Chapter 90: Fustat (Part One)

This time, the Viceroy did not break his word.

Before dawn on the second day, Sharwal’s personal guard suddenly appeared before the defenders of the Gate of Kings, ordering them to immediately lay down their weapons and descend from the walls, ostensibly to rest and eat—they even brought wagon after wagon of honeyed water, bread, and meat.

Many were deceived, or else were too exhausted to think anymore; they obediently descended the walls, feasted heartily, and sank into a slumber from which they would never awaken—Sharwal’s guard was few in number, and to be safe, they slit the throats of each sleeper one by one.

A few more alert men cried out, but it changed nothing. Once Sharwal’s guard fully seized the gate and towers, they signaled to the Christians. Immediately, together with the Christians inside Fustat, they removed the bricks and stones piled behind the Gate of Kings, meant to be toppled if the gate were breached, then lifted the heavy gate bar and opened the gates together.

As if in an instant, Amalric I’s knights had already charged through the Gate of Kings on horseback.

Upon entering the city, they began slaughtering—whether enemies asleep or awake, even some Christians who had come to aid them were trampled or kicked by frenzied horses.

More Saracens awoke, hearing shouts that the Gate of Kings had fallen; they instantly knew the fall of this great city was inevitable. They quickly donned armor, seized weapons, and went to kill every Christian they could find; soon, fierce battles erupted in multiple parts of the city.

After Amalric I’s army seized the Gate of Kings, they immediately charged toward the Gate of Victory, coordinating with the Templars outside; by the time daylight fully broke, the Gate of Victory had also fallen. The armies gathered beyond the walls, swarming like ants and long famished, rushed in without delay; their hooves trampled every street, knights and squires burst into every dwelling, killing men, women, and even children without mercy.

They spared no one. When a knight entered a room or house, he became its master; he would order his squires and servants to guard the door, barring entry, or place his shield outside—generally, other knights seeing such a mark would turn away to seek another target.

Gold coins, silver vessels, clothing, wine, olive oil, jars filled with wheat and barley—all these were their spoils. Merchants trailing the army rushed forward, negotiated prices with the knights, and swiftly loaded the goods onto carts to be shipped to the port, then sold in another city.

Of course, in wealth, commoners’ or merchants’ homes could never rival the palace or temples, especially since the Saracens lavishly adorned their temples with jewels, gold, and silver—the knights deliberately avoided the Caliph’s palace, though its grand, towering structure clearly revealed how much loot lay within—it was known to all that it belonged to King Amalric I.

Yet even the gold, silver, jewels, and silks plundered from the Saracen temples, along with vast stores of grain, oil, and wine, were enough to send them into raptures; they could scarcely believe such a wealthy place as Fustat existed, its temples resembling Solomon’s Temple as described in the Bible.

All the wood emitted fragrance; marble walls inlaid with silver or gold scripture; in some places hung white and purple silk—these silks were later taken down by the knights and offered to the clergy, who hurriedly turned them into vestments for Mass.

The clergy gladly accepted them; the knights’ destruction of the pagan temples could be seen as an act of piety, sparing them great effort—after all, these two great temples within Fustat would soon be converted into churches. The scripture carved into the marble walls, the exquisite reliquaries, the pulpits and other symbols of pagan worship—all were to be removed and destroyed.

Though the walls and floors would inevitably bear marks after removal of these ornaments, covering them with carpets and curtains would suffice.

They raised the large crosses they had brought, hanging them on the cleanest, most pristine western wall of the Saracen prayer hall (facing Arasalus), then brought in heavy oak altars (also brought by them), laid white linen cloths upon them, and placed books and sacred vessels.

Once devout believers brought altar paintings, saintly statues, small crosses, and candles, though still somewhat incongruous, it could now serve as a place for the king and nobles to pray.

These were the first places cleaned. The cuts of swords, the corpses, the bloodstains—all vanished by the next day. Patriarch Heraclius led the clergy in a grand Mass; Amalric I, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, his vassals, and all the lords who joined the Crusade listened to the sermon, prayed, received communion, then their procession marched through all of Fustat.

