Chapter 66: The Final Mercy
Caesar, waiting in front of the King’s tent, could clearly see the situation on the battlefield. The Templar Knights enjoyed all kinds of privileges; glory and money were not without reason. If the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre were like bulls, they were the lion pack that hunted bulls. In the initial clashes, the yellow Ayyarasa Road crosses falling from horses were noticeably more numerous than the red crosses.
But in front of the King’s tent, there was also an elite retinue led by William Marshal. Amalric I did not know William, but that did not prevent him from knowing how to use him—like at this moment, William Marshal went straight toward the burliest enemy. Wonderfully, they had sensed the same saint, Saint Baldwin.
“Now it depends on which saint is willing to protect.” Amalric I murmured.
Two sturdy tall horses charged toward each other. Their knights lowered their spears. In the collision, neither could gain the upper hand. The spears broke, and they drew their long swords, cleaving at each other on horseback until the horses could no longer hold out. First the Templar Knight, then William, rolled off the saddle one after another and leaped up from the ground.
The long swords broke; they switched to axes. The axe handles cracked; they switched to hammers. Shields shattered into pieces, helmets were cleaved open. Both were covered in blood, but not much of it was their own. These knights who had sensed the saint were meat grinders of steel on the battlefield. They collided, clashed, and dodged like a vortex full of sharp blades and blunt weapons. Any commoner who approached would inevitably be covered in wounds.
Baldwin was as tense as Amalric I. The battle was in a stalemate. Almost all the knights were off their horses, either knocked down or pulled down. Just less than a hundred paces from them, three Templar Knights were fighting a group of similarly dismounted Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.
They held shields, wielding long swords and hammers or spear axes with one hand. One was especially ferocious; even surrounded by three or four enemies, he showed no sign of falling behind. He raised his shield with one hand to deflect a knight’s long sword and thrust straight with the other, stabbing his long sword into the heart of an escort wearing only quilted cotton armor.
He drew his long sword and turned to face another enemy. The opponent raised a spear axe, leaped high, and stabbed the hard tip into his shield, trying to wrest it away.
He almost succeeded. Even though the Templar Knight stood firmly in place, his companions rushed forward, wielding flails and spears, knocking the Templar Knight to the ground—this was almost the ending for a knight. But no matter how urgently they struck, they could not break through his defense.
“Again, again!” one man shouted hoarsely. “The saint’s favor is limited!”
One cleave not enough? Then ten times. Ten not enough? Then a hundred times!
But this Templar Knight was not only brave and deeply blessed with divine favor but also had rich combat experience. Even in such dire circumstances, he remained unpanicked. He covered his vital spots like his heart and abdomen with his shield while seizing the moment to kick an escort’s thigh, making him stagger back. The encirclement immediately cracked open a gap.
“Don’t let him stand up!” a knight shouted hurriedly, but it was too late. The Templar Knight’s long sword thrust upward from below, piercing the gap between another knight’s chainmail hem and greave. He let out a miserable scream, clutching the gushing wound as he retreated. His companions had no time to curse before the Templar Knight rose to his feet, their previous advantage vanished.
He raised his sword, tangling with the Templar Knight’s thrusting long sword. The infantryman with the spear axe charged again, trying the same trick. This time it seemed to succeed; the spear axe stabbed deep into the shield again. But a tremendous force came from the shield, forcing his body forward. At that moment, the Templar Knight raised his head high.
He headbutted the spear axe infantryman fiercely. The sharp corner on the front of his helmet instantly pierced the opponent’s face. With a wail, the infantryman clutched his face, staggered back two steps, and fell to the ground.
Then the Templar Knight turned to the knight still clashing with him. With one hand he yanked out the spear axe, using the reverse force to kick his abdomen, then smashed the spear axe onto his helmet.
He had no shield now, but he had two weapons. He charged into the crowd, unstoppable. A wandering knight swung a chain flail; the Templar Knight tilted his head, and the flail grazed his cheek, leaving a trace of blood.
“He has no favor left!” someone shouted excitedly.
One man immediately pounced, grabbing the chain flail’s handle and one hammer head to choke his neck. Another raised a short sword, stabbing at the throat exposed when he lifted his face. The Templar Knight seized the incoming blade; the iron chains on his gloves grated against the short sword. He roared, twisting hard to break free from the restraint behind, and thrust the spear axe through the neck of the man behind him.
