Crusade (47 page)

“I can’t,” gasped Robert, as they stumbled into the deserted street, the sounds of fighting behind them muted by the mosque’s high walls. He collapsed, dropping his sword.

Will caught hold of him and hauled him roughly to his feet. “Yes, you can,” he said fiercely. “Pick up your damn sword.” As Robert lifted the weapon with a groan, Will’s eyes darted left and right until he found what he was looking for. Their camel was tied to a post a short distance down the street. Will’s arm around Robert’s waist, almost dragging him, they staggered toward the beast as the eastern sky took on a bloody hue and day began to break.

THE PLAIN OF ALBISTAN, ANATOLIA, 15 APRIL A.D. 1277

The dawn stretched bright fingers across the land, stirring gold into the currents of the broad river, brushing the tips of the tall grasses of the plain, turning them crimson. In the tatters of mist that still clung to depressions in the ridges and folds of the earth, thousands of shapes were moving phantomlike through the milky air. The Mongols had crossed the Jayhan.

On the other side of the plain, following a steep trail down from the plateau, the Mamluks advanced to meet them. The kettledrummers kept up a steady, monotonous beat, conducted by the officers known as lords of the drums. The sound rolled over the grasses, low and ominous, giving the fields a heartbeat, out of time to the slow-thudding hooves of horses and camels.

Less than a mile away from each other, the two armies halted. In the empty expanse between them wind rustled and insects hummed. Both forces spread out on the plain, drawing quickly into practiced lines and sections at the calls of officers. Viewed from above, the armies made huge patterns on the ground, each a single mass of men, moving in formation. The wings were limbs stretching out from the torso that was the center, the extremities of each like talons, bristling with thousands of lances and spears, ready to curl out and lash at their enemy, ready to tear red rents through it.

Baybars, mounted on his black warhorse, was poised on the crest of a shallow hill, slightly back and to the left of his army, with a company of one thousand Bahri. He watched Kalawun and the commander of his own regiment riding along the front lines, arranging the golden and blue center that was made up of Bahri and Mansuriyya troops, the strongest section of the Mamluk force. The right and left wings were composed of the remaining regiments, the Syrian troops and soldiers under the prince of Hamah, whom he had called to arms on the journey north, and Bedouin light cavalry. Pleased with the calm efficiency of his troops, Baybars turned his judging gaze on the enemy.

It was a larger army than the one he had faced at Ayn Jalut seventeen years ago, and back then he’d had the advantage of surprise, the trap he had sprung for the Mongols in the hills proving lethally perfect. Now, the two titans faced each other on open ground, with little visible advantage to either side: the Mongols, born in the blood of conquest, sons of Genghis Khan, terror of nations and scourge of the Eastern world, against the slave warriors of Egypt, who had built their dynasty upon the bones of their masters and who, under Baybars, now commanded territory from Alexandria to Aleppo, the banks of the Nile to the Euphrates. But although the terrain did not favor the Mamluks today, something else did. Baybars could see it in the eyes of his men, could feel it in the drums’ determined rhythm.

At Ayn Jalut, the Mongols had been invincible, undefeated in battle, unrivaled, unmatched. But no longer. The one man who had vanquished them now stood before them on the plain, brazen in their territory, a song in his heart and the blaze of ambition in his aging blue eyes. Furthermore, Baybars had heard word of trouble between the Seljuks and Mongols, who stood apart from each other on the field. His spies had informed him that the ilkhan no longer trusted his subjects, and it was rumored that the Seljuk
pervaneh
might not even fight. Baybars felt the wind tug at his cloak, and his horse stamped the ground, sensing his strained anticipation, but outwardly Baybars remained calm, giving no word of attack to his men. He would let the Mongols come to them.

Shortly, a blare of horns ripped through the stillness. As it died away, the rumble of hooves took its place and the left wing of the Mongol force set out, moving in five lines, two composed of heavy cavalry bearing swords and lances, the other three made up of light horsemen, who wielded javelins and carried bows. The iron of their round, onion-shaped helmets and the tips of their spears reflected the smoldering sun, now rising, a ball of fire throwing its brilliance across the Plain of Albistan, from the river to the mountains. As they neared the Mamluk center, the Mongol light horsemen rode swiftly between the lines of the heavy cavalry and let loose arrows and javelins into their enemy. They were a swarm of mosquitoes who would strike then dart back behind the protective line of the cavalry, who were advancing on the Mamluks like prowling tigers. Their sting was lethal, and within moments, scores of Mamluk soldiers had fallen, javelins and arrows finding targets across the field, sweeping in past shields and armor to strike the exposed flesh of horses and men.

