Her dress was torn, exposing one of her pale white breasts. Her eyes were wild, and she screamed and thrashed, trying to pull free of the two mamluks who were holding her down. The third mamluk was loosening the belt of his breeches. A blonde girl stood to the side, wide-eyed and sobbing. The mamluks ignored her, their eyes fixed on the Frankish woman.
John began to draw his sword, but Yusuf reached out to stop him. ‘I will handle this.’ He raised his voice. ‘What have we here, men?’
The mamluks looked up and released the woman. She scrambled over to her child and clutched the girl to her breast. The men turned to face Yusuf. He recognized Nazam – the bald-headed mamluk John had fought long ago, when they first arrived at Tell Bashir.
‘We’ve found no gold,’ Nazam said. ‘But we did find this prize. She’ll fetch a fine price on the slave market, if we don’t keep her for ourselves.’
Yusuf walked over to the woman, who shrank back in fear. He bent down and grabbed her jaw, turning her head towards him. She spat in his face. As Yusuf backed away, wiping the spit from his cheek, one of the mamluks stepped over and back-handed the woman, knocking her down. She pushed herself up, blood dripping from her lip, and the mamluk raised his fist to strike again.
‘That is enough,’ Yusuf said. ‘Leave her to me. You shall each have a dinar to compensate you.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Nazam said.
‘Now leave us,’ Yusuf ordered. ‘Report to Turan.’
‘Yes, my lord. Enjoy yourself.’ Nazam winked at Yusuf, and the men trooped out, chuckling.
When they were gone, the woman turned to John. ‘You are not one of them. Kill me. Do not let him defile me. Don’t let him sell my child.’
‘I will not hurt you,’ Yusuf said in Frankish. The woman’s eyes went wide. ‘You are free. I will escort you and your daughter to the citadel.’
‘Thank you,’ the woman sobbed in relief. She knelt before him and kissed his hand. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘We haven’t much time,’ Yusuf said, taking her hand and raising her up. He stepped outside, and the woman followed, holding her daughter. John brought up the rear. They reached the gate leading out towards the citadel without incident. It was open.
‘Go,’ Yusuf said. The woman lifted her daughter and ran up the slope towards the citadel.
‘Thank you,’ John said from behind Yusuf. ‘You did not have to do that.’
‘I did not do it for you,’ Yusuf said, his eyes still on the woman. She reached the citadel gate, and it opened just enough for her to slip through. Yusuf turned to John. ‘The Franks raped my mother when she was young. Now come. We must see to the building of the catapults.’
The next morning Yusuf stood atop the wall surrounding Banyas and looked out towards the citadel, rising high above on its hilltop. At the foot of the hill were the three enormous catapults that Nur ad-Din’s engineers had constructed. Yusuf watched as one of catapults fired. The heavy counterweight – stones and dirt gathered in a wooden bin – fell, and the long arm of the catapult rose into the air. Trailing from the far end of the arm was a leather sling, which now snapped upwards, hurling a three-hundred-pound boulder. The stone arced through the air and then shattered against the wall in a cloud of dust. When the dust cleared, the wall still stood, apparently undamaged. Then a few stones fell away and went tumbling down the hillside. A cheer went up from the Muslim camp, which was spread in a circle all around the hill on which the citadel stood. Yusuf smiled. The walls were strong, but they would fall.
From the corner of his eye Yusuf noticed movement, and he looked away from the citadel to the north. Beyond the tents of the camp, he saw a plume of dust rising into the sky. Squinting, he could make out a horse charging towards the town – a messenger. From the way he was pressing his mount, Yusuf guessed he had important news.
Yusuf left the wall and hurried to the two-storey merchant’s home in town where Nur ad-Din had established himself. Yusuf arrived just as Nur ad-Din stepped out of the house.
‘Who could this be?’ Nur ad-Din asked, looking up the street to the distant rider.
Yusuf squinted. ‘Khaldun,’ he said, recognizing his brother-in-law through the dust that covered him.
‘Salaam, Khaldun!’ Nur ad-Din hailed as the rider reined to a stop.
Khaldun dismounted and bowed before Nur ad-Din. ‘Salaam, malik.’
‘You bring news from Shirkuh?’ Nur ad-Din asked.
Khaldun nodded. ‘The Christians sent only a small force to confront Shirkuh. The main army is marching for Banyas. They will be here tomorrow.’
‘So soon,’ Yusuf whispered.
‘When will Shirkuh arrive with the rest of my men?’ Nur ad-Din asked.
‘A week, my lord.’
Yusuf looked to Nur ad-Din. ‘What shall we do? The Franks will outnumber us two to one.’
Nur ad-Din smiled. ‘We do what the Christians expect us to do: retreat.’
MAY 1157: JACOB’S FORD
John stood on the ridge of a long line of dusty, brown hills and looked down upon the Christian army as it moved through the narrow valley below, heading south alongside the silvery ribbon of the Jordan River. The Franks marched in a square formation, with foot-soldiers on the periphery providing protection for the horses of the mounted knights at the centre. But the ranks were loose. A constant stream of men left their places to go to the river and refill their skins. Most of the men marched with their helmets off and their shields strapped to their backs. A few had even removed their armour to better enjoy the beautiful spring day. Multicoloured pennants flapped gaily overhead in a cool breeze, giving the army a festive appearance. They had reason to celebrate, only three days before they had driven the Saracens from Banyas.
John turned his back on the Frankish army to look down the opposite side of the ridge, where thousands of mounted Saracen warriors were gathered out of sight of the Christians. John knew that Nur ad-Din was waiting with an equal number of men behind the hills on the other side of the valley. After leaving Banyas, Nur ad-Din had only pretended to retreat before turning south to shadow the Christians. Yesterday, he had driven his army through the night in order to lay a trap for the Franks.
John picked out Yusuf’s eagle standard amongst the men below. He would not ride with his friend today. Since taking the town of Banyas, John had been troubled by bloody nightmares. Fighting Reynald’s bandits was one thing; Reynald was a savage who had betrayed him. But John knew that he had put his soul in jeopardy by killing his fellow Christians. He did not wish to die in battle before he had received absolution.
‘The Franks have reached the ford,’ Imad ad-Din noted. He and a dozen other scribes had joined John atop the ridge, ready to record the coming battle for posterity. They sat on the ground around him, their writing tables across their laps, quills ready.
John turned back towards the Frankish army. They had reached the shallow waters of Jacob’s Ford, the safest crossing point over the Jordan River. The first foot-soldiers were already wading across, the water reaching up to their waists at the deepest point. Behind them, the army had broken its square formation, forming a column in order to cross the narrow ford. John’s stomach tightened with nervous tension. When half the foot-soldiers had reached the far bank, the first of the mounted knights entered the water, the standard of the King of Jerusalem flying above them. They were halfway across when a horn sounded from the hills on the far side of the river. As the low, mournful cry of the horn faded, the Christian army stopped, knights and foot-soldiers looking about nervously. In the silence, John could hear the distant Frankish horses, their anxious whinnies borne to him on the wind.
The blast of another horn sounded behind John, drowning out the sounds of the Frankish army. He turned to see the Saracen army on the move, Yusuf’s eagle standard flying at their head. They headed for a gap in the hills that led out to the valley.
‘Look!’ Imad ad-Din cried.
John turned to see the other half of the Saracen army pouring from the hills on the far side of the river, the
