Chapter 92: Fustat (Part 3)

Cesar had just rushed back to where the small boat was moored when he saw the first handful of flames rising from a corner of the palace. This wasn't a torch, nor was it a candle. He knew it at a glance; after all, in the previous siege battle, he had seen and passed through these flames countless times.

It was the fire of paraffin oil.

He immediately boarded the small boat and rowed the oars desperately. His head was roaring. He should have discovered it long ago—the number of residents in the city was too abnormal. Even if a large group of them had fled, and many had died in the siege battle that lasted for several weeks, or were hiding because they feared the Crusaders' massacre, there shouldn't be so few.

Now that he thought about it, it was very likely that they had already prepared to perish together. When the Crusaders were still in Bilbeis, Fustat city had already made preparations. If they couldn't hold the city, they would find a way to introduce their enemies, and then burn the city to perish with them.

So there were only those people in the city who were willing to sacrifice for this final end.

These flames were as unstoppable as the plague that raged in Europe three hundred years later. In places the Crusaders couldn't see, piles of clay pots were quickly smashed, flowing on the ground and spreading around. The Saracens ignited them—and then, as if in an instant, every place lit up.

They didn't seem to be burning in the palace, temples, or residences, but rather burning in Cesar's heart. He was full of anxiety, completely ignoring everything else—he prayed to that saint, although until now, he didn't know his name, but his protection still descended on him as every time, giving him power and reaction speed beyond ordinary people, making the small boat break through the water surface like an arrow flying out.

Even so, he still felt it was too slow, too slow.

When he could see that pier, he didn't even have time to moor the small boat slowly to the shore, but jumped directly from the boat into the water. He swam to the shore quickly, and then flew across the dense fig forest like a panicked little deer.

Those tall, dark trunks were like picture frames, separating the palace that had been completely burned into small red blocks. The lake reflected the firelight. With his steps, the two opposite pictures became larger and smaller. He searched anxiously, searching—were there any survivors? Did they run out?

The hall where they held the banquet faced the lake, but clearly, Shawar didn't leave this obvious loophole, or he did it on purpose, so they couldn't guess what he wanted to do... —the main material in the naphtha was light oil, and the reason it could be applied to naval warfare was that it could float on the sea surface and burn.

Now it was the same on the lake.

Cesar saw people. Unfortunately, they weren't the people he expected, but a group of Saracen guards. Their faces no longer had the previous respect and docility, but were as fierce as a demon. They held scimitars and crossbows in their hands, with smiles full of joy, waiting for anyone who dared to rush out of the palace.

At this moment, Cesar had slowly approached a guard. Thanks to the former Caliph, in order to be able to watch fish and feed swans by the lake, the steps were very close to the water surface and wide. Cesar grabbed the guard's ankle and dragged him into the water, slitting his throat.

And before his companions could react, Cesar swam toward another direction. A guard saw his figure swimming underwater—like a big fish with silver scales. He shouted, pointing at the water surface. Another guard was running over quickly, holding a javelin in his hand. When he saw that flash of light, he stabbed down fiercely.

He stabbed it, but it was like stabbing a strong crocodile. The javelin even bounced out of the water, slipping from his hand. Cesar grabbed it, sent it out casually, and it pierced into his lower abdomen. He fell down. His companion raised his crossbow, but like that javelin, these crossbow bolts couldn't play any role.

Cesar had already swept past his side like a gust of wind, rushing straight toward the palace spitting out flames.

Everything inside had turned into a crimson color—marble pillars, cedar wood floors and windows, bronze chandeliers, rich and exquisite carpets, velvet cushions, and those chairs and low tables inlaid with gems, gilded, or silver-plated.

Cesar saw dead people, some young women and servants. They were crawling or lying on their backs, but all were facing outside the palace, as if they were killed while fleeing.

He faintly heard someone screaming, but it was foggy here, and the fire was raging. He had no way to identify the direction.

"Baldwin! Baldwin!" he shouted hoarsely. "Let me know where you are!"

Fortunately, Baldwin's position wasn't far from Cesar. He heard Cesar's shouting and immediately threw his Spear of Saint George. The spear, shining with white light, roared out from the flames, hitting a eunuch's throat exactly. He fell down holding his throat, his hand still tightly gripping a slashing knife. He originally wanted to sneak attack Cesar, but didn't expect his life to end earlier than this Christian youth.

He could only watch Cesar rush toward the place where the spear was thrown with unwillingness.

He wanted to say—it's useless. The whole city will burn tonight.

The Caliph's palace was made of stone bricks, marble, bronze, and precious metals. By rights, it shouldn't have burned so fiercely, but the person who led this conspiracy used a large amount of naphtha.

Naphtha was a liquid that was very flammable and explosive. After adding sulfur and yeast, the power was even more amazing. Although it couldn't be compared with later explosives, it was no problem to turn this palace into a real hell.

Not to mention that naphtha produced fatal high temperatures after burning—that pungent smell permeated the hall, as well as thick smoke. They were like countless small thorns piercing people's eyes and throats, making them cough, shed tears, and find it difficult to breathe.

