Chapter 88: Siege! (8)

This edict was not an end, but a beginning.

Those who have never experienced war always harbor a delusion—that war is thrilling, intense, heart-pounding, filled with madness, joy, and sorrow—but the truth is the opposite, even the exact opposite.

By the eighth day of the siege, Cesar and the other young knights had lost their initial fear and excitement; an unprecedented exhaustion settled over them, one that sleep, food, drink, or the clergy’s healing could not relieve—it came from contempt for life and indifference to death.

When Geoffroy suddenly slaughtered those civilians just to secure shelter during a snowstorm at midnight, Cesar found it unbearable, though he had no choice but to accept this bloody favor.

But after that, even though Geoffroy showed him sufficient kindness, he could not let it go; even without Baldwin, he knew he could never have accepted the olive branch offered to him.

Now, he still could not say he had accepted it—he could only say he had come to understand why seasoned knights treated their own lives and others’ so lightly.

Every day, every hour, every moment, as soon as he opened his eyes—whether in daylight or night, whether intercepting reinforcements from other cities, guarding supply caravans, or rescuing some reckless lord or band of pilgrims—they were locked in endless killing and being killed.

Only taut nerves accompanied them, chainmail that reeked of blood no matter how often washed, weapons dulled from too-frequent hacking…

The young knights who once joked, teased, and argued over which noblewoman was nobler, purer, or more beautiful had grown quiet.

Back in their tents, they either drank incessantly until they passed out drunk, or knelt before icons praying and confessing, murmuring to themselves until dawn; others stayed with their friends—like Baldwin and Cesar—who read to each other, played chess, and tried as much as possible to follow their old routines.

Some tender-hearted knights had begun to lose control—they even turned on their comrades or pilgrims; without the ever-calm Cesar among them, no one could say what they might have done.

“I’m starting to envy Richard,” Baldwin said.

“He’s different from us,” Cesar replied, shaking his head.

Richard had been baptized by the battlefield, but that wasn’t the point—there were others in their ranks who had fought through battles yet still buckled under the weight; Richard, however, was truly like the wild boar Baldwin had described—his body caked in dried blood, not a burden but a badge and shield; he always held his head high, boasting how many “devils” he had slain in battle.

Cesar was grateful, at least, that Baldwin thought as he did; though if they could see the Saracens as “non-human,” their inner burdens would surely lessen.

“How is Fostat holding out?” Cesar asked.

“Still at a stalemate,” Baldwin said, frowning. “Some are already growing lax and neglectful; others want to attack Fostat their own way.”

“Haven’t they learned from past lessons yet?” Cesar moved the “siege tower” on the board.

The nobleman who had arrogantly designed and built the siege tower not only died himself but lost twenty knights who came with him; fortunately, none among them were men like William Marshal, or the loss would have been unbearable—but it had nonetheless become a great joke for the Saracens and a bad omen for their own side.

Worse still, the night before, a nobleman had sworn to the King that he had bribed an Isaac merchant inside the city, arranging that when night fell and the walls grew dark, a small Crusader unit would sneak to the left tower of the Victory Gate, call out in Greek, and the merchant would immediately lower a rope.

They could climb up the rope, enter the tower, kill those inside, then seize another tower, and finally open the Victory Gate.

But he warned them to be utterly silent and swift, for patrols constantly walked the walls, taking turns holding torches to inspect every corner—if they hesitated or faltered, not only would they perish, but the Isaac merchant would be exposed.

Of course, no one cared about the Isaac merchant; but from Amalric I to other military leaders, all believed the likelihood of such a leak was slim—after all, the people of Fostat knew the Isaac merchant’s nature well; they should have imprisoned or even killed such men long ago. How could they possibly let one merchant out to betray such secrets?

Yet there were always bold, impulsive men. Though his proposal was rejected, the nobleman clung to his idea; he secretly recruited about a hundred knights, promising them rewards from both God and men. When some knights grew confused, he even claimed they were not going to die, but to joyfully join Christ and receive His eternal life—not the fleeting moment of morning dew.

His words convinced them. So a hundred knights, shields raised, swords belted, hauling leather rope ladders, crept toward the left tower of the Victory Gate under cover of night. They called out—and from the dark window above came the agreed signal; the rope dropped, then the leather ladder was hoisted up. The first twenty men climbed.

But once they reached the top, silence followed—those waiting grew anxious and fearful, fearing the Isaac merchant had betrayed them, that all were dead. Yet soon, a head appeared over the battlements, signaling all was safe, urging them to hurry up.

The remaining eighty followed one by one.

“You know what happened after,” Baldwin said, moving the “King.” “They were all wiped out. Their heads were cut off, stuffed into trebuchets, and hurled over the walls. Their naked bodies hung outside the tower. They even tried to get you to join them—thankfully, Father refused.”

Aside from the matter of Laodicea Fortress, Cesar had fought alongside knights many times since—many knights offered protection, but none were as steadfast or enduring as he; they even discovered that as long as they stayed within a certain range of Cesar, each one received his aid.

The most remarkable thing was that the halo, like scales or a shield, could deflect enemy attacks, yet imposed no burden or hindrance on their own movements.

