Chapter 94: Death Of The King
Perhaps someone would say that Caesar’s guilt is utterly unreasonable, after all, wasn’t it Amalric I and those nobles clustering around him who proudly and joyfully walked into this trap of their own accord?
These people had experienced so many wars and were accustomed to the conspiracies in the court, yet they were still easily deceived by a bit of vanity; they are the ones who should be condemned.
But Baldwin was the only one who treated Caesar equally after he came to this world. He didn’t know whether it was Baldwin’s nature or the inferiority brought by leprosy, but he preferred to believe it was the former. There were plenty of patients who, afflicted with incurable diseases, gave themselves up to despair, filled with hatred for the entire world, especially those healthy and beautiful people.
They shouldn’t be condemned, which made Baldwin especially precious, not to mention his status far above others.
Caesar regarded Baldwin as an older brother regards a younger brother, and as a friend regards a confidant, especially since they were compatible in certain ways, sharing the same concepts and views. In this era, in this place, how precious that was, needing no words.
He had already seen Baldwin’s charred black hands.
Before meeting Caesar, Baldwin, like other boys his age, was neither good at nor enthusiastic about taking care of himself. An escort or knight might wear brightly colored clothes and a gold thread hairnet, but that didn’t stop them from spitting anywhere or urinating everywhere—let alone the younger boys, who sometimes even rolled in the mud with pigs.
Baldwin’s condition hadn’t progressed rapidly in these years, first because of the ointment prepared for him by Heraclius and Caesar together, and second because he strictly followed all the rules Caesar set for him, from dietary requirements to adjustments in sleep schedule, to the extremely frequent and elaborate cleaning work. It could be said that even an adult might not fully comply.
But Baldwin did it all. He was like a small tree infested with pests but still striving to stretch its branches and leaves to welcome sunlight and rain. Caesar watched those yellowing, curling leaves return to vibrant green; he knew how difficult and how fortunate Baldwin was.
No matter how heavy the prince’s studies were, how busy the escort’s work, or even if someone secretly mocked his care for his hands and face as womanish, he never wavered.
He knew he bore more than just his own health on his shoulders.
But today, he completely forgot Caesar and Heraclius’s instructions to him. He thrust those hands straight into the flames; the silk gloves immediately caught fire, igniting the skin inside and spreading to the sleeves and front of his robe.
He was the one most severely injured after Amalric I. Caesar didn’t dare imagine that if they could escape this palace, Baldwin might follow Amalric I in death.
Taking advantage of repelling another wave of enemies, the other generals and nobles, along with knights, hurriedly came to check on Amalric I. The king’s condition filled everyone with despair, yet they had to rally their spirits.
“Have they gone mad?” Bohemond spat on the ground. They had just used the curtains in the small room to extinguish part of the flames, but the toxic fumes kept pouring into the room.
The room had only one window, but they had toppled a cabinet to block it tightly. Otherwise, Saracens—eunuchs or soldiers—would jump in and try to kill them.
“But what good does this do them?” a knight muttered.
Hearing the mutter, Heraclius mockingly glanced at Shawwar lying on the ground.
He was no longer human-shaped. The flames ignited by petroleum naphtha were hotter and fiercer than those from charcoal or coal blocks, piercing soldiers’ leather armor or robes instantly, burning straight through skin and gnawing at muscle.
And Shawwar had been such a plump fat man; it was hard to say whether what burned on him was petroleum naphtha or his own fat.
But whether the noblest or the lowliest person, the most fair thing they had might be their lives—no more for the noblest, no less for the lowliest. For these people, the deal was too good; even church records would say the King of Ayyarasa Road died at the hands of a group of eunuchs.
Moreover, they had faith. He could almost imagine what Shawwar said to those who decided to stay in the city, turning themselves and the invading enemies alike into fuel for Hell.
He would say that no matter how lowly their previous status or what crimes they had committed, as long as they could bury the Saracens’ greatest enemy here completely, they would not only receive Allah’s forgiveness but become forerunners for every Saracen. In Heaven, the glory and blessings they received would even make the Caliph envious.
Everyone on earth would pray to them, begging their protection and blessing; they would leap from the mud of the underworld to become the moon and sun in Heaven.
As for how he knew, hey, because if he were Shawwar, he would say the same.
With such a promise, these people would go to their deaths with smiles, firmly believing they would get such a return. Compared to eternal Heaven, what was there to cling to in this world of suffering?
The not-so-sturdy small room endured wave after wave of attacks. If not for the only window being blocked and the great hall filled with snake-like flames, they would likely have been killed by these hidden enemies long ago.
Fortunately, Caesar returned to them at all costs. The favor granted by the saint seemed endless; holy radiance unfolded in the room like a fine silver net, protecting everyone. Except for Grand Duke of Antioch Bohemond, who still wore a strange half-smile, even stubborn Count Raymond of Tripoli had to nod slightly to him during combat breaks.
No one asked why he had left the banquet earlier.
Many had left the banquet; some still hadn’t returned, unsure if they were already dead or saw the big fire here and dared not approach.
