Текст книги "The Crusades. The Authoritative History of the War for the Holy Land"

Автор книги: Thomas Asbridge

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On Friday 10 September 1171, Saladin took his first guarded step towards autonomy. For centuries, the name of the Shi‘ite caliph had echoed through Egypt’s mosques during Friday prayer, recited in honorific recognition of Fatimid authority. On this day, however, in Fustat, al-Adid’s name was replaced with that of the Sunni Abbasid caliph of Baghdad. Saladin was testing the water, gauging whether open rebellion would follow, before showing his hand in Cairo itself, but no uprising ensued. The next day he presided over an imposing military parade in the capital, as virtually the entire might of his armies marched through the streets, prompting his secretary al-Fadil to record that ‘no king of Islam had ever possessed an army to match this’. For his Egyptian subjects, and the Latin and Greek ambassadors who happened to be visiting Cairo at that point, the message was unambiguous. Saladin was now lord of Egypt. News of these events reached the dying al-Adid and he implored Saladin, still nominally his vizier, to come to his bedside, hoping to beg for the lives of his family. Fearing a plot, Saladin refused–although it was said that he later regretted this hard-hearted decision–and the caliph died on 13 September. Saladin made a great show of accompanying his body to its burial and took no steps to eliminate his offspring. Instead they were housed and cared for within the caliphal palace, but forbidden from having children so that their line would die out. Regardless of its piecemeal nature, the consequences of this revolution were dramatic. The days of the Fatimids were at an end; the religious and political schism that had divided Egypt from the rest of the Muslim Near East since the tenth century receded, leaving Saladin to pose as a champion of Sunni orthodoxy.

Given the caliph’s near-legendary reputation for fabulous wealth, one of the immediate benefits of al-Adid’s death for Saladin should have been a massive influx of hard cash. But upon occupying the Fatimid palace Saladin found a surprisingly small store of money, much of the reserves having been used to fund the late Vizier Shawar’s exorbitant tributes to Jerusalem and Damascus, and Saladin’s own defence of Damietta in 1169. What treasures he did find–a ‘mountain’ of rubies, a huge emerald and an assortment of giant pearls–were quickly auctioned off.

Saladin’s abolition of the Fatimid caliphate and subjection of Egypt in 1171 were, at least in theory, not merely personal victories; they were also a triumph for his overlord, Nur al-Din, whose realm could now be said to stretch from Egypt to Syria and beyond. Certainly, both men were sent splendid ceremonial robes of victory by the caliph of Baghdad that autumn. But behind the façade of Sunni unity and ascendancy, signs of strain between the lord and his ever more powerful lieutenant were becoming apparent. With the unification of Aleppo, Damascus and Cairo and the resultant encirclement of the Frankish kingdom of Jerusalem, Nur al-Din might have expected to draw upon the Nile’s wealth and resources, and Saladin’s military support, to launch an all-out offensive on Palestine. From autumn 1171, however, as the new lord of Egypt, Saladin began to act as a sovereign ruler in his own right. Since the days of Shirkuh’s North African adventures, Ayyubid involvement in the region had always been gilded with a self-serving edge and, ultimately, Egypt’s conquest had depended above all upon Saladin’s own qualities: his acute political and military vision; his patience, guile and mercilessness. Now he might arguably claim to be Nur al-Din’s equal and ally rather than his servant.

Open conflict was, in part, averted by Nur al-Din’s preoccupations elsewhere in his realm. Syria and Palestine were struck yet again by a series of damaging earthquakes in the early 1170s, forcing the diversion of resources into extensive rebuilding programmes. In Iraq, the death of his brother, followed by the Abbasid caliph’s demise, prompted Nur al-Din once more to involve himself in Mesopotamian affairs, while in the Jazira and Anatolia, new opportunities for territorial expansion similarly commanded his attention. Then, in 1172, a dispute with the Franks over trading rights along the Syrian coast triggered a number of punitive raids against Antioch and the county of Tripoli.

In spite of these distractions, Nur al-Din did seek Saladin’s support in one crucial theatre of conflict, the Latin-held desert area east of the River Jordan known as Transjordan. This region was certainly a valuable prize: annexed in the early twelfth century by the construction of Frankish castles at Montreal and Kerak, it gave the Latins at least partial control over the main land route from Damascus to either Egypt or to Mecca and Medina, the sacred cities of the Arabian Peninsula. Saladin has been accused, both by some medieval chroniclers and a number of modern scholars, of failing to cooperate fully in two attempts to conquer this frontier zone in the early 1170s. This ‘treachery’ supposedly revealed that Saladin was driven by self-serving ambition rather than a desire to promote the wider interests of Islam. But did he really turn his back on Nur al-Din, wrecking an opportunity to triumph in the war for the Holy Land?

