Chapter 66

Cesar, waiting outside the king’s tent, could clearly see the battlefield: the Templar knights enjoyed many privileges, for their glory and wealth were not without cause; if the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre were like bulls, the Templars were the lion prides that hunted them—in the initial clash, more yellow Jerusalem crosses fell from horses than red ones.

But before the king’s tent stood another elite unit led by William Marshal; Amalric I did not know William, but that did not prevent him from knowing how to use him—like now, when William Marshal charged straight toward the strongest enemy, and strangely, both men had invoked the same saint: Saint Patrick.

“Now we see which saint chooses to protect whom,” Amalric I murmured.

Two powerful, tall horses charged toward each other; their riders lowered their lances, and in the collision, neither could gain the upper hand—the lances shattered, so they drew their swords and slashed at each other from horseback until their mounts could no longer hold on: first the Templar knight, then William, they tumbled from their saddles and leapt up from the ground.

Their swords broke, so they switched to axes; the axe hafts cracked, so they switched to maces; shields shattered into pieces, helmets were split open—both men were covered in blood, but little of it was their own; these knights who had invoked the saint were meat grinders on the battlefield, colliding, clashing, dodging like a vortex of blades and blunt weapons—any common man who drew near suffered grievous wounds.

Baldwin, like Amalric I, was tense; the battle had reached a stalemate, and nearly all knights had dismounted—not knocked off, but pulled down—barely a hundred feet away, three Templar knights fought a group of fallen Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.

They held shields and wielded single-handed swords, maces, or spear-axes; one was especially fierce, holding his own against three or four enemies, raising his shield to deflect a knight’s sword while thrusting his own blade straight into the chest of a squire clad only in quilted armor.

He pulled his sword free and turned to face another enemy, who raised a spear-axe, leapt high, and drove its hardened tip deep into his shield, trying to wrench it away.

He nearly succeeded—even though the Templar stood firm, his companions rushed forward, swinging flails and spears, knocking the Templar to the ground—this was nearly the end for a knight—but no matter how desperately they struck, they could not break his defense.

“Again! Again!” someone screamed, “The saint’s favor is limited!”

One blow wasn’t enough? Then ten! Ten weren’t enough? Then a hundred!

But this Templar knight was not only brave and richly blessed, but also possessed vast combat experience; even in this dire situation, he remained calm, shielding his chest and abdomen with his shield while watching for his chance—he kicked a squire’s thigh, sending him stumbling backward, and the encirclement cracked open.

“Don’t let him rise!” a knight shouted urgently—but too late; the Templar’s sword thrust upward, piercing the gap between the chainmail hem and greave of another knight—he screamed, clutched his gushing wound, and retreated; before his companions could curse, the Templar rose to his feet, all prior advantage lost.

He raised his sword and locked it with the Templar’s thrusting blade, while the spear-axe infantryman charged again, attempting the same trick—this time it seemed to work; the spear-axe plunged deep into the shield—but a tremendous force surged from the shield, forcing the man forward, and at that moment, the Templar raised his head.

He slammed his head into the spear-axe infantryman; the sharp horn on his helmet pierced straight into the man’s face—a cry of agony rang out, the infantryman clutched his face, staggered back two steps, and collapsed.

Then the Templar turned to the knight still fighting him, yanked the spear-axe free while using the recoil to kick the man squarely in the abdomen, then swung the spear-axe down, smashing into his helmet.

He no longer had a shield, but now he had two weapons—he charged into the crowd, unstoppable; a mercenary knight swung a flail—the Templar tilted his head, the flail grazing his cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood.

“He’s lost the saint’s favor!” someone cried excitedly.

One man lunged forward, grabbing the flail’s handle and one of its heads, choking the Templar’s neck; another raised a short sword and stabbed toward the throat exposed as the Templar lifted his face—the Templar seized the blade’s edge, the iron links on his glove scraping against the steel with a grating sound; he roared, twisted with all his strength, broke free from the grip behind him, and drove the spear-axe through the neck of the man behind.

But now he was utterly exhausted; the king immediately summoned Heraclius: “Go quickly,” he said, “Don’t let them kill him!”

Heraclius leapt onto his horse and galloped off; the king did so partly in case the knight was already dying—Heraclius could at least administer last rites.

