helmet that his father had given him. It was too large: only his ears kept the hard iron from sinking down over his eyes. Yusuf stepped in front of the polished bronze mirror in his room and frowned. The slate-grey chainmail that he wore was too long, covering his hands and hanging well below his knees, and the tip of the sword hanging from his waist almost touched the ground.
Turan entered behind Yusuf. His new armour was a perfect fit. ‘You look like a scarecrow,’ Turan smirked, and he slapped Yusuf on the back of the head so that his helmet slid down over his eyes.
Ayub stepped into the doorway. ‘You look a true warrior, Turan.’ Yusuf pushed up his helmet to see Turan grinning proudly. Ayub looked at Yusuf and frowned.
‘When will we fight the Christians, Father?’ Turan asked.
‘Inshallah, you will not have to fight, not if Emir Unur finally acknowledges Nur ad-Din as his overlord in return for aid against the Christians. I only pray that Nur ad-Din arrives before the Franks.’
‘If Nur ad-Din becomes Unur’s overlord, will he force the emir to return Baalbek to you?’ Yusuf asked.
‘Perhaps. In time, I might even be given something more.’ Ayub cracked a rare smile. ‘But that is for the future. Now, we must look to save ourselves. The Franks are many, and if Nur ad-Din does not arrive in time, the city may fall. You must be prepared to fight, to the death if needs be. I will not have my sons taken as slaves.’
Turan drew his sword and slashed it from side to side. ‘I will kill any Frank who dares stand before me.’
Ayub nodded. ‘If you must fight, then I am certain you will bring honour to our family. Now come. It is time that you both begin your education as warriors. I will show you how the walls are to be defended.’
Yusuf followed his father and Turan out into the narrow street that ran in front of their home. They turned right, Abaan and four other mamluks marching around them as an escort. Ayub nodded towards a man hammering up boards to cover the windows and doors of his home. ‘Little good it will do him if the Franks take the city.’
They reached the city’s main street, which was crowded with men and women lugging their possessions in heavy sacks, fleeing east, away from the Christians. A long train of camels passed, each bearing two heavy chests. The caravan was surrounded by heavily armed guards.
‘Moneychangers,’ Ayub spat. ‘Always the first to flee. And taking good men with them.’ Once the camels had passed, Ayub turned towards the city’s eastern wall. It was squat – as thick as it was tall – and built of brown bricks made from clay dredged from the river that flowed through Damascus. It did not look very imposing. Yusuf followed his father up a ramp to the top of the wall beside the Bab Tuma, the city’s eastern gate. From where he stood, Yusuf could see only a dozen troops, staggered along the wall at wide intervals.
‘Where are the emir’s men?’ he asked.
‘To the north and west,’ Ayub replied. ‘The walls are at their weakest here, but the desert offers its own protection.’ He gestured past the wall to the dry, cracked earth that stretched away to the horizon. ‘No army can last long out there.’
Ayub led them north. As they walked, the wall rose higher beneath them and became more and more crowded with mamluk soldiers. They passed through the upper rooms of the Gate of Peace, where a huge vat of oil sat over a smouldering fire, ready to be poured on any attackers who came too close to the gate. As they neared the Gate of Paradise, the empty waste beyond the wall gave way to fields, then to the lush orchards of Damascus. They continued to the western gate, the Bab al-Jabiya, where they paused to watch the mamluk warriors pouring out of the city and heading into the orchards.
‘The orchards are the key to Damascus,’ Ayub told them. ‘Always remember: strength of numbers, bravery and steel are important, but an army cannot survive without food and water. Whoever controls the orchards controls the lifeblood of the city. The emir will concentrate his forces there. If they are taken, his men will fall back to the walls. They might hold them for several months. But eventually the city will run short of food and it will fall.’
Yusuf gazed over the orchards, which ran for miles towards the rocky foothills of the nearby mountains. It was from these that the Franks would come. Yusuf was looking away when he saw something out of the corner of his eye – the flash of the sun off steel. There it was again. Squinting against the bright morning light, he could just make out tiny figures moving over the hills, headed for Damascus. ‘ Look!’ he said, pointing.
