Chapter 74: To Egypt! (5)

The moment Damara saw the cloak lifted, she threw herself forward, clutching Elena's head to her chest, and burst into fresh, agonizing sobs.

Among the handmaidens serving Princess Sibylla, Elena was one of the older ones. Because her family shared kinship ties with Gerard, she had been very kind to Damara, who had looked upon her as a sister. For a beloved one's severed head, Damara felt no fear, only unbearable agony.

The young girl's crying had completely lost its rhythm; by the end, it was no longer weeping, but a raw, guttural shriek. If the Saracen who had ravaged and murdered Elena were standing before her now, she would use a blade if she had one, and if not, she would tear at him with her nails and bite him with her teeth until he met his end.

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

But since arriving here, he had seen plenty of such cold, stiff relics—those hacked to death by blades, pierced by spears, crushed by stones, burned by fire, or shot by arrows...

Some wore ferocious expressions, others looked bewildered, and some even wore smiles, as if they had already glimpsed Paradise...

Among these deaths, quite a few had been brought about by his own hand.

Yet he thought he would never grow accustomed to it, nor accept it.

The moment Prince Baldwin saw Elena's body, he understood why her husband, who had loved her so dearly, had still left her exposed like a beast after death.

The parts that remained undamaged were like fragments of marble sculpture—the kind once placed in the palaces of Roman emperors or in temples—white, delicate, and lifelike. Every detail was so exquisite one would want to kiss it; even stained with dust and blood, they remained works of art worth ten thousand gold coins.

But the damaged parts—those marred by knife wounds, fire, gnawing, and rope burns—recalled a lamb that had been shorn and scrubbed, butchered crudely and wastefully, everything once cherished as a treasure now discarded with disdain, like refuse.

Baldwin stepped forward and took the cloak from the husband's hands, covering the unfortunate lady once more.

"I will speak to my father," he gave the husband the answer he most desired. "Damara," he turned to the young girl still clutching Elena's head, "let her rest."

Damara only shook her head. "Anointing... give her the anointing..." She meant to perform the Last Rites so that Elena would not be cast into Hell.

But the few clerics present could not help but look troubled. After all, the remains of Elena and the other noblewomen had been discovered by patrolling soldiers in broad daylight; it was difficult to prove that anyone had performed the rites for them beforehand.

"Did those unfortunate martyrs who died for the faith have anyone to perform the rites for them?" Cesar suddenly asked. Hearing this, the eyes of Elena's husband and Damara filled with sudden realization, followed by immense joy.

Indeed, until now, most martyred saints had never received the Last Rites. Since they were martyrs, it meant that at the time of their death, they were surrounded by guards, executioners, or the officials who judged them.

Those people would never perform such an act, which would only bring trouble upon themselves.

Moreover, this was not the first time a mass martyrdom had occurred; for instance, there was Saint Ursula, a princess of Britain.

A lord who had migrated from Britain to Gaul-Brittany sought her hand in marriage, hoping she would bring along a number of Christian maidens as dowry so his knights could establish families and multiply.

Ursula readily agreed. She not only brought ten handmaidens, but each handmaiden brought a thousand maids. Unfortunately, they encountered a shipwreck and ran aground on a beach, which happened to be the territory of a group of pagans.

Facing the pagans' blades, the maidens showed no fear; they walked off the ship singing hymns, meeting their deaths one by one with composure.

Of course, such legends told by clerics were always somewhat exaggerated, and perhaps not entirely true, but it did not matter. If they could classify the deaths of Elena and the other noblewomen as "martyrdom," not only would they avoid Hell, but they would ascend to Heaven.

At this, even Gerard de Redford, who had been weeping on the side, cast a look of gratitude. He was already a member of the Templar Order. Although Elena had already absolved him of the vows he had made to her, Gerard truly held a measure of sincere affection for her.

He was absolutely determined to avenge her, but when it came to things like martyrdom, his mind was entirely inadequate.

Elena's husband knew of Cesar—the Prince's closest companion, his brother in all but blood, and a student of Patriarch Heraclius. If he said this, it meant there would certainly be no problem with the Patriarch.

Of course, money would still be required, but having a martyred saint was a good thing for both families; they would not begrudge a little gold.

He stepped forward and gripped Cesar's hand tightly.

Cesar sighed softly and went to help Damara up. The young girl pressed her entire weight against him; he could feel her burning heat through his clothes even as she wept.

When he reached out to take Elena's head, she was reluctant but did not refuse. The next moment, she grabbed Cesar's arm; her slender fingers actually pierced his skin through the chainmail.

"You are my knight," Damara whispered, "and now, I need you to do something for me."

"I would do it even if you didn't ask."

"No, I need something else," Damara's body trembled, but her voice was as hard as steel: "Not one of them must live." She looked up at him, her lips pale, her eyes brimming with tears: "I know you are a merciful man, but whenever you want to forgive them, just think of Elena and me."

"I promise."

Damara wanted to say, "I believe you," but before she could, she fainted in Cesar's arms.

————————

Cesar sent Damara back to her father. Damara's father had originally not wanted her to follow, and now he was even more worried, but Damara insisted that she would not return to Jaffa until she saw the heads of those Saracens. He had no choice but to let her stay, though he accompanied Cesar to hear the King's decree.

This tragic event drew the attention of many. By the time they arrived at the tent, the Grand Masters of the three great knightly orders—the Temple, the Hospital, and the Holy Sepulchre (of which King Amalric I was the Grand Master)—and the Priors had all arrived. Patriarch Heraclius and the clerics were there, as were the lords and nobles from both the Holy Land and abroad. They gathered, their armor gleaming, their expressions grave, and many were willing to take up arms.

