Brethren, p.51
Brethren, page 51
Baybars faced Mecca. The walls of Antioch occupied his vision, but as he stood with his men and began to chant the words of the first sura of the Koran they seemed to fade into the vista and become nothing more than rock and sand.
In the name of God, most Gracious, most Merciful. All praise is for God, the Lord and Sustainer of all the worlds!
When their prayers were done, the Mamluks rose and continued with their tasks; unloading supplies from the camels; erecting tents; priming the engines; lighting fires; preparing for the evening’s feast. Tomorrow was the first day of the holy month of Ramadan and for the next four weeks they would fast during daylight hours.
“My lord.”
Baybars turned as Omar came toward him, moving around the servants who were rolling up the prayer mats. “Have you relayed my orders to the governors?”
“I have, my lord. Everyone knows their positions.” Omar paused. “Except for me.”
“I want you at the rear with the engines.”
“The rear?”
“You heard me,” said Baybars, ignoring his hurt look. Over the last few campaigns he had been placing Omar farther and farther back from the front lines. Whereas he feared little for his own safety, he had, during these past years, become increasingly concerned with the welfare of his friends. Perhaps because he had so few of them.
“Sadeek,” protested Omar in a low voice, “if you insist on leading this battle, I want to be at your side. Didn’t you listen to what Khadir said?”
Baybars raised an eyebrow. “I thought it was you who never listened to Khadir.”
“I do when he says he fears a threat on your life. A threat within the city.”
“Khadir could not be specific about the nature of it and so I’m inclined to believe it is nothing more than the general desire of the Franks to be rid of me. He was, however, certain that the signs for the battle itself are auspicious. I will take the more confident prediction. Khadir is always unsettled so near his home,” Baybars added, referring to the Assassins’ stronghold of Masyaf in the Jabal Bahra Mountains—the place and Order Khadir had been exiled from.
“Do you have to lead the battle though, my lord?”
Baybars’s jaw tightened. “When I let others lead a force against this city, they were turned around by a petty offering. We do not accept gifts from the Franks, Omar.”
“My Lord Sultan.”
Baybars looked around to see Kalawun approaching. With him was a commander of one of the regiments.
Kalawun bowed to Baybars. “Can I speak with you?”
“Yes,” said Baybars. “We were finished, weren’t we, Omar?”
After a pause, Omar inclined his head. “We were, my lord.”
Baybars waited until he had gone, then turned to the two men. “Are you set?”
“Yes, my lord,” replied Kalawun.
“Good. I want you both in position by morning.”
“Then with your permission, we will go now, my lord,” said the commander.
“You have it.” As they went to leave, Baybars called Kalawun to wait. “Allah be with you,” he said quietly.
Kalawun’s strong-boned face creased in a faint smile. “I fear it is you who will need God’s protection, my lord. My task, I expect, will be simple by comparison.”
“That will depend on whether you meet resistance and the longer you remain, the more likely that will become, either from the Templars at Baghras and La Roche Guillaume, or from Cilicia.”
“We hit the Armenians hard last year,” said Kalawun quietly. “I doubt they could muster any great force.”
“Do not doubt anything, Kalawun. When we left Tripoli unscathed, Prince Bohemond would have certainly entertained the concern that we would come here. He may be able to marshal an effective army from the remnants of the kingdom in time, although I don’t intend to spend enough of it here to allow him the opportunity.”
There was the sound of a commotion and a small dark shape came rushing toward them out of the shadows. Kalawun went to step in front of Baybars, then saw that it was the sultan’s son. Hastening after Baraka Khan, puffing and panting, was his tutor, a retired commander called Sinjar whom Kalawun had suggested as a suitable mentor for the boy. There was a large red stain on the front of Sinjar’s white tunic. For a moment, Baybars thought he had been wounded, then realized that it was too pale for blood. Baraka skidded to a halt, breathing hard.
