Manuel would have to respond. But as the scion of the emperors of Rome, he could not do so in some merely typical manner. He had to reestablish his prestige by publicly humiliating the brigand knight of Antioch. As soon as Reynald heard that the imperial army was on its way to Syria, he realized that any resistance would be futile and decided to beg forgiveness. As amply gifted with servility as he was with arrogance, he presented himself in Manuel’s camp barefoot, dressed as a beggar, and threw himself before the imperial throne.
Nūr al-Dīn’s ambassadors were present at the scene. They watched ‘Brins Arnat’ lie in the dust at the feet of the basileus, who, apparently not even deigning to take note of his presence, calmly continued his conversation with his guests, waiting several minutes before finally casting a glance at his adversary and instructing him, with a condescending gesture, to rise.
Reynald obtained his pardon, and was therefore able to preserve his principality, but his prestige in northern Syria was tarnished for ever. In fact, the following year he was captured by Aleppan soldiers during one of his plundering excursions north of the city, and he spent sixteen years in captivity before reappearing on the scene, once again to play the most execrable of roles.
As for Manuel, his authority was to rise steadily after this expedition. He succeeded in imposing his suzerainty over the Frankish principality of Antioch and the Turkish states of Asia Minor alike, thus regaining for the empire a decisive role in Syrian affairs. This resurgence of Byzantine military power, the last in its history, redrew the map of conflict between the Arabs and the Franj. The permanent threat to his borders now represented by the Rūm prevented Nūr al-Dīn from launching the sweeping reconquest he had desired. But since the power of the son of Zangī also kept in check any expansionist inclinations on the part of the Franj, the situation in Syria was effectively at an impasse.
Then suddenly, as if the pent-up energies of the Arabs and the Franj were seeking some other outlet, the epicentre of war shifted to a new theatre of operations: Egypt.
9
The Rush for the Nile
‘My uncle Shīrkūh turned to me and said, “Yūsuf, pack your things, we’re going.” When I heard this order, I felt as if my heart had been pierced by a dagger, and I answered, “In God’s name, even were I granted the entire kingdom of Egypt, I would not go.” ’
The man who spoke those words was none other than Saladin, recounting the timid beginnings of the adventure that would some day make him one of history’s most prestigious sovereigns. With the admirable sincerity typical of everything he said, Saladin carefully refrained from claiming credit for the Egyptian epic. ‘In the end I did go with my uncle’, he added. ‘He conquered Egypt, then died. God then placed in my hands power that I had never expected.’ In fact, although Saladin emerged as the great beneficiary of the Egyptian expedition, it is true that he did not play the major role in it. Nor did Nūr al-Dīn, even though the land of the Nile was conquered in his name.
The real protagonists of this campaign, which lasted from 1163 to 1169, were three extraordinary personalities: Shāwar, an Egyptian vizier whose demoniacal intrigues plunged the region into blood and iron; Amalric, a Frankish king so obsessed with the idea of conquering Egypt that he invaded the country five times in six years; and Shīrkūh, ‘the lion’, a Kurdish general who proved to be one of the military geniuses of his time.
When Shāwar seized power in Cairo in December 1162, he assumed a post and responsibility that rewarded its holder with honours and riches. But he was not unaware of the other side of the coin: of the fifteen previous leaders of Egypt, only one had left office alive. All the others had been killed, although the methods varied: they had been hanged, beheaded, stabbed to death, crucified, poisoned, lynched by mobs; one was killed by his adoptive son, another by his own father. In other words, there is no reason to suppose that this dark-skinned emir with the greying temples would allow his freedom of action to be restricted by any hint of scruples. The moment he acceded to power, he quickly massacred his predecessor (along with his entire family), and appropriated their gold, jewels, and palace.
But the wheel of fortune continued to spin. After nine months in power the new vizier was himself overthrown by one of his lieutenants, a man named âirghām. Having been warned in time, Shāwar managed to get out of Egypt alive, and he sought refuge in Syria, where he tried to win Nūr al-Dīn’s support for his effort to regain power. Although his guest was intelligent and an effective speaker, at first the son of Zangī lent him but half an ear. Very soon, however, events were to force Nūr al-Dīn to change his attitude.
