Chapter 121: First Battle (2) Bonus Chapter!

Sudden enemy attack was certainly not what Grand Master Philip of the Knights Templar wished to see, but it was not beyond his expectations.

After all, Ma Kabu Castle stood at the very front line of Alasaluh, facing directly against Saracen tribes and armies, suffering attacks of varying scale every month. He calmly ordered his subordinates to quickly gather the few residents and hunting knights outside the walls; fortunately, few people lived near the castle, and the patrolling and hunting knights never strayed far.

Amid rolling dust, residents either ran on foot or rode donkeys and mules, while a lone caravan arrived with carts piled high with jars—unknown whether oil or wine. The knights outside did not rush into the castle but instead circled warily nearby; fortunately, the attackers did not pursue, instead watching from afar.

Philip watched as the iron gate lowered and the drawbridge rose, then turned and reentered the castle.

The brave knight had already drunk wine and received treatment from clerics; his worst wound was a penetrating thrust—clearly from the short spears commonly used by Saracens. Fortunately, no vital vessels or organs were damaged. He was a blessed knight, which allowed him to struggle back alive.

“That’s because they didn’t care about me,” the knight admitted honestly. “They aren’t the usual small bands of tribesmen or bandits who attack us.” This sounded like good news, but his next words turned all faces grim: “It’s a large army.” He smiled bitterly. “At least ten thousand strong—vast, endless.”

No one present would be foolish enough to doubt the knight’s words. The knight took a deep breath: “I was riding up a hilltop, looking down, when I saw dust stretching across the sky. They were passing right beneath me. I froze for a long while before remembering to flee—only to be spotted by a wandering Bedouin cavalryman.”

I think he rode back to report this to his commander. Soon, a small detachment broke off from the great army and came after me. I fled…” Here he hesitated slightly, glancing nervously at Grand Master Philip. He was young, still new to the Templars, yet he knew that fleeing in battle was despised and punished within the Order.

Fortunately, Philip merely waved his hand. “You didn’t stay to fight because you came to deliver news. That doesn’t prove you lack courage or value your life. The information you brought is worth more than a hundred enemy heads.”

The knight showed a flicker of gratitude and relief, then continued: “But when I saw the castle, their pursuit slowed. Before entering, the last thing I saw was them reining in, watching from afar.”

——————

“He is a knight of Ma Kabu Castle,” Nureddin said. “I know that castle.”

When the commander sent men to chase the knight, it wasn’t merely to kill him. On their march, the sudden appearance of a Christian knight raised questions: Was this coincidence, accident, or design? Was he alone, leading an army, or from a castle?

The Bedouin cavalry detachment soon returned to report: the knight had entered Ma Kabu Castle.

Ma Kabu Castle was a familiar place to them—a small fortress, yet a tightly driven nail. After hearing their report, Nureddin casually waved his hand and ordered a thousand-man force to take it.

This was not negligence. No one knew the King of Alasaluh was inside. Merchants might know the king’s whereabouts, but intelligence traveled slowly—often delayed by days, even weeks or months.

Before launching his campaign, Nureddin had studied every fortress along this line in detail: wall heights, gate counts, number of knights and soldiers, how many knights had received blessings—all known to him.

Ma Kabu Castle held about fifty Templar knights, their squires and armed retainers roughly triple that number, plus servants and residents. But only two knights had received blessings. Nureddin gave no thought to such a minor obstacle. A thousand men, five Fatih (officers, usually tribal chiefs) blessed by the Prophet—everyone agreed this would be an easy victory.

The thousand men were swiftly dispatched, like a stream branching from a great river, winding toward Ma Kabu Castle. The vast army ahead marched on, undisturbed.

If Baldwin III, who had once fought Nureddin, were still here, he would sigh. His old enemy had grown old.

Twenty years ago—or even ten—Nureddin would never have overlooked this detail. But age and illness had drained him. Yes, he had done the unthinkable: dragging his crumbling, death-bound body into this long, grueling campaign. The cost? He burned like the last candle—its bright flame not vitality, but final defiance.

Unlike kings or caliphs centuries later, as commander, Sultan Nureddin had to remain mounted the moment he left his palace. Whether under scorching sun or biting night wind, he stood like a banner before all.

