Chapter 92: Fustat
Caesar had just rushed back to where the small boat was moored when he saw the first burst of flames igniting from one corner of the palace. It was neither a torch nor a candle; he knew at once, for he had seen and passed through these flames countless times during the previous siege warfare.
It was the fire of naphtha.
He immediately boarded the small boat and desperately rowed the oars. His mind was roaring; he should have realized it long ago—the residents inside the city were far too few, even if a large number had fled, more should have perished in the siege warfare that had lasted for weeks, or hidden out of fear of the Christians’ slaughter, but there shouldn’t have been so few.
Now he realized it was likely they had already prepared for mutual destruction. While the Crusaders were still at Bilbeis, Fustat had already made preparations: if the city could not be held, they would lure in their enemies and then burn the city to perish together with them.
Thus, the city held only those willing to sacrifice themselves for this final endgame.
These flames were utterly unstoppable, just like the plague that would ravage Europe three hundred years later. In places hidden from the Christians, piles of earthenware pots were swiftly smashed, spilling onto the ground and spreading in all directions. The Saracens ignited them—and then, in what seemed an instant, everywhere lit up.
They did not burn in the palace, temple, or mansion; rather, they burned in Caesar’s heart. He was filled with anxiety, utterly heedless of anything else—he bowed low in prayer to that saint. Though even now he did not know his name, his protection descended upon him immediately as always, granting him superhuman strength and reaction speed. The small boat broke through the water surface like a flying arrow.
Even so, he still felt it was too slow, too slow.
When he could see that dock, he did not even have time to slowly moor the small boat to the shore. Instead, he stood up directly from the boat, leaped, and jumped into the water. He swam swiftly to shore, then darted through the dense fig grove like a panicked fawn.
Those tall, dark trunks framed the palace, now fully ablaze, dividing it into red patches. The lake water reflected the firelight; with his steps, the opposing images alternately grew larger and smaller. He anxiously scanned about, searching: were there survivors? Had they escaped?
The great hall where they had held the banquet faced the lake surface, but evidently Shawwar had not left this obvious flaw—or rather, he had done it deliberately to prevent them from guessing his intentions…—the main ingredient in petroleum naphtha was light oil, and its use in naval warfare was precisely because it could float on the sea surface and burn.
It was the same now on the lake surface.
Caesar saw people, but unfortunately not the ones he hoped for—a group of Saracen guards. Their faces no longer held the previous respect and docility; instead, they were fierce like demons. They held scimitars and crossbows, wearing smiles full of glee, waiting for anyone daring to rush out from the palace.
At that moment, Caesar had stealthily approached a guard. Thanks to the former Caliph, who had steps very close to the water surface and wide for viewing fish and feeding swans at the lakeside, Caesar seized the guard’s ankle and dragged him into the water, slitting his throat.
Before his companions could react, Caesar swam in another direction. A guard spotted his figure shuttling underwater—like a large fish with silver scales. He shouted, pointing at the water surface. Another guard rushed over swiftly, clutching a javelin, and upon seeing that flash of brightness, thrust it down fiercely.
He struck true, but it was like striking a sturdy crocodile; the javelin even rebounded from the water surface and slipped from his hand. Caesar grabbed it with one hand and thrust it casually into his abdomen. He fell, and his companion raised a crossbow, but like that javelin, the crossbow bolts had no effect.
Caesar had already swept past him like a gale, charging straight toward the palace spewing flames outward.
Everything inside had turned a fiery red—the marble pillars, cedarwood floors and doors and windows, bronze chandeliers, richly patterned and exquisite carpets, velvet cushions, and those chairs and low tables inlaid with gemstones, gilded, or silver-plated.
Caesar saw dead people: some young women and servants, either prone or supine, all facing outward from the palace, as if killed while fleeing.
He vaguely heard someone shouting, but with thick fog and raging flames here, he could not discern the direction.
“Baldwin! Baldwin!” he shouted hoarsely. “Let me know where you are!”
Fortunately, Baldwin was not far from Caesar. Hearing Caesar’s shout, he immediately hurled his Saint George’s Spear. The spear blazed with white light, whistling out from the flames and striking an eunuch’s throat precisely. He clutched his throat and fell, still gripping a chopping sword tightly in his hand—he had meant to sneak attack Caesar, but his own life ended sooner than this Christian young man.
He could only watch unwillingly as Caesar rushed toward the spot from which the long sword had been thrown.
He wanted to say—it was no use. Tonight the entire city would burn.
The Caliph’s palace was built of stone bricks, marble, bronze, and precious metals; by rights, it should not burn so fiercely, but the mastermind of this conspiracy had used vast amounts of petroleum naphtha.
Naphtha is a substance refined from petroleum; it is inherently a highly flammable and explosive liquid, and after adding sulfur and quicklime, its power is astonishing. Though not comparable to later explosives, turning this palace into true Hell posed no problem.
