Chapter 61: Little Fishes
With war imminent, Amalric I certainly could not continue staying at Holy Cross Castle. Although Holy Cross Castle was a magnificent structure, it absolutely could not accommodate the thousands of people needed for this campaign, especially since many were conscripted or hired, and there might even be a few treacherous spies among them.
Amalric I set up the camp in the hills outside the Golden Gate, near Gethsemane, where lush olive trees were planted everywhere. Under the shade of the olive trees were countless rows of gray-white stone coffins—some belonging to Isaacites, some to Christians, and some to Saracens.
It was said that the Savior would enter Ayyarasa Road through the Golden Gate, at which time the Third Temple would reappear in the world, all the dead would be resurrected, and those closer to the Third Temple would revive sooner.
After recapturing Ayyarasa Road, some had proposed removing the Saracens’ bones, but Baldwin I, the King of Ayyarasa Road at the time, refused.
He said that the Saracens buried here had once been followers of Caliph Umar, a wise and enlightened monarch who had allowed Christians, Isaacites, and Muslims to worship together here. Even though he had left the world six hundred years ago, he should not suffer such humiliation.
Since Baldwin I had made such a decision, subsequent Kings of Ayyarasa Road were even less likely to disturb these long-departed sages. Amalric I did not even allow the soldiers to cut down the nearby olive trees, preferring to fell cedars and cypresses from farther away.
One tent after another was erected, one bonfire after another lit up in the night. People set up racks over the bonfires, hung blackened pots on crossbars, with smoke and steam swirling between the tents, roasting the prey or strips of bought meat that the knights and escorts had hunted, as well as their clothes—robes, padded cotton armor and long shirts underneath, perhaps even socks.
However, those who did this were mostly knights who could not afford washerwomen; their escorts and attendants often had to work like women.
Washerwomen walked through the camp, often laughing at fabrics still bearing obvious stains. They usually carried a large wooden tub filled with their employers’ clothes, which they had to take to the river to wash clean of sweat, sand, and bloodstains, then dry and return—why bloodstains, you ask?
Yes, the war had not yet begun, but how could those young men who prided themselves on their bravery and martial prowess spend this long preparation period quietly and obediently?
One knight might argue with another over which noble lady was more worthy of respect, or one side might overhear the other mocking himself, his friend, or his lord（ Such things were very common）, or even just a slight brush, a glance…
Although they could not hold a formal duel like in a tournament, finding a small open space to settle verbal disputes with fists and swords（ as they themselves negotiated） was still a thoroughly exhilarating affair!
Sometimes their escorts or armed attendants would join in, or rather, some things were started by these fellows.
Those following the knights, whether escorts or armed attendants, were not necessarily of the same class as their masters; they might be sons of craftsmen or sons of wealthy farmers, fiercer than their masters and striking without mercy.
Gold was of course good, silver coins not bad either; even if the opponent had only a few coppers, stripping off a few pieces of clothing would still satisfy them.
One escort unfortunately lost control in such a sparring match and had his arm broken by his opponent’s hammer. He lay on the ground, biting a piece of wood, while a monk reset his bones, but the situation looked bad—not because the injury was minor and he wasn’t shouting loudly, but because he had already passed out.
His master frowned tightly, speaking to the monk, who shook his head. The master clutched an empty money bag; it seemed the Isaacites merchants outside the camp had work to do.
Those who had just watched the duel passed by them, commenting on the fight, some still savoring it, others indignant—naturally indignant because they had lost money. Such duels quickly attracted bookmakers who took bets from onlookers, and the participating knights and escorts would also bet if they thought they could win.
A splendidly dressed herald, followed by two monks, passed through the noisy crowd, over the escort lying on the ground, toward a tent hung with a flag, coat of arms wooden shield, and ribbons. People looked up, guessing what kind of decree he brought to the tent’s owner—praise or reprimand, probably more of the former.
After the herald left, an attendant carrying a sleek falcon entered the tent. He wore chainmail and a falcon-style iron mask; in his master’s castle, he should hold a formal position. It was not unusual for nobles to bring their favorite falcons or dogs to war, and some even brought dwarfs, cooks, and herds of livestock.
Someone might ask if they brought their wives or lovers.
Generally no; the merchants and prostitutes outside the camp had been eagerly awaiting—they did business with lords and knights, as well as escorts and soldiers, and accepted inquiries from mercenaries, laborers, and grooms without refusal.
This time Amalric I recruited about a thousand mercenaries, most of whom were wandering knights like Longinus with no prospects. They were eager for the king’s summons, caring little about the reward, which made some priests grit their teeth—normally, hiring these men involved haggling over every penny.
This was not surprising; this war could be seen as another kind of martial arts tournament. Wandering knights unable to afford entry fees dreamed of dominating the battlefield, catching the eye of the king or a Knights commander, and thus ascending a swift path to glory.
However, even all those above combined were fewer than the militia gathered for this campaign.
Their origins were very diverse: they might be farmers or craftsmen drafted from surrounding villages and towns at ratios of thirty to one or fifty to one, or pilgrims who had come to the Holy Land but could not return home for various reasons, or even fugitive slaves or criminals.
Whether out of duty, for money, or for faith, they gathered here to undertake all the menial and heavy labor.
