Chapter 273: Flapping Wings
This sentence doesn’t even qualify as a question; even the most foolish person wouldn’t hold a different opinion from the king and most of their colleagues at a time like this.
The tent was as usual, with the king seated high above, Count Caesar of Edessa at his right hand, the great nobles divided on both sides, eyes clashing, lips moving slightly—they were all old hands who had been immersed in both the battlefield and the Imperial Court for decades—although they often told the young knights that driving those damned heathens back to hell was the most obligatory duty and responsibility of a Crusader knight, in fact, neither glory nor faith could compare to tangible interests.
“Our goal is Damascus,” Raymond said first. “We’ve already lost over a thousand men, including 134 knights blessed by God and their escorts.” At this point, his heart twisted in pain—his son David had nearly become one of them.
As with every previous time, this beachhead assault was just as dangerous and bloody, even more so because it served as bait; if Caesar hadn’t led the charge ahead of the main army, there might not be as many survivors as there are now.
“We can accept the Saracens’ terms, but they must pay the appropriate price as well,” Bohemond said.
“Will those Saracens agree?” another lord asked. “Their losses are heavier than ours, but they still have eight or nine thousand men; they might even recruit more.”
“They lost,” Bohemond replied coldly. “Among the Saracens, a loser has no right to speak. If they want to continue fighting us and recruit more tribal soldiers as you said, they’ll need money, but their funds aren’t inexhaustible.
They’re different from us in one way: they’re here to rescue Damascus. If Damascus shuts its city gate to them and reneges on the promised debt, the reward they get might not exceed what they pay out—they’ll have to consider if this trade can break even.”
He let out a sharp laugh. “Don’t for a moment think those heathens have any firm faith; what they say and what they do are always two different things. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have had the opportunity to gain a foothold here from the start.”
His words weren’t pleasant, but they did draw nods of agreement from some; others looked toward the king and Caesar at his right, which made Raymond feel another wave of discomfort.
In this battle, if anyone was the bravest, the most fearless, it was undoubtedly his son David; but when he had stopped David from leading the vanguard, there was another reason: the position of a knight is completely different from that of a minister, and now the results were clear—Caesar was already able to sit with the courtiers discussing military matters—every word, even every syllable they uttered, could decide the fate of tens of thousands.
And among those tens of thousands was his son David.
As a knight, his bravery could certainly earn respect and praise from people. But as a minister who had served both Baldwin III and Amalric I, Raymond naturally hoped his only son could step off the chess board to become a player, not a chess piece on the board.
He looked at Caesar; that man seated beside the king was piercing Raymond’s eyes with his appearance, merits, and humility.
Baldwin also saw Raymond’s expression, which was far from good, and Bohemond’s strange smirk, but so what? His initial goal had already been achieved.
If he continued to keep Caesar by his side, Caesar would forever be just a knight, even if he already held Bethlehem and Cyprus and had sufficient authority among the knights; but Baldwin had intended from the start to elevate Caesar to the level of Raymond, Bohemond, and Berion—simply put, if he died now, Caesar couldn’t become Regent even with his will.
After all, the Crusaders needed a commander, not a warrior.
He wanted more people to see Caesar’s value, not just as the king’s “friend” or “cousin”—and Caesar had fully withstood such a trial—his plan and action had been the key to turning the entire battle.
Before them, had no one thought of infiltrating upstream of the enemy to build a bridge for a surprise assault? But it was difficult; the wilderness wouldn’t allow people to act recklessly. On the contrary, it was like a giant beast that could open its bloody maw at any moment but always pretended to be asleep—seemingly harmless, yet able to silently devour thousands at a time.
Not to mention that the knights’ training covered many subjects, but did you think they could all master and apply all that knowledge? Don’t be ridiculous; some knights greatly welcomed Caesar’s decimal system precisely because they had to count on their fingers and toes like farmers.
Baldwin didn’t believe an angel had descended to Caesar’s side to help him build that bridge; to him, the bridge and the glory it brought should all belong to Caesar. Moreover, Caesar hadn’t been without achievements in this war; in fact, the series of decisions he made after arriving on the battlefield were the masterstroke that truly shook the Saracens’ will to fight.
Though he only brought three hundred knights and their escorts, he dealt a heavy blow to the Saracens’ morale.
Arson, killing, destroying supplies and provisions—the Saracens suffered heavy losses directly because of this; afterward, they even broke through the Saracen lines, galloping all the way to the shallows to rescue the then critically endangered David and the vanguard, letting countless Saracen soldiers witness their camp being utterly destroyed.
This seemed to foreshadow the ending of this war and promote the birth of this negotiation.
In an instant, all the criticism vanished; no one saw Caesar, seated at his right hand, as a vassal who had climbed up through blood ties and childhood favors—they had to give him respect, whether willingly or forced.
“The eel is getting cold,” Caesar reminded.
The grilled eel on the dish was gradually losing its original temperature, the oil about to congeal; if not eaten soon, the fishy taste hidden in the meat would emerge.
Baldwin smiled; of course he couldn’t confide his thoughts to Caesar… because he knew Caesar didn’t care about these things—but some things, if Caesar wanted to change them, couldn’t be done without power.
This was the gem he had personally polished, waiting to be set in the crown of Ayyarasa Road in the future—in his lifetime, he would give Caesar unconditional trust and love; he was another self, so young, so healthy, so kind—he would be Baldwin’s most important legacy to the King of Ayyarasa Road.
“This eel is unimaginable,” Baldwin said, scooping a spoonful of eel into his mouth at Caesar’s urging; he felt surprised, as expected—before this, the kitchen servants only knew how to grill fish or stew fish soup, but the eel he was eating now, though grilled, was completely different from the dry grilled fish he’d had before; every bite was full of rich oil, the surface slightly golden brown, drizzled with sweet sauce.
