Chapter 90: Fustat
This time the Grand Vizier did not break his word.
Before dawn of the second day had arrived, Shawwar’s personal guard suddenly appeared before the guards at King’s Gate, ordering them to immediately drop their weapons, descend from the city wall, ostensibly to rest and eat and drink—they even really brought wagon after wagon of honeyed water, bread, and meat.
Many were deceived, or rather they were exhausted to the point of being unable to think anymore; they meekly descended the city wall, feasted heartily, and then cast themselves into a deep slumber from which they would never wake—Shawwar’s personal guard were not numerous, but to be safe, after these men had fallen asleep, they slit their throats one by one.
A few more vigilant men shouted out, but it changed nothing. Once Shawwar’s personal guard had fully seized the city gate and tower, they signaled to the Christians. Immediately after, together with the Christians inside Fustat, they removed the bricks and stones that had been placed behind King’s Gate, ready to topple once the gate was breached, then lifted the heavy bolt and together opened the gate.
It was as if in an instant, Amalric I’s knights had already spurred their horses into King’s Gate.
Upon reaching the city, they began the slaughter. Whether sleeping enemies or awake ones, even some Christians who had come to assist them were injured by frenzied horses kicking or trampling.
More Saracens were awakened; they heard shouts that King’s Gate had been breached and immediately knew that the fall of this great city was destined. They hurriedly armed themselves and went to kill the Christians they knew of; soon, fierce combat broke out in multiple places within the city.
After Amalric I’s army seized King’s Gate, they immediately charged toward Victory Gate, coordinating with the Knights Templar outside Victory Gate; soon, as daylight fully broke, Victory Gate was also breached, and those armies camped outside, swarming like ants and already starving, eagerly rushed in; their horses’ hooves trampled every street, while knights and escorts burst into every residence, killing men, also killing women, and even children could hardly escape.
They spared no one; when a knight entered a room or residence, he became its master; he would order his escorts and servants to guard the entrance well, allowing no one in, or place his shield before the door; generally, other knights seeing such a mark would turn to seek the next target.
Gold coins, silver vessels, clothes, wine, olive oil, earthenware pots filled with wheat and barley… these were all their spoils of war; merchants trailing the army would eagerly follow, haggle prices with the knights, and then the items would be swiftly loaded onto carriages, transported to the port, and sold in another city.
Of course, in terms of wealth, commoners’ or merchants’ homes could never compare to the Royal Palace or temples, especially since Saracens were extremely fond of adorning their temples with gemstones, gold, and silver—the knights deliberately avoided the Caliph’s palace; though one glance at that grand towering building revealed how much there was to plunder—but everyone knew it belonged to King Amalric I.
But even the gold and silver, gemstones, and silk scraped from those Saracen temples, along with vast amounts of grain, oil, and wine, were enough to send them into rapturous delight; they could hardly believe there was such a prosperous place as Fustat, its temples practically like Solomon’s Temple as described in the Bible.
All the wood emitted fragrance, the marble walls were inlaid with silver or gold scripture, and in some places hung white and purple silk; this silk was later taken down by the knights and offered to the priests to quickly make into vestments for Mass.
The priests of course gladly accepted; the knights’ destruction of heathen temples could be seen as an act of piety, saving them considerable effort—after all, these two great temples in Fustat would eventually be converted into churches. The scripture engraved on the marble walls, the exquisitely beautiful holy vessels, the pulpits symbolizing heathen worship, and other emblematic items naturally had to be removed and destroyed.
Though stripping these ornaments would inevitably leave marks on walls and floors, covering them with silk rugs and curtains would suffice.
They raised the large Cross they had brought with them and hung it on the cleanest and neatest Western Wall of the Saracens’ worship great hall（ facing Ayyarasa Road）, then brought in a heavy oak altar（ also brought by them）, covered it with white linen, and placed scripture and holy vessels upon it.
Once pious believers delivered things like altar paintings, images of saints, small crosses, and candles, though it was still somewhat mismatched here, it could already serve as a place for the King and nobles to pray.
These were also the first to be cleaned. The marks of sword cleaves, the corpses, the bloodstains all vanished without trace by the next day. Patriarch Heraclius led the priests in a grand Mass; Amalric I, the Grand Master of the great Knights, his vassals, and the various lords who participated in the holy war together listened to the sermon, prayed, received the Eucharist, and then their parade procession toured all of Fustat.
