Holy Warrior Read online

  Not for much longer. Baibars meant to tear down those thick walls, as he had torn down so many Christian cities and castles in the past decade. One by one, they all fell before him. Baibars had sworn a private oath to destroy all the Crusader kingdoms of Syria. He could not be stopped.

  He had already sent a mocking letter to Count Bohemund, the lord of Tripoli, warning him against the futility of resistance:

  “Our yellow flags have repelled your red flags, and the sound of the bells has been replaced by the call: "Allâh Akbar!" Warn your walls and your churches that soon our siege machinery will deal with them, your knights that soon our swords will invite themselves in their homes. We will see then what use will be your alliance with Abaqa.”

  Abaqa was the il-khan or lesser Khan of the Tartars, under the Great Khan whose realm lay further north, beyond the frontiers of northern Syria. They were the only power on earth that could hope to defeat the Mamluks. Christian lords such as Bohemund hoped Abaqa would come to their aid.

  Fools, thought Baibars. They are like a little pack of sheep, trapped between bands of wolves. If, by some mischance, I was defeated by the Tartars, they would turn on the Christians and eat them up.

  “Your Majesty.”

  The voice of a slave interrupted his thoughts. The slave, a young boy, had materialised beside the sultan’s chair, bearing a plate of warm spiced bread and a fluted silver cup full of kumis, fermented mare’s milk. Baibars took a piece of bread, and the cup, and signalled for the boy to withdraw.

  He sipped his drink. It was still dawn, just after sunrise. Barely half an hour had passed since he observed the fajr, the dawn prayer. The words of the prayer ritual still echoed in his mind.

  All praises to Allah, the great…Allah listen to those who praise him…

  He closed his eyes in contemplation. It was a cool morning, with a pleasant breeze wafting in from the sea. The sun had yet to reach its full trajectory, and the sky was a sheet of red and gold with patches of blue on the horizon. Inside Tripoli the sound of church bells echoed, summoning the Christian faithful to prayer.

  This was the sultan’s favourite moment of existence. Allah, the Most High, granted him a sliver of peace at the break of day; a short rest from the heavy burdens of command. Baibars asked for nothing more. This blessed interlude was all he required to gather his strength.

  As was his custom, Baibars permitted himself another half an hour of bliss. He enjoyed listening to Christian plainchant. Even a race of deluded unbelievers could make a beautiful noise.

  Baibars smiled to himself. If such words ever fell from his lips, the imams would be scandalised. Not that he cared for their opinion or anyone else’s. He was Allah’s chosen, a holy warrior, marked out from birth to perform great deeds.

  He derived beauty from the sound of Christian voices raised in prayer, even though they beseeched God to destroy Baibars and all his host. The sultan had come to level the city, slaughter everyone inside it and plough the burnt earth with salt. Baibars would spare no-one, save a few miserable captives to be taken away as slaves. His own people called him Abu al-Futuh, the Father of Conquest. A man did not earn such a name through acts of kindness.

  At last the plainchant ebbed, and the bells fell silent. Baibars sighed contentedly and opened his eyes. The red-gold of the sky had faded to a delicate blue. For a moment Baibars contemplated the glory of nature.

  He sensed the presence of his generals. Their impatience. Baibars drew the loose folds of his robe about him, flowed to his feet, and turned to face them.

  “Your Majesty,” they chorused, and salaamed as one. Six men, splendidly dressed and armed, all of them lean and hungry and eager for the blood sport to begin.

  Jackals, Baibars thought grimly. Waiting to tear out my throat. You must wait a little longer, my friends.

  He happened to know that two of his generals were actively plotting against him, while the loyalty of three more was suspect. Only Haq, the grizzled, one-eyed veteran of Baibars’ victories at Al Mansurah and Ain Jalut, remained true. Baibars’ agents in the Qussad, his network of spies, had ferreted out the plots; some were directly involved in them. It amused Baibars to let his followers play out their little games, which also gave him an opportunity to test their skill and intelligence.

  When the time was ripe he would expose their conspiracies, make the culprits grovel before his feet, and behead a few of their servants as punishment. All would tremble at the mercy and vengeance of the Father of Conquest and remember.

  “We are ready,” said Baibars. It was a statement, not a question. His generals dipped their heads again, like so many nodding dogs.

