The Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean (28 page)

But religious toleration did not mean peace. In January 1256 Kublai’s brother Hulagu led a huge army against the sect of the Assassins, whose terrorist activities were making the Persian lands they occupied ungovernable. By the end of 1257 few of its several thousand members were left alive. Hulagu was then free to concentrate on his next victim: al-Mustasim, the Abbasid Caliph in Baghdad. The city fell on 10 February 1258. The Caliph was put to death–after he had personally revealed to Hulagu the secret hiding place in which he had concealed his treasure–and so was the whole Muslim population of the city, probably some 80,000 men, women and children, excepting of course some of the prettier girls and boys who were kept as slaves. Only the Christians, who had taken refuge in their churches, were saved–on the personal initiative of Hulagu’s chief wife Dokuz Khatun, a deeply committed Nestorian.
⁹⁹
The Nestorian Patriarch was actually presented with one of the former royal palaces for use as his church and his official residence.

While the Christian communities throughout Asia rejoiced, the news of the fall of Baghdad rocked the whole Muslim world. The Abbasid Caliphate had been in existence for over five centuries, since 747. Its political power was long since gone, but it remained the focus and the uniting force of orthodox Islam. Without it, the faith lost its cohesion and was effectively up for grabs–a prize to be seized by any Muslim leader with sufficient ambition and determination. Hulagu, however, was not a Muslim leader; he now set his sights on Syria. The city of Mayyafaraqin was the first to fall, its captured ruler being forced to eat his own flesh until he died. Aleppo followed. Antioch owed its salvation only to its Prince, Bohemund VI, who travelled out to Hulagu’s camp to pay him homage. Next it was the turn of Damascus, which surrendered without a struggle. The Mongol army under Hulagu’s deputy, another Nestorian Christian named Kitbuqa, entered the city on 1 March, accompanied by Bohemund and his father-in-law the King of Armenia; in the words of Sir Steven Runciman, ‘the citizens of the ancient capital of the Caliphate saw for the first time for six centuries three Christian potentates ride in triumph through their streets.’

To many of the faithful, it must have seemed the death-knell of Islam in Asia, the more so in that the Mongol conquerors–many of whom, like Kitbuqa, were Christians themselves–openly favoured the local Christian communities. With Syria secured, they now turned their gaze towards Palestine. Avoiding Jerusalem, they advanced southward in a broad sweep through to Gaza, leaving Acre untouched but encircled by their own forces and the sea.

The speed of the conquest and the measure of its success had been alike astonishing, but the Mongol lines of communication were already alarmingly extended. Some time in the autumn of 1259 word reached the Mongol camp that the Great Khan had been killed while on campaign in China. The succession–as so often–was disputed, and it soon became plain to Hulagu that if he were to preserve his own position he must return immediately to the east. And so, early in 1260, he set forth with the bulk of his army on the 4,000-mile march to Karakorum, leaving Kitbuqa with a much-reduced force to govern the conquered lands as best he could.

Shortly before his departure Hulagu had sent an embassy to the Mameluke Sultan of Egypt demanding his submission. The Sultan, Saifeddin Qutuz, had not taken it well; he had had the ambassador executed and had at once begun to prepare for a military expedition against Syria. Now, with the sudden dramatic reduction of the Mongol host, he seized his opportunity. On 26 July the Mameluke army under Baibars crossed the frontier, captured Gaza virtually without a struggle and headed north into Palestine. It was some time in September–no one seems sure of the precise date–that the two armies met at Ain Jalud, the Pools of Goliath. The Sultan Qutuz was in overall command; the vanguard, as usual, was led by Baibars. The Mongols were quickly surrounded. They fought magnificently, but now it was they who were outnumbered. Kitbuqa was taken prisoner, bound and brought before the Sultan, who ordered his immediate execution.

This was effectively the end of the battle–today largely forgotten yet arguably one of the most decisive in history, since it saved Islam from the most dangerous threat that it has ever had to face. The three greatest cities of the Muslim world–Baghdad, Aleppo and Damascus–were in the hands of the Mongols; had Kitbuqa been victorious once again and pursued his enemy into Egypt, there would have been no Muslim state worthy of the name to the east of Morocco. The Muslim victory, on the other hand, gave the Mameluke Sultanate of Egypt supremacy in the Near East until the rise of the Ottoman Empire–and it sealed the fate of Outremer.

