The Red Conquest

2

SĪNĀ 
AL-JUM'AH, TWENTY-FIFTH DAY OF THE MONTH RABI AL-THANI

  562 A.H. | 1167 A.D.

This realm was ruled by the sand.

It stretched ahead and behind into the hazy distance. Swirled around the soldiers' feet as it pulled them down. Leapt along with the wind to scour their skin. Over the millennia every dip and curve and contour of the land had been crushed into dust, leaving only a stark white sheet rumpled with dunes. What would any mortal emperor gain by planting his standard here? There isn't even enough soil for it to stay upright.

There was nothing: not a drop of water, not a tinge of colour, not a hint of movement.

Yusuf had lost count of the days by now. They had been trudging across this wasteland for as long as he could bring himself to remember, the wind roaring in their ears, blotting out the sound of their muffled footsteps. The army pressed close around him, men and horses and camels carrying looming loads of supplies. He had been in the saddle ever since they had set out, but his whole body now ached fiercely, even as the camel still plodded on at the same pace. The camels, with their splayed hooves, were well-equipped to navigate the smooth, deep sands, while the cavalry horses had to be led carefully behind them. His usual mount, Samir, was thus tethered to the back of his saddle, looking as morose and uncomfortable as Yusuf felt.

The regiment he commanded held three thousand warriors, while two more divisions under his superior General Shirkuh lay six leagues behind them, following their slow progress westward. All together the army numbered ten thousand. Ten thousand of the Empire's finest to bolster the defences of ailing Miṣr, ten thousand against the mighty forces that the Franks under their King Amalric would surely deploy against them, once the army reached al-Fusţāţ.

But the dire task they faced now was to wet these ten thousand throats in a land without water. To keep ten thousand bodies from collapsing as the elements pounded them without mercy.

His army, though great in number and vast in its own regard, had quickly succumbed to the great folds of the desert. He had seen innumerable waterskins and mountains of dried meats being piled onto the camels before they had set out, along with the woolen tents that would protect them from the bitter cold of the desert nights. Anything other than these essentials would be a dead weight. But despite these precautions the empty skins now hung loose from the sides of the animals, and food was running dangerously low. Traveling this far had taken longer than they had expected - a slew of sandstorms had staggered their course, blinding the men and biting at any exposed skin until they were forced to halt and wait it out. Supplies were dwindling while the blurry horizon remained motionless in the distance, taunting them.

The previous night they had entered a stretch of desert hemmed in by mountains of bare, broken rock, grim skeletons that dominated the gaping skyline. The peaks marched on ahead of the army as far as he could see, drawing closer on either side to form a relatively narrow passage between them about a league wide. Yusuf knew this pass; it meant that they had covered almost two-thirds of the journey across the arid isthmus. He had crossed this same way once as a foot soldier, almost five years ago. It was harsh, but he had survived, more by the pity of his companions and sheer luck than his own fortitude.

Now, he reflected grimly, I am leading three thousand men to what may be their doom. He winced as his right leg throbbed painfully, almost as if it were reminding him of his old mistakes.

He swept his eyes over the soldiers, critical, appraising. Their faces were impassive behind the light helmets, but the subtle, stuttering drag in their strides and the slight hunch with which they wore their mail armour told him volumes. His own worries he submerged quietly into the dark recesses of his memories. A leader who fell prey to the phantoms of his mind was worse than useless. People needed him.