The Red King, page 19
part #2 of Roger of Huntley Series
There was shock. Most had expected a different answer from this most warlike of kings. After a moment, the count of Soissons said, “How do you propose to lure him out, sire?”
“We’ll knock out the props supporting his empire. By doing that, we’ll force him to come down from the hills and give battle.” He paused, looking over the suddenly disheartened assemblage. “We’ll begin with Ascalon. Ascalon dominates the road from Egypt. Saladin has torn down its walls, but if we fortify it, we can block him from his most valuable source of reinforcements and supplies. He’ll have to try and take it back. And that’s when we will destroy him.”
If Richard was expecting cheers, or indeed any kind of positive response, he was sorely disappointed, because there was none. Nonetheless, he knew this was a sound move in the chess match between himself and the sultan. Time would be a factor in its execution, of course, but Richard could afford to remain in the Holy Land a while yet. It would be a closely run thing, but he could still win the immortality he had come here to achieve and get home to prevent King Philip from doing major damage to the Angevin holdings in France.
There was more silence. At last the duke of Burgundy voiced everyone’s unspoken question. “What about Jerusalem?”
“Jerusalem must wait. As our friends from the military orders have pointed out, an advance now is like to end in disaster.”
“You’re saying we should retreat?” Burgundy growled.
“Not retreat. Withdraw.”
Henry of Deraa yanked off his helmet and slammed it into the mud. “By all that’s holy, we came here to take Jerusalem or die, and that is what we should do. I don’t care how many armies Saladin has out there.”
There was a roar of approval from the nobles.
Richard replied coolly. “That is easy for you to say, Lord Henry. You are responsible only for your own life and the lives of your men. I am responsible for the entire army. I am responsible to history.”
“Conrad wouldn’t turn back,” Burgundy said.
“Conrad would have taken the city months ago,” someone shouted.
“I’m tired of hearing about Conrad,” Richard snapped. “If Conrad were in charge of the army, his head would be on a pole by now and all your bones would be rotting in the desert. You men are so confident of victory, you ignore the obstacles before you. You think they will magically disappear, that God will intervene to save you. If God would do that, why did He permit the Holy City to fall to the infidels in the first place?”
The earl of Leicester knew the answer to that. “Because the Christians of this country are sinners. Because they dress like women and fornicate and consort with Muslims. It was God’s way of punishing them.”
Richard sighed. Leicester was a formidable warrior, but he could be wearying at times. “Be that as it may, I refuse to lead the army into Saladin’s trap. We will start back for Jaffa, then go to Ascalon.”
There was silence in the tent. Without a word, the duke of Burgundy stormed out, followed by his barons. Gradually the others left, as well, until only Richard, Alart and Andrew of Chauvigny were left under the awning.
Word of what was happening spread through the army. It was met first by stunned disbelief, then by anger. The ecstasy these men had known only a few hours before turned to devastation, to rage. The nobles were met with boos and catcalls as they left the council, even the ones who had wanted to go on, and for a moment they feared for their lives, so enraged were their men. The slightest spark would have set off a mutiny. Fortunately, that spark was not forthcoming.
The army was turned around in the easiest way possible, reversing the order of march, with the Hospitallers assuming the van and the Templars bringing up the rear. Even that could not be accomplished without difficulty because each unit’s marching order had to be rearranged before it could get under way, and pack animals had to be shunted aside to fall in at the end of their companies. The rain and the men’s sullen mood did not help. Many of the footmen took off the badges of their lords and threw them in the mud.
“My men will go last,” Henry of Deraa informed Robert de Sable, who was now in charge of the rear guard, and so foul was Henry’s mood, the Templar dared not argue with him.
“Permission to go with you?” asked the squire Tatwine, who now commanded Roger’s Death’s Heads.
“Granted,” Henry said.