How many people had once been in Fustat? Eighty thousand, or a hundred thousand.
Unlike Bilbeis, here one saw no crowds hiding in alleys, casting angry or indifferent gazes at them; the Saracens of this city seemed to vanish in an instant, as if there had never been these people wrapped in headscarves and wearing great robes; it was like walking through a dead city.
What would become of this city henceforth?
Probably like Ayyarasa once was; when Ayyarasa was first breached, it too suffered slaughter indiscriminate of faith, status, gender, or age, just as Walter had said: back then, they made heathens taste the sword’s bite whenever they saw one, infants not excepted.
But were there survivors in this massacre? Yes, as long as they could endure the initial period with difficulty; once Christian King Amalric I entered the city and reissued laws, or rather restored order, they could come out, though they would be expelled, allowed to carry nothing—including those they once most loved and who loved them; the only things they could take were hatred and their lives.
But what of it? A city exists because it serves a purpose, whether military, economic, or like Ayyarasa, all three—military, economic, and religious.
They are golden apples, also Helen, or Eden; no one would willingly abandon it, distance themselves from it; gradually, people would gather here again, no matter whether the rulers are Saracens or Christians.
On the third day, the soldiers and servants guarding Caliph Atid in the Royal Palace were also dealt with by Shawwar; this fat traitor laid silk rugs on the ground, with other ministers and generals willing to serve the Christian King prostrating on either side, to respectfully welcome Amalric I into his palace.
“I hear Caliph Atid is about our age,” Baldwin said from horseback, leaning toward Caesar: “Also a young man.”
“Will he be killed?”
“I don’t know, but if possible, my father won’t leave him here; he’ll be sent to another castle—it’s said Saracens are extremely loyal, revering and adoring him; they say he is a divine incarnation, able to make the Nile River flood.”
“Oh, don’t listen to such nonsense.”
Caesar turned his head and helplessly found it was their old friend Geoffrey: “Do Templar Knights all like to stealthily eavesdrop on others like this?”
Geoffrey unceremoniously squeezed between the two boys: “He’s a bit older than you, but can’t compare; he’s just a fop living among women.”
“Women?” Caesar asked. If Caliph Atid was their age, how old was he when Amalric I first attacked Egypt?
“You’ve met him?” Baldwin asked.
“Right when your father first attacked Fustat—women are nothing strange in court, only here…” Geoffrey first answered Baldwin, then Caesar, then said leisurely: “Shawwar promised that as long as Amalric I could drive out and kill his enemies, he would pay two million gold coins for it.”
The Templar Knight said with ill intent: “Back then your father didn’t trust lightly as people thought; he sent me to see Shawwar’s master, Caliph Atid, to ask if he could guarantee the contract. He even specifically instructed me to shake the Caliph’s hand and have him swear an oath before returning.”
“You did it? You did.” Baldwin affirmed.
“Not difficult at all,” Geoffrey said indifferently: “As I said, remove the Caliph’s crown, strip off those so-called magnificent garments of Muhammad’s descendant draped on him, and he’s just an utterly ordinary youth, even inferior to most; I didn’t bow to him, nor flatter. I even commanded him to shake my hand like an order, and he actually agreed, though it made the slaves around him show indignation.”
“You never told us before.”
“What’s to tell? If their Caliph Atid were a sturdy warrior, granted revelation by their Prophet, able to strangle a leopard barehanded, cleave a battering ram with one axe blow, gallop on the battlefield with fame known to all—that would be worth boasting about.
But him, a guy piled in brocade, womanish… oh,” he glanced at Caesar, “not speaking of you—anyway, you’ll see him soon, and when you do, you’ll understand.”
Caesar had already seen the Caliph’s palace in Bilbeis, but that was ultimately just a temporary residence, utterly incomparable to this vast complex.
The Caliph’s palace in Fustat was practically a new city.
They rode through towering arches, passing countless densely packed buildings, courtyards, and dense forests, finally arriving before a city wall inlaid with green and blue mosaic; the great doors opened to either side, but instead of a bright courtyard or luxurious hall, there faced a dim passageway, flanked by Saracen guards.
