By the middle of the 13th century, nearly half a millennium after it began, the great Eastern enlightenment was drawing to a close. A centuries-long tradition of scholarship that had defined Central Asia was on the wane. The once-tolerant Islamic faith that had been so crucial to the development of modern medicine, political philosophy, and ethnographic practice gave way to a newly-dogmatic Islam that would be deeply skeptical, if not outright hostile, to rational inquiry. The greatest casualties of this closing of the Muslim mind would be the learned Persianate and Turkic scientists, philosophers, and poets—the men who for centuries, writing in Arabic, had carried forth the torch of classical knowledge.
At the same time, Europeans, especially those from the southern and western parts of the continent, were rubbing their collective eyes and awakening from a centuries-long slumber; the logic chains of antiquity having been buried by years of cloistered, doctrinaire thought. Its cities, where the nascent renaissance would first spring to life, were small but suddenly growing in size and complexity. By 1250, a dozen cities on the Italian peninsula numbered at least 20,000 inhabitants. East-west trade, since the first crusades two centuries earlier, had blossomed making Venice, Genoa, and Pisa into powerful political entities able to extend their influence far into the Mediterranean.
At the intersection, both geographical and temporal, of these two world-historic cultural spheres lay a revolutionary idea manifest as a city; namely, the city of Acre and its population of 40,000 or more, many of whom had come from elsewhere. Along with a few lesser siblings scattered up and down the Levantine coast, Acre embodied the idea of multiculturalism, albeit in proto-colonial fashion. It’s residents would have been made up of various Italians, French, Germans, Englishmen, Greeks, Jews, Syriacs, Arabs, Persians, Turks, Circassians, Sundanese, and others. Fittingly, then, Acre in all its filth and splendor serves as the centerpiece of Robyn Young’s novel Crusade, the second in a series of three books chronicling the fictional life of the William Campbell as he secretly works towards the idea of a multicultural coexistence in the Holy Land.
While over-plotted genre historical fiction through and through, Crusade is not without its redemptive qualities. Among the most interesting of those qualities is its focus on geopolitics and diplomacy. Charles Hill, in his book Grand Strategies, argues that literary insight is an essential dimension in the pursuit of understanding statecraft, as it manages “to convey the inchoate aspects of affairs between and within states to attentive readers.” As many of the most important plot scenes in Young’s Crusade are set within Mamluk war councils or meetings of Acre’s high council, it’s much easier to deduce principals of statecraft in Crusade than it might be in novels with more literary qualities. It’s also interesting to read about the entreatments of the period. I was particularly entertained by Young’s depiction of the Mongol embassy that visited King Edward I in the southwest of France in the late 13th century.
While the focus on internal and external politics is often captivating, the same cannot be said for Young’s characters throughout the novel. Will Campbell, as much as the reader might want him to be, is never the inspiring and sympathetic figure that he should be. His moral sensibilities also feel distinctively modern, this in a time when the European mind had yet to fully articulate the concept of the individual in a convincing way. His close nemesis, Garin de Lyons, while a completely unsympathetic character himself, seems to aptly describe Will as the kind of guy that succeeds no matter his flaws, a quality that justly inspires enmity, partially borne out of jealousy, partially out of resentment, in those, like Garin, who never recover from their own ill-thought-out decisions.
On the other hand, Young’s portrayal of Khadir, the Mamluk sultan’s soothsayer and arch antagonist, is really well done. She manages this not only through physical description of his hunched back and white eyes and the ragged doll he carries with him, but also through the verbiage of movement. Khadir pads, shuffles, scrounges, and scurries, all evocative of a predatory, scavenging animal of the night. Consequently, he emerges as one of the most memorable of Young’s characters. Characters such as Kalawun, Baybars, and Guillaume de Beaujeu, on the other hand, leave the reader wishing for more, while King Hugh and the nefarious merchants are almost comical in their overwrought stereotypical depictions. The homoerotic tension between Will and Simon Tanner is never fully flushed out and Elwen, Will’s longtime paramour and leading lady of the novel, is an unfortunate necessity in a book like this.
On the whole, though, Crusade is an entertaining book in which Young has done an admirable job, at least on the surface, of intertwining a fictional narrative into a series of ‘real’ historical events. The best novels of the genre, in my opinion, should inspire the historical imagination of their readers and, hopefully, spur them into further inquiry. Crusade may not be the best historical fiction, but it does illuminate a period of Western history that most people know very little about. And to the extent that one can also read it for insight into an early manifestation of the multiculturalism that, eight hundred years later, is such a pronounced, if not always realized, ideal in the West, it is useful. The fact that it also addresses questions about colonialism, cultural exchange, and human behavior make it even more worth reading. © Jeffrey L. Otto, May 16, 2015