An exercise with Damascus Steel
The term Damascus steel refers to an old style of Syrian sword making and also to the type of ore used for this weapon smithing technique. The swords produced were famed for their quality in sharpness, lightness of weight, strength, and balance. They were prized for their ability to cut through the lesser quality Crusader swords that they often encountered. The most legendary story that details the amazing attributes of Damascus steel is the oft repeated and wholly mythical meeting of Salah al-Din and Richard the Lionheart. Although, in truth, the two military leaders never even saw each other face to face, they were famous rivals. Regardless, here is my own retelling of a remarkable meeting that never took place.
It is said that at one point, King Richard of England was Salah al-Din's prisoner of war and the two men were spending much of their leisure time together. On one particularly hot afternoon, they were lounging in a comfortable tent, surrounded by soft pillows and several servants. Legends say that it was on this day that Europeans first learned of the desert they would imitate and call sorbet. The foreign invader and his entourage complained about the heat, and Salah al-Din, famed for his generosity as a host and otherwise, ordered his own servants to bring them sherbet, or in the original Arabic tongue, sharba, a sweet mixture of water, crushed ice, and fruit.
As the two seasoned generals sat upon plush cushions and sipped delicious refreshments, they indulged in a conversation that routed itself to the art of combat only minutes after it had begun. They debated tactics and strategy and as they spoke, Richard spotted Salah al-Din's curved, thin scimitar. No doubt the English king equated the structure of the narrow blade with frailty, for his tone quickly became boastful and aggressive. “How is it, my gracious friend, that you hope to survive in battle wielding that iron twig so ready to shatter?” he asked the unperturbed Kurd. “After having tasted your hospitality, I would be much saddened to hear of your demise.” He said this as he drew forth from a scabbard laying at his side his own weapon, a mighty bastard sword with a blade thick enough at its base to hide a human head. He heaved this sword and pointed it in turn at each of Salah al-Din's servants and then finally at the Kurdish noble himself. The gleeful anticipation upon King Richard's face as he performed this act was poorly hidden indeed.
“You may safely let your worries float away from your heavy heart, King Richard,” Salah al-Din responded. Holding his scimitar up in front of him, he ran his finger along its edge for a short distance, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. “This blade brings death only to those who choose to face me openly upon the battlefield.”
“We shall have a contest then, and no blood shall be spilt,” said King Richard. He beckoned to one of his retainers, who came hastily forward and stood before the king. Richard pointed to a morning star tucked half way through this man's belt and the servant quickly freed it and handed it over to his liege. The king grasped it, turned to Salah al-Din, and placed it upon the ground before him. “Look now, my Saracen friend, as I show you unsurpassed strength and spirit.” His biceps expanded then, as muscles labored and tensed, bringing the bastard sword over his own head. Arms strained once more as the sword came back forward, gaining momentum and crashing into the metal handle of the weapon upon the floor. Every eye in the room had followed the descent of the blade and now looked upon it still, its tip resting next to the cracked hilt of the chained mace. Applause broke the stillness of the air and a broad smile stretched across Richard's face. “Put anything in front of my blade, and I will destroy it,” he proclaimed.
“Very well, good King. Your challenge is met,” said Salah al-Din. The Kurdish Prince grabbed one of the many soft pillows scattered about the tent and tossed it atop the ruined morning star laying at Richard's feet. “Cleave that,” said he then. The king glanced at the pillow, and wasting no time, brought the sword down once more with his fullest might. The dull edge connected with thin, finely woven thread and the impact was absorbed harmlessly and completely, deflecting the blade down the side of the fabric. The English noble, lips thin and cheeks taut, looked slowly up at his competitor. No applause was heard and not a word was dared issued forth. All stood still and this time, there was no tepid air to be disturbed. The servants in the room began to eye their respective masters, waiting for any cue when finally, Salah al-Din stepped forward and pointed his scimitar at the king. Its silvery shine caught God's light piercing through the curtains at the tent's threshold and it split and sent this illumination into all corners of the shadowy abode. The prince then turned his wrist, causing the blade to face upward towards the roof. His eyes never left the king's and the king's never left his as he pulled free from the sash around his waist a silken napkin folded over several times. Holding it by its tip, he shook the napkin loose before moving it over the upraised blade and letting it go. It floated down slowly and evenly, pausing momentarily when it landed along its middle upon the sharp steel. The silk bent slightly and its weight caused it to be parted into two before it was allowed to continue down to the dust of the earth. Salah al-Din hummed approvingly, paused, and turned then his attention to the pillow.
With practiced restraint he snapped the sword upon his target and brought it back up again in but one second and a long, straight incision appeared along the length of the down bedding, intestinal feathers spilling forth from both sides of the wound. After several gasps, all in the room bowed and silence would have sustained if not for the mumbling of one of Richard's retainers, his words mentioning something of infernal magic, Saracens, and assured damnation.
