Chapter 127: Unfavorable Comparison
“What is Philip thinking? Doesn’t he know he is cultivating a new enemy for the Knights Templar?” Raymond sat behind the desk, merely lifting his eyes upon hearing this, showing no interest in responding to Bohemond’s words.
Compared to Baldwin, who is only fifteen and will turn sixteen only in February next year, both Raymond and Bohemond were already mature men in their forties.
Before the Battle of the Sea of Galilee occurred, well, Raymond still thought he could continue as Regent for ten or even twenty years. Although Amalric I had said that the Regent should hand over power when Baldwin turned sixteen, he also had plans. As long as he kept the young Baldwin IV isolated from official duties and war—（it could be illness, or “mistake”）—who would trust him? Who would dare trust him?
Even after leaving Ayyarasa Road, when he heard that Baldwin intended to tour outside to inspect the defenses, army, and fortress of Ayyarasa Road, he didn’t take it to heart at all—for him, it was just a child’s willful act.
“We shouldn’t have left Philip in Ayyarasa Road from the beginning.” Raymond said. Compared to the previous Grand Masters of the Knights Templar, Philip’s character was clearly more inclined toward idealism. Even though he often stood in opposition to Amalric I, it was out of public interest rather than private interest.
“He even donated his own territory. What do you think?” Bohemond asked in return, unusually without much mockery in this sentence, but more regret.
Compared to Raymond, he understood Philip better. Indeed, he was an upright and pious man, but so what? After they left, would he take those few hundred knights from Ayyarasa Road to attack Damascus or Egypt?
Stop joking.
However, the cruel fact was laid bare before them. Baldwin indeed defeated Sultan Nur al-Din and his tens of thousands of troops with just these few hundred knights and about a thousand soldiers, who had previously been invincible.
Not only that, they captured Nur al-Din. Even though he was on his last breath and died shortly after entering Ayyarasa Road, it didn’t prevent the Saracens from being at a disadvantage in the subsequent negotiations. He was the symbol of their faith, the leader guiding them forward. Even if Baldwin wasn’t the type to insult an enemy’s corpse, they couldn’t just leave him there in Ayyarasa Road.
Ironically, Nur al-Din had said more than once that he wanted to die in Ayyarasa Road. He probably never imagined that this statement would be fulfilled in such a way.
Raymond mentioned Philip because these two commanders, seasoned on the battlefield for years, could see it at a glance—although Philip attributed the victory of the Battle of the Sea of Galilee entirely to their King Baldwin IV, who else but him could have actually controlled the entire battle, commanding the knights to calmly cut apart, drive, and confuse those Saracens?
Besides Grand Master Philip, with his rich combat experience, there would be no second person. But he didn’t claim credit for it; instead, he stepped back, allowing the people of Ayyarasa Road to shower Baldwin with praise and flowers. How did he know Baldwin wouldn’t be the next Amalric I?
The Knights Templar, as an independent military organization, could never coexist harmoniously with the King of Ayyarasa Road. The glorious image he shaped for Baldwin IV would become a spear thrusting toward the Knights Templar in the future.
This was the drawback of idealists. He joined the Knights Templar not because of their current status and wealth, but because he always upheld the order’s original purpose—defending the Holy City and protecting the weak.
If he felt the current Baldwin could achieve these two things, he would unhesitatingly side with the king, without caring at all how the Knights Templar would continue to develop afterward—the order wasn’t his cause; fighting for God was.
Bohemond felt a wave of irritation. He walked to the window, gazing at the scene outside the city from there, and then something even more irritating came: he saw a few commoners or pilgrims—he couldn’t tell which—lingering near the city wall, praying and appealing to the towering main tower—they were kneeling to the King of Ayyarasa Road, just like…
Originally, having a Little Saint by Baldwin’s side was enough to give him a headache. Now the people of Ayyarasa Road had elevated Baldwin to the position of the original Godfrey. Who wouldn’t say Godfrey was an impeccable Saint Knight— if Amalric I were still alive, seeing this scene, he would burst into laughter and wouldn’t be able to stop.
This was originally what he and Heraclius wanted to see, but he probably wouldn’t have thought it would come so quickly.
“Snap!” A quill pen was thrown at Bohemond’s feet.
The ink on it not only stained the carpet but also the Grand Duke’s robe. Bohemond helplessly picked it up and placed it neatly on the desk. “What use is getting angry at a quill pen?”
Then, he swept the documents on the desk—sure enough, more troubling matters—casualty lists of the Crusaders.
In the previous Battle of the Sea of Galilee, although Baldwin did something that could almost be called insane—charging with hundreds into a camp of tens of thousands—the knights’ casualties were surprisingly minimal, especially for the over one hundred knights who rushed into the camp. Their most serious injury might have been Nur al-Din suddenly falling from his horse—causing their merits to fall into the earth’s hands.
In contrast, the Crusaders that Raymond and Bohemond led out seemed to be punished by God for their disdain toward the king. They first encountered a storm, marching continuously for several days and nights in the cold rain until everyone was exhausted. When it cleared, despicable guides led them into a muddy swamp. When they finally struggled out of the swamp, Mulai’s crossbowmen were already waiting.
The Crusader soldiers, frozen, hungry, and exhausted, were slaughtered by over a thousand men without any power to resist. By then they regretted it. At that time, Raymond received a plea for aid—Nur al-Din and his army were marching on Ayyarasa Road. It had to be said, this was quite a good way to step down, though they were still somewhat unwilling.
