A gentle breeze blew from the west, bringing with it the sound of a distant drum beating a rapid tattoo beneath the merry notes of a flute. He could see the enemy campfires from where his tent had been pitched atop the tall mound called Tell al-Sultan. His own camp was quiet, the campfires long since extinguished. Those who could manage sleep were in their tents. Others sat awake, sharpening their swords and checking their armour ahead of tomorrow’s battle. Some, like Yusuf, stared up at the heavens and wondered if they would soon be joining their forefathers there, in paradise.
‘Uncle?’
Yusuf turned to see Ubadah approaching. He was a man now, and Yusuf had given him lands and a new name: Taqi ad-Din, ‘Strong of Faith’. He hoped it would remind his headstrong nephew of his duty. This was Ubadah’s first campaign, and Yusuf had placed him in charge of over a thousand men. He stopped beside Yusuf and looked out towards the enemy camp. Yusuf saw that he held a twig, which he rolled back and forth between his forefinger and thumb. The boy was nervous.
‘I often have trouble sleeping before a battle,’ Yusuf told him.
Ubadah nodded. ‘My eagerness to fight has robbed me of my sleep,’ he boasted. Then after a moment he asked in a quieter voice, ‘How many men will we face?’
‘More than ten thousand.’
‘And we have only half so many.’ Ubadah licked his lips nervously.
‘Does the wolf run from the sheep, simply because he is outnumbered?’
‘Sheep do not carry swords, Uncle.’
‘Even if they did, they would still be sheep.’ Yusuf clapped his nephew on the back. ‘And we are wolves!’
Ubadah nodded, but he continued to roll the twig back and forth. Then he tossed it aside and turned to face his uncle. ‘Why did you lead the rearguard today? You could have sent me.’
Yusuf smiled. His nephew was so eager to prove himself. He, too, had been like that once. ‘There will be opportunity enough for you to win glory tomorrow. Today I had to act fast, and my khaskiya was ready to ride when the rest of the army was not.’
‘But you could have died.’
‘A good leader must be willing to risk his life for his men.’ Yusuf placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘Get some sleep, Ubadah. Tomorrow will be a long day.’
‘Yes, Uncle.’
Ubadah walked away, and Yusuf returned to his tent. He eventually drifted into a restless sleep, only to be woken what seemed moments later by Saqr. ‘It is nearly dawn,’ the commander of Yusuf’s khaskiya told him. Yusuf performed his prayers, and then Saqr helped him into his armour. He wore leather leggings and a padded vest, over which he pulled on a mail shirt that hung to just below his waist, and over that his suit of golden jawshan, which laced up at the side. Last of all, Saqr attached a mail collar that would protect Yusuf’s neck and then handed him a pointed steel helmet with a crossbar that ran down before his nose. Saqr wrapped a piece of white cloth around the helmet to keep the sun from turning the metal into an oven.
Yusuf stepped outside into the grainy light of early dawn. He found Qaraqush, Al-Maqaddam and Ubadah waiting for him.
‘A good morning, Malik,’ Al-Maqaddam said.
‘Did you hear their camp last night?’ Qaraqush asked. ‘Sounded like a tavern.’
‘Let us hope they are feeling the effects of their merrymaking,’ Yusuf said, and proceeded to give his instructions for the battle, keeping them short and simple. He had found that the more complex the plans a commander laid out, the more likely they were to go astray. ‘We will form the battle line and march at sunrise. Taqi ad-Din, you will command the left, Al-Maqaddam the right. Qaraqush, you will be in the centre. I will keep my guard of five hundred men in reserve. We advance at the sound of my horn and charge at its second sounding. Once battle is joined, you must each hold the line. When I detect a weakness in their ranks, I will strike. At the trumpet’s third blast, you will all advance together and drive them from the field. Understood?’ The men nodded. ‘Good. Allah yasalmak.’
The emirs left to organize their men. Yusuf stood outside his tent and breakfasted on a bowl of boiled wheat as he watched his men form the line: eight men deep and stretching across the plain for two ghalvas — over a quarter of a mile. The men busied themselves stringing their bows and checking their armour. In the distance the enemy line was forming on the plain east of the wells. The men and their horses were tiny at this distance. Yusuf turned to study the sky behind him. It was coloured soft pink and there was a bright spot on the horizon where the sun would soon rise. He handed his bowl to a servant and turned to Saqr. ‘My horse.’
Yusuf rode down from the mound and through the ranks of the reserve force. He nodded in greeting to those he knew welclass="underline" Liaqat and Manzur, who had been young men when Yusuf first met them, and were now hardened warriors with streaks of grey in their long beards; Uwais, a deadly archer; and Nazam, the bald-headed warrior who Yusuf had fought once long ago upon his arrival at Tell Bashir.
Yusuf reached the front of the reserve force. Ahead, the line of the army stretched far to either side, the men’s helmets glinting orange-red as the sun crept above the horizon behind them. It was time. Yusuf raised his voice and shouted, ‘For Islam!’
‘For Islam!’ the men behind him roared back, echoed by the mamluks all along the line.
Yusuf turned to Saqr. ‘Signal the advance.’
Saqr held a curved ram’s horn to his lips and blew. The piercing sound drowned out the nicker of horses and the jingle of tack. The front line rode ahead at a walk. Yusuf led the reserve force into the dust they kicked up. A series of horn blasts sounded from across the field, and through the dust ahead Yusuf could see that the enemy army was on the move. Those at the centre of their line wore mail and those at the edges were dressed in the leather or quilted armour favoured by the Bedouin. The horn sounded again, and the enemy line accelerated, their horses moving at a trot. The gap between the two lines was closing fast. A few men amongst the enemy let loose arrows, and the shafts shattered on the hard ground ahead of Yusuf’s army.
‘Signal the charge!’ Yusuf called to Saqr, who immediately sounded the horn. The line spurred their mounts to a trot and then a canter, quickly pulling away from Yusuf’s reserve force. The opposing army had continued to gain speed. The drumming of their horses’ hooves sounded like thunder. They shot arrows as they rode, and Yusuf’s men shot back, aiming directly into the line of advancing horsemen. Yusuf reined in and raised his bow to signal the men behind him to begin shooting. He nocked an arrow and aimed high, shooting over his men. His arrow joined dozens of others arcing towards the enemy line. He saw a man in the front ranks of the enemy fall from the saddle with an arrow in the gut. He was lost in the dust, trampled by the horses behind him. The armies raced closer and closer and then slammed together. It was difficult for Yusuf to make out what was happening in the deadly fighting that followed. There were screams of pain, terror and rage. Swords flashed in the light of the morning sun. A horse whinnied loudly. A spray of blood filled the air as one of Yusuf’s men was nearly decapitated.
Gradually it became clear that Yusuf’s men were falling back under the weight of the enemy’s greater numbers. He could hear Qaraqush’s deep voice raised over the din of the battle. ‘Hold the line, men! Damn you, hold the line!’ The enemy advance slowed and then stopped.