Within a week after the battle of Ain Jalud, Qutuz was in Damascus; within a month, Muslim forces had regained Aleppo. When the Sultan led his army in triumph back to Egypt, he seemed to be carrying all before him. But he was rapidly losing confidence in his brilliant second-in-command, Baibars, and when Baibars demanded the governorship of Aleppo–a position which would have given him the power to seize control of Syria–Qutuz refused him outright. In doing so, he badly underestimated his man. On 23 October 1260 he decided to spend a day hunting in the delta, taking his senior emirs with him; as soon as they were a safe distance from the camp, Baibars approached him silently from behind and ran him through with his sword. Although he now had the blood of two sultans on his hands, no one dared to question Baibars’s right to succeed. He was to reign for the next seventeen years: physically a giant, cruel and treacherous, devoid of pity or any finer feelings, but by a very long way the ablest of all the Mameluke rulers.

Ain Jalud had not altogether put an end to Mongol power in the area. Hulagu returned to Syria as soon as he could and maintained a strong resistance in the northeast, but he died in 1265, leaving Baibars free to resume his active campaigning against the Christians. They too remained a force to be reckoned with: King Hethoum I of Armenia and Bohemund VI, Prince of Antioch and Count of Tripoli, were particularly dangerous adversaries. But Baibars kept up a relentless pressure. Four times he actually descended on Acre itself and was beaten back, but in 1267 he captured Caesarea and Toron and ravaged Cilicia, dealing the Armenian Kingdom what proved eventually to be its death-blow. The year following saw the fall of Jaffa and–worst of all, on 18 May–Antioch, one of the original patriarchal seats, the first Christian principality of Outremer, the most prosperous and well-endowed of all the Frankish cities. No mercy was shown by the conquerors. The vast accumulated treasures were doled out to the troops, most of the leading citizens and ecclesiastics massacred. The city never recovered. Throughout Eastern Christendom, the psychological effect was catastrophic.

The fall of Antioch was followed by a truce–welcome, one would imagine, to both sides and enabling them to take stock of events both in Europe and Asia which would have repercussions in Outremer: the execution of Conradin, for example, which meant the extinction of the legitimate line of the royal house of Jerusalem, and–more disturbing still–reports of the imminent arrival of King Louis of France, on his second and last Crusade.

It was now nearly twenty years since Louis had arrived at Acre after his disaster at Damietta. Awaiting him he had found an urgent appeal from his mother, the Queen Regent Blanche, imploring him to return at once to France, but his conscience had told him that to do so would be tantamount to an admission of defeat. His high ideals had so far achieved nothing; indeed, they had destroyed not only his own army but also virtually the whole fighting force of Outremer. Before he returned home, he felt, the situation must somehow be redeemed. Besides, were not some of his soldiers still imprisoned in Egypt? For their sake too it was clear that he must stay for some time longer in the east.

And so he had stayed, for another four years. Since his arrival in Outremer he had learned much. No longer could he afford to despise the infidels; if he were to recover his position and his prestige, he must treat them as equals, and thanks to the new division in the Muslim world–for Palestine and Syria remained staunchly loyal to the Ayubids–he was able to do so with considerable success. He had treated with the Ayubids and the Mamelukes; he had treated with the Assassins, shortly before their virtual destruction at the hands of Hulagu; and he had of course treated with the Mongols. Technically, as he well knew, he had no right to negotiate at all, for since 1250 the Crusader kingdom had belonged to Frederick’s son Conrad; but Conrad was away in Germany and likely to remain there, and in Outremer Louis was accepted
de facto
as king. Thanks to him, such Frankish prisoners as had remained in Egypt had eventually been released, and the Mamelukes had promised that once they had occupied Syria and Palestine they would return to the Christians all the old Kingdom of Jerusalem as far east as the river Jordan.