But by now, he was exhausted. The King immediately called Heraclius: “Go quickly,” he said. “Don’t let them kill him!”
Heraclius immediately mounted his horse and galloped off. The King thought this way because if the knight was on the brink of death, at least Heraclius could administer last rites.
Amalric I watched Heraclius ride away and was about to ask Baldwin beside him if he had seen anything or learned any lessons, when he noticed Caesar’s anxious expression: “What is it?”
“I haven’t seen Walter de Brienne!” Caesar said. He had left a vivid impression on the Templar Knights, and especially Walter, had they not? Since the battle began, he had been searching for Walter’s flame crucifix sword but had not found it.
The King immediately became alert. He was about to kneel and seek the saint’s protection when a sharp warning cry rang out: “Templar Knights! Templar Knights are coming!”
The voice came from the left side of the King’s tent. One side of this flat battlefield had a small dense grove. The King had already sent men to check it and stationed some light cavalry there, but what charged out from there were only Templar Knights and their black-and-white flags.
At first, Amalric I was not too alarmed. They still had a reserve knightly retinue. But what he did not expect was that the Byzantine cavalry suddenly charged out, disrupting the knights’ formation. They perhaps wanted to show off to their new master—but the vanguard of this Templar Knight retinue was precisely Walter de Brienne.
His crucifix sword, blessed by Saint Paul, truly blazed like a rising flame in the sunlight. The dazzling white light stung the eyes. Two cavalrymen whose horses were also clad in armor—as we said before, they were praiseworthy warriors—but at the moment the two retinues collided, Walter’s crucifix sword emitted a shrill whistle.
In that instant, what was torn was not men, horses, and armor, but a thin parchment. Men, horses, and armor were merely drawings on the parchment, neatly bisected. Severed limbs and torsos fell into the dust kicked up by hooves, blood cascading down like a waterfall afterward.
Seeing this sight, the remaining Byzantines let out terrified shouts and scattered in flight, leaving the unprepared Knights of the Holy Sepulchre. Fortunately, the light cavalry the King had arranged charged forward then, and arrows already nocked rained down from the sky.
Unfortunately, Walter led the elite of the Templar Knights, who had just invoked their saint. Thick with divine favor, arrows could not harm them, only shooting down a few attendants.
Only then did the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre have time to meet the new enemies, but Walter’s goal was not them. He ignored all except those blocking his path, heading straight for Amalric I.
“This is your first battle,” Amalric I said, mounting the horse Baldwin had brought him: “A fine first battle.”
This was the first time Caesar had seen the King fight. Compared to de Brienne, he was not inferior at all. Even though he could only cover holy light on a tangible spear, rather than relics obtained through prayer like Baldwin or Walter, in battling Walter, he showed no fear or hesitation and held his own.
Although Baldwin and Caesar were also on the battlefield, the knights saw they wore no helmets, no robes, sword belts, or golden spurs（ symbols of knights）, knowing they were two escorts, so they did not fight them but left them to their own attendants—but the pressure they faced was equally heavy. Many of the Templar Knights’ attendants and armed servants were adults, including some blessed ones.
Even when they looked out and saw only dozens of enemies, in the thick of slaughter, the enemies seemed endless, blades of swords thrusting from every direction.
Caesar could not even remember when his horse collapsed. He only remembered several times he had to cover Baldwin entirely to spare him fatal wounds.
Baldwin’s fighting style was indeed worrisome, just like when playing chess. Normally courteous, elegant, humble, and kind—even princes acknowledged it—but in battle, he went berserk. Saint George’s spear was like thunderbolts piercing the battlefield, clearing a wide white scar that slowly soaked with blood.
Caesar’s fighting style was simpler. The light enveloping him not only made him fearless of any weapon like Sigurd bathed in dragon Fafnir’s blood but also granted him strength like King David. He just needed to sidestep or charge head-on to send opponents flying, unable to rise again.
Like Walter or William, no enemy before him could last a second round.
Those who saw him could almost foresee a new star rising. Unfortunately, he was still an escort, unqualified to fight knights; they could not challenge him.
Caesar felt as if he had sunk into a swamp of blood. Walter had said heathens’ blood once reached his knees, and now he was in the blood—his nostrils, mouth, throat, lungs, eyes full of blood, its metallic, sweet smell and first scalding then sticky feel.