If he showed fatigue, if he sat in a palanquin or carriage, his emirs and fatih would mock him in secret, growing contemptuous and lax. His authority in the army would crumble.

If he were attacking an ordinary, peaceful village, perhaps it would suffice. But he was assaulting the holy stronghold of Alasaluh. No siege ever yielded quick or easy results. They would face every obstacle: armies sallying from gates, towering walls, civilians determined to die.

Nureddin had sworn to the Saracens: if he ever entered Alasaluh, he would slaughter every soul there to repay the blood debt the Crusaders owed.

He was the pillar, the banner, the “Light of Faith.” He would leave a will: even if he fell, even if he died, they must carry his body into Alasaluh. Amalric I had used his death to allow the Crusader main force to retreat safely from burning Fostat. He, too, could use his death to inspire his army to reclaim this holy city from the Crusaders.

But if he fell before seeing hope, his death would be worthless.

So no matter how weary, how weak, he insisted on riding beside his soldiers on long marches. Even in his tent, discussing strategy with emirs, he stood straight, his lion-like white hair and beard wild and majestic, as stern and dignified as ever—making them dare not meet his gaze.

But such endurance came at a cost. Human energy is finite. When most of it went into maintaining his posture, little remained for his mind.

He missed his victory.

——————

Ma Kabu Castle held only fifty Templar knights and a hundred soldiers. But since Grand Master Philip accompanied the king on his tour, they could not possibly have been accompanied by so few. Thus, the castle now held not fifty, but one hundred thirty Templar knights.

Accompanying the king were one hundred fifty knights of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre—the king himself their grand master. Most crucially, at least a third of these knights had received blessings and were deeply favored by the saints. Not to mention those like Baldwin and Cesar—whose presence was less divine favor than saintly incarnation.

When it was confirmed the attacking force numbered only a thousand, Grand Master Philip’s expression eased. The enemy clearly did not know the King of Alasaluh was inside. He stopped Baldwin and Cesar: “It’s not that I won’t let you fight.”

Cesar might be acceptable—some knights could share the saint’s favor with comrades—but the King’s Spear of Saint George was too unique. Once displayed on the battlefield—especially alongside Cesar—the world would immediately recall the two knights who had shone in Egypt. The king’s secret would be exposed at once.

The outcome was certain. When Ma Kabu’s gates opened and knights poured out, the Fatih of the thousand-man force felt confusion. They had expected the knights to hold the castle, forcing a long siege—but perhaps this wasn’t bad. He might still reach the assault on Alasaluh.

Nureddin had sworn to kill every soul in Alasaluh, meaning they could plunder without restraint. A century of accumulation had turned once-desolate Alasaluh into a city of gold. Their tribes were so poor that even the humblest things were precious, rare.

Every man in the Sultan’s army, from emir to lowest slave-soldier, anticipated the spoils of war. This thousand-man force had no interest in the barren little fortress of Ma Kabu.

But when the Fatih snapped out of his daydream, he saw the knights pouring from the gate far exceeded fifty—even counting squires, the number was too great.

He glanced at his deputy; both immediately placed hands on shoulders, praying for the Prophet’s revelation.

Meanwhile, the unexpectedly large force suddenly accelerated. Beneath their flowing cloaks and mantles, deadly glimmers flickered one by one. The Fatih’s eyes widened—he could scarcely believe it!

The knights charged in columns of twelve, each man’s weapon and armor glowing with despairing radiance. The light on him and his deputy paled beside it—like fireflies beside the full moon.

“Cursed liar!” he roared—then was flung backward by a tremendous force. The leader landed hard, rose instantly by the Prophet’s blessing, and drew his curved blade.

But a knight behind him lowered his lance. One thrust pierced his shoulder—exactly where the messenger knight had been wounded.

But he was not so lucky. The lance’s immense kinetic force, combined with the saint’s power invested in the weapon, split him open. His head and half his shoulder flew into the air; he saw his own lower body still blindly, futilely slashing. When he fell into dust, trampled by hooves, his thousand-man force was collapsing.

They were deceived—that was his final thought.

