The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 120 Battle of Beka Valley

At that moment, Gerald and his four hundred most elite Templar Knights were all pouring into the valley.

Deep in the valley, Farouk glanced back at the pursuers and nodded to the standard-bearer beside him.

The standard-bearer raised the green flag with a silver crescent high, letting the sunlight fully illuminate the Latin inscription, and then spurred his horse toward the narrowest part of the valley.

There, the soldiers lying in ambush on the cliff had prepared bundles of firewood soaked in grease and rolling stones.

Looking at the treacherous valleys on both sides, the Templars knew perfectly well that this was a suicidal charge, but they had no other choice.

They quickened their pace, and the sounds of chainmail rubbing, the panting of the riders and their horses, and the clatter of hooves echoed through the open valley entrance.

Gerald's brain was working at full speed.

It's not too late to stop now!

But if he orders a retreat, will the Templars listen?

No, they'll mutinied! Those old knights might draw their swords on the spot, and the other knights will follow!

He would then be branded a "coward," a "traitor," and "unworthy of the position of Grand Master," and would be taken back to Jerusalem to face trial.

But what if we charge? Charge into that damned valley? There's bound to be an ambush there—a hail of arrows, rolling stones, Saladin's Mamluks…

The chance of survival... no, even if it's 90%, there's still a 10% chance of death. He can't accept that!

unless……

A thought slithered into his mind like a venomous snake.

He can feign a charge.

He could deliver a passionate speech and then "lead" the knights into battle.

But during the charge, he could "accidentally" fall off his horse, be "wounded by a stray arrow," or "be trapped in the melee."

In short, he could stay on the outskirts of the battlefield and let those real lunatics rush into the valley to their deaths.

Once they are all dead or have broken through, he can "laboriously" retreat back to his main camp.

Then he can say: I did my best, I was wounded, I almost died in battle, but God bless me...

Yes, that's it!

Gerald took a deep breath, a tragic expression appearing on his face, and raised his longsword.

"Knights!" Gerald raised his longsword high, pointing it at the valley. "You all know what lies ahead!"

"There are ambushes there! There is death there! There are the graves Saladin prepared for us!" He pointed to the receding green flag, "But there also lies our lost glory, our faith desecrated by infidels, and our dignity that must be reclaimed!"

"We might die there," Gerald said, his tone growing more somber. "Many people will die, and I might die too."

His voice suddenly rose, almost shouting: "But if we don't charge towards that flag today, we would already be dead. Dead in shame, dead in cowardice, dead on the ruins of a collapsed faith!"

"Knights Templar! In the name of God—"

"In the name of God!" More than four hundred voices boomed like thunder.

The charge began.

Gerald was at the forefront, but only for less than a minute.

As the horse's hooves began to accelerate and the first volley of arrows poured down from the cliff tops on both sides, he tightened the reins at just the right moment.

The warhorse reared up at the sudden command, losing its balance and tilting to the right.

"Grand Master!" the knights exclaimed.

"Leave me alone!" Gerald shouted, his voice filled with valor. "Charge! Capture the flag!"

He let himself slide off the saddle, landing on his left shoulder.

He fell heavily to the ground, so hard it looked like a serious injury, but it was actually just a dislocated shoulder.

He struggled to get up, but due to the severity of his injuries, he could only kneel on one knee and support his body with his sword.

The knights surged past him, their eyes filled with concern and admiration, but none of them stopped.

Because once the torrent of the charge begins, it cannot be stopped; there is no room for concern or care on the battlefield.

Gerald watched as the white-robed wave surged forward, rushing into the rain of arrows and into the narrow passageway where boulders were falling.

What a good subordinate, he thought numbly; what an easily swayed fool.

Gerald dragged his wounded body behind a large rock. From there, he could observe the battle without being easily spotted.

He witnessed the knights' bloody battle in the valley.

An old knight, pierced by three spears at the same time, still managed to sever the arm of a Mamluk with his last breath.

Another old knight, struck by seven arrows, tore a gap in the enemy ranks like a raging lion.

A young, newly recruited knight, only nineteen years old and having joined the order for only six months, shielded his companions from falling stones with his own body.

They've all gone mad.

But so dazzlingly mad.

Is this what honor is?

Gerald felt a churning in his stomach.

Is it fear? No.

It's something else, even more disgusting.

Is it shame?

No, he told himself, this was reason.

Only the living have the chance to take revenge, and only the living can continue to serve God; the dead can do nothing.

The battle in the valley quickly escalated to a fever pitch.

The archers on both sides of the cliff, the Mamluk cavalry in the valley, and the Ghulam cavalry who had led the Templars into the valley were all surrounded.

The Templars were already trapped, but their ferocity exceeded everyone's expectations.

These madmen, clad in white robes with red crosses, had no intention of retreating.

With experienced old knights at their core, they formed a tight wedge formation and fearlessly launched one charge after another against the enemy's ever-shrinking encirclement.

Fifteen minutes later, Gerald witnessed an incredible scene.

The knights charged forward wave after wave, their bodies sculpted by their own flesh and blood, until they reached Ghulam. One of the knights severed the flag bearer's arm with a single sword stroke.

The green flag with a silver crescent fell to the ground and was caught by another knight.

"Flag in hand!" someone roared.

Then, something even more incredible happened.

Saladin's army began to retreat in an orderly manner.

This isn't a retreat, it's more like... making way?

The Ayyubid heavy infantry parted to the sides, the archers ceased firing, and the Mamluk and Ghulam cavalry even voluntarily gave way to a passage leading directly to the valley exit.

Are they letting the Templars go?

The Templar Knights hesitated, tentatively retreating through the passage.

They moved slowly and cautiously, but Saladin's army did not pursue them. Bedouin archers watched coldly from the top of the cliff, while Mamluks and Ghulams stood in silent farewell on both sides.

Gerald's heart pounded as he watched the knights prepare to leave the valley.

Now it's time for him to rejoin his unit. He should drag his wounded body forward to meet the survivors and then bravely break through together.

But as soon as he stepped out of the rock where he was hiding, he froze.

Because the surviving Templar Knights took the passage on the south side of the valley.

He hid behind the rocks on the north side.

The two groups were separated by a distance of two hundred paces, and the Mamluk heavy cavalry had regrouped.

"Wait!" Gerald called out instinctively, "I'm here!"

But his voice was drowned out by the