And what absorbed the juices without spilling everywhere wasn’t bread, but rice.
Among the Crusaders, rice was also a trendy dish; though they had learned to eat rice from the Saracens, they mostly treated it as a dessert rather than a staple, but for grilled eel, rice was definitely better underneath than bread—eating it with bread always felt odd to Caesar.
“Is there a lot of this?”
“A lot.”
When Caesar infiltrated the bottom of the Jordan River, fixing stakes in the rapids, an eel swam dazedly into his shirt and flopped around there for a while before he brought it ashore.
In the river and surrounding lakes, there were plenty of plump fish living freely with almost no natural enemies, until people arrived.
“They can serve as a source of food, along with waterfowl and fruit.” The Hula Valley was an area the Crusaders hadn’t yet explored; it couldn’t be farmed, but it was indeed a good place for hunting.
Baldwin looked at the eel on the dish, pondered for a moment, and called an attendant outside the tent to send a portion to David, who was resting in his tent. David hadn’t suffered a fatal wound this time. But like when he was in Damascus with Caesar, he had exhausted a saint’s blessing before collapsing; when he woke, his strength would be further enhanced, but right now he was surely very weak and in pain.
He hoped this food might soothe his anxious mood.
Speaking of David, Caesar couldn’t help thinking of another person: “What about Abigail? Didn’t you keep him by your side?”
In fact, both Caesar and David had faced extremely dangerous situations in this battle.
David had faced the Saracens, yes, but Caesar had faced even more unpredictable enemies—lost paths, hunger, plague, beasts, even riots—any of which could annihilate them. Moreover, they bore an immensely important responsibility.
If David couldn’t hold back the Saracens, the first to fall into crisis would be Baldwin, King of Ayyarasa Road, on the other side of the river; and if Caesar hadn’t carried the plan through to the end, David and his knights would surely have been torn apart by those savage heathens.
And right behind the king—indeed, in battle, the royal banner and golden armor were the targets all enemies fought for, but no one could deny that the king was surrounded by the elite of the elite—the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre were unknown in several Crusader campaigns precisely because they had to guard their Grand Master and Monarch at all times; they couldn’t charge into battle, naturally leaving few glorious names.
In other words, Abigail’s position seemed fraught with danger but was actually safe and sound; as long as the King of Ayyarasa Road wasn’t betrayed or met with accident, those by his side were more likely to survive.
Even so, Abigail had done something he thought was clever: when the knights spurred their horses to follow the king across the river and charge, he looked at the narrow pontoon bridge and came up with a plan—he deliberately slowed his horse.
At that moment, everyone’s attention was on the king; few noticed him, or rather, everyone wanted to claim merit and victory—having someone yield position was all the better; who would care if it was a momentary lapse or something else?
And so, Abigail gradually fell to the back of all the knights, then turned his horse toward the reeds on one side and dismounted in the reeds to remove his surcoat—the bright coat of arms was too conspicuous.
He stayed in the reeds with his horse for several hours until the wounded and dead from the shallows were transported back to the main camp; then he put his surcoat back on, hurriedly blending into the group as if by chance—even remembering to tear a few holes in his surcoat and smear some dirt on his face to show he’d been in the battle.
But… the knights just didn’t care, they weren’t blind.
Moreover, as the son of the Duke of Antioch, people seeing David would naturally think of Abigail; they just couldn’t quite believe it until the end—though they no longer held hope for Abigail, everyone was still a bit angry—not because of his cowardice, but… did he think everyone else was a fool?
“I heard he broke a leg?”
“His father Bohemond insists his son was cursed by the devil; he fell off the pontoon bridge at the start of the battle, not only killing his own horse but breaking his leg.” Baldwin paused here. “I had a priest check it; the leg is indeed broken, though I don’t know how.”
“No major issue, right?”
“Indeed no hindrance; he can still stand, run, jump, and fight in the future.” Baldwin lowered his voice. “The one who did it was skilled, clean, and efficient.” He couldn’t help sighing. “I thought he might have changed.”
He shouldn’t have been influenced by David, thinking Abigail might change too.
Were there cowards among the knights? Baldwin had to regretfully admit yes; when knights charged shoulder to shoulder, some even said throwing an apple or pear into those lined spears would get it skewered.
This was certainly an exaggeration, but not without basis in fact—why else such a formation? Precisely because some knights, on first entering battle or suddenly facing the enemy, might feel the urge to retreat, but in formation, they had to stay in sync with their comrades.
If he instinctively slowed his horse to avoid combat, he’d be hit by the knights behind, fall to the ground, and be trampled by hooves.
A certain general had bluntly said it was cowardice that drove these cowards to charge desperately forward.
But Abigail was still the son of the Duke of Antioch, and the future father of the King of Ayyarasa Road, not to mention blessed by God; the chance of him dying in the charge was far lower than for ordinary knights, yet he still feared and retreated, which was utterly contemptible.
“He’ll probably rest in a tent next.”
“Not returning to Ayyarasa Road?”
“His father won’t allow it; when Bohemond saw me, he said he and Abigail would assault the walls—they’d climb the towers.” Bohemond had no need for this; it was purely for Abigail…
“But I hold no hope for it, unless Bohemond decides to have another son.” Baldwin paused here. “Can we stop discussing this topic?”
He looked at Caesar and said sincerely, “The eel is delicious; I don’t want this matter to ruin my appetite.”
Caesar obligingly changed the subject: “So for the final negotiation, what outcome do you hope for?”
