Yusuf banged open the door to his chamber. The suit of chainmail that his father had given him hung from a hook on the far wall, next to Yusuf’s sword and helmet. He pulled on the heavy armour and conical helmet, then buckled his sword around his waist. He stumbled towards the stables, clumsy in the ill-fitting chainmail.
Yusuf entered the stables to find Turan saddling a horse. He looked at Yusuf and frowned. ‘You should stay here. You’ll get yourself killed.’
‘I will help to save Father,’ Yusuf replied as he grabbed his own saddle and heaved it on to another horse. ‘And if I cannot, then I will avenge his death.’ Turan smirked, but said nothing as he led his horse to the stable door and pulled it open. Yusuf pulled tight the girth that held his horse’s saddle in place, and then followed his brother out into the street, where Turan swung himself easily into the saddle and galloped away, the hooves of his horse kicking up dust.
Yusuf closed the stable door and then struggled to haul himself up into the saddle. Gritting his teeth with a final effort, he pulled himself up and spurred after Turan. The jolting of his horse kept knocking Yusuf’s helmet down so that it covered his eyes, and it was all that he could do to catch up with his brother. The two of them raced down the main street and past the towering mosque. They thundered across a wooden bridge that spanned the Barada River where it flowed through the centre of Damascus, and headed for the southern gate. Ahead, Yusuf could see hundreds of people crowded atop the wall. As he and Yusuf neared, several men turned and cheered. Then the gate flashed by, and they were beyond the wall.
Yusuf’s horse stopped and reared, shying at the strong scent of blood on the air. His helmet fell over his eyes and he felt himself falling backwards. He reached out blindly and managed to grab hold of his horse’s mane, keeping himself in the saddle. He hung on desperately until his horse settled. When he pushed his helmet back from his eyes he saw utter chaos. Unur’s warriors had shouldered their bows and closed with swords, and the pilgrims had scattered in all directions. Two Christians in brown robes sprinted by Yusuf’s horse, not ten feet away. A horseman galloped after them, slashing left and right as he brought down first one, then the other.
‘The river!’ Turan yelled, pointing to their right. He spurred forward, and Yusuf followed. They galloped down the sandy bank and splashed into the cold water.
‘Father!’ Yusuf cried as he peered into the clear waters around him. ‘Father!’ Dead bodies, weighed down by armour, littered the river bed, but there was no sign of Ayub. Shouting in Frankish drew Yusuf’s eyes from the water. Just downstream, eight Christian pilgrims were wading across the river, led by two knights, one on foot and the other on horseback. As Yusuf watched, the one on horseback shouted something, then turned and rode back to gather more pilgrims.
‘Bastards!’ Turan shouted. ‘You will pay for the death of my father!’ He drew his curved sword and spurred towards the Christians, who drew together in a compact mass, bristling with spears and pitchforks. Turan charged into them, batting aside spears with his shield and bowling men over with his horse. He lashed out to his right and a Christian stumbled away, his face a mask of blood. The other pilgrims closed around Turan, stabbing at him from all sides. He fought furiously, turning his horse in a circle and knocking spears away with his shield while hacking with his sword. A spear sneaked through his defences and gashed his side. Turan roared in pain but kept fighting.
‘Turan, I’m coming!’ Yusuf yelled. He cast his bulky helmet aside and drew his sword. He kicked his horse’s flanks, charging through the river towards the mass of pilgrims. Two of the Christians — the young knight in chainmail and a wiry, greybearded man dressed in tattered linens — turned to face Yusuf. The knight held a sword, its blade flashing in the sunlight, while the old man wielded a pitchfork. As Yusuf neared, the old man smiled madly, revealing rotting, crooked teeth.