  “The walls of Tripoli shall melt before us like butter,” said al-Jaliq, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin. He was the youngest of the sultan’s senior captains, wily and ambitious and about as efficient a killer as the plague. He was currently planning to have Baibars strangled in his sleep after serving him drugged kumis.

  “Indeed?” replied the sultan. “Then you shall lead the assault, al-Jaliq. Break down these walls of butter for me. Earn my undying gratitude.”

  The young man’s smile froze. His eyes flickered left and right, like flies trapped in a jar. Haq smirked at his discomfiture, while the other generals edged away from him.

  To refuse a direct order from the sultan was death. To his credit, al-Jaliq put a brave face on it. He gave another salaam, straightened and hitched up his sword-belt.

  “An honour, Majesty,” he said, with an impressive show of indifference. “My men stand ready. Give the signal, and Tripoli shall be yours before noon.”

  Baibars gave a slight nod. Al-Jaliq scowled and stalked away towards his troops assembled on the plain before Tripoli, white cloak billowing behind him.

  “Ah, my friends,” remarked Baibars with a grin, clapping his hands together. “Now we shall witness great things!”

  The sultan’s host had stood arranged for battle since morning prayer. Most of the men sat cross-legged on the hard ground, quietly talking together or digesting their breakfast in silence. They were calm, disciplined, confident, well-fed and armed. Baibars in turn drew confidence from them. Let his generals plot and conspire behind his back; the men loved him and would tear in pieces anyone who threatened their master.

  I have given them victory after victory, thought Baibars as he looked proudly over the endless companies of cavalry and infantry, stretching away across the plain. They will adore me so long as Allah sees fit to prolong my success. And no longer.

  Baibars folded his heavy arms across his chest. He watched al-Jaliq snatch the reins of his horse, held by a servant, and vault lithely aboard the saddle. He dug in his spurs and galloped back and forth before his division of the army, two companies of armoured Mamluk lancers, six of light Syrian cavalry mounted on Arab ponies, and a great mass of foot soldiers. The infantry rose to their feet, creating a ripple effect as thousands of men stood to greet their lord.

  Al-Jaliq swept out his kilij , a curved sabre, and roared a fiery battle-speech.

  “Death to the infidels!” he screamed, bright steel flaming above his head. “Death to these Frankish dogs and their false religion! For too long they have polluted this sacred earth – for too long have they defied the will of the Most High! See how they cower behind strong walls, cheeping like mice to their prophet, too frightened to march out and face us in open battle!”

  This met with a cheer from the infantry; armoured Mamluk spearmen, Syrian and Lebanese light infantry, Kurdish javelin men. They brandished their weapons and roared approval. The front ranks snatched up their ladders and grappling hooks, issued the previous day for the assault on Tripoli.

  Al-Jaliq’s thin face flushed. While the roars died down he made his horse rear on her haunches and pointed his sword at the gates of Tripoli.

  “Our horses are swift,” he howled. “Our arrows sharp, our swords like thunderbolts, our hearts as hard as the mountains, our soldiers as numerous as the sand! Fortresses will not detain us,
nor arms stop us. Their deluded prayers will not avail them. We are not moved by tears nor touched by lamentations. We will shatter their churches, reveal the weakness of their prophet, kill their children and old men together!”

  This met with another round of cheers, louder this time. Baibars sensed the rising note of battle-fever among the men. It was time to hurl them against the walls, quickly, before the effect of the speech wore off.

  “A fine speech, Majesty,” General Huq’s gravelly voice rumbled next to Baibars. He kept a respectful distance between himself and the sultan, who appreciated the courtesy.

  “Indeed,” Baibars answered. “You may recall I used it myself at Ain Jalut. I stole it from the Tartar prince, Hulegu Khan, when his envoy flung defiance at Qutuz. Peace be upon him.”

  “Peace be upon him,” Huq repeated gravely. They both exchanged knowing glances. Saif ad-Din Qutuz, the previous sultan, reigned only a short time before Baibars had him murdered. He didn’t wield the knife himself. Three emirs were only too happy to butcher the old man, leaving the stain of his death on Baibars’ conscience.

  It was one of his lighter burdens. The death of Qutuz was Allah’s will, since only Baibars could lead his people to victory.

