Chapter 95: Death Of The King
“It’s Ilghazi and his nephew Saladin,” Bohemond said in a low voice, as if afraid of startling something formidable.
Richard’s eyes widened in astonishment, “Didn’t they already retreat to Damascus according to the will of their Sultan Nur al-Din? How can they be here?”
It was evident that whether bribed by Shawar or acting on their own ambition, these two Kurd uncle and nephew did not follow Sultan Nur al-Din’s will or Amalric I’s hope to abandon Fustat and retreat to Damascus.
The merchants they sent to gather intelligence were either deceived or bought off—the news they spread was false, and these uncle and nephew and their army might have been hiding in Giza or some nearby city.
They waited quietly, like a seasoned and patient hunter. They watched them attack Fustat until the city fell, and then, as if signaled, the fire rising from Fustat indicated that Shawar’s conspiracy had succeeded, and their task was to stand between them and Bilbeis during the Christians’ disheveled retreat.
“Do we retreat?” Richard asked. Although he had sworn to kill every Saracen he saw, his great-uncle and his uncle were still lying in the sedan chairs behind them. Once combat began, not only would they surely die, but those behind them would not even have a chance to escape.
“Wait, perhaps things aren’t that bad yet,” Bohemond said.
After a while, they saw an Arabian horse gallop out from the cavalry formation opposite. Even in the dim light, its coat was shiny and its legs were strong and powerful. The Saracen riding it wore a long black robe and a matching headscarf. Although tall, his hair was gray and his beard was like frost.
“Ilghazi,” Bohemond reminded him, and then spurred his horse forward.
In a previous campaign, Amalric I’s first attack on Egypt, they had seen each other on the battlefield but had not engaged directly. At that time, Amalric I, who was now lying in the sedan chair behind, was fighting Ilghazi.
Ilghazi scanned him from head to toe with eyes as sharp as a falcon’s, nodded slightly, but did not salute. This arrogant demeanor angered Bohemond, but he was helpless.
They were clearly at a disadvantage. If the Christians did not still have Bilbeis, they would have long since become captives or fallen to the swords of these Saracens.
“Ilghazi,” the other party simply stated his name. Bohemond hesitated, “Bohemond, Duke of Antioch.”
“Where is your king?” Ilghazi asked. This question stirred up a swarm of venomous thorns in Bohemond’s heart. He revealed a malicious smile, “You want to see our king? What a pity,” he said, “probably not.” He gestured slightly behind him, “He’s almost like a dead man now.”
Ilghazi paused slightly. He knew about Shawar’s plan. Shawar had not hidden his intentions from him; to lure these detestable Christians into a trap, Ilghazi and Saladin could not remain in Fustat.
Of course, Shawar hoped to see them both suffer heavy losses. It was a pity that Ilghazi and Saladin were never people whose thinking was so rigid as to be foolish. They were loyal to Zengi’s Nur al-Din, but like two strong leopards following a fierce lion, their obedience was limited to when Nur al-Din was still a strongman.
Since their second arrival in Fustat, Shawar was certain that these two Kurds were no longer as afraid of Nur al-Din in Syria.
Indeed, Nur al-Din had been a wise and brilliant ruler of his generation. Unfortunately, he was too old, now in his late fifties, nearing sixty, and reportedly always gravely ill. Most terrifyingly, he had no successor.
Yes, he had sons, but none of them could compare to him, not even one-tenth. They never looked beyond the court, only craving what was in their father’s hands. But they could not be blamed for this; after all, Nur al-Din possessed too much—Syria, Damascus, Edessa…
Such a vast territory, let alone Nur al-Din having only three sons, even if he had thirty, it would be enough for them to divide and enjoy to their heart’s content. And their foolishness and Nur al-Din’s weakness were first discovered by Ilghazi and Saladin. Nur al-Din also seemed unable to keep them by his side with peace of mind, which led to the first and second distant expeditions.
Therefore, if Shawar wanted them to leave the city first and fight the high-spirited Crusaders, Ilghazi would not listen to his orders. But as soon as he saw the fire rising from Fustat, he knew that this expeditionary army was at its most vulnerable and desperate.
Only Amalric I’s severe injury, even his supposed death, was beyond Ilghazi’s expectation. He thought that even without Caesar, those people should have been able to ensure their ruler’s safety—what useless fellows, he thought to himself, or perhaps it was the infighting and scheming among these Christians.
At least this man before him showed no respect for their king, almost to the point of being malicious. He easily told Ilghazi that the Christian king was at his last breath—Ilghazi glanced behind him and indeed saw those two simple sedan chairs.
“Two of them?”
“And one for our Prince Baldwin. He’s not dead yet, but he’s seriously wounded—it’s laughable. They weren’t injured in a fierce war, but fell victim to your vile conspiracy,” Bohemond said in an overly calm tone. “But if you think you can win without a fight because of this, Saracens, you are dreaming.” he stated firmly.
Although Amalric I had lost the ability to lead troops in battle, they still had Raymond, Bohemond, and other noble military personnel. And as they were talking, knights who had been emerging from the city gate had already re-formed ranks and raised their flags.
In the flickering firelight, they were as silent as Ilghazi’s army. But in this silence, there was an irresistible pressure. Ilghazi knew that these knights must have been filled with anger. Although they were the invaders, did they think that the resistance of the people of Fustat was justified?
Of course not. They would only be surprised by the stubbornness of the residents here and swear to kill every Saracen they saw from now on.