Amalric I watched Heraclius ride away, about to ask Baldwin beside him whether he had learned anything from this, what lesson he had drawn—when he noticed Cesar’s anxious expression: “What is it?”

“I haven’t seen Walter de Lusignan!” Cesar said; he had left a vivid impression on the Templars, and the Templars, especially Walter, had left one on him too; since the battle began, he had searched for Walter’s Flame Cross Sword, yet never found it.

Upon hearing this, the king grew alert; he was about to kneel and beg the saint’s protection—when a sharp alarm rang out: “Templars! Templars are coming!”

The cry came from the king’s tent’s left side, where a small, dense grove bordered the flat battlefield; the king had already sent men to scout it and stationed light cavalry there—but what galloped out was nothing but Templars and their black-and-white banners.

At first, Amalric I was not alarmed—they still had a reserve force of knights—but he hadn’t expected Byzantine cavalry to suddenly charge out, disrupting the knights’ formation; perhaps they wished to impress their new master—but the vanguard of this Templar force was none other than Walter de Lusignan.

His cross-sword, blessed by Saint Paul, blazed like a rising flame in the sunlight, its brilliant glow blinding the eyes; two armored cavalrymen, as we said before, were worthy warriors—but the moment the two forces collided, Walter’s cross-sword emitted a piercing whistle.

In that instant, what was torn apart was not men, horses, or armor—but a thin sheet of parchment; men, horses, armor were merely drawings on that parchment, cleanly split in two; severed limbs and body parts fell into the dust kicked up by hooves, and blood followed like a waterfall.

Seeing this, the remaining Byzantines screamed in terror and scattered, leaving the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre caught unawares; fortunately, the king’s light cavalry had already advanced, and arrows, long drawn, rained from the sky.

But Walter led the elite of the Templars, who had just called upon their saint—their divine favor was heavy, and the arrows had little effect, only felling a few squires.

The Knights of the Holy Sepulchre finally had time to meet the new threat—but Walter’s target was not them; he ignored all others except the knights directly blocking his path, and rode straight toward Amalric I.

“This is your first battle,” Amalric I said, mounting the horse Baldwin had brought him: “A fine first battle.”

This was Cesar’s first time seeing the king fight; compared to Lusignan, he was no less formidable; though he could only manifest holy light upon a physical lance, not upon a relic blessed by Baldwin or Walter, yet when fighting Walter, he showed no trace of fear or hesitation, matching him blow for blow.

Though Baldwin and Cesar were on the battlefield, the knights, seeing they wore no helmets, no surcoats, no sword belts, no golden spurs (the symbols of knighthood), knew they were squires, and did not fight them—instead leaving them to their own attendants—but the pressure on them was just as heavy; the Templars’ squires and armed servants were often adults, many even blessed.

Even though they looked out and saw only dozens of enemies, in actual combat, the foes seemed endless—blades could strike from any direction.

Cesar didn’t even remember when his horse collapsed; he only recalled several times when he had to throw himself fully over Baldwin to shield him from fatal wounds.

Baldwin’s fighting style was indeed alarming—just like when he played chess: normally, the prince was gentle, humble, and kind—but once battle began, he went mad; Saint George’s spear became thunderbolts cleaving the battlefield, carving wide white trails before slowly being soaked in blood.

Cesar’s style was simpler; the light surrounding him made him, like Sigurd bathed in Fafnir’s blood, immune to all weapons, and granted him the strength of King David—he needed only to sidestep or charge head-on to send his opponents flying, never to rise again.

No enemy stood against him a second round, not even Walter or William.

Those who saw him could already foresee a new star rising—yet he was still only a squire, lacking the right to challenge knights; none could formally challenge him.

Cesar felt as if he had sunk into a swamp of blood; Walter had once said pagan blood had drowned him to the knees—now Cesar was in blood, his nostrils, mouth, throat, lungs, eyes all filled with it—the metallic stench, the sweet taste, the initial scalding then sticky texture.

He could barely see anything around him; he could only distinguish friend from foe by the position of that bright lance—that was Baldwin; even as men pressed tightly around him, he simply clung to Baldwin’s back and swung his sword in the direction the lance pointed.

