CHAPTER 23
July 1179
Tell al-Qādī, Syria
The day was hot, the air so still that the red and gold d’Ibelin banner and the white flag of truce drooped like willow leaves. Balian could see the tension on his men’s faces as they came in sight of the sultan’s camp. He’d taken only a few of his knights, those whom he could trust to remain calm no matter the provocation. Beside him, his dragoman, Yūnus, shifted awkwardly in his saddle, then offered Balian a strained smile. “With your permission, my lord, I wish to be called by the French version of my name whilst we meet with the sultan.”
“Of course—Jonah.” Balian understood the older man’s unease. As Arabic was their native tongue, Syrian Christians often took the Arabic form of their given names. But Muslims viewed apostasy as a sin deserving of death and Yūnus did not want any of the Saracens to doubt that he was Christian by birth, not by converting.
They’d been spotted. Riders were coming out to challenge them. “I am Balian d’Ibelin, Lord of Nablus, under a safe-conduct to meet with the sultan,” Balian said slowly and carefully. As usual, the riders were startled by Balian’s ability to speak Arabic, which worked in his favor.
The man in command gave an order too fast for Balian to catch, and the Franks found themselves surrounded. Their arrival created a stir in the camp. As they waited with their guards, Balian glanced around curiously. Men were repairing weapons and armor, bantering with one another, seeking shade from the summer sun. Aside from the absence of wine or games of chance, which were forbidden by the Qur’an, Balian could have been looking at a Frankish army camp. Soldiers were the same the world over.
A man was approaching, escorted by several of the sentries, but he was clearly not a soldier. He was no longer young—Balian guessed him to be in his fifth decade—and garbed in civilian clothing: a finely woven cotton tunic and matching turban, leather sandals rather than riding boots, and no sword at his hip. Introducing himself as ‘Imād al-Dīn al-Isfahānī, the sultan’s chancellor, he said, “The sultan will see you.”
They were attracting a lot of attention, and some jeers were flung their way. Balian’s Arabic was good enough by now for him to understand the taunting. They were called dogs and demons of the cross but the slur that struck him as ironic was kafir, for it meant “infidel,” the same insult that the Christians hurled at their Muslim foes.
Balian had to surrender his sword once they reached the sultan’s tent, for Salāh al-Dīn had begun taking precautions for his safety after the second attempt on his life by the Assassins. The knights were disarmed, too, but ‘Imād al-Dīn said only Balian and his dragoman could enter the tent’s inner section. Giving his men a silent warning to be on their best behavior, Balian took the saker and falconer’s glove from one of them, then moved to meet his brother’s gaoler.
Salāh al-Dīn was seated cross-legged on a large cushion. Balian remembered how surprised he’d been to find that the sultan was of modest stature and amiable demeanor, for he’d envisioned their greatest enemy as a colossus among men, fierce and prideful. He’d soon realized, though, that the sultan’s power was not in his sword. It was the spirit that burned within him, the depth and breadth of his ambitions, his utter certainty that he was Allah’s instrument, fated to destroy the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem.
Bowing, Balian offered the traditional Arabic greeting, “Peace be upon you.” As much as he wanted to get right to the purpose of his visit, he knew there were proprieties to be satisfied first; hospitality was taken seriously by the Saracens. Stepping forward, Balian offered his gift, saying it would please him if the sultan would accept this token of his respect.
The token ruffled her feathers, her talons digging into the leather of his glove. Although she was hooded, all her senses were alert and she turned her head toward the sound of Balian’s voice. Sakers were prized by the Saracens, who loved hawking as much as the Franks did, and this bird was a rarity, whiter than the snow still capping Mount Hermon.
The sultan thanked him for such a splendid hurr, using the Arabic word for a female saker, and then paused. “How much of our tongue do you speak?”
“I do speak some Arabic. But I thought it best to have my dragoman accompany me so that there can be no misunderstandings between us, my lord.”
The sultan gestured to a large cushion. “Sit,” he said, “and we shall talk.”
Salāh al-Dīn had not accorded Balian the honor of a private audience, but he was attended only by ‘Imād al-Dīn and two other men, both of whom bore such a marked resemblance to him that Balian was not surprised when they were introduced as his nephew Farrukh-Shāh and his first cousin, Nāsir al-Dīn. The saker had been turned over to the sultan’s falconer and Balian had been provided with more cushions for his injured leg after Salāh al-Dīn noticed his discomfort.
