Chapter 181: Annihilating Mulai
It was rare this time; Raymond did not use their usual method—leading the army to siege the castle, sending an envoy to make claims to the other side. Simply put, it was openly declaring all their own power and denouncing the other’s wrongs to shake the enemy’s morale.
But Mulai did not need it; from the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, from Byzantium to Syria, who did not know the jackal nature of Armenian Prince Mulai? Not to mention, he was also a traitor who had abandoned his own faith, a lump of mud and sand that dared not engage in direct combat with anyone, a dog cowering under a heathen’s robe.
Even more so, Raymond would feel anger for that previous great defeat, but not much fear or hesitation. He still firmly believed that if they had not been tricked by the guide, leading their army into the swamp and wasteland—Mulai would have become their prisoner a year ago, his soul would have gone to hell long before, enduring hundreds of rounds of torture.
Another reason was that they now had a map.
After following Amalric I to several battlefields, Caesar only then realized that people’s use of maps at this time was still stuck at an extremely superficial level.
Although maps had always been treasures in the hands of kings and generals, during marches and combat, they did not dare to fully rely on these wonderful drawings on parchment that combined religion, astronomy, and geography. More often, their existence was just to display everyone’s authority and legitimacy.
So when an army arrived at a place to prepare for battle with another army, their chosen method was surprisingly to select a guide from captives or local residents. Even more baffling, if they could be like some later army that did not harm civilians at all, that would be one thing, but in fact, no army could guarantee that civilians would not panic and flee upon seeing them arrive.
And they had such full courage and confidence, believing that the guide they captured would not betray them…
But this time it was slightly different. The king had sent maps of Mulai’s territory and surrounding areas. Raymond had heard before that the king had indeed recruited people to draw maps and paid them a hefty sum, but this map style was something he had never seen before.
Although he had never seen it before and no one had taught him, he could tell at a glance that this was exactly what he needed most now. But he was uncharacteristically cunning once, not asking who had drawn such a map—he had even mocked the Grand Master of the Knights Templar for falling for it. The Knights Templar did not need to flatter the king, yet they still sent priests and knights to learn to draw maps from a boy… Was this something a young man of ten or so could master?
“What’s wrong?”
Unfortunately, his silence was broken by his son David. He looked at the map and happily exclaimed, “Isn’t this the map drawn by Caesar?”
“How could this possibly be a map drawn by him? He has always been on Ayyarasa Road, in Bethlehem, or in Damascus and Acre.” Raymond retorted unhappily.
“Then it’s his student.” David praised without hesitation, “He really is a selfless and generous man.”
“Like this…” He tilted his head, thought for a moment, wondering how to describe it—was it knowledge? Or technology? He really did not want to describe it as some craft: “In short, if a priest drew such a map, without a bishop’s position in exchange, he would absolutely not teach it to others easily.”
“Caesar is not a priest.”
“Even if he were a Count, he could exchange it for several knights or a piece of territory.”
Raymond glared at his son, annoyed by his lack of discernment. He was fortunate that there was still Abigail on Ayyarasa Road; otherwise, the one people would mock the most might be his own son David. But he could not blame this young man.
He knew that ever since Amalric I died in Egypt, his mindset had undergone an abnormally terrifying change. He even dared not gaze into the mirror at night, afraid of seeing an angry face in it—that was his former self, accusing him of disloyal thoughts and mocking his overly greedy delusions.
And now David stood before him like another mirror. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever been so pure and upright.
David looked at his father with a quite complex expression—relief, hesitation, and pain. He did not know whether his father was raising his son to be a holy knightly exemplar or weighing back and forth between pushing him toward the throne of Ayyarasa Road. In the end, Raymond gently placed his hand on his shoulder.
Do as you wish, he said in his heart. Anyway, whatever you are unwilling to do, I will do it.
“Let’s look at this map.” He no longer argued with David about who drew it. The father and son sat side by side at the table. They rarely had such intimate moments; even David felt warmth in his heart. He leaned close to his father and discovered for the first time that his shoulders were already as broad as his father’s.
