Chapter 92: Fustat (Part 2)

Cesar had just returned to where the small boat was moored when he saw the first burst of flame ignite from a corner of the palace—it was not a torch, nor a candle; he knew at once, for he had seen and passed through such flames countless times during the siege.

It was paraffin oil fire.

He immediately boarded the boat and rowed with all his strength; his mind roared with noise—he should have realized sooner—the number of residents left in the city was far too abnormal. Even if many had fled, and many more had perished in the weeks-long siege or hidden in fear of Christian slaughter, there should not have been so few.

Now he realized they had likely prepared for mutual destruction: while the Crusaders were still at Bilbays, Fustat had already made its preparations—if the city could not be held, they would lure in their enemies and burn it to ashes with them.

Thus, only those willing to sacrifice themselves for this final end remained within the city.

These flames spread like the plague that would ravage Europe three centuries later, utterly uncontrollable; where the Christians could not see, piles of jars were swiftly shattered, their contents spilling onto the ground and spreading outward—the Saracens set them alight—and in an instant, every place blazed to life.

They did not burn within palace, temple, or mansion—they burned within Cesar’s heart; he was consumed by anguish, oblivious to all else—he bowed low, praying to the saint, though even now he did not know the saint’s name, yet the saint’s protection descended upon him as always, granting him strength and reflexes beyond mortal limits, and the boat sliced through the water like an arrow loosed from a bow.

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

When he could see the dock, he had no time to gently moor the boat—he rose and leapt straight into the water, swam swiftly ashore, then dashed through the dense fig grove like a startled fawn.

The tall, black trunks stood like picture frames, dividing the fully ablaze palace into red-hued fragments; the lake mirrored the fire, and as he moved, the two opposing scenes alternately swelled and shrank—he scanned desperately, searching: were there survivors? Had they escaped?

The hall where they had held their feast faced the lake, but clearly, Sawal had left no such obvious vulnerability—or rather, he had deliberately done so, to make them guess wrong about his intentions…—the main ingredient in petroleum brain was light oil, which made it ideal for naval warfare because it could float and burn upon the sea’s surface.

The same held true upon the lake.

Cesar saw people—but not the ones he hoped for. Instead, a group of Saracen guards, their faces no longer respectful or meek, now fierce as demons, wielding curved swords and crossbows, grinning with cruel delight, waiting for anyone bold enough to burst from the palace.

At that moment, Cesar had quietly approached one guard. Thanks to the former Caliph, who had built the steps near the water’s edge so he could watch fish and feed swans, the steps were low and wide; Cesar seized the guard’s ankle, dragged him into the water, and slit his throat.

Before his comrades could react, Cesar swam toward another direction; one soldier spotted his shadow gliding beneath the surface—like a great fish with silver scales—and shouted, pointing at the water. Another guard sprinted over, spear in hand, and thrust it down the moment he saw the gleam.

He struck—but it was like piercing a strong crocodile; the spear bounced off the water and slipped from his grip. Cesar caught it in one hand and thrust it forward, driving it into the man’s belly. The soldier fell. His companion raised his crossbow—but like the spear, the bolts had no effect.

Cesar had already swept past him, like a gale, charging straight toward the palace spewing flames.

Everything inside had turned crimson—the marble columns, the cedarwood floors and doors, the bronze chandeliers, the richly patterned carpets, the velvet cushions, the chairs and low tables inlaid with gems, gilded or silvered.

Cesar saw the dead—some young women and servants, some crouched, some sprawled on their backs, all facing outward, as if slain while fleeing.

He faintly heard someone screaming, but thick smoke and raging fire made it impossible to discern direction.

“Baldwin! Baldwin!” he shouted hoarsely, “Tell me where you are!”

Fortunately, Baldwin’s position was not far from Cesar. He heard Cesar’s cry and immediately hurled his Spear of Saint George. The spear, blazing with white light, shot through the flames and struck a eunuch squarely in the throat; he clutched his neck and collapsed, still gripping a cleaver—he had intended to ambush Cesar, but his life ended before that Christian boy’s.

He could only watch helplessly as Cesar ran toward the spot where the spear had been thrown.

He wanted to say—it’s useless. Tonight, the entire city will burn.

The Caliph’s palace was built of brick, marble, bronze, and precious metals; logically, it should not have burned so swiftly—but the mastermind of this plot had used vast quantities of petroleum brain.

Petroleum brain was a substance refined from crude oil, inherently highly flammable and explosive; after sulfur and yeast stone were added, its power became astonishing—though it could not rival later explosives, it was more than enough to turn this palace into a true hellfire.