It was only after the amenities had been observed that the sultan took another sip of his juice and began their negotiation. “You are here on behalf of your brother, of course.”
Balian swallowed the last of his own drink and set it on the ground. “I am, my lord.”
“We have met before, have we not? I believe you accompanied Humphrey de Toron and the Count of Tripoli when they sought a truce with me.”
Balian was impressed with the sultan’s memory. While he’d had an extended conversation with Salāh al-Dīn’s brother al-‘Ādil, he’d only exchanged greetings with the sultan. “Can you tell me if my brother is well?”
“His pride was badly bruised,” the sultan said, with a slight smile, “but he was not otherwise injured.”
Balian made no attempt to disguise his relief. “It is my hope,” he said, “that you are willing to ransom him.”
“I am willing to consider it. You are not the first one to make such a request. The Count of Tripoli and his wife are very eager to gain her son’s freedom. We have been discussing a ransom of fifty-five thousand dinars.”
That was a steep price, but one Raymond and Eschiva could afford. It was also one Baudouin might be able to afford, and some of Balian’s tension began to ease. It was then that the sultan said, “The ransom for the Lord of Ramlah would be much higher, of course, since he will become a king if he weds the leper king’s sister.”
Balian stiffened, and signaled to Yūnus to translate for him. “Tell the sultan that he is mistaken. My brother has no hopes of kingship. The Lady Sybilla is betrothed to a French lord, the Duke of Burgundy.”
As the dragoman spoke, the sultan and the other men began to look amused. “There is no betrothal, not yet. And until the lady is actually wed to another man, your brother’s ‘hopes of kingship’ remain alive and well.”
Balian barely listened to Yūnus’s whispered words, for he’d understood the sultan’s reply, understood, too, the underlying message—that the Saracens were very well informed about Baldwin’s court and the rivalries that were dividing it. “I do not deny that my brother has long wanted to wed the Lady Sybilla. It is not going to happen, though. If our king thought Baudouin would make a suitable husband for his sister, he’d have said so after she was widowed.”
The sultan shrugged. “Even if he does not become your king, the Lord of Ramlah is a man of considerable importance in your kingdom, courageous on the battlefield and outspoken in the council chamber.” Nāsir al-Dīn leaned over to speak, too swiftly for Balian to follow. Salāh al-Dīn listened before turning back to Balian. “My cousin thinks it might be best if we do not release him, pointing out that he is sure to give us more trouble once he is free. There is some truth in that. I am still willing to ransom him, though, provided that we can agree upon the terms. We will discuss this matter with him and inform you when a decision has been made.”
That was the common practice when a prisoner was highborn; he would usually be released to arrange for the ransom’s payment, so it was necessary that he agree to the amount demanded. Balian’s emotions were as conflicted at that moment as their court’s loyalties, deeply thankful that the sultan was willing to accept a ransom while chilled by the fear that it might be so exorbitant that they’d never be able to raise it.
“Thank you, my lord. Would it be possible for me to see him?” He felt no real surprise when the sultan refused, explaining that all of the prisoners had been taken to Damascus. “My brother’s freedom is my main concern, but not my only one. Seven of my knights were captured by you, my lord.” Nodding toward Farrukh-Shāh. “I wish to ransom them, too.”
The sultan’s nephew looked to be in his thirties. He was a younger brother of Taqī al-Dīn, but did not have the latter’s reputation for ferocity or hatred of the Franks. He proved that now by saying, “Your knights fought bravely, my lord, and brave men deserve to be ransomed. You may gain their freedom if you are able to pay a thousand dinars for each one.”
Ransoms were such an established custom in the Levant that the amounts had become set over the years. For an infantryman or civilian, the price was thirty-three dinars, for a knight a thousand dinars, and for a lord or prince, whatever the market might bear. Balian quickly agreed to the sum and when asked for the names, Yūnus produced a parchment scroll. Farrukh-Shāh smiled when he saw that the script was in Arabic and handed it to ‘Imād al-Dīn.
Seeing that the sultan was about to end the audience, Balian said swiftly, “My lord sultan, there is one more matter to discuss. I also wish to ransom a man named Jakelin de Mailly.”
“Another one of your knights?”
“No, my lord. He is one of the Knights Templar.”
Until now, his reception had been courteous, even cordial. The atmosphere changed, though, with the admission of Jakelin’s identity. The sultan’s eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening. “The Templars are the enemies of Allah, the scourge of my people. Why would I want to set one of them free to spill more Muslim blood?”