King Richard stood in the rain at the end of the column and looked back toward the hills where Jerusalem lay. It was heartbreaking to have come this far and then have to turn around, but he knew he had made the right decision. Christian arrogance and underestimation of the enemy had led to a massacre at Hattin; there would be no repeat of that while Richard commanded the army.
Henry stood nearby, looking backward as well. The two men were alone, Henry’s men being some little distance off, and the rest of army well down the road. Henry and Richard stood side by side for some time, then Henry murmured, “Time to go, sire. Saracen scouts will be here soon.”
Richard nodded, then mounted and started off. He wished the Saracens would show up. He needed to take out his frustrations on someone. Behind him, Henry and his men followed.
From ahead came a cry.
Richard spurred Fauvel forward. “What’s happened?” he said as he approached the mud-spattered Templars of the rear guard.
“It’s the earl of Trent, sire,” said Robert de Sable, pointing up the line. “He’s gone unconscious and fallen from his horse.”
§
Huddled in their cloaks against the rain and cold, Saladin and his retinue watched the departing Christian army from a hilltop near Bet Nable.
“They fell for it,” said Saladin’s oldest son, al-Afdal. “They actually fell for it.”
“Allah be praised,” said Saladin’s chronicler Beha ad-Din.
As usual, Saladin showed little emotion. He turned to Qaymaz and in a conversational tone, as though they were discussing the price of grain, he said, “That was an excellent idea of yours, Qaymaz.”
Qaymaz bowed his head modestly.
In November Saladin had sent most of his army home for the winter. Then Richard had stolen a march on him by advancing on al-Quds. Saladin had been taken by surprise—he had not expected Richard to advance so late in the season. He frantically attacked the oncoming Christians with the few men left to him, then pretended to negotiate. Anything to slow the feringhees down. Anything to buy time. He had thought all was lost when the Christians took Latrun and approached Bet Nable, then Qaymaz had come up with his plan, and now the infidels were leaving.
There was no Egyptian army. There were campfires in the hills, but there was no one to man them. The farmers and herdsmen who had spoken to the feringhee scouts were Qaymaz’s spies. For all practical purposes, al-Quds was empty of defenders. Rik and his soldiers could have entered the city without opposition.
Qaymaz studied the sultan. Saladin was unwell, and Qaymaz hoped the old man—funny thinking of him that way, he was only a few years older than Qaymaz—lived long enough to see the infidels off. Qaymaz had a bad feeling about what would happen when the sultan was gone. Saladin’s oldest son, the Bull, was not fit to be a good ruler. His second son, al-Aziz, would be better; but his brother, al-Adil, would be better still. And therein lay the seeds of conflict. Plus there were deteriorating relations with the caliph of Baghdad, which meant the possibility of war on two fronts in the near future.
Normally a great lord like Qaymaz might aspire to seize the sultanate for himself with the succession so unsettled, but though Qaymaz had wealth and power and a keen military mind, he did not want the top spot. As sultan, you were always a target, you always had men scheming against you. Qaymaz did not enjoy statecraft, he liked war; and when he was not at war he preferred to be with his harim or hunting. He was especially enamored of the infidel woman Ailith. His loins ached at the thought of her, which was why he tried not to think of her too often.
To Saladin he said, “Do you think Rik and the other ‘crusaders’ will go home now?”
“They will go home at some point, but I know not when,” Saladin said.
The Bull chuckled. “Then we shall only have to face the mighty ‘King’ Guy.”
“What about al-Markis, Conrad?” al-Aziz said. “Do not forget him.”
“I have not forgotten al-Markis,” Saladin said. “He is the one I fear. Rik will go home one day, perhaps one day soon, but al-Markis intends to stay.”
PART IV
Chapter 46
March 1192
QAYMAZ’S SLAVES, including the men from Hut Three, were still working on the irrigation ditch. The new gardens were supposed to be ready for the birthday of Qaymaz’s wife, but because of the weather, the ditch that would provide them water through the dry months was behind schedule. And when the ditch was finished, the slaves still had to build the windmill that would drive water from the river to the gardens. The slaves were covered with muck, which, since they never bathed, formed a more or less permanent—and growing—crust on their bodies and clothes.