Moreover, naphtha’s combustion produced not only deadly heat—hallways were filled with that pungent smell and thick smoke. They stung eyes and throats like countless tiny thorns, causing coughing, tearing, and difficulty breathing.
Caesar now thanked the saint who had favored him: when His favor enveloped him, he need not worry about irritation to mouth and nose; the air he breathed remained as clean as before, just slightly hotter, and his vision stayed clear. Without this smoke, he might have found Baldwin already.
He shouted for Baldwin, and Baldwin kept shouting for him; the distance between them closed rapidly. Upon shoving aside a fallen pillar, Caesar realized this was no longer the hall where the banquet had been held. This was likely a small room behind the hall, originally for the Caliph to spy on ministers or rest.
——————
When disaster struck, Amalric I and the others had tried to rush outside but failed. They retreated into the small room behind, overturning the original furniture in the room to block the sole entrance, resisting the flames and enemy assaults.
Surprisingly, Shawwar was also one who had once received a revelation from the Prophet. He was wrapped in dazzling light, his eyes filled with madness. He used his fat body as a human battering ram, repeatedly slamming the obstacles before the door. Just as Baldwin and Caesar locked eyes, there came a boom—something collapsed.
Saracens rushed into the room, clashing with the Christians. These men seemed utterly disregardful of their own lives. Among them were several eunuchs without beards on their faces, dressed in splendid silk, attired as if heading to a grand banquet—in fact, they were indeed rushing toward the banquet of death.
When a man cares nothing for life or death, the strength he unleashes is terrifying. The Duke of Antioch Bohemond pierced an eunuch’s abdomen, but when he tried to withdraw his long sword, the eunuch gripped it deathly tight. He was nearly stabbed through by another eunuch’s dagger, if not for Baldwin’s spear being faster.
Bohemond had no time to say thanks before clashing with another Saracen guard. Baldwin wanted to aid his father but was entangled by two eunuchs. Amalric I faced Shawwar; the King gnashed his teeth in rage, grinding them audibly, while Shawwar grinned triumphantly.
But a Grand Vizier could not match an “Emir.” In the next moment, Amalric I’s short sword pierced Shawwar’s belly. He merely looked down at it and gave a strange smile. Before the King comprehended its meaning, he lunged forward and embraced Amalric I.
Amalric I smelled a thick, acrid odor and instantly knew what those wet, sticky substances were. He cried out in horror but could not stop a Saracen guard from raising a torch and hurling it at them.
They ignited at once, no different from the driest wood. Even though the King’s short sword had pierced the fat, greasy body, Raymond and Bohemond’s swords had nearly severed Shawwar’s arms, and Baldwin’s spear had transfixed his neck, he still clung tightly to Amalric I, like sticky tree gum adhered to a piece of wood. Flames made his flesh sizzle, yet he paid no heed, merely laughing heartily.
He had reason to gloat.
He was vile, shameless, reviled and ridiculed and despised— so what? He had killed a Christian King, and in this way, fused with a barbarian leader, descending together into Hell.
“Stay back!” Amalric I shouted to Baldwin, but Shawwar’s action seemed to awaken the other Saracens. They discarded their swords, doused themselves in oil, lit themselves aflame, and charged relentlessly at Baldwin and the others, seizing hold of anything they touched, biting with teeth, clawing with fingers, entwining with knees.
A Saracen guard targeted Baldwin. He knew this Christian King Amalric I had only this one son, meaning if Amalric I and Baldwin both died here, their nation would instantly lose its sole master.
Then, whether Nur al-Din, or Ilghazi and Saladin, they could immediately march to claim this masterless land. Even if not, whatever Christian King succeeded, at least for these years, would lack the courage to attack Egypt.
The child noticed nothing of him; he was still desperately saving his father, his hands scorched black yet seemingly oblivious.
The soldier lit himself aflame; flames rose, yet he felt no fear or pain—Saracen blood already boiled. He lunged at Baldwin, seizing him accurately—this Christian young man was so slender and young; on a true battlefield, he might have spared the child, but standing here, he must become a charred corpse.
So he thought, but from this body’s shoulder he saw Baldwin’s angry face— in his bewilderment, he realized he held not Baldwin, but another young man. His hair rose in the flames, tossed skyward by heatwaves like an unfurled black flag. His green eyes gleamed like radiant stars in the firelight; his clothing burned, but his white skin remained unharmed.
He was like a ceramic doll, a steel-forged creation, or a golden statue. The flames not only failed to char him but made him brighter and purer. Ah, he remembered—the child Saladin had specifically mentioned needing to spare, whom he had clearly been called out yet returned.
Such loyalty was rare.
So thinking, he fell backward.