Who hadn’t tried to “borrow” Cesar from King Amalric I? But so far, only Richard had succeeded—and only because he was related to Amalric I and the son of Henry II, and because Baldwin often fought alongside him; yet Amalric I was reluctant to let Cesar leave Baldwin.

“Tomorrow we may have to go up the siege tower,” Baldwin said.

“Mm.” Cesar had expected this; Heraclius had already warned him.

The siege had reached its most intense phase. “I heard from my Master that we’ll all be going up.”

“That’s Father’s proudest siege tower—he calls it the Tower of David.”

——————

The Tower of David stood beside the Jaffa Gate on Arasah Road, about fifty feet tall; Amalric I’s “Tower of David” was twice that height—nearly one hundred feet—and when its drawbridge was lowered, it aligned perfectly with the walls of Fostat.

Built of hard oak, it was covered in vinegar-soaked cowhide and sheepskin, hung with leather sacks filled with sand; moreover, on its front facing the walls, Amalric I had invested heavily in a layer of iron plates—enough to arm five hundred shielded infantrymen—clearly showing how much hope he placed in it.

The base of the siege tower was equally spacious, easily accommodating twenty fully armed knights inside.

Cesar felt his body sway, felt the trembling beneath his feet—this colossal machine required over a hundred soldiers to push it, lined on both sides, with comrades ahead holding shields and willow palisades to shield them from Saracen arrows or stones hurled by trebuchets.

Yet inevitably, men groaned or cried out and fell; others were dragged away, replaced immediately by fresh soldiers keeping pace with the tower. The closer they drew to the walls, the more frequent and violent the tremors became; through gaps in the tower’s walls, Cesar saw flames ignited and shards of stone spewing out, slicing a knight’s face.

Yet he seemed to lose all sensation, making no move to wipe blood or check his wound. Richard saw it, reached over, and wiped his face. “Don’t tense up,” he said. “We’re about to feast.”

Perhaps only Richard felt that way—this stretch of ground the siege tower crossed might have been the longest distance these young knights had ever traveled; in the past week, they had seen too many siege towers shattered by stone balls, collapsed, or ignited by Greek fire, burning fiercely. If lucky, knights escaped; if unlucky, they became part of the tower itself…

The voices of the Saracens grew clear; the stench of blood and smoke thickened. Then, with a thunderous crash, the siege tower shook violently. One knight screamed—but Richard slapped him hard, snapping him awake. “It’s time!” Richard shouted. “For Christ! For God’s cause!”

He charged out first; Baldwin and Cesar followed close behind, climbing the narrow wooden ladder, ascending seven levels. As soon as the soldiers saw them, they lowered the drawbridge.

Richard leapt onto the still-shaking drawbridge—and before him came clay jars of Greek fire. They shattered on impact, igniting instantly: the petroleum, sulfur, saltpeter, and other contents burst into flames that engulfed both the drawbridge and Richard himself.

The Crusaders had said Greek fire was like divine lightning; some claimed that once touched, one could only kneel and pray—perhaps exaggerated, yet partly true: it resisted water, clung to solids, and once ignited, survival was nearly impossible.

The Saracens cried out in triumph—but almost at once, Richard plunged into their ranks, swinging his battle-axe; their heads rolled like dice through the air and across the ground. Even as flames still clung to him, they failed to kill him, instead engulfing many Saracen soldiers who had not reacted in time.

Someone shouted: “This is a Christian knight touched by the Prophet!”

Then a bearded, fierce-looking Saracen warrior stepped forward to meet Richard, swinging a short, heavy mace—its head shaped like an onion, gilded and silvered, gleaming dazzlingly in the sun. No—wait! Cesar caught up to Richard, as he laid another layer of protection over him, the Saracen warrior’s mace struck Richard and sent him flying!

Richard cried out instinctively, crashing into the wall—but he felt only sharp pain, no serious injury.

He had no time to thank Cesar; he sprang up and clashed again with the Saracen warrior.

“Here too—Saracens touched by revelation,” Cesar stepped back, standing beside Baldwin, murmuring.

He had seen several warriors rushing toward them, each surrounded by astonishing radiant light.

Long before, after receiving the Saint’s favor, he had asked Heraclius: if Crusaders—or Christ’s knights—could receive God’s blessing, what of their enemies? Shouldn’t their foes have countermeasures to anticipate and resist? Otherwise, Amalric I would have taken Egypt long ago; even Baldwin III or Baldwin I could have.

Indeed, Heraclius said, among the Saracens there existed a counterpart to the “Selection Ceremony”—the “Path of Ascension.” They spoke of it to honor their Prophet Muhammad, who, at age fifty-two, one night, rode the winged steed Buraq from Mecca to Arasah, ascended through the seven heavens, beheld Hell, met ancient prophets, and returned to Mecca at dawn.

Their selection process closely mirrored the Christians’ “Selection Ceremony”—both involved spending a day and night in a temple before adulthood, waiting in silence for the Prophet’s descent, then listening to his teachings and receiving revelation…

They had encountered Saracens touched by “revelation” during the battle for Laodicea Fortress—but clearly, the people of Fostat had kept their strongest shields and sharpest spears here.

Baldwin and Cesar simultaneously sighed and charged forward!

(End of Chapter)