Chapter 95: The Death of the King (3)

“It’s Shirkuh and his nephew Saladin,” Bohemond whispered, as if afraid of startling something sacred.

Richard widened his eyes in shock. “Didn’t they already retreat to Damascus under Sultan Nur ad-Din’s orders? How are they still here?”

Clearly, whether bribed by Shawar or driven by their own ambition, this Kurdish uncle and nephew had ignored Sultan Nur ad-Din’s orders and Amalric I’s hopes, refusing to abandon Fustat and return to Damascus.

The merchants they sent to gather intelligence had either been deceived or bought— the information they relayed was false; this uncle and nephew, along with their army, had likely been hiding all along in Giza or some nearby city.

They waited in silence, like a seasoned, patient hunter. They watched as the Christians stormed Fustat, until the city fell; then, as if a signal, the fires rising within Fustat confirmed Shawar’s scheme had succeeded—and their task was to block the Christians’ retreat between Fustat and Bilbays.

“Should we retreat?” Richard asked. Though he had sworn to kill every Saracen he saw, the litters behind him carried his cousin-grandfather and his cousin. If battle came, they would surely die—and those behind them would have no chance to flee.

“Wait,” Bohemond said. “Things may not be that dire yet.”

After a while, they saw a single Arabian horse gallop out from the opposing cavalry line. Even in the dim light, its coat gleamed, its hooves strong and powerful. The Saracen atop it wore a black robe and matching turban; though tall, his hair was gray and his beard frosted with age.

“Shirkuh,” Bohemond reminded him, then spurred his horse forward.

In the previous campaign (Amalric I’s first invasion of Egypt), they had seen each other on the battlefield, but never fought directly—Shirkuh had faced Amalric I, who now lay on the litter behind them.

Shirkuh scanned him with hawk-like eyes, gave a slight nod, but offered no salute. This arrogance angered Bohemond, yet left him powerless to respond.

They were clearly at a disadvantage. Had the Christians not still held Bilbays, they would already be prisoners or corpses beneath the Saracens’ blades.

“Shirkuh,” the man stated simply. Bohemond hesitated. “Bohemond, Prince of Antioch.”

“Where is your king?” Shirkuh asked. The question sent a thousand venomous thorns through Bohemond’s heart. He smiled with cruel intent. “You wish to see our king? Unfortunately,” he said, gesturing slightly behind him, “it’s unlikely. He’s nearly dead.”

Shirkuh paused. He knew Shawar’s plot—Shawar had not hidden his intentions: to lure these hateful Christians into the trap, forcing Shirkuh and Saladin to abandon Fustat.

Of course, Shawar hoped they would cripple each other. But Shirkuh and Saladin were never rigid fools. They remained loyal to Nur ad-Din of Zengi—but like two powerful leopards following a fierce lion, their obedience lasted only as long as Nur ad-Din remained strong.

Since their second arrival in Fustat, Shawar had been certain: these two Kurds no longer feared Nur ad-Din, far away in Syria.

Indeed, Nur ad-Din had once been a brilliant ruler. But he was old now—over fifty, nearing sixty—and rumored to be gravely ill. Worse still, he had no heir.

Yes, he had sons—but none could match him, not even one-tenth of his worth. They never looked beyond the palace walls, only coveting what lay in their father’s hands. Yet this was no fault of theirs; Nur ad-Din possessed too much: Syria, Damascus, Edessa…

Such vast lands—even three sons were too few, let alone thirty. They could divide and feast upon it endlessly. Their stupidity and Nur ad-Din’s weakness were the first things Shirkuh and Saladin noticed. Nur ad-Din himself seemed unable to keep them close, hence the first and second dispatches.

So if Shawar wanted them to charge out and fight the Crusaders while their morale was high, Shirkuh would ignore him. But when he saw the fire rise over Fustat, he knew this was the moment the Crusader host was most desperate and vulnerable.

Yet Amalric I’s grave injury—nearly death—surprised Shirkuh. He had assumed that even without Cesar, these men would safeguard their king. What useless fools. He thought it might also be Christian infighting and treachery.

At least this man before him showed no respect for their king—almost outright malice. He easily revealed that the Christian king was dying—Shirkuh glanced behind him and saw the two crude litters.

“Two?”

“One belongs to our prince Baldwin. He’s not dead yet, but badly wounded—how absurd. They weren’t hurt in battle, but by your vile treachery,” Bohemond said in an unnervingly calm tone. “But if you think this means victory without fighting, Saracen, you’re deluding yourself.” He spoke with firm resolve.

Though Amalric I could no longer lead troops, they still had Raymond, Bohemond, and other noble commanders. Even as they spoke, knights emerged from the city gate, re-forming ranks and raising banners.

In the firelight, they stood as silent as Shirkuh’s army. But within that silence lay an unbearable pressure. Shirkuh knew these knights burned with rage. Though they were invaders, did they believe the people of Fustat’s resistance was justified?