In late September 1171, soon after the Fatimid caliphate’s abolition, Saladin marched into Transjordan with the apparent intention of launching a joint operation with Nur al-Din. As the latter came south from Damascus, Saladin laid siege to Montreal, but after a short period he suddenly decided to retreat to Egypt, and the two Muslim armies never combined. The Mosuli historian Ibn al-Athir, who supported Nur al-Din’s Zangid dynasty, saw in these events a definitive moment of division between Saladin and his overlord, asserting that a ‘deep difference’ emerged between them. He maintained that, having reached Montreal, Saladin was warned by his advisers about the real strategic and political consequences of Transjordan’s conquest. Counselled that the opening of a secure route from Damascus to Egypt would lead to Nur al-Din’s seizure of the Nile region and cautioned that ‘if Nur al-Din comes to you here, you will have to meet him and then he will exercise his authority over you as he wishes’, Saladin fled.

The problem with Ibn al-Athir’s account is that it relies upon the notion of Saladin as a naïve commander, devoid of foresight. Yet, on the evidence of his striking successes in Egypt, Saladin was no innocent, but a far-sighted and astute operator. He would surely have recognised in advance the wider ramifications of the Transjordan enterprise, long before actually arriving at Montreal itself. Frustratingly, the other surviving sources shed little additional light upon events: according to one account, Saladin excused himself by arguing that rebellion was brewing in Egypt, while another contemporary Arabic writer simply observed that ‘something happened’ to cause his precipitous return to Cairo.

Ibn al-Athir went on to accuse Saladin of abandoning a second joint venture before Nur al-Din could arrive, this time against Kerak in early summer 1173. While Saladin certainly did besiege that fortress at this point, he was probably acting independently of Damascus, as Nur al-Din was busy with the affairs of northern Syria and in no position to lead troops into Transjordan.³²

The evidence against Saladin for the period between 1171 and 1173 is, on balance, inconclusive. He cannot be said categorically to have betrayed Nur al-Din, nor was he solely culpable for the failure to prevail in the jihad. Publicly at least Saladin affirmed his continued subservience to the Zangid dynasty after the end of Fatimid rule in 1171–Nur al-Din was included in the Friday prayer and Egyptian coins were minted bearing his name alongside that of the Abbasid caliph.

In reality, any hostility brewing between Damascus and Cairo in the early 1170s was probably not primarily related to the issue of unified military action, but, rather, connected to the question of hard cash. Above all else, Nur al-Din wanted to tap into Egypt’s riches and began demanding an annual tribute from the region. To this end he sent an official from Damascus to carry out a full audit of Egypt’s revenue at the end of 1173. As the financial investigation proceeded apace in Egypt during the first months of 1174, tension mounted. Both Nur al-Din and Saladin mobilised troops, although it is not certain whether this was in preparation for a direct confrontation or a renewed attempt at collaboration. In all likelihood, both men were making a show of strength as a precursor to intense diplomatic wrangling, aware that this might in time escalate into open conflict. Discord was certainly in the air, as even Saladin himself later admitted to his biographer: ‘We had heard that Nur al-Din would perhaps attack us in Egypt. Several of our comrades advised that he should be openly resisted and his authority rejected and that his army should be met in battle to repel it if his hostile move became a reality.’ He apparently added, somewhat less convincingly, ‘I alone disagreed with them, urging that it was not right to say anything of the sort.’³³

Fate intervened to prevent what potentially would have been a hugely damaging Sunni civil war. While waiting for his auditor to report from Cairo, Nur al-Din fell ill in late spring 1174. Playing polo outside Damascus on 6 May, he was seized by some form of fit and, by the time he returned to the citadel, was clearly unwell. Suffering with what may have been angina, at first he stubbornly refused to call physicians. By the time his court doctor, al-Rahbi, arrived, Nur al-Din was huddled in a small prayer room, deep within the citadel, ‘close to death…his voice barely audible’. When it was suggested that he be treated with bleeding, Nur al-Din bluntly refused, saying, ‘you do not bleed a man of sixty’, and in the face of this great ruler no one argued.

