Chapter 89: Assault On The City!
The Tower of David did not disappoint Amalric I, just like Baldwin and Caesar, they stood back-to-back, shoulder-to-shoulder, as a pair of young men, earning in their first battle an almost unbelievable merit—they led knights as young as themselves, tearing a small crack in the Saracens’ iron-hard direction!
It was so small, but Richard spotted it immediately, he immediately abandoned the enemy in front of him, rushed over to join Baldwin and Caesar in consolidating this crack, the knight on watch atop the siege tower immediately blew the horn, and the Crusaders’ knights immediately turned to this position for an all-out assault.
They climbed to the top layer from the Tower of David like an ant swarm, further expanding the previous gains.
And at the moment they suppressed the Saracens, the battering ram at the base of the Tower of David finally let out its first roar.
It was made of rare olive wood, about nine feet in diameter, people said it might have grown for a thousand years in the olive groves around Fustat, and if not for people needing it to pry open Fustat’s defenses, it might have existed for another thousand years.
Its length was also twenty feet, encircled by twelve loops of hard iron hoops, with a huge ram’s head at the end.
This ram’s head had curved double horns, protruding snout and exposed fangs, looking more like a demon’s head, perhaps that was the craftsman’s intent.
Before hoisting it up with iron chains, people poured vinegar over it, the same principle as soaking the cowhide and sheepskin draped over the siege tower in vinegar, the main ingredient of Greek fire is petroleum naphtha, only vinegar can prevent its spread.
Originally Amalric I had wanted to use a torsion winch to enhance it, but gave up because there were no leather straps that could control this monster—over a hundred strong soldiers were still needed to push it.
They were all muscled and broad-shouldered, under the knights’ command repeatedly pushing the battering ram toward the city wall—these men also needed to be extremely agile and careful.
When the battering ram swung back due to the force transmitted from the thick city wall, a slight carelessness could send a man flying, and that flung man would be like those unlucky ones directly hit by stone projectiles or crossbow bolts, chest caved in, flesh mangled, dead instantly.
But they were at least luckier than the previous soldiers, because the Saracens above them had been cleared out, they didn’t have to worry about arrows, stone projectiles, or even boiling feces falling on them, nor about bags filled with straw and chaff being thrown down to dissipate the battering ram’s force, making them waste their strength in vain.
Under the most dazzling noon sunlight, the battering ram under the Tower of David finally unleashed its most powerful impact, as if in an instant, the outer wall of Fustat’s double city wall was destroyed, suddenly, on that seemingly impregnable gray stone brick city wall, a huge and terrifying opening appeared.
The soldiers operating the battering ram all fell down, and before they could comprehend—mainly because the previous few hours had been too exhausting and painful—the battering ram swung back blankly like a knight who had lost his goal.
What woke them was the terrified screams of the Saracens, they leaped up immediately, invigorated a hundredfold by the merit and rewards destined to be theirs.
After breaching the outer wall, what was exposed was the inner passageway and small chambers, sometimes filled with soldiers passing through or lying in wait for enemies.
But before they could act, the small catapults and crossbows waiting nearby hurled stone projectiles and arrows, they were instantly bloodied and fell to the ground, then the nearby Christians rushed up, cleared the shattered stone blocks, and pushed the battering ram further in.
The inner city wall was far less thick than the outer one, moments later a crack appeared, on the other side of the crack several Saracens were shouting for companions, they used a lit small battering ram to hammer anyone daring to enlarge the crack, then stood this battering ram upright and toppled it toward the opposite side, hoping to ignite the Tower of David this way.
“Hold on, hold on!” someone shouted, the Christians wanted to press the advantage, the Saracens were fighting to the death, they dumped cartloads of gravel at the crack, and kept pouring oil and lighting fires, heating the stones red-hot to block the assault.
At this time, more Saracens rushed onto the city wall, fighting the knights desperately, and the small catapults and crossbows fixed on the city wall were dismantled and hauled here, becoming new threats.