Of course not. They would only be astonished by the locals’ stubbornness—and vow to kill every Saracen they ever saw.

The injury—and near death—of Amalric I and his heir Baldwin was no clear advantage, even for the Saracens. These knights were already seething with vengeance, eager to avenge their treacherously wounded sovereign. If battle came, they might gain advantage—but at terrible cost.

Besides, a portion of the Crusader army still held Bilbays. And their goal was never to kill these Christians.

“Then, negotiation?” Bohemond asked. After a long pause, Shirkuh gave a cold nod. “Negotiation.”

He turned his horse and galloped back into the swirling dust toward his troops.

Bohemond watched as he spoke briefly to a younger Saracen—no doubt his nephew Saladin—who paused, then nodded in agreement. Only then did Bohemond exhale, dizzy with relief.

His earlier posture had been an act.

Bohemond knew well: the relentless sieges, the slaughter and feasting after entry, the terror of the fire—these had drained most knights of their courage.

He admitted some among them were brave, resolute lads. But he also admitted many were fools who disgusted even him. He could not be certain they would hold if they faced Shirkuh and Saladin head-on.

And war against infidels differed from war against Christians. He might be captured, imprisoned for over a decade like his stepfather Reynald of Châtillon—or as he himself had once been—by the Saracens.

Or he might have no such luck: killed outright on the battlefield, trampled beneath hooves.

Or, to appease Fustat’s citizens, he might be dragged out and beheaded before their eyes. Such things had happened before.

Richard watched Bohemond wheel his horse around. Though he feared no battle against infidels, even he now hoped for negotiation.

Without him saying a word, even Raymond felt mixed emotions upon hearing the news. That morning, he had gazed down upon the city with delight, even entertained a reckless thought: to remain in Bilbays.

Fustat belonged to Amalric I—no doubt. But he never believed the weakest, most cowardly among them—Bohemond—could shoulder the burden of Bilbays.

Yet fate struck swiftly. In just one night, their honor, city, and spoils were reduced to ash. He could not say how many knights escaped Fustat, nor how to explain this to other commanders. Of course, it was the cunning Saracens’ doing—but their own carelessness and arrogance were undeniable.

With unease, he glanced once more at Amalric I, still unconscious on his litter, then fixed his gaze on Baldwin, who watched his father with unwavering concern.

Though they had agreed to negotiate, Raymond had no idea what outcome they might achieve. And he was not king. When Bohemond looked his way, Raymond turned his head—he did not want Bohemond to see his face.

For he remembered: Bohemond had once said, if Amalric I died and Baldwin died, the closest heir would be him.

“Father!” Baldwin suddenly cried. They saw Amalric I had awakened.

Though priests had treated him, the fire’s poison had sunk deep into his skin, muscles, even bones. He awoke in agony, desperate to faint—but seeing the torch-lit corridor, he knew what had happened.

He recognized this place. He had ridden through it once, carefully, thoroughly, just as he had every time he entered Jaffa Gate.

He tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse, unintelligible—only his lips moved.

Fortunately, Heraclius had dismounted and hurried over. He took Amalric I’s hand—avoiding the still raw, flayed wounds—and whispered the essentials: they had escaped the palace; Baldwin and others were wounded, but alive.

Knights, squires, servants, and other Christians who survived the fire were streaming toward the King’s Gate. At least a third of the knights had escaped. Not good—but far better than total annihilation.

Amalric I pulled a grim smile. His eyes turned slightly, catching Baldwin approaching—his hands wrapped in white bandages, a sight that stabbed Amalric I’s heart.

The king remembered what his son had done: only Baldwin had rushed forward, ignoring the flames, trying to pull him away from Shawar. He wanted to comfort the boy—but he had more urgent matters.

Amalric I lifted a finger. Heraclius followed his gaze to the ring on it—the Seal of the King of Jerusalem. He placed his hand over the ring. Seeing no objection, he removed it and held it in his palm.

“I and…” Heraclius glanced around, whispering, “Raymond?”

Amalric I shook his head. Heraclius understood: “Bohemond.”

The king nodded reluctantly. He disliked Bohemond—but now, only these two could be trusted. Compared to others, they understood the Saracens best—especially Shirkuh and Saladin.

Saracens and Christians quickly erected a large tent before the King’s Gate, to serve as the negotiation site. Amalric I and Baldwin were moved to another tent nearby.

Before negotiations began, Heraclius performed the Last Rites for Amalric I, even anointed him with oil, lest he die suddenly during talks.

To die without Last Rites was the worst “evil death.” Not only would Amalric I face hell—but every priest present, including Heraclius, would be held accountable by the Church.

The worst punishment: stripping of holy office, excommunication—for failing their duty by leaving a dying man alone.

Heraclius stepped out of the tent. The king stared at the lowered flap for a moment, then called out: “Cesar!”

(End of Chapter)