Baybars, tension a hard knot inside him, gripped his reins and watched intently as his commanders shouted orders and the ranks closed tighter, shields clanking against one another to form a protective wall as the deadly rain continued. Within a short while, a thicket of arrow shafts and javelins had sprung up across the grass in front of the Mamluks. The Mongol light horsemen were called back by their officers, their job done, and now it was the turn of the heavy cavalry. The voices of Kalawun and the amir of the Bahri rose above the din, and with a cry of horns the two Mamluk regiments, the best of the best, went forward to meet the Mongols, hooves sending shudders through the earth. Lances were raised on both sides and locked under arms. Eyes found a target and fixed upon it, and prayers were chanted in the minds of five thousand men as the Mongol left wing charged into the belly of the Mamluk center, punching straight through it in a shock of iron, bared teeth and howls.

Within moments, the air turned red around the tangle of men and the fighting grew savage. Horses screamed as lances plunged into them, tearing skin and sinew. Men stabbed and hacked at one another, were thrown from their saddles, died in the churned up earth, trampled and crushed. Quickly, the numbers of dead mounted and slowly, the Mamluks were pressed back, their ranks breaking up as the howling Mongols forced their way through in a bloody barrage of whirling swords and thrusting lances.

On the hill, Baybars rose in his saddle, his sharp gaze picking out the pattern in the Mongols’ attack. The heavy cavalry were pressing deep into his own troops, and he saw the danger to his weaker right wing, a short distance behind on the field. Immediately, he drew one of his sabers and lifted it high. “To me!” he roared.

And with that call, the sultan swept down from the hillside, followed by the Mamluk elite, as another blare of horns rose from the Mongol lines and their right wing advanced to meet the Mamluk left.

Baybars and the Bahri were a scythe through the Mongols as they entered the fight, refreshing the troops already engaged, breathing new fire into their spirits. Kalawun and the sultan met in the fray as the rest of the Bahri and Mansuriyya came together, tightening the ranks. The sultan and the commander were pushed together and fought side by side, swords hammering at the enemy, faces grim and bloodstained in the morning light. All sections of each army were soon in the fight, with the exception of the Seljuk force, who seemed to be guarding the back of the Mongols’ lines, preventing the Mamluks from sweeping around and attacking them from the rear.

The battle was brutal and bitterly fought. The Mamluk center buckled, threatened to scatter, then pulled tight again. Gradually, painfully, the Mongols were repelled. Tatawun, a huge figure in the midst of his men, arms lathered in gore up to his elbows and a gash on his forehead streaming blood into his eye, roared a new command across the heads of his soldiers. One by one, the scattered Mongol cavalry began to dismount and closed into knotted groups, forcing the Mamluks to do the same and to fight them one on one. Lances were cast aside and swords were drawn, and the piles of the dead rose around the living.

But the Mamluks refused to give quarter, and despair gradually began to muddy the determination in the eyes of the Mongol soldiers.

After almost three hours of intense fighting, it was over. Tatawun, captured and defeated, gave the call of surrender, and all around the field exhausted Mongol survivors laid down their arms, vanquished once again by the might of Baybars and the Mamluks. The
pervaneh
and his Seljuk troops didn’t heed the order and fled the field before the Mamluks could reach them.

More than nine thousand corpses, at least seven thousand of them Mongols, littered the Plain of Albistan. Men—brothers, sons and fathers—were reduced to a bloodied mass of meat in the fields. And as Baybars surveyed the devastation he had wrought upon his enemy, the battle lust faded from his eyes and the knot of tense anticipation inside him disappeared, leaving a hollow space that wasn’t filled by the victory spread redly before him.

28

The Road Outside Mecca, Arabia 15 APRIL A.D. 1277

A whistle sounded on the air. Garin stared up at the rocks above him and saw one of the Cypriot soldiers pointing east toward Mecca.

