Chapter 271: Spreading Wings
“They’re coming!”
“They’re coming!”
In different languages, the shouts that simultaneously rang out on both sides of the Jordan River instantly echoed through the camps of the Christians and the Saracens, and before this, they had already clashed several times, constantly harassing the enemy’s army, which seemed like something every general with even a little military knowledge would do.
And each time they harassed, whether Crusaders or Saracens, there were different losses: careless soldiers, lazy guards dozing off, or escorts tending to their horses…
They came from different places, yet harbored the same purpose. Among them were the most valiant and the most cowardly, the most precious and the most lowly, the most clever and the most foolish.
But at this moment, these differences and similarities had all been cast aside to the nine heavens; all anyone thought about was how to sever the other’s head.
The movements of an army of over ten thousand could not be concealed at all, not to mention that the Christians’ Crusaders still needed to cross the river. Baldwin had already requisitioned some ships from fishermen on the Sea of Galilee beforehand. Now these ships had all been dragged to the upstream of the Jordan River.
The king’s vanguard would undertake the most dangerous and most noble work: contending with those Saracens for the bridgehead position.
“Can you see it??”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” David quickly linked the high ground and shallows occupied by the Saracens with the lines and colors drawn on the map. The shallows could perhaps accommodate only a few hundred to at most a thousand people, but the high ground behind it would ensure the Saracens received continuous reinforcements.
The Saracens had already built crude fortifications on the shallows; they could see cheval-de-frise, wooden walls, and arrow towers, along with earthenware pots piled like mountains—undoubtedly filled with oil.
“I see some people seem to be clashing with another group.” David said softly, “Your Majesty, it seems the intelligence we received is true. Their Sultan Saladin was assassinated by an Assassin, and now he is gravely injured and incapacitated. His power has been divided among his emirs and Fatah, but…” he asked puzzledly, “Don’t these Saracens ever think they should have a unified voice?”
During the first Crusades, it was also various lords bringing their own knights, yet even so, they still elected a leader to ensure that during the campaign there would be no divided loyalties leading to fragmentation, defeat without battle, and folly.
Baldwin recalled some things Caesar had analyzed with him before departure.
In the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, how did they dare to assault Sultan Nur al-Din’s camp with just a few hundred men?
It was precisely because they knew Sultan Nur al-Din was on his last legs; one could feel his weakness and deathly aura just by approaching him. It was just that no one dared to be the first to expose his facade, but they dared, and their desperate gamble won Baldwin and Caesar their first prominent merit—after this battle, people truly began to take these two boys of only fourteen or fifteen seriously.
Saladin was entirely different, not only because he was in his prime, but also because no matter what people said, he had genuinely fought the Crusaders for a full seventeen years. He could not be said to have never been defeated, but victories were more numerous.
And when Amalric I expeditioned to Egypt, though he could be said to have indulged in an unspeakable conspiracy, he ultimately preserved the Saracens’ territory in Egypt, and for this reason, many were willing to submit to him. But like Nur al-Din, he was also a monarch who tolerated no one above him; he had no successor capable of bearing his duties. Even after his eldest son came of age, he might not dare to take his authority while his father still lived.
These emirs and Fatah each had their own plans. When Saladin still sat on the throne, they directed all their spears at him. But after Saladin fell, their swords turned on each other. You could call them shortsighted, but this was precisely the lesson these thousands of years of events on this peninsula had taught them.
For a tribe, to die in vain for so-called faith or hatred not only fails to earn respect but invites mockery for being overly emotional. Once their warriors are dead, leaving only the elderly, weak, and women, the tribe can hardly shine again, even struggle to survive; their women and children would be swiftly divided like the rare water and food in the desert.
In just the short while David observed, he saw a disturbance—a group of slaves responsible for building the fortifications unwilling to obey a Saracen noble’s orders. From their attire, they seemed not from the same place. After arguing with them, the noble even killed one, blood spraying, head falling, which sparked a commotion.
If not for a troop of cavalry rushing in immediately to restore order, this disturbance might have turned into riots. Afterward, these slaves were all driven to another place—no executions at such a time, their labor not easily wasted—then a new group of dark-skinned slaves was brought in to complete the work.
Caesar had once said Saladin would have an army of around twenty thousand before reaching the battlefield; now it looked like there were at least over ten thousand here.
Undoubtedly, once the Saracens’ soldiers and warriors assembled, they outnumbered the Christians’ Crusaders in numbers. Most worryingly, the enemy not only had numerical superiority but also terrain advantage: they were the defenders, while the Crusaders were attackers, with towering cliffs as the natural city wall for the Saracens.
They not only had to seize the shallows first for the main force to land but also continue fighting enemies charging down from the mountains and heights, resisting their tidal assaults.
Baldwin glanced hesitantly at David. “Your father said…”
“I know what he wants to say,” David said. “I am his only son. But Your Majesty, I once wrongly followed his wishes as my father and guardian, making a choice I regret to this day. Therefore, I will not repeat that mistake now, and please do not stop me from fulfilling this duty that is rightfully mine.
Whether as Your vassal or as a member of the Crusaders.”
No matter how his father complained, Baldwin had given him Mersin, but if according to the laws they acknowledged, after capturing an enemy’s territory, it should belong to the army’s commander and the king, since they came at the king’s calling to serve him.
In the past, if such a war occurred and a noble wanted a territory, they either earned it through their own merit and loyalty as a reward from the king, or traded another territory or gold for it. But David did not think his merits yet sufficed to exchange for Mersin, a territory with both iron ore and coal.