The knights behind Amalric I instinctively straightened, forgetting the King’s army had already seized here; these Saracens still wore scimitars, but their scabbards were empty, just like in Fustat now.
Indeed, when the King dismounted and approached the passageway, these headscarf-wrapped guards all respectfully half-kneeled, showing no insolence; they walked a long way together, this path deliberately made exceptionally dim and lengthy for some reason—”When those Vichirs and Emirs（local administrative officials and military leaders） pass here, they must be especially tense and anxious.” Baldwin said to Caesar.
“Perhaps a hundred years ago.” Caesar said bluntly; the Fatimid Dynasty and Kingdom of Ayyarasa were completely different political systems; in the former’s court, the monarch held power of life and death in a word, while in the latter’s, the King was more like a patriarch, with more power than other members, but not license to do as he pleased.
But having everything isn’t necessarily good, just like this Caliph Atid’s grandfather, father, brother’s deaths were far from normal, and he himself was in dire straits.
At the passageway’s end was unexpectedly a vast lake; people had to cross a white marble bridge to reach the building opposite, while from the lake’s sides, amid drooping green boughs, faintly came enchanting song and birdsong.
When they entered the Caliph’s palace, dozens of eunuchs still attentively served at the young Caliph’s side; he was indeed as Geoffrey described, a frail young man, wrapped in a huge headscarf with a gem-encrusted golden feather, clad in deep purple silk robe; his lips were pale, whether from health or uncertain destiny unknown.
When Shawwar looked at him, there was surprisingly little contempt, rather some pity; he still knelt utterly humbly on the ground, prostrated three times, kissed Caliph Atid’s feet, then supported him and led him before Amalric I: “Please have mercy on him,” Shawwar said: “He too was once a monarch like you; he is the same age as your son.”
Atid, at Shawwar’s indication, bowed to Amalric I and kissed his hand.
“I pardon you,” Amalric I said: “As long as you don’t do anything stupid.”
Shawwar breathed a sigh of relief; he released his hand, letting several knights take Caliph Atid away.
“I have prepared a grand banquet for you.” Shawwar said: “Your Majesty, you are the new master of this palace, this city, this nation; you should entertain your guests here, to show them your authority and generosity—I have also prepared gifts for them—not included in that million gold coins.”
Amalric I gave Shawwar a half-smile glance; Shawwar merely lowered his head: “I am useful, Your Majesty; you will find me useful.”
No one knew what pretext Shawwar had used initially, but to anyone, this banquet was splendid and flawless; he successfully blended the entertainments and food Saracens and Christians most loved and excelled at: vast amounts of steaming meat, sweet wine and refreshing beer, soups and fruits sprinkled with precious spices, stacks of candied fruit and pastries glistening golden with poured honey…
Poets sang of Charlemagne, Aeneas（founder of Rome）, King Arthur; Saracen musicians played their music; eunuchs by Shawwar brought several beautiful female slaves to dance; they perhaps couldn’t compare to Princess Sibylla, but had a distinctive allure—at least several lords were whispering, inquiring if any slave merchant sold young Saracen women.
Thanks to Baldwin, Caesar received princely treatment; such treatment was like warm bath water, making one limp and oblivious, but he wasn’t much interested, especially as the hall’s atmosphere grew increasingly mixed and heavy-scented, making him want to leave—he whispered a few words to Baldwin and alone rose to go outside.
Not exactly outside, for the banquet was in a multi-columned hall facing the lake; from seats one could overlook the shimmering lake surface, flanked by terraces unfolding like swan wings; the terraces bloomed with herbs, moonlight gleamed bright, air cool as a scoop of ice water.
“Who?!”
Caesar had been alone but moments when he saw a shadow slowly appear at his side; he didn’t shout aloud, for the figure revealed itself—a slender young man who, upon seeing him, immediately prostrated on the ground.
He was even smaller than Caesar, with milky-white skin, brown short hair, and blue eyes; Caesar was slightly stunned, suddenly feeling uneasy—that person… was a eunuch.
“Please don’t shout loudly, Lord,” he pleaded: “I am entrusted by another to deliver a message to you.”
“A message from whom?” Caesar didn’t think anyone here needed to send him a message.
“He said he pitied that ox that passed before him; what about you?”
