Chapter 79: The Fate Of Those Who Bargain With Tigers
Ever since Caesar became Baldwin’s brother, the people around him—meaning Amalric I and Heraclius, as well as those knights—began to like teasing him.
From his observations, he found that this teasing held no malice; rather, it was like a privilege only nephews possess. It was their way of showing closeness, but this time the teasing clearly had a different meaning.
A very dangerous meaning.
He did not answer Amalric I’s question, and Amalric I did not need him to answer. Caesar lowered his head and silently began to pray. Looking to the other side, Baldwin had also made his preparations.
The others also sensed that something was wrong, except for that young man still standing in the center of the arena, deeply trapped in fantasies of power and status, unable to extricate himself.
The smiles on the faces of those Saracens had already disappeared. They looked at Amalric I in bewilderment; the king’s pair of blue eyes, blue like steel scorched by flames, were flickering with cruel and mocking light,
They seemed to understand everything in an instant. Some collapsed to the ground on the spot, others knelt before Amalric I, but one man jumped up and shouted loudly: “You swore an oath! Amalric I, you swore an oath!”
When Amalric I merely answered him with a contemptuous smile, he completely broke down.
He threw the water cup he had been clutching tightly at Amalric I. The heavy silver cup flew through the air and was deflected by an arm that was already prepared. This arm, though slender, was covered in faint holy light.
“Are you trying to assassinate your monarch?” the king asked coldly. The response was drawing the dagger at his side.
In this era, in this world, there was no such thing as searching bodies or confiscating weapons at Christian banquets. Some knights even wore chainmail, either to show off（ gilded or silvered chainmail）, or because they had sworn oaths, like Templar Knights, who had a law that their armor could not leave their bodies.
Everyone also carried a dagger at their side, which was used for cutting meat at banquets, but was equally sharp and could kill.
The weapon worn by this Saracen was their traditional weapon—the scimitar called a tiger’s tooth. This scimitar had to be worn constantly on the body from the age of thirteen upon adulthood; it could not be set down, and even women were not allowed to touch it.
But even if he gripped the scimitar tightly in his hand, what use was it?
Before he could rush forward, Baldwin’s Saint George’s Spear had already pierced his chest. The hall immediately erupted in chaos, with pleas for mercy, wails, accusations and curses, and even two Saracen nobles who hurriedly tore off their headscarves and lifted their robes.
They shouted loudly: “We are not Saracens, we are not Saracens! We are Isaacites!”
Amalric I turned away in disgust, not looking at their exposed filthy organs, and even instructed the two children: “Did you see? If you saw, remember to find a priest to wash your eyes with holy water.”
The knights did not even need the king’s signal; they killed the two on the spot. When the Crusaders entered Jerusalem, they regarded Isaacites as dogs who had sided with the Saracens, and Amalric I would not keep such beasts around that could turn on their master at any time.
However, Amalric I finally understood why the situation in Bilbeis had deteriorated to this extent. Although he had previously used flowery words to conceal his malicious intent, he had also prepared to storm Bilbeis forcefully.
It was only just now that he could understand the scheme these Saracens were playing at.
Perhaps the previous overly calm withdrawal had given them an illusion. They always thought that since Amalric I was the Lord of the Holy Land, the King of Ayyarasa Road, even if he captured cities in Egypt, whether Bilbeis or Fustat, he would have to go back.
Since he would go back, shouldn’t someone sit on this vacant throne?
If they could obtain that supreme position just by giving this Christian a bit of money, why not?
When Amalric I turned his gaze to the young man standing in the center of the arena, he had awakened from his beautiful dream. The smell of blood surged into his nostrils, the clanging of clashing swords, and the dying wails were incessant.
All color drained from his face; he now looked like a portrait that could be titled fear and astonishment.
He looked at Amalric I, harboring a sliver of hopeful luck. “Please don’t hurt me, don’t kill me. My bloodline comes from Fatimid, the daughter of Muhammad. I am Caliph Atid’s cousin! Please spare me; demand ransom from him—he will give any amount!”
Amalric I looked at him with interest. Indeed, the Fatimid Dynasty always regarded itself as Orthodox, so the young man pushed onto the Caliph’s throne by these people could not belong to the meritorious “Traditionalists,” lest it undermine their own foundation.
But cousin? Atid’s father had not left him so many troubles. It could only be said that this young man might have some thin bloodline, but how distant it was, probably only these guys knew.
