Chapter 125

Ali was just an ordinary slave. In the Sultan's army, they were the lowest class. These slaves with obvious characteristics—black skin, topknots—were neither Saracens nor Turks or Kurds who had gained trust because they had followed the Saracens for a long time. They were just slaves.

And such history had been passed down for thousands of years among the Nubians. They had served as vanguards for the Carthaginians, later as rearguards for the Romans, and now they accepted the "hiring" of the Sultan and the Caliph. As slaves, they also had to undertake many tasks other than fighting—for the Saracens, they were sand thrown into the mud during rainy days, or dry herbs burned when driving away mosquitoes. No matter how much they lost, it was not worth pitying.

And in battle, their losses were often the greatest. There was once a Fatah who said without concealment that if Nubians could be used to exchange for Crusader knights, even if one hundred were exchanged for one, it would be worth it.

But would you say they would be angry or have thoughts of resistance? No, his simple mind could not hold so many things.

Although he was the humblest in the Sultan's army, he was the noblest in front of those unarmed civilians, just like a village they had attacked and burned not long ago. He still clearly remembered the bewildered, terrified, and sad eyes of those wearing white robes—they crawled under his horse's hooves begging for forgiveness, but he had come for slaughter.

He cut off their heads, whether they were old or children, and looted their property. Unfortunately, there was almost nothing decent in this village. In the end, he only got a few pieces of clothing. As for those precious books, he didn't even look at them and left them in the house, swallowed by the flames together.

But for Ali, those splashing blood and countless wailings were the best rewards he got—if the commission the Sultan gave them was not counted. His strength and brutality were favored by a Kurdish captain, who transferred him to his side and promised that if he could show more strength and courage in the subsequent siege of Jerusalem, he would promote Ali, let him get rid of his slave status, and become a soldier of the Sultan.

A warrior of the Sultan, what a pleasant title. Although he was simple-minded, he had also heard of how a humble little person could step by step become an Emir or a vizier by relying on his own talent—the opportunity had been placed in front of him, making him feel hot all over and unable to sleep.

Or perhaps it was because he was able to sleep in a tent after becoming a follower of the Kurds, and he was not used to the overly closed environment.

When he was a slave, he slept in the wilderness with other Nubians who were also hired.

Although dozens of people were squeezed into the tent, the feeling was completely different, as if something was added and something was missing. He quietly drilled out of the tent and looked at the dark night sky. This was against military law, but he still did it boldly, just not walking too far.

He hid in the shadow of the tent, and his black skin hid this Nubian very well. He told himself it was only for a little while. He looked toward the side of the Sea of Galilee (Lake Tiberias).

It was about the time before dawn now. The moon had set, and the stars were no longer twinkling. Compared to the lake surface when he went to sleep, the bright eyes that once reflected the sky had become a dark hole, as if it could swallow everything. After just one look, Ali turned his head in terror.

Not only was the lake surface terrifying, but the hills on the other side also became unpredictable. When marching in the daylight, what they saw were just yellow-brown hills. They were not high, nor were they so steep, and there was not much vegetation cover, only scattered olive trees or other shrubs whose species he did not know.

They were very close to the lake surface, so close that only a main road was left, and this main road could only accommodate four carriages driving side by side. It was still a bit difficult to accommodate their army of nearly twenty thousand people.

Their team was pulled into one long section after another. If he were a hawk, able to fly in the sky and look down, he would see several distinct sections, from the humblest to the noblest, and every camp had fences and guards separated.

And his current position, not to mention the Sultan, was still a distance from the Kurdish leader's camp, and he did not know how long it would take him to finish this short distance of a few hundred feet.

This lucky Nubian finally took a look at the hills. In the middle of the night, they suddenly became tall. Ali even felt that they were a group of sleeping giants—just like the legends circulating in his tribe, just waiting for the devil to whip them, they would immediately stand up, tilt toward their camp, and bury them all here.

Ali couldn't help but shake his head, wanting to shake this terrible thought out, but while shaking his head, he seemed to see a touch of silver. Was it moonlight? Or was it the morning light that arrived at an unknown time? He could not be sure and could only try his best to look there. Unknowingly, he even stood up.

This action was discovered by the patrolling soldiers. They were about to curse loudly, intending to catch him, tie him to a wooden stake outside the camp, and whip, expose, and cut off food and water in front of everyone the next day, letting everyone see what kind of end those who did not follow the rules would have.

But when they looked along his line of sight, they were also like being deprived of reaction and thinking by Iblis (the Saracen devil). What did they see?

Firelight, one point of firelight after another, was rising on the top of the continuous hills. Looking to the left, they couldn't see the end, and looking to the right, they couldn't see the end. And in the firelight, holy white light was flashing, jumping, and surging. They had seen too much of this light on the battlefield. It represented God's blessing and the Prophet's revelation, representing power that transcended mortals—even if their faiths were different.

The patrol squad leader almost screamed, but the training in the past played a role. He put his finger into his throat and strangled that scream in the cradle.

It was now the junction of night and dawn, even nocturnal animals had returned to their nests to sleep—most people in the camp were sleeping. If they only caught a fool who was dazed outside the camp, they would not be too disturbed. But if someone screamed, warned, or even shouted for them to fight, not only could they not achieve the original goal, but they would trigger a panic.