Philip closely watched the battlefield. He must not only defeat these Saracens—it was inevitable—but he must leave no survivor to return and warn the Sultan. Nureddin might be old, dull—but once he learned dozens of blessed knights dwelled in this tiny Ma Kabu Castle, he would instantly deduce the new King of Alasaluh was here.

He would turn immediately, kill or capture Baldwin IV.

Though the people of Alasaluh would resist to the last without their king—none wished to die by Saracen blades—the king’s capture or death before the decisive battle would be a crushing blow to the Christians.

Fortunately, while the knights clashed with the Saracens, another force had quietly circled behind the enemy, forming a loose but complete encirclement. Every Saracen who tried to flee through their spears and crossbows faced despair—and once they eliminated the scattered stragglers, they would strike from both sides, annihilating the enemy completely.

Moreover, a small squad of blessed Crusader knights, with heightened hearing and sight, rode ahead to ensure no one escaped. They moved with extreme caution, avoiding the alarm that had stirred Nureddin’s main army before.

“Now we must return to Alasaluh as quickly as possible,” Philip said. “I will write immediately to Raymond and Bohemond, urging them to turn back.”

Yet he doubted it would happen. Nureddin must have been certain the Crusader main force had left Alasaluh before daring this strike. Add the time spent on the march… even if Raymond and Bohemond turned back at once, it would be too late. And Nureddin would likely ally with Mule—should the Crusaders leave their backs exposed to Mule, he would not miss the chance.

He spoke and hurried away—much remained to be done.

Baldwin remained silent. Philip’s advice was correct. Even his father, Amalric I, would now return to Alasaluh first and prepare for defense.

“Do you have the map?” he asked.

“I do,” Cesar replied. Since they were touring and inspecting defenses, they naturally carried a map. Cesar had prepared well—he had spent the journey meticulously redrawing a more accurate, detailed map from original sources.

Before reaching Ma Kabu Castle, he had copied and organized it nearly complete. Unfurled, it was far larger and far more precise than the original parchment—a modern, scaled map with contour lines and water sources. No decorative flourishes. At first glance, one might mistake it for two maps.

Baldwin easily found their position—Ma Kabu Castle—then looked downward. Beneath them lay the Sea of Galilee.

The Sea of Galilee was not a sea, but a vast freshwater lake. The Jordan River flowed north to south through it, fed by underground springs, never drying. Its western shore was Nazareth, the city where Jesus spent his childhood and youth—a famous holy site.

Below Nazareth lay two highlands: Manasseh and Ephraim. Beyond them lay Alasaluh. They had come this way, but now, to avoid Nureddin’s army, they might turn west and follow the coast back to Alasaluh.

“We can return, of course—but… must we return?”

If anyone else asked this, Baldwin would assume fear—dread of returning to the perilous city. But if Cesar asked, he knew his closest friend thought exactly as he did.

If they hurried back to Alasaluh, they would be entirely passive—waiting for Nureddin’s army, waiting for Raymond and Bohemond’s uncertain relief, waiting for the worst outcome.

They would not imagine Nureddin would willingly abandon this long-fermented wine. Amalric I’s second attack on Egypt was a desperate gamble. Nureddin’s assault on Alasaluh at life’s end was the same.

Amalric I could retreat because he had already drained Bibles and Fostat. Could Nureddin afford the wages for tens of thousands? Even the half-slave, half-soldier Nubians fought for pay.

“First, we must convince Grand Master Philip.”

“He may think us mad.”

“But we must try,” Baldwin said.

The merchants’ reports were likely correct—Nureddin launched this campaign precisely during the gap between Alasaluh’s old and new kings.

Yet strangely, even Baldwin and Cesar, with limited knowledge, sensed his haste and urgency. Alasaluh was a stronger fortress than Fostat. Amalric I spent three years preparing to attack Fostat.

How long had Nureddin prepared? Months ago, he was still fighting another Syrian faction.

He could wait no longer.

And could such a frail ruler’s army truly be as invincible as everyone believed?

Not necessarily.

Baldwin solidified his resolve. He nodded slightly to Cesar. Cesar stepped swiftly to the door, summoned a knight, and requested Grand Master Philip come at once. “Quickly,” he said.

This “quickly” was not meant for Grand Master Philip alone.

(End of Chapter)