Jerusalem, it seems, was closely watching the upheavals in Cairo. In February 1162 the Franj had acquired a new king, a man of indomitable ambition: the Arabs called him ‘Morri’, from the French ‘Amaury’ (Amalric); he was the second son of Fulk. Visibly influenced by the propaganda of Nūr al-Dīn, this 26-year-old monarch was trying to cultivate the image of a sober, pious man devoted to religious study and concerned about justice. But the resemblance was only apparent. The Frankish king had more audacity than wisdom, and despite his great height and impressive head of hair, he was singularly lacking in majesty. His shoulders were abnormally thin; he was frequently seized by fits of laughter so long and noisy that his own entourage was embarrassed by them; he was also afflicted with a stutter that did not facilitate his contact with others. Amalric was driven by one obsession—the conquest of Egypt—and only his indefatigable pursuit of that dream afforded him a certain stature.
His goal, true enough, seemed tempting. The route to the Nile had been open to the Western knights ever since 1153 when they took Ascalon, the last Fatimid bastion in Palestine. Moreover, since 1160 the successive Egyptian viziers, absorbed in their fights with local rivals, had been paying an annual tribute to the Franj in exchange for their abstaining from any intervention in Egyptian affairs. Just after the fall of Shāwar, Amalric took advantage of the confusion that prevailed in the land of the Nile to invade, on the simple pretext that the necessary sum, sixty thousand dinars, had not been paid on time. Crossing the Sinai peninsula along its Mediterranean coast, Amalric laid siege to the town of Bilbays, situated on a branch of the Nile that would run dry in centuries to come. The defenders of the city were both dumbfounded and amused when the Franj began erecting siege machinery around the walls, for it was September, and the river was beginning to swell. The authorities had only to breach a few dikes, and the warriors of the Occident soon found themselves surrounded by water. They barely had time to flee back to Palestine. The first invasion was thus over in short order, but at least it had awakened Aleppo and Damascus to Amalric’s intentions.
Nūr al-Dīn hesitated. He had no wish to be drawn into the treacherous swamps of Cairene intrigues—in particular since, as a fervent Sunni, he was openly contemptuous of the Shi‘i caliphate of the Fatimids. On the other hand, he had no wish to see Egypt, with its great riches, swept into the camp of the Franj, for that would make them the greatest power in the Orient. In view of the prevailing anarchy, however, it was unlikely that Cairo would withstand Amalric’s determination for long. Shāwar, of course, spared no effort in lecturing his host about the potential benefits of an expedition to the land of the Nile. To placate him, Shāwar promised that if Nūr al-Dīn helped him to regain his throne, he would pay all the expenses of the expedition, recognize the suzerainty of the master of Aleppo and Damascus, and hand over one third of state receipts every year. Above all, Nūr al-Dīn had to reckon with his confidant Shīrkūh, who had been completely won over to the idea of an armed intervention. In fact, he was so enthusiastic about it that the son of Zangī finally authorized him to take personal charge of organizing an expeditionary corps.
It would be difficult to imagine two people so closely united and yet so different as Nūr al-Dīn and Shīrkūh. With age, the son of Zangī had become increasingly majestic, sober, dignified, and reserved, while Saladin’s uncle was a short, obese, one-eyed officer who was constantly flushed by ex
cesses of food and drink. When he lost his temper he would howl like a madman, and from time to time he would lose his head completely, going so far as to kill his opponent. But not everyone was displeased by his unsavoury character. His soldiers adored this commander who lived among them, sharing their mess and their jokes. In the many battles in which he had taken part in Syria, Shīrkūh had emerged as a genuine leader of men, gifted with great physical courage. The Egyptian campaign, however, would reveal his remarkable qualities as a strategist, for from the outset the odds were dead against the enterprise. It was relatively easy for the Franj to get to the land of the Nile. The only obstacle impeding their path was the semi-desert expanse of the Sinai peninsula. But if they took along several hundred water-filled goatskins, carried by camels, the knights would have enough water to reach the gates of Bilbays in three days. Things were less easy for Shīrkūh. To travel from Syria to Egypt, he had to cross Palestine, and thus expose himself to attacks by the Franj.
