King Louis stood and waited for the rumbling to subside. ‘You speak of Unur as a great ally, a friend. You say he is bound to us by treaty. And yet, this very morning his spies were found outside our walls! This is not the act of a friend. Unur has pissed all over your precious treaty!’ Chaos erupted as Raymond’s men yelled out in protest, and Louis’s men shouted back. Louis raised his hand, calling for silence. ‘We would be fools to trust this godless heathen. If we march north on Aleppo, then what is to stop him from betraying us and attacking Jerusalem while we are gone?’
‘Hear, hear!’ Louis’ men were seconded by Conrad’s nobles and the Templars.
‘See!’ Amalric whispered to John.
John nodded. The ‘spies’ were a ploy to convince the council to move on Damascus. Reynald had held the tournament to eliminate the only witnesses. ‘How do you know these things?’ he demanded. ‘Who are you?’
Amalric placed a finger to his lips. ‘ Shhhh. ’ He nodded back towards the council floor. ‘There’s more. Watch King Baldwin.’
Baldwin was shifting nervously on his throne while Raymond concluded: ‘If we attack Aleppo, we can crush Nur ad-Din before he grows too powerful. But if we attack Damascus, we will force our enemies to join together.’
‘Then we can defeat them all at once!’ Conrad declared, and the assembled knights roared their approval.
Raymond turned from the German king in disgust. ‘What say you, Queen Melisende?’
The hall quieted. ‘This crusade was called to avenge the loss of Edessa,’ she said, her sharp voice filling the hall. ‘Taking Aleppo will stop Nur ad-Din and allow us to reclaim Edessa. I say we strike there.’
‘I say differently,’ King Baldwin declared. Melisende sat forward, clearly surprised. ‘Aleppo is far. Attacking it will leave our kingdom vulnerable. After today’s incident with Unur’s spies, I do not believe we can take such a risk. Damascus is close and rich. Once we take it, then we will have wealth enough to hire all the men we need. We will be able to take Aleppo at our leisure.’
‘You speak out of turn, Son,’ Melisende reprimanded.
Baldwin hesitated, his tongue flicking over his lips. He looked to King Louis, then to Reynald, who nodded encouragement. Baldwin swallowed and spoke: ‘No, mother. I am the King. It shall be as I say.’
‘To Damascus!’ King Louis shouted.
His cry was echoed throughout the hall. ‘ Damascus! Damascus!’
‘No! No! No!’ Raymond shouted, his face red. ‘You damned greedy bastards! If you move on Damascus, then you will do so without me!’ He looked to Baldwin. ‘Think well on that, King.’
All eyes turned to Baldwin. He said only one word. ‘Damascus.’ The hall exploded into confusion as half the men present roared their approval, the other half their anger. Fights broke out on the floor between Raymond’s and Louis’s men. In the confusion, Raymond stormed from the hall. John noted that Eleanor began to rise to follow him, but Louis grabbed her arm, holding her down.
Baldwin also left, striding down the middle of the hall. He stopped near the exit and turned to Amalric. ‘Come, Brother. We have work to do.’
Giving John a wink, Amalric followed Baldwin from the hall.
Shocked, John stood staring after the boy until Reynald came up and clapped him on the back. ‘Let’s get back to camp,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to pack for Damascus.’
‘Damascus,’ John whispered. Back in England, men returned from the first crusade had spoken of it as a fabulous city, second only to Jerusalem. ‘It will be a great victory for God.’
Reynald grinned. ‘Yes. And it will make us rich!’
Chapter 3
JULY 1148: DAMASCUS
Yusuf buckled his new sword belt tight about his waist and drew the curved blade, marvelling at its beauty. It had been made not far from the room where he now stood, in the famed forges of Damascus, and the bright steel was covered with interlacing patterns of darker grey. Yusuf tested the blade with his thumb and winced as the razor-sharp edge drew a thin trickle of blood. He carefully sheathed the sword, then pulled on the conical 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.