‘The Franks,’ Ayub whispered. A moment later one of the sentries in the nearby tower caught site of the enemy, and a trumpet blast shattered the air, followed by another, then another. ‘Allah protect us. They are here.’
John gritted his teeth against the pain in his back and legs as he trudged up the steep hill. His heavy pack dug into his shoulders, his armour chafed against his sides, and his feet were swollen after days on the long march from Acre. He reached a flat spot and sighed in relief as he stepped aside and dropped his pack, letting the other soldiers plod past. He looked back at the long line of men. The mounted knights had mostly passed, leaving the foot-soldiers to slog on, bent under their heavy packs, their spears held aloft and bobbing up and down as they walked. Behind them came a ragged band of pilgrims, with no armour and lightly armed with bows, spears or simple wooden staffs. They had come to pray in Damascus after the Christian victory, but they would fight if necessary. John turned his gaze to the sun, hazy brown through the thick cloud of dust kicked up by the army. Grit was everywhere, in John’s nose, his eyes, his mouth. He unstopped his waterskin and held it to his lips, but it was empty. ‘’Sblood,’ he spat. Even his spit was brown.
‘Keep moving, Saxon!’ Reynald called as he rode past. ‘We’ll be there soon enough.’
‘Easy for you to say,’ John muttered under his breath as he shouldered his rucksack. Bone-tired, he walked on with his head down, eyes on the parched, rocky ground before him. He was so intent on putting one foot in front of the other that he did not immediately notice when the slope began to level off. When he finally looked up, he saw that he stood atop the crest of a long rise, with Damascus, the garden of Syria, spread out on the valley floor below. A dark brown wall enclosed a warren of narrow streets that cut between square houses of creamy white and light brown. In the centre of the city, rising above it all, was the dome of a giant mosque. Beyond the walls, a verdant expanse of gardens and orchards – ancient Roman aqueducts rising high above the thick trees – spread west from the city towards the ridge where John stood. The brilliant green of the gardens was a sharp contrast to the cracked, dry landscape that the crusaders had marched across and which resumed on the far side of the city. A thin stream flowed through those parched lands, entering the city and flowing out again just to the south of the gardens. John licked his parched lips. He could almost taste the cool water.
He marched with renewed vigour as he descended to where the army was drawing up ranks on the plain before the orchard. There he found a dozen men from his company of fifty sitting on their helmets before one of the narrow paths leading into the orchards. They were all covered in dust. Some sat with their heads between their legs. Others stared vacantly ahead. John flung down his pack and sat beside Rabbit. The young man held out his waterskin.
‘I saved some,’ he said.
John took the skin and shook it, feeling the water slosh inside. He took a sip, just enough to rinse the dust from his mouth. ‘By God, that’s good,’ he said, handing the skin back.
Shortly after the last of the men had joined them, Reynald rode up. The men rose, groaning and cursing at the pain in their feet and backs. ‘Well done, men!’ Reynald shouted. ‘Damascus is almost within our grasp. The kings have decided to push through the orchards to the walls. We are to march through on this path, clearing out any enemy that we find, and reconvene at the river on the far side. Stop for nothing. Any man who breaks ranks to collect spoils will be flogged on orders of King Louis himself. Is that understood?’ Reynald glared at the men. ‘Ernaut, you will take the lead. I will follow with the rest of the men.’ Reynald spurred his horse towards the rear of the troop.
‘All right, you heard him!’ Ernaut shouted from horseback. ‘Let’s get going. The sooner we reach that river, the better.’
The company formed into a column, and John and Rabbit found themselves at the front, just behind One Eye and the old crusader Tybaut. They marched down a narrow path that ran between shoulder-high mud walls. The branches of tall walnut trees heavy with nuts hung out over the walls and met overhead, casting dark, ever-shifting shadows on the trail. The air was thick with dust from marching feet, mingled with the smell of ripening fruit. Walnuts crunched underfoot, adding their rich aroma.
Looking beyond the walls and the thick trunks of the walnut trees, John could see plots of green vegetables, rows of vines heavy with ripening grapes, tall palms crowded with coconuts and closely planted trees weighed
