Chapter 74: To Egypt! (5)

Damaral immediately rushed forward the moment the cloak was lifted, clutching Elena’s head to her chest and bursting into tears once more.

Among Princess Sibylla’s maidservants, Elena was one of the older ones; because her family was related by marriage to Gerard, she had always treated Damaral with great care, and Damaral regarded her as an elder sister—so at the sight of her beloved’s head, she felt no fear, only unbearable grief.

The girl’s sobs had completely changed pitch; by the end, they sounded less like crying and more like roaring—if the Saracen who had tortured and killed Elena stood before her now, she would use a knife if she had one, and if she had none, she would tear him apart with her nails and bite him to death.

In the world and era Cesar had once lived in, an ordinary person rarely encountered such horrors, not even a scrap of paper or a single image.

But since arriving here, he had seen too many such cold, stiff remains—slain by swords and spears, crushed by stones, burned alive, pierced by arrows…

Some had grotesque faces, others looked bewildered; some even smiled, as if they had already seen heaven…

Many of these deaths were even his own doing.

Yet he knew he would never grow accustomed to them, never accept them.

The moment Prince Baldwin saw Elena’s body, he understood why her husband had left her naked after death, despite loving her so dearly.

The undamaged parts resembled shattered marble statues—those once displayed in the palaces or temples of ancient Roman emperors, white and smooth, lifelike, every detail so exquisite one longed to kiss them; even stained with dust and blood, they still looked like artworks worth thousands of gold coins.

The damaged parts—cut by blades, burned, gnawed, strangled—brought to mind a sheep that had been shorn and washed, carelessly and wastefully butchered, its treasures treated as worthless trash.

Baldwin stepped forward, took the husband’s cloak, and draped it once more over the unfortunate lady.

“I will speak to my father,” he gave the husband the answer he most desired. “Damaral,” he turned to the girl still clutching Elena’s head, “let her rest in peace.”

Damaral only shook her head. “Oil… rub her with oil…” She meant to perform the Last Rites for Elena, to spare her from hell.

But the several monks present all showed signs of distress; after all, Elena and the other noblewomen’s remains had been discovered by patrolling soldiers in broad daylight—they could hardly prove anyone had performed the Last Rites for them.

“Did any of the martyred saints receive the Last Rites?” Cesar suddenly asked. At these words, Elena’s husband and Damaral both looked up, their eyes widening with sudden understanding, then blazing with joy.

Indeed, most martyred saints had never received the Last Rites—since they died as martyrs, their deaths were witnessed not by priests, but by guards, executioners, or judges.

They would never perform such a rite, lest it bring them misfortune too.

Yet there had been cases before of mass martyrdom—for instance, Saint Ursula, a princess of Britain.

A lord from Gaul-Brittany, who had migrated from Britain, proposed to her, asking her to bring some Christian girls as dowry, so his knights might form families and multiply.

Ursula gladly agreed; she brought not only ten maids, but each maid brought a thousand female servants. Unfortunately, their ship wrecked on a beach after a storm, and the shore belonged to a band of pagans.

Facing the pagans’ swords, the girls showed no fear, singing as they disembarked, one by one walking calmly to their deaths.

Of course, such tales told by clerics were often exaggerated, perhaps not entirely true—but it did not matter. If Elena and these noblewomen’s deaths could be declared “martyrdom,” they would not descend to hell, but ascend to heaven.

Even Gérard de Redford, who had been weeping nearby, now cast a look of gratitude toward Cesar—he was already a member of the Knights Templar; though Elena had annulled the oath he had sworn to her, Gérard had genuinely cared for her.

He was determined to avenge her, but the idea of martyrdom was beyond his comprehension.

Elena’s husband knew Cesar—Prince Baldwin’s closest friend, his bloodless brother, and a student of Patriarch Heraclius. If Cesar said it, then Patriarch Heraclius would surely approve.

Of course, gold would still be needed—but having a martyred saint was good for both families; they would not begrudge a few gold coins.

He stepped forward and gripped Cesar’s hand tightly.

Cesar sighed softly, then helped Damaral to her feet; the girl pressed her entire weight against him, and even through his clothes, he could feel her trembling body burning with tears.

When he reached for Elena’s head, she clung to it reluctantly but did not refuse; Cesar returned the head to Elena’s husband, and in the next instant, Damaral seized his arm—her slender fingers pierced his flesh through the chainmail.

“You are my knight,” Damaral whispered, “now I command you to do one thing for me.”

“Even if you didn’t say it, I would do it.”

“No, I mean something else,” Damaral trembled, yet her voice hardened like steel: “Not one of them shall live.” She lifted her head to look at him, lips pale, eyes brimming with tears: “I know you are a merciful man—but when you think of forgiving them, remember Elena and me.”

“I promise you.”

Damaral wanted to say, “I trust you,” but before the words could leave her lips, she fainted in Cesar’s arms.

————————

Cesar brought Damaral back to her father; her father had originally refused to let her accompany them, and now he was even more worried—but Damaral insisted she would not return to Alasal until she saw the heads of the Saracens, so he allowed her to stay, though he accompanied Cesar to hear the king’s decree.

This tragic event drew widespread attention; by the time they reached the tent, the Grand Masters of the three great orders—the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Hospitallers, and the Templars (Amalric I was Grand Master of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre)—along with the Archdeacon, Patriarch Heraclius and the clergy, and lords and nobles from both foreign lands and the Holy Land had gathered, all clad in gleaming armor, faces grim, many eager to fight.

But according to the intelligence gathered, the Saracens had no fixed base, no villages, no towns, no castles.