His height and weight had also grown rapidly in these years, with no sign of slowing down yet. He was now even taller than Baldwin and Caesar, and stronger too. People said he would grow into a giant like Templar Knight Walter.
David was of course delighted by this, but sometimes he missed the days when he could still nestle in his father’s lap, when his father was gentler to him—or rather, more mild and close to Baldwin. After all, they were blood kin.
But after Baldwin ascended the throne—he did not know whose fault it was—they seemed to be left only with the bond of lord and subject.
He did not quite understand many of his father’s thoughts.
Even if he could not remain on Ayyarasa Road as Regent, he was still one of the most trusted subjects of the King of Ayyarasa Road. And in the future, David would take up his mantle and become Baldwin’s indispensable right-hand man.
“Do you see here?”
Raymond’s words pulled him back to reality. David lowered his head and saw a marked town. It should be an Armenians’ town, though he did not know if they were pure—David meant that towns in such a triangular position, to avoid war, were often fence-sitters, welcoming whoever came; whoever’s tax collector came could always collect some tax; their city would have churches, temples, even Isaacites’ synagogues.
Their lord or town administrator did not need to be very brave or very clever, but had to be versatile and adept at socializing.
“This is the town closest to Mulai’s castle. We will head there first.”
David was puzzled, “We go there first, why?”
“What do you think?”
David pondered for a while and tentatively asked, “Is it because that place should belong to Mulai?”
“Exactly. A town so close to Mulai’s castle must have an inseparable relationship with him.”
Mulai’s territory was not prosperous; it hugged the coastline, mostly hills with pine forests, sandy land and rivers. He led his Turks and Armenians, living almost entirely by plundering. But no matter if their plunder targets were pilgrims, merchants, or villages and cities elsewhere, not everything could be what they needed.
So, turning those temporarily unneeded things into money or food, armor, weapons—essentials—became inevitable. But itinerant merchants could not satisfy all of Mulai’s needs. After all, they only passed through Mulai’s area at intervals, not staying long-term.
So whom would Mulai choose for transactions when needed?
A fixed market.
Facts proved Raymond’s guess correct. As soon as their large army reached the edge of the town, the administrator inside came out extremely obsequiously to greet them. He prostrated on the ground, kissing Raymond’s iron boots, and treated these Crusaders with unusual respect. Whatever they wanted—money, women, provisions, horses, armor—it was all fine.
Raymond, on horseback, looked down at that fat, broad back. “How strange. You do not have a solid city, nor are you near a wide road or long river. There are no vast fields around you, no lush orchards. You do not even have a single product worth merchants pursuing—glass, porcelain, silk. You have nothing, yet you can so boldly tell me you have everything.”
He ignored the middle-aged man who had begun to tremble and led his army into this prosperously deformed little town. Its city wall was very low, almost negligible. The guards fled in all directions upon seeing them, while the residents inside—some fled, some just stood there blankly.
But those who fled were soon caught back. Raymond could not be sure who among them had a pair of usable ears or eyes, so he could not let them go.
Once everyone was gathered in the square, he began questioning.
The method was simple: his attendant loudly asked if anyone among them was more familiar with Mulai’s castle. “…You can step forward yourself or nominate others, but we will cross-check his statements with others. Anyone who fails to convince us will be locked in the war cage, standing until he dies.”
The war cage was a long, narrow cage whose width and depth allowed only one person to stand rigidly upright. Once put inside, the person was either left by the roadside or hung on the city wall, enduring wind, rain, sun, and bird pecks motionless. They might not die quickly, and before dying, could only defecate and urinate on themselves.
The filth would attract swarms of insects that would lay eggs and grow on them.
After they died, if the one who ordered it did not say to take them down, they still had to stand there. Without a priest giving them last rites, their souls would go to hell. Their corpses would stand day after day in the war cage until turning to white bones, finally rotting into fragments and falling down.
Only then were they released.
The standing cages were ready-made; the town was small but had dozens of them.
Before Raymond grew impatient, a man stepped forward. From his appearance, hat, clothes, and beard, it was clear he was an Isaacite. Raymond was too lazy to speak to him personally and called his attendant over.
