Chapter 77: To Egypt! (8) (Bonus for Monthly Votes!)

Cesar had no doubt that what Walter and Geoffrey had in mind was anything but good; he might have been naive when he first arrived, but after spending so many years in the Holy Land, how could he not know the true nature of these Templars?

Indeed, the so-called “good thing” was that they had left him the most valuable prisoner of all. On a battlefield between Christians, this would have been equivalent to handing him a fortune—but this was a battlefield between Christians and infidels, and Amalric I had explicitly stated that no prisoners were to be taken in this campaign.

So his purpose was simply to let Cesar cut off his head.

Cesar recalled how the prince had once told him that, at the age of nine, he had executed a criminal under the supervision of the king and Heraclius—not a thief or a beggar, but a nobleman burdened with grave crimes.

For Frankish nobles, this might have been a tradition.

Walter saw the man behind him—the elder, mounted on horseback, looking less like a prisoner and more like an acquaintance he had happened upon. “I heard that when you arrived in Arasalu, the first man you killed was merely a foolish servant. Now you have a chance to make up for that oversight.”

The Templar smiled as he studied Cesar’s face, as if searching for something buried deep within his soul. But Cesar merely nodded in silence.

The chief, bound and left on an open patch of ground, also saw the elder. His expression twisted with grief and despair.

Upon hearing that a child who had not yet been knighted would be the one to execute him, he grew even more furious—clearly, it was not only Christian knights who demanded treatment befitting their station.

Walter had prepared himself to sever the man’s hand or foot. But the elder spoke only a few words in Greek, and the chief fell silent.

He scratched his ear and turned to Cesar.

“What did they say?”

Almost every knight who came to the Holy Land was already an adult, some even renowned for years—but their education was generally poor. They spoke Frankish and even colloquial Latin haltingly.

After a few years in the Holy Land, some knights could understand basic Saracen speech, but when the elder spoke Greek, they were lost.

The elder had also spoken Greek to Cesar earlier.

To Saracen scholars, Greek was no foreign tongue. They had long been busy translating and studying ancient Greek texts, mastering the language thoroughly.

Cesar had systematically studied Greek in his other world out of personal interest; here, under Heraclius’s guidance, both Greek and Latin had become as natural to him as his mother tongue, and he conversed with the elder without effort.

“He is persuading the other Saracen to accept his fate.”

“Is that so?” Walter asked skeptically. “But he said a lot.”

“Because Greek isn’t as concise as our language.”

“I’m no fool,” Walter muttered, but he did not press further.

Cesar swung his sword. Everyone nearby tensed—until the blade fell, and the chief’s head rolled to the ground, still emitting a sigh of relief. Killing a defenseless man was entirely different from combat on the battlefield. Geoffrey relaxed; Cesar had done it perfectly—any hesitation or delay would have led to dire consequences.

There were plenty of knights who fought bravely on the battlefield but failed to sever a neck cleanly during executions, causing the condemned to thrash wildly, drenching the ground in blood, a gruesome sight.

Then came the elder. His final words were: “What a pity, child.”

Though spoken in Saracen, everyone understood. Then his head rolled beside the chief’s.

After completing this task, the knights and their squires sprang into action. They severed every Saracen head, rinsed them roughly in a nearby small lake, sealed the necks with lime, stacked them in wooden crates, and loaded them onto the four-wheeled cart. The bodies were abandoned in the wilderness to be devoured by beasts.

“Was it him? Were they?”

Back at camp, Damara had already heard the news and raced ahead of everyone else. She did not know which Saracen had killed her beloved sister Elenas, but that did not stop her from boldly opening the crate and examining each head one by one.

Afterward, she didn’t even wash her hands before rushing to Cesar, throwing her arms tightly around his waist, pouring out endless thanks—until her father arrived with a strange expression and pulled her away.

He was, of course, delighted that his daughter had such a knight—one who had already shown wisdom and courage in youth—but he also harbored concerns.

Gerard’s father was a good father; he did not expect his daughter to bring him glory or wealth. He only wished she would marry a gentle nobleman, one without great ambition—even if he lived outside the Holy Land, in Frankia or the Apennines, he would accept it.

But Cesar was destined to be entangled in endless conspiracies and schemes, never to be freed until death.

Though all said this former slave child’s future was boundless, as head of the Gerard family, he knew best—immense wealth and power often meant countless rivalries, struggles, and deaths.

He knew his daughter was not the kind of woman who relished intrigue and deception. If she formed a betrothal with Cesar, it would bring no good to either of them.

“You should return to Arasalu,” he told Damara.

Gerard’s father’s attitude displeased Baldwin slightly, though only barely.

He knew the Gerard family had invested in Cesar, but that did not justify such a cold, distant demeanor.

He himself would never choose Damara as Cesar’s wife; in his view, she was too childish.

Moreover, though she was a Gerard girl, she had several older sisters—meaning her dowry would be small, and she would have no land. Marriage was the fastest way for knights without inheritance to gain land; otherwise, he would have to wait until his accession to grant Cesar a fief.

He had entrusted Cesar’s marriage prospects to his mother, the Countess of Jaffa, and his sister, Princess Sibylla. They would surely find him a suitable match.

——————

That night, Amalric I held a wildly festive banquet. It lasted through the night. Cesar drank far more than his usual amount—several times over. Of course, others had eagerly urged him to drink, but mostly he drank to release the unbearable pressure within.

Baldwin said nothing. But as dawn approached and the camp fell silent except for the sentries, he suddenly touched Cesar’s arm: “Want to bathe?”

Before sleeping, they had merely washed their faces with linen cloths—nothing more.

