Chapter 66

Cesar, waiting before the King's tent, could clearly see the situation on the battlefield. The Templars were able to enjoy various privileges, and their glory and wealth were not without reason; if the knights of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre were like bulls, then they were the pride of lions hunting those bulls. In the initial clash, there were significantly more yellow Lazarus crosses falling from horses than red ones.

But before the King's tent, there was also a squad of elites led by William Marshal. Amalric I did not know William well, but that did not prevent him from knowing how to use him—for instance, at this moment, William Marshal went straight for the strongest enemy. Strangely, the saint they both looked to was the same: Saint Patrick.

"Now it depends on whom the saint is willing to protect," Amalric I muttered.

Two sturdy, tall horses galloped toward each other. Their knights lowered their lances, and in the collision, neither could get the better of the other. Their lances shattered, so they drew their longswords and hacked at each other on horseback until the horses could no longer hold on. First the Templar, then William—they rolled off their saddles one after another and leaped up from the ground.

Their longswords broke, so they switched to axes; the axe handles cracked, so they switched to hammers. Shields shattered into pieces, and helmets were hewn open. Both men were covered in blood, but not much of it belonged to them—these knights who looked to the saints were steel meat grinders on the battlefield. They collided, engaged, and dodged, like a vortex full of blades and blunt weapons; ordinary people could not help but be covered in wounds if they got too close.

Baldwin was as nervous as Amalric I. The battle was in a stalemate; almost all the knights had dismounted, either knocked down or pulled down. Just less than a hundred feet away from them, three Templars were fighting a group of members of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre who had also dismounted.

They held shields, wielding longswords and hammers or poleaxes with one hand. One of them was particularly fierce; even surrounded by three or four enemies, he did not lose the upper hand. He raised his shield with one hand to deflect a knight's longsword, while thrusting with the other, driving his longsword into the chest of a squire wearing only a quilted cotton gambeson.

He pulled out his longsword and turned to face another enemy. The opponent, holding a poleaxe, leaped high and drove the hard tip into his shield, wanting to snatch it away.

He almost succeeded, even though the Templar stood firmly in place. But his companions rushed forward, wielding flails and spears, knocking the Templar to the ground—this was almost the end for a knight. But no matter how eager they were, they could not break through his defense.

"Again, again!" someone hissed, "The saint's favor is limited!"

If hacking once isn't enough, then hack ten times; if ten times isn't enough, then a hundred times!

But this Templar was not only brave and deeply blessed, but also possessed rich combat experience. Even in such a dire situation, he did not panic. While covering his heart, abdomen, and other vital areas with his shield, he seized the right moment and kicked a squire in the thigh, making him stumble back, and the encirclement suddenly cracked open.

"Don't let him stand up!" a knight shouted in a hurry, but it was too late. The Templar's longsword thrust from bottom to top, piercing the gap between the hem of another knight's chainmail and his greaves. The knight screamed and retreated, clutching his bleeding wound. Before his companions could curse, the Templar had already stood up, and the advantage they had previously gained vanished.

He raised his sword, tangling it with the longsword the Templar thrust over. The infantryman who had been holding the poleaxe rushed over again, wanting to repeat his old trick. This time it seemed he succeeded again; the poleaxe pierced deeply into the shield once more, but a massive force came from the shield, forcing his body to lean forward, and at this moment, the Templar raised his head high.

He slammed his head into the poleaxe infantryman. The sharp edge on the front of his helmet pierced the opponent's face instantly. With a wail, the infantryman clutched his face, took two steps back, and fell to the ground.

Then the Templar turned to the knight still opposing him. While pulling out the poleaxe with one hand, he used that counter-force to kick him in the lower abdomen, then swung the poleaxe, hitting his helmet.

He had no shield now, but he had two weapons. He charged into the crowd, unstoppable. A wandering knight swung a flail; the Templar tilted his head, and the flail brushed past his cheek, leaving a trace of blood.

"He has no more favor!" someone shouted excitedly.

One person immediately pounced, grabbing the handle of the flail and one of the hammerheads, strangling his neck, while another held a short sword high, stabbing at his throat exposed when he lifted his face. The Templar grabbed the incoming blade; the iron chains on his gloves grated against the short sword. He let out a roar, turned with all his might, and actually broke free from the shackles behind him, piercing the neck of the person behind him with a poleaxe.

But by this point, he was also exhausted. The King immediately called for Heraclius: "Go quickly," he said, "don't let anyone kill him!"

Heraclius immediately jumped on his horse and galloped away. The King did this also with the intention that if the knight were already dying, at least Heraclius could perform the last rites for him.

