Chapter 94: The Death of the King (2)

Someone might say Cesar’s guilt is irrational—after all, wasn’t it Amalric I and the nobles surrounding him who willingly walked into this trap, delighted and triumphant at the time?

These people had endured countless wars and grown accustomed to court intrigues, yet still fell for a trick fueled by vanity—they are the ones who ought to be condemned.

But Baldwin was the only person who ever treated Cesar as an equal since he arrived in this world. He did not know whether this was Baldwin’s nature or a result of his leprosy-induced inferiority, but he preferred to believe it was the former. After all, many sufferers of incurable diseases sank into despair, filled with hatred for the world, especially for the healthy and beautiful.

They should not be condemned, yet that made Baldwin all the more precious—especially given his far superior status above all others.

Cesar viewed Baldwin as an elder brother views a younger brother, and as a friend views a confidant—especially because they aligned in certain ways, sharing the same views and beliefs, which in this time and place was exceedingly rare, beyond words.

He had already seen Baldwin’s charred hands.

Before meeting Cesar, Baldwin, like other boys his age, was neither skilled nor inclined to care for his appearance. A squire or knight might wear brightly colored robes and golden hairnets, yet still spit anywhere and relieve themselves indiscriminately—much less the younger boys, who sometimes rolled in the mud alongside pigs.

Baldwin’s condition did not rapidly worsen over these years, partly due to the ointment jointly prepared by Heraclius and Cesar, and partly because he strictly followed every rule Cesar set for him—from dietary restrictions and sleep schedules to the frequent, intricate cleansing rituals—so much so that even an adult might struggle to fully comply.

But Baldwin did it all. He was like a tree ravaged by pests, yet still straining its branches to meet sunlight and rain. Cesar watched the yellow, curled leaves slowly regain their lush green, and he knew how hard Baldwin had struggled—and how lucky he had been.

No matter how heavy his studies, how demanding his duties as a squire, or how others secretly mocked his care for his hands and face as effeminate, he never wavered.

He knew his responsibility extended beyond his own health.

Yet today, he completely forgot the warnings from Cesar and Heraclius—he thrust his hands directly into the flames. The silk gloves ignited instantly, setting his skin ablaze, and the fire spread along his sleeves and front.

He was the second most severely injured among them, after Amalric I. Cesar dared not imagine whether, if they escaped this palace, Baldwin would be the one to die right after Amalric I.

Taking advantage of repelling another wave of enemies, several generals, nobles, and knights hurried over to check on Amalric I. The king’s condition left every face filled with despair, yet they had to steel themselves.

“Are they mad?” Bohemond spat on the ground. They had used the room’s curtains to smother part of the flames, but the toxic fumes kept pouring in.

The room had only one window, which they had blocked by toppling a cabinet. Otherwise, Saracens—or eunuchs or soldiers—might have jumped in to kill them.

“But what do they gain from this?” muttered a knight.

Heraclius cast a mocking glance at the fallen Shavall upon hearing the mutter.

He was no longer human. The fire from petroleum resin burned hotter and sharper than charcoal or coal, instantly piercing through soldiers’ leather armor or robes, searing straight through their skin and devouring their muscles.

And Shavall had once been such a plump fatty—it was hard to say whether what burned on him was petroleum resin or his own fat.

Yet whether noble or lowly, the one thing all possessed equally, the only fair thing, was life—the noble did not gain an extra one, the lowly did not lose one. For these people, this bargain was too advantageous. Even the Church’s records would say: the King of Arasal died by the hands of eunuchs.

Besides, they had faith. He could almost imagine what Shavall told those who chose to remain in the city, to become fuel for the fire alongside the invaders:

He would say that no matter how low their station or how grave their sins, if they buried the Saracens’ greatest enemy here, they would earn Allah’s forgiveness and become the forerunners of every Saracen. In heaven, the glory and blessings they received would make even the Caliph envious.

On earth, everyone would pray to them, begging for their protection and blessing. They would leap from the mud of the underworld to become the moon and sun in heaven.

As for how he knew—well, if he were Shavall, he would say the same.

With such a promise, these men would die smiling, convinced they would receive this reward. Compared to eternal paradise, what was there left to cling to in this suffering world?

The flimsy room endured wave after wave of attacks. Had the single window not been blocked and the hall not been choked with serpentine flames, they would have been slaughtered long ago by the hidden enemies.

Fortunately, Cesar returned at all costs. The saint’s grace bestowed upon him seemed endless—holy light spread through the room like a fine silver net, shielding them all. Except for Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, who still wore a strange half-smile, even the stubborn Count Raymond of Tripoli nodded slightly to him between battles.

No one asked why he had left the banquet.

Many had left the banquet; some had not returned at all—whether killed or too afraid to approach after seeing the fire, no one knew.

Cesar not only returned, but gave these nobles precisely what they needed most at this moment. They all bore blessings, yet now they were trapped in a small room. Amalric I’s fate was unknown, Prince Baldwin was wounded, and many knights and squires remained outside—likely already dead.

