The rest of the company was forming up in a long column, five men wide. As John walked over to join them, he wrapped a long strip of white linen around his helmet, to prevent the blazing sun from transforming the metal into an oven. He joined the column near the end, and Rabbit fell in beside him. A moment later, they set off with Ernaut riding at their head.
‘Isn’t the rearguard the most dangerous?’ Rabbit asked, his nose twitching.
‘Don’t worry,’ John replied. ‘Stick close to me and I’ll look after you.’
They were marching past the rest of the army now. First came the foot-soldiers of the kingdom of Jerusalem, thousands of men in chainmail packed close together, their ranks bristling with spears. They surrounded King Baldwin and his four hundred knights, whose impatient chargers snorted and stamped at the hard ground. The ranks of Baldwin’s men gave way to the tall Germans, who had also formed up around their king. Last of all came the French troops around King Louis and his knights. Reynald rode amongst them, and as John passed, their eyes met.
Ernaut marched his troops to the end of the line and took up his place in the centre of them. John found himself on the outside edge of the column, only a few rows from the end of the long line of warriors. Behind him, the thousands of pilgrims were clustered together in a shapeless mass.
‘Listen up, men!’ Ernaut roared to his troops as the column began to move forward. ‘King Louis has issued strict orders. If the enemy attacks, you’re to stay in close formation. I don’t care what those bastard Saracens do. If any man leaves the column, I’ll have his eyes!’
The column headed around the city to the south, the men of Jerusalem leading the way and the pilgrims straggling along in the rear. After only a few minutes of marching, John was already soaked in sweat and choking at the dust stirred up by the men ahead. He rearranged the strip of linen around his helmet so that it covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible.
The hard ground gave way to sand as it sloped down to the Barada River. John splashed into the water, sighing in relief as it washed over him up to his waist. He filled his waterskin as he waded across, then took a long drink. He lowered the skin at the sound of shouting amongst the pilgrims behind him. Looking back, he saw the southern gates of Damascus swinging open. Hundreds of Saracens on horseback poured out, galloping towards the pilgrims. In a panic the pilgrims rushed forward, eager to cross the river before the horsemen reached them.
‘Keep moving, damn it!’ Ernaut shouted. ‘Tighten the ranks! Shields up!’
John stepped closer to the man in front of him and raised his shield so that it overlapped that of the men before and after him, forming a moving wall. Behind him, he heard screams of pain as the Saracen’s first arrows hit home amongst the pilgrims. A few of the faster pilgrims were sprinting past the column now. A scattering of arrows followed them. Most shattered against the hard ground or skittered off the shields of the men in the column, but a few found their mark. John saw one arrow fly straight through a pilgrim’s chest. The man kept running for a few steps, then keeled over, dead.
John glanced over his shoulder and saw that most of the pilgrims had been trapped on the far side of the river. The Saracen horsemen had swooped down and encircled them, cutting the pilgrims off from the river and the rest of the column. They were huddled in a mass as the Saracens circled them, firing arrows into the crowd. The pilgrims with bows fired back, but with no armour and few weapons, they had no chance of holding off their well-armed attackers. Already dozens lay dead, their bodies riddled with arrows like pincushions. When the Saracens tired of their bows and closed with swords, the carnage would truly begin.
John raised his voice to address the men around him. ‘We’ve got to go back and help the pilgrims! They’ll be slaughtered!’
‘Shut your trap, Saxon!’ Ernaut shouted back. ‘Keep to your places men! If we break ranks, the Saracens will carve us up.’
‘But we can’t just let them die,’ John pressed.
‘Better them than us!’
‘’Sblood,’ John growled to himself. ‘This isn’t right.’ He had come to the Holy Land seeking redemption. What better way to achieve salvation than to die fighting to save others? He dropped his rucksack, then stepped from the line and sprinted towards the river and the pilgrims beyond.
‘Saxon, I’ll have your hide for this!’ he could hear Ernaut roaring. But John did not stop. Then he heard another voice, closer behind him.
‘John! Wait!’ John stopped, and Rabbit came up alongside him.
‘What are you doing?’ John demanded. ‘Get back to the line!’
‘You told me to stick with you.’
‘So I did.’ John drew his sword as he turned back to face the river. A few pilgrims had now reached it, and the Saracens were riding amongst them, chopping men down and staining the waters crimson. ‘Come on, then,’ John called. ‘Let’s save as many of them as we can! For Christ!’ he roared as he raised his sword and charged.
Yusuf stood on the wall beside Turan and watched wide-eyed as Unur’s men butchered the Christian pilgrims. He and Turan were squeezed in amongst a crowd of spectators: bearded men in their white caftans and turbans; women in robes and veils. All of Damascus seemed to have turned out to watch the slaughter. They cheered each time a Christian fell. A tall, drunk man beside Yusuf yelled a non-stop stream of invectives at the fleeing Christians. ‘Go back to your whore-mothers, you sons of donkeys! Goat-fuckers! Male whores! Bastard scum!’
A piercing wail of agony penetrated the roar of the crowd and the insults of the drunken man. Yusuf spotted the man — a pilgrim on his knees, an arrow protruding from his gut. As Yusuf watched, a horseman rode in close and fired an arrow directly into the wailing pilgrim’s mouth. The man’s cry ended abruptly as the arrow burst through the back of his head. The crowd roared their approval. Yusuf turned away, sick to his stomach.
He glanced at Turan, who was watching the action intently, his eyes shining and his head nodding at each Christian death. Suddenly, Turan extended his arm, pointing towards the river. ‘There’s Father!’ Yusuf looked and saw Ayub in his distinctive, silvery chainmail. He sat straight-backed in the saddle, sword in hand as he galloped down the sandy bank towards the river. Several of the pilgrims had managed to reach the water, and a pair of Christian knights had left the column to help them. The knights stood in the river as the pilgrims scrambled for safety up the bank behind them.
Yusuf watched as his father’s horse splashed into the river and headed for the larger of the two knights. To Yusuf’s surprise, the knight charged straight for Ayub, wading through the waistdeep water with his sword held high. Ayub prepared to deliver his blow, but at the last second the knight seemed to trip and disappeared beneath the water. Ayub reined in his horse, looking for his foe. A moment later, the knight burst from the water beside Ayub’s horse. He grabbed hold of Ayub and pulled him from the saddle. As Ayub disappeared beneath the water, the Christian knight pulled himself into the saddle. He slapped the flank of the horse with the flat of his sword and rode downstream to confront another Muslim warrior. The waters behind him stilled. There was no sign of Ayub.
‘Where is he?’ Yusuf whispered. He grabbed Turan’s arm and shouted, ‘Where’s Father?’
‘We’ve got to help him,’ Turan said.
Yusuf shook his head. ‘Father told us to stay here.’
‘Stay, then. You’d be of no use anyway.’ Turan turned away and ran for the ramp that led down from the wall.
‘No, wait!’ Yusuf shouted as he hurried after his brother. The two sprinted down from the wall and flew through the streets, back to their house. They burst inside to find the building deserted. The warriors had all left to fight with Ayub, and the servants had gone to the walls to watch.