Amalric I watched Heraclius ride away, just about to ask Baldwin beside him if he had seen anything or learned any lessons, when he saw Cesar beside him with a look of anxiety: "What's wrong?"

"I haven't seen Walter de Mesnil!" Cesar said. He had left a vivid impression on the Templars, and hadn't the Templars, especially Walter, done the same to him? Since the battle began, he had been looking for Walter's flaming cross-sword, but had never been able to find it.

The King, upon hearing this, became alert. He was about to kneel to seek the saint's protection when he heard a sharp warning: "Templars! The Templars are here!"

The sound came from the left side of the King's tent. On one side of this flat battlefield was a small, dense forest. The King had previously sent people to check it and stationed some light cavalry there, but only the Templars and their black-and-white banners rushed out from there.

Amalric I was not very panicked at first; there was still a squad of knights on standby between them. But what he didn't expect was that the Byzantine cavalry suddenly rushed out, disrupting the knights' formation. They might have wanted to show off before their new master—but the vanguard of this Templar squad was none other than Walter de Mesnil.

His cross-sword, which had received the blessing of Saint Paul, truly looked like a rising flame in the sunlight. The bright white light stung people's eyes so they couldn't open them. The two cavalrymen whose horses were also armored were, as we said before, praiseworthy warriors, but just as the two squads collided, Walter's cross-sword emitted a sharp whistling sound.

In that instant, it seemed as if it wasn't people, horses, and armor that were torn apart, but a thin piece of parchment. People, horses, and armor were just a drawing on parchment; they were neatly split in two, and the severed limbs and bodies fell into the sand kicked up by the horses' hooves. The blood only fell like a waterfall afterward.

Seeing such a scene, the remaining Byzantines let out terrified screams and fled in all directions, leaving behind the caught-off-guard knights of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre. Fortunately, the light cavalry arranged by the King had already stepped forward, and arrows that had long been ready fell from the sky.

Unfortunately, Walter led the elites among the Templars, and they had just called upon their saint; they were heavily blessed, and the arrows could not affect them, only shooting down a few attendants.

The knights of the Order of the Holy Sepulchre finally had time to meet the new enemy, but Walter's target was not them. Except for the knights blocking his way, he ignored everyone else and came only for Amalric I.

"This is your first battle," Amalric I said, mounting the horse Baldwin had led to him: "A very good first battle."

This was the first time Cesar had seen the King fight. Compared to Mesnil, he was not inferior at all. Even though he could only cover the holy light on a physical lance, rather than a holy relic obtained through prayer like Baldwin or Walter, when fighting Walter, no shrinking or hesitation could be seen in him, and he did not lose the upper hand at all.

Although Baldwin and Cesar were also on the battlefield, when the knights saw they were not wearing helmets, nor surcoats or sword belts, or golden spurs (the symbols of a knight), they knew they were two squires and did not fight them, but left them to their own attendants—but the pressure they faced was equally heavy. The Templars' squires and armed attendants were many of them already adults, and among them were not a few who had received blessings.

Even when they looked out and saw only dozens of enemies, once the real fighting started, the enemies seemed endless, and blades could thrust out from anywhere.

Cesar didn't even remember when his horse fell down dejectedly. He only remembered that several times, he had to cover Baldwin's body entirely to save him from fatal wounds.

And Baldwin's fighting style was indeed worrying, just like when he played chess. Clearly, in his daily dealings, the Prince was gentle, humble, and kind, but once he started fighting, he was like a madman. Saint George's lance was like bolts of thunder piercing the battlefield, even able to clear a wide white mark, which would then be slowly soaked with blood.

Cesar's fighting style was simpler. The light shrouding him not only made him fearless of any weapon's damage, like Sigurd bathing in the blood of the dragon Fafnir, but also gave him strength like King David. He only needed to turn sideways or charge head-on to send his opponents flying, never to rise again.

Like Walter and William, there were no enemies before him who could fight to a second round.

Those who saw him could almost predict that a new star was about to rise. It was just a pity that he was still a squire and not yet qualified to fight knights; they could not challenge him.

Cesar only felt as if he had sunk into a quagmire of blood. Walter once said that the blood of the heathens had once submerged his knees, and now he was in the blood, his nasal cavity, mouth, throat, lungs, and eyes were all full of blood—the fishy smell of blood, the sweet taste, and the sensation of being hot first and then sticky.

He could barely see things around him, only distinguishing friend from foe by the location of that bright white lance. That was Baldwin. Even if the people around were squeezed tightly together, he only needed to lean hard against Baldwin's back and swing his sword in the direction he thrust his lance.

Cesar might have killed one person, ten people, perhaps a hundred people. No one knew when the space around them became empty, until the King ordered people to tie up Walter de Mesnil and walked slowly toward them...

