Chapter 65: The Final Mercy
Baldwin was still somewhat nervous, but Heraclius discerned the king’s intentions. Sure enough, Amalric I simply walked over, placed his palm on Caesar’s shoulder—whether intentionally or not, it was the left shoulder, the very place where Walter’s crucifix sword had once rested—then he called out loudly: “Baldwin.”
Baldwin immediately ran over, and Amalric I grabbed his hand, clasping it together with Caesar’s.
“Child,” he said in a tone nearly akin to benevolence: “I rarely change my mind, but there are always exceptions—will you repay me? Even though it is not for yourself, but for a group of poor wretches you have never known and will never see again.”
“I will,” Caesar said.
“Then, leave this repayment to Baldwin,” Amalric I released his hand, walked past the two children toward the outside: “Perhaps one day, you will remember that you were once so benevolent.”
——————
Upon hearing the news that there was no need to attack the castle, from the lowliest militia to the bravest knights, all were glad; the militia’s joy came from the possibility of safely returning home, while the knights hoped more for a satisfying fight rather than wasting precious time staring with wide eyes as stones smashed against the city wall.
Moreover, if the siege warfare dragged on too long, exhausting the militia, even the knights would have to remove their armor to dig the moat, dig tunnels, and push siege engines…
The only ones with slight complaints might be those pilgrims hoping to gain some money from this war; they could neither shoot archery nor wield a sword, only labor on the fortifications, but when dismissed, they received a few copper coins and left muttering.
Even without carrying the heavy siege engines, large numbers of militia, laborers, and all the assorted supplies, it still took a full week for the army to set out, and it remained vast and imposing.
The horn sounded, knights clad in armor mounted their horses one after another, flags gathered around and behind the king, with three or four knights and more escorts under each flag, as well as armed attendants; most also led a horse laden with extra weapons and shields, heavy infantry followed behind them, and light cavalry surrounded this group, including some converted Turks.
Also prominent were the Byzantine heavy cavalry, about thirty strong, part of Princess Maria’s dowry; these soldiers wore lamellar armor of small square plates, one-third holding spears and kite shields—they were lancers.
One-third held small round shields and carried archery on their backs—they were horse archers, among whom several had horses also clad in armor; they were the elite of this force, with horse armor as their mark.
This time Manuel I provided no infantry escort; surrounding these men were their servants.
Next came the mercenaries, who had done their best to prepare their flags, horses, and armor, but still looked somewhat disorganized; no matter, each face beamed with excited smiles, full of hope for the life ahead.
They might die on the battlefield, but no matter, their souls would ascend to heaven, their perishable leather pouches unworthy of mention.
The king had also given them a proof; if they unfortunately fell in battle, their families would receive a pension.
Of course, the army still included militia, responsible for building fortifications upon reaching the battlefield, pitching tents, and other tedious but menial work; they marched amid the ordered carriages, piled high with various provisions.
Oh yes, and there were priests and monks, walking at the front of the column, holding crosses（ not the True Cross） and holy images; before departure, they had prayed, sprinkled holy water on every knight, and bestowed blessings on their relic caskets.
Baldwin and Caesar rode alongside the king, though nominally his escorts, on the battlefield the true escorts were others: several young and trustworthy Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, loyal to the king and experienced in combat.
But the one walking beside the king was not them, but William Marshal.
This knight who had come from London to Ayyarasa Road was undefeated in the martial arts tournament, except for the time the king broke one of his long swords—and for leaving the melee combat early to rescue his escort.
Regarding Amalric I’s affection and retention, he refused, citing the need to serve Queen Eleanor and King Henry the Young, but upon hearing that Amalric I was declaring war on Templar Knight Walter de Mesny, he immediately jumped off the ship, ran back to Ayyarasa Road, to lend a hand to Amalric I.
The king could not possibly refuse such a knight; he welcomed this windfall warmly, took William by the arm, and introduced him to the other knights.
The knights had also heard of William Marshal’s name and felt no surprise or jealousy at his special treatment, perhaps because they needed a strong comrade-in-arms.
The army’s speed was much slower than the envoy’s column; a week later, they reached the designated battlefield. Though doubting the Templar Knights would go back on their word and betray honor, the king still sent light cavalry to scout.
This was a vast, flat sandy land; a man standing on horseback could see Tortosa Castle in the distance.
On the appointed day, the anniversary of Saint Martin（ April 13）, the man standing on horseback saw that the garrison on the castle seemed changed, and the city gate had opened.
The Templar Knights’ black-and-white flags fluttered in the wind, dust rose, knights wore white robes with faint red crosses visible on them.
“They’ve come!” the man called.
He immediately dismounted to report, and the king summoned his generals, the Byzantine cavalry, and the mercenaries’ leader; in the tent, they reconfirmed each person’s tasks and the previously anticipated sudden changes and countermeasures, and after a few brief words, they exited the tent and dispersed.
Messengers shuttled through the increasingly dense battle lines, drummers took position, knights made a final check of their equipment and weapons, then moved to the foremost line, and at that moment, the Templar Knights’ envoy arrived again, passing through the crowd eyeing them warily, entering the king’s tent, saluting, and presenting a long sword.
