Chapter 278: Farewell, Damascus
“Today… what week is it?”
The monk who was writing furiously lifted his head. He was somewhat astonished but still respectfully answered Count Raymond of Tripoli’s question: “The seventh week, Lord. Today is the fifth day of the seventh week.”
“That means it’s almost two months.” Raymond said in a hoarse voice, while the smell of gunpowder, oil, and blood enveloped him as he entered the tent and lay down on the campaign bed without any grace.
He had never felt himself old—at least not before this siege began. His escort came in, wanting to help him remove his armor, but he waved him off.
“Let me just lie like this for a while.” When he felt another hand on his shoulder, seemingly wanting to remove his neck guard, he turned away in even greater annoyance—if it had been his somewhat clumsy escort, he would surely have gotten a slap, but that person very agilely dodged it.
Raymond opened his eyes and found that the person was his son David. He showed a slight smile. David sometimes stubbornly annoyed him to the point of not knowing what to do, but in this campaign, from the king down to the servants, everyone praised David’s bravery and fearlessness without end. Even William Marshal, who was considered the paragon of knights, praised David highly, and they had even become good friends.
At the banquet, they sat side by side, drinking from one cup and eating from one dish.
Of course, Raymond would have preferred him to sit by the king’s side, but seeing his son’s joyful smile, he thought perhaps this wasn’t so bad.
David placed his father’s helmet to the side and brought him a cup of tea. Raymond frowned at it for a moment: “Get me a cup of coffee.”
David went to change it immediately. This rare obedience made Raymond involuntarily smile a little. “What mischief are you planning again?” He sat up, took a big gulp of the coffee, and had to admit that this bitter drink really did have a good effect—he could feel the lost strength returning to his body. Is it those I wouldn’t approve of?
“I want…” David hesitated for a moment, then rubbed his fingertips and made that somewhat excessive request to his father: “I want—to give those Englishmen some food…”
“What’s wrong with them?” Raymond paused but didn’t refuse immediately.
“It’s like this… Father. I just went to check on their situation… It’s really not good…”
He had gone to invite William Marshal to dine together—supplies in the army weren’t very abundant now. Previously William would agree—perhaps also to save some food—but this time he refused. This knightly paragon simply couldn’t bring himself to feast while his comrades were still hungry.
The Englishmen’s situation wasn’t good.
Henry II hadn’t participated in this holy war. The highest title among them was just a count. Before, their provisions had all been provided by merchants, but they probably hadn’t expected this expedition to last so long.
When they had taken Bosra without bloodshed, these Englishmen were full of confidence, thinking the battle might end in a dozen days or so, and they would return home triumphant with the king’s rewards and honor.
They hadn’t expected Damascus to be as tough, stubborn, and unshakable as the steel it produced. Even when Caesar used his refined Greek fire, it was the same—they had long ago sealed the city gate with bricks and stones.
The people in Damascus City should have stockpiled enough grain and water long ago. They put on an extremely resolute posture, as if to resist them until the end of time. In fact, they didn’t need until the end of time—in the third week, some outside knights had already begun to waver.
As we mentioned before, war horses require grain and water: the former as much as their masters, the latter several times more.
The areas around Damascus had long since cleared the fields in another form. After so many harassments, not to mention the grain, olives, and grapes in the fields, even the fruit trees had been cut down completely. In the wilderness, you couldn’t even find a single bean or barley grain.
Starving people began eating grass like the horses. Without fuel, they even stuffed those unripe grass leaves directly into their mouths.
At the same time, they ate horses and the livestock originally used to carry supplies—donkeys, mules, and camels, as well as dogs—the hunting dogs that used to run around the camp and banquets barking were now nowhere to be seen, and their masters really couldn’t blame the thieves.
There were already people cutting open tents, soaking the cowhide or donkey hide to soften it and swallowing it. They had even previously discovered a groom stealing the horses’ feces—those war horses belonging to lords and knights not only wouldn’t become people’s food but still enjoyed three to five liters of grain per day.
Sometimes they didn’t digest it completely, and the groom would sift through the feces to find recognizable beans and grains to stave off hunger.
Theft and plundering were constantly occurring in the camp. Even though those who violated the law would be given whipping or even hanged, it was still incessant.
In fact, if not for the fact that before setting out, they had gathered under the True Cross and sworn oaths—and it stood in the center of the camp, watching over them on behalf of God—perhaps some would have already fled.
The Duke of Antioch and the Count of Tripoli, because their nations weren’t far from Damascus, could still get some provisions, not much, but at least more abundant than those outsiders.
David’s anxiety wasn’t groundless. If it were before, Raymond would surely have scolded him, thinking he didn’t know the gravity of things—not to mention the relationship between the English and the French. Even if they were on good terms, what Raymond needed to protect would definitely be those who had sworn loyalty to him. But now he had a different idea. “Provided our soldiers don’t go hungry, you can spare some grain for the Englishmen.” Raymond raised one finger. “But I have a condition.”