“Why aren’t you studying?” Baybars demanded of the seven-year-old. He looked questioningly at Sinjar, who bowed, trying to catch his breath.
“Apologies, my lord, we were embarking on a simple algebraic problem. When Baraka couldn’t solve it, he became angry and threw a jug of cordial over me.” Sinjar gestured to his stained tunic. “I went to punish him and he ran from me.”
Baraka glared at his tutor. “Sinjar was going to beat me, father.”
“As well he should,” said Baybars, swinging his son roughly into his arms. “I don’t want to hear of any more trouble from you, do you understand?”
Baraka pouted. “Yes, father,” he muttered.
Baybars nodded to Sinjar. “Leave him with me.”
“My lord.”
“If you refuse to attend to your studies,” said Baybars to his son, as Sinjar left, “then you can help me instead.” He half smiled at Kalawun. “Perhaps we should put him to work on one of the mandjaniks?”
Kalawun returned the smile. “Perhaps.” He ruffled Baraka’s hair. “Although I’m not sure that is fitting work for the heir to the throne and my future son-in-law.”
Baraka pouted even more. Baybars had told him that he would be marrying Kalawun’s daughter in a few years, when he was old enough. Baraka hoped his father would put her to work on one of the mandjaniks. She might have an accident and end up tossed over the wall into the city. He grinned at the thought as Kalawun bowed to Baybars and headed off across the camp to where a battalion was waiting. “Where is Amir Kalawun going, father?”
“Into the mountains,” replied Baybars, carrying his son into the pavilion. Since Baraka had left the harem and the clutches of his wives, he had begun to find the child an oddly pleasant distraction from the strains of leadership.
“Why?”
Baybars, ignoring the eunuchs, bodyguards and advisors in the pavilion, set his son down on a rug and picked up a silver dish of figs. “I’ll show you,” he said, crouching down and putting a fig into Baraka’s little fist. He placed three of the fruits in a triangle on the rug. “This is Antioch,” he told his son, pointing to the fig at the bottom right-hand point of the triangle. “The one above is the Syrian Gates, where Kalawun is going.” He pointed to the apex of the triangle. “Kalawun will prevent any aid coming to the Christians from the north.” He moved his finger to the fig at the bottom left. “This is the port of St. Symeon. I’ve sent a second battalion to capture it. They will prevent any reinforcements coming from the coast.”
“What will you do, father?”
Baybars smiled. Taking the fig that was Antioch, he popped it into his mouth. Baraka laughed.
“My Lord Sultan!”
Baybars rose as a Bahri warrior entered the pavilion.
The warrior bowed. “Someone is coming from the city.”
“Who?” said Baybars, glancing down at Baraka, who was squashing the remaining figs into the rug with his fist.
“A company, led by their constable. They came out of the northwest gate.”
Baybars and his advisors followed the warrior out of the pavilion. A tiny snake of torchlight was making its way down from the walls where other fires were now flickering. “Go and meet them,” said Baybars to the warrior. “Disarm them and bring them to me. I expect they think to negotiate.”
“I have come to parley!” insisted Simon Mansel as he was marched forcibly into the royal pavilion by two Mamluk warriors, his troop of guards having been rounded up, their weapons taken. “You will free me at once if you wish to hear my terms!” He repeated this last demand in broken Arabic.
“Your terms?” questioned Baybars, his deep voice causing Mansel to fall silent and look warily up at the throne. Baybars studied the corpulent constable as he was brought before the dais. The man was clad in a sumptuous silk robe and turban and was dripping with jewels. “I do not believe you are in a position to offer any.” When Mansel looked uncertainly at him, Baybars gestured to one of his staff. “Translate my words to the constable.”
The translator came forward and spoke.
“Now tell him to kneel,” added Baybars.
Mansel looked affronted by the request, but had no choice but to comply as the two Mamluk warriors holding his arms pushed him to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a small boy crouching behind a mesh screen to one side of the tent. As he turned, the boy stuck out his tongue and giggled. Ignoring the boy, Mansel looked to the translator.