The departure for Cairo of the Syrian expeditionary corps in April 1164 therefore required elaborate staging. While Nūr al-Dīn’s army launched a diversionary attack to lure Amalric and his knights to northern Palestine, Shīrkūh, accompanied by Shāwar and about ten thousand cavalry, headed east. They followed the course of the Jordan River on its east bank, passing through what is now Jordan, and then, at the southern tip of the Dead Sea, they turned west, forded the river, and set out at full gallop toward Sinai. There they continued their advance, keeping away from the coastal route so as to avoid detection. On 24 April they seized Bilbays, Egypt’s easternmost port, and by 1 May they were camped at the walls of Cairo. Taken unawares, the vizier âirghām had no time to organize any resistance. Abandoned by everyone, he was killed trying to escape, and his body was thrown to the dogs in the street. Shāwar was officially reinvested in his post by the Fatimid caliph al-‘Ādid, a thirteen-year-old adolescent.
Shīrkūh’s blitz was a model of military efficiency. Saladin’s uncle was more than a little proud at having conquered Egypt in so short a time, practically without suffering any losses, and of thus having outwitted Morri. But barely had he reassumed power when Shāwar did an astonishing volte-face. Breaking his promises to Nūr al-Dīn, he ordered Shīrkūh to leave Egypt forthwith. Saladin’s uncle, flabbergasted by such ingratitude and raging with anger, sent word to his former ally that he was determined to stay regardless.
Shāwar had no real confidence in his own army, and when he saw Shīrkūh’s determination, he dispatched an ambassador to Jerusalem to seek Amalric’s aid against the Syrian expeditionary corps. The Frankish king needed no convincing. He had been looking for an excuse to intervene in Egypt, and what better pretext could he ask than a call for help from the ruler of Cairo himself? In July 1164 the Frankish army set out for Sinai for the second time. Shīrkūh immediately decided to withdraw from the environs of Cairo, where he had been camped since May, and to dig in at Bilbays. There he repulsed the attacks of his enemies week after week, but his position seemed ultimately hopeless. Far removed from his bases and surrounded by the Franj and their new ally Shāwar, the Kurdish general could not expect to hold out for long.
When Nūr al-Dīn saw how the situation in Bilbays was developing, Ibn al-Athīr wrote several years later, he decided to launch a great offensive against the Franj in an effort to force them to leave Egypt. He wrote to all the Muslim emirs asking them to participate in the jihād, and he marched off to attack the powerful fortress of Ḥārim, near Antioch. All the Franj who had remained in Syria united to confront him—among them were Prince Baldwin, lord of Antioch, and the count of Tripoli. The Franj were crushed in this battle. Ten thousand of them were killed, and all their commanders, among them the prince and the count, were captured.
Once victory was won, Nūr al-Dīn had the cross-embossed banners and blond scalps of some of the Franj killed in the battle brought to him. Then, placing them all in a sack, he entrusted the bundle to one of his most reliable men, telling him: ‘Go immediately to Bilbays, find a way to get inside, and give these trophies to Shīrkūh. Tell him that God has granted us victory. Let him exhibit them on the ramparts, and the sight will strike fear among the infidels.’
News of the Ḥārim victory did indeed change things in the battle for Egypt. The morale of the besieged soared, but more important, the Franj were forced to return to Palestine. The capture of young Baldwin III—Reynald’s successor at the head of the principality of Antioch, whom Amalric had appointed to oversee the affairs of the Kingdom of Jerusalem during his absence—and the massacre of his men forced the king to seek a compromise with Shīrkūh. After several exchanges, the two men agreed to leave Egypt simultaneously. At the end of October 1164 Morri returned to Palestine by the coastal route, while the Kurdish general took less than two weeks to get back to Damascus, following the same itinerary as before.
Shīrkūh was far from unhappy at having left Bilbays unharmed and with his head held high, but the real winner of the six months of campaigning was undoubtedly Shāwar. He had used Shīrkūh to regain power, and then used Amalric to neutralize the Kurdish general. Then both had departed, leaving him master of all Egypt. Shāwar would now spend more than two years consolidating his position.