David grew tense.
Raymond smiled. “You must make them know this help comes from the son of the Count of Tripoli.”
“They’ll certainly know.” David said, full of joy. He didn’t see his father’s intent, simply happy at Raymond’s rare generosity. He eagerly left the tent, wanting to tell William Marshal the good news.
Disturbed by David like this, Raymond couldn’t continue resting in the tent either.
He went out and immediately heard a burst of cheers—he thought those Englishmen were gathered at his tent door, just waiting for his son to bring back a reply.
A trace of displeasure flashed in Raymond’s heart. He suspected David was being used by William Marshal.
But when he looked up, he saw a long line of carriages stretching endlessly from the distance. He immediately spotted a crimson flag with the golden Ayyarasa Road cross emblem particularly conspicuous. Raymond’s face darkened, and he quickly strode in that direction.
Those knights, whether Englishmen, Frenchmen, or Germans, were all gathering here and constantly passing on this good news, and those who heard it would let out a loud shout.
Amid these shouts, Raymond clearly heard the titles of the Count of Edessa or the Lord of Cyprus, and he immediately tensed up.
He watched a carriage obviously loaded with wine or other drinks pass by, followed by carriages carrying sacks of wheat and beans—he saw the grain constantly spilling out with the carriages’ jolting, and already two young escorts had recklessly crawled under the wheels to pick them up and chew them.
“Where did this come from?” He grabbed a knight who had come with the carriages and asked.
“Cyprus.” The other answered without hesitation. He recognized Raymond and even took time amid the busyness to bow to him.
Indeed, it was now late September. Wheat, barley, and beans had all entered maturity and could be harvested. Grapes had a new yield, and lemons and olives too. Even if not yet harvested, Cyprus had entered its annual tax collection period.
He had already heard that to appease the people of Cyprus, Caesar had previously announced no miscellaneous taxes this year, and for poll tax and land tax, farmers could pay in kind to avoid another layer of exploitation by merchants.
Now it seemed these “taxes” had been transported here.
Raymond took two steps forward and saw his foolish son actually standing shoulder to shoulder with William Marshal, cheering and jumping for the provisions from Cyprus, completely unaware of his father standing to the side.
The reason the Count of Tripoli was willing to allocate some provisions to those Englishmen was to build David’s reputation among the knights, but now his rare generosity had become a joke.
In the long dark night, if someone lit a candle, that would of course be best, but if someone lit a bonfire rushing to the clouds? No one would even notice the candle.
Raymond’s anger aside, at this time Longinus was standing before Caesar and the king, reporting his previous work. Yes, ever since that incident, Longinus no longer wanted to leave his master, but in this expedition, he had no choice but to take on the task entrusted by his master—after all, this task was so important that no one but him could accomplish it.
“Did you foresee back then that this siege would last so long?” Baldwin couldn’t help asking.
“I couldn’t be sure.” Caesar flipped through the ledger while estimating how long these provisions could sustain the army’s consumption. “But letting them sit idle in my storerooms, what’s the benefit?”
“You could exchange them for gold coins.”
“I’m not a dragon; they don’t mean much to me. But Damascus is different.”
“But this is your money.”
“Then consider it all as a loan from you to me.” Caesar said casually. During this period, the king borrowing money from ministers, lords, even merchants for war wasn’t uncommon. And—between him and Baldwin, money was the least significant thing.
Sure enough, at his words, Baldwin clapped his hands and said cheerfully, “Good, consider it borrowed from you. I’ll repay you tenfold.”
“Then there will definitely be more people cursing me. They’ll say the Count of Edessa is even more detestable than those Isaacites merchants—Isaacites merchants charge only fifty percent interest on loans, not one thousand percent.”
Baldwin burst into laughter.
Then he restrained his smile and asked seriously: “With these provisions, how much longer can we hold out, roughly?”
“If supplying everyone,” Caesar estimated, “perhaps another week. After a week, if we still can’t take Damascus, we may have to retreat.”
“A week—we can’t wait a week. They came for me; I can’t let them go home empty-handed.”
Baldwin was referring to the outside knights and lords who came to join the expedition. If they returned with nothing this time, there probably wouldn’t be many willing to come from afar next time an expedition was called.
“I can’t stay in the tent anymore. For the battle after this, I’ll ascend the tower with you.” Baldwin said. The quill in Caesar’s hand paused slightly, leaving a black dot on the parchment.
Longinus watched and listened from the side. Their conversation was very plain, yet so intimate, but it concerned major events that could affect the whole body with a single hair.
“When?”
