Chapter 85: Assault On The City!
Baldwin completely ignored Arthur. Ever since they arrived here, there had been too many people sounding out Caesar indirectly. He saw at a glance that Arthur was deliberately trying to recruit Caesar—this allowed him to gauge that Arthur’s background was not ordinary. Ordinary knights did not have the combat thinking of commanders or generals. His attentiveness was simply because he had seen that Caesar could not only be a knight but also someone who could command others in combat.
Such people either came from a family with deep scholarly roots, taught personally by father and elders—for example, himself—or possessed God-given, innate Talent and wisdom. The latter was especially rare.
“All right, Arthur,” Blondel observed the situation and interrupted at the right moment: “We should go back to do prayer.”
On every evening before battle, knights and priests prayed, lords, lords and King also held Mass and offered sacrifices. All this was to let God see their piety and efforts. Plus, knights always liked to shout, fight, along with livestock, merchants and women, the camp was always shrouded in smoke and noise…
But on the true morning of battle, with the morning light pouring onto the plain between Fustat and the attackers, it was instead enveloped in a rare silence.
The defenders in the city seemed to know it was today too. They held their breath in quiet waiting until the last mist dispersed. Those colossal structures that rose up—those massive siege engines assembled only today, great trebuchets, triangular scaling ladders, “turtles” and “mice”, towering siege towers… appeared before people like the fangs bared by beasts.
The King galloped in front of his army for the last time. There was no need for more words. Everyone here, even every mount, every apparatus knew their duty. He raised his hand high, then swung it down forcefully.
Drummers beat drums, horns sounded, heralds rushed to positions holding flags.
The vanguard consisted of infantry. They went in groups of three or five, spaced apart, together holding a wicker shield wall—just like those Baldwin and Caesar had seen. They hid their bodies and heads behind the shield wall as much as possible. At first they ran fast, slowing down as they neared the archery range of the city wall—knights’ constant provocations were not just for show off. At least when these men stopped and set up the shield wall in front of the moat, the losses were not great.
Another group of militia quickly pushed two-wheeled or one-wheeled carts up, dumping the mud and gravel inside into the moat.
At this moment, the King’s Gate opened swiftly. A troop of Saracen cavalry charged out, but the King was prepared. A prepared troop of knights met them, clashing in combat.
The moat was quickly filled—not because the Saracens were negligent or lax on such defenses, but because Amalric I simply did not care about money or human life. The arrows shot by the defenders on the city wall certainly nailed some to the shield wall, but militia and infantry kept dying. They fell, and those behind filled in, endlessly. Mud, gravel along with carts, even corpses were pushed into the moat.
“Fustat has no moat. That’s truly a good thing.” Raymond said to those around him.
“Nor is it that easy to chew.” Blaise Gerard said. He was Damara’s father, the head of the Gerard family. Damara’s attachment to Caesar had always worried him, but now he had to set aside concern for his daughter and focus on the battlefield.
At this point, a herald came running in, out of breath. He came to convey the King’s order—”Attack!”
This time it was no longer just neat but sparse infantry lines. Those ferocious beasts arrayed before the positions moved forward slowly amid people’s shouts. Their bases were fitted with wheels, pushed by dozens or even over a hundred soldiers together. During the pushing, orders to “fire” rang out endlessly—in terrifying whooshes, stone projectiles were hurled, arcing through the air straight onto the city wall.
But these did not have great power. The stone projectiles frequent enough, fast enough were not to destroy the city wall, but to suppress the defenders on it. Accompanying these trebuchets, siege towers, battering rams were dense infantry holding long swords, raising shields, advancing steadily and slowly amid flying gravel, dust and flames.
Yes, the defenders on the city wall also began using catapults. They hurled stone projectiles wrapped in flames, but the main targets were not people, but those siege towers like moving towers.
These viscous flames, if they fell on wood or people, would burn fiercely at once. But only one or two siege towers were ignited—the siege towers had water and sand prepared inside for extinguishing fire, and leather pouches hung on the outer walls filled with sand and water. Those inside would extinguish fire, outside soldiers would put out flames too.
“They’re moving!” A knight responsible for lookout and observation shouted loudly. Piety had granted him extraordinary vision from a saint. Like a falcon, he could see far away. Even from the King’s camp, he could see fully armed knights running on the drawbridge connecting Fustat and Laudae Island.
The King could certainly send out cavalry against these men, but he hesitated only slightly before saying to the herald beside him: “Tell Baldwin to prepare!”
The young men already waiting in the tent immediately grew excited. They murmured prayers, making the cross on their chests—they were almost all in their teens or twenties, the time of greatest enthusiasm and purity. Their friendship with Baldwin was also most sincere. Since they had reached Baldwin’s side, it meant that if they could preserve honor and life in this campaign, they would surely stay on Ayyarasa Road, becoming Baldwin’s confidants.
Using a reed bed for cover, they came to a place not far from the bridge. The Saracens had arrow towers at each end of the bridge. The arrow towers were crude but very sturdy. About one man high from the ground were solid mud bricks, possibly filled with gravel inside. Above were mortised wood, with damp cowhide hung on the wood to guard against fire.
But the platform above the arrow tower was wooden.