But not without some uneasiness at the turn events had taken. He knew that Shīrkūh would never forgive his betrayal. Indeed, news constantly reached him from Syria suggesting that the Kurdish general was harassing Nūr al-Dīn, asking his permission to undertake a fresh Egyptian campaign. The son of Zangī, however, was reluctant. He was not dissatisfied with the status quo. The important thing was to keep the Franj away from the Nile. As always, though, it was not easy to disengage from the web. Fearing another lightning expedition by Shīrkūh, Shāwar took the precaution of concluding a treaty of mutual assistance with Amalric. This convinced Nūr al-Dīn to authorize his lieutenant to organize a fresh expeditionary corps, just in case the Franj moved to intervene in Egypt. Shīrkūh selected the best elements of the army, among them his nephew Yūsuf. These preparations in turn alarmed the Egyptian vizier, who insisted that Amalric send troops. Thus it was that during the early days of 1167 the race for the Nile began again. The Frankish king and the Kurdish general arrived in the coveted country at about the same time, each by his usual route.
Shāwar and the Franj assembled their allied forces before Cairo, there to await Shīrkūh. But the latter preferred to determine the modalities of the rendezvous himself. Continuing his long march from Aleppo, he skirted the Egyptian capital to the south, sent his troops across the Nile on small boats, and then turned them north again, without even stopping to rest. Shāwar and Amalric, who expected Shīrkūh to arrive from the east, suddenly saw him surge up from the opposite direction. Worse yet, his camp on the west side of Cairo, near the pyramids of Giza, was separated from his enemies by the formidable natural obstacle of the great river. From this solidly entrenched camp, he sent a message to the vizier: The Frankish enemy is at our mercy, he wrote, cut off from their bases. Let us unite our forces and exterminate him. The time is ripe; the opportunity may not arise again. But Shāwar was not content simply to reject this offer. He had the messenger executed and brought Shīrkūh’s letter to Amalric to prove his loyalty.
Despite this gesture, the Franj still distrusted their ally, who, they were sure, would betray them the moment he had no further need of them. They believed that the time had come to take advantage of Shīrkūh’s threatening proximity to establish their authority in Egypt once and for all. Amalric asked that an official alliance between Cairo and Jerusalem be signed.
Two knights who knew Arabic—not unusual among the Franj of the Middle East—repaired to the residence of the young caliph al-‘Āḍid. In an obvious effort to make an impression, Shāwar led them to a superb, richly decorated palace, which they walked through quickly, ringed by a phalanx of armed guards. Then the cortège crossed a vaulted hallway that seemed interminable, impervious to the light of day, and finally came to the threshold of an enorm
ous sculptured gate leading first to a vestibule and then to another gate. After passing through many ornamented chambers, Shāwar and his guests emerged into a courtyard paved with marble and ringed by gilded colonnades, in the centre of which stood a fountain boasting gold and silver pipes. All around were brightly coloured birds from the four corners of Africa. Here the escort guards introduced them to eunuchs who lived on intimate terms with the caliph. One again they passed through a succession of salons, then a garden stocked with tame deer, lion, bear, and panthers. Then, finally, they reached the palace of al-‘Āḍid.
Barely had they entered an enormous room, whose back wall was a silk curtain encrusted with gold, rubies, and emeralds, when Shāwar bowed three times and laid his sword on the floor. Only then did the curtain rise, and the caliph approached, his body draped in silk and his face veiled. The vizier went to him, sat at his feet, and explained the proposed alliance with the Franj. After listening in silence, al-‘Āḍid, who was then only sixteen, endorsed Shāwar’s policy. Shāwar was about to rise when the two Franj asked the prince of the faithful to swear that he would remain loyal to the alliance. The dignitaries surrounding al-‘Āḍid were visibly scandalized by this demand. The caliph himself seemed shocked, and the vizier hastily intervened. The accord with Jerusalem, he explained to his sovereign, was a matter of life and death for Egypt. He implored the caliph to consider the request of the Franj not as a manifestation of disrespect but only as symptomatic of their ignorance of Oriental customs.
Smiling against his better judgement, al-‘Āḍid extended his silk-gloved hand and swore to respect the alliance. But one of the Frankish emissaries interrupted. ‘An oath’, he said, ‘must be taken bare-handed, for the glove could be a sign of future betrayal.’ The hall was scandalized a second time. The dignitaries whispered among themselves that the caliph had been insulted, and there was talk of punishing the insolent Franj. But after a fresh intervention by Shāwar, the caliph, preserving his calm, removed his glove, extended his bare hand, and repeated word for word the oath dictated to him by Morri’s representatives.