The Book of Saladin (35 page)

The cooks had prepared a beef sikbaj, a stew much favoured by the boatmen on the Euphrates. It was sweet and sour, cooked with fresh herbs soaked in vinegar and honey. Its effects were soporific. Even the Kurds with their addiction to grilled meat were forced to admit that the sikbaj they ate that night had been prepared in heaven.

A drumroll awoke us next morning. The exhaustion had disappeared and the soldiers seemed relaxed. Keukburi, to the great relief of most of the men, did not insist on morning prayers. He wanted to join the Sultan in Tiberias. He refused to wait for the supplies to be loaded, and left the camp with a thousand horsemen and myself in attendance.

We had been riding for under half an hour when a cloud of dust moving towards us made everyone tense. Keukburi sent two of his scouts to ride out, to ascertain the number and strength and the banners of the approaching horsemen. If they were Franj knights, we would have to give battle and send out another scout to inform Salah al-Din. We waited, but the scouts did not return. The dust moved steadily in our direction.

Keukburi and three of the emirs who rode at his side conferred with each other, and divided our force into three wedges. Suddenly we heard loud cries of “Allah o Akbar”. Everyone smiled and began to breathe again. Those approaching were friends. Then our scouts galloped back, to inform the Emir that Salah al-Din had taken Tiberias and was riding back to join us.

Keukburi roared with delight, and we rode forward to meet the conqueror of the city that had just fallen. The dust subsided. Keukburi jumped off his horse and rushed to the Sultan to kiss his robe. Salah al-Din, moved by the gesture, dismounted and embraced the young Emir with a fierce tenderness. The triumphant chants of the Believers rent the air around the two men.

“They will come now to try and retake their city, and they will take the shortest route, the road that leads from Acre straight through the plain of Hattin. The virtue we must preach to ourselves today is patience. Even my uncle Shirkuh with his monumental impatience would, were he alive today, agree with me. Let us return to the camp and find a pleasant place from where we can observe Guy with his Templars and Hospitallers. The sky is clear, the sun burns like a furnace, and we control the water.”

S
ALAH AL-DIN KNEW THAT
the noble Raymond of Tripoli would try to devise an alternative, more defensive plan. His wife was in the citadel of the captured city. Raymond would be aware that Salah al-Din had yet to confront the Franj when they were in a strong and entrenched position. The Sultan was depending on the rashness and stupidity of the Franj leaders. He was confident that the blind mistrust and hatred of the Count of Tripoli felt by Guy and Reynald of Châtillon would lead them to ignore any plan that Raymond might suggest.

On the third day of July, a Friday, the scouts who had been watching the movements of the Franj rode back to our camp in great excitement. Keukburi accompanied them to the entrance of the Sultan’s tent. He was resting, and I was teaching one of his guards the basic moves of chess. Here, underneath the lemon trees, we all waited for him to finish his rest.

The faces of the two scouts were lined with dust. Their eyes were dark with lack of sleep. Their posture suggested that the news they carried was important. They were under strict orders from Taki al-Din to speak directly with Salah al-Din. It was I who suggested that the Sultan might be happy to be disturbed, and Keukburi entered his tent. Salah al-Din walked out bare-chested, a cloth round his waist.

The scouts whispered their message in his ear. It confirmed his predictions. A much-relieved Sultan allowed his emotions to show. He roared with delight.

“Allah o Akbar! They have abandoned the water and are in the grip of Satan. This time I have them.”

Trumpets and drumrolls alerted emir and soldier alike. The speed with which our army made ready for war was a sign of the high morale and discipline that had been achieved during the weeks of training at Ashtara. The fall of Teveriya had a feverish effect on those who had stayed behind. The Sultan, fully dressed in his armour, his green turban in place, and his sword strapped on by attentive retainers, was giving his final orders to Taki al-Din and Keukburi. The two men bowed and withdrew after kissing his cheeks.