“Tell your sultan that I have arranged for wagons of gold and jewels to be delivered to him if he stands down and leads his army from our walls. He has until tomorrow to accept these terms. It will be my only offer.”
Baybars’s expression didn’t change as the translator spoke. “Gold? You think to placate me with such a worthless offering?”
“Worthless?” scoffed Mansel, when the question was relayed. “I can assure you that . . .”
“Gold means nothing to me,” said Baybars, not waiting for the constable’s words to be translated. “There is only one thing that will turn my army aside and will secure your life and the lives of every man, woman and child in your city. Surrender. Tell your knights to open the gates of the city, the city the Franks took for themselves one hundred and seventy years ago. Tell them to lay down arms and let us in. Once we have taken the city, you will leave, all of you, and never return. Antioch is lost to you; to all Christians.”
“I will not accept those terms!” Mansel began in an outraged tone. “There are thousands within the city. Where will they go? I cannot simply ask them all to leave their homes, their livestock! What about the sick? The young and infirm? Take what I have offered and be satisfied with . . .”
He trailed off as Baybars rose from the throne and motioned to one of the Bahri standing by the entrance. Mansel didn’t understand what was said, but he flinched with fear as Baybars drew one of his sabers and came down the steps of the dais toward him.
“If you hurt me you will get nothing! Nothing, tell him!” he cried to the translator. “Tell him!”
There was a noise behind him. Mansel looked around to see his guards being forced into the tent by seven Bahri warriors.
“Take my son out of here,” Baybars ordered one of his eunuchs.
Baraka cried out and kicked at the attendant as he was picked up and carried from the tent.
Mansel’s six guards looked fearful as they were lined up in front of the dais, glancing uncertainly to the constable. The Bahri forced the troop to their knees.
“What are you doing?” said Mansel to Baybars.
The blue-eyed sultan didn’t reply, but walked up to the first of the guards, a young man with wide brown eyes and a freckled face. Grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair, Baybars wrenched back his head and sliced the edge of his saber across the man’s throat. Blood spurted in a wide arc, splattering the steps of the dais.
“Dear God!” cried Mansel as the young man slumped sideways, blood pumping from his neck.
He hadn’t even had a chance to scream. The remaining guards were shouting at the sultan and at the Bahri. Two, in terror, tried to run, but they were soon pushed back into their places by the soldiers who came forward, blades drawn.
Baybars turned to Mansel, his saber streaked with blood. Some of it had sprayed onto his yellow-gold cloak, obscuring the inscriptions from the Koran. “Do you concede to my demands? Or will you let more of your men die? It is up to you. The lives of your men for your city. That is what I offer you.”
Mansel didn’t need a translator to know what was said. “You heartless bastard,” he said in a low, bitter voice.
The translator went to speak, then looked at Baybars and thought better of it.
Baybars went to another of Mansel’s guards. This one did scream as the sultan pulled back his head, exposing his throat to the blade. He struggled, trying to twist away, but two Bahri came forward to hold him still.
“Your man or your city?” demanded Baybars, looking to Mansel. “Which is more important to you? Decide!”
The translator spoke quickly.
“I will not be threatened like this!” insisted Mansel.
“Captain!” shouted the guard.
Baybars’s eyes narrowed as the translator told him the constable’s response. His jaw tightened as he slashed the blade across the guard’s throat. This one took longer to die, writhing around on the floor beside his fallen comrade, gurgling spouts of blood and pressing his hands vainly to his cut throat.
Mansel averted his gaze.
“Finish it,” said Baybars gruffly, gesturing to the agonized guard.
One of the Bahri stepped forward and stabbed down.
“I’ll see you burn in hell for this!” said Mansel hoarsely to Baybars.
“Do you accept my terms?”
“I do not!” roared the constable.
His response resulted in a third dead guard.
“Enough!” snapped Baybars. He strode to Mansel, his saber dripping blood.