The injury to Amalric I and his heir Baldwin could not be entirely considered good news, even for the Saracens—these knights must have already been filled with indignation, only thinking of avenging their ruler who had been subjected to a despicable scheme. Once war broke out, they might gain an advantage, but they would inevitably suffer heavy losses.
Moreover, a portion of the Crusaders remained stationed at Bilbeis. Not to mention, their original objective was not to kill these Christians.
“So, negotiation?” Bohemond asked. After a long while, he saw Ilghazi nod indifferently, “Negotiation.”
Then, he turned his horse and galloped back into his army amidst the swirling dust.
Bohemond saw him say a few words to a younger Saracen, who was likely his nephew Saladin. The latter pondered for a moment and then nodded in agreement, after which Bohemond suddenly relaxed, feeling dizzy.
His posture just now had been deliberately put on.
Bohemond knew very well that the continuous siege warfare, the killing and feasting after entering the city, and the fear and shock brought by the fire had already caused most of the knights to lose their courage to fight.
He admitted that there were some young men among them with strong will and brave temperament, but he also had to admit that there were more fools who annoyed even him. He could not be sure if they would collapse at the first sign of contact if they truly faced Ilghazi and Saladin head-on.
Moreover, war with infidels was entirely different from war with Christians. He might be captured, become a prisoner, and then, like his stepfather Reynald of Châtillon, and as he himself had experienced, be imprisoned in a Saracen jail for ten years or more.
It was possible he wouldn’t have such luck, and would be killed directly on the battlefield by the Saracens, or fall under their horses and be trampled to death.
It was even more likely that to appease the populace in Fustat, he would be brought out and have his head cut off under their gaze. Such a thing had happened before.
Richard watched Bohemond wheel his horse around. Although he would not fear any war with infidels, at this moment, he also wished for a negotiation.
It goes without saying that even Raymond’s heart was filled with mixed emotions when he received this result. In the morning, he had been happily looking down at the city, even having a wild thought of staying in Bilbeis.
Fustat undoubtedly belonged to Amalric I, that was beyond question. But he did not believe that Bohemond, the weakest and most cowardly among them, could bear the heavy responsibility of Bilbeis.
But fate’s taunts always came so quickly. In just one day and night, their honor, city, and spoils of war were all reduced to ashes. He could not be sure how many knights had escaped Fustat, nor did he know how to explain this to other generals—this was certainly the work of the cunning Saracens, but their excessive carelessness and negligence were also true.
With a feeling of unease, he glanced again at Amalric I, who was still lying unconscious in the sedan chair, and finally settled his gaze on Baldwin. The prince had been anxiously watching his father.
Although it was decided to negotiate with the Saracens, Raymond was unsure of the outcome of the negotiation. Moreover, he was not the king. When Bohemond looked over, Raymond turned his head away, not wanting Bohemond to see his expression at that moment.
Because he remembered Bohemond had said that if Amalric I died and Baldwin also died, then the person closest to the throne would be him.
“Father!” Baldwin suddenly shouted. They found that Amalric I had woken up.
Although he had received treatment from the priests, the fire poison had already deeply penetrated the king’s skin, muscles, and even bones. As soon as he woke up, the pain was so intense that he wanted to faint immediately. But as soon as he saw the corridor illuminated by the knights’ torches, he knew what had happened.
He recognized this place. When he rode his horse through here, he had looked around carefully and thoroughly, just as he did every time he entered the Jaffa Gate.
He wanted to speak, but his voice was so hoarse that no one could understand what he was saying, only watching his lips move.
Fortunately, Heraclius had already dismounted and hurried over. He took Amalric I’s hand—careful not to touch the still festering wounds—and then quietly told him the general situation—they had escaped the Royal Palace, Baldwin and others had suffered some injuries, but their lives were not in danger.
Knights, escorts, and servants who survived the fire, along with other Christians, were heading towards the King’s Gate. From what could be seen now, at least one-third of the knights had managed to escape. This was not good news, but it was better than total annihilation.
Amalric I managed a grim smile. His eyes rolled slightly, and he saw Baldwin approaching, his hands wrapped in white bandages, which immediately stung Amalric I’s eyes.
The king remembered what his son had done—at that time, only Baldwin had rushed over, ignoring the burning flames, wanting only to separate him from Shawar. He wanted to comfort this child, but he had more important things to do at this moment.
Amalric I raised a finger. Heraclius followed his gaze and saw the signet ring on that finger, bearing the seal of the King of Ayyarasa Road. He placed his finger on the ring. Seeing that Amalric I did not object, he took the ring off and held it in his hand.
“I and…” Heraclius looked around and whispered, “Raymond?”
Amalric I shook his head. Heraclius understood his meaning, “Bohemond.”
The king nodded unhappily. He did not like Bohemond, but at this moment, only these two could be trusted. Compared to others, they also understood the Saracens better, especially Ilghazi and Saladin.
The Saracens and the Christians quickly set up a large tent in front of the King’s Gate. This tent would serve as the negotiation site. Amalric I and Baldwin were temporarily moved to another tent not far from the negotiation location.
Before the negotiation, Heraclius specifically administered the last rites to Amalric I, even anointing him, to prevent Amalric I from suddenly dying due to his inability to endure during the subsequent negotiations.
For the people at this time, dying without receiving the last rites was the most terrifying form of “death.” Not only would Amalric I go to hell in the future, but all the priests present, including Heraclius, would be held accountable by the Church.
The most serious consequence would be that they might be stripped of their holy office and excommunicated from the Church, as they had failed to fulfill their due duties and allowed a dying person to be alone.
Heraclius walked out of the tent. The king stared at the lowered tent flap for a while and suddenly shouted, “Caesar!”