On 15 May 1174 Nur al-Din died, his body later being interred in one of the religious schools he had had built in Damascus. Even among his enemies the Franks, Nur al-Din was revered as ‘a mighty persecutor of the Christian name and faith…a just and valiant prince’. He was the first Muslim leader since the advent of the crusades to unite Aleppo and Damascus. His vision and quickening sense of devotion had ushered in a new era of religious rejuvenation within the Sunni world, resuscitating the notion of jihad against Islam’s enemies as an emblematic and imperative cause. And yet, at his death, the Franks remained unconquered, and the hallowed city of Jerusalem still lay in Christendom’s grasp.³⁴

10

HEIR OR USURPER

Nur al-Din’s death in May 1174 appeared to furnish Saladin with a perfect opportunity to emerge from the shadow of Zangid Syrian overlordship, allowing the lieutenant to become leader, assert his right to fully independent rule and assume the mantle of champion in Islam’s holy war against the Franks. It is only too easy to imagine the history of twelfth-century Near Eastern Islam as an era of linear progression; one in which a swelling tide of jihadi resurgence gathered pace under Zangi, Nur al-Din and, finally, Saladin–with the torch of leadership passing smoothly, and almost inevitably, from one Muslim ‘hero’ to another. This was certainly the impression fostered and energetically promoted by some Islamic contemporaries.

The central flaw in this admittedly alluring illusion is that Saladin was not proclaimed Nur al-Din’s heir in 1174. Instead, Nur al-Din left behind an eleven-year-old son, al-Salih, who he hoped would take up the reins of power. The great Syrian lord was also survived by an assortment of other blood relations who might seek to protect and perpetuate Zangid ascendancy in the Near and Middle East. As such there was, in reality, no natural or immediate path to advancement open to Saladin in 1174. Instead he was presented with choices: to prioritise his hold over the Nile region, constructing a largely self-contained Egyptian realm; or to seek to emulate, or even eclipse, Nur al-Din’s achievements, to become the premier Muslim leader in the Levant.

A HERO FOR ISLAM

Saladin embraced this latter objective with singular dedication and vigour. The fundamental question–similar to that asked of Nur al-Din–was why? Did Saladin seek power, forging a despotic, pan-Levantine Islamic Empire, to fulfil his own self-serving, personal ambition? Or was he driven by a higher cause, pursuing Muslim unification as a means to an end–the necessary precursor to success in the jihad against the Christian Franks? Some attempt to understand Saladin’s motives and mentality has to be made, not least because of his profound importance as a historical figure, particularly in Islamic culture. In the modern world, Saladin has come to be regarded as the supreme Muslim champion of the crusading age; an extraordinarily powerful talisman of the Islamic past, viewed by many as a revered hero. The task of stripping away the layers of legend, propaganda and bias to explore the reality of his career is thus particularly sensitive and demands scrupulous and assiduous care.

In relative terms, the contemporary sources for Saladin’s life are plentiful, but they are also problematic. A number of Muslim eyewitnesses wrote about his remarkable achievements, including two of his closest supporters–his secretary Imad al-Din al-Isfahani (from 1174) and his adviser Baha al-Din Ibn Shaddad (from 1188)–but both presented sanitised biographies of their master after the event. Their works are predicated upon the notion that Saladin was driven by heartfelt religious devotion to serve Islam and fight the Franks. According to Baha al-Din, Saladin’s spiritual conviction deepened after he assumed power over Egypt in 1169, forgoing ‘wine-drinking and turning his back on frivolity’, and from this point forward he was supposedly driven pious by ‘passion, constancy and zeal’. His commitment to the holy war was said to be absolute:

Saladin was very diligent and zealous for the jihad. If anyone were to swear that, since his embarking upon the jihad, he had not expended a single dinar or dirham on anything but the jihad or support for it, he would be telling the truth and true in his oath. The jihad, his love and passion for it, had taken a mighty hold of his heart and all his being, so much so that he talked of nothing else [and] thought of nothing but the means to pursue it.

This highly favourable depiction is balanced, to some extent, by other evidence. The Iraqi chronicler Ibn al-Athir, a supporter of the rival Zangid dynasty, offered a more dispassionate view of Saladin. Manuscript copies also survive of the public and private correspondence written for Saladin by his scribe and confidant al-Fadil. This crucial (yet still relatively under-exploited) corpus of material offers valuable insights into Saladin’s thinking and his own widespread use of propaganda and interest in image creation.³⁵

It is also imperative to contextualise any judgements about Saladin’s character and career. As a medieval ruler he operated within a violent and venomous political environment–to survive and advance it would have been virtually impossible for him always to act with pure-bred nobility, honour, justice and clemency. Indeed, few, if any, of history’s great rulers could claim such qualities, whatever age they lived in.