He could barely see around him, only distinguishing friend from foe by the position of that dazzling white spear—Baldwin’s. Even with people packed tightly around, he just clung to Baldwin’s back and swung his sword toward the spear’s direction.
Caesar might have killed one man, ten, or perhaps a hundred. No one knew when the space around them cleared, until the King ordered Walter de Brienne bound and walked slowly toward them…
Some tried to stop the King. Having come down from the battlefield, they knew a child experiencing such a scene for the first time would either collapse in terror, only crying, or erupt in ferocity, lost in slaughter.
“It’s fine,” Amalric I said. “I trust them.”
Heraclius had also arrived. Hearing this, the monk’s long eyebrows twitched slightly, then he lowered his head.
The King saw the two children, covered in blood, devoid of light or sanctity, leaning on each other on the ground. Hearing his footsteps, one reached out to push the other, who hastily wiped his face—useless, their sleeves soaked in blood too. But from the gesture, Amalric I recognized his son Baldwin.
He strode forward proudly, hugging Baldwin, then pulled Caesar up.
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Baldwin and Caesar had little rest. They barely wiped their faces and changed clothes before being sent back to the battlefield to perform another key duty of escorts.
Because the Templar Knights had promised to fight outside the city, the King agreed not to slaughter conscripted or hired commoners except the ringleaders. But on the battlefield, though death’s cloak fairly shrouded everyone, compared to knights with saint’s favor, ransom, family names, or both, they were roadside ants—no one would pity crushing any number.
Some slashed, some hacked, some shot with arrows, some trampled by hooves. Some just unluckily tripped or got caught in knights’ combats.
Bleeding and wailing, when they saw young escorts approach with daggers or short swords—as Geoffrey had reminded—they appealed, wept, begged, stammered promises, or lied about being some noble person’s illegitimate son.
Caesar’s heart, remarkably, calmed. In another world, he had seen such horrific scenes, only from nature, not man. But facing death’s threat, people’s reactions were much the same. They clung to this world, however unkind or unfair, wanting to live.
And his duty felt the same as then.
To decide who lived, who died.
Here there were better, faster treatments than modern medicine, but priests and monks would not treat an ordinary commoner, even if he could pay for prayer. Their saint’s favor went to more valuable places. Even with no nobles injured now, who knew about the next moment?
And this was the battlefield.
Just broken bones, torn flesh, dazed heads—sprinkle dirt to staunch bleeding, and they might live. Caesar would call militia to move them aside. But obvious major bleeding, skull fractures, ruptured organs… beyond gasping a day or two, they could not escape death.
Some still breathed, groaned, conscious. Their eyes stared straight at you—eyes that would haunt your dreams many times. Baldwin watched Caesar worriedly, but saw him half-kneel, letting the hopeless man grasp his hand.
“Save… save me…”
“I cannot.” Caesar said, not averting his gaze. The man’s forehead was caved in, a broken bone protruding from his chest—even in a millennium, unlikely to survive: “I cannot save your body,” he said softly. “I can only save your soul.”
Soft light filled him again, but not for combat. “I brought holy oil. If you wish, I will anoint you and pray for you.”
The man’s scattered pupils focused instantly. He gazed in disbelief: “Ah,” he mumbled, “I’ve seen you… seen… ah.” Joy appeared on his face: “You are… you are… our Little Saint!”
“Yes.”
The tight grip on Caesar’s hand relaxed. “Good,” the man answered faintly: “Good, please… I can go to heaven, right?”
“Yes.”
The man closed his eyes. While Caesar anointed him then slit his throat, he kept smiling.
——————
“What is he doing?”
Taking the cup from Amalric I, Walter drank a large gulp of ice-cold wine. While drinking, he inwardly cursed the King’s pettiness—no heating, no spice. But he was relieved; generally, feeding a captive meant no execution—though Amalric I had executed a dozen Templar Knights, different offenses.
When he saw holy light on the battlefield again, he thought the child faced stubborn enemies.
“Does he want to join the Knights Templar?” Templar Knights were martial monks, so they said they obeyed only the Lord in heaven—priests among Templar Knights could indeed perform sacraments.
As long as Caesar’s actions did not seek personal gain（ harming others’ interests） or impersonate priests and monks, few would pursue it. After all, letting believers fall to hell was no good.
“Don’t even think about it.” Amalric I said.
———————
Three years later.
