Although he lacked the charisma and genius of his illustrious brother, he was a better administrator. Under his aegis the Arab world experienced a period of peace, prosperity, and tolerance. After the recovery of Jerusalem and the weakening of Frankish power, the sultan saw no reason for continuing the holy war against the Franj; he therefore adopted a policy of coexistence and commercial exchange with them. He even encouraged several hundred Italian merchants to settle in Egypt. An unprecedented calm prevailed on the Arab-Frankish front for several years.
At first, while the Ayyubids were absorbed in their internal quarrels, the Franj tried to restore some order in their own seriously eroded territory. Before leaving the Middle East, Richard had entrusted the ‘Kingdom of Jerusalem’, whose capital was now Acre, to one of his nephews, ‘al-kond Herri’, Count Henry of Champagne. As for Guy of Lusignan, whose stock had fallen since his defeat at Ḥiṭṭīn, he was exiled with honour, becoming king of Cyprus, where his dynasty would reign for four centuries. To compensate for the weakness of his state, Henry of Champagne sought to conclude an alliance with the Assassins. He went in person to al-Kahf, one of their fortresses, and there met with their grand master. Sinān, the old man of the mountain, had died not long before, but his successor exercised the same absolute authority over the sect. To prove this to his Frankish visitor, he ordered two adherents to hurl themselves off the ramparts, which they did without a moment’s hesitation. It seems that the grand master was even prepared to continue the killing, but Henry begged him to hold off. A treaty of alliance was concluded. To honour their guest, the Assassins inquired whether he did not perhaps have a murder he wanted committed. Henry thanked them, promising to call upon their services should the occasion arise. Ironically, on 10 September 1197, not long after witnessing this scene, Richard’s nephew died when he accidentally fell from a window of his palace in Acre.
The weeks following his death saw the only serious conflicts of this period. Some fanatical German pilgrims seized Saida and Beirut before being cut to pieces on the road to Jerusalem, while at the same moment al-‘Ādil was retaking Jaffa. But on the first of July 1198 a new truce was signed for a period of five years and eight months. Saladin’s brother took advantage of the lull to consolidate his power. An astute statesman, he was aware that if he was to ward off a fresh invasion, it would not be enough to reach an understanding with the Franj of the Mediterranean coast: he had to address himself to the West itself. Might it not be opportune to use his good relations with the Italian merchants to convince them no longer to agree to unleash waves of uncontrolled warriors onto the shores of Egypt and Syria?
In 1202 he recommended to his son al-Kāmil, ‘the Perfect’, who was viceroy of Egypt, that talks be opened with the illustrious Republic of Venice, which was then the principal maritime power in the Mediterranean. Since both states understood the language of pragmatism and commercial interests, an accord was rapidly reached. Al-Kāmil guaranteed the Venetians access to the ports of the Nile Delta, such as Alexandria and Damietta, offering them all necessary protection and assistance. In return, the republic of the doges undertook not to support any Western expedition against Egypt. The Italians preferred not to reveal the fact that they had already signed an agreement with a group of Western princes whereby in exchange for a large sum, they would transport nearly thirty thousand Frankish warriors to Egypt. Skilful negotiators, the Venetians resolved not to violate any of their commitments.
When the knights in question arrived in Venice eager to embark on their voyage, they were warmly greeted by the doge Dandolo. According to Ibn al-Athīr, He was a very old, blind man, and when he rode on horseback, he needed a squire to guide his mount. In spite of his age and infirmity, Dandolo announed that he himself intended to take part in the expedition now being mustered under the banner of the cross. Before departing, however, he demanded that the knights pay the agreed sum. When they requested that payment be deferred, Dandolo replied that he would accept only on condition that the expedition begin by occupying the port of Zadar, which for several years had been Venice’s rival in the Adriatic. The knights agreed with some reluctance, for Zadar was a Christian city belonging to the king of Hungary, a faithful servant of Rome. But they had little choice. The doge demanded this small service or the immediate payment of the promised sum. Zadar was therefore attacked and plundered in November 1202.
