Chapter 125: First Battle
Ali was just an ordinary slave, the lowest rank in the Sultan’s army. These slaves with obvious features—black skin and topknots—were neither Saracens nor Turks or Kurds who had earned trust by long following the Saracens. They were just slaves.
And such a history had been passed down among the Nubians for over a thousand years. They once served as vanguards for the Carthaginians, later flanked for the Romans, and now accepted “employment” from the Sultan and Caliph. As slaves, they also took on many tasks besides combat—for the Saracens, they were like sand thrown into mud during rain, or dry herbs burned to drive away mosquitoes. No matter how many were lost, it was not worth pitying.
And in battle, their losses were often the greatest. Once, a Fatah said without concealment that if he could exchange Nubians for Christian knights, even a hundred for one would be worth it.
But would you say they would get angry or harbor thoughts of rebellion? No, his simple mind could not hold so many things.
Though he was the most humble in the Sultan’s army, in front of those unarmed commoners, he was the noblest. Just like the village they recently stormed and burned, he still clearly remembered the astonished, terrified, and sorrowful eyes of those in white robes—they groveled under his horse’s hooves, begging for mercy, but he had come precisely to slaughter.
He chopped off their heads, whether elders or children, looted their property. Unfortunately, the village had almost nothing worthwhile. In the end, he only took a few pieces of clothing. As for those precious books, he didn’t even glance at them before leaving them in the house to be swallowed by the flames.
But for Ali, the splashing blood and countless wails were the best reward he received—aside from the commission from the Sultan. His strength and brutality caught the eye of a Kurd captain, who transferred him to his side and promised that if in the upcoming Ayyarasa Road siege warfare he could show more strength and courage, he would promote Ali, allowing him to shed his slave status and become a soldier of the Sultan.
A warrior of the Sultan—what a delightful title. Though his mind was simple, he had heard of a lowly little man who relied on his talent to step by step become an Emir or Vichir—opportunity lay before him, making him feel hot all over, unable to sleep.
Or perhaps it was because after becoming an attendant of the Kurd, he could sleep in a tent, and the overly enclosed environment made him unaccustomed.
When he was a slave, he slept sprawled in the open with other Nubians who were also mercenaries.
Though dozens slept crammed in the tent, the feeling was completely different, like something was added and something subtracted. He quietly slipped out of the tent, gazing at the pitch-black night sky. This violated military law, but he boldly did it anyway, just not venturing too far.
He hid in the shadow of the tent; his black skin hid this Nubian very well. He told himself it was just for a moment as he looked toward the Sea of Galilee.
It was now the time just before dawn; the moon had set in the west, and the stars no longer twinkled. Compared to the lake surface when he fell asleep, which had once reflected the bright eyes of the firmament, it had become a pitch-black hole that seemed to swallow everything. With just one glance, Ali turned his head away in terror.
Not only had the lake surface become terrifying; the hills on the other side had become unfathomable. During daytime marches, they saw only yellowish-brown hillocks—not high, not steep, with little vegetation, just scattered olive trees or some shrubs of kinds he didn’t know.
They were very close to the lake surface, leaving only a single road, which could barely fit four carriages abreast. Accommodating their army of nearly twenty thousand was still difficult.
Their procession was stretched into thin sections one after another. If he were a falcon flying in the sky, looking down, he would see several distinct segments, from the most humble to the noblest, each camp separated by fences and guards.
His current position was not only far from the Sultan, but even some distance from the Kurd leader’s camp. He didn’t know how long it would take to cover that short few hundred feet.
This lucky Nubian took one last look at the hills. In the dead of night, they suddenly seemed tall; Ali even felt they were a pack of sleeping giants—like the legends in his tribe, waiting only for the devil to crack his whip and drive them up, when they would immediately rise and pour down on their camp, burying them all.
Ali couldn’t help shaking his head to shake out the terrifying thought, but in the motion, he seemed to see a flash of silver. Moonlight? Or the morning light that had arrived unbeknownst? He couldn’t be sure and strained to look there. Unconsciously, he even stood up.
This action was spotted by patrolling soldiers. They were about to shout curses and drag him out, tie him to a stake outside the camp, and the next day whip him in front of everyone, expose him to the sun, withhold food and water, to show all what happens to those who break rules.
But when they followed his gaze, they too seemed robbed of reaction and thought by the Saracen devil. What did they see?
Torchlight, point after point of torchlight rising on the ridges of the continuous hills. Looking left, no end; looking right, no end. And amid the torchlight flickered, leaped, and surged holy white light. They had seen this light often on the battlefield; it represented God’s blessing and the Prophet’s revelation, a power transcending mortals—even if their faiths differed.