Someone tried to stop the King. They were all from the battlefield and naturally knew that children experiencing such a formation for the first time would either be so scared they would go limp and only cry, or they would burst out with a fierce nature, indulging in slaughter and unable to extricate themselves.

"It's fine," Amalric I said: "I trust them."

Heraclius had also arrived. Hearing this, the monk's long eyebrows lifted slightly, and then he lowered his head.

The King saw only two children, covered in blood and without a shred of light or holiness, sitting on the ground leaning against each other. Hearing his footsteps, one of them reached out to push the other, and the other hurriedly wiped his face—it was useless, their sleeves were also soaked with blood, but from this action, Amalric I could recognize that he was his son, Baldwin.

He proudly stepped forward, took Baldwin into his arms, and then pulled Cesar up.

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Baldwin and Cesar didn't rest for long. They had barely wiped their faces and changed their clothes before they were driven back to the battlefield to fulfill another important task of a squire.

Because the Templars had promised to fight outside the city, the King had also promised not to slaughter the conscripted and hired civilians, except for the ringleaders. But on the battlefield, although it was said that Death's cloak covered everyone impartially, compared to those knights who were either blessed by saints, had ransoms and surnames to protect them, or both, they were just ants on the side of the road; no one would feel sorry for how many were crushed.

Some were hewn, some were slashed, some were hit by arrows, some were trampled by hooves, and others just unluckily tripped or were caught in the knights' fighting.

They were bloody and wailing. When they saw the young squires walking over with daggers or short swords—just as Geoffrey had warned—they begged, cried, pleaded for mercy, intermittently made promises, or lied that they were the illegitimate children of some big shot.

Cesar's heart, however, was surprisingly calm, because he had seen such tragic scenes in another world, only then the disaster came from nature, not humanity. But in the face of the threat of death, people's reactions were not much different. They clung to this world; no matter how unpleasant or unfair it was, they still wanted to live.

And the duty he had to fulfill seemed to be the same as before.

To determine who could live and who could only die.

There were better and faster treatments here than modern medicine, but the clerics and monks would not treat an ordinary commoner, even if he could pay for the prayers. The favor of the saints they received had to be used in more precious places, even if no noble was injured at this moment, but who knew if there would be one in the next moment?

And this was a battlefield.

For those whose bones were just broken, skin rolled back, heads dizzy, and who might live after sprinkling a handful of soil to stop the bleeding, Cesar would call the peasant soldiers to move them aside. But for those with obvious massive bleeding, skull fractures, organ ruptures... they could not escape the finality of death, except to linger for a day or two.

They might still be breathing, might still be groaning, might still be conscious. Their eyes stared straight at you. These eyes would reappear in your dreams many times. Baldwin looked at Cesar worriedly, but saw him just half-kneel down, letting the person who had lost hope hold his hand.

"Save... save me..."

"I cannot," Cesar said. He did not look away. This person's forehead had collapsed, and a broken bone poked out of his chest. Even a thousand years later, he might not be saved: "I cannot save your body," he whispered: "I can only save your soul."

His body was once again filled with a soft light, but this time it was not for fighting: "I brought holy oil. If you are willing, I will anoint you and pray for you."

The person's originally scattered pupils immediately focused. He looked at the person in front of him in disbelief: "Ah," he muttered, "I have seen you... seen... ah," a look of joy actually appeared on his face: "You are... you are... you are our little saint!"

"Yes."

The hand tightly pinching Cesar's relaxed: "That's great," the person replied in an inaudible voice: "That's great, please... I can go to heaven, right?"

"Yes."

The person closed his eyes. During the time Cesar anointed him and then stabbed his throat with a knife, he kept smiling.

——————

"What is he doing?"

Taking the cup handed by Amalric I, Walter drank a large gulp of cold wine. While drinking, he badmouthed the King's pettiness—it wasn't heated, and there were no spices. But he was also relieved. Generally speaking, giving a captive food and drink indicated that the latter would not be executed—Amalric I had executed twelve Templars, although the nature of the faults was different.

When he saw the holy light appear on the battlefield again, he thought the child had encountered a stubborn enemy.

"Is he trying to join the Templars?" Templars were said to be knights, but in fact, they should be called armed monks, which is why they said they only followed the arrangements of the Lord in Heaven—the clerics among the Templars could indeed perform sacraments for others.

As long as Cesar's behavior did not profit himself (harming others' interests) or impersonate a cleric or monk, not many people would pursue it. After all, watching believers fall into hell was not a good thing.

"Don't even think about that," Amalric I said.

———————

Three years later.

(End of chapter)