Like beasts awaiting their prey, the Sultan’s archers prowled anxiously on the ridge. Their impatience for the kill made them simultaneously nervous and eager. Despite my best efforts to remain calm I could not control my excitement. I broke bread that day with the great Imad al-Din. He was hard at work writing his account of the battle that was about to begin. As he left the tent to relieve himself I read and copied his opening paragraph: “The vast sea of his army surrounded the lake. The ship-like tents rode at anchor and the soldiers flooded in, wave upon wave. A second sky of dust spread out in which swords and iron-tipped lances rose like stars.” He wrote with such ease, the words flowing from his pen quicker than the ink that gave them shape. It did make me wonder, once again, why the Sultan had chosen me and not him to compose this work.

At midday, we caught our first sight of the enemy. The sun was reflecting on the heavy armour of the Franj knights, and the flashes pierced the dust.

As the Franj moved towards the ridge, the Sultan gave the signal. Taki al-Din and Keukburi took their squadrons on a flanking manoeuvre that should not have surprised the Franj. They surrounded the enemy, cut them off from their water supply, and blocked all possible retreats. The Sultan continued to hold the ridge.

I had remained on the ridge next to al-Afdal, near the Sultan’s tent, far from the fighting. Salah al-Din would ride away to observe the battle from different positions, listen to first-hand reports, and then return to his banner where we stood. Then he would send out new instructions. His eyes shone like lamps and his face was free of worry. He was clearly satisfied, yet his caution never deserted him, not for a moment. I had occasion to observe him closely that day.

He was not an interfering commander. He had planned the battle carefully, and provided his orders were carried out he saw no reason to intervene. Throughout the day messengers on horseback, their faces full of dust, would come to him with information and return with orders. One of the most important victories in the annals of Islam was a surprisingly calm affair.

The sight of our dead and wounded soldiers touched me deeply. It upset me that neither the Sultan nor the Emir—nor, for that matter, the men themselves—seemed to show much sympathy for those who had been lost that day. It is strange how, even after one day of war, it is difficult to remember what normal life was like before the battle and all its afflictions.

As the Franj knights slumped and fell, the only emotion I felt was one of relief. By temperament, I am not a vengeful person, but as I saw the sand darkened by the blood of the Franj I recalled the accounts of what they had done to my people in Jerusalem and other towns. I offered a silent prayer pleading with the Almighty to hasten the victory of our Sultan. Not that he needed my prayers that day. His tactics had worked well and, though none of us realised it at the time, it won him the battle of Hattin. Unlike the Franj, we lost few men on that first day. We could have followed them, and finished the job by the evening, but the signal given by al-Afdal from outside the Sultan’s tent was to let them retreat. They had nowhere to go. Every exit had been sealed. Every well was under our control. The supplies on which the Franj had been relying had been diverted, and some of them were already being unloaded at our camp.

The Franj had thought that, as in the past, their knights would charge and break through the encirclement, opening up a path for their entire army to retreat. But they underestimated the size of our army. What they wanted to do had become impossible.

That night, as both sides made camp, neither was aware that the battle was over. On our side, the Sultan conferred anxiously with the emirs. He wanted the names of the skirmishers from each squadron. He demonstrated his own prodigious memory by naming the archers he wanted in position the next day. He had carefully watched the new archers at Ashtara and noted the names of those who hit the mark most often. They were given 400 loads of arrows. The Sultan watched the supplies being distributed and addressed his favourite archer by name.

“Tell your men, Nizam al-Din, that, despite the temptation, they must never waste arrows by aiming at the knights of the Franj. Their armour cannot be pierced. But mark the horse, and aim well, so that the beast falls. A Franj knight without his horse is like an archer without a bow. Useless. Once you get the horses, Taki al-Din and our horsemen will ride like a wave and decapitate these infidels as they stagger nervously to their feet. Is that clear?”

The reply came from all the archers who had been straining their ears to catch the Sultan’s words.

“There is only one Allah, and he is Allah, and Mohammed is his Prophet.”

“I agree,” muttered the Sultan, “but I don’t want Him to welcome too many of you into Heaven too soon. This war is not over.”

Before the battle began again, the Sultan gave firm instructions to his emirs regarding Raymond of Tripoli.

“He is a good man, who was once our friend. Even though he has been compelled by the worshippers of icons to fight against us, I harbour no ill-will against him. He must not be killed. I want him taken alive. If that is not possible, let him escape. We shall find him again.”