Cesar may have killed one man, ten, perhaps a hundred—no one knew when the space around them cleared—until the king ordered men to bind Walter de Lusignan and walk slowly toward them…

Some tried to stop the king; they had just come from the battlefield and knew that a child experiencing such carnage would either collapse in terror, weeping helplessly, or erupt into savage bloodlust, drowning in killing.

“It’s fine,” Amalric I said. “I trust them.”

Heraclius had arrived too; hearing this, the monk raised his eyebrows slightly, then bowed his head.

The king saw two children, drenched in blood, devoid of any divine glow, leaning against each other on the ground; hearing his footsteps, one pushed the other—who hastily wiped his face—useless; their sleeves were soaked in blood—but from that gesture, Amalric I recognized his son Baldwin.

He strode forward proudly, embraced Baldwin, then pulled Cesar up.

————————

Baldwin and Cesar did not rest long; they had barely wiped their faces and changed clothes when they were sent back to the battlefield to fulfill another crucial duty of squires.

Since the Templars had promised to fight outside the city, the king had agreed not to slaughter commoners conscripted or hired, except the ringleaders—but on the battlefield, though Death’s cloak covered all equally, compared to knights protected by saintly favor, ransoms, or noble names—or both—they were mere insects by the roadside; killing them drew no regret.

Some were slashed, some were cut, some pierced by arrows, some trampled by hooves; others were merely unlucky enough to fall, or got caught in the knights’ battles.

They bled from gashes, cried out in agony; when they saw the young squires approaching with daggers or short swords—as Geoffrey had warned—they begged, wept, pleaded, made broken promises, or lied that they were the illegitimate sons of great men.

Yet Cesar’s heart grew strangely calm; for in another world, he had seen such horrific scenes before—though then, disaster came from nature, not man. But before death, people’s reactions were not much different—they clung to this world, however ugly, however unjust, they still wanted to live.

And his duty now seemed the same as then.

To decide who could live, and who must die.

Here, there were better, faster healing methods than modern medicine—but priests and monks would not treat ordinary commoners, even if they could pay for prayers; their saint’s favor was reserved for more precious lives—even if no noble was wounded now, who knew who might be next?

And this was a battlefield.

If bones were broken, flesh torn, head dizzy, and a handful of dirt could stop the bleeding—Cesar would order peasant soldiers to move them aside; but those with massive bleeding, skull fractures, ruptured organs—they had no hope beyond lingering for a day or two.

They might still breathe, moan, or be conscious; their eyes stared fixedly at you—those eyes would haunt your dreams many times; Baldwin watched Cesar anxiously, but saw only that he knelt halfway, letting the dying man grasp his hand.

“Save… save me…”

“I cannot,” Cesar said, not turning away; the man’s forehead was caved in, a broken bone protruded from his chest—even a thousand years later, he might not be saved: “I cannot save your body,” he whispered, “but I can save your soul.”

Soft light filled him again, but not for battle: “I have holy oil—if you wish, I will anoint you and pray for you.”

The man's dilated pupils instantly focused; he stared in disbelief at the man before him: "Ah," he muttered, "I've seen you... seen... ah," a look of joy appeared on his face: "You're... you're... you're our little saint!"

“Yes.”

The grip on Cesar’s hand loosened: “Good,” the man whispered, barely audible: “Good… I can go to heaven, can’t I?”

“Yes.”

The man closed his eyes; throughout the time Cesar anointed him and then slit his throat, he kept smiling.

——————

“What is he doing?”

Walter took the cup offered by Amalric I and drank a large gulp of cold wine; he drank greedily, grumbling inwardly at the king’s stinginess—no heat, no spices—but he felt reassured; offering food and drink to a prisoner usually meant he wouldn’t be executed—Amalric I had executed twelve Templars before, though their offenses differed.

When he saw holy light flare again on the battlefield, he thought the boy faced a stubborn enemy.

“Does he want to join the Templar Order?” The Templars called themselves knights, but were in fact armed monks—hence they claimed to obey only the Heavenly Master; their priests could indeed perform rites for others.

As long as Cesar’s actions didn’t profit himself (harming others) or impersonate priests or monks, few would question him; after all, watching believers fall into hell was no good thing.

“Don’t even think about it,” Amalric I said.

———————

Three years later.

(End of chapter)