The city of Gaza stood on a hill that sloped down to the sea toward the fortress and the harbor. Atop the hill was the city gate, so that any enemy would have to attack uphill. Between the city gate and the gates of the fortress on the shore, the way was clear and without obstacle, like a practice field for equestrian games. Visible up on the city walls were mostly Turkish archers and an occasional black-clad sergeant; from the outside it must have looked like a surprisingly meager defense. That was because two hundred sergeants, mostly armed with crossbows, were sitting with their backs against the breastwork walls so that they were invisible from outside. In an instant Gaza’s defense forces would more than double if Arn gave the order.
Just inside the closed but not barred gates to the fortress itself sat eighty Templar knights mounted and ready to ride to the attack.
Arn had hoped that the enemy’s army would advance in groups and not in a body. He had hoped that some emir, in a lust for glory, then wouldn’t be able to keep from showing his bold valor so as to reap rich praise when Saladin himself arrived. The excitement was often greatest, just as the dread was the worst, at the beginning of an attack.
If the Mamelukes had sent in their cavalry through the open city gate, it would have been closed when the crush was sufficiently great, after about four hundred men. Then the gates would have opened down in the fortress and the knights would have emerged, hacking at the Mamelukes in the perfect situation, crowded and hard-pressed, where Saracen speed was no longer an advantage. And from the city wall the sergeants would have turned their crossbows inward and downward. The enemy would have lost a tenth of his force in the first hour. And anyone who then initiated a siege would encounter much trouble afterward. Actually this had been more of a pious hope than a cunning plan. It was well known that as a foe, Saladin was not to be easily fooled.
“Is it time to give our knights something else to do?” asked the weapons master.
“Yes, but they must remain on high alert, because there may be another opportunity,” Arn replied without revealing either disappointment or hope in his voice.
The weapons master nodded and hurried off.
“Come on!” said Arn to Armand, leading him out on the breastwork next to the tower by the city gate so that they ended up standing immediately below the colors of the Knights Templar and in full view of the enemy. Arn himself was the only white-clad knight now visible among Gaza’s defenders.
“What happens now that they weren’t fooled?” asked Armand.
“Saladin will first show his strength, and when that is done there will be some swordplay that is not intended to be taken seriously,” said Arn. “We’ll have a calm first day, and only one man will die.”
“Who’s going to die?” asked Armand with a puzzled frown.
“A man of your own age, a man like you,” said Arn in a tone that almost sounded a bit sad. “A brave young man who believes he’ll have a chance to win great glory and perhaps for the first time take part in a great victory. A man who believes that God is with him, although God has already marked him as the one who will die today.”
Armand couldn’t bring himself to ask any more about who was going to die. His lord Arn had answered him as if he were miles away in his thoughts, as if his words might mean something completely different from what they at first seemed to mean. It was the way that the exalted knight-brothers often spoke.
Soon Armand’s attention was entirely absorbed by the drama outside the walls, where Saladin, exactly as Lord Arn had predicted, now showed his strength. The Mameluke cavalry paraded forward on their beautiful, lively steeds in ranks of five by five, their uniforms gleaming with gold in the sun. They shook their lances and raised their bows as they rode past the city wall by the tower gate where Arn and Armand stood. It took almost an hour to finish the parade, and even though Arn lost count toward the end, he had a good idea that the enemy cavalry was probably more than six thousand strong. It was the largest mounted army Armand had ever seen; to him it seemed utterly invincible, especially since everyone knew that these glistening gold Mamelukes were the best soldiers of the entire Saracen enemy. But his lord Arn did not seem especially worried by what he saw. And when the parade of horsemen was over he even smiled at Armand, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. He began to loosen up his fingers as he did before practicing with the longbow that now stood inside the tower by the gate, along with a beer barrel filled with more than a hundred arrows.
“It looks good so far, Armand, don’t you think?” said Arn, clearly exhilarated.
“That is the largest enemy army I’ve ever seen,” replied Armand cautiously, since he certainly did not think it looked good.
“Yes, that’s true,” said Arn. “But we’re not going out there to race with them across the plain as they apparently think we will. We’re going to stay here inside the walls, and they’ll never be able to climb over them with their horses. But Saladin hasn’t shown his real force yet; this procession was mostly to keep up the morale of his own men. He will show his strength after what is coming now.”
Arn again turned to look out over the breastwork and Armand did the same. He didn’t want to admit that he had no idea what was coming next, or how Saladin’s force would look once he decided to show it.
What followed, however, was an entirely different sort of display of riders. The huge army had ridden off and was now busy unsaddling their mounts and pitching camp. But about fifty riders had gathered as if to launch a direct attack on the city gate. They raised their weapons, shouted their quavering battle cries, and then came riding at full gallop toward the open city gate with their bows in their hands.
There was only one spot where they could cross the moat, and that was at the city gate. The moat on the east side of the city was filled with sharpened poles pointing outward, and anyone who rode down into it at full speed would impale both himself and his horse.
But the entire group of Saracens had halted before they reached the crossing and entered into a loud discussion. Then one of them suddenly spurred his horse, riding at full speed toward the city gate, releasing the reins as he raised his bow and drew it without pausing, as almost none but Saracen riders could do. Arn stood utterly still. Armand glanced at his lord and saw him almost smiling sadly as he sighed and shook his head.
The rider down below loosed his arrow at Arn, the intended target, the only man in a white mantle who was now visible on the walls of Gaza. The arrow whizzed past Arn’s head but he didn’t move a muscle.
The rider had turned just as he loosed his shot and was now on his way back at a furious speed. When he reached his comrades he was greeted with loud cries and lances that slapped him lightly on the back. Then the next rider made ready and soon came galloping up the same way as his comrade had done. He missed his shot by much more than the first archer, but he had dared to come even closer.
As the Saracen rode for his life back to the other young emirs, Arn gave Armand the order to go and fetch his bow and a few arrows from inside the tower. Armand obeyed at once and came back out of breath, carrying the bow, just as the third rider was rushing forward.
“Cover me on the left with your shield,” Arn ordered as he grabbed his bow and nocked an arrow. Armand held the shield ready; he knew that he had to wait until the rider down there came closer and prepared to shoot.
When the young Mameluke emir thundered over the covered part of the moat, dropped his reins, and drew his bow, Armand raised the shield to cover most of his master as Arn drew his longbow, aimed, and let the arrow fly.