The patrolling squad leader nearly cried out, but his training kicked in; he thrust his fingers into his throat, strangling the shout in its swaddling clothes.
It was now the boundary of night and dawn; even nocturnal animals had returned to their nests to sleep—most in the camp were asleep. Catching a fool dazed outside the tent wouldn’t greatly disturb them. But if someone screamed an alert or called them to fight, it would not only fail the original purpose but spark panic.
He didn’t shout, but forgot the black soldier standing dazed outside the tent. He screamed, “Enemies! Enemies! Enemies are coming!”
In the dead silent night, this scream pierced dozens of tents like a horn. People inside all stirred. Perhaps they didn’t grasp the words or know what happened, but their first reaction was to grab their weapons. And in this era of scarcity, how many could see clearly in the lightless night?
They couldn’t discern their surroundings and rushed out of tents to avoid dying in those soft graves. But outside, countless people still swarmed—who were they? Friends or enemies? Various languages echoed in the camp, waking more. The situation rippled like a stone in the lake, spreading instantly.
Even if some could see in the dark or light torches, they couldn’t control the chaos. On the hilltops that seemed low in daylight, death stared mercilessly down at them.
Compared to the Saracens’ panic, the Crusaders were high in morale. Just as night fell, under Baldwin IV’s lead, they knelt toward the True Cross and prayed; priests held Mass for them.
Moreover, after Mass, Baldwin IV generously took out a fragment of the True Cross, ground it to powder, mixed it into a water cup of holy water, and had everyone drink a sip. They immediately felt vigorous, sharp, omnipotent. Even charging a position of ten thousand held no fear.
And before lighting torches, they knelt in prayer, gaining the saint’s favor. As if aware of their intent, no knight or weapon dulled; even prior blessings grew thicker.
A Templar Knight stationed at Makab Castle, intently watching the enemy, felt something softly brush his shoulder. Looking down, he saw his body covered in a layer of translucent chainmail, each link gleaming. He instinctively reached to touch, but his fingers passed through, like an illusory image.
Another Templar Knight beside him saw and tilted his spear to tap it, producing a metallic clang. “What is this?” he asked in surprise.
This Templar Knight had scaled the walls with Caesar and others in a prior expedition and knew exactly what it was.
“You’re pretty lucky,” he grinned. “We’re not far from the King, so the Little Saint’s protection covers you too. Think of it as a second layer of chainmail—arrows can’t pierce it, and it can save you from heavy hammers or axes. It’ll last far longer than expected—at least until this war ends.
But if it takes too many hits, it’ll dim or shatter; then you’re on your own.”
The Templar Knight at Makab Castle was dumbfounded—not because it was insufficient, but too much. Like Count Etienne once, when he shared his shield, it lasted only for them to run hundreds of feet to him and barely withstood a few wolf pack bites; other knights were similar—but this power…
He instinctively looked around and saw the soft white light enveloping at least a hundred knights. “God,” he prayed involuntarily, “God be witness, is this a power mortals can have?”
Of course not.
Knights Templar Grand Master Philip withdrew his gaze. When people saw Baldwin IV rampaging invincible on the battlefield, they marveled at Saint George’s Spear like condensed sunlight.
But for knights, spears kill enemies but not all; in combat, shields and chainmail saved lives. They would praise their king—Baldwin IV was indeed a brave warrior and willingly obeyed his will.
Yet even in the expedition, he noticed that whether Templar Knights, Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, or Knights Hospitaller, even outsiders, all were closer to Caesar and more willing to gather by him. It was human nature—people follow heroes, but if possible, aspire to become one.
And the greatest prerequisite to becoming a hero was not dying, especially before enough merit. As long as alive, even losing armor, horses, attendants, one could rise again if courage remained. But losing life meant truly nothing.
He now understood Walter and Geoffrey, but time allowed no further thought. The young King Baldwin IV on horseback raised his spear—a bright flag flashing before the dark firmament, unextinguished even by torchlight. They all saw it.
“By God’s will!”
Baldwin IV shouted. His voice wasn’t loud but piercing. Everyone heard, then echoed, “God grants us glory!”
“For God, not us!”
“Ayyarasa Road!”
They spurred horses, which first trotted slowly then galloped full speed down the gentle slopes, carrying rolling sand and kinetic force. In an instant, they crashed into the Saracen camp.
They faced only crude works, rough fences, tents, and dazed people inside—many still half-asleep, more having trampled each other earlier.
The first rank led by Baldwin IV and Caesar were all selected and deeply favored; their horses wore heavy armor, their chainmail and weapons cloaked in deadly white light. These mortal enemies of the Saracens tore through the camp like rotten linen, effortlessly splitting it in two!
