Chapter 82: Siege! (2)

This catapult was not the simplest; the simplest one Heraclius had taken them to see was a large cross lying flat on the ground, with a flexible wooden rod inserted at its center, the other end shaped like a spoon for loading projectiles, its tail tied to an animal tendon or leather rope, tightened around a winch, and cut or released by a trigger when firing.

It might be only one man wide and two men tall, with weak power and short range, but it was easy to build and transport.

Heavier catapults like the Wild Ass had a base nearly equal in width to its height, with a more complex and refined structure; at least the one Cesar saw featured a rotating platform and a special adjustable-angle support, winches on both sides, and leather ropes coiled tightly around the tension beam to reinforce it—and it launched not stones, but crossbow bolts.

To Cesar, it resembled the prototype of a firearm: the bolt as the bullet, the kinetic energy from the tension beam as the thrust of gunpowder, the beam striking the bolt’s end to launch it and destroy everything within effective range.

Of course, most catapults, as their name suggests, still launched stones, but some had not a hollow loader but a leather sling at the end. “This can carry many things,” Heraclius glanced at Cesar: “For instance, a reckless, foolish boy.”

Baldwin chuckled—he knew Heraclius still blamed Cesar for his impulsive act three years ago; no matter how much others praised him, from a parent’s standpoint, if given a choice, any parent would wish only for their child’s safety—Cesar and Heraclius shared no blood, but in the Church, the relationship between priest and disciple was nearly equivalent to that of father and son.

Had there been the slightest misstep, Walter would have shoved Cesar into that sling and hurled him from the walls of Tortosa straight into Amalric I’s camp.

Some other catapult components were so large that Heraclius’s explanations could not help them identify them—even Cesar couldn’t recognize them; what they saw in books differed utterly from what they saw in person—the thick, towering wooden beams, the structures resembling both carts and houses, the rodent wheels—wait?

“Those are walking wheels,” Heraclius said at a glance. “Used for large and super-large catapults.”

Such catapults could not be assembled until reaching the battlefield, and once assembled, they could not be moved at all; they were not only huge but extremely heavy, their counterweights filled with tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands of pounds of earth, requiring several men to pull them, plus walking wheels on both sides—two men side by side stepping on treadles, similar to the principle of a waterwheel—just to operate.

These catapults could not stabilize themselves by weight alone; their joints required iron fittings and rivets, and the main upright posts had to be driven deep into the ground to prevent shifting or toppling.

In comparison, battering rams, siege towers, and mobile shelters had changed little in design over the past thousand years, only growing taller and larger.

“This is the ‘Turtle,’” Heraclius said. “Some call it the ‘Rat,’ but it doesn’t matter—when you shout ‘Rat’ or ‘Turtle,’ no one will think you’re cursing your enemy to death.”

Whether Turtle or Rat, it resembled a low, sturdy house—more solid than most serf dwellings—with a triangular roof, four wheels at the base; soldiers hid beneath it and pushed it forward, and when battle began, wet ox hides were draped over the roof to prevent ignition from enemy fire.

Battering rams were usually mounted inside these shelters, their metal heads cast in the shape of rams’ or turtles’ heads, attached to a thick wooden beam suspended by ropes; originally pushed by hand, most now used fixed beams with winches and tendons driving the ram, sometimes replacing the ram with a giant spear.

“This basket isn’t finished?” Baldwin lifted a basket large enough to fit him, with a square opening on one side, roughly the size of a human face. “This is another kind of mobile shelter,” Heraclius said, then maliciously slapped it, shoving Baldwin inside.

“You try too.”

He told Cesar, who could only reluctantly slip into a willow basket; two handsome, graceful squires instantly became two ridiculous basket-men. Heraclius nodded in satisfaction, his outward expression giving no hint of his inner laughter—but Cesar knew Heraclius was a man who held grudges and never missed a chance to mock others.

Amalric I’s failed campaign against Egypt had been mocked by him ever since; who knew if Amalric I’s current determination to take Fustat wasn’t partly fueled by this?

He was certain that for the next few years, at every banquet or after-dinner chat, the “basket-men” would never be absent from conversation.

