Chapter 156: Breakout (5)

The ones who caught up to Cesar were not the earlier Turkic raiders.

Though these Turkic people had been assimilated by the Saracens in faith and political institutions, their combat methods still followed the traditions passed down from their ancestors—the knowledge they had learned from wild beasts and prey on the steppes.

Though over two thousand pursued Cesar, they did not move as one unit; after brief consultation, they split into three groups. The first group would push hard on the first day to chase down the fleeing ministers and Christians, the second would follow at a steady, moderate pace, and the third would do the same—waiting until the first group grew exhausted, then taking over; when the second group began to tire, the third would surge forward.

Anyone who lived on the steppes and often watched wolf packs hunt would notice their strategy was nearly identical—or rather, that wolves were the Turkic people’s earliest teachers, and steppe hunters had long been accustomed to it: the first tracker need only ensure the prey was not lost, then slow down, adjust breathing, recover strength, and leave the pursuit to his companions.

The wolf pack took turns attacking; so did they. Their enemy, however, could only run without pause, and it was certain that when any one of these three groups caught up to Cesar and his men, the Turkic riders—even if not fully rested—would still be far stronger than the Christian knights who had galloped for days without rest.

Moreover, once they locked onto their target, reinforcements would keep arriving, giving every Turkic warrior confidence. Though they had lost some men in earlier encounters, the remaining numbers still overwhelmed their foes with crushing threat and despair.

The Turkic leader had seen the knights—they had formed ranks, their banners crimson as blood, each bearing a cross of Alasaru on the pole. The lead knight wore silvered chainmail, a nasal helm, and a wide surcoat, front and back emblazoned with a massive Alasaru cross, and his mount—a magnificent Arabian horse—pure white, save for a single black patch on its forehead shaped like a star.

The First Lady had offered a thousand gold coins for the head of this Christian knight.

The Turkic leader instinctively licked his lips, squinting—he noticed the knight was facing away from the sun. But this trick was useless against the Turkic riders; he shook his head inwardly, then pointed at the young man and shouted in Turkic to his men, “I want this one! His head is mine to take!”

The other Turkic warriors erupted in a chorus of approval, then lowered their heads, raised their shoulders, spurred their horses, and charged toward the battlefield.

The knights across from them showed none of the Turkic riders’ urgency; only a portion advanced swiftly, while the rest remained stationary. The Turkic riders did not understand this posture, but to them, encountering such sluggish enemies was perfect.

The Turkic way of battle resembled wolves more than lions or tigers—they rarely charged directly into enemy lines. Instead of tearing throats with fangs and claws, they surrounded the Christian knights like wolves attacking a flock, using their superior mounted archery to circle them and shoot arrows.

People often held a mistaken belief about Turkic arrows—that they lacked great power. This view may have been shaped by plate armor, which would not appear for over a century.

Against heavy plate armor, arrows indeed struggled to achieve great results. But most men at this time still wore chainmail or leather armor; though these could deflect some arrow force, a skilled and powerful archer could still kill a knight.

Cesar had heard of an unfortunate knight struck by an arrow—the shaft pierced his thigh precisely where chainmail offered no protection; the arrow went clean through his left leg, then through his horse, and embedded deeply into his other thigh.

In effect, the arrow had “linked” him to his mount. It sounded implausible, but it had truly happened.

Having fought the Crusaders for years, the Turkic riders had developed tactics against them—when knights charged, they immediately retreated; few knights could catch them, and as they withdrew, they continued shooting. If a knight grew enraged and pursued recklessly, he would stray from his formation, away from supplies and baggage.

And once isolated, outnumbered, the Turkic riders would turn and strike the exhausted men and horses.

Generally, Turkic riders carried two or three weapons: bows and arrows slung on their backs, scimitars or lances at their belts. Their method remained the same: first ranged fire, then close combat.

So when Cesar and the knights charged, the Turkic riders showed no panic—only slightly hastened their retreat. As usual, they swiftly pulled distance from the knights and vanished from sight.

The knights’ assault was grand but futile; the remaining Turkic riders jeered sharply. They spurred their horses to circle the stationary knights, raising their longbows—but at that moment, the knights made a startling move: they hurled large pieces of silk onto the ground around them, near and far.

These silks were gifts from the Lady and the princes to Cesar as thanks; when leaving, Cesar had not forgotten to bring them. At the time, Geoffroy had thought he’d finally reached the age of greed, but now he used them without hesitation.

As soon as the knights cast the silk, it shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight, then drifted down like flowers or clouds onto the yellow sand—more like gold and silver flowing beneath hooves.

