Chapter 125: First Battle (6) (Special Thanks to Patron THEBIRO)

Ali was just an ordinary slave, the lowest rank in the Sultan’s army—these slaves, with their dark skin and upward-curled hair, were neither Saracens nor Turks or Kurds who had long served and earned trust; they were merely slaves.

This history had been passed down for over a thousand years among the Nubians: they once served as vanguards for the Carthaginians, then as rear guards for the Romans, and now they were “hired” by the Sultan and Caliph; as slaves, they bore countless duties beyond combat—for the Saracens, they were the sand thrown into mud during rain, or the dried herbs burned to drive away mosquitoes; no matter how many were lost, it was never worth lamenting.

In battle, their losses were always the greatest; once, a Fatah openly said that even exchanging a hundred Nubians for a single Christian knight would be worth it.

But would they grow angry or harbor thoughts of rebellion? No; their simple minds held no room for such things.

Though the lowest in the Sultan’s army, he was the noblest before unarmed civilians—just as he still clearly remembered the shocked, terrified, and sorrowful eyes of the white-robed villagers they had stormed and burned; they crawled beneath his horse’s hooves, begging for mercy, yet he had come only to slaughter.

He cut off their heads, old and child alike, seized their possessions; unfortunately, this village held almost nothing of value—he ended up with only a few garments; as for the precious books, he didn’t even glance at them, leaving them inside the house to be swallowed by flames.

But to Ali, the splashing blood and countless cries were his greatest reward—ignoring the Sultan’s pay. His strength and brutality caught the eye of a Kurdish captain, who transferred him to his side and promised that if Ali showed greater strength and courage in the upcoming siege of Alasal, he would elevate Ali, freeing him from slavery and making him a soldier of the Sultan.

A soldier of the Sultan—what a glorious title! Though simple-minded, he had heard how a lowly man could rise through talent to become an Emir or Viceroy; the chance lay before him, making him feverish, unable to sleep.

Perhaps it was because, since becoming the Kurd’s attendant, he now slept inside a tent—the enclosed space made him uneasy.

As a slave, he had lain sprawled across the open field with other hired Nubians.

Though dozens still crowded the tent, the feeling was utterly different—as if something had been added and something taken away; he quietly slipped out, gazing at the black, endless sky; it violated military law, yet he dared it, only not venturing far.

He hid in the tent’s shadow; his black skin concealed him well; he told himself it was only for a moment, as he stared toward the other side of Lake Tiberias.

It was roughly the hour before dawn; the moon had sunk, the stars no longer glimmered; where the lake had once reflected the heavens like bright eyes, it now appeared as a black, gaping hole—as if it could swallow all; one glance filled Ali with terror, and he turned away.

Not only the lake had become terrifying—the hills on the other side had grown inscrutable. During daytime marches, they had seen only low, brownish hills, not high or steep, sparsely vegetated, with scattered olive trees or other shrubs he couldn’t name.

They stood so close to the lake that only a narrow road remained—barely wide enough for four carts to pass side by side; accommodating their army of nearly twenty thousand was difficult.

Their column stretched into long, thin segments; if he were a falcon soaring above, he would see distinct sections—from the lowest to the noblest—each encampment separated by fences and guards.

His position was far from the Sultan—even from the Kurdish leader’s camp—and he had no idea how long it would take to cover these mere hundreds of feet.

This lucky Nubian cast one final glance at the hills; in the deep night, they had suddenly grown towering—Ali even felt they were giants asleep, like the legends of his tribe, waiting only for the Devil to whip them awake, whereupon they would rise and crush the camp, burying them all.

Ali shook his head, trying to rid himself of the dreadful thought; but as his head moved, he glimpsed a glimmer of silver—moonlight? Or dawn’s first light? He couldn’t tell, only strained to look, and without realizing it, stood up.

The patrol soldiers spotted him; they were about to shout curses and drag him to a stake outside camp, to be whipped, exposed to sun, starved and deprived of water the next day, as a warning to all who broke discipline.

But when they followed his gaze, they too seemed struck dumb by Iblis (the Saracen devil); what did they see?

Firelight—point after point—rising along the ridge of the hills; to the left, no end; to the right, no end; and within the flames, flickering, leaping, surging holy white light. They had seen this light on battlefields before—it meant God’s blessing and the Prophet’s revelation, a power beyond mortal reach—even though their faiths differed.

The patrol sergeant nearly screamed—but old training kicked in; he shoved his finger into his throat and smothered the cry in its cradle.

