GALILEE, 4 JULY 1187
The dry heat caught the stench of blood and death and held it close to the earth – the fear was palpable and, for many, overwhelming. The men, already severely dehydrated, were almost finished. Even the dying had little energy left for screams, just animal sounds of pain and muttered, delirious talk of mothers – but whether this was directed at their own or the Virgin Mary, even they probably did not know.
Most of their horses were already dead – some, very visibly, from numerous arrow wounds, and others from the heat and lack of water. The remaining Templar cavalry formed up in a thin, all-too-fragile line. Next to them were the men of the other main military order, the Hospitallers, and the last survivors of the crusader knights from the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem.
There were fewer than 200 men in these dusty, ragged ranks. Preparing to charge an army of perhaps some 30,000 men, they knew that they were going to lose. But the Templars were arguably the best heavy cavalry in the world. And, more to the point, they were out of options. This was the bravery of despair.
