‘Sire!’ John shouted. ‘Look!’ The Saracen ranks were dissolving as first dozens, then hundreds of men turned and galloped upstream. Within seconds, Shirkuh’s entire army was in flight.
‘God damn them, not again!’ Amalric cursed. ‘The milk-livered, craven-’ He stopped short and took a deep breath. ‘No. They will not escape this time.’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘Constable! Constable!’
‘Yes, sire?’ Humphrey called as he cantered back to join the king.
‘We will leave the infantry behind and give chase.’
‘Are you certain, sire? They will outnumber us.’
‘One of our knights is worth three of their men. We will catch them, and we will kill them, every last one of the bastards.’
‘Yes, sire.’
Amalric turned to John. ‘Bless me, Father.’ John hesitated. He had never blessed anyone. ‘Damn it! I haven’t all day. Do it, man!’
John made the sign of the cross over the king. ‘In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus Sancti. Grant this man courage to face his enemies and strength to defeat them.’ An image of Yusuf flashed into John’s mind, and he added, ‘And the wisdom to show mercy in victory.’
‘Amen!’ Amalric declared. One of the king’s squires handed him his shield and long lance. The other knights had grouped around him. John made his way to the edge of the men.
‘God is with us!’ Amalric shouted. ‘For Christ!’ A trumpet began to blow and the king cantered forward, followed by his knights, the Armenians and the native cavalry. John hesitated for a moment and then he pulled a mace from his saddle and spurred after them. He would not let another slaughter happen, like at Giza.
John galloped along the river, past the fields and groves of palms that bordered the Nile’s dark waters below Al-Babein. He slowed as he caught up to the native cavalry and was enveloped in a thick cloud of dust. Suddenly the riders ahead of him veered to the right, heading across green fields and leaving a wide swathe of trampled wheat. There was less dust now, and John could see the front of the charge and the Saracens beyond. They had stopped and fanned out in a battle line. Beyond them, the cultivated fields gave way to hard-baked earth and then to dunes, the sand blindingly bright under the afternoon sun.
The Frankish charge slowed and then stopped. Amalric formed his line only a hundred yards from the Saracens, close enough to see the faces of their enemy. John found himself on the right wing, with the native Christians. He spotted Yusuf’s eagle standard waving over the centre of the Saracen line. A horn sounded, and the Christians surged forward.
John stayed where he was and watched as the Frankish knights slammed into the enemy’s centre, which melted away under the attack, turning to flee into the desert. Amalric and his men followed, disappearing amongst the low dunes. But the rest of the Muslim army had not retreated. The left and right wings swooped down on the Armenian and native Christian cavalry, neither of whom showed much stomach for a fight now that the Frankish knights had left the field. Several hundred other Saracen warriors turned and rode into the desert after the Frankish knights, cutting off their retreat. Amalric had been too eager. He had ridden into a trap.
John did not need to stay to know how this battle would end. He turned his horse and spurred to a gallop. He sped past a farmer, weeping as he knelt amongst his trampled crops. John was on the river road now, kicking up dust as he raced towards where the infantry had been left behind. As they came into view, John was surprised to see that they were making camp.
‘The Saracens!’ he yelled as he rode amongst men setting up tents and starting cooking fires. ‘The Saracens are coming!’ Several men glanced at him, but no one stopped what they were doing. John reined in beside a Templar sergeant. ‘You there! What’s your name?’ The man stared at John blankly. John raised his mace. ‘Your name!’
‘Renault, but they call me Carver, Father.’
‘I am a canon of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, your superior before God. You must do as I say. The life of every man in this army depends on it.’
The man blinked a few times and then nodded. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘Our army has been defeated. The Saracens will be here soon, and if we are not ready they will cut us to pieces. Do you understand?’ The man nodded. ‘Good. Round up the Templar sergeants and tell them what I told you. Have the men form ranks. You have my permission to kill anyone who does not do as you ask. Understood?’ The man nodded again. ‘Good. Now go, and God help you!’
The Templar hurried off, and soon enough Templar sergeants were roaming about the camp, yelling at the Egyptian and Christian foot-soldiers to form ranks and striking at those few poor souls who hesitated too long. You could always count on the Templars to follow orders. John looked up river and could see a cloud of dust approaching. That would be the Armenians and native cavalry, fleeing for their lives. The Saracens would be close behind. John turned back towards the infantry, who had formed a long column.
‘Tighten those ranks!’ he called as he rode down the line of men. ‘Shield on the outside!’ he yelled to an Egyptian who had put his shield on the wrong arm. He stopped beside a dozen men who remained outside the column. They were busy loading heavy chests on to wagons. ‘What are you doing?’
‘This is the gold the Egyptians paid us,’ one of the men explained. John recognized him as one of Amalric’s clerks. ‘The King gave me charge of it.’
‘Leave it.’
The man was aghast. ‘Do you realize how much gold is in these chests?’
‘Two hundred thousand dinars. And if we leave it, then the Saracens will stop to collect spoils instead of running us down from behind and filling your arse with arrows like a pin cushion. Better to lose the gold than the lives of men.’
‘Is it?’ the clerk asked.
John raised his mace. ‘Leave the gold, or yours will be the first life lost, friend.’
The clerk hesitated for a moment and then called for his men to join the column. It was just in time. Already, the first of the Armenians were galloping past. John could see the front ranks of the Saracen cavalry rounding a bend upstream.
He raised his voice. ‘All right, men! Keep close together now! March!’
Yusuf’s Arabian horse moved nimbly in the deep sand as it galloped around a dune. His men had split up after they rode into the desert, and now he rode with only Qaraqush, Al-Mashtub and ten other men. The Frankish knights had also scattered in their pursuit. Although Yusuf could not see them amidst the maze of dunes, he had heard their loud cries — ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’ — grow steadily more dispersed. Now he raised his curved bow in one hand as he reined to a halt on some flat land between the dunes. He looked over to Qaraqush. ‘No more running, friend. It is time to do some hunting.’
Yusuf led them back the way they had come, following their tracks as they wove between the maze of short dunes. The scattered war cries of the Franks had ceased, replaced by cries of agony as Shirkuh’s men turned to attack. The Franks’ heavy horses would be clumsy in the deep, shifting sands, making them easy prey. Yusuf rounded one of the dunes and sighted seven knights a dozen yards off, their horses struggling through the sand.
‘For Islam!’ Yusuf cried as he nocked an arrow to his bow.
‘For Christ!’ the lead knight roared back. His yell was cut short as Yusuf’s arrow lodged in his throat. The other knights charged, and Yusuf’s men divided, riding in a circle around the Franks and shooting arrows into their ranks. Two of the Franks’ horses fell, and the other knights fled.
Yusuf shouldered his bow and then took up his shield and drew his sword. ‘For Allah!’ he yelled and galloped after the knights. Yusuf’s horse gained quickly on the heavy Frankish chargers. He reached the rearmost knight and slashed at him. The man blocked the blow with this shield, and chopped at Yusuf, who veered away to avoid the attack. He was angling back towards the knight when he rounded a dune and rode straight into a group of twelve more knights.