Robyn Young
Baybars swung one of his sabres in a vicious arc as he swept into the fray, taking a man’s head clean from his shoulders with the momentum of the blow. Another Mongol, face splattered with the blood of his fallen comrade, took the dead man’s place immediately. Baybars lashed out with his blades as his horse was knocked and jostled beneath him and more and more men poured into the turmoil. Ismail was at Baybars’ side, drenched in blood and shrieking as he thrust his sword through the visor of a Mongol’s helm. The blade stuck fast for a moment, buried in the man’s skull, before the officer wrenched it free and searched for another target.
Baybars’ sabres danced in his hands, two more warriors falling under his hammering blows.
Kitbogha, the Mongol general, was fighting savagely, swinging his sword in tremendous haymaker strokes that were cleaving skulls and tearing limbs and even though he was surrounded no one seemed able to touch him. Baybars’ thoughts were on the bounty that awaited the man who captured or killed the enemy lord, but a wall of fighting and a hedge of arcing blades blocked his path. He ducked as a feral youth rushed him, whirling a mace, and forgot about Kitbogha as he concentrated on staying alive.
After the first lines had fallen or been beaten back, Mongol women and children were fighting alongside the men. Although the Mamluks knew that the wives and daughters of the Mongol men fought in battle it was a sight, nonetheless, that caused some to falter. The women, with their long, wild hair and snarling faces, fought just as well as and perhaps even more fiercely than the men. A Mamluk commander, fearing the effect on the troops, raised his voice above the din and sent out a rallying cry that was soon taken up by others. The name of Allah filled the air, reverberating off the hills and ringing in the ears of the Mamluks, as their arms found new strength and their swords new purchase. Any compunction was lost in the heat of battle and the Mamluks cut through all those who stood against them. To the slave warriors, the Mongol army had become an anonymous beast, ageless and sexless, that had to be taken piece by piece if it were to perish.
The sword strokes grew sluggish. Men, unhorsed and locked together in combat, leaned on one another for support as they parried each blow. Groans and cries were punctuated by screams as swords found slowing targets. The Mongols had led a final storm against the infantry, hoping to break through the barrier and ride in behind the Mamluks, but the foot soldiers held their ground and only a handful of the Mongol cavalry had penetrated the line of spears. They had been met by Mamluk riders and were dispatched instantly. Kitbogha had gone down, his horse pulled over by the sheer press of men around him. Victorious, the Mamluks had severed his head and flaunted it before his broken forces. The Mongols, who had been called the terror of nations, were losing. But, more importantly, they knew it.
Baybars’ horse, pierced in the neck by a stray arrow, had thrown him and bolted. He fought on foot, his boots slick with blood. The blood was everywhere. It was in the air and in his mouth, it was dripping through his beard and the hilts of his sabres were slippery with it. He lunged forward and hacked at another man. The Mongol slumped to the sand with a cry that ceased abruptly and when no one took his place Baybars paused.
Dust had obscured the sun and turned the air yellow. A gust of wind scattered the clouds, and Baybars saw, flying high above the Mongols’ carts and siege engines, the flag of surrender. Looking around him, all he could see were piles of bodies. The reek of blood and opened corpses was thick on the air and already the carrion eaters were shrieking their own triumph in the skies above. The fallen lay sprawled across one another, and among the leather breastplates of the enemy were the bright cloaks of the Mamluks. In one pile, close by, Ismail lay on his back, his chest cleaved by a Mongol sword.
Baybars went over. He bent to close the young man’s eyes, then rose as one of his officers hailed him. The warrior was bleeding heavily from a gash at his temple and his eyes were wild, unfocused. “Amir,” he said hoarsely. “Your orders?”
Baybars surveyed the devastation. In just a few hours they had destroyed the Mongol army, killing over seven thousand of them. Some Mamluks had fallen to their knees, crying with relief, but more were roaring their triumph as they made their way towards the survivors who had rallied around the discarded carts. Baybars knew that he would have to regain control of his men, or their jubilation might incite them to plunder the enemy’s treasure and kill the survivors. The remaining Mongols, especially the women and children, would fetch a considerable sum in the slave markets. He pointed to the Mongol survivors. “Oversee their submission and see that no one is killed. We want slaves we can sell, not more corpses to burn.”
The officer hurried across the sands to relay the command. Baybars sheathed his sword and looked around for a horse. Finding a riderless beast with bloodstained trappings, he mounted and rode over to his troops. Around him, other commanders were addressing their own regiments. Baybars looked out across the weary yet defiant faces of the Bahri and felt the first stirrings of exultation swell within him. “Brothers,” he shouted, the words sticking in his parched throat. “Allah has shined upon us this day. We stand triumphant in His glory, our enemy vanquished.” He paused as the cheers rose, then lifted his hand for silence. “But our celebrations must wait for there is much to be done. Look to your officers.”
© 2005 Robyn Young
