Chapter 186: War Begins
The battlefield they had chosen was a wasteland located near Siberia.
Both monarchs had erected high platforms, from where they would overlook the entire battlefield and make timely decisions.
Baldwin had a total of three large phalanxes here; the left phalanx belonged to the Noble Legion led by Raymond, who were either vassals of the Kingdom of Ayyarasa or local lords.
Baldwin himself commanded the central phalanx, whose main components were the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, while the right phalanx belonged to the Knights Templar; the Knights Hospitaller and the recruited mercenaries were held as reserve forces as well as roving archer teams.
Within the central phalanx he commanded, there were three distinct detachments; two of them were led by the Provost and the eldest Knight Commander from the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, positioned on the left and right flanks of the phalanx to coordinate combat with the archers.
The most elite detachment he entrusted to Caesar. Although in Ayyarasa, Caesar was called the shield of the Holy Land and the King, at this moment Caesar needed to establish his own merits; he could not forever exist merely as a foil to others, especially after he had become the Count of Edessa.
“I entrust them to you.” Baldwin said.
In this detachment, besides those seasoned and reliable knights, there were the young knights who had once accompanied Caesar on his mission to Acre; compared to the former, they might lack experience, but they were familiar enough with Caesar and had fought alongside him several times before, requiring little adjustment.
“I’m watching you from here.” Baldwin said: “Go, show those Turks that even a shield can beat them senseless.”
Caesar smiled, embraced Baldwin tightly, mounted his horse, and galloped to the forefront of the formation—Baldwin watched him the whole time, and only when he reached his position did he turn his gaze to the distant high platform.
There, an equally magnificent golden tent had been erected, with Sultan Arslan II’s flag flying in front—deep blue background with a white double-headed eagle.
He believed that at this moment, that Turkish Sultan was surely staring at him as well. He raised his hand, and the other side seemed to do the same. Even though he could not see Arslan II’s movements, he could see the Turkish army advancing.
From the Turkish army, two or three detachments of Light Cavalry on fast horses charged out first, emitting sharp whistles as they held bows and repeatedly dashed left and right in front of the formation, harassing and shooting arrows at the knights, seemingly intending to disrupt their formation.
But here were all veteran knights; they remained unmoved, simply advancing toward the enemy in unison to the drumbeat. And as the sharpest part of this spearhead, Caesar had already begun charging forward, the pure white Arabian like the brightest point of light at the tip of a spear.
At this time, prayers had already rippled out from both armies like waves. A cavalry force met Caesar; they were all Turkish nobles wearing trimmed leather caps, each tall, robust, and fierce. Likewise, the deities they worshipped had lent them their strength; one wielding a battle axe, a brute like a giant bear whose glow far exceeded the others, roared and precisely shouted Caesar’s name, challenging him.
The knights around Caesar immediately made way, not because they intended to leave Caesar to face such a ferocious enemy alone, but because if a knight on the battlefield shied away from an enemy’s challenge, even if he did not die under the enemy’s axe or hammer, his future life would be bleak—no one would respect him, and people would spit when mentioning him, considering him a disgrace to knighthood.
Caesar had no intention of yielding either. If a few years ago he had been a normal person burdened psychologically by killing, now he had been through countless battles; unless he chose to die, and die dishonorably, he had to prevail in this most raw competition—he must win, and win forever.
He let out a resounding shout and charged straight at this Turk; their clash was like two great stones colliding, and those nearby felt the fierce wind from the impact, the earth shaking beneath their feet, everyone involuntarily scrambling out of the way. Several Turkish soldiers, too close to turn in time, fell to the ground with their horses and were immediately cut down by the Christian knights.
Before these knights could find their next opponents, they saw a figure flying from a horse—not white, but gray-black—and their hearts instantly eased.
If it were ordinary knights, they might tangle for several rounds. But for knights who had received blessings, victory was often decided in an instant—that was why people valued the chosen one so highly. Before God and the saints’ favor, experience, strength, and reflexes were worthless.
The soldiers following this Turkish noble panicked the moment their leader fell; some rushed forward to retrieve his corpse, while others unhesitatingly fled back to their lines, until the provost marshals whipped them back to the battlefield with whips and swords.
Before that, the enemy phalanx had already been shattered into several parts by the knights led by Caesar; the protection Caesar had prayed for enveloped every knight, allowing them to fight the enemy without restraint.
Although the enemy also had those who could cast protection on their comrades, their power was either too weak to cover more than a few, or too brief—and once in combat, withdrawal was no longer up to these Turks.
But soon, the Turks reacted as well.
They had realized that this detachment’s strength came from that young knight clad in silver-plated chainmail, wearing a nasal helm, dressed in a white robe with an Ayyarasa cross above; immediately, three Turkish nobles closed in—they were all ones who had received the Prophet’s revelation, and the power the Prophet granted them was the most potent and dangerous.