“Three days from now. Many knights are now fatigued and hungry. I’ll order them to slaughter all remaining livestock, including mules and donkeys, some wounded war horses, and pack mules, so our knights and soldiers can eat their fill—three days from now, we’ll settle it once and for all—oh, and have David come with us.”
Caesar nodded.
He knew that at this time, having David stay close to the king was Baldwin’s gesture to Raymond.
After all, in this expedition, Raymond had indeed shouldered his share of responsibility.
“Have Templar Knights Grand Master Philip attack from another direction—the eastern Toma’s Gate. Knights Hospitaller assist from the side, William Marshal takes Caesar’s Gate…” Baldwin methodically gave orders while mentally sketching the plan of Damascus City.
Of course, the final battle plan would still be decided at the council, but at this point, the decisive battle three days hence already had a framework. He didn’t mention Caesar, but whether Longinus or anyone else knew that Caesar would definitely be by the king’s side then—Spear of the Holy City, Shield of the Holy City, they would merge into the sharpest, most terrifying force to break Damascus’s final defenses.
“What about Abigail?” Caesar’s reminder made Baldwin show an unbearable expression. He glared at Caesar, as if to say—don’t mention that unlucky fellow!
But who let Abigail have a Duke of Antioch as father? Abigail walked with an obvious limp but was still driven into the expedition by Bohemond. Clearly, Bohemond had no intention of letting him miss this important performance.
However, Baldwin had been frank with Bohemond—it wasn’t that he wanted to refuse Abigail—the problem was, even if Abigail had learned his lesson and no longer feared combat and death—undoubtedly, they would face the Saracens’ most formidable warriors, those who had also received revelation from their Prophet. Even Baldwin and Caesar didn’t dare underestimate them in the slightest.
Even with Caesar’s protection, he couldn’t be sure Abigail would return safely.
“Caesar’s protection is strong,” he patiently advised, “but it’s also limited; it’s not endless or indestructible.” Otherwise, he would now be monarch of all nations. Even the stubbornest enemies couldn’t withstand an army that wouldn’t be injured or die: “Abigail hasn’t even had a son with my sister yet.”
That was Abigail’s most important duty.
Though Baldwin hadn’t said it outright, Bohemond understood his meaning—he replied with a forced smile, nodded, “Then, let him stay with me.”
The Duke of Antioch, as always, respectfully took his leave from the king and exited the tent. Turning his head, he saw Raymond and his son David. The father and son seemed to be arguing again; Raymond was very unhappy, but David was still so stubborn.
Bohemond stood in the shadows, quietly watching them go from argument to shouting, then Raymond struck out, and after David roared at his father, he turned and left.
Only then did he slowly approach Raymond.
“Raymond?”
“Bohemond?”
Raymond was somewhat impatient. He always felt Bohemond wanted to see him make a fool of himself, and he had indeed been made a fool of by him many times. But thinking of Bohemond’s son, he cheered up—not to mention David; even David’s horse was more useful than Abigail.
“Let’s talk.” Bohemond said simply. He grabbed Raymond’s arm—though Raymond was reluctant—and took him to his own tent, dismissing all the servants with a single look.
Both he and Raymond were blessed knights; no movement around them could escape their eyes and ears. Speaking here guaranteed no one would hear.
Bohemond personally poured Raymond a cup of coffee and a dish of rock sugar.
Though Raymond privately liked this novel food too, he had just argued with David and felt annoyed seeing it. He pushed the rock sugar away, but Bohemond pushed it back. “Why be angry at an inanimate object? It’s blameless.”
“But the one who made it is a detestable fellow.”
Raymond said casually, without any scruple. In front of Bohemond, he could complain and vent freely. After all, Caesar now occupied their sons’ position, whether Abigail or David.
“Detestable enough that you’d like him gone, right?”
Raymond let out a mocking laugh. “Do you think he’s still that nameless, originless little attendant?
He’s now a Knight of Bethlehem, Count of Edessa and Lord of Cyprus.” He spread his hands exaggeratedly. “His territories now are larger than both of ours combined. Even for Cyprus alone, the Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller would support him without hesitation, not to mention our king—let alone, he’s just short of sharing his nation and throne with that little slave.”
“Truly enviable.”
“Isn’t it? Listen to how people talk—Little Saint, hey! The priests’ trick! Even if many lavish him with praise, I still think as a knight he’s overly fawning—no matter what, he didn’t grow up in a castle but like a farmer’s child in a Saracen village, and spent some years as a slave. What happened during that time, none of us know. I’ve always worried he might have a bad influence on the king.”
“Unfortunately, our king is far too stubborn. Young men always value the first thing they get too highly.
He still lacks the awareness of a true monarch.”
At this point, Raymond unconsciously lowered his voice. “You’re right.” Bohemond laughed out loud and sat beside Raymond. “So I have an idea.”