After asking, the attendant learned that this Isaacite did know Mulai’s castle well. He was a merchant of wine, distilled spirits, and beer, and carriages loaded with barrels could always enter unimpeded. He and his helpers even had to carry the barrels into the cellar.
But he also said, “Honorable Lord, I can write down what I know for you or tell it to you. But now Mulai must have sealed the castle; all passages are closed—a month ago, he refused entry to merchants and no longer accepted any gifts.”
This practice fully matched Mulai’s cautious nature. The attendant looked to Raymond, who just waved his hand. “Anyone else?”
This time, a Christian stepped forward, a blacksmith. Of course Mulai’s castle had its own blacksmiths, but not long ago, he had ordered a batch of weapons and armor in the town.
This intelligence was somewhat useful but did not satisfy Raymond. He needed a thorough, undeniable, exhilarating great victory to wash away the previous shame. He waited a bit longer, saw no one else willing to step forward, and simply tossed a small bag of shiny lovely trinkets in front of everyone. This time the commotion was even more obvious.
“I need more useful things,” Raymond said. “Whoever gives me those, gets these.”
Sure enough, for people at this time, money was worth far more than life. An apparently ordinary man stepped forward. Though short, he was sturdy, looking like a solid square brick.
Regrettably, he was missing one arm; otherwise, any knight would at least let him be an armed attendant.
He glanced uncertainly at Raymond. “Lord,” he bowed awkwardly, “May I know where you come from?”
“From Ayyarasa Road.”
“You are under the King of Ayyarasa Road?”
This title made Raymond frown, but he still nodded.
But he had decided: if this guy could only provide vague, useless information, he would specially make an iron cage, put him in it, and hang it on the town clock tower, letting him enjoy the boundless scenery around.
“I am a stonemason, Lord,” the man said. “Mulai is an outsider; none of his castles were built by him.
Originally it belonged to a Byzantine official, then to a Fatah. Mulai seized it and renovated and expanded it.” He licked his lips, pleased to see Raymond indeed look interested. “And during the expansion, at the base of the new city wall, there is a weak spot. I can show it to you. You can breach his defenses there and rush into his castle.”
“How do you know this? They must have guarded it very strictly.”
“Very strictly. But the problem is,” the man grinned smugly, “we were not hired; we were captured by him. They ordered us to build the city wall but would not give us a single coin, and even skimped on our food and water.
My brothers and I worked desperately from day to night, and before we could even close our eyes, they whipped us awake. We were so exhausted. Someone said that even if we stayed, we would work ourselves to death, so why not take a risk: kill the guard and escape.”
“Did you succeed?”
“No. Lord, if we had, how would I still be here? But I was not discovered; otherwise…” He gestured, but everyone understood: if successful, he would not be here; if failed and discovered, he would not be here either—surely executed by Mulai’s guards as an example long ago.
“We did kill one guard—the most vicious and malicious one to us. He did something utterly deplorable to one of our brothers, completely against doctrine.” He spat on the ground. “The devil should drag him down.
But we handled it ourselves. After killing him, we originally wanted to escape, but before getting far, we ran into a patrol of cavalry. We immediately ran back, but did not know what to do with the corpse, so we threw it into the wall cavity.
He gestured; everyone present were knights and knew what he meant. Those wide city walls that could let two or even three horses run abreast side by side were not solid—or rather, not solidly built of stone bricks. The sides were stone bricks, but the middle was filled with gravel and mud and sand, then rammed solid.
“We threw it into the wall cavity, then poured in mud and sand, ramming it solid. No one could tell. His disappearance did raise some suspicion; each of us got a whipping, but not severe.
They seemed to suspect the guard had fled on his own, not much to do with us, or perhaps because we stayed put without fleeing. Anyway, we survived and stayed here.
They do not know the sin we committed, but they would randomly chop off a man’s arm or leg, depending on what work we did—we are slaves of the people here.” Ignoring some angry glares, he unabashedly lifted his robe, revealing the chain on his ankle. “We are craftsmen to get such treatment, Lord.”