Balian leaned forward, the ache in his leg forgotten. “Say this to the sultan,” he told his dragoman. “Ask him if he admires courage.”
Salāh al-Dīn blinked. “Of course I do.”
“I am sure the sultan knows that the order of the Templars does not ransom their brethren if they are taken prisoner. Ask him to consider what courage it takes for a man to ride into battle knowing that if he is captured, he will have no hope of regaining his freedom. Knowing he will be doomed to pass the rest of his earthly days as a slave or in a dungeon so dark it is impossible to distinguish night from day.”
That was clearly not the argument the sultan had been expecting. His face was difficult for Balian to read. The other men were more transparent: Nāsir al-Dīn was frowning, while Farrukh-Shāh’s mouth softened in what may have been a smile. Balian kept his gaze upon Salāh al-Dīn, scarcely daring to breathe as Jakelin’s fate hung in the balance.
“I’ve heard it said that you Franks are lawyers at heart,” the sultan said after an eternity. “I think you would have made a good one, Lord Balian. I daresay I will regret it, but you may ransom your Templar friend for the sum of five thousand dinars.”
As they followed ‘Imād al-Dīn from the tent, Balian nearly collided with a man striding toward it. Stepping back, they regarded each other in mutual astonishment. “I thought you were in Egypt, my lord!” Balian exclaimed. Did al-‘Ādil’s presence here mean that the sultan planned another offensive against the Franks?
Al-‘Ādil shook his head, thinking that his brother had been no less taken aback by his unexpected arrival four sunsets ago. But when he’d gotten the request for fifteen hundred fresh troops, he’d yielded to the temptation to bring them himself, for he had family matters to discuss with Yūsuf. Realizing that Balian d’Ibelin must be here in hopes of ransoming his brother, he told ‘Imād al-Dīn that he would escort the Franks to their horses.
Balian fell into step beside al-‘Ādil, who gave him a sidelong smile. “Lord of Nablus. You have come up in the world since we last met.”
Balian took no offense, for it was true. “God has been good to me.”
Al-‘Ādil nodded approvingly, for the Qur’an said that whatever of blessings and good things a man had, it was from Allah. Not all men were wise enough to understand that. “And what of my brother the sultan? Has he been good to you, too?”
“He has.” As they walked, Balian related what had occurred in the sultan’s tent. Al-‘Ādil had expected that Balian’s brother and his knights would be ransomed. Between the expense of keeping a large army in the field and the damage that the drought had done to their economy, Yūsuf greatly needed the money. But he came to an abrupt halt when Balian said that the sultan would also ransom his Templar friend.
“You are not joking?” He looked at Balian in amused amazement. “You must have made a very good impression upon my brother if he agreed to free a Templar!”
Balian was still not sure how he’d managed it. “If you knew Jakelin de Mailly, my lord, you’d agree with me that he is a brave and honorable man.” Al-‘Ādil looked so skeptical that Balian had to laugh. He stopped, though, when he realized that he’d not asked the sultan about the fate of the grand master of the Templars. As far as he was concerned, Odo de St. Amand deserved to rot in a Damascus dungeon. Whilst it was true that Count Raymond and even Baudouin deserved some of the blame for the disaster at Marj Ayyun, the lion’s share belonged to Odo. But when it was learned that he’d seen the sultan, men would want to know what was said about the Templar grand master.
“I forgot to ask the sultan about the grand master of the Templars,” he confessed; only later would he wonder at the ease he felt with the sultan’s brother, as if they had a long history instead of a few hours together nigh on four years ago. “Try not to laugh at me if I ask you whether your brother would consider ransoming him.”
Al-‘Ādil grinned. “Actually,” he said, “the sultan offered to free the grand master in exchange for one of his amirs, captured at the battle you Franks call Montgisard.”
Balian was astonished. “But he loathes the Templars. Does he not fear releasing a man he calls the scourge of Muslims?”
Al-‘Ādil’s grin widened. “Just between us, I think he sees the grand master as our secret weapon.”
Balian could not help grinning, too, thinking that Saladin might well be right; Odo had never been one to learn from past mistakes.
Al-‘Ādil was finding this conversation very enjoyable. “Alas, the prisoner swap will not take place. Odo de St. Amand refused to agree, saying he would never pay ransom to infidels and no ‘pagan prince’ was the equal of the grand master of the Templars.”