Eventually, the ore used in the making of Damascus steel ran out and the master weapon smiths stopped teaching their apprentices the techniques they practiced in the creation of these swords. Those secrets then died with that generation of artisans and were henceforth doomed to the lamentable existence of historic novelty.
* * *
It is said that at one point, King Richard of England was Salah al-Din's prisoner of war and the two men were spending much of their leisure time together. On one particularly hot afternoon, they were lounging in a comfortable tent, surrounded by soft pillows and several servants. Legends say that it was on this day that Europeans first learned of the desert they would imitate and call sorbet. The foreign invader and his entourage complained about the heat, and Salah al-Din, famed for his generosity as a host and otherwise, ordered his own servants to bring them sherbet, or in the original Arabic tongue, sharba, a sweet mixture of water, crushed ice, and fruit.
As the two seasoned generals sat upon plush cushions and sipped delicious refreshments, they indulged in a conversation that routed itself to the art of combat only minutes after it had begun. They debated tactics and strategy and as they spoke, Richard spotted Salah al-Din's curved, thin scimitar. No doubt the English king equated the structure of the narrow blade with frailty, for his tone quickly became boastful and aggressive. “How is it, my gracious friend, that you hope to survive in battle wielding that iron twig so ready to shatter?” he asked the unperturbed Kurd. “After having tasted your hospitality, I would be much saddened to hear of your demise.” He said this as he drew forth from a scabbard laying at his side his own weapon, a mighty bastard sword with a blade thick enough at its base to hide a human head. He heaved this sword and pointed it in turn at each of Salah al-Din's servants and then finally at the Kurdish noble himself. The gleeful anticipation upon King Richard's face as he performed this act was poorly hidden indeed.
“You may safely let your worries float away from your heavy heart, King Richard,” Salah al-Din responded. Holding his scimitar up in front of him, he ran his finger along its edge for a short distance, leaving a thin line of red in its wake. “This blade brings death only to those who choose to face me openly upon the battlefield.”
“We shall have a contest then, and no blood shall be spilt,” said King Richard. He beckoned to one of his retainers, who came hastily forward and stood before the king. Richard pointed to a morning star tucked half way through this man's belt and the servant quickly freed it and handed it over to his liege. The king grasped it, turned to Salah al-Din, and placed it upon the ground before him. “Look now, my Saracen friend, as I show you unsurpassed strength and spirit.” His biceps expanded then, as muscles labored and tensed, bringing the bastard sword over his own head. Arms strained once more as the sword came back forward, gaining momentum and crashing into the metal handle of the weapon upon the floor. Every eye in the room had followed the descent of the blade and now looked upon it still, its tip resting next to the cracked hilt of the chained mace. Applause broke the stillness of the air and a broad smile stretched across Richard's face. “Put anything in front of my blade, and I will destroy it,” he proclaimed.
“Very well, good King. Your challenge is met,” said Salah al-Din. The Kurdish Prince grabbed one of the many soft pillows scattered about the tent and tossed it atop the ruined morning star laying at Richard's feet. “Cleave that,” said he then. The king glanced at the pillow, and wasting no time, brought the sword down once more with his fullest might. The dull edge connected with thin, finely woven thread and the impact was absorbed harmlessly and completely, deflecting the blade down the side of the fabric. The English noble, lips thin and cheeks taut, looked slowly up at his competitor. No applause was heard and not a word was dared issued forth. All stood still and this time, there was no tepid air to be disturbed. The servants in the room began to eye their respective masters, waiting for any cue when finally, Salah al-Din stepped forward and pointed his scimitar at the king. Its silvery shine caught God's light piercing through the curtains at the tent's threshold and it split and sent this illumination into all corners of the shadowy abode. The prince then turned his wrist, causing the blade to face upward towards the roof. His eyes never left the king's and the king's never left his as he pulled free from the sash around his waist a silken napkin folded over several times. Holding it by its tip, he shook the napkin loose before moving it over the upraised blade and letting it go. It floated down slowly and evenly, pausing momentarily when it landed along its middle upon the sharp steel. The silk bent slightly and its weight caused it to be parted into two before it was allowed to continue down to the dust of the earth. Salah al-Din hummed approvingly, paused, and turned then his attention to the pillow.
With practiced restraint he snapped the sword upon his target and brought it back up again in but one second and a long, straight incision appeared along the length of the down bedding, intestinal feathers spilling forth from both sides of the wound. After several gasps, all in the room bowed and silence would have sustained if not for the mumbling of one of Richard's retainers, his words mentioning something of infernal magic, Saracens, and assured damnation.
* * *
Eventually, the ore used in the making of Damascus steel ran out and the master weapon smiths stopped teaching their apprentices the techniques they practiced in the creation of these swords. Those secrets then died with that generation of artisans and were henceforth doomed to the lamentable existence of historic novelty.
posted by Jad at
7:35 PM
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