How many people had once lived in Fustat? Eighty thousand, or a hundred thousand.

Unlike Bilbays, here you saw no crowds hiding in alleys, casting angry or indifferent glances; the Saracens here seemed to vanish in an instant, as if such people—turbaned, robed—had never existed; they walked as if through a dead city.

What would become of this city now?

It would be like Arasalus once was. When Arasalus was first taken, it too suffered slaughter without regard to faith, status, gender, or age—as Walter said, back then, they would make any infidel taste the sword, even infants.

But were there survivors of this massacre? Yes—if they could endure the initial period, and once the Christian king Amalric I entered the city, restored law, or reclaimed order, they could emerge; even if expelled, forbidden to carry anything—not even what they loved most or what loved them—they could take only hatred and their lives.

But what of it? A city exists because it must exist—either for military, economic, or, like Arasalus, all three: military, economic, and religious purposes.

They are golden apples, Helens, or Eden; no one will willingly abandon them, and slowly, people will gather again, whether ruled by Saracens or Christians.

On the third day, the soldiers and servants guarding Caliph Atid in the palace were eliminated by Sharwal; this fat traitor spread silk carpets on the ground and, alongside other ministers and generals willing to serve the Christian king, knelt on both sides to welcome Amalric I into his palace.

“I heard Caliph Atid is about our age,” Baldwin said, leaning from his horse to Cesar. “He’s just a boy.”

“Will he be killed?”

“I don’t know, but if possible, my father won’t leave him here—he’ll be sent to another castle. They say the Saracens are fiercely loyal to him, revere and adore him, claiming he is a divine incarnation who can cause the Nile to flood.”

“Oh, don’t listen to such nonsense.”

Cesar turned his head and helplessly found it was their old friend Geoffrey. “Do the Templars really enjoy eavesdropping like ghosts?”

Geoffrey shoved himself between the two boys without hesitation. “He’s older than you, but nothing compared to you—he’s just a pampered youth living among women.”

“Women?” Cesar asked. If Caliph Atid was their age, how old was he when Amalric I first attacked Egypt?

“Have you seen him?” Baldwin asked.

“When your father first attacked Fustat—what’s so strange about women? Courts have always been like this, only here…” Geoffrey first answered Baldwin’s question, then Cesar’s, then added calmly: “Sharwal promised that if Amalric I drove out and killed his enemies, he would pay two million gold coins.”

The Templar said with ill intent: “Your father didn’t believe them as easily as people thought—he sent me to meet Sharwal’s master, Caliph Atid, to ask if he could guarantee this contract. He specifically told me to shake hands with the Caliph and make him swear an oath before returning.”

“You did it? You did it,” Baldwin affirmed.

“It wasn’t hard,” Geoffrey said indifferently. “I said, remove the Caliph’s crown, strip off those fancy garments claiming descent from Muhammad—he’s just an ordinary boy, even worse than most. I didn’t bow or flatter him. I practically commanded him to shake my hand—and he agreed, though his servants looked furious.”

“You never told us this before.”

“What was there to tell? If their Caliph Atid were a strong warrior, granted revelation by their prophet, able to strangle leopards barehanded, chop down siege hammers with one axe, and ride the battlefield so his name was known far and wide—that would be worth boasting about.

But him? A boy wrapped in silk, like a woman… oh,” he glanced at Cesar, “I’m not talking about you—anyway, you’ll meet him soon. See him, and you’ll understand what I mean.”

Cesar had seen the Caliph’s palace in Bilbays, but that was merely a summer residence, utterly incomparable to this vast complex.

The Caliph’s palace in Fustat was like a new city.

They rode through towering arches, passing countless buildings, courtyards, and dense groves before arriving before a wall inlaid with green and blue mosaics. The gates swung open, but instead of a bright courtyard or luxurious hall, a dark corridor lay ahead, flanked by Saracen guards.