But unexpectedly, just as they prepared to return to Ayyarasa Road, not only did Mulai’s Turkish cavalry continuously harass them, but his master Toghrul II also moved. He and Mulai were like two vicious hounds chasing their rear, occasionally rushing up to bite.
In the end, they had to abandon most of their supplies, even some horses and weapons, and… some soldiers, before finally breaking through the encirclement and returning to Ayyarasa Road.
Failure isn’t frightening; even Amalric I had led an expedition to Egypt and returned empty-handed with nothing gained. But even the beggars at the foot of Ayyarasa Road’s walls knew this war wasn’t just between Crusaders and heathens and rebels—it was also between them and the king.
They were utterly defeated.
The bitter fruits that followed would have to be savored slowly—dead soldiers needed compensation, injured knights needed treatment, and the deaths of accompanying priests required an explanation to the Patriarch. Compared to these, material losses were negligible; these might need to be filled by the treasuries of Tripoli and Antioch, since they had no spoils of war this time to offset the deficit.
Not to mention, the fight with Mulai had to continue. Why do the Crusaders exist if not to ensure the safety of pilgrims and the Holy Land? The news hasn’t reached the Vatican yet; when it does, the Pope will surely send letters of condemnation soon.
Especially when the young king, only a third their age, so perfectly fulfilled his duties—achieving an indisputable victory over the Saracens, capturing their monarch, ensuring the Christians’ “most holy of holy lands” suffered no disturbance or defilement.
As for Ayyarasa Road’s Patriarch, no need to mention him. Heraclius was originally Baldwin’s teacher; he has his current position entirely because of the support of the previous king and the trust of the current king.
In any case, he wouldn’t side with them. Bohemond glanced at Raymond and couldn’t help cursing him inwardly as useless, but he still had to remind him, “Don’t forget, envoys from Syria will visit today.”
When he was still Regent Minister, no one could bypass him to reach agreements with these Saracens. This was perhaps his only chance to grasp authority.
“Cherish it well.” In the end, he couldn’t help but sarcastically remark to Raymond.
Of course, he also needed to be present—Bohemond returned to his room to change out of his soiled clothes. In the corridor, he unexpectedly ran into his son Abigail.
Abigail was already a knight who had undergone the Sword Conferral Ceremony, but upon seeing his father, he was like a puppy suddenly kicked into an ice cave. He even lowered his head until his chin touched his chest, almost hugging the wall to run past, but Bohemond’s cold glance froze him in place.
The Grand Duke sized him up, especially between his legs: “The Princess isn’t pregnant yet?”
His direct, unmasked questioning made Abigail’s face flush red, not from shame, but from anger.
Curiously, the Princess had shown no signs of pregnancy in these months—in an ordinary marriage, if there were no children, people would mostly blame the woman, thinking the wife was ill or had blasphemed God to receive such severe punishment.
But in Abigail and Princess Sibylla’s marriage, people directed more suspicion at Abigail. After all, the Princess was always very healthy, so healthy that some said it would be good if that health could be transferred to her brother Baldwin.
Moreover, she was tall, with full breasts and hips, rosy cheeks, and a loud voice; from any angle, she didn’t look like someone unable to bear children.
In contrast, Abigail, without even comparing to Baldwin or Caesar, was excessively thin even compared to David, with a pale face, purple lips, clearly like cattle and horses that couldn’t provide good seeds.
Although his build was just inherited from his father Bohemond, the pale face and purple lips might also be from the excessive pressure he was under now. After all, his marriage to Sibylla wasn’t just for simple love or ordinary interest exchange; their child meant the continuation of bloodline loved and revered by the people.
Especially after Baldwin achieved such prominent military merits, people were eagerly awaiting the Princess to give birth to a son, and then, during Baldwin’s more than a decade of rule, to train another holy king for Ayyarasa Road.
Bohemond took a deep breath, telling himself to get used to it: “What are you doing here?”
Baldwin had moved back to the main tower, living in his father Amalric I’s room; his attendants and servants had also moved. The left tower was naturally vacated. Thus, after purification and blessing, Princess Sibylla and Abigail moved into the left tower, though they still had separate rooms—just on the same floor.
Raymond and Bohemond still lived in the familiar right tower. “I, I’m here to see your father.” Abigail stammered, slowly clenching his fist. “I want to join the upcoming negotiations.”
Bohemond gave him a strange look. “You, what can you do by going?”
The merciless contempt from his father made Abigail’s face even paler. He controlled his trembling body and finally, as if abandoning something, knelt before Bohemond. “Let me go. Father, please, let me go!”
He appealed, but after waiting a long time with no response, he looked up to see Bohemond’s face mere inches away. He recoiled in fright, nearly tumbling down the steep stairs.
“Your foolishness always amazes me,” Bohemond said with a beaming smile: “It’s Sibylla, right? Isn’t it? She told you that if you can’t secure a place in the postwar negotiations, don’t come to her anymore, so you can’t get into her bed or have children with her—and we can’t wait. Perhaps in a few years, they’ll annul this marriage—you’re afraid of that, right?”
Every word in that sentence was like an invisible hand slapping Abigail’s cheeks repeatedly; he was dazed and speechless.
“You came to me also because you—damn it, it seems everyone knows my weak spot,” Bohemond’s cold voice came from above. “You know I need a child, yours and Sibylla’s, preferably a son, so you’re reckless. You know I have to do this.” He rarely uttered a dirty swear. “Right now, I really want to go back to Antioch and try fucking your mother to see if I can produce another son—I think the chances are better.”
Abigail knelt on the ground, numb, but… he wanted Sibylla; she was all he had.
“Get up. I do need to give you a position.”
Abigail smiled; he got what he wanted.