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

They were like a pack of hyenas roaming the wilderness, never engaging with armies they knew were difficult to handle, only attacking lone pilgrims or noblewomen and attendants who were not cautious enough to stray far from the camp.

"We have sent men to search for them, but they are extremely cunning and intimately familiar with the terrain. The moment they see the glint of armor or blades, they dive into the dense forests, marshes, or reed beds and vanish."

Gentlemen, do not think that Egypt at this time was a place of dust and barren desolation. If it were, why would it be so worth King Amalric I's obsession and reluctance to abandon it?

With Fustat at the apex of the Nile Delta and Alexandria and Damietta at the two corners, the Nile Delta had been known as the "granary of the Mediterranean" for a thousand years.

Carrying countless silt, the Nile deposited it into a fan-shaped fertile land at its mouth. The river network was dense and the canals crisscrossed. With Egypt's abundant sunshine, the wheat and rice produced here could easily sustain tens of millions of people, with plenty left for export.

From Jaffa to this place, everything Cesar saw along the way was either clear skies and blue waters or lush forests. September was the season for dates, figs, and pomegranates to ripen; although the fresh fruit had not been preserved in honey, it tasted just as sweet.

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

There were saltwater lakes and freshwater ones. The shores were overgrown with reeds and lush vegetation. White and brown waterbirds took flight and landed from time to time. Occasionally, a "dead log" would rise from the surface—that was the head and spine of a Nile crocodile.

When the Crusaders had attacked Fustat before, they preferred to start from Damietta, but to reach Fustat from there required crossing four branches of the Nile.

The Saracens would build fortresses at both ends of the bridges, using arrows like torrential rain to hinder the army's advance. It was not impossible, but it was too disadvantageous for the attacking side.

Because of such concerns, and because they had once occupied Bilbeis, King Amalric I still chose the route of Alexander the Great's expedition, only without starting from Pelusium near Damietta.

This allowed them to avoid rivers and bridges while ensuring the army's supplies and water. The problem was that these rich wetlands and vegetation also became the shield and hiding place for their enemies.

"Then let us burn every village and kill every person we see! I do not believe these rats hiding in the shadows can still find enough food!" Walter said in a muffled voice.

This suggestion might sound cruel, but it was not a bad strategy.

Although King Amalric I did not completely destroy the Saracens' homes after gathering enough grain, it was impossible that these persistent harassers could have sustained themselves for so long without the support of the villagers, nor could they have evaded the Crusaders' searches.

This seemed to be the only way. King Amalric I's hesitation lay not in his remaining sliver of mercy, but in the fact that he still had to attack Bilbeis later.

Bilbeis's defenses were certainly incomparable to Fustat's, but it was still a large city. He worried that if they began a massive slaughter here, the residents of Bilbeis would rise up in fierce resistance.

Moreover, this expedition had been unexpectedly smooth, but if they followed what Walter the Templar suggested, they would waste a great deal of time here.

If winter arrived, the Crusaders would face the problem of keeping warm. If they wanted to continue to attack Fustat afterward, the bitter cold would also be an obstacle.

In such a war council, neither Baldwin nor Cesar had the right to speak. Baldwin looked at his small companion, who always had ideas, wondering if he could think of a good solution.

He nudged Cesar with his elbow.

Walter saw this and grinned, but he said nothing.

After the people dispersed, before the King could speak to his son, Walter walked back in.

King Amalric I had no love for this annoying fellow—Walter had previously given him a hard time and nearly ruined his peace treaty with the "Eagle's Nest." But because the Grand Master and the Prior of the Templar Order had mediated, he had to abandon the idea of hanging Walter along with his knights.

Although Walter had been captured and imprisoned by the King, it did not prevent him from receiving treatment befitting a knight while in the dungeon. A year later, the Grand Master of the Templars came before the King in person with his ransom, demanding his release—with the expedition imminent, King Amalric I had no choice but to agree.

He was strutting about before the King so smugly... without a shred of gratitude. If King Amalric I could shoot arrows from his eyes, Walter would have long since become a porcupine.

"What are you here for?" King Amalric I asked coldly.

"Hmm..." Walter scratched his nose. "To be precise, I'm not here to do anything, but to ask something."

"What could you possibly have to ask me?"

"No, not you," Walter said, "but the little fellow behind you. Do you still remember me, Cesar?"

"I have a vivid impression." Cesar bowed his head slightly. Regardless, it was Walter who had agreed to his request, allowing thousands to be spared from fire and sword.

"Are you still so kind-hearted?" Walter asked out of the blue. "But those fellows aren't Christians; they are Saracens, our natural enemies. Don't deny it, I saw you frown—when I made my suggestion."

"I was just..."

"Just what?"

Even the King looked over, and Baldwin moved closer, as if to lend his friend some support.

"Even if we follow your method, we might not be able to find them. The army must continue to advance, and the knights' energy cannot be guaranteed to be spent continuously on weeks of searching, arson, and slaughter.

Although those Saracens deserve their fate, we are not familiar with this place, and the villages here are scattered like stars.

We cannot find trustworthy guides or messengers. If they lead our knights into marshes or dense forests, our losses will be even greater.

Perhaps you would say they could gather together, but that might make their speed even slower... Perhaps by the time the army returns in triumph, the knights will still be searching aimlessly here...

And they came here more to serve the Lord."

Walter stroked his chin. "Then do you have a better idea?"

"I am not yet a knight," Cesar said modestly.

King Amalric I waved his hand. "I know you are a clever child, and Heraclius has said that children sometimes spark ideas that cannot exist within the rigid thinking of adults."

"I once heard a story..."

——————

A few days later, a small party left the camp where the main army was stationed. According to the merchants, this was Damara, the daughter of Gerard—because of the tragic event that had occurred, her father insisted on sending her back to Jaffa.

(End of chapter)

(End of chapter)