Baldwin and Caesar had both been withdrawn, even with a saint’s favor, could they as individuals block a hundred men, or a thousand, ten thousand? Besides, being too conspicuous wasn’t a good thing.
Richard sat beside them, gulping ice-added wine, even so he was hot as a glowing coal, the wine wasn’t so much drunk as poured into the coals, vanishing with a “hiss”!
“Forget it,” he smacked his lips, “those guys are too useless!”
Baldwin didn’t agree with Richard’s words, if anything, it was because Richard, he, and Caesar had performed too outstandingly—making the follow-up reinforcements seem lackluster.
But what they lacked wasn’t courage, it was Talent.
Moreover, the Saracens later produced some tricky fellows, those similarly granted prophetic revelation, extraordinary Blades—they were dispatched to this city wall section because of Baldwin, Caesar, and Richard, but by then they had already left.
The new knights ascending the wall had of course also received God’s blessing, but compared to them, they were slightly mediocre—with the result that they couldn’t withstand such an assault, either killed or falling off the wall, only a scant few retreating into the Tower of David, which was now withdrawing to avoid becoming Saracen spoils of war.
Even so, Saracens still leaped into the air, landing fearlessly on the not-yet-retracted drawbridge, continuing to fight the knights.
“Useless is useless, what excuses are needed?” another voice interjected, it was Templar Knight Walter, similarly covered in blood and ash, chainmail torn in places, hair disheveled, eyes bloodshot.
He entered the tent, Richard handed him the cup, he nodded, took it and scooped a large cupful from the wooden box of crushed ice, then added a full cup of wine.
“Mine are all a bunch of cowards too, pah, cowards, rabbits, rats!” he said in a string.
“I saw Saracens heading to the King’s Gate, so I hurriedly told them to set up ladders, to climb the wall together. To fight the Saracens, seize their city, but I called several times, and they just hesitated…” He drained it, crushed the cup, “The opportunity slipped away in an instant!”
The Knights Templar were responsible for the Victory Gate, Richard felt sorry too upon hearing, but truthfully, not everyone has the courage to sacrifice their lives just for heavenly reward, more precisely, such reward means little to mortals.
“But these Saracens still lied, they lowered some men from the wall to sue for peace with us.”
“Who?” Baldwin asked, at Amalric I’s side, he hadn’t seen any Saracen envoy.
“I already killed them all.” Walter said: “Though failing to take the King’s Gate directly is a pity, lads, we can all see that breaching the city is just a matter of days.”
Walls breached by battering rams aren’t easily repaired, even if the Saracens had materials and manpower, but Amalric I had long arranged crossbows and catapults, the bags full of straw and chaff they had hung from the wall were also seized, all sent to the tunnel entrance near the Victory Gate.
Even before the formal siege, Amalric I had arranged for tunnel digging, now the tunnel had reached underground near the city gate, supported by oak, the sizable cave stuffed with hay, branches, and other combustibles, then poured with tens of thousands of jars of olive oil and lard, just waiting to be lit.
When to light it? As soon as the cheers go up.
The collapsed outer city wall to the left of the King’s Gate was still unrestored, the city wall to the right of the Victory Gate crumbled in smoke and intense heat, this breach connected the outer and inner city walls, every Saracen howling in despair, while Christian knights and soldiers impatiently charged forward, slaughtering each other madly at the breach, blood flowing more abundantly than the previous olive oil, corpses piling into hills.
Victory in sight, Amalric I’s authority reached a new peak, now he became lenient and humble, he even forbade Baldwin and Caesar from going to the most dangerous spots again, because they had proven their bravery and piety, opportunities should be left to others.
Indeed, the Saracens were still resisting stubbornly, but this resistance was like seeking mutual destruction with the enemy, such a desperate atmosphere couldn’t compare to the Crusaders’ knights’ high morale—everyone knew that perhaps by the next dawn, they could possess this beautiful and wealthy noble lady.