They first circled Caesar on horseback, seeking an opportunity, and found it when Caesar unhorsed a Turk—spears were hurled at Caesar from three directions.
The first spear missed, for Castor caught sight of the malice aimed at his master and instantly leaped into the air; the spear sliced through the sky, scattering the horse’s white mane, piercing the firm earth and embedding deeply into the soil.
The second spear thrown at Caesar targeted his shoulder blade; as Castor leaped high, Caesar sensed something wrong, twisted his body, and struck the spear down with his long sword—but the spear’s momentum was too precise and fierce, snapping the long sword in two.
The third spear went straight for his face; Caesar could almost see the fatal spear tip rapidly enlarging in his vision. Without hesitation, he leaned back and twisted his body; he felt a buzz, then intense pain—the spear struck his helmet, snapping the leather strap that held it, and the helmet fell to the ground.
The knights following behind him cried out in horror, thinking Caesar had been hit.
But in the next moment, they saw the black-haired youth swiftly right himself. “Castor!” he shouted loudly, and this pure white Arabian seemed to understand his intent perfectly; without hesitation, it carried its master leaping into the air toward the nearest Turkish noble.
That Turkish noble was the one who had thrown the spear at Caesar’s face; he hesitated for an instant, perhaps from regret or doubt—doubt at Caesar’s recklessness, as Caesar held no weapon in his hand. But he soon realized: an Arabian weighing a thousand pounds, plus the knight on it, was an invincible battering ram.
They crashed into the Turkish noble from the side; he barely withstood the blow, but his horse could not endure the test, staggering a few steps before collapsing, pinning its rider beneath.
Before this Turk could react, Castor’s hooves were already trampling him. The Turk shouted, seemingly calling for help, and indeed some servants were rushing over. But it was too late; blood sprayed from his ears and nostrils.
Castor did not pause; they immediately turned toward another Turkish noble. Caesar leaned down, grabbed the first spear—the one that had done nothing—and effortlessly pulled it from the ground.
By now they had closed in on the second Turkish noble, who drew his scimitar, apparently believing that at such close range, Caesar could not spear him—the distance was too short for thrusting. But he should have realized spears had more uses than that.
Caesar wielded the spear like a whip, swinging it; the spear first clashed with the Turk’s scimitar, snapping in two instantly, but the lower half was still useful—it whipped straight across the Turk’s face. He screamed, falling from his horse with a bloody, mangled face full of deep gashes.
If his Sultan could not find him a powerful monk, even if he survived, he would spend the rest of his life on porridge.
The third Turkish noble saw his comrade’s fate and showed panic; without hesitation, he galloped back toward his lines.
Caesar touched his left hand, where a small shield was bound; he quickly unbound it, then hurled it with swift power like King David slinging a stone at the giant. The small shield cut unhindered through the chaotic crowd, smashing straight into the Turk’s occiput; he pitched forward and fell.
When people pulled him up, they found his soul had already fled his body; this man seemed to hold extremely high status or revered identity in the Sultan’s army. Those gathering around beat their chests and wailed loudly upon seeing him dead.
Caesar only had time for a glance before turning back to his troops; several knights rushed forward, eagerly offering their weapons. Caesar accepted one, then wheeled around with them back into the fray.
Baldwin was momentarily focused on the battlefield changes; their numbers were roughly equal, and this Turkish army was not as disorganized as those they had faced before—they too excelled at grand, frontal combat.
The phalanx led by Raymond and the nobles, though not immediately achieving significant gains, could be called steady and methodical, advancing step by step.
Looking to the right at the Knights Templar, the Templar Knights were always known for their valor and arrogance; in this war, they were the same, progressing even faster than Caesar—every knight drenched in blood, whether black or white robes now a single hue.
At the forefront was Walter, who had once fought King Amalric I of Ayyarasa; even after these years, his two-handed sword showed no trace of dullness, leaving bloody voids wherever he went, his enemies trembling and desperate to flee.
He even let out bold laughter. Perhaps for this Templar Knight, these heathens’ wails and blood were what he craved most, more than gold and silk.
The one who could rein in these Templar Knights was perhaps only Geoffrey; he kept shouting loudly, calling the knights to rally around him to avoid overextending and being cut off or surrounded by the enemy.
But amid the muddy battlefield, the brightest light still belonged to Caesar. Though in the center, besides breaking the enemy’s sturdiest barrier, he kept leading charges back and forth, disrupting the rhythm of the left and right flanks. Anywhere organized resistance formed or an offensive posture appeared, he would descend upon it.
Under his protection, the knights felt not fatigue but surging energy. Tirelessly, like tides crashing on rocks, they repeatedly assaulted the Turkish army until it was forced to retreat.
Although the Turkish Sultan was still desperately maneuvering his forces, even deploying reserves, it was clear their failure was only a matter of time.
Baldwin turned to the herald beside him, “Go, order the Knights Hospitaller to advance.”
It was time to add weight to the tipping scales.