But the Venetians were aiming for greater things. They now sought to convince the commanders of the expedition to make a detour to Constantinople in order to place on the throne a young prince who favoured the Occidentals. Although it was clear that the doge’s ultimate objective was to bring the Mediterranean under the control of his republic, the arguments he advanced were clever indeed. He played upon the knights’ distrust of the Greek ‘heretics’, held out to them the prospect of the immense treasures of Byzantium, and explained to the commanders that control of the city of the Rūm would enable them to launch more effective attacks against the Muslims. In the end, these appeals were convincing. In July 1203 the Venetian fleet arrived at Constantinople.
The king of the Rūm fled without a fight, Ibn al-Athīr writes, and the Franj placed their young candidate on the throne. But he held power in name only, for the Franj made all the decisions. They imposed very heavy tribute on the people, and when payment proved impossible, they seized all the gold and jewels, even that which was part of the crosses and images of the Messiah, peace be upon him. The Rūm then revolted, killed the young monarch, expelled the Franj from the city, and barricaded the city gates. Since their forces were meagre, they sent a messenger to Süleymān, the son of Kilij Arslan, ruler of Konya, asking that he come to their aid. But he was unable to do so.
The Rūm were in no position to defend themselves. Not only was a good part of their army made up of Frankish mercenaries, but many Venetian agents were acting against them within the walls. In April 1204, after barely a week of fighting, the city was invaded. For three days, it was delivered to pillage and carnage. Icons, statues, books, and innumerable works of art—testimony to the Greek and Byzantine civilizations—were stolen or destroyed, and thousands of inhabitants were slaughtered.
All the Rūm were killed or despoiled, the Mosul historian relates. Some of their notables, pursued by the Franj, attempted to seek refuge in the great church they call Sophia. A group of priests and monks came out bearing crosses and Bibles, begging the attackers to spare their lives, but the Franj paid no heed to their entreaties. They massacred them all and plundered the church.
It is also reported that a prostitute who had come on the Frankish expedition sat on the patriarch’s throne singing lewd songs, while drunken soldiers raped Greek nuns in neighbouring monasteries. As Ibn al-Athīr explains, after the sack of Constantinople, one of the most reprehensible acts of history, a Latin emperor of the Orient was crowned: Baldwin of Flanders. The Rūm, of course, never recognized his authority. Those who had escaped from the imperial palace settled in Nicaea, which became the provisional capital of the Greek empire until the recapture of Byzantium fifty-seven years later.
Far from reinforcing the Frankish settlements in Syria, the demented Constantinople escapade dealt them a severe blow. In fact, many of the knights who had come to seek their fortune in the Orient now felt that Greek territory offered better prospects, for here there were fiefdoms to be taken and riches to be amassed, whereas the narrow coastal strip around Acre, Tripoli, and Antioch held little attraction for these adventurers. In the short term, the expedition’s detour to Constantinople deprived the Franj of Syria of the reinforcements that might have permitted a fresh operation against Jerusalem, and in 1204 they felt compelled to ask the sultan to renew the truce. Al-‘Ādil agreed to a six-year extension. Although he was now at the apogee of his power, the brother of Saladin had no intention of throwing himself into any grandiose enterprise of reconquest. He was not in the least disturbed by the presence of the Franj on the coast.
The majority of the Franj of Syria would have liked
nothing better than a prolongation of peace, but the others across the sea, especially in Rome, dreamed only of a reprise of hostilities. In 1210 control of the Kingdom of Antioch passed, by marriage, to John of Brienne, a sixty-year-old knight recently arrived from the West. Although he agreed to renew the truce for another five years in July 1212, he besieged the pope with messengers urging him to accelerate preparations for a powerful expedition, so that an offensive could be launched as early as the summer of 1217. The first vessels of armed pilgrims reached Acre somewhat later, in September of that year. They were soon followed by hundreds of others. In April 1218 a new Frankish invasion began. Its target was Egypt.