Like erecting and dismantling tents, gathering fodder, food, and fuel, tending horses and dogs, building crude fortifications—wooden fences and moats—and siege engines that might be used later, making expendable weapons—wooden spears, round shields, and arrows, preparing simple rations like cheese, unleavened bread, oats, and mixed fruits（ the kind Geoffrey had eaten）…
These militia were required to provide their own armor and weapons, which made them look motley, dirty, and disorganized. Some brought archery, some hammers, some flails（ wooden farm tools flails）, some simply made a wooden club or wooden spear on the spot.
Few could bring a helmet; occasionally one might see someone wearing a helmet, which looked like a priest’s small cap but was made of black iron or hardened cowhide bowl-shaped iron, something knights wore over chainmail hoods for extra protection. But sometimes, you know, on the battlefield, it might roll into the sand and be picked up by battlefield-clearing militia.
Chainmail, scale armor, and lamellar were impossible to see on them; they might just have their clothes on. You might spot something like leather armor or splint armor, but upon closer inspection, you would marvel at human ingenuity and creativity in makeshift solutions.
They could not be the main force on the battlefield; even when sometimes classified as “infantry,” they were utterly different from the Templar Knights’ sword-and-shield infantry, the Crusaders’ spearmen, crossbowmen, the Holy Roman Empire’s heavy infantry, or Byzantium’s heavy shield soldiers—they were just cannon fodder to obscure enemy sight, exhaust enemy arrows, and fill moats.
Even if they survived the battlefield by luck, few would bother to spare their lives—because they were not worth it; their value might not even cover the wheat they consumed.
And only today did Caesar learn that before a siege, there was a vanguard unit ahead of the main army, consisting of scouts, incendiaries, and foragers.
Their task was simple: comb through the area around the enemy castle like a fine-tooth comb, burning houses, driving away people, plundering food, and destroying fields to cut off the enemy’s provisions.
More often, the enemy would do it first. If they encountered a benevolent lord, he might allow the people into the castle for refuge, but if he was cruel enough or determined to hold out long-term, he would block these homeless, foodless folk outside the thick city walls, letting them starve to death or be killed by the invading army.
“This time… my father probably won’t do that… after all, this is a war of Christians against Christians.” Baldwin said this with some guilt.
In Francia too, there were plenty of wars between lords, between lords and kings, between kings and kings, and in sieges, even if the Church said “killing Christians is a sin,” it could not stop lords’ hooves trampling fields or soldiers setting houses ablaze.
But what responsibility did the commoners have?
The Knights Templar coveted money, Amalric I proclaimed authority, but all the sins fell on them to bear.
The only consolation might be that between Tortosa and Ayyarasa Road, there were not too many densely packed villages and towns.
“Can you lend me something precious? A relic, weapon, or jewels, anything.” Caesar asked in a low voice.
“Take whatever you like from my box. But tell me, what do you want to do?” Baldwin said.
“I want to find Geoffrey and ask him what kind of man Walter of Lusignan in Tortosa is.”
“And then?”
“I want to meet this man and persuade him to surrender to Amalric I.”
After confirming his intent, Baldwin could not help showing a puzzled expression: “Why,” he said sincerely, “why, Caesar? We have sworn oaths to each other. If someone asks you to do something you don’t want, just say you have sworn to me never to kill someone who has not raised a weapon against you—whether man, woman, elder, child, or heathen.
That should suffice. If they question you, I will vouch for you and ensure they cannot hold you accountable.”
“I know this is… a very strange, even somewhat ridiculous idea, but these past few days, seeing so many people… this matter is not unchangeable.”
“But this is war.” Baldwin said. “This is Ayyarasa Road.”
“I may be the coward you all thought I was before; I cannot just watch, Baldwin—not just a thousand here, or a thousand there, but more people needlessly losing their lives.”
Baldwin laughed in annoyance: “Cowardice? No, Caesar, this is not cowardice; you are boldly presumptuous to an alarming degree. You want to act as a messenger? Not the king’s, but for a bunch of pilgrims and militia? How will you persuade Tortosa’s Templar Grand Master? Perhaps the next day I’ll see your head launched as a stone projectile from a crossbow into my father’s tent!”
“So I want to know what kind of man Tortosa’s Templar Grand Master is.”
“Geoffrey won’t tell you, my father won’t allow you to go, nor will teacher Heraclius—even if you went, why would a Templar Grand Master listen to you? He would see it as an insult and fight my father to the death…”
“Exactly.” Caesar said.
Baldwin stared at him for a moment and understood: “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”
“I need your support.”
“And then watch you die.”
“Baldwin, I thought you would understand,” Caesar said, “there are always things in this world that you know you shouldn’t do, but must do.”
He thought he would never forget those two mother and child standing in the snow eating tree bark, nor the three who ran out from the crude mud house.
——————
Geoffrey had surely long forgotten the people in that house entirely, or else why would he count the people he had killed like sheep to fall asleep every night?
He said the same thing as Baldwin: “Are you going to seek death?”
“No,” Caesar said, “I am not someone who doesn’t know how to weigh matters, and there are people here I care for and who care for me. But if you know what kind of man Walter of Lusignan is—if he is indeed as I think… I might try.”
“What good does that do you?”
Caesar looked up, thought for a moment: “More people will call me ‘Little Saint’?”