Whether leader or soldier, the Turkic riders’ first thought was that these Christians meant to ransom themselves with silk. But alas, every head had a price, and even if they killed the knights, the silk would still belong to them. Yet none noticed—the rhythm had been broken.

The Turkic riders could rein in their horses, stop, and trample a child—but they could not bring themselves to crush these soft, radiant fabrics. These were worth their weight in gold. Even emperors and kings listed silk robes among war reparations.

Moreover, these silks were favorites of Sultan Nuradin’s concubines—each piece soft, delicate, exquisite, masterfully woven. But what the Turkic riders refused to tread upon, the Christian knights had no mercy for.

Seeing Cesar’s tactic work, the knights cheered inwardly, spurred their mounts over the silk, and instantly cut down dozens of Turkic soldiers still hesitating whether to dismount and gather the silk or kill the Christians first—ironically, even then, some Turkic riders instinctively dodged the silk as they retreated.

“Don’t be fools! It’s a Christian trap!” shouted a Turkic soldier of high rank, clad in sturdy lamellar armor. His warning caused some to regroup, raising bows and scanning for targets—but before them danced blinding flashes of light.

The Christian knights pulled off their cloaks, and sudden, blinding light erupted from their bodies—the glare blinded them, their bows lost aim, strings twanged, arrows flew wide, striking no knight. When one Turkic soldier was cut from his horse, he realized the knights’ shining glow came from shards of bronze mirrors—though he could not be certain.

They were indeed bronze mirrors. In Sultan Nuradin’s harem, such polished mirrors were the most abundant—so common they were even exported as prized goods of Aleppo. These mirrors had been packed as gifts in the chests. Long before the knights rested, Cesar had hired men to smash every mirror into fragments and inlay them onto the knights’ chainmail.

The method was crude—simply drilled holes and secured the shards with metal wire or leather thongs.

Yet these fragments surpassed all expectations—human reflexes to intense light could not be suppressed by training or command. When Turkic soldiers involuntarily turned away, their lives ended.

Bows and their owners fell to the ground, kicking up clouds of dust.

One Turkic soldier shouted for his leader—he and his men were charging toward them—but as they drew near, he saw only fear on the leader’s face. Had the knights slipped away?

No.

When the leader was impaled by a spear and hurled into the air, he saw the distinctive black star—the head worth a thousand gold coins—passing beneath him. The knight looked up, expressionless, then turned his gaze away, offering no smile. Was he not worth it?

His head might be worth more than a thousand gold coins—but at least a hundred were.

The leader fell to the ground, mouth open, cursing the vile Christian knight—“May God protect you, you’ll join me soon!”—each word brought forth a thick, pink, blood-clotted froth.

He was right—he could not see it, but the other two groups were rapidly approaching. Though the Christian knights appeared calm and fierce, the leader did not believe they had strength left to face the next wave of battle.

Besides, those two groups included more men blessed by the Prophet. Their shield was shattered; before sharper arrows, they would crumble.

Thinking thus, he died with bitter regret—and as he hoped, Cesar and his knights had not yet caught their breath when they felt the air and earth tremble faintly—the resonance of countless hooves. Geoffroy’s face darkened.

The knights silently and Moqi ly gathered around Cesar. Cesar scanned the horizon—the knights had suffered no losses, though some swayed on their mounts. The squires and armed servants, however, had taken heavy casualties—but such was war, not a game.

He no longer hesitated, steadied his mind, and prayed to the presence that had always watched over him. Once more, a holy radiance, like moonlight and silver, enveloped them all. This time, even the squires and armed servants felt the boundless honor and grace flowing from Cesar; they wept with joy, certain that dying now would be wholly worthy.

Only Geoffroy wore a troubled expression. He was not only the chosen one, but had fought for years beside others equally favored. Excessive prayers for divine grace exacted great tolls—on body and soul alike.

Some collapsed and died without warning after battle; others fell ill and never rose again; even if he escaped both fates, he might never again receive favor, sometimes appearing as if he had never been chosen at all.

Cesar was clearly draining himself—but Geoffroy could not stop him. He knew what Cesar was like. Even if he forbade it, even if he could stop him, the deaths of these men would haunt Cesar for years, perhaps drive him to despair and death.

At that moment, the two hidden groups emerged from the swirling dust.

One, of course, was the Turkic riders with their fur-lined coats—charging fiercely, shouting and brandishing swords, yet without unfurling banners. The other army was stranger still: silent, dark, motionless as shadows. Though they raised banners, Geoffroy, battle-hardened as he was, could not recall any such design.

It was a vast black banner, at its center a white eagle in flight.

(End of Chapter)