Al-‘Ādil was surprised, and above all disappointed, by this expedition. Had he not done everything in his power, not only since his accession to the throne but even before, during his negotiations with Richard, to put an end to the state of war? Had he not suffered for years the sarcastic taunts of religious leaders, who accused him of having abandoned the cause of jihād out of friendship for these fair-haired men? This 73-year-old man, who was in ill health, had for months refused to lend credence to the reports reaching him. When a band of demented Germans began pillaging some villages in Galilee, he considered it just another instance of the usual misadventure and did not react. He refused to believe that the West would mount a massive invasion after a quarter of a century of peace.
Nevertheless, the reports were becoming increasingly detailed. Tens of thousands of Frankish fighters had gathered before the city of Damietta, which controls access to the principal branch of the Nile. On his father’s instructions, al-Kāmil led his troops out to meet them. But he was alarmed by their number, and avoided a confrontation. Cautiously, he established his camp south of the port, so that he could support the garrison without being forced into a set-piece battle. Damietta was one of Egypt’s best-defended cities. To the east and south its ramparts were ringed by a narrow band of marshy ground, while to the north and west the Nile assured a permanent link to the hinterland. The town could therefore be effectively encircled only if the enemy was able to establish control of the river. To protect themselves against just that danger, the people of the city had invented an ingenious device consisting of a huge iron chain: one end was affixed to the ramparts of the city, the other to a citadel built on an island near the opposite bank of the river. This chain barred access to the Nile. When the Franj saw that no vessel could pass through unless the chain was detached, they stubbornly assaulted the citadel. For three months their attacks were repelled, until finally they hit upon the idea of trimming two great vessels and making them into a sort of floating tower as high as the citadel. On 25 August 1218 they assaulted the citadel. The chain was broken.
Several days later, when a carrier-pigeon brought Al-‘Ādil news of this defeat at Damietta, he was profoundly shaken. It seemed clear that the fall of the citadel would soon lead to the fall of Damietta itself, and no obstacle would then impede the invaders’ path to Cairo. A long campaign loomed, one he had neither the strength nor the inclination to contest. Just a few hours later, he succumbed to a heart attack.
The real catastrophe for the Muslims was not the fall of the river citadel but the death of the aged sultan. In purely military terms, al-Kāmil managed to contain the enemy, to inflict severe losses upon him, and to prevent him from completing the encirclement of Damietta. Politically, however, the inevitable debilitating struggle for succession erupted, despite the sultan’s many efforts to ensure that his sons would avoid that fate. He had determined the division of his domain before his death: Egypt was to go to al-Kāmil, Damascus and Jerusalem to al-Mu‘azam, Jazīra to al-Ashraf, and less important fiefdoms to his younger sons. But it was impossible to satisfy ambitions all around: even if relative harmony prevailed among the brothers, certain conflicts were inevitable. In Cairo many of the emirs took advantage of al-Kāmil’s absence to try to place one of his younger brothers on the throne. The coup d’état was on the point of success when the ruler of Egypt was informed about it. Forgetting all about Damietta and the Franj, he broke camp and rushed back to his capital, there to reestablish order and punish the conspirators. The invaders swiftly occupied the positions he had abandoned. Damietta was now surrounded.
Although he had received the support of his brother al-Mu‘azam, who rushed from Damascus to Damietta with his army, al-Kāmil was no longer in a position to save the city, and still less to halt the invasion. He therefore made the peace overtures particularly generous. After asking al-Mu‘azam to dismantle the fortifications of Jerusalem, al-Kāmil sent word to the Franj assuring them that he was prepared to hand the holy city over to them if they would agree to leave Egypt. But the Franj, who now felt they were in a position of strength, refused to negotiate. In October 1219 al-Kāmil made his offer more explicit: he would deliver not only Jerusalem, but all of Palestine west of the Jordan, with the True Cross thrown in to boot. This time the invaders took the trouble to study the proposals. John of Brienne favoured acceptance, as did all the Franj of Syria. But the final decision was in the hands of a man named Pelagius, a Spanish cardinal and fanatical advocate of holy war, whom the pope had appointed head of the expedition. Never, he said, would he agree to negotiate with Saracens. To make sure that his rejection of peace terms could not be misunderstood, he ordered an immediate assault on Damietta. The garrison, decimated by fighting, famine, and a recent epidemic, offered no resistance.
