Saône Citadel
Saladin knew the weak point, the sloping shelf beyond the upper keep. How many times did he case the cliffs, pace the possibilities, note the towers where fewer and fewer crusaders kept watch? He must have won the castle in spring when the red poppies and yellow long-necked blossoms break through the phalanx of stones, push through walls as if they were not there, a minor obstruction. The riot of flowers poking through invincibility like so many mangonels blasting each barbican tottering at the onslaught of spring and soldiers disregarding the odds and imposing facades. Beyond the stone needle, a drawbridge no longer leads from a flat rise of scattered rock, the remains of out buildings, perhaps a hermitage for the converted or disillusioned now half hidden by tough gorse and encroaching thistle still growing.
Swimming to Syria 13