But there could be no question of another military offensive; and when civil war broke out at home following the death of Queen Blanche in November 1252, Louis realised that he could postpone his departure no longer. On 24 April 1254 he set sail from Acre, and early in July landed at Hyères on the south coast of France, a sad and disappointed man. Of all the Crusaders, he was the most honourable, the most upright and by far the most pious, but his intervention in the Holy Land had been little short of catastrophic and had led to the loss of thousands of innocent men, a large proportion of them his own subjects. He was also bewildered; past defeats and reverses suffered by the Crusaders had been ascribed to their sinful lives, yet he–who spent hours a day in prayer and led a life of unimpeachable moral rectitude–had fared no better than they. Could it be that the whole concept of the Crusades was unpleasing in the sight of God?

He could not bring himself to believe so, and continued to dream of one more attempt–of one last journey to the Holy Land that would be crowned with success and wipe the stain of failure from his conscience. For sixteen years domestic troubles kept him occupied in France, but in 1270 he thought he saw his opportunity; though already fifty-six years old and in poor health, he made ready once again to embark for Palestine. Precisely what he meant to do when he got there is far from clear; to have recovered the Holy Places at such a time would have called for nothing less than a miracle. But whatever his intentions may have been, they were effectively set at naught by his brother Charles of Anjou, King of Sicily.

Charles’s defeat of Manfred and his execution of Conradin–thus finally ridding Italy once and for all of the house of Hohenstaufen–had awoken in him even greater ambitions. These now encompassed the domination of all Italy, the reduction of the Pope to the status of a puppet, the reconquest yet again of Constantinople–now once more in Greek hands–its return to the Latin faith and, ultimately, the establishment of a Christian empire that would extend the length and breadth of the Mediterranean. His first thought, therefore, was to persuade Louis to march against Byzantium, but the King refused to consider an attack on his co-religionists, heretical or not, so Charles tried again. The Emir of Tunis, he pointed out, was said to be well disposed towards Christianity and could well be ready for conversion. If that were indeed so, the true faith might be spread all along the north African coast; even if it were not, the advantages of a permanent Christian foothold on that coast were surely not to be ignored.

It is one of the great ironies of history that sanctity is so seldom accompanied by intelligence. Why King Louis believed his brother for a moment–despite the urgent advice of most of his friends and counsellors–is almost impossible to understand. But believe him he did and, accompanied by his three surviving sons, he and his army embarked once again at Aigues-Mortes in the hottest season of the year and sailed for Tunis on 1 July.

Were any enquiries made before his departure as to the truth of Charles’s claim? Was there a shred of evidence, however circumstantial, to suggest that the Emir had ever considered abandoning the faith of his fathers? Even if he had, did Louis honestly believe that an armed attack was the best way to make him do so? In fact, when the army landed on 18 July, it was immediately clear that nothing was further from the Emir’s mind. He was already rallying his men, strengthening his city’s defences and preparing to fight.

Fortunately for him, he did not need to lift a finger. The north African summer did it all for him. Hardly had the Crusading army pitched camp when its soldiers began to sicken and die; within a week disease was raging uncontrolled. King Louis was among the first of the victims. For the first few days he would struggle determinedly to his feet to hear Mass, but soon this became impossible and before long only a faint movement of his lips showed that he was still able to follow the ceremony. When, on 25 August, Charles of Anjou arrived with his army, he was told that his brother had died just a few hours before. The King’s heir, his eldest son Philip, was also lying dangerously ill; he, however, survived, and was to reign as Philip III (‘the Bold’) for the next fifteen years. Louis’s younger son, the twenty-one-year-old John Tristan who had been born at Damietta during the earlier campaign, was not so lucky.

Charles fought on for a few more weeks, finally coming to an arrangement with the Emir by which, in return for a considerable indemnity, he agreed to return with what was left of the army to Italy. Honour was saved, but very little else. The final nail had been hammered into the coffin of the Crusades, since–apart from what the
Encyclopedia Britannica
refers to as ‘sundry disjointed epilogues’–those of St Louis were effectively the last. The great contest that had lasted for nearly two centuries between the Cross and the Crescent was finally over, and the Crescent was the victor.