In camp, a hot bath was possible—but it would draw attention: men hauling tubs, fetching hot and cold water, servants standing by. Usually, only the king or commander had such privilege.

So knights, their squires, runners, servants, and even the lowest laborers bathed in nearby rivers or lakes. Disgust at dirt was human nature—monkeys bathed too.

This nature would not change until a century or two later, when the Black Death forced it.

Near their tents lay a small lake, connected to a tributary. Even with many drawing water from it, the water remained neither depleted nor murky.

Some patrol knights saw them and bowed to the prince. A monk warned them the water was unusually cold.

Baldwin found a depression connected to the lake. Under the cobalt sky, it appeared especially dark, surrounded by dense reeds forming a natural barrier.

Cesar suspected a massive tree had once grown here, fallen, and left a hollow that filled with water, creating a perfect, clean “small pool.” Baldwin dipped his hand in—sure enough, as the monk said, though it was October in Egypt, the water was still chilly.

So they gathered stones, heated them over a fire, and tossed them into the “pool.” The hot stones hissed violently upon contact with water, sending up thick clouds of white steam.

A few knights came to look, laughed, and walked away.

Only then did they plunge in. Admittedly, the stones added little warmth—only enough to take the edge off the ice.

But that chill carried away the burning heat accumulated within Cesar.

He looked at Baldwin. They were thirteen now; in a year, they would be officially adults, able to discuss marriage, hold power, and be taken seriously. Amalric I planned to knight them both.

Their height already surpassed ordinary squires; even some knights were shorter. Yet both still bore the softness of childhood on their faces.

Cesar longed desperately to grow up, yet knew nothing could be rushed. Even if he grew, he would still suffer the torment of clashing realities and ideals before breaking free from this world’s chains.

“Don’t rush,” Baldwin said. He saw Cesar’s surprised eyes lift to him and smiled. “You think I can’t see what’s in your heart?”

“In truth, I’m equally disgusted by this. Every time I see them, I feel like I’m looking at devils crawling from hell—I don’t understand: if we are righteous and the Saracens evil, why are our knights greedier, more brutal than they are?”

“Shouldn’t we hold ourselves to higher standards—broader hearts, fairer attitudes, stricter discipline?”

“This is the holiest place on earth.”

“Yet these knights, upon arriving, received no enlightenment. They did not grow more humble, honest, or merciful. Instead, they unleashed the beasts within them—reckless, without bounds.”

“Sometimes I wonder: what were they like back in Frankia, Hungary, or the Apennines? Would they treat their own peasants and craftsmen this way?”

“If so, how much suffering do Christian farmers and artisans endure? Tell me,” he asked Cesar, “if I become king of Arasalu someday, could this be changed?”

“It can,” Cesar said. “But it will be very, very, very difficult.”

“After all, we and the Saracens stand on entirely different sides.”

“I don’t mean just faith. I mean this land. It once belonged to the Isaacites, then to the Romans. Only after the Romans left did the Saracens take it.”

“Of course, we could become its new masters—but it would require painful struggle and preparation. No one willingly gives up power and wealth.”

“Jesus Christ merely challenged the Isaacite priests’ minor authority—and they framed him to death.”

“Arasalu is the center of the world. The golden crown is set with religious pearls, economic rubies, and legitimacy’s sapphires—who would easily abandon it?”

“If you become king of Arasalu, you cannot stand alone against the entire Saracen world. You need allies, vassals, endless resources—but none of these come free.”

“Like this campaign: your father Amalric I has gathered vast wealth, yet still cannot sustain the army. If he forbids plundering, rape, arson, and killing, they will see him as weak—or miserly.”

“They won’t think him good. They’ll think him unworthy to follow. They’ve come. If they don’t get what they want, you know what will happen.”

Baldwin slapped the water. “What else? Unchecked chaos against everyone! If they could, they’d even replace the king of Arasalu—such things have happened before.”

“But there must be a way, right?”

Cesar recalled events from his other world: “There is. But it requires a saint to accomplish.”

“Jesus Christ?” Baldwin said, then realized he had been too flippant. He quickly muttered a prayer and made the sign of the cross in penance. But punishment came anyway—he sneezed, loudly. Cesar immediately stopped speaking and pulled him from the water.

They quickly dried their bodies with cotton cloth, put on clean, warm clothes, ran back to their tents, wrapped themselves in furs, and slept soundly.

When they woke the next morning, Amalric I’s rewards and gifts from nobles already lay before their tent. Most prominent were the silvered chainmail, helmet, and sword gifted by Elenas’s husband and by Gérard.

Because Cesar was always with Baldwin, their gifts came in double.

“This chainmail needs adjusting,” Baldwin grumbled. “It doesn’t fit.”

He was being picky. After all, William Marshal, whom the king had so praised, had received only one set of silvered chainmail from Amalric I.

“Loose is fine,” Cesar said casually. “I can cinch it with leather straps.” At this time, armor—cotton, leather, or chainmail—was custom-made to fit the wearer.

To Cesar, the chainmail’s height and width were perfect; it was just slightly large, perhaps originally belonging to some noble, won or bought by Elenas’s husband as a gift.

To tailor it exactly to his current size, the smith would have to remove much excess material. But he thought: if he ate well, he and Baldwin would grow strong quickly. Then adding back the cut pieces would be pointless.

Besides, he wouldn’t wear such chainmail on the battlefield. Silvered or gilded chainmail was purely an expensive ornament. Wearing it in battle was like inviting enemies to target you.

“True. You can wear it when you’re knighted,” Baldwin said. But soon after, Cesar put on the chainmail—no other reason: Amalric I’s message to Bilbays had finally been answered.

(End of Chapter)