Mansel tried to scrabble to his feet, but the Bahri were on him in seconds. “No!” he cried as Baybars towered over him, grabbing his hair. “My wife is a cousin of Prince Bohemond’s princess!” he shouted in Arabic. “My ransom is worth more than my death to you!”
“Only your city is worth anything to me. Surrender it now, or I will cut your head from your body and have it tossed over Antioch’s walls to show your citizens the price of refusal.” Baybars pressed the blade to the squirming, roaring man’s throat. “Surrender!”
“I accept!” shrieked Mansel, as the blade cut into him. A hot trickle of blood dribbled down his neck. “I accept your demands! I surrender the city!”
“Take him to the walls,” growled Baybars, stepping back from the constable and addressing the Bahri. “Have him relay this command to his garrison. Ready the men. We will go in tonight.”
With that, Simon Mansel, Constable of Antioch, was marched up to St. George’s Gate where, in a tremulous voice, he ordered the garrison of the city, and all the garrisons of the military Orders, to stand down.
A short time later, while Baybars was cleaning his hands in a basin, one of the Bahri warriors he had sent to escort Mansel entered. The bodies of the guards had been removed and the eunuchs were on their knees, cleaning blood from the dais steps.
“My Lord Sultan.”
Baybars reached for a cloth to dry his hands. “Is it done?”
“Mansel gave the order, as requested.”
“Have they opened the gates?”
“No, my lord,” replied the Bahri warrior. “The garrison of Antioch refused Mansel’s order. They will not surrender the city.”
39
The Walls, Antioch
MAY 18, 1268 AD
Simon picked up a brown, wrinkled orange from the rations that had been laid out. “How long is this going to go on for?” he said suddenly, turning to Will.
Will was surprised by the abruptness of his tone. “If Mansel manages to persuade the commanders to surrender it might be over soon.” He seated himself on a barrel. His watch had just finished and he was exhausted. Outside, dawn was breaking. A pale light was starting to fill the doorway, but the circular, windowless chamber at the base of the tower would remain gloomy for the rest of the day. “I’m not sure he will though,” he added, yawning.
Twice, Constable Mansel had been led up to the gates and twice the city’s garrison had refused his demand to surrender. Yesterday, the men on the walls had watched, warily, as the Mamluk army had started to spread out around the city, some battalions moving north toward the river, others south to the slopes of the mountain. One regiment had set up their engines facing the two towers occupied by Lambert’s company.
Simon dropped the orange onto the table. “I’m not talking about the battle,” he said roughly. “I’m talking about you and me.”
Will frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” muttered Simon. “Forget I said anything.”
“No,” said Will, crossing to Simon. “If you have something to say, then say it.”
Simon lowered his eyes. “Really. It’s nothing.”
“Yes, it is,” said Will harshly. “You haven’t spoken to me in days. Every time I come near you, you make some excuse to leave. You’re still blaming me, aren’t you? For us being here?”
“Don’t,” said Simon, shaking his head. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I never asked you to come, Simon.”
“No, I got posted, remember?”
“Not to Antioch, to Outremer. Back in Orléans I told you to stay if you didn’t want to come, but that I’d made up my mind.”
“To get Nicolas,” said Simon, nodding his head vigorously, “to get Everard’s book. That’s what you’d made up your mind to do. You didn’t come here to fight a war!”
“Well, I’m in one. And so are you.” Will thrust his finger toward the wall, beyond which was the Mamluk camp. “Those men killed my father. Perhaps even the one who hacked his head from his shoulders is out there.”
“You’ve been so cold,” said Simon quietly. “We don’t talk, or laugh like we used to.”
“I’m not exactly in a laughing mood.”
“You do with Robert and the others! I feel like I’m here on my own. You don’t know how frightening it is to know what’s out there and know you can’t fight it. You don’t know what it’s like to not be able to defend the people you . . .” Simon hung his head. “. . . people you care about.”