“Jesu!” Balian had to admit, however grudgingly, that Odo de St. Amand was that rarity, a man who practiced what he preached. He still could not muster up sympathy for the Templar; his recklessness had caused the death and capture of hundreds of men, men the kingdom could not afford to lose.
By now they’d reached their horses. Al-‘Ādil stood, watching, as Balian and his knights mounted. “Do you want me to send some of my men with you until you reach the lands of the Franks?”
Balian thanked him, saying that was not necessary. For a moment, their eyes held. “I do not suppose that we will ever get to take that hunting trip together,” al-‘Ādil said at last.
“No,” Balian agreed, “I do not suppose we will.”
Maria had not argued when Balian told her he must try to ransom his brother; loyalty and duty were the underpinnings of her moral code. But when she threw herself into his arms as soon as he’d swung from the saddle, Balian realized how fearful she must have been for his safety, as she was not given to public displays of affection. He had no such inhibitions himself and kissed her, so long and so passionately that his knights began to cheer.
Maria was flushed when he finally let her go and swept Isabella up into his arms. He turned next to Helvis. Just learning to walk, she wobbled unsteadily toward him, her wet nurse hovering to catch her if she fell. He knelt so he could embrace her and when he lifted her onto his shoulders, she giggled and held on to his hair. Maria watched, smiling. Balian could still breathe in the scent of her perfume, could still feel the softness of her curves as she’d clung to him, and he wanted nothing so much as to take her into the palace and straight up to their chamber. When they lay together in bed, their bodies entwined, he could forget for a time their kingdom’s peril, the court feuds, Baldwin’s failing health, Saladin’s commitment to jihad.
He could not do that, of course, for his daughters were clamoring for his attention, his knights were bombarding him with questions about Saladin, and they had company. Amand, the Viscount of Nablus, and his wife were family, for he was wed to Baudouin’s youngest daughter, Etiennette, and Ralph, the Bishop of Sebaste, was a friend and neighbor. But the other guests were strangers: the abbot of the Greek Orthodox monastery of St. Elias, a baron from Armenian Cilicia and his entourage. Wellborn pilgrims and those traveling on Church business relied upon the hospitality of castles and monasteries rather than the inns that catered to all classes. Heaving a martyr’s sigh, Balian headed off to their chamber to make himself presentable for their guests.
After bathing, shaving, and changing into clean clothes, Balian hastened down to the hall to play the role of gracious host. He was the center of attention and over their meal, he related his experiences at the sultan’s camp. His knights were elated that their captive comrades would be freed and gave Balian grateful looks, for not all liege lords were so conscientious about the men who’d sworn fealty to them. There was rejoicing, especially by Etiennette, that Baudouin would be ransomed, and they all marveled that Balian had been able to rescue Jakelin, too. None of them were interested enough to ask about Odo de St. Amand’s fate.
The conversation then turned to Maria’s news—that a contingent of highborn French lords had landed at Acre. They included the French king’s brother, the Count of Champagne, and the bishop-elect of Beauvais. Almost as an afterthought, she remembered to mention the arrival of Amaury de Lusignan’s younger brother . . . Guy, she believed his name was.
Balian was very pleased when Maria assured him that these lords had brought many knights with them, for their kingdom’s chronic manpower shortage had become critical after the debacle at Marj Ayyun. She’d saved the best news for last—that Bishop Joscius’s marital mission had been successful. The Duke of Burgundy was willing to marry the Lady Sybilla and would sail for Outremer after he’d arranged to turn his duchy over to his fifteen-year-old son.
“God be praised,” Balian said softly. Hugh of Burgundy was said to be a fine soldier, a man accustomed to command, whilst Baldwin was a candle fast burning down to its wick, kingship becoming a cruel burden for him. Once Hugh married Sybilla, Baldwin would be able to abdicate, to live out his remaining days away from the curious eyes, the constant scrutiny, the pity.
After the meal was done, Maria briefly excused herself to put her daughters to bed. Balian usually joined in this bedtime ritual, but tonight he manfully stepped into the breach to entertain their guests until his wife returned. When she did, Maria paused in the doorway, watching as he did his best to bridge the language gap; not all of the Armenian pilgrims spoke French and the abbot’s Greek accent was so thick that he was not easy to understand. Maria smiled, deciding Balian had earned a reprieve. So, instead of retaking her seat on the dais, she gave Balian a concerned look, one filled with wifely solicitude. “My lord husband . . . is your wound bothering you again?”
