August 24 1218 A.D. Egypt – Defending the Citadel

Yenovk was part of a huge defensive force for the city of Damietta. From his vantage point, he could see the massed formation of invaders. There were tens of thousands of fully armed Frankish troops. They filled the plain from horizon to horizon. He knew that the army was out to capture and crush Damietta, as the start of a campaign to recapture Jerusalem itself.

It had been explained to all of the Islamist troops that they were guarding an extremely important city that controlled access to the principal branch of the river Nile. Yenovk knew that it had excellent natural defences. To the north and west, the river itself formed the city’s protection. To the south and east, lay marshy land that was next to impossible to cross.

The main danger to the city’s defenders was therefore an attack from the river. To guard against such an eventuality, the city had provided itself with an ingenious and robust defence mechanism, of which Yenovk was part.

A citadel had been built on an island, which was close to the opposite bank of the Nile from Damietta. A huge chain had been fixed from the walls of the city, to the ramparts of the citadel. This effectively blocked the Nile at that point. And also therefore, blocked any attack from the water.

For several months, the attackers had been stubbornly mounting raids on the citadel, to get at the fixed end of the chain. But Yenovk had seen that the tower had proved too strong and they had achieved no success.

On the morning of August 24th, 1218, Yenovk looked out over the river and expected another attack on the citadel by the Infidel invaders. He also expected the same result. He had confidence in the defences and the troops manning the position.

As he glanced over the vast expanse of water making up the Nile at this point, he glimpsed a strange sight in the distance. Far off down the river, a strange craft was approaching at a slow but steady pace. At first Yenovk couldn’t make any sense of what he could observe. It was like no other ship he could ever remember seeing. It was wider and seemed almost triangular in shape. As it got nearer, Yenovk could see why.

The vessel was actually two ships that had been tied securely together. This provided a base, on top of which had been constructed what seemed to Yenovk like a tall wooden tower. The height of this structure when added to the deck of the ships, very nearly equalled that of the ramparts on the citadel. The contraption also held considerable numbers of heavily armed troops. As the water born siege tower approached the island opposite Damietta, Yenovk exchanged worried glances with his fellow defenders.

The strange device made its passage inexorably up the river. As it got closer, the defenders could see the platform at the top of the boat, much more clearly. There were about twenty men standing on the wooden construction. All remaining calm and quiet with drawn swords and shields. Their emblems were clearly visible. One in particular caught his eye. It was a vivid red cross on dirty white metal. The man next to Yenovk, grunted.

“Templars!”

The huge, strange hulk crept ever nearer to the fortress. There was silence amongst both the attackers on the ship and the defenders standing on top of the crenelated walls. The creaking of the boat’s timbers was the only sound that broke the quiet. Gradually it closed to within twenty yards of the tower.

The faces of the men on the attack platform could now be clearly observed. Their expressions conveyed fierce determination. Ladders were raised from the platform and readied to bridge the final gap to the walls. Suddenly a great cry went up from the Franks and the wooden ladders crashed down on the citadel’s defences. Archers released their arrows from the decks of both ships, desperately trying to keep the defenders under pressure.

Yenovk raised his circular shield to provide as much protection as he could from the onslaught of the Franks’ arrows. Peering cautiously from under the edge of the covering metal, he could see the first of the invaders race recklessly across the wooden ladder that was bridging the gap, between the strange looking boat and the walls of the tower.

It was one of the accursed Templars, red crossed shield in one hand, sword raised high in the other and a ferocious expression spread across his face. An arrow from one of the defenders caught him in the eye and he fell forward onto the first line of the Islamic men.

He was far from alone. His fellow Infidels came racing behind him, using their fallen comrade as a battering ram against the defensive forces. An order came, shouted to Yenovk from the Commander of the citadel.

“Quick! Take your troops and move down the steps. Take up a position outside the citadel doors. We must prevent them moving far beyond if they succeed in breaching the wall of men on top of the tower.”

Yenovk turned to his men, and relayed the instructions to them. Screaming to make his voice heard over the blood curdling shrieks of the attackers and the cries and groans of the wounded and dying.

Yenovk hated to retreat, but he could see the logic in the Commander’s instructions. There can have been no more than a hundred attackers on the boat. The Islamist forces would need to remain close to prevent the Infidels consolidating their position and bringing up reinforcements.

He gathered a force of ten of his men and instructed them to follow him. They ducked through the exit door on the top floor of the tower and raced down the internal staircase. They emerged, blinking, from the inside of the building, into the brightness of the late morning. Yenovk swept out his arm, indicating that his men should spread out into a semi-circular arc laid out either side of the door.

They were all breathing hard, the memories of the recent hand to hand fighting flooding through their minds. One or two were bent double, resting on the handle of their swords, the crescent shape blades glistening wickedly in the sun. There was a sudden oasis of silence; the only sound the deep, harsh breaths of Yenovk’s troops.

It didn’t last long. In a few minutes the unmistakable sounds of boots racing down a staircase were clearly audible. The next second, two of the Frankish army burst through the doorway, swords drawn and held at the ready. Yenovk’s men stepped forward in unison, raising their own weapons. The two Infidels stopped in their tracks. Each turned towards the nearest curve of defenders. But it was too late.

Yenovk was at the far end of the line of men to the right of the citadel’s main door. He was armed with his favourite weapon, a ferocious battle-axe. The blade was a thing of beauty. Intricate carvings covered its surface. But the good looks, disguised the deadly sharpness of the blade’s edge. The nearest Frank was a quick worker. Before Yenovk had barely taken a step forward, the knight had driven his sword into the closest Mamluk. But his weapon had snarled in the process. Yenovk stepped forward and with all his strength brought his axe down on his foe. He felt the blade slice right down through the neck, to strike bone. From past experience, he was certain the blow was mortal.

Yenovk gazed down on his defeated enemy. The blood from the wound was seeping into the knight’s cloak, mingling with the red of the cross. It was clear that the Templar was close to death. His breathing was heavy and laboured. The face had turned deathly white, apart from a vivid, angry red scar that cut a jagged line on the man’s forehead. Yenovk picked up the sword lying by the side of the body and threw it to one side. He took off his opponent’s helmet and placed it on top. Yenovk was turning to check his troops were stripping the other knight, when something caught his eye.

The Templar was lying on his back, where he had fallen. But the Frankish knight had managed to move slightly and had retrieved an item from under his mantle that he had clenched, tightly in his right hand. What was it wondered Yenovk, that was important enough for the man to remember, even in the throes of death? He bent down and took the object from the Templar’s hand. It was nothing but a small leather pouch. It was nonetheless added to the pile that Yenovk was building.