“This is the ladder.” They all recognized it, but this ladder was far larger and longer than ordinary ones, with detachable hooks at the top—just like the “Raven” boarding ramps used on ships; once hooked onto the battlements, it was nearly impossible to pull up or push off by manpower alone, though defenders often used ropes with heavy weights to pull it sideways and dislodge it.

“Used in occasional small gaps,” Heraclius said. Then they arrived at another bustling workshop, its purpose unclear.

“This is where siege towers are built.”

Siege towers were typically built taller than the city walls—about a hundred French feet high, roughly ten stories. Modern people might find it hard to believe, but it was true; think of it not as a weapon but as a building—its internal structure resembled a tall tower, except the bottom had six or eight wheels and a battering ram.

It was divided into several levels, each with ladders for ascent and descent, and a well for vertically lifting buckets of water to extinguish fires that might land on the tower; the highest platform had battlements like a city wall, allowing archers to fire downward and cover knights charging from the tower toward the walls.

The reason was that siege towers often crowded with dozens of knights; on the second level, level with the city walls, there was a drawbridge that could be lowered; once the tower neared the walls, the battering ram below could strike the wall while the drawbridge above was lowered, allowing knights to surge forward and fight atop the walls.

“You both will be on this or that siege tower,” Heraclius said. Though he was not the type to coddle children like a woman, he knew that in Arasalu, no matter how noble or kind you were, if others saw you as a coward—you would never earn respect.

Baldwin was like this—when he was diagnosed with leprosy, everyone assumed he would be stripped of his heirship and exiled from Arasalu, for Arasalu needed a ruler who could lift a sword and lead knights into battle.

Cesar was the same—if he hesitated, refused to fight on the battlefield, all his past good deeds would be erased, and some might even feel deceived, retaliating with even greater cruelty.

“You won’t be in the first wave,” Heraclius said gravely. “But you’ll be in the second or third. While you wait, observe carefully, absorb every lesson, steady your mind… I know you’ve fought before, but those battles are nothing compared to a siege, especially one against a great city like Fustat—it’s the difference between heaven and hell.”

“And the enemy you face will surely be Saracens enlightened by their prophet, vastly different from those you’ve encountered before; what you relied upon, they possess too—perhaps sharper, stronger, with far greater accumulated experience.”

“Be cautious. Never be careless.”

“We will,” Baldwin replied. “But Heraclius, can we take off these baskets now?”

This time it was Cesar who chuckled.

The two squires removed their baskets at the perfect moment—just as they were adjusting their attire, a servant rode up in haste to summon Heraclius; it was said that during Amalric I’s military council, several lords had disagreed over the next deployment and advance strategy, and Amalric I had sent for Heraclius to see if he could offer a better suggestion.

Heraclius had to end today’s lesson and returned with the two boys to Al-Fadil Palace.

Though Al-Fadil Palace had been mockingly called a brothel by the Saracens, its original designers and craftsmen had poured their love and reverence for the royal family into every detail, making every part as magnificent and flawless as possible; the entire complex, from top to bottom, included halls, meeting rooms, bedrooms, and reception chambers, all connected by corridors and courtyards, walls inlaid with Quranic verses and intricate mosaic geometric patterns, dazzlingly beautiful.

But Amalric I likely had no mind to appreciate these beauties now; he and several lords—the Count of Tripoli, the Grand Duke of Antioch, the Grand Masters of the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller, along with several venerable dukes and counts—were locked in heated debate over the coming siege.

In such a setting, even Prince Baldwin could only remain silent, holding a wine jug as a servant—but Cesar and he immediately understood: according to Amalric I and the lords’ original plan, they would attack Fustat directly, but now a new problem had arisen.

Fustat was a city no less formidable than Arasalu, the capital of the Fatimid Dynasty, with three layers of walls, three gates, each gate flanked by two massive towers—like a sturdy leather belt tightly cinched around Fustat’s waist, shielding her from foreign invaders.

To Fustat’s left lay the Nile, but the large island of Lawadah lay just across a narrow channel from Fustat’s walls, becoming its natural flank position; ever since Saladin and Shirkuh arrived in Fustat, they had begun building a fortress on Lawadah.

That fortress was now complete, and somehow, bridges and drawbridges had been constructed linking it to Fustat.

“Who can tell me?” Amalric I demanded angrily. “How did these bridges suddenly appear? Did the Devil build them for them?!”

(End of Chapter)