Behind Amalric I, the knights instinctively straightened up, forgetting the city had long been seized—these Saracens still wore curved swords, but their scabbards were empty, like Fustat itself.

Indeed, when the king dismounted and walked toward the corridor, the turbaned guards all knelt respectfully, showing not a trace of insolence. They walked a long distance—why this path was deliberately made so cold and endless, no one knew—“When those Viceroy and Emirs passed here, they must have been tense and anxious,” Baldwin said to Cesar.

“A hundred years ago, perhaps,” Cesar replied bluntly. The Fatimid dynasty and the Kingdom of Arasalus were entirely different political systems; the former’s court granted the monarch absolute life-or-death power, while the latter’s king was more like a patriarch—he held greater authority than others, but not unlimited power.

Yet possessing everything isn’t necessarily good. Consider the Caliph Atid’s grandfather, father, and elder brother—all died unnaturally; he himself is unlikely to survive.

At the corridor’s end lay a vast lake; one had to cross a white marble bridge to reach the building opposite. On either side of the lake, beneath drooping green branches, faint, beautiful singing and birdsong drifted.

When they entered the Caliph’s palace, dozens of eunuchs still attended the young Caliph. He was, as Geoffrey said, a frail boy, wrapped in a huge turban adorned with a golden feather set with gems, clad in deep purple silk, his lips pale—whether from illness or fate, no one could tell.

When Sharwal looked at him, there was little contempt—only pity. He still knelt humbly on the ground, bowed three times, kissed Caliph Atid’s feet, and helped him to Amalric I: “Have mercy on him,” Sharwal said. “He too was once a monarch, as young as your son.”

Atid bowed to Amalric I at Sharwal’s signal and kissed his hand.

“I forgive you,” Amalric I said. “Just don’t be foolish.”

Sharwal sighed in relief, released his grip, and allowed several knights to lead Caliph Atid away.

“I have prepared a grand banquet for you,” Sharwal said. “Your Majesty, you are now the new master of this palace, this city, this land—you must host your guests to show your authority and generosity. I have also prepared gifts for them—outside the one million gold coins.”

Amalric I gave Sharwal a half-smile; Sharwal merely lowered his head. “I am useful, Your Majesty. You will find I am useful.”

No one knew what excuse Sharwal used, but to any observer, the banquet was flawless, exquisite. He successfully blended the Saracens’ and Christians’ favorite entertainments and delicacies: mountains of steaming meat, sweet wine and crisp beer, soups and fruits sprinkled with precious spices, stacks of honey-glazed candied fruits and pastries glistening gold.

Poets sang of Charlemagne, Aeneas (founder of Rome), and King Arthur; Saracen musicians played their tunes; Sharwal’s eunuchs brought forth beautiful slave girls to dance. Though they could not rival Princess Sibylla, they possessed a distinct, exotic beauty—several lords whispered among themselves, asking if slave merchants sold young Saracen women.

Due to Baldwin’s connection, Cesar received princely treatment—this warmth, like a soothing bath, made one languid and forgetful, yet he had little interest, especially as the hall’s air grew thick and foul; he longed to leave. He whispered a few words to Baldwin, then rose and walked outside alone.

“Outside” wasn’t quite accurate—they held the banquet in a columned hall facing the lake, from which one could see the shimmering water; on either side, terraces stretched like swan’s wings, lush with flowers, moonlight bright, the air cool as a handful of ice water.

“Who?!”

Cesar had barely been alone when a shadow slowly appeared beside him. He didn’t cry out—the figure had already revealed itself: a slender boy, who immediately knelt before him.

He was even younger than Cesar, with milky skin, short brown hair, and blue eyes. Cesar paused, suddenly feeling uneasy—the man… was a eunuch.

“Please don’t shout, my lord,” he pleaded. “I’ve been entrusted to deliver a verbal message to you.”

“Who sent me this message?” Cesar saw no one here who needed to send him word.

“He said he pitied the ox that passed before him. What about you?”

(End of Chapter)