Cesar had to thank that saint who favored him. When His grace covered him, he didn't even need to worry about his mouth and nose being irritated. The air he breathed was still as clean as before, just the temperature was slightly higher, and the vision was still clear. If it weren't for this smoke, he might have already found Baldwin.

He called Baldwin, and Baldwin was also constantly calling him. The distance between them narrowed rapidly. When he lifted a collapsed pillar, Cesar discovered that this was no longer the hall where the banquet was held. This might be a small room behind the hall, originally used for the Caliph to peek at ministers or rest.

——————

When the unexpected change occurred, Amalric I and others wanted to rush outside, but didn't succeed. They could only retreat into the small room behind, pushing over the furniture originally in the room to block the only entrance to the small room, in order to resist the fire and the enemy's attack.

Surprisingly, Shawar was also someone who had received the prophet's enlightenment. He was wrapped in dazzling light, his eyes full of madness. He used his fat body as a human battering ram, constantly hitting the obstacles in front of the door. Just when Baldwin and Cesar looked at each other, there was a loud bang, and something collapsed.

The Saracens rushed into the room and fought with the Christians. These people seemed not to care about their lives at all. Among them were several eunuchs without beards on their faces, dressed in gorgeous silk, dressed as if they were going to a grand banquet—in fact, they were indeed rushing toward the feast of death.

When a person didn't care about life or death at all, the power he erupted was quite terrifying. Bohemond, the Duke of Antioch, pierced a eunuch's abdomen, but when he wanted to withdraw his long sword, he was grabbed tightly by the eunuch. He was almost pierced by a dagger by another eunuch, if Baldwin's spear hadn't been a step faster.

Bohemond had no time to say thank you, and fought with another Saracen guard. Baldwin originally wanted to return to help his father, but was entangled by two eunuchs. Amalric I faced Shawar. The King gritted his teeth, grinding them with a clatter, while Shawar showed a triumphant smile.

But a Grand Vizier couldn't fight an "Emir." The next moment, Amalric I's short sword pierced Shawar's stomach, but he just looked down and showed a strange smile. Before the King could understand the meaning of the smile, he struggled forward and hugged Amalric I.

Amalric I smelled a strong and stimulating smell. He screamed in horror for a moment, but couldn't stop a Saracen guard from raising a torch and throwing it at them. They caught fire all at once, no different from the driest firewood. Even though the King's short sword had already pierced the fat and greasy body, Raymond and Bohemond's swords almost cut off Shawar's arm, and Baldwin's spear pierced his neck, he still stuck tightly to Amalric I, just like a mass of viscous tree gum sticking tightly to a piece of wood. The flames burned his skin and flesh with a squeak, but he didn't care at all, just laughing loudly.

He was triumphant.

He was despicable, he was shameless, he was scolded by people, laughed at by people, despised by people, so what? He killed a Christian King, and it was in this way of melting together with the leader of the barbarians, going to hell together.

"Don't come over!" Amalric I shouted to Baldwin, but Shawar's actions seemed to wake up other Saracens. They abandoned the scimitars in their hands, poured oil all over their bodies, lit the fire, and rushed toward Baldwin and the others one after another. As long as they touched something, they would immediately grab it firmly, biting with their teeth, grabbing with their fingers, and wrapping with their knees.

A Saracen guard stared at Baldwin. He knew this Christian King, Amalric I, only had this one son, which meant that if Amalric I and Baldwin both died here, their country would immediately lose its only master.

By then, whether it was Nur ad-Din, or Shirkuh and Saladin, they could immediately send troops to compete for this ownerless land. Even if they couldn't, the last Christian King to ascend the throne, no matter how he did it, at least in these few years, wouldn't have the courage to attack Egypt again.

That child didn't notice him at all. He was still trying to save his father regardless of everything. His hands were burned, but he seemed to be unaware.

The soldier lit the fire on his body. The flames rose, but he didn't feel fear and pain at all. The blood belonging to the Saracens had long been boiling—he rushed toward Baldwin, accurately grabbing him—this Christian youth was so slender and so young. If it were on a real battlefield, he would even be willing to spare this child, but he stood here, so he must turn into a charred corpse.

He thought so, but saw Baldwin's angry face over the shoulder of this body—just when he was puzzled, he found that the one he was holding wasn't Baldwin, but another youth. His hair was rolled up by the flames and thrown into the air by the heat wave, just like an unfolded black flag. His green eyes were like stars shining in the reflection of the flames. The clothes on his body were burning, but his white skin didn't suffer any harm.

He seemed to be a person made of porcelain, a creation cast of steel, or a statue made of gold. The flames not only couldn't make him charred and withered, but instead made him brighter and purer. Ah, he remembered, it was the child that Saladin specifically mentioned to let go. He had clearly been called out, but he still came back.

This loyalty was truly rare.

He thought so, and fell backward.

(End of chapter)

(End of chapter)