They watched that group of Saracen cavalry charge from the bridge toward the positions before rushing out—themselves to avoid meeting reinforcements head-on.
Baldwin’s Pollux ran ahead of everyone. A bright lance formed in his hand. The Saracens on the arrow tower, seeing this sight, knew at once it was a knight revealed by the Prophet. They immediately raised a clamor and raised crossbows, shooting arrows at him, hoping to slow him, best to kill him under the arrow tower.
But no matter how strong their crossbows, how sharp the arrows, they could not harm him at all. Because Caesar followed closely behind. His strength was greater and heavier than on the Tortosa battlefield, like another layer of scale armor covering him and Baldwin, yet without any weight or hindrance.
Baldwin’s lance, amid the shouts—Saracens from fear, Christ’s knights from excitement—pierced straight like a awl into flesh into the junction of the arrow tower’s wooden structure and mud bricks, shattering it completely at once. Mud and stones fell, wood splintered—Baldwin reined his horse around, while Caesar leaned his body and slammed into it hard!
This shook the arrow tower’s base completely. Its structure was heavy at bottom, narrow in middle, wide at top. The lance and shield impact did not make it collapse immediately, but panicked those above. At this time, the young knights surged forward, shooting burning arrows into the platform and gaps. The arrow tower surely had stored water for extinguishing fire, but arrows were dense, some knights shooting into the walls and platform’s pointed helmet.
And for some reason, even when the Saracens fetched water, it was hard to extinguish these flames. Instead they grew more rampant. They shouted “Greek fire”, covered with mud and sand to suppress, but with little effect. The fire grew, finally blazing fiercely. Saracens inside jumped into the river, some burned uncontrollably jumped straight from arrow tower onto the bridge.
At this moment, a group of Saracen infantry came running from the other end of the bridge. They held round shields, archery in hand. Seeing the knights charging onto the bridge, they shot arrows at once, but these knights were all selected by Baldwin, blessed by God. Ordinary arrows could do nothing to them. The leading Saracen shouted, and they raised round shields again.
“Javelins!” Baldwin understood their words and warned immediately. At this point the round shields were down, javelins thrown like a rainstorm at them. Two knights fell horse and rider at once, but Baldwin had no time to mind them now.
“Saint George’s Spear” in his hand hummed, constantly lengthening to the length of an ordinary lance, while Pollux galloped at full speed. Wind whipped his eyes, yet he felt no sting. Even without looking, he knew Caesar was beside him, behind.
“This is God’s will!” He shouted, then charged at the Saracens’ shield formation and the javelins and scimitars flashing behind shields.
Like a hill engulfed by floodwaters, the Saracens facing Baldwin only felt a violent gale or collapsing rocks coming head-on—anyway, a force no human could resist. They fell backward, parted to sides, blood splattering, flesh torn. Some were found dead only after being thrown far.
And this force was not one, but two. By the time Caesar spurred Castor over them, no one had courage left to resist. They either fled back to the fortress or to the other arrow tower.
“Baldwin!” Caesar shouted. When he came to scout, he felt this arrow tower was slightly different from the previous one. Now he knew: this arrow tower had an opening at the base, blocked by wooden boards coated in mud, facing the fortress, so not obvious at first glance.
Baldwin dismounted, stabbing hard at the entrance with “Saint George’s Spear”. Arrows shot down, stones thrown, even torches—all blocked by Caesar for him.
After about ten breaths, Arthur arrived too. He was angry he had not joined the real combat—mainly Baldwin and Caesar moved too fast. He saw Baldwin had charged inside, and he… he got stuck. The entrance was not big, piled with wooden boards and corpses…
Seeing this, Caesar dragged him out and followed himself. The narrow arrow tower really was not suited for knight combat. Baldwin had drawn his short sword, fighting Saracens with scimitars. Of course, with Caesar there, their combat was almost unfair.
Baldwin had just killed the last Saracen, pushing him off the arrow tower, when he saw Blondel leading men pushing a scaling ladder. This scaling ladder had no supports, not tall enough, but iron spikes at bottom to pierce ground, iron hooks at top to catch battlements—perfect for such a low fortress.
Baldwin ran down from the arrow tower, and with companions pushed the scaling ladder to the fortress city wall base. Some reinforcing knights helped fight Saracens charging from the fortress. Others, led by Arthur, held steel shields, hard cowhide, shielding them from boiling water, naphtha and hot feces poured by defenders.
“This time you can’t go first!” Arthur shouted, heedless of the filth splashing his face. Baldwin and Caesar said nothing, stepped aside, let him climb first. But then Baldwin nudged Caesar. Caesar understood—Blondel had told Baldwin… this Arthur might be a bastard fresh from another battlefield.
The first to climb the scaling ladder faced the most danger. Before he could show his head, he was surrounded by Saracens. They hacked and slashed at him, shouting nonstop. But Arthur paid no mind. He had prayed before, gained Saint Paul’s favor. The saint’s glory let him feel no pain no matter the wound, nor grow weak.
But this time he felt particularly good. Hard to describe, so to say: before on battlefield, like knife sword piercing oil; now like tearing silk. He saw people shouting, faces of fear, blood splattering, entrails spilling—but all like far away, unrelated to him. He just pushed forward, forward, forward with all his might!