Caesar not only returned but gave these noble persons the support they most needed now. They all had blessings, but they were trapped in a small room, Amalric I’s life hanging in the balance, Prince Baldwin injured, and many knights and escorts left outside, likely in grave peril.
They had come to the banquet; out of contempt for Shawwar, though wearing chainmail under velvet and silk robes, they hadn’t brought their most handy weapons, only daggers as meal knives and ceremonial long swords. Raymond had a short spear seized from a Saracen soldier, perfect for stabbing those trying to squeeze through doors and windows.
But the others were in much worse shape, especially with the smoke and poison gas making their eyes tear constantly. They tried not to speak, as the heat scorched their mouths and throats dry; even breathing felt like coals in their lungs. They desperately wanted water, but no water bottle was in the small room.
If not for a shred of reason, Raymond might have torn open Shawwar’s body to drink the not-yet-coagulated blood from his blood vessels.
“Watch out!” he suddenly shouted, raising the short spear. Someone was rushing through flames and smoke toward them, but then a knight let out a joyful cry. The newcomer wore no turban or great robe but Christian clothing; closer up, the conspicuous red hair let them immediately recognize his identity.
“It’s Aquitaine’s Ric… Arthur!” Raymond said joyfully.
Richard cut down all the Saracens surrounding the small room, then with others moved the furniture used as a barricade.
Seeing the people in the small room, Richard couldn’t hide his joy. On his way, he had met Stephen of Boulogne and Robert of Flanders; one group was led by Caesar’s servant—the wandering knight Longinus. Seeing the city aflame, they, like Richard, immediately thought the Grand Vizier Shawwar’s elaborate preparation was not a feast but a trap.
Even so, the long journey took time, but they made it…—Richard’s smile froze the next moment as he saw Amalric I lying in the corner and Baldwin beside him.
“God!” he groaned instinctively, but only once. The fire outside had lessened, but this wasn’t a place to linger. He rushed forward to pick up the king but didn’t know how to handle it.
No part of Amalric I was unscathed; Richard feared rough handling would make his body fall apart.
“A sedan chair, we need sedan chairs.” he said urgently, while Longinus had already rushed in with men, reacting more swiftly than anyone. He glanced at the situation and immediately ran out of the palace to fetch spears left by the Saracens.
They quickly made two simple sedan chairs from cloaks and two spears, placed Amalric I and Baldwin on them, and rapidly left this terrible Hell.
Shawwar’s plot succeeded; he destroyed the Crusaders’ commander, the King of Ayyarasa Road, the Christians’ hero, at his most glorious moment—a major blow to the Crusaders. But the plot wasn’t fully successful; the Crusaders’ key figures weren’t all caught in the net as he planned.
All bore light or heavy wounds, but after simple treatment by priests, they hurried back to Fustat city, trying to rally their knights and soldiers again.
Some thought of extinguishing the flames, but after passing the arches and overlooking the city again, they knew it was impossible.
How much petroleum naphtha had these damned heathens piled up?
No one knew, but they knew it had utterly consumed the city. Flames filled their view: trees burning, houses burning, people burning. They might wail, but the burning roared louder—the whole city blazed bright, a scorching red rivaling noon sun, swallowing the air over the city and muddling the dim moonlight.
“We must leave now!” Bohemond shouted. Who wouldn’t think so? The city was beyond saving.
When the flames first rose, some more vigilant knights, or those less attached to money, had already withdrawn with their escorts and servants, even exiting the city. Others, thinking they could revel freely, died in the fire due to drunkenness or reluctance to abandon looted money.
“We should have killed everyone in this city!” Raymond roared in anger. Bohemond just gave him an irritated glance. What use was saying that now? Besides, they hadn’t restricted the knights’ actions after entering Fustat. Whether slaughter, plunder, rape, or arson, they hadn’t stopped them.
But it was still a city of a hundred thousand.
Moreover, Shawwar was so cunning and treacherous. Who could imagine such a greedy, power-hungry villain having the boldness to use all of Fustat as a net one had to enter, even making himself bait? They had even met Caliph Atid—someone here had seen the Caliph; he really was… wait?
“Where is Caliph Atid?”
“Probably fled outside the city.” No one had paid attention to Shawwar’s puppet then. If they still needed to deal with Shawwar and others in the Fatimid court, they might superficially respect and value that young man. Now with Fustat in Christian hands, Atid was just an unimportant minor figure.
“Forget the Caliph,” Raymond said irritably. “Rally the men, then leave.”
He led toward the King’s Gate. Along the way, they worried Saracen soldiers might ambush, but none did. It seemed the Saracens thought flames would punish these hated enemies. They reached the King’s Gate; knights dismounted to push open the city gate. Bohemond frowned; he saw no soldiers who should be guarding here.
No torches lit the gloomy passage. Richard and Bohemond led; suddenly they stopped. Raymond, tending to the king and Prince Baldwin behind, cursed—the soldiers carrying the sedan chairs nearly bumped into him.
The sight before Richard and Bohemond was hardly unforeseeable.
On the open plain before the King’s Gate, under cobalt-blue sky and silver moonlight, stood silently a black army almost merging with the distant mountains.
