Chapter 61: The Little Fishes (Part One)

War is imminent; Amalric I could not possibly remain in the Holy Cross Fortress, for though it was a grand structure, it could never accommodate the thousands required for this campaign, especially given the many conscripts and mercenaries—some of whom might well be treacherous spies.

Amalric I established his encampment on the hills beyond the Golden Gate, near Gethsemane, where lush olive trees stretched in every direction, and beneath their shade lay countless rows of gray-white stone coffins—belonging to Isaacites, Christians, and Saracens alike.

It was said the Savior would enter Arasaluh through the Golden Gate, at which time the Third Temple would reappear, all the dead would rise, and those nearest the Third Temple would be the first to awaken.

After retaking Arasaluh, some proposed moving the Saracen bones elsewhere, but King Baldwin I of Arasaluh refused.

He said the Saracens buried here had once been followers of Caliph Umar I, a wise and enlightened ruler who had permitted Christians, Isaacites, and Muslims to worship together here; even though he had departed this world six centuries ago, he deserved no such disgrace.

Since Baldwin I had made this decision, all subsequent kings of Arasaluh refrained from disturbing these long-dead sages; Amalric I even forbade his soldiers from felling the nearby olive trees, preferring instead to harvest cedar and cypress from farther away.

One tent after another went up; bonfires blazed in the night, their flames supporting racks hung with blackened pots, smoke and steam curling between the tents, roasting game or meat strips brought by knights and squires, along with their clothing—outer robes, cotton-padded linings, long shirts, perhaps even socks.

But most who did this were knights who could not afford washerwomen; their squires and attendants often had to perform tasks befitting a woman.

Washerwomen walked among the tents, often laughing at garments still stained with obvious marks; they typically carried large wooden basins filled with their employers’ clothes, which they carried to the river to wash clean of sweat, dust, and blood, then dried and returned—ask why there was blood?

Yes, the war had not yet begun, but how could young men who prided themselves on bravery and martial skill endure this long preparation in quiet obedience?

A knight might argue with another over which noblewoman deserved greater respect, or overhear someone mocking him, his friend, or his lord (a common occurrence), or even be provoked by a mere brush, a glance…

Though they could not engage in formal duels as in tournaments, finding a small clearing to settle words with fists and swords (as they themselves agreed) was a thoroughly satisfying affair!

Sometimes their squires or armed attendants joined in—or rather, some of these incidents were started by them.

Those who followed knights, whether squires or armed attendants, were not necessarily of the same rank; they might be sons of craftsmen or wealthy farmers, often fiercer and less restrained than their masters.

Gold was good, silver coins were fine too, and even if the opponent’s attendant had only a few copper coins, stripping him of a few garments would leave them well satisfied.

One squire Buxing ly lost his arm in such a brawl, shattered by a hammer; he lay on the ground, biting a stick of wood as a monk set his bone—his condition looked grim; he did not cry out not because the injury was minor, but because he had already fainted.

His master frowned as he spoke with the monk, who shook his head; the master gripped his purse—empty. Clearly, the Isaacite merchants outside the camp had fresh business ahead.

Those who had watched the brawl now passed by, commenting on it—some still delighted, others furious, the furious ones because they had lost money; soon, men appeared to take bets, and knights and squires alike wagered, so long as they believed they could win.

A finely dressed herald, flanked by two monks, threaded through the noisy crowd, passed the fallen squire, and approached a tent adorned with banners, heraldic shields, and ribbons; onlookers gazed upward, guessing what message he brought—praise or reprimand? Likely the former.

After the herald departed, another attendant entered the tent, carrying a swift falcon; he wore chainmail and an iron mask shaped like a falcon—within his lord’s castle, he must have held an official position; nobles bringing their favorite hawks and dogs when summoned to war was not unusual; some even brought dwarves, cooks, and herds of livestock.

Someone might ask: would they bring their wives or lovers?

Almost never. Outside the camp, merchants and courtesans eagerly awaited them—they served lords and knights, squires and soldiers, and welcomed inquiries from mercenaries, laborers, and stablehands alike.

This time, Amalric I recruited roughly a thousand mercenaries, mostly rootless wandering knights like Longinus; they were eager for the king’s call, scarcely caring about pay, making some clerics wince—normally, hiring such men required haggling over every copper coin.

This was no surprise; the war was another kind of tournament, and wandering knights who could not afford entry fees dreamed of charging across the battlefield, invincible, catching the eye of the king or the Grand Master of a knightly order, and ascending a swift path to glory.

Yet even all these men combined were outnumbered by the peasant levies summoned for this campaign.

Their origins were diverse: farmers or craftsmen conscripted from nearby villages and towns at ratios of thirty or fifty to one; pilgrims who had come to the Holy Land but could not return home for various reasons; even runaway slaves or criminals.

Drawn by duty, money, or faith, they gathered here, bearing all the tedious, heavy burdens.