It is, in fact, evident that Saladin was not simply a bloodthirsty tyrant. In seeking to usurp power from Nur al-Din’s heirs, he could have followed the example set by Zangi, relying upon fear and brutality to amass and maintain power. Instead, Saladin chose to pursue policies that closely mimicked those of his former overlord, Nur al-Din–indeed, in this regard at least he could be said to have been Nur al-Din’s true successor. Saladin’s task in 1174 was essentially to recreate the achievements of the Zangids, but in reverse, subduing Damascus, Aleppo and Mosul. To do so he employed a cautious fusion of military might and adept political manipulation. And throughout he set great store by notions of legitimacy and just cause. This need for validation was amplified by Saladin’s social and ethnic background. What had been true for the Zangid Turks was doubly so for the Ayyubids as Kurdish mercenary warlords–all too easily they could be characterised as upstart outsiders in a Near and Middle Eastern world historically dominated by Arab and Persian Muslim ruling elites.

Throughout the 1170s and beyond, Saladin sought to legitimate his ascent to power and prominence by emphasising his roles as a defender of Islam and Sunni orthodoxy, and as the supposed servant of the Abbasid caliph of Baghdad. He also used the notion of jihad to justify the need for Islamic unity under one ruler. Just as Pope Urban II had harnessed the power of a feared and threatening Muslim enemy to unite western Europe in support of the First Crusade, so Saladin proved only too willing to present the Levantine Franks as menacing and inimitable foes.

At the same time, he evidently aspired to extend his own power and to create an enduring dynasty. In the 1170s he began styling himself as a ‘sultan’ (king or ruler), a title reflective of autonomous authority. He was also busy siring a new generation of potential heirs. Few details survive of the numerous wives and slave girls who begat his children, but already in 1174, at the age of thirty-six, he had five sons, the eldest of whom, al-Afdal, was born in 1170.

IN NUR AL-DIN’S WAKE

From summer 1174 it was not just Saladin who looked to exploit the power vacuum left in the Near East by Nur al-Din’s demise. Members of the late emir’s court and extended family–the Zangid dynasty–sought to assert either their own independence or their right to act, in effect, as his successor. Within months, the Zangid realm, so patiently constructed over twenty-eight years, fractured almost beyond recognition, ushering a bewildering array of protagonists on to the stage.

To the east in Mesopotamia, two of Nur al-Din’s nephews held power–Saif al-Din in Mosul and Imad al-Din Zangi in nearby Sinjar. Both now began vying for control of territory west towards the Euphrates. In Syria, Nur al-Din’s young son, al-Salih, became a political pawn as various factions claimed to be his ‘protector’. The boy was eventually spirited away to Aleppo, where the eunuch Gumushtegin had emerged, through bloody intrigue, as the dominant force. Meanwhile, in Damascus a group of emirs, headed by the military commander Ibn al-Muqaddam, seized power. Not surprisingly, the Latins too saw a chance for action that summer. King Amalric’s primary objective was the reconquest of Banyas, the frontier settlement lost to Damascus a decade earlier. He laid siege to the town for two weeks, but the onset of ill health prevented him from pressing any advantage, and he agreed a truce with Ibn al-Muqaddam in return for a cash payment and the release of some Christian captives.

This urgent flurry of activity gripped Syria, but in Egypt Saladin bided his time. In midsummer a Sicilian fleet attacked Alexandria, while in Upper Egypt surviving Fatimid emirs tried to incite rebellion. These threats were readily repulsed, but Saladin still approached the issue of the succession to Nur al-Din’s realm with great caution. Overtly conscious of the need to counter accusations of despotic usurpation, Saladin forsook the blunt tools of invasion and violent suppression, instead employing guileful diplomacy against a backdrop of determined propaganda. One of his first acts was to write to al-Salih, declaring his own loyalty, affirming that the young ruler’s name had duly replaced that of Nur al-Din during the Friday prayer in Egypt, and that Saladin stood ready and willing as a ‘servant’ to defend al-Salih against his rivals. In another letter, the sultan proclaimed that he would fight ‘as a sword against [al-Salih’s] enemies’, warning that Syria was surrounded ‘on all sides’ by foes, such as the Franks, who had to be fought.