It was the cusp of night and dawn; even nocturnal beasts had returned to their dens—most of the camp slept; if they merely caught a fool dozing outside his tent, no great alarm would follow. But if someone screamed, raised an alert, or shouted for battle, they would not achieve their goal—instead, panic would erupt.

He didn’t shout—but the black soldier standing outside the tent did: “Enemies! Enemies! The enemy is here!”

In the silent night, that scream pierced dozens of tents; everyone inside stirred. Perhaps they didn’t grasp the words or understand what had happened—but their first instinct was to grip their weapons. In this age of scarcity, how many could see clearly in the dark?

They could not discern their surroundings; they rushed out of their tents, fearing death in these soft graves; yet even outside, countless figures surrounded them—who were they? Friend or foe? Tongues clashed across the camp, summoning more; the chaos spread like ripples from a stone dropped in water—instantly, it surged everywhere.

Even if someone could see in the dark or lit torches, they could not control the situation; atop the hills, which had seemed unimposing by day, Death now stared coldly upon them.

Compared to the Saracens’ panic, the Crusaders’ morale soared; as night fell, they knelt before the True Cross under Baldwin IV’s command, praying; priests performed Mass for them.

Moreover, after Mass, Baldwin IV generously took a fragment of the True Cross, ground it to powder, mixed it into a chalice of holy water, and made each man drink; instantly, they felt invigorated, sharp-witted, capable of anything—even charging a ten-thousand-strong line held no fear.

Before lighting torches, they had already knelt in prayer, securing the saints’ favor; as if sensing what lay ahead, no knight’s weapon glowed dimly—even those whose blessings had been faint now blazed with light.

A Templar knight stationed at Ma Kabu Castle, intently watching the enemy, felt something softly brush his shoulder; he looked down and saw a semi-transparent chainmail covering him, each link gleaming; he involuntarily reached out to touch it—his fingers passed through, as if it were a phantom.

Another Templar beside him saw it, immediately tapped the armor with his spear; it rang like metal striking stone. “What is this?” he asked in astonishment.

This Templar had once climbed the walls with Cesar and others during the campaign; he knew exactly what it was.

“You’re lucky,” he grinned. “We’re close to the King, so the ‘Little Saint’s’ protection has also fallen upon you. Think of it as a second layer of chainmail—arrows cannot pierce it, and it will save you from heavy maces or axes. And it will last far longer than you think—until this war ends, it won’t vanish.”

“But if struck too many times, it will dim or shatter—then you’re on your own.”

The Templar from Ma Kabu stared in disbelief—not because it was insufficient, but because it was too much. Once, Count Etienne had shared his shield, but its duration only allowed men to sprint a few hundred feet before fading, unable to withstand even a few wolf attacks; other knights were much the same—yet this power…

He instinctively glanced around and saw the soft white glow covering at least a hundred knights. “My God,” he whispered, “I swear by the Lord—is this even human power?”

Of course not.

Philip, Grand Master of the Templars, lowered his gaze. When men saw Baldwin IV charging across the battlefield, invincible, they marveled at the Spear of Saint George, radiant as gathered sunlight.

But for knights, the spear might kill enemies—but not all. What truly saved their lives in battle were shields and chainmail; naturally, they praised their king—Baldwin IV was indeed a valiant knight, willing to obey his orders.

Yet during the campaign, he had noticed that whether Templars, Hospitallers, or even foreign knights, all treated Cesar with greater warmth, clustering closer to him. It was human nature: people gladly followed heroes, but if possible, they wished to become heroes themselves.

The greatest prerequisite to becoming a hero is not dying—especially before earning sufficient merit. So long as you live, even if you lose armor, horse, and retinue, you can rise again; as long as your courage remains unbroken. But if you lose your life, you lose everything.

Now he could understand Walter and Geoffrey—but time allowed no more thought; the young King Baldwin IV, mounted on horseback, raised his lance—a bright banner against the dark sky, unextinguished even by firelight; all saw it.

“By the will of God!”

Baldwin IV cried; his voice was not loud, yet piercing. All heard it—and echoed back, “God grants us glory!”

“For God, not for us!”

“Alasal!”

They spurred their horses; the steeds began a slow trot, then burst into full gallop, charging straight down the gentle slope, surging with dust and momentum—as if in an instant, they had plunged into the Saracen camp.

Before them lay only crude fortifications, rough fences, tents, and the men inside—many still half-asleep, others already trampling and killing each other.

The first rank of knights, led by Baldwin IV and Cesar, were all chosen and richly blessed; their horses wore heavy armor, their chainmail and weapons shrouded in deadly white light; these enemies of the Saracens tore through the camp as effortlessly as ripping through rotten linen, cleaving it cleanly in two!

(End of Chapter)