Moreover, petroleum brain did not merely produce lethal heat—the halls were thick with a pungent odor and dense smoke; they pricked eyes and throats like countless needles, causing coughing, tears, and suffocation.

At this moment, Cesar had to thank the saint who had favored him: when the saint’s grace covered him, he felt no irritation to his nose or mouth—his breath remained as clean as before, merely slightly warmer, his vision still clear; without the smoke, he might already have found Baldwin.

He called for Baldwin; Baldwin called for him in return; their distance rapidly closed. When he shoved aside a fallen pillar, Cesar realized this was no longer the banquet hall—it was likely a small chamber behind it, once used by the Caliph for spying on ministers or resting.

——————

When chaos erupted, Amalric I and others had tried to rush outside but failed; they retreated into the small chamber behind, overturned its furniture, and barricaded the only entrance to block fire and enemy assault.

Surprisingly, Sawal was also a man once granted revelation by the Prophet; he was wreathed in brilliant light, eyes wild with madness, using his fat body as a living battering ram, relentlessly slamming into the barricade—just as Baldwin and Cesar locked eyes, there came a thunderous crash as something collapsed.

The Saracens stormed into the room and clashed with the Christians; these men seemed utterly indifferent to their own lives. Among them were several eunuchs with no beards, dressed in luxurious silk, as if preparing for a grand banquet—indeed, they were rushing toward the feast of death.

When a man no longer cares for life, the power he unleashes is terrifying. Bohemond of Antioch pierced a eunuch’s abdomen, but as he tried to withdraw his sword, the eunuch clutched it tightly. He nearly died when another eunuch thrust a dagger at him—had Baldwin’s spear not arrived in time.

Bohemond had no time to thank him before he was locked in combat with another Saracen guard; Baldwin tried to return to aid his father, but was pinned by two eunuchs; Amalric I faced Sawal—the king gritted his teeth, grinding them audibly, while Sawal smiled smugly.

But a Grand Vizier could not stand against an “Emir.” The next moment, Amalric I’s short sword pierced Sawal’s belly—but Sawal merely looked down, then grinned strangely. Before the king understood the meaning of that smile, Sawal lunged forward and embraced him tightly.

Amalric I smelled a strong, acrid odor—he instantly knew what the wet, sticky substance was; he screamed in horror, but could not stop a Saracen guard from hurling a torch at them.

They ignited at once, as dry as tinder; even though the king’s sword had pierced the fat, greasy body, even though Raymond and Bohemond’s blades had nearly severed Sawal’s arms, even though Baldwin’s spear had pierced his neck—he still clung to Amalric I like thick tree resin glued to wood. His flesh sizzled in the flames, yet he laughed uproariously.

He had reason to be proud.

He was vile, he was shameless, he was reviled, mocked, despised—so what? He had killed a Christian king, and in the most barbaric way imaginable: fused together with a savage chieftain, both descending into hellfire.

“Don’t come!” Amalric I shouted to Baldwin—but Sawal’s act seemed to awaken the other Saracens; they dropped their swords, doused themselves in oil, set themselves ablaze, and charged at Baldwin and the others in waves. They grabbed anything they touched—biting, clawing, wrapping their knees around limbs.

One Saracen guard fixed his gaze on Baldwin—he knew this Christian king had only one son; if both Amalric I and Baldwin died here, their kingdom would lose its sole ruler at once.

Then, whether Nur ad-Din, Shirkuh, or Saladin, all could immediately march to claim this vacant land; even if none succeeded, whichever Christian king eventually ascended the throne would, for years to come, dare not again attack Egypt.

The boy noticed nothing—he was still desperately trying to save his father, his hands already charred, yet seemingly unaware.

The soldier ignited himself; flames rose, yet he felt no fear or pain—the Saracen blood had long boiled—he lunged at Baldwin, seized him precisely—the Christian boy was so slender, so young; on a true battlefield, he might have spared the child—but here, he must become a charred skeleton.

He thought this, yet from the boy’s shoulder he saw Baldwin’s furious face—and as he hesitated, he realized he was not holding Baldwin at all, but another youth: his hair curled and lifted by the fire, tossed into the air like a black banner; his green eyes glowed like stars in the flame; his clothes burned, yet his white skin remained untouched.

He seemed a porcelain doll, a steel construct, a golden statue—the flames did not blacken or dry him; instead, they made him brighter, purer. Ah, he remembered—Saladin had specifically ordered them to spare this child. He had been sent away, yet he had returned.

Such loyalty was rare.

He thought this, then fell backward.

(End of Chapter)