Pelagius had now decided to seize all of Egypt. If he did not march on Cairo immediately, it was because he was awaiting the imminent arrival of the West’s most powerful monarch, Frederick II of Hohenstaufen, king of Germany and Sicily, who was in command of a large expedition. Al-Kāmil, who had inevitably got wind of these rumours, prepared for war. His emissaries ranged through the lands of Islam calling upon his brothers, cousins, and allies to rush to the aid of Egypt. In addition, west of the delta, not far from Alexandria, he outfitted a fleet; in the summer of 1220 it took the Occidental vessels by surprise off the coast of Cyprus, inflicting a crushing defeat upon them. Once the enemy had thus been deprived of his mastery of the sea, al-Kāmil hurried to make another peace offer, this time promising to sign a thirty-year truce. In vain. Pelagius saw this excessive generosity as proof that the ruler of Cairo was at bay. Had they not just heard that Frederick II had been crowned emperor in Rome and had sworn to leave for Egypt without delay? He was expected by the spring of 1221 at the latest: hundreds of vessels and tens of thousands of soldiers would accompany him. In the meantime, the Frankish army had to sustain a situation of no war, no peace.
In fact, Frederick II was not to arrive until eight years later! Pelagius waited for him patiently until the beginning of the summer of 1221. In July the Frankish army left Damietta, heading resolutely for Cairo. In the Egyptian capital, al-Kāmil’s soldiers had to use force to prevent the inhabitants from fleeing. But the sultan seemed confident, for two of his brothers had come to his aid: al-Ashraf, who with his troops from Jazīra had joined him in trying to prevent the invaders’ reaching Cairo, and al-Mu‘azam, who was leading his Syrian army north, boldly interposing his forces between the enemy and Damietta. As for al-Kāmil himself, he was anxiously watching, with barely concealed joy, the gradual swelling of the waters of the Nile, for the level of the river had begun rising without the Occidentals’ taking any notice. In mid-August the land became so muddy and slippery that the knights had first to halt their advance and then to withdraw their entire army.
Barely had the retreat begun when a group of Egyptian soldiers moved to demolish the dikes. It was the twenty-sixth of August 1221. Within a few hours, as the Muslim troops cut off the exit routes, the entire Frankish army found itself mired in a sea of mud. Two days later, Pelagius, now desperate to save his army from annihilation, sent a messenger to al-Kāmil to seek peace. The Ayyubid sovereign laid down his conditions: the Franj would have to evacuate Damietta and sign an eight-year truce. In return, their army could leave by sea unhindered. Obviously, there was no
longer any question of offering them Jerusalem.
In celebrating this victory, as complete as it was unexpected, many Arabs wondered whether al-Kāmil had been serious when he had offered the Franj the holy city. Had it not perhaps been a trick, an attempt to gain time? All would soon become clear.
During the distressing crisis of Damietta, the ruler of Egypt had often wondered about this famous Frederick, ‘al-enboror’ (the emperor), whose arrival was so eagerly awaited by the Franj. Was he really as powerful as they said? Was he truly determined to wage holy war against the Muslims? As he showered his collaborators with ever more questions and gathered more information from travellers who had been to Sicily, the island kingdom over which Frederick ruled, al-Kāmil’s sense of astonishment mounted steadily. In 1225, when he learned that the emperor had just married Yolanda, the daughter of John of Brienne, thereby acquiring the title of king of Jerusalem, he decided to send an embassy headed by a subtle diplomat, the emir Fakhr al-Dīn Ibn al-Shaykh. The latter was amazed when he arrived in Palermo: yes, everything they said about Frederick was true. He spoke and wrote Arabic perfectly, he felt unconcealed admiration for Muslim civilization, and he had nothing but contempt for the barbarous West, especially for the pope of Rome. His closest collaborators were Arabs, and so were the soldiers of his palace guard; at times of prayer, they bowed down in the direction of Mecca. This man of inquiring mind, who had spent his entire youth in Sicily, then a major centre of Arab sciences, felt that he had little in common with the dull and fanatical Franj. The voice of the muezzin rang out across his kingdom unimpeded.