Such as erecting and dismantling tents, gathering fodder, food, and fuel, tending horses and dogs, constructing crude fortifications—wooden palisades and ditches—and later, siege engines; crafting disposable weapons—wooden spears, round shields, arrows; preparing simple rations like cheese, unleavened bread, oats, and mixed fruits (the kind Geoffrey had eaten)…

These peasant levies were required to bring their own armor and weapons, and because of this, they appeared ragged, filthy, chaotic; some carried bows, others hammers, some flails (wooden farming tools), others simply fashioned sticks or spears on the spot.

Few carried helmets; occasionally one might see a skullcap—a bowl-shaped piece of black iron or hardened leather resembling a priest’s cap, worn by knights over their chainmail coifs for added protection; but sometimes, you know, on the battlefield, it might roll into the dust, only to be picked up by a peasant clearing the field.

Chainmail, scale armor, and lamellar were impossible to find on them; they might own only one garment. You might glimpse something resembling leather armor or riveted armor, but upon closer look, you’d marvel at human ingenuity in patching and improvising.

They could never serve as the main force on the battlefield; though sometimes classified as “infantry,” they differed utterly from the sword-and-shield infantry of the Templars, the spearmen of the Crusaders, the crossbowmen, the heavy infantry of the Holy Roman Empire, or the shield-bearers of Byzantium—they were merely expendable, used to distract the enemy, waste their arrows, and fill ditches.

Even if they survived the battlefield, few would spare their lives—they were worthless, their value unlikely to match the grain they consumed.

Only today did Cesar learn that before a siege, an advance force of scouts, arsonists, and foragers marched ahead.

Their task was simple: to comb the lands around the enemy castle like a comb—burning houses, driving off people, plundering food, and destroying fields to sever supply lines.

More often, the enemy would do it first; if faced with a merciful lord, the populace might be allowed to flee into the castle, but if he was cruel or resolved to hold out long-term, he would bar these homeless, starving people from the walls, leaving them to starve or be slaughtered by the attacking army.

“This time… my father probably won’t do that… after all, this is a war between Christians.” Baldwin spoke these words with a touch of unease.

In Francia, wars between lords and lords, lords and kings, kings and kings were common; even when the Church declared “killing Christians is sinful,” it could not stop lords’ hooves from trampling fields or soldiers from setting fires.

But what fault lay with the common folk?

The Templars coveted wealth; Amalric I proclaimed authority; yet all the guilt fell upon them.

The only consolation might be that between Tortosa and Arasaluh, there were no densely packed villages or towns.

“Can I borrow something precious from you—a relic, a weapon, or jewelry?” Cesar whispered.

“Take anything you like from my chest. But tell me—what do you intend to do?” Baldwin said.

“I want to find Geoffrey and ask him what kind of man Walter de Lemesny of Tortosa is.”

“And then?”

“I want to meet him, and persuade him to surrender to Amalric I.”

After confirming his intent, Baldwin’s expression turned puzzled: “Why,” he said earnestly, “why, Cesar? We swore an oath to each other: if anyone forces you to do something you refuse, you need only say, ‘I swore to him—I will never kill one who has not raised a weapon against me—whether man, woman, old, child, or infidel.’”

That is enough. If they question you, I will vouch for you and ensure no one holds you accountable.”

“I know this seems… strange, even ridiculous. But these past days, I’ve seen so many people… this need not be inevitable.”

“But this is war,” Baldwin said. “This is Arasaluh.”

“Perhaps I am, as you once thought, a coward—I cannot just watch, Baldwin. Not just a thousand here, nor a thousand there—more will die needlessly.”

Baldwin laughed bitterly: “Coward? No, Cesar—you’re recklessly bold to the point of shock. You want to be a messenger? Not for the king, but for a crowd of pilgrims and peasants? How will you persuade the Templars of Tortosa? Tomorrow, I might see your head launched by a mangonel into my father’s tent!”

“So I need to know—what kind of man is the Grand Master of Tortosa?”

“Geoffrey won’t tell you. My father won’t let you go. Master Heraclius won’t either—even if you went, how would a Templar Grand Master listen to you? He’d see it as an insult, and wage war to the death with my father…”

“Yes,” Cesar said.

Baldwin stared at him a moment, then understood: “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?”

“I need your support.”

“And then watch you die.”

“Baldwin, I thought you’d understand,” Cesar said. “There are always things you know you must do—even if you know you cannot.”

He thought he would never forget the mother and child standing in the snow, peeling bark to eat, nor the three people who rushed out of the crude mud hut.

——————

Geoffrey had surely forgotten the people in that house—otherwise, how else could he count his kills each night like sheep to lull himself to sleep?

He said the same as Baldwin: “Are you going to your death?”

“No,” Cesar said. “I am not ignorant of weighing consequences. Besides, here are people I love, and who love me. But if you knew what Walter de Lemesny is truly like—if he is truly as I suspect—I might try.”

“What good would that do you?”

Cesar lifted his head and thought a moment: “More people will call me ‘Little Saint’?”

(End of Chapter)