Yes, but not at dawn, at midnight.
The sleeping Caesar and Baldwin were suddenly woken, required to wash and change into the most splendid attire possible. Then, Amalric I’s attendant hurriedly brought them to that huge tent—already ablaze with lights.
Amalric I seemed just roused from bed, wearing only a loose linen robe, no jewelry on him, in stark contrast to Caesar and Baldwin as he required.
But what clothes or jewels did Amalric I need now to adorn himself? He had obtained the laurel wreath he had long dreamed of. Before him, prostrated in utter abjectness, was none other than Grand Vizier Shawwar.
Baldwin had never seen him, but had heard his description. Just as his father had once described in unwillingness and anger, he looked like a cunning fat pig, body bloated, face loathsome. With shrewd little eyes and fat ears, but now those eyes were red and swollen from fear and anxiety, devoid of luster.
Seeing Baldwin, he immediately recognized the heir, though he hadn’t met him before—he crawled forward on knees, precisely pressing his lips to Baldwin’s boots, Baldwin nearly jumped, almost crying out.
He had indeed heard of people kissing the Pope of Rome’s toes, but when it happened to him, he found it anything but amusing, even somewhat disgusting.
Amalric I let out mocking laughter, just as Shawwar had guessed, his wretchedness greatly pleased the King.
Shawwar of course wasn’t here to chat idly with Amalric I, he had previously sought peace with Amalric I. But by then Amalric I no longer believed his words.
Today he came here facing huge peril, after all he had once fooled this Victor—the two million gold coins return he promised could never be fulfilled.
The Fatimid Dynasty’s treasury was long empty, while he himself might muster a million gold coins—previously, he had tried bribing Ilghazi and his nephew with two hundred thousand gold coins, but failed.
Now he was willing to hand over all that money, along with this city, just to leave Fustat safely.
Amalric I was noncommittal, “I don’t want to haggle with you,” he said: “Nor trade what I can surely get for something with you.”
“The people of Fustat have decided on a fight to the death with you.” Shawwar said, “I know you are a benevolent and generous man, especially to your fellow Christians, yes, at this point—you’re right, this city is already yours.
But how much more will you lose before then? Those brave knights and soldiers, even if you don’t grudge their lives, you should grudge your own money, moreover, would possessing Fustat satisfy you?
No, you won’t be, you need more, Giza, Alexandria, perhaps Damascus after, your vision is so far-reaching, your ambition so fervent, rather than waste them in this campaign whose ending is visible, why not let these admirable warriors earn more merit elsewhere?
What I seek is not much, you could even take the Caliph’s life, or keep him penned in your palace, you may dispose of everyone in Fustat at will, from man to woman, elder to child, kill them all if you wish; keep them as slaves if you wish; sell or release them as you please.
And all I expect is this tiny mercy.”
“You really are a despicable wretch.” Amalric I sighed, “But you’ve already cost me so much. If you were willing to surrender, you should have done so from the start.”
“Didn’t I have to see the city truly hopeless to decide what to do?” Shawwar said shamelessly, though his words did hit home with Amalric I.
He had realized the people of Fustat weren’t like those of Bilbeis, not so meek, nor corrupted to the deepest, irredeemable point.
They still had spirit, backbone, he could continue ordering his knights to assault Fustat as planned, but it was pointless. Fustat wasn’t the end, in his lifetime his hooves would trample more heathen lands.
“So you’ll open Fustat’s city gate for me.”
“Open the King’s Gate for you, the place you should enter.” Shawwar said with utmost humility, placing his hands on the ground, rubbing his face on the tent’s carpet.
“Very well.” Amalric I said, “If you do it, Shawwar, I’ll spare your life.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
After Shawwar left, Heraclius asked.
“Trustworthy or not, what does it matter? Once the gate opens, it’s our move next.” Amalric I said.