“Someone’s coming,” said Amaury, behind him. Garin moved cautiously around until he could see the road ahead, keeping close to the rock face that jutted into the track, forming a bottleneck in the valley. Sure enough, in the distance, partially obscured by the rising sun, was a single point of motion. After a few moments, he realized that it was a camel, being ridden fast along the road.

“Is it them?” called Bertrand, crouched behind rocks on the opposite side of the track. With him was another of the Cypriots. Two more were stationed on a ridge above, bows primed. Lying like a dead snake across the track, camouflaged against the sand, was a twisted length of hemp, bartered from the Bedouin camp their
khafir
had taken them to last night.

Garin shielded his eyes. “There’s only one . . . No wait, I can see two riders.”

“But is it them?”

“How can it be, if there’s only two?” replied Garin shortly. He frowned at the beast, which was getting closer. Rapidly. It was moving at a terrifying pace, making great, lolloping strides, throwing dust into the air behind it, the riders on top seeming to lurch and roll, as if they were clinging on for dear life. Garin strained his eyes against the glare. Both riders were wearing black robes, but the head of the one in front was bare. Garin began to pick out features. “I think it’s Will,” he called to the others, slipping out of sight before he was spotted.

“Where are the rest of them?” asked Amaury.

“I don’t know.” Garin shook his head, troubled. “Something must have gone wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bertrand sharply. “We do it anyway. Whatever’s happened we’ll get answers from them.”

Garin looked over at him. One end of the hemp rope, which was looped slackly around a jagged pillar of rock before him, was curled through his fists. Garin nodded.

Bertrand met Amaury’s gaze as hoofbeats began to drum the air and the two of them gripped the rope, easing off the slack.

The hoofbeats grew louder, echoing off the rocks that closed in on both sides. An arrow thumped into the sand behind Garin. The signal from the scout above.

“Now!” hissed Bertrand.

Together, he and Amaury wrenched on the rope, which snapped taut around the rocks and became a stiff line, a foot above the ground. The Cypriots braced themselves. Barely seconds later, the camel thundered through the bottleneck, straight into the waiting rope. Its front legs hit the barrier at tremendous speed, throwing it forward and hurling the two riders from the saddle.

Will was the first to hit the ground, throwing out his hands as he landed hard, sending up a shower of dust and grit. Robert crashed down a second later, rolled over and over, then lay still. The camel collapsed, its saddle torn off by the impact. Dazedly, it tried to sit up, but its legs buckled beneath it. Will lay stunned, the impact reverberating through him like a bell, summoning little knots of pain that flared when he tried to move. He cried out as hands gripped his arms and hauled him up. He tasted blood and sand. Slowly, his eyes focused and he saw four men in a circle around him. A fifth was holding him up. All of them wore Bedouin robes and kaffiyehs. What he wasn’t expecting was the clear, precise Latin that issued through the black mask of one of them, a brawny figure.

“Where is the Stone?”

Will blinked. For a moment, he could say nothing and the question came again. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The brawny man strode forward and slammed a fist into Will’s stomach. Will gasped and tried to double over the pain, but the man holding him wouldn’t let him. He coughed out the blood that was in his mouth and hung there weakly, trying to force air into his lungs, a feeling of solid constriction running through his stomach all the way up into his throat.

“Where is it?” repeated the man.

Will dragged in a breath, then met the man’s fierce gaze. He shook his head. “I ... don’t ... know,” he breathed, forcefully.

The man came in again, anger lending more power to his punch.

This time, Will took longer to recover. Through his streaming eyes, he glimpsed one of the figures moving over to another, a short, fat man. Leaning in, the figure whispered something.

“Wait,” the fat man called as the brawny man drew back his arm for a third strike. “Use his friend.” The fat man pointed at Robert who was lying motionless.

Will struggled vainly as the brawny man went to Robert and kicked him onto his back. Robert’s arm was bleeding heavily, clotting the sand around him. His burka had slipped from his head in the fall, uncovering his face, which was ashen and slack. Will felt a stab of horror as he saw him, thinking he was dead; then he was flooded with relief when Robert’s chest heaved. His relief was short-lived as the brawny man drew a sword from the belt slung around his hip.