They were like a pack of stray hyenas, avoiding any army that looked formidable, striking only lone pilgrims or noblewomen and attendants who strayed too far from camp through carelessness.

“We once sent men to hunt them, but they are cunning and know this land intimately; the moment they see the glint of armor and swords, they vanish into thick forests, swamps, or reed beds.”

Gentlemen, do not imagine Egypt at this time to be a land of endless sand and barren wasteland—if so, why would Amalric I cling to it so desperately?

From Fustat at the southern tip of the Nile Delta, to Alexandria and Damietta at its two corners, the Nile Delta has been called the “breadbasket of the Mediterranean” for a thousand years.

The Nile carries countless silt deposits, forming a fertile fan-shaped plain at its mouth, crisscrossed by rivers and canals; with Egypt’s abundant sunlight, its wheat and rice can easily feed tens of millions and still export surplus.

From Gaza to here, along the route Cesar had traveled, he saw either clear blue skies and water, or lush forests; October was the season for dates, figs, and pomegranates—though the fresh fruit had not been preserved in honey, it tasted just as sweet.

In this place the Egyptians likened to a “lotus,” there were countless lakes, like dewdrops on petals, large and small, clear and bright.

The largest, Manzala Lake, was like a small sea; the smallest were no larger than reservoirs.

Some held saltwater, others freshwater; reeds grew thick along the shores, vegetation dense, white and brown waterbirds rising and landing intermittently; sometimes a “log” would rise from the water—it was the head and back of a Nile crocodile.

When the Crusaders previously attacked Fustat, they preferred to begin from Damietta—but to reach Fustat, they would have to cross four branches of the Nile.

The Saracens built fortresses at both ends of the bridges, raining arrows down to block the army’s advance; it was not impossible, but it was far too disadvantageous for the attackers.

Because of this concern, and because they had previously captured Bilbays, Amalric I chose Alexander the Great’s old campaign route, though he did not depart from Pelusium beside Damietta.

This way, they avoided rivers and bridges, ensured supply lines, and had no shortage of water—but the very abundance of water and vegetation became the enemy’s shield and hiding places.

“Then let us burn every village and kill every person we see—I don’t believe these hiding rats can find enough food!” Walter growled.

The suggestion sounded cruel, but it was not without merit.

Although Amalric I did not utterly destroy the Saracens’ homes after seizing enough grain, it was impossible for these persistent raiders to have lasted so long or evaded Crusader searches without the support of villagers.

This seemed the only solution; Amalric I’s hesitation was not due to any remaining compassion, but because he still had to attack Bilbays.

Bilbays’ defenses, while nowhere near Fustat’s, were still a major city—he feared that if he began massacres here, its inhabitants would rise in revolt when he attacked.

Moreover, this campaign had gone surprisingly smoothly—but if they followed Walter’s advice, they would waste considerable time here.

If winter arrived, the Crusaders would face the problem of no warmth; further, if they continued to Fustat, the cold would become another obstacle.

At this war council, neither Baldwin nor Cesar had the right to speak; Baldwin glanced at his usually resourceful companion, wondering if he might have a solution.

He propped his elbow and nudged Cesar.

Walter saw it, grinned, but said nothing.

When the others dispersed, before the king could speak to his son, Walter reentered.

Amalric I had no fondness for this obnoxious man—Walter had once humiliated him, nearly destroying his treaty with the “Hawk’s Nest”—but due to the Grand Master and Archdeacon of the Templars’ strenuous mediation, he had been forced to abandon the idea of hanging Walter and his knights.

Though captured and imprisoned, Walter received treatment befitting a knight; a year later, the Grand Master of the Templars came personally with his ransom, demanding his release—campaigns loomed, so Amalric I had no choice but to agree.

Now he strutted before the king as if he owned the place… yet showed not a shred of gratitude; if Amalric I could shoot arrows from his eyes, Walter would already be a porcupine.

“What do you want?” Amalric I asked coldly.

“Hmm…” Walter scratched his nose. “To be precise, I’m not here to do something—I’m here to ask something.”

“What do you want to ask me?”

“No, not you,” Walter said. “Your little fellow behind you. Do you remember me, Cesar?”

“I remember well,” Cesar bowed slightly; after all, it was Walter who had granted his request, saving thousands from slaughter.

“Are you still as kind-hearted?” Walter asked abruptly. “But these aren’t Christians—they’re Saracens, our natural enemies. Don’t deny it—I saw you frown when I made my suggestion.”

“I merely…”

“Merely what?”

Even the king turned to look, and Baldwin edged closer, as if to lend his friend silent support.

“Even by your method, we may never find them. The army must keep advancing, and knights cannot afford to waste weeks searching, burning, and killing.”

Though the Saracens deserve their fate, we know this land poorly, and the villages here are scattered far and wide.

We have no trustworthy guides or messengers—if they lure our knights into swamps or forests, our losses will be greater.

Perhaps you’ll say they can gather together—but then their speed would slow further… perhaps by the time the army returns victorious, our knights will still be aimlessly searching here…

And they came here primarily to serve God.”

Walter rubbed his chin. “Then what’s your solution?”

“I’m not yet a knight,” Cesar replied humbly.

Amalric I waved his hand. “I know you’re a clever boy, and Heraclius has said that children sometimes spark insights adults’ rigid minds can never grasp.”

“I’ve heard a story…”

——————

Several days later, a party departed from the main army’s encampment; merchants said it was Gerard’s Lady Damaral—her father, after the recent tragedy, insisted on sending her back to Alasal.

(End of Chapter)