Roger was chopping brush with a shovel—the only tool allowed to the men. He slipped in the mud, cut his hand and swore. Behind him, Borchard chuckled as he heaved a shovelful of mud outside the waterlogged ditch. “Thought you were going to escape, Roger? Why, I thought you’d be in Jerusalem by now. Hell, I thought you’d take Jerusalem single handed. Or maybe you’d already be back home, where they’d make you a duke or something on account of all your heroic deeds.”
Roger shook the blood from his hand. “I am going to escape,” he told Borchard. “I’ll get out of this place or die trying.”
“Me, I’m betting on the second result,” Borchard said.
“Betting on it, or hoping for it?” Pentecost said.
“Same thing,” Borchard replied.
Father Lambert stood above the ditch, carrying water and bread for the workers. He chastised Borchard. “That’s an un-Christian attitude, Borchard. We need to be on each other’s side here. Perhaps this denigration of your fellows is why you’ve never risen to knight from man-at-arms.”
Borchard replied hotly. “A pox on you, old man. I’ve never risen to knight because—”
“Because you’re stupid,” Roger said.
“Stop talking!” Mahmoud yelled at them. “Work!”
In truth, Borchard was right. Escaping hadn’t proved as easy as Roger had imagined. He and his comrades had first tried making a break for it. They had waited for the right time, but the guards had started mounted patrols to watch for that very thing. It was almost like somebody had warned them what the slaves might do.
Next, Roger and his men had tried digging a tunnel, using the wooden spoons provided them for their meals, but they hadn’t gotten very far. The weather had been particularly bad that winter, and the ground was so wet that the initial hole’s sides kept falling in before they could even start the tunnel. At last the hole had partially filled with water, rendering its use a moot point.
The slaves kept working on the ditch. Finally the sun began to set—or would have, had they been able to see it through the clouds—and the slaves were herded back to their huts.
Their path took them by the rear of the palace, on a balcony of which veiled members of the harim idled beneath an awning which protected them from the rain.
The sailor Tillo pointed. “Look—women. Wonder what kind of meat old Qaymaz keeps up there? I’d like to bend those bitches over and show them what a real—”
Mahmoud lashed Tillo across the face with his staff. “How dare you! It is forbidden for in infidel to look upon the women of the harim. I would put out your eyes, but we need you for work.” He struck Tillo again. “Perhaps when the ditch is finished.”
He hit him once more and the little column slogged on.
§
On the balcony, some of the women of the harim watched Tillo being beaten. Others ignored it. They had seen similar incidents most of their lives and only a few of those who watched showed any reaction. Lamiya, the Ethiopian, averted her eyes, sickened, while saucy Rasha chuckled, and Aysun, the Preferred One, laughed out loud.
Ailith stood apart from the others and looked on without interest. She was tired and sore from a long night with the emir Qaymaz, who had returned from attending the sultan. Suddenly she stiffened and watched more closely. There was something about the way the lead slave moved . . .
She studied the man intently. Where had she . . . ?
No, it couldn’t be. It was impossible.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she struggled not to cry out or let the others see her reaction.
It was. It was Roger.
What was he doing here?
He had been captured, obviously. But when? How?
There had been rumors of a great battle in which the crusaders had been annihilated. Perhaps he had been taken there. But there were always rumors like that. In the harim you were isolated from the world outside and it was impossible to know the truth.
She knew one thing, though.
She had to contact him.
Chapter 47
THE NEXT evening, the men filed into the hut as usual, exhausted, hungry, sick. As the door was locked behind them, most wasted no time stretching out on their flea-ridden straw pallets. Pentecost, whose pallet was next to Roger’s, spoke to Roger in a low voice. “Maybe Borchy’s right. Maybe the only way out of here is to fly.”