They were merely banking on the fact that once he breached Fustat, he would inevitably kill their Caliph Atid and most of the ministers loyal to him; then they could distort the truth and call a deer a horse.
“I… I am very wealthy, extremely wealthy. I can pay my own ransom. If you need me to acknowledge your status, your legitimacy. My master, I am willing to kneel at the hem of your robe, kiss your feet, hold your horse; I can be your slave…”
Amalric I just shook his head. He pushed aside Caesar and walked up to the young man: “Since you are a descendant of Fatimid…”
Hope burst forth in the young man’s eyes.
But Amalric I’s next move was to swing his sword and sever his head. His head flew off still bearing a relieved smile.
“Unfortunately, by your reckoning, I am also a Traditionalist.” After the king spoke, the young man’s corpse crashed to the ground.
Amalric I no longer looked at him. He led the two children outward. This palace was located at the highest point of the entire city, divided into three levels, each separated by strict walls. The lowest level was a temple and some affiliated buildings; the second level was where ministers and relatives resided; the topmost level was the dwelling of the Caliph and his concubines.
When they looked down upon the city from on high, they could see that one-third of the city was ablaze. These belonged to those nobles and some wealthy merchants, just like those two Isaacites masquerading as Saracen nobles among the guests.
“Are you wondering what will happen to the Saracen commoners?”
Amalric I suddenly said.
“That’s also what I wanted to ask.”
Baldwin spoke before Caesar could. Amalric I gave him a meaningful look. “I said, as long as they do not become our enemies—if they swear an oath, I will allow them to ransom themselves.”
This was perhaps a more appealing and gentler approach than direct plunder. When a city was captured and the occupiers had not paid too heavy a price, he would indeed allow the nobles and populace in the city to buy back themselves and their families by paying ransom.
Of course, Amalric I did not intend to extend this favor to the nobles of Bilbeis. He had long seen through it—ever since he accepted the plea for help from Grand Vizier Shawwar several years ago, and then received a letter from another Grand Vizier hoping he would send troops, he knew this empire was thoroughly rotten and beyond saving.
Even if they schemed against each other in the Imperial Court, fighting to the death, they should not have sought help from true enemies—or naively believed that by paying a little money, they could make him abandon his faith and honor, and after achieving great gains, meekly retreat to his own territory.
But they believed it. Perhaps in their world, there was nothing money could not accomplish.
“But in that case, the nobles and officials of Fustat…” Baldwin asked worriedly.
“No matter what I do, even if I declare that I will return Bilbeis to its people, they will not believe it. Fustat is the capital of the Fatimid Dynasty, their last refuge. Losing Fustat means losing everything; they will resist with all their might. Prepare yourselves, children.
What comes next is the real war.”
————————
This slaughter of the upper classes in Bilbeis began at evening prayer and did not end until the morning prayer the next day.
When those Saracen nobles and Isaacite merchants were drinking wine with Amalric I, they probably did not expect their families to already lie on the ground, flowing with blood as fresh and sweet as wine.
They lit torches and candles in the palace, illuminating the entire hall like daylight, probably not expecting flames to rise in their own houses as well.
These flames rose and extinguished, like their lives. When the bright morning light shone again on those luxurious dwellings, it only illuminated charred ashes, already cooled, loose and floating, scattering everywhere with the wind.
They were a pack of foxes living in a dense forest, thinking themselves clever yet blind to the situation before their eyes.
Why had Amalric I been so tolerant of them back then? Because at that time, Amalric I had realized that continuing to attack Fustat during the flood season had become impossible.
But would he abandon his ambitions for that? Of course not. Before even withdrawing from Bilbeis, he had already prepared to plan the next expedition.
So he left Bilbeis, left this weak city. Why should he slaughter it clean? Kill these people of false fame, cowardice, and greed, only to replace them with another group of Saracens filled with hatred and wariness toward him?
Amalric I did not think himself that foolish, so he left, even if it earned him the infamous reputation of a major expedition that gained nothing, mocked by others—he did not care in the slightest.
He had been waiting for this day.
He no longer needed Bilbeis, or rather, he no longer needed this herd of pigs and sheep he had nurtured with ambitions.
In them, he saw no Saracen backbone or bloodlust, only hollow shells corroded by Isaacite merchants.
They were like tumbleweeds drifting in the wind, swaying left and right. One moment leaning toward the Fatimid Grand Vizier, the next toward Nur al-Din of the Zengid dynasty, then toward the Christian Amalric I.
Though in the end, it was not really their fault. After all, the Fatimid Dynasty itself was already tottering and fragile.