It was our skirmishers who began the fight, testing the intentions of the enemy. The Sultan, flanked by Taki al-Din and Keukburi, waited awhile before committing his army to battle. The Franj charged the skirmishers and we suffered some losses, but Salah al-Din signalled to another group of mamluks to join the skirmishing. This time the Franj knights retreated. Imad al-Din, who was with me that day, laughed at the sight.

“The lions have been transformed into hedgehogs,” he said, but a look from the Sultan silenced him. Shadhi had taught Salah al-Din that celebrating a victory before it had been won always brought bad luck.

Salah-al-Din ordered his two wings to begin their outflanking operation and his trusted archers moved into position at the same time. Now, at his signal, their bows quivered and their arrows rained on the Franj, unhorsing many knights. A further signal was given and the scrub was set alight, enhancing the miseries of the Franj. The flames were almost invisible in the bright light. The terrified knights and their horses surged to and fro, feeling they could not remain still, wanting to do something, but they confronted an impossible situation. The smell of scorched flesh, human and animal, began to waft in our direction with the breeze of the late afternoon. Those Franj knights who rode through the fire and charged desperately up the wadis found the Sultan’s archers waiting for them. Some collapsed from sheer exhaustion. Others were burnt alive. The Sultan received the news without emotion. Only once did he speak to me directly, and that was to remark that some of the finest-pedigreed horses of Arabia had perished and this was a cause for regret.

I heard with my own two ears the desperate cries of the Franj soldiers. Crazed by thirst and burnt by the sun, they pleaded for water, praying to their God and then to Allah, much to the disgust of their knights who belonged to the Orders of the Templars and the Hospitallers.

I could see one of their commanders, that impure and infantile adventurer, Reynald of Châtillon, of whom I have already written. He had a frightening scar across his face, a permanent reminder of the skills of one of our unknown swordsmen. Reynald was riding on his sweaty black steed, which snorted arrogantly just like its master. He pulled his horse to an abrupt halt. The roar of the soldiers began to die down. A messenger rushed to the commander. Reynald dismounted and the man whispered something in his ear. Then I lost sight of him completely. Suddenly, and before our very eyes, the Franj lost their formation and appeared without aim or direction.

They moved instinctively towards the lake of Tiberias, but our soldiers barred their way. Hundreds of Franj soldiers gave themselves up to the Sultan, falling on their knees and chanting “Allah o Akbar”. They converted on the spot to the religion of the Prophet, and were given food and water.

Thousands of these soldiers climbed to the top of a small hill, effectively deserting their King. They refused orders to come down. They were thirsty and could not fight without water. Most of them were killed by being hurled over the rocks by their own side. Some were taken prisoner by us. It was clear to everyone that the Franj had been defeated.

Salah al-Din received news of these victories with an impassive face. He was watching the tents which surrounded the symbolic Cross of the Franj. These housed the King and his immediate bodyguard, and had not shifted throughout the battle.

As we watched, young al-Afdal began to jump up and down, shouting: “Now we have beaten them.” He was quickly silenced when a Franj charge drove our soldiers back, causing a frown to occupy the Sultan’s forehead for the first time during this battle.

“Be silent boy!” he told his son. “We shall not defeat them until that tent falls.”

Even as he pointed to the tent of King Guy, we saw it fall. We saw our soldiers capture the “True Cross”. Now Salah al-Din embraced his son and kissed him on the forehead.

“Allah be praised! Now we have beaten them, my son.”

He ordered the victory drumroll, and cries of joy erupted on the hills and plains around the village of Hattin. Taki al-Din and Keukburi came riding up, their arms filled with Franj banners. They threw them at the Sultan’s feet and leapt off their horses, their eyes filled with tears of joy and relief. They kissed Salah al-Din’s hands, and he lifted them both to their feet. With his arms round their shoulders, he thanked them for what they had achieved. Then Taki al-Din spoke to him.

“I allowed Count Raymond to escape, O Commander of the Victorious, just as you had instructed, even though my archers were straining to unhorse him.”