. They would have fought each other there and then had not the King grabbed a wooden cross and put his own person between them. He had compelled the two knights to swear an oath that they would cease quarrelling and fight together to defeat the Saracen infidels.
Taki al-Din questioned the two spies in detail. He asked them about the exact size of Guy’s army, the amount of supplies they would need to survive outside their city, the names of the men who would command the Templars and Hospitallers, and the length of time it would take us to receive information about the exact whereabouts of the Franj army, if, that is, they were foolish enough to abandon the Holy City and come out to meet the Sultan on his own ground. The merchants looked at each other and laughed. It was the older one who spoke.
“The Emir need not worry on that count. My own brother is responsible for maintaining the supplies needed by Guy and Reynald. He will inform us the moment he has the necessary information. The pigeons are prepared.”
Taki al-Din smiled.
“My uncle always complimented me on being a good judge of character. You have never supplied me with false information or disappointed the trust I have placed in you. For this the Sultan will reward you generously. Your tent is prepared. You have had a long journey. Please rest and recover your strength till the evening meal.”
Two days later the news we had been waiting for reached us. Reynald of Châtillon had won the battle for Guy’s ear. The Franj were even now preparing to march out of the Holy City, to fight on our terrain. The Sultan’s face lit up when he heard the news. He insisted that it be checked and double-checked. We had to wait another day before confirmation arrived from another source. Only then did Salah al-Din order a review of all his troops to be held the next morning, six miles north of Ashtara at Tell Tasil, situated on the main road to the valley of the Jordan river.
“I want to stand on a mound and observe the whole army, Ibn Yakub,” he said. “‘Radishes come like men, in different shapes and sizes,’ our friend Shadhi used to say. Apart from my own squadrons, most of these men are new. They are radishes from fields I have not ploughed. Let us see how they compare to our variety.”
News that the Franj had moved out of the Holy City to give us battle swept through the entire camp within half-an-hour. News of this nature can never be kept secret for long. The effect was a complete change in the mood of the men. If they had, till now, been relaxed and slightly over-confident, the information that they might now be engaged in real combat within a few days made them nervous, somewhat edgy, and yes, even fearful.
The Sultan was well aware of how fluctuating morale can dampen the ardour of even the best army on the eve of battle. He ordered the camp to be dismantled. I had never seen him like this before. He appeared to be everywhere at the same time. One minute I could see him and his emirs rushing to inspect the storage and alert the supply-masters of the decision. With their gowns flying in the wind, they looked from a distance like giant ravens. They gave orders for the camels, supply mules and wagons to be made ready, for tent-pegs to be loosened that night, to be rolled and packed at the crack of dawn. The next minute the Sultan himself, to my amazement, clambered up on a newly constructed siege tower to test its solidity. I was alarmed at the needless risk, but young al-Afdal, who stood by my side watching his father, laughed away my worries.
“We are used to him behaving like this before a battle. He insists on taking risks. He says it inspires confidence in the men. If the Sultan can die then so can they.”
“And will he let you risk your life, my young prince?”
The neatly bearded face changed colour.
“No. He says I have to stay alive in case he falls. So my task in the battle is to convey his orders, and to stand by his tent and his banner at all times. I went to my cousin Taki and asked to fight by his side, but he too has his orders. It is not fair. I have already fought in two battles, but this will be the most important.”
“Patience, Ibn Yusuf. Your time, too, will come. You, too, will live without misfortune. You will govern and judge and raise your sons as you have been raised. The Sultan acts in your best interests. A sapling has to be protected from hot winds so that it too can grow and bear fruit.”
The heir to the Sultanate became petulant.
“Ibn Yakub, please don’t try and act like Shadhi. There was only one of him.”
With these haughty words, the young man left me to my own devices, though not for long. Amjad the eunuch, uncharacteristically long-faced, whispered in my ear that Ibn Said, the mute, was awaiting my presence. As we walked to her tent, Amjad warned me that the Sultana was in a foul mood and he would leave me alone with her. The reasons for Jamila’s ill-humour soon became clear.
“Salah al-Din has ordered that I am not to be permitted to march with the army. He says the danger is too great and my presence is unjustifiable. I explained to him patiently that he was talking like a man whose brains had been replaced by the anus of a camel. This annoyed him greatly, and he pushed me aside. He has even instructed Amjad to prepare my return to Damascus. So while all of you are marching to take al-Kuds, the eunuchs and one woman will be heading towards Damascus.
“I am warning you in advance, Ibn Yakub. I will not obey him this time. Amjad, poor fool, is frightened out of his wits. He dare not disobey Salah al-Din. I’ve told him I am quite capable of looking after myself. I ride better than most of you, and I have often shot at the mark with an arrow. What is your opinion?”
She was in a rage, and I followed Ibn Maymun’s advice in these situations and offered her some water. She sipped slowly from a glass, which calmed her a little.
“Sultana, I feel honoured and privileged to be your friend, but I beg of you not to resist the Sultan’s will on this occasion. He has enough to think about without worrying about your safety. I know it is not in your nature to accept orders blindly. Your first response is always to resist his command, but I know how much he loves you and how seriously he always considers your advice. I have often heard him say that you, not he, are in possession of a powerful brain. Indulge him just this once.”
She smiled.
“So, you can be sly as well. That is a revelation. I am prepared to accept your advice provided you answer one question truthfully. Do we have a deal?”
I was so taken aback by this odd request that, without further thought, I eagerly nodded my agreement.
“When Amjad walked with you into the desert night a few days ago, did he tell you how many times he let Halima fuck him?”
I had been led neatly into a giant trap. She had taken me by surprise, and she did not need me to utter a single word. My guilt-ridden features told her all she wished to know.
“Amjad!” I heard her shout. “You disgusting whore. They should have cut it all off when they had the chance. Come here!”
I thought this might be an opportune moment to slip out of her tent unobserved.
Early next morning, in the light of a rosy hue which is the desert dawn, we rode out to Tell Tasil. Spirits were high, but the odd note of laughter, a shade too loud and over-enthusiastic, testified to the nervousness felt by some of the emirs, for it was they who laughed in this fashion. It did not take us long to reach Tell Tasil. Usually, Salah al-Din reviewed his army when stationed on a mound, and always on horseback. This time he broke with tradition. He instructed the foot-soldiers to push a siege tower to where he stood. He invited me to climb up with him, but the look on my face made him laugh and withdraw the invitation. Instead he took al-Afdal up with him. I stood at the base of the large wooden construction which would usually be deployed to scale the walls of enemy citadels.
Once he was in position, he raised his arm. The trumpeters blared out their message, and a drumroll began the proceedings. Then, preceded by the black banners of the Abbasid Caliphs and by the Sultan’s own standard, Taki al-Din and Keukburi, looking fierce in their armour and with swords raised, led the troops past the tower. It was a remarkable sight. The 10,000 horsemen were followed by archers on camels, and then by the long line of foot-soldiers.
Even the Kurdish fighters had managed to curb their unruly instincts. They rode past the Sultan in exemplary formation. It took over an hour for everyone to march past, and the dust became a thick cloud. Salah al-Din looked pleased as he came down from the tower. For once he was deeply affected by the sight of what we had witnessed. The experience seemed to have dispelled his customary caution.
“With this army, Allah permitting, I can defeat anyone. Within a month, Ibn Yakub, your synagogue, in what you call Jerusalem, and our mosque, in what for us will always be al-Kuds, will be filled once again. Of this I have no doubt.”
That same day, a Friday, the day usually favoured by the Sultan to launch a jihad, we marched in the direction of the Lake of Galilee. We reached al-Ukhuwana just after sunset. Here we set up camp for the night.