They perhaps knew they were inviting the wolf in, merely harboring malicious intent to seek interests and power for themselves, even if it meant betraying nation and faith.
Precisely because he saw through this, Amalric I did not leave them alive.
He did not care at all about the reproaches from those homeless dogs—claims that he broke his oath, slaughtered allies, and would face retribution… or as Baldwin worried, whether it would provoke a fierce reaction from Fustat…
From the start, he had not thought he could make Fustat’s Caliph and Grand Vizier Shawwar submit completely, as he had tricked Bilbeis.
If so, he would not have needed to muster so many men. Everyone knew that when backed to the cliff’s edge, even the most cowardly sheep would lower its head, raise its horns, and fight to the death. With no such qualms, what was strange about him dealing with these restless elements in Bilbeis City?
————————
The next day, Baldwin and Caesar got busy. Like the knights loyal to Amalric I, they formed small teams to patrol various places.
According to the resolution of this council—everything in the city belongs to Amalric I（ with interpretive rights held by the king）. Of course, Amalric I would not be so stingy; every knight who followed him here would receive generous rewards, for there was still a brutal siege to fight afterward.
This meant he would not allow random killing, plunder, and rape, which would incite resistance from the whole city, causing losses in personnel and supplies. Creating complications was the last thing Amalric I needed now.
Christians, Saracens, and Isaacites were quickly distinguished. Though they were told to pay their own ransoms, in fact, they were hardly allowed to keep anything of theirs, from clothes, sheep, cattle, and horses to houses, land, furniture, and all valuables.
These small teams were entirely necessary; there were plenty who caused conflicts due to personal desires.
Those knights far from their homeland disdained wearing masks of pretense. They might covet an important item a commoner intended to keep, or their son or daughter, and shamelessly seize the children in the name of purging heathens.
Some endured silently, while others unhesitatingly raised sword and dagger. If they killed or injured a knight or escort, the whole family would hardly escape death.
But if they were fortunate enough to encounter Caesar’s team—even if Caesar merely stood by quietly watching—the knights’ methods and desires would be much more restrained.
They had heard of him—though those saved by Caesar might not know how he had once gone alone before Templar Knight Walter, persuading him to fight Amalric I honorably rather than gamble the lives of commoners inside and outside the castle on whether the king would retreat; and how he had used that merit to exchange with Amalric I for the lives of those servants, laborers, craftsmen, and battlefield survivors…
But the knights knew. This story had spread widely alongside how he had done forty-five days of asceticism in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, sharing the gift of that asceticism with the entire city; and in the ceremony welcoming the Byzantine Princess, how he and Prince Baldwin together slew a rampaging she-bear; and most recently, how he disguised himself as a noble lady and joined the knights in exterminating a group of cunning Saracen butchers.
People said he was the mortal closest to a saint.
Anyone with even a shred of conscience left would feel filthy and exposed under the gaze of those green eyes; the flame in their hearts would extinguish, and their desires would not burn so fiercely.
Moreover, if what they wanted was a gold ring or a copper bracelet, Caesar would not interfere.
But if what they wanted was a resident’s child, wife, or sister, Caesar would intervene—the people here were all slaves belonging to Amalric I. If they wanted them, fine; after registration, they could exchange money for them.
“But what if they already ransomed themselves?” a knight grumbled indignantly. He was the heartless sort who disregarded the king’s pardon—he had his eye on this family’s little daughter, a girl of seven or eight with large almond eyes, milk-white skin, and curly brown hair, somewhat like Damara.
“You can appeal to the king; it’s fine.” Caesar said politely but without yielding. The knight glanced at Prince Baldwin, who stood behind Caesar with arms folded and smiling silently, and could only slink away sullenly.
“You can go.” Caesar said, and that Saracen family looked at him with complex expressions. They did not know whether to say thank you; he was also a robber who took all their property and assets, but he had left the most precious—
Caesar did not need their thanks; he was not that shameless.
Would these knights complain to Amalric I?
No, everyone knew that nominally they claimed to save these poor souls, but really just wanted to enjoy those tender bodies. They could kill these heathens, but must not be ruled by evil desires.
If spoken aloud, the knight would face merciless mockery; his master would lose trust in him, and his comrades would shun him.
“But they will surely be very dissatisfied with you.” Baldwin said.
“If they’re dissatisfied, so be it. Plenty of people dislike me.” Caesar said without concern.
Just then, they heard a commotion from not far away.