These two documents reveal that within weeks of Nur al-Din’s death Saladin was publicising the official agenda under which he would operate through much of the 1170s. In the years to come he sought, with almost unfailing tenacity, to extend his own personal authority over the shattered remnants of Nur al-Din’s realm. But always this grasping pursuit of power was veiled beneath the public avowal of twinned principles: that as al-Salih’s appointed guardian Saladin laboured tirelessly, and without regard for his own reward, to preserve Zangid authority; and that this drive towards Islamic unity was of paramount importance precisely because the Muslim world was engaged in a historic struggle with an implacable Christian foe, who even now retained possession of the sacred city of Jerusalem.³⁶

Of course, many of the sultan’s contemporary opponents were only too aware that Saladin actually was trying to build his own empire, even if it was one constructed in the interests of jihad, and they were often willing to publicise their fears and accusations. Under these circumstances, Saladin relied upon the politics of fear to lend force to his programme of dissimulation. If matters proceeded peacefully in Syria, the sultan would have no excuse to intervene–somewhat ironically, in 1174 Saladin thus hoped that his rivals would act against al-Salih’s interests and that the Franks would go on the offensive.

The occupation of Damascus

Given his base of operations in Egypt, Saladin’s first objective in seeking to reconsolidate Nur al-Din’s dominions under his own rule had to be Damascus. Seizing upon Ibn al-Muqaddam’s decision to buy peace with the kingdom of Jerusalem at Banyas, the sultan now levelled allegations of weakness against the Damascene court, citing its failure to pursue the holy war as a probable cause to intervene in Syrian affairs. Nur al-Din’s former secretary, the Persian scribe and scholar Imad al-Din al-Isfahani, recorded the exchange of correspondence that followed. Ibn al-Muqaddam chided Saladin, writing, ‘let it not be said that you have designs upon the house of the one who established you [as] this does not befit your good character’. The sultan responded with a forceful assertion of his intentions:

We choose for Islam and its people only what will unite them, and for the [Zangid] house only what will preserve its root and its branches…I am in one valley and those who think evil of me are in another…If we had inclined to any other path, we would not have chosen the way of consultation and writing.

This was the message that Saladin wished to broadcast throughout Syria, but, stirring as his words may have been, they were unlikely to sway policy on their own. In all probability it was fear of a potential alliance between Mosul and Aleppo that, by summer’s end, prompted Ibn al-Muqaddam to side with Saladin, inviting him to come to the aid of Damascus. This was precisely the opportunity that the sultan had hoped for. Leaving his brother al-Adil to govern Egypt, Saladin marched into Syria in October 1174 equipped with two weapons: an army with which to overcome any pockets of resistance and, perhaps more importantly, tens of thousands of gold dinars to buy support. His entry into the ancient city on 28 October proved to be a peaceful affair.

One of Saladin’s contemporary biographers described the day, taking care to emphasise the sultan’s personal connection to Damascus, home of his youth, writing that ‘he went straight to his house and people flocked to him rejoicing’. His lavish largesse likewise was highlighted: ‘That same day he distributed huge sums of money to the people and showed himself pleased and delighted with the Damascenes, as they did with him. He went up into the citadel and his power was firmly established.’ To emphasise the orthodox quality and magnanimity of his rule, Saladin went to pray in the Grand Umayyad Mosque, ordered the immediate revocation of non-Koranic taxation and forbade looting. He later justified his occupation of the city as a step on the road to retaking Jerusalem, arguing that ‘to hold back from the holy war is a crime for which there can be no excuse’. But many remained unconvinced by Saladin’s claims–Jurdik, his former ally in Egypt, for one, sided with Aleppo. Even the Franks living in Palestine were aware of the incipient power struggle and one Latin contemporary noted that Saladin’s occupation of Damascus contravened ‘the loyalty he owed to his lord and master [al-Salih]’.³⁷

Nonetheless, in the closing months of 1174, a number of Syria’s Muslim potentates decided to back Saladin–judging that this was their best chance of survival–and the sultan was able to extend his authority northwards in a series of largely bloodless campaigns, seizing control of Homs, Hama and Baalbek (where Ibn al-Muqaddam was duly rewarded for his support with a command). Once again, Saladin took great care to justify these conquests. After taking Homs he wrote in a public dispatch back to Egypt, ‘our move was not made in order to snatch a kingdom for ourselves, but to set up the standard of the holy war’. His opponents in Syria had, he argued, ‘become enemies, preventing the accomplishment of our purpose with regard to this war’. He also stressed that he had taken care not to damage the town of Homs itself, ‘knowing how close it was to the unbelievers’. However, a more personal letter, written around the same time to his nephew Farrukh-Shah (an increasingly prominent lieutenant), seems to offer a less gilded view of events. Here Saladin bluntly criticised the ‘feeble minds’ of Homs’ populace and acknowledged that cultivating his own reputation for justice and clemency was the ‘key to the lands’. He even managed to joke about his future prospects. His primary objective was now Aleppo, the name of which in Arabic (Halab) also means ‘milk’. Saladin forecast that city’s imminent fall, writing that ‘we have only to do the milking and Aleppo will be ours’.³⁸