This was almost a customary ritual; some say it was to humiliate the enemy, mocking their lack of weapons, others say presenting a long sword meant henceforth speaking with swords, not negotiation.
In any case, the king calmly accepted the long sword, then solemnly declared that he came on behalf of God to punish the impious, for they valued money over trust.
The Templar Knights’ envoy immediately retorted that they were fulfilling the duties God had granted them; rather, the king, privately making peace with the heathen enemy, was the shameful traitor; he who started this war would suffer crushing failure, and so on.
Caesar recognized one as the Knight Commander he had seen before, but from his eyes and tone, it seemed more like an obligatory procedure.
“Walter de Mesny did not put my envoy in a trebuchet basket and hurl him from the castle, and I will let his envoy leave my camp safely.”
The king gave the closing remark, and the Templar Knights’ envoy departed at once; after they left, Amalric I exited the tent and checked the sky.
“About time,” the king said: “Any longer, and the sun will be in our eyes.”
Both sides’ lines were arrayed neatly; from afar, it was clear that though Templar Knight Mesny had agreed to meet in open battle, he had also hired and conscripted men, with forces not much inferior to Amalric I’s.
The knights stood tall, Amalric I rode swiftly past them, appealing to God about the humiliation and harm he had suffered, accusing Templar Knight Walter of disobedience and arrogance, and beseeching his knights to wash away this shame—his words full of sincerity, stirring every knight’s heart, filling them with indignation!
Moreover, he promised that since this war was to reclaim his honor, he sought nothing beyond his own honor; anything gained on the battlefield would belong to the knights and their escorts.
These few words seemed more powerful than all his previous speeches; the knights shouted loudly, the mercenaries behind, hearing of it, howled loudly too, even waving weapons and dancing about.
“The wind is picking up,” Baldwin said.
As escorts, they stood to one side of the line; the king would not enter the fray at the start, but the course of war was unpredictable.
The drummers in a line began thundering on their drums; to the rhythmic beat, knights raised spears, urging their horses into a slow walk forward, the dismounted mercenaries and infantry followed, but as the horses quickened, a long, wide gap opened between them and the knights.
But no worry, for in a few breaths, the knights’ distances had closed to within a hundred feet, the horses entered the charge, and lights of varying intensity rose around the knights.
They shouted “God’s will!”, “God, grant us victory and life!”, “Glory to God!”, and names of God and various saints, crashing fiercely together.
Caesar had seen knights fight in the martial arts tournament, but compared to this cruelty, that was not even one percent.
Here there were no walls, no safe zones, no spectators; this was true slaughter, every spear aimed at vulnerable chests, exposed shoulders, shadows under helmets, spear tips wrapped in light unknown if steel or holy, helmets on heads and chainmail on bodies likewise.
Every knight shouted loudly, their eyes flashing with faith in God and hoped-for saints, but faith differed from faith.
A Templar Knight struck his enemy, the spear like a sharp awl, instantly piercing the not-weak defense, then chainmail and chest—that of a young Knight of the Holy Sepulchre; he fell from his horse and went still at once.
His comrade beside him cried out in grief, but his spear too broke on a Templar Knight’s shoulder; he could only draw his sword and charge forward.
But by then, the Templar Knight, merely shaken by the shoulder hit, had drawn the hammer at his waist, striking the friend in pain from his horse with one blow.
He was luckier than the previous knight; the Templar Knight’s hammer tore his robe and armor like a beast, yet he could still leap up from the ground.
The knight trembled, surging with strong white light, standing in the sandy land, urgently searching for he and his friend’s enemies, but those white-robed, red-cross knights had already charged toward the king’s lines.
“A horse!” he shouted, but his escort did not keep up in time; he was pierced through the neck by a Templar Knight’s sword-and-shield infantryman, so this brave knight searched the battlefield; he saw a Temple sergeant in brown clothes with a small red cross, riding a horse, fighting a wandering knight wearing a helmet and chainmail.
Clearly, this wandering knight, never blessed, was no match for the sergeant; though honed in real combat with martial arts, he had no horse, no saint’s favor, only instinct and agility to contend.
But the sergeant merely raised his mace, striking his skull side, and he fell silently, blood gushing from under the half-round helmet, unknown if dead or alive.
The Knight of the Holy Sepulchre shouted loudly, drawing the sergeant’s attention; the sergeant spurred his horse toward him, the knight spread his arms, fearlessly facing the tall mount.
The sergeant clamped his horse’s flanks, swung the mace, but suddenly the horse reared on hind legs, he lost balance abruptly, the weapon flew from his hand, and he tumbled from his usually reliable mount.
The knight glanced at him, did not press the attack, merely seized the reins and mounted swiftly.
But this sergeant did not live long; by then the king’s infantry arrived, mostly mercenaries and Byzantines, but no less fierce—they knocked down and overturned all obstacles before them, smashed every visible skull, slit every nearby throat…
These beasts’ savagery only knights with saint’s favor could check, but by now not only had all the Templar Knights charged the king’s camp, even the well-trained sword-and-shield infantry had crossed the midline; they cared not what happened to the conscripted and hired soldiers, as if those were mere bait lumps to lure ants.