Balian almost denied it from force of habit, for he was as reluctant as most men to admit to any infirmities. Catching himself in the nick of time, he confessed that his leg had indeed begun to ache. The ploy worked: Amand, Etiennette, and Bishop Ralph soon departed and the other guests were escorted by servants up to the chambers set aside for them. Balian’s energy had been flagging as the evening wore on, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn. His fatigue was forgotten, though, when Maria caught his eye and winked.
As soon as they’d reached their bedchamber, Balian set about untying the lacings of Maria’s gown as he backed her toward the bed. She cooperated at first, but once he’d stripped her down to her chemise, she caught his hand in hers. “Wait, my heart. We must talk first.”
The only conversation he had in mind at that moment was carnal. “Talk fast, then,” he urged, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat. Choosing actions over words, she placed his hand over her abdomen, pleased when he was quick to comprehend. “You are with child again?”
“I am,” she said, tilting her face up for his kiss. It was a gentle one, as she’d known it would be. When he’d learned she was pregnant with Helvis, he’d been the same way at first, acting as if she were suddenly as fragile as newly blown glass. She’d been able to reassure him with gentle humor, pointing out that Scriptures called wives the weaker vessels, not the breakable ones, and by showing him that pregnancy and passion were perfectly compatible. She reminded him of that now by returning his kiss with such ardor that he drew her even closer, murmuring something about “cloven tongues of fire” and carried her the few steps to their bed.
Afterward, they talked and she revealed that she’d missed two of her fluxes, the first whilst he was on the way to Marj Ayyun and the second that past week, after he’d departed for Saladin’s camp. “I did not say anything after the first, for I wanted to be sure. But I’ve missed two in a row only when I was carrying Isabella and Melisende, and then Helvis.”
“We have truly been blessed, Marika.” She knew he was happy that she was with child again, but she caught the undertones of unease in his voice. Understanding that he feared for her safety, she confided that she’d already begun praying to the patron saint for women in childbirth, and that seemed to reassure him somewhat. She did not tell him that she was praying to a Greek Orthodox saint, not a Latin Catholic one. Amalric had insisted that she convert to Catholicism, saying she would seem less alien and foreign to his subjects if they worshipped in the same way. Once she was widowed, she could have gone back to the faith of her childhood. She’d decided, though, that this would be confusing to Isabella, who must be raised in the Latin Church as she might be queen one day.
Maria knew she could have confessed this to Balian, who was as unlike Amalric as chalk and cheese. But every marriage had a secret or two and this was hers. It was too hot to cuddle so she settled for placing his hand again on her belly and was soon asleep.
Balian was not as lucky. As tired as his body was, his brain was racing like Baldwin’s runaway stallion. He very much wanted more children. He could not deny, though, that for women, the birthing chamber could be as dangerous as the battlefield was for men. And underlying the natural anxiety of a man for his wife, a greater fear loomed. If Maria gave him a son, what sort of future would he have? Their world seemed more dangerous now than it had when Helvis was born nigh on a year ago. What if their kingdom did not survive? What sort of legacy would they be leaving their children?
Maria awoke a few hours later and was concerned to find he was still awake. “Are you fretting about your brother’s ransom?” Propping herself up on her elbow, she was able to study his face, for they’d forgotten to quench the oil lamps in their haste to reach the bed. “You fear that Saladin will ask for a ransom so great that Baudouin and you cannot raise it? Should that happen, I will ask the emperor for help in paying it.”
“You would do that, Marika? Would the emperor agree, though?”
“He has helped to ransom other Christian lords held captive by the Saracens. He sees it as a religious duty to aid the afflicted . . . and of course such public displays of magnanimity and piety greatly enhance his prestige.” Maria’s smile was both affectionate and worldly-wise, for she was fond of her great-uncle but under no illusions about him. “Moreover, our marriage has linked you to the Greek Royal House and this is your brother. Manuel could well see this as a matter of family pride, especially if it were presented to him in that way.”
Balian kissed her, laughed, and kissed her again. Maria was delighted that her offer had eased his anxiety about Baudouin’s ransom and it had. But he’d also remembered that if the worst did happen, if he died defending Outremer and the kingdom fell to Saladin, Maria and their children would be far more fortunate than most Poulains. They could always find safety in Constantinople.