They had come to the banquet. Out of contempt for Shavall, though they wore chainmail beneath their velvet and silk robes, they carried no proper weapons—only daggers for cutting food and ceremonial longswords. Raymond did have a short spear seized from a Saracen soldier, perfect for stabbing those trying to squeeze through doors and windows.

But the others were far worse off. Add to that the smoke and poison gas that made them weep uncontrollably. They tried not to speak at all, for the heat had scorched their tongues and parched their throats; every breath felt like swallowing burning coals. They desperately wanted water, but no water bottles had been placed in the room.

Had he not retained a shred of reason, Raymond might have torn open Shavall’s body and drunk his still-fluid blood.

“Alert!” he suddenly shouted, raising his short spear. Someone was charging through the flames and smoke toward them—but then a knight cried out in joy. The newcomer wore no turban, no flowing robe, but Christian attire. As he drew closer, his striking red hair made his identity instantly clear.

“It’s Richard of Aquitaine… Arthur!” Raymond exclaimed joyfully.

Richard cut down all the Saracens surrounding the room, then helped others move the furniture used as barricades.

Seeing those inside, Richard could not hide his joy. On his way, he had met Stephen of Blois and Robert of Flanders; one group was led by Cesar’s servant—the wandering knight Longinus. As soon as they saw the city ablaze, they, like Richard, immediately realized Shavall’s banquet was no feast but a trap.

Even so, the long journey had taken its toll. Fortunately, they arrived just in time—Richard’s smile froze on his face the next moment. He saw Amalric I lying in the corner and Baldwin beside him.

“God!” he involuntarily groaned—but only once. The fire outside had weakened, but this place was no longer safe. He rushed forward, wanting to lift the king, yet unsure how to proceed.

Amalric I had no unburned part. Richard feared even a gentle touch might shatter the king’s body into pieces.

“Litters—we need litters,” he cried urgently. Longinus had already rushed in with his men, reacting faster than anyone. At a glance, he dashed out of the palace and found the long spears left behind by the Saracens.

They quickly fashioned two simple litters from cloaks and two spears, lifted Amalric I and Baldwin onto them, and fled the dreadful inferno.

Shavall’s scheme had succeeded—he destroyed the Crusaders’ commander, the King of Arasal, the Christian hero, at the height of his glory—a devastating blow to the Crusaders. But the scheme could not be called fully successful, for not all key Crusader figures had been wiped out as he intended.

Each bore wounds, light or heavy, yet after only cursory treatment by clerics, they hurried back to Fustat, trying to regather their knights and soldiers.

Some considered extinguishing the flames, but once they passed through the archway and looked down upon the city, they knew it was impossible.

How much petroleum resin had these damned infidels piled up?

No one knew. But they knew one thing: the petroleum resin had utterly consumed the city. Their gaze stretched across a sea of fire—trees burned, houses burned, people burned. They might have screamed, but the roar of flames drowned them out. The entire city glowed bright, its heat and crimson rivaling the midday sun, swallowing the air above and rendering the dim moonlight chaotic and unclear.

“We must leave at once!” Bohemond shouted. Who could disagree? The city was beyond saving.

When the fire first broke out, some more cautious knights—or those less obsessed with plunder—had already withdrawn with their squires and servants, even leaving the city. Others, drunk or unwilling to abandon their loot, had burned to death inside.

“We should have killed every last person in this city!” Raymond roared in fury. Bohemond glared at him irritably. What good was saying this now? Besides, they had never restricted the knights’ behavior after entering Fustat—whether to massacre, plunder, rape, or burn, they had done nothing to stop them.

Yet this was still a city of a hundred thousand people.

And Shavall was so cunning and treacherous—who could have imagined that such a greedy, power-hungry little man possessed the audacity to turn the entire city of Fustat into an inescapable net, even making himself one of the bait? They had even seen Caliph Atid—some among them had met the Caliph before—he was indeed… wait?

“Where is Caliph Atid?”

“He probably escaped outside the city.” No one had paid attention to Shavall’s puppet. Had they still needed to negotiate with Shavall and other Fatimid courtiers, they might have pretended to respect the boy. Now that Fustat was Christian, Atid had become an insignificant figure.

“Forget the Caliph,” Raymond snapped. “Gather the men and leave.”

He strode first toward the King’s Gate. Along the way, they feared Saracen soldiers might ambush them—but none appeared. It seemed the Saracens believed the flames alone were enough to punish these hateful enemies. They reached the King’s Gate, where knights dismounted to push open the gates. Bohemond frowned—he saw no soldiers stationed here.

The tunnel was dark, no torches lit. Richard and Bohemond walked ahead, then suddenly stopped. Raymond, following behind to tend to the king and Prince Baldwin, cursed under his breath—the litter bearers nearly collided with him.

But the sight before Richard and Bohemond was not hard to anticipate.

On the open plain before the King’s Gate, beneath the cobalt sky and silver moonlight, stood a black army so vast it seemed fused with the distant mountains.

(End of Chapter)