  Today, perhaps it would be al-Jaliq’s turn to show his worth. Baibars watched him signal to his musicians, and then the air was full of the beat of nakers and the shrill cry of trumpets. The young general wheeled his horse and put her to the gallop, straight at the looming gates of Tripoli, buttressed by twin towers.

  His infantry uttered a great shout and streamed after him, baying for blood. The companies of Ghulam horsemen and desert cavalry stayed behind. They were no use in an assault on the walls and would only go forward once the gates were secured.

  Baibars had made a careful study of the defences of Tripoli. The citadel of Qala'at Sanjil stood upon a narrow hill facing the city’s only land gate, so anyone who forced the entrance would be confronted with a second line of defence. Otherwise Tripoli was defended by high walls and towers and a double row of ditches, full of sharpened stakes.

  He saw the defenders crowd onto the walls. Civilians, men and women and even a few children, took up position alongside the soldiers. They raised banners in defiance, and hurled insults and oaths at the onrushing horse of Mamluks – or ‘Saracens’, as the Franks insisted on calling all Muslim peoples in Outremer.

  “Light down, you fool,” Baibars murmured. He referred to al-Jaliq, who had galloped ahead of his foot soldiers to the first ditch. For a moment Baibars thought the general meant to leap over the gap; he snorted with amusement at the thought of al-Jaliq tumbling down onto the wooden stakes below. Man and beast, writhing in unspeakable agony as they were impaled on spikes.

  The sultan’s amusement was mixed with regret. Al-Jaliq was brave, and competent, and Baibars had hopes of making something of him. If it didn’t prove necessary to kill him first.

  To his relief, the young man did possess a grain of sense. He leaped down from his horse and gave the beast a slap on the rump, urging her to gallop clear. Then he turned and howled orders at his men, who came rushing forward with bales of straw to hurl down into the ditch. This allowed them to bridge the stakes and scramble or crawl across to safety.

  Meanwhile the defenders of Tripoli unleashed a storm of missiles. The garrison were equipped with crossbows and loosed a hail of these deadly bolts down onto the Mamluks as they struggled across the double bank of ditches. Some of the citizens were armed with slings or lobbed down stones and broken bits of furniture at the enemy.

  Baibars watched his men die. Soon the ditches were full of wounded and dying, those beneath impaled on the spikes and then crushed by comrades who fell on top of them. The war-shouts and thunder of drums and trumpets were joined by their anguished screams. There was no sign of al-Jaliq. His tall, white-cloaked figure had vanished among the throng.

  Only the bravest or most fortunate of his men reached the foot of the curtain wall. They struggled to throw up ladders and grappling hooks, even as the storm of missiles continued to rain down on their heads. Baibars saw one man scramble up the first few rungs of a ladder; seconds later he flopped to earth, his helmet and skull crushed like an egg by a wooden spar dropped from above.

  “Brave men,” rumbled General Haq. “Why does Allah allow the valiant to die and the vermin to live? It has always puzzled me.”

  “The will of God,” Baibars replied absently. He was fond of Haq but had no time for his simplistic musings on the divine. The sultan finally caught a glimpse of al-Jaliq, red-faced as he screamed at his men to get up the ladders. He led a charmed life. Even as his soldiers died like flies all around him, swatted to the ground by arrows, spears, crossbow bolts and other missiles, the youthful general suffered not a scratch.

  He is lucky, thought Baibars. Give me generals who are lucky…

  “Your Majesty.”

  Irritated, Baibars glanced around and saw one of his personal slaves bent low in a grovelling salaam.

  “Well, what is it?” his master snapped.

  “Humblest apologies, majesty,” the slave answered, his voice thick with fear. “An envoy has just this moment arrived. He says his news cannot wait.”

  Baibars’s suspicions were roused. He looked at General Haq, who wore his usual expression of bovine stupidity. Was it a mask? Had the moment of betrayal finally arrived?

  Nearby stood a file of six giant warriors armed with double-bladed axes. These were the cream of Mamluk fighting men, the Tabardariyya, employed as the sultan’s personal bodyguard. Every one of them was a veteran soldier with at least a dozen kills under his belt, huge bearded warriors clad in wide-brimmed steel helms and padded leather jerkins. Their loyalty was absolute, every man oath-sworn to protect the sultan unto death. They followed him about like faithful dogs, suspicious of any who came too close.

