I had one thought, then, to cut my way to the king. If I raised my head at all, I could see the last of the crusaders on the beach, perhaps three hundred, now, the brilliance of their armour showing where they stood through the press of foes.
And next to me was Fiore, his arm rising and falling like an executioner’s axe, and on the other side of me, Nerio and his superb horse left a wake of red ruin. Miles was at Fiore’s left knee and Juan at Nerio’s right, and the five of us were the point of the Christian spear thrusting for the king.
And yet, as we slowed, I had time to be afraid.
Usually, in combat, there is no time to be afraid. Fear comes earlier, when you prepare, and wait, and later, when you consider, and shake. But on the beach at Alexandria, we took their foot so completely by surprise that we were at their backs, and I saw bearded, shouting faces suddenly turning to me. I had time to consider whether my four friends and I could, by ourselves, best the greatest city in the world.
I had no idea what was happening elsewhere. I spared no thoughts for the legate, unarmoured, in the midst of the press, or for Fra Peter or Fra William or any of the other knights. They were off to my left and they might have been in other spheres.
Ahead, I saw the flash of armour.
Now I was using my sword two-handed in fatigue, and desperation. The danger is hitting your own horse. As the horse moves its head – and horses move their heads often – you can catch the back of the neck above the mane, killing your own mount.
Fiore had no wasted his time.
At some point – hours? Days? We struck the Naffatun. They were veteran Mamluks armed with grenadoes of naphtha, a sticky stuff like tar that ignited on contact and burned armour and human skin, the very stuff of hell brought to earth. They had pressed far down the beach and burned two galleys that they’d caught aground, and now they hurled their bombs at us and charged with their swords.
Imagine that you see this through the narrow slits of your visor while your lungs struggle to pull in enough air through the tiny holes in your helmet. Imagine the stink of your own sweat on a sweltering day, wearing eighty pounds of armour, fighting for your life.
Something caught me from behind. I was taken by surprise, and in a moment, I was unhorsed. You always imagine that this will take time – but by Saint George, one moment I was horrified by the Naffatun and the next I was off my near side, down in the sand.
Men caught fire, and died horribly. Horses panicked close by me – hooves were everywhere as our dense formation exploded in a rout of burning men and terrified horses.
But as we were surrounded by the Army of Egypt, our own near destruction only served to thrust us again at our foes. Panicked horses exploded into the serried ranks of the foe.
Truly, God willed it.
Not that I was aware, particularly. I was more aware of the hooves, everywhere, and the ranks of enemy infantry.
The Naffatun were well armoured and had shields of some horrible beast with a knobby hide. I got to one knee and hammered one with my sword one-handed and failed to penetrate it, and my adversary slashed at me with a heavy sabre from the shelter of his buckler and his sabre had no more effect on my harness than the Emperor’s sword on his shield.
On the third or fourth exchange I remembered a play of Fiore’s and, as my weapons struck the face of his hide buckler, I rotated my hand up and leaned forward. My point slipped past his shield and down into his face, and he fell backwards, my sword deep in his guts.
And I went with it. By luck or practice, I used the collapse of his body to drag me off my knee and to my feet.
Gawain was close; I knew him, and was sure he wouldn’t leave me. I needed a few seconds in the press to get him.