Did he not shout? But he forgot the black soldier who was dazed outside the camp, and he screamed, "It's the enemy! It's the enemy! The enemy is here!"

In a dead-silent night, this scream pierced dozens of tents like a horn. Everyone inside moved. Perhaps they couldn't understand the meaning of the words at all, and didn't know what happened, but their first reaction was to hold their weapons in their hands. And in this era of material scarcity, how many people could see things clearly in the dark night?

They couldn't distinguish the situation around them and could only rush out of the tent as soon as possible, lest they die in this soft grave. But even if they rushed out of the tent, there were countless people around. Who were they? Were they friends or enemies? Various languages echoed in the camp, calling up more people. This situation was like a stone thrown into a lake, stirring up ripples, and it spread in an instant.

Even if someone could see things in the dark night or light a torch, they couldn't control the situation. On the top of the hills that didn't look very tall during the day, the god of death was ruthlessly staring at them.

Compared to the panic of the Saracens, the Crusaders were in high spirits. When night fell, they knelt and prayed to the True Cross under the leadership of Baldwin IV, and the clerics held mass for them.

Not only that, after the mass, Baldwin IV generously took out a fragment of the True Cross, ground it into powder, poured it into a holy water cup, and let everyone take a sip. They immediately felt energetic, sharp, and omnipotent. Even if they were going to charge a position of tens of thousands, they had no fear.

And before lighting the torches, they had already knelt and prayed, obtaining the saint's favor. As if realizing what they were going to do, there was no light on any knight's body or weapon that was dim, even if the blessing they had originally obtained was not very thick.

A Templar knight who had been guarding Ma Kabu Castle was concentrating on the enemy's situation when he felt something gently brush his shoulder. He looked down and only saw that he had been covered with a layer of translucent chainmail, and every lock ring was shining. He couldn't help but reach out and touch them, but his fingers passed through them, as if it were just a phantom in an illusion.

Another Templar knight beside him saw it and immediately tilted the spear in his hand and knocked on it. It actually made the sound of gold and stone hitting each other, "What is this?" he asked in surprise.

This Templar knight had been on the city wall with Cesar and others in the expedition before, so of course he knew what this was.

"You're lucky," he grinned, "We are not far from the King, so the protection of the 'Little Saint' has also covered you. You can think of it as a second layer of chainmail. Arrows cannot penetrate it, and it can also save your life under a heavy hammer or axe. And it will last much longer than you think—at least it won't disappear until this war is over.

But if it takes too many heavy hits, it will become dim or shatter, and then you will have to rely on yourself."

The Templar knight of Ma Kabu Castle was dumbfounded—he certainly didn't feel it wasn't enough, but too much. Like the former Count of Etienne, when he shared his shield with others, the time it maintained only allowed them to run from a few hundred feet away to him, and it couldn't withstand a few bites from a wolf pack. Other knights were roughly the same—and this power...

He subconsciously looked around and found that the layer of soft white light was poured on at least a hundred knights, "My God," he couldn't help but pray, "God is my witness, is this the power that humans can possess?"

Of course not.

Philip, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, withdrew his gaze. When people saw Baldwin IV galloping on the battlefield, invincible, they would of course marvel at the Spear of Saint George, which was like the condensation of sunlight.

But for the knights, the spear could certainly kill the enemy, but it would never be everyone. And what could save their lives in battle was still the shield and the chainmail under them. They would of course compete to praise their King—Baldwin IV was indeed a brave and good-fighting knight, and willing to obey his will.

But as early as the expedition, he discovered that whether it was the Templar knights or the Holy Sepulchre knights, or the Hospitaller knights, even those outsiders, their attitude toward Cesar was closer, and they were more willing to gather around him. This was human nature. People were certainly willing to follow a hero, but if possible, they would also hope to become a hero.

And the biggest prerequisite for becoming a hero was not to die, especially before you made enough achievements—as long as you were alive, even if your armor, horses, and followers were lost, you could make a comeback. As long as his courage was not destroyed, but if he lost his life, then there was really nothing.

He could understand Walter and Geoffrey now, but time did not allow him to think too much. The young King Baldwin IV on the horse had already raised his spear. This was a bright banner flickering in front of the pitch-black sky. Even the firelight could not submerge it, and they all saw it.

"By God's will!"

Baldwin IV shouted. His voice was not loud, but exceptionally penetrating. Everyone heard it, and then they followed and shouted their own, "God gives us glory!"

"For God, not for us!"

"Jerusalem!"

They urged their horses. The horses first moved forward in slow small steps, and then quickly turned to full-speed galloping. They went straight down from the not-so-steep hillside, carrying rolling dust and powerful kinetic energy, as if in an instant, they had already rushed into the Saracen camp.

They were facing only simple fortifications, rough fences, tents, and people in tents. Many people were still sleepy, and more people were killing each other and trampling on each other before.

And the first column of knights led by Baldwin IV and Cesar were all chosen and deeply favored people. Their horses were covered with a layer of heavy armor, and the chainmail and weapons on them were covered with a layer of deadly white light. These mortal enemies of the Saracens were like tearing a piece of long-decayed linen, effortlessly breaking the whole camp into two halves!

(End of chapter)