“Then we’ll learn to fly,” Roger told him.
The food came. Tonight the normally tasteless aysh was seasoned with something. “Ginger, it smells like,” Pentecost said. “Maybe fennel as well.”
“That’s odd,” said the native Christian Yves.
There was also a bucket of flavorful hummus instead of plain chickpeas.
“Odder still,” Hillaire remarked.
Lastly the younger guard Yasir brought in a pail of something else.
“My God, that smells like broth,” marveled Alberic the merchant. “To what do we owe this miracle?”
“Qaymaz probably had some bathwater he needed to get rid of,” Pentecost said.
Alberic sniffed the steaming broth. “Smells like a piece of meat might have been dipped into it at one time.”
“Maybe a stray cat fell in while they were cooking it,” Hillaire said.
“Why so much food?” Roger asked Yasir before he left.
Yasir shrugged. “Doctor say.”
“Doctor? What doctor?”
But Yasir was already gone.
Lambert blessed the food, then Roger and Pentecost doled it out. The starving men fell to with a will, spooning the broth noisily, dipping the seasoned flatbread into the hummus.
“This broth is actually decent,” said Ahmed with an air of disbelief.
“Maybe Qaymaz has seen the light and become a Christian,” Father Lambert suggested.
Outside, there was a commotion, followed by a raised voice.
“I am the emir’s physician. He has sent me to examine his slaves.”
“Why?” That was Mahmoud.
“Do I look stupid enough to question the emir’s orders? You are welcome to do so if you wish, but for now let me get this ghastly task over with so that I may return to the palace and my regular duties.”
A pause, followed by a thunk as the bar was drawn from the hut door. A creak. Lantern light in the dusk, and the doctor entered, wrinkling his nose and stepping back at the hut’s smell.
Roger started. The doctor was Hassan.
Roger almost jumped up to greet him, but some inner sense told him not to. Hassan looked over the hut’s inhabitants with a cold eye belied by his plump figure. His eyes met Roger’s and lingered for a heartbeat, but he said nothing.
“Line up,” he ordered the slaves. “Hurry, I do not have all night, and you people stink worse than the deck of a slave ship.”
Hassan grumpily examined each of the men in turn, while Mahmoud watched him from the doorway, suspicious. Hassan gave some of the men medicine from a vial; others, like Zoran, he turned away without remark. Beckoning Pentecost to hold the lantern closer, Hassan pulled one of Lambert’s remaining teeth and tossed it on the floor. The old priest winced, then rinsed out the blood with water from the communal bucket and spat it onto the dust of the hut.
Hassan next attended the men’s latest bruises, applying salve to them and muttering. “You ungrateful fools insult your betters, then I have to make you well. The master wants you working, not lying in bed all day like a whore’s cat.”
When he was finished, he distributed oranges from a large sack he had brought with him. “These will keep your strength up. The master has need of you—at least until the gardens are finished. After that your lives will be meaningless, because by then we will have destroyed your infidel army and there will be thousands more slaves to replace you.”
The men tore into the sweet oranges greedily, devouring them skin and all. With Mahmoud still watching from the doorway, Hassan examined Roger, applying salve to his bruises as well. “Another imbecile who makes work for me.” Then he added in a low voice, “I heard you were here. I visited each hut to find you.” He rubbed in more cooling salve. “The Lady Ailith sends her greetings.”
This time Roger started so forcefully that Hassan had to pressure his shoulder to hold him still. “Stop acting like a child, infidel. That doesn’t hurt.”
Roger whispered, “Ailith? She’s here?”
“Sh-h-h.” Hassan glanced over his shoulder at Mahmoud. “She is a member of Qaymaz’s harim. She saw you the other day from the balcony.”
Roger tried to digest this. He had no idea Ailith was here. Dirk must have given—or sold—her to Qaymaz.
Hassan went on, rubbing in more salve. “She says not to give up hope. She will be in touch soon.”