It could even be said that if not for Mulai always making raiding his main business, otherwise, with the convenience of the Pilgrimage Road alone, it could establish a gathering point there for pilgrims to rest and trade. Fortunately, it now belonged to David—Mersin would soon become a new Crusader city.
For this, David felt guilty, and now he was repaying this favor.
“Hasn’t the Knight of Bethlehem returned yet?” a voice suddenly rang out.
“Father.” David knew who it was without turning—he showed a helpless expression, then became resolute.
Raymond’s mood now was indescribable.
He had come to the Holy Land and fought battles the whole time, of course knowing that on the battlefield, life and death were ever-changing. What David was about to do was as the lead knight in the vanguard, a position where survival was one in ten.
He had once greatly disliked Caesar, especially when he was by Baldwin’s side; now he yearned for Caesar to appear, to extend that favor which had once protected countless knights to David.
“You don’t need to worry so much,” David hurriedly explained. “I have knights by my side who can similarly protect their companions.”
Besides Caesar, there were not a few in the Crusaders who could grant protection to others or themselves. Like the former Count Etienne, whose “Shield of Saint Pelagius” had once ensured his escorts and soldiers were not harmed by wolf packs.
But how could this soothe the irascible Raymond? “None of them can compare to Caesar,” he said viciously. David could only feel it both laughable and tearful; just days ago, his father had disparaged Caesar many times, even saying that God granting him such great favor, yet manifesting as chainmail rather than sword or spear, proved he was just a coward who craved safety over achieving success.
But now, he was desperately seeking Caesar, even barging into the king’s tent without announcement: “Where is he now? You know where he is, right?” Raymond knew he could not dissuade his son David nor force the king to recall Caesar at his bidding, so he could only add the most reliable safeguard for David.
But truthfully, David’s confession and resolve had indeed given Baldwin a somewhat better view of him. But to say he would harm Caesar’s interests for one David, even affecting the entire subsequent plan, would be wishful thinking.
“Calm down, Father.” David walked over, placing both hands on his father’s shoulders. He was now fully armored, helmet on, chainmail clad. And as they drew close, Raymond was shocked to discover he now had to look up at this son.
And his son’s hands were so strong—he nearly burst into tears. He had only this one son, his only son, who had grown into an adult capable of standing alone, yet now had to do the most dangerous work.
“If you wish, then pray for me, Father. I believe a father’s pious prayer offers more protection than any favor shared by others.”
Raymond’s chest heaved; after a long while, he dejectedly lowered his hands from David’s arm. David and Baldwin watched him exit the tent. Before the tent flap fell, they heard Raymond’s loud calls; he was summoning his knights to gather at his side.
Since he could no longer persuade David, what he could do for his son was ensure he would not be isolated and helpless amid the enemy ranks.
David turned away, saying no more, only bowing deeply to Baldwin: “I am going, Your Majesty.”
“Wait,” Baldwin stopped him. “I think there is something you should know…”
——————
David reached the riverbank and saw the ships for the charge were ready.
The enemy would not wait idly for you to connect the ships into a simple pontoon bridge before charging to fight you.
They had archers there, and small catapults; besides hurling stone blocks, they would ignite those earthenware pots filled with oil and lob them at the wooden boats in the river to burn them.
So they had to seize the shallows, and hold them for a long time, until the pontoon bridge was complete.
David soothed his horse; the narrow shallows allowed knights to charge, but knights could not gallop on water.
So they would ride in the ships, with horses towed behind.
Carpenters had erected sturdy shield walls at the bow, enough for two or three knights; amidships and stern stood a wooden tower, its front wrapped like the shields in soaked cowhide. The soldiers atop would shoot arrows, confronting the Saracens’ archers and guarding their master’s safety.
They had decided the crossing point three days prior, and launched the attack at dawn, as sunlight dispelled the mist and gloom. Across the river gleamed white light: sharp spear tips.
David crouched behind the shield, his heart unusually calm.
The knights beside him involuntarily breathed heavier; few could remain composed now. He prayed softly, gripping his sword tightly.
Of course, whether Christians or Saracens, those charging and meeting them were those blessed by God; He was so equal, equally sharing His love and strength with His faithful.
On the river surface shimmering with golden flecks, the charging ships cleaved the orange-red silk, spray rising from the sterns.
With a Saracen shout of “Fire!”, from behind the towering cheval-de-frise and wooden walls first flew a rain of arrows.
These arrows were so forceful that even while still in the river, they could feel the arrowheads relentlessly pounding the shields before them. And when the ships reached a hundred or two hundred feet from shore, the small catapults showed their power: stones fell like hail, and earthenware pots shattered with bangs on their shields.
But those fires extinguished easily; David felt a stroke of luck—he remembered Caesar once casually mentioning that while the formula for Greek fire was hard to crack, mimicking something similar was not difficult.
If this had been Greek fire, he might have turned back without hesitation. It had nothing to do with courage; fighting Greek fire meant not only losing one’s life but also desecrating one’s duty. Fortunately, there was none—their large shields, the ship’s wooden tower were covered in thick soaked cowhide, and the deck wrapped or layered with wet cloth and sand.
Even so, David glimpsed with peripheral vision a ship ablaze; it had veered off course, knights leaping swiftly into the water, untying their horses’ reins to let them carry them back to the Crusaders’ camp.
And at that moment, he heard an ominous buzz; a shrill scream came from above as an archer clutched his chest, gripping the fatal long arrow, plummeting straight into the river. The river seemed calm, but he vanished instantly upon entry, not even a trace of blood seen.
“Faster!” David could not help urging. “Faster! Faster! Even faster!”