Stalking Aleppo

By the start of 1175, Saladin was certainly in a position to threaten Aleppo, but in spite of his rather bold prediction, that city proved to be an intractable obstacle, stalling the extension of his authority over all Syria for years to come. Aleppo’s formidable citadel and strong garrison meant that any attempt at an assault siege would require patience and extensive military resources. But even if successful, such a direct approach likely would lead to a protracted and bloody conflict–not a conquest that would sit comfortably alongside Saladin’s preferred image as a humble guardian of Islam. The sultan must have hoped that his opponents would give him grounds to attack the city, perhaps by abusing or even murdering al-Salih, but Gumushtegin was far too astute to make such an obvious blunder. The young Zangid heir, the seed of legitimacy, was more valuable alive as a puppet ruler within Aleppo. Indeed, Gumushtegin even persuaded the boy to deliver an emotive, tearful speech to the city’s populace, begging for their protection against Saladin’s tyranny.

To compound Saladin’s problems, the rulers of Aleppo and Mosul put aside their differences in order to unite against the threatening tide of Ayyubid rule. Over the next year and a half Saladin remained in Syria, prosecuting a succession of limited and largely inconclusive sieges of Aleppo and its satellite settlements. In April 1175, and then again a year later in April 1176, he met Aleppan–Mosuli forces in pitched battle, winning convincing victories on both occasions. These two confrontations enhanced the sultan’s burgeoning reputation as Islam’s leading general, while proving the marked superiority of his increasingly experienced Egyptian and Damascene armies. But in practical terms they proved indecisive. Convinced that lasting dominion of Syria could not be achieved when stained with Muslim blood, Saladin sought to limit the degree of actual inter-Muslim combat that took place, relying upon troop discipline rather than martial ferocity to prevail and curtailing any harrying of his retreating foes once they had been driven from the field. His opponents were thus permitted to lick their wounds and regroup.

By the summer of 1176 the combination of tempered military aggression and incessant propaganda seemed to have run its course. Gumushtegin remained in control of Aleppo, alongside al-Salih, while Saif al-Din continued to govern Mosul, but these allies were forced, by steps, to agree to some concessions. Saladin’s right to rule the Syrian territory he held to the south of Aleppo was acknowledged in May 1175, and this position was formalised subsequently by a caliphal diploma of investiture issued in Baghdad. When peace was settled in July 1176, Saladin recognised that he could no longer claim to be al-Salih’s sole legal guardian (although the sultan did continue to present himself as the Zangid’s servant), but by this point Aleppo had agreed, albeit in rather vague terms, to contribute troops to the holy war.

Throughout this period, Saladin had tried, with some success, to damage Gumushtegin’s and Saif al-Din’s reputations by repeatedly accusing them of negotiating with the Latins. Saladin often wrote to the caliph complaining that they had forged treacherous pacts with the Christians sealed by the exchange of prisoners. This echoed his condemnation of the submissive truce agreed with Jerusalem by Ibn al-Muqaddam in 1174. The sultan was trying to present his Syrian campaigns as a heartfelt, ideological struggle to unite Islam against a foreboding Frankish enemy. In fact, this was pure rhetorical invective, for Saladin himself agreed two truces with the Latins in this period.³⁹

The Old Man of the Mountain

Saladin’s attempts to subdue Syria in the mid-1170s were complicated by entanglements with the Assassins. By this time the Syrian wing of this secretive order was firmly ensconced in the Ansariyah Mountains and was flourishing under the leadership of a formidable Iraqi, Rashid al-Din Sinan, popularly known as the Old Man of the Mountain. Ruling the order for close to three decades in the later twelfth century, Sinan’s reputation as a man of ‘subtle and brilliant intelligence’ gained wide currency among Muslims and Christians alike. William of Tyre believed that Sinan commanded the absolute loyalty and obedience of his followers, noting that ‘they regard nothing as too harsh or difficult and eagerly undertake even the most dangerous tasks at his command’.⁴⁰