  Baibars took comfort in their presence as he strode towards his pavilion, an elaborate mini-fortress of white and gold silk. He left the sound of killing behind him, as well as General Haq.

  Two more of the Tabardariyya were on guard duty at the pavilion. Baibars halted and nodded at them to go in first. The warriors saluted, turned smartly and ducked inside.

  Baibars waited a moment, then stepped in after them. The interior of the pavilion was cool and well-lit, strewn with trophies from his past campaigns. A broadsword hung from a rack, brightly oiled and polished, ripped from the hands of a dying Templar Baibars slew personally at Al Mansurah. Nearby stood three Tartar helmets on stands, hinged and spiked and decorated with grotesque steel face-masks. The masks were supposed to frighten the enemy in battle, though Baibars found them almost endearing. Their original owners lay rotting somewhere on a dusty battlefield near Homs in western Syria, bones picked clean by carrion birds. Other bits of plunder included broken shields, mail coats, rings and pieces of jewellery torn from still-warm bodies.

  Only a vain man surrounded himself with the relics of slaughtered foes. Baibars knew perfectly well he was vain, but that wasn’t his only reason for keeping all this rubbish. It served to remind people of his glory and savagery in battle, and himself of the fallibility of all men. One day, if Allah willed, some victorious enemy general might display Baibars’ sword in his pavilion.

  The messenger stood in the centre of the pavilion. She was short, slender and loose-limbed, clad in light grey robes, her face hidden behind a veil. Only her eyes, dark and expressive and framed by long lashes, were visible. She wore a sash round her middle, from which hung a curved dagger and a kilij.

  Baibars waved at his guards to stay. This woman was a member of his Qussad, a spy and assassin, yet he didn’t trust her. He trusted no one.

  “Your message,” he said curtly. There was no need for an exchange of greetings. She stood a little straighter, elegant brown fingers rested on the silver-mounted hilt of her kilij. Baibars knew exactly how many she had killed with it.

  “The prince of England has stormed Nazareth,” she said, her voice low and
smooth as velvet. “Three days ago he rode out from Acre and sacked the town, killing every Muslim he found there. Some of our Turcomens pursued the Christians as they withdrew. We lost thirty-seven men, nine wounded, and as many horses.”

  Baibars shrugged. The fate of Turcomens, poor desert tribesmen, were of little consequence. Spear fodder. Nor was he moved by the sack of Nazareth, except in one regard.

  “The Englishman destroyed the seat of his own religion,” he mused. “Rather than allow Muslims to dwell there.

  Edward of England. Baibars was intrigued by this prince, who had come all the way from his cold, misted island on the other side of the world. The sultan made it his business to gather as much information as possible on his enemies. If the reports were accurate, Edward was a throwback to the Frankish princes of old, men of blood and steel. He had crushed his enemies in England with the kind of ruthless efficiency Baibars could only admire. Slaughtered those who opposed him, spared the useful.

  “I welcome such a man,” said Baibars. “The courage of the Franks of Outremer is all bred out, but I sense a quality in this English prince. A descendent of Malek-Ric.”

  Malek-Ric, the Saracen name for Richard Coeur-de-Lion, the Lionheart of famous memory. When he was a child, Baibars’s nurse had tried to frighten him to sleep with tales of this man: a red-headed giant with three golden lions on his chest, butchering the children of Allah with an axe no two ordinary men could even lift. The infant Baibars thrilled to the stories and demanded to know more. Why did Allah permit the Frankish monster to win so many battles against the Faithful? If he was so wicked, how did he earn the respect of his enemy, Salah ad-Din, who sent Malek-Ric medicines when he heard the king had fallen sick?

  The assassin bowed her head. “Indeed, Your Majesty. His great-nephew. A branch of the same mighty tree.”

  And will have to be lopped off, thought Baibars, if he gives too much trouble.

  He had made a study of his foe. Edward’s weakness was obvious. The man was brave and determined, but such qualities all too often blurred into obstinacy. At Tunis, when the other Christian leaders turned for home, he had refused to abandon the crusade. Admirable courage, but it meant the English came to the Holy Land with a contemptible little army. Barely fifteen hundred men, so Baibars’ agents at Acre informed him, half of those rotten with sickness.