At the last second Yusuf veered towards the knight, knocking him aside with his horse. The old man stabbed at Yusuf’s chest with his pitchfork, and Yusuf instinctively pulled on the reins, backing his horse so that the thrust missed him. He grabbed the shaft of the pitchfork and pulled, bringing the old man close. Then Yusuf hacked down, cleaving the old pilgrim’s head and spilling blood and brains into the river. Yusuf’s stomach turned. The man stayed standing for a moment, a lunatic’s smile still on his lips despite the sword lodged in his skull. Yusuf was still trying to withdraw his sword when the man fell, his weight yanking the sword from his grasp.
Defenceless, Yusuf looked up to see a lanky pilgrim, spear in hand, wading towards him. The pilgrim stabbed at Yusuf, who jerked back on the reins. His horse reared, and the spear plunged into its chest. One of the horse’s hooves clipped the pilgrim in the head, knocking him unconscious. Then, whinnying in pain and fright, the horse fell. Yusuf jumped clear and landed on his back with a splash. He sank beneath the water, his armour pulling him down.
Through the wavering waters, Yusuf could see the bright sun fixed in the cloudless sky high above him. He struggled to rise towards the air, but then collapsed back on the hard rocks of the river bed, weighed down by his chainmail. He began to panic as he grew short of air. Again he tried to sit up, but sank back down. His lungs ached now, and his hands strained towards the light, searching to grab hold of something. Yusuf closed his eyes, forcing himself to be calm. This was no different from one of his fits. If he did not panic, then he would survive. He managed to roll over on his stomach and pushed himself up on his knees. Then, with a last effort, he straightened, gasping for breath as he broke the surface. He knelt in the river, the water touching his chin as he struggled to recover his breath. Then he felt a shadow cross over him and looked up. Standing before him was a Christian knight, his sword raised high. The knight was beardless and thin — little older than Yusuf himself — and his nose was twitching violently. Yusuf looked past the boy’s face to his sword, glinting in the sunlight. He closed his eyes as the sword began its fatal descent.
Nothing happened. Yusuf opened his eyes to see the young knight still standing before him. Only now the boy was staring wide-eyed at his own chest, and Yusuf followed his gaze to see a sword blade protruding from the young knight’s armour. The sword disappeared, and the boy toppled to the side. In his place stood Turan.
Yusuf took the hand that Turan offered him, and his older brother pulled him to his feet. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ Yusuf said. ‘I owe you my life.’
‘Don’t forget it,’ Turan said and stepped aside. Past him, Yusuf saw a Muslim warrior in silvery chainmail, facing off against the last of the pilgrims. The warrior sidestepped a spear thrust and hacked down, finishing off the pilgrim. Then the warrior turned, and Yusuf’s eyes widened in disbelief.
‘Father! You’re alive!’
Ayub did not reply. His face was set in a grim mask as he waded over to Yusuf and slapped him hard across the face. Ayub bent down and grabbed Yusuf by the arms, pulling him close so that their faces were only inches apart. ‘By Allah, I told you to stay at the walls!’ he growled. ‘Were it not for your brother, you would be dead. Dead!’ Tears welled in Yusuf’s eyes. ‘Look at you, crying like a woman,’ Ayub said with disgust as he released Yusuf. ‘At least your brother has the makings of a warrior. You are worthless.’ Ayub turned and stormed out of the river and up the bank towards Damascus. Yusuf followed, his head hung in shame.
‘Stay together!’ John roared at the pilgrims massed behind him. He had managed to rally over three-dozen men and had arranged them in a column four wide, spears bristling on all sides. John rode at their head, leading them at a quick march towards the river. Many of the pilgrims had picked up shields from fallen Saracens, and they held the circular leather bucklers close together, forming a patchwork wall around the outside of the column. But the small shields offered only limited protection from the arrows of the Saracens, who circled the column on horseback, shooting into the mass of men. As John watched, one of the men just behind him went down with an arrow in his leg. Two pilgrims immediately picked him up and carried him to the inside of the column, while another man stepped out to take his place. A second later, that man fell dead, an arrow in his throat. At this rate, John reflected, he would be lucky to reach the main column with a dozen men. ‘Pick up the pace!’ he shouted back. ‘And keep together!’