As Yusuf scanned the line of battle from right to left he quickly recognized Saif ad-Din’s strategy. His army had thrown its greatest numbers against Yusuf’s right flank, but Al-Muqaddam and the men of Damascus were holding. On the left, Ubadah faced what looked to be a weaker force. But Yusuf knew better than to charge there. Saif ad-Din had kept several thousand men in reserve, and already they were drifting that way. Saif ad-Din had shown his hand too early. He was hoping to lure Yusuf into a charge on the left. His men would retreat to draw Yusuf’s mamluks after them, and then Saif ad-Din would send his men pouring in to cut them off. It was a classic strategy, of the sort one learned in books.
Yusuf turned towards the reserve force and raised his voice. ‘We will strike the middle of their line and split their forces in two. Then we will turn left, striking their reserve force in the flank.’ Saif ad-Din would find himself caught in his own trap, pinched between Yusuf and Ubadah’s men.
Yusuf opened his mouth to signal the charge but the words died on his lips. Ubadah was leading the left flank forward. Saif ad-Din’s men fled before them, and then, as Yusuf had foreseen, the reserve force swept in, cutting Ubadah’s men off from the rest of the army. The enemy warriors, who had been retreating only moments before, turned to fight. Ubadah’s men were surrounded, and Yusuf’s left flank was completely exposed.
‘Yaha!’ he cursed. ‘The young fool!’ He held his sword aloft and raised his voice. ‘To the left, men! Follow me!’ He spurred his horse to a gallop, and his men thundered after him. The left flank was only two hundred yards away, but it seemed to take an eternity to cover the distance. Ahead, some of Saif ad-Din’s men had turned from Ubadah’s forces and were striking the exposed flank of Yusuf’s line. The centre began to give ground under the pressure. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ Yusuf cried, urging his horse to greater speed.
Saif ad-Din’s men were just ahead now. One of them turned, and his eyes opened wide in shock just before the curved blade of Yusuf’s sword caught him in the face. Yusuf galloped past without glancing back to see the man fall. He slashed another warrior across the back. Behind them, the rest of the reserve force was cutting through the enemy. Yusuf pushed on into a crowd of riders. He parried a thrust and countered, dropping a man. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a sword slicing towards his face, but it was blocked at the last second by Saqr’s blade. Yusuf chopped the man down. Suddenly something slammed into the back of his helmet, and he slumped in the saddle as the world dimmed around him. He jerked back to consciousness just in time to knock aside a thrust aimed at his heart. Saqr slashed the attacker across the face, and Yusuf turned his horse to face the man who had struck him from behind. But his attacker was dead, having been dispatched by one of his khaskiya. More of Saif ad-Din’s men lay dead around him, and the rest were beginning to flee. The flank was secure, but Ubadah and his men were still surrounded and fighting an increasingly desperate battle.
‘Saqr! Signal for the line to advance.’ Saqr blew the horn, and Yusuf waved his sword over his head. ‘For Islam!’
‘For Saladin!’ his men shouted back.
The line surged forward, Yusuf and his men now on the left flank. They drove into the men surrounding Ubadah’s force. The enemy now found themselves caught between Ubadah and Yusuf’s men. They held for a moment and then panicked and fled, led by Saif ad-Din himself, his banner waving above him as he galloped from the field. Yusuf turned right to attack the centre of Saif ad-Din’s line, but they too were in full retreat. Yusuf continued riding until he reached the end of the line, where Saif ad-Din had initially committed most of his men. They were still fighting, and Yusuf and his men encircled them from behind. A horn began to blow repeatedly, calling them from the field, but it was too late. Some two thousand of Saif ad-Din’s men were surrounded, unable to retreat. They began to throw down their weapons and surrender.
Yusuf sheathed his sword and removed his helmet. There was a large dent on the back. Had the blow struck only a little lower, he would be dead.
‘Subhan’allah!’ Ubadah shouted as he rode up alongside Yusuf. ‘We are victorious!’
‘We were lucky,’ Yusuf snapped. ‘Your foolishness nearly lost us the battle.’
The grin fell from Ubadah’s face. ‘You said a leader must not be afraid to lead his men into battle.’
‘I told you to hold the line! An emir must obey the commands of his lord. Hundreds of my men died because of you. Men with families.’
‘I-’
Yusuf did not wish to hear the excuses. He turned his horse and rode away. He had no doubt that Ubadah was brave, but he feared it was a reckless bravery that would some day get him killed.
As he rode towards the deserted enemy camp, Qaraqush came up alongside him. ‘A great victory, Malik!’ The mamluk general grinned. ‘Did you see them run?’
Yusuf could not bring himself to share Qaraqush’s enthusiasm. He had a dull headache and felt nauseous. He touched the back of his head and found an egg-sized bump.
‘Are you well, Malik?’
‘Well enough,’ Yusuf replied tersely. ‘Move our camp to the wells and see that the horses are watered.’
‘And the prisoners? We have captured hundreds.’
‘Release them.’ Yusuf noticed the look of surprise on Qaraqush’s face. ‘Harsh measures will only make them hate us all the more. Mercy will rob them of the desire to fight. It will make peace that much easier to achieve.’
‘Yes, Malik.’
Qaraqush spurred away, and Yusuf rode on to the enemy camp. Some of his men were already there, searching through the tents and baggage that had been left behind. The booty would be distributed amongst Yusuf’s men. He saw a mamluk laughing as he picked at a lute that he had found. Another man emerged from a tent, his long brown beard stained violet. ‘Wine!’ he roared and then fell silent as he noticed Yusuf.
‘You saw how their army fought?’ Yusuf demanded.
‘Yes, Malik.’
‘That is how men drunk on wine fight. See that it is poured out, all of it.’
The mamluk bowed and went into the tent. Yusuf watched while he rolled out a barrel and removed the stopper so that the wine poured out to stain the dry ground red. He looked up at the sound of a strange bird call. The mamluk Uwais was emerging from another tent with a cage that held two parrots. Another man followed with a cage containing nightingales.
‘What do we do with these, Malik?’ Uwais asked.
‘Have them sent back to Saif ad-Din with this message: tell him to play with his birds and leave war to men.’
Chapter 20
APRIL 1176: ON THE ROAD FROM ACRE TO ANTIOCH
John rode under a banner displaying Raymond’s arms, a golden cross on a field of red. Before him, a long line of Frankish soldiers followed a path that wound its way along cliffs above the Mediterranean Sea. They had marched from Acre just over a week ago and had left Tripoli and Lattakieh behind. John rode at the centre of the column, along with Raymond, Humphrey and William. The regent rode up alongside John.
‘We will reach Antioch the day after next,’ Raymond said. ‘After that we will head inland to rendezvous with the armies of Aleppo and Mosul. Then we will turn south to confront Saladin.’
John nodded but said nothing. Raymond searched his face for a moment. ‘You know Saladin well, John. What sort of man is he?’
John thought for a while. ‘When he was a boy, he suffered fits that robbed him of his breath and left him helpless. His father despised him and considered him unfit to be a warrior. His older brother Turan bullied him. Saladin was a skinny boy. He weighed maybe half as much as Turan. He bided his time and learned to fight. When Saladin was twelve and his brother sixteen, Saladin beat Turan to within an inch of his life. Turan never troubled him again.’