He splashed across the room and through a series of identical square chambers. As he left the last room, he stumbled over something and pitched forward. His lantern hit the water and the flame went out, plunging him into darkness. ‘Christ’s wounds!’ His heart was pounding now. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly. When he opened them, he was surprised to see that the passage ahead was not completely dark. He dropped the lantern and took a cautious step ahead. There were stairs beneath his feet. He climbed a narrow staircase that led up out of the water and into a room with an altar on the far wall. A cross was carved into the stone above the altar, and it was lit by a ray of pale light. John approached and discovered a square shaft, some three feet across, cut into the ceiling above.
He climbed on to the altar, and hoisted himself up into the shaft. The walls were of rough stonework, slick with moisture. With his back against one wall and his feet against the other, he managed to work his way upwards. The mortar that held the stones in place was crumbling. Several times, he felt the stones against his back shift, but they held.
He reached the top and felt the stone ceiling. A thin beam of light filtered through a tiny crack near the edge of the shaft. John drew his sword and worked at the crack with the blade, chipping away at the crumbling mortar. The sword slipped from his hand and fell to land with a crash at the bottom of the shaft. But he had managed to expand the crack so that it was several inches long. He put an ear to it and heard distant, muffled voices.
John placed his shoulders against the stone above and found a solid purchase for his feet on the wall. He pushed and felt the stone move. Reaching out, he felt for the edge. It was no more than two inches thick. With a grunt, he managed to lift it clear of the floor and shove it to the side.
He poked his head through the hole and looked about. He was in what looked to be one of the chapels of a church. Bright light filtered through windows of stained glass. The chapel was open on one side, and the voices were coming from that direction. They were chanting in Arabic.
John pulled himself up out of the shaft. He crept to the edge of the chapel and peered around the corner to his right. Prostrate on the floor were several hundred men, their backs to him. ‘Oh Allah forgive me; have mercy upon me,’ they murmured as they sat back on their heels. John spotted the grizzled head of Qaraqush in the front row. Beside him was Yusuf. John ducked back around the corner. His heart was pounding in his chest. He had found a way into the city.
He slipped back inside the shaft and managed to pull the flagstone over the hole, leaving only a thin crack. He climbed down and leaned against the altar, his mind racing. It was his duty to tell Amalric. John’s father had taught him that without honour, a man was little better than a beast. But what of friendship? John turned and knelt before the altar. He clasped the cross that hung from his neck in both hands. ‘Guide me, Lord.’ He bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, but no divine revelation came. He opened his eyes. The sword he had dropped lay just beside him. It was a sign.
He took the sword and then climbed atop the altar and used the blade to pry stones loose. One fell away, then another. Dirt began to shower down on him. He heard the grate of stone upon stone and scrambled off the altar just before the shaft caved in. Dust filled the room, and then it plunged into absolute darkness as the light at the top of the shaft was blocked. No one would get through that way now.
John’s satisfaction was short-lived. He had sworn to serve Amalric, but he had failed him. He was an oath breaker, as Heraclius had claimed. Shame flooded through him, but it soon gave way to fear. He could not see his hand in front of his face, and he was shivering with cold. He would have to find his way back in the dark. He stumbled down the stairs and into the water. He splashed ahead, his hands held out before him. He could feel bones floating all around. He came to a wall and groped his way along it until he found the doorway leading to the next room. He had passed through three rooms when he saw light ahead. It grew in brightness as he approached. He quickened his pace, and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the rope.
‘Who’s there?’ a voice called from above. John looked up to see Adenot peering down into the darkness.
‘It’s me. Pull me up.’
John wrapped the rope around his waist, and grabbed hold of it with trembling hands. Adenot and Jalaal hauled him dripping from the water. They grabbed him by the arms and pulled him out to lie shivering on the stone stairs.
‘What did you find?’ Jalaal asked.
‘N-nothing,’ John managed through chattering teeth. ‘An-n-other dead end,’ he added in French.
Adenot pulled John to his feet. ‘Let’s go. I never want to see this place again.’
They hurried up the ramp and crawled out to find that Amalric and Shawar had come to wait for them.
‘Did you find anything?’ the king asked.
‘Nothing but bones, sire,’ Adenot replied.
‘You are sure?’ Shawar pressed. ‘Nothing?’
‘We explored every inch, Vizier,’ Jalaal said.
John met Amalric’s eyes. ‘It is an unholy place, sire. Seal it up and forget it.’
‘By the d-devil’s black beard!’ the king cursed.
‘All is not lost,’ Shawar said. ‘I have been in communication with Shirkuh.’
Amalric’s eyebrows shot up at this, but he said nothing.
Shawar held up a piece of paper. ‘He has agreed to terms. Shirkuh will leave Egypt, if you also withdraw.’
Amalric tugged at his beard for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No. A few more days in Egypt will not cost me Jerusalem, and I’ll not leave this place without a fight. The defenders are few and starving. We can take the city. Shirkuh will be forced to leave then, and on my terms. Will you fight beside me, Vizier?’
Shawar grinned his cat-like smile. ‘The people of Alexandria need to be taught a lesson. My men will join yours, King Amalric.’
Yusuf stood above Alexandria’s southern gate and looked out on the enemy army, the front ranks of which were just visible in the dawn light. The Egyptian soldiers had gathered to the south; it was the Frankish troops who were massed on the plain before him. Thousands of foot-soldiers formed a curving line that mirrored the path of the wall. Behind them stood a row of archers. At the centre of the line was a huge battering ram constructed of several tree trunks bound together with bands of iron and capped with steel. Bronze wheels carried the ram’s weight, and carpenters had built a roof over it to protect the men who would roll it to the walls. Frankish knights sat ready to charge if the ram opened a way into the city. Yusuf spotted Amalric’s flag amidst the knights’ standards, all flapping in a wet wind blowing in off the Mediterranean.
A piercing horn sounded, and the line of Frankish foot-soldiers surged forward, thousands of men shouting war cries: ‘For Christ! For the Kingdom!’ Yusuf turned towards the dozen mamluks gathered atop the gate. Their faces — lit red by a fire that simmered beneath a cauldron of hot sand — were gaunt but grimly determined. These were Yusuf’s very best men, warriors like Al-Mashtub who had stood beside him for years. He had stationed them here at the gate, where he expected the fighting to be most intense. He wished he had Qaraqush and his brother Selim beside him as well, but Qaraqush was at the western wall and Selim the east. They each commanded three hundred mamluks, leaving Yusuf with four hundred trained warriors and another five hundred citizens to defend nearly a mile of wall against an army of thousands.
Yusuf addressed his men, shouting in order to be heard over the cries of the Franks. ‘Our foes are many! But Allah will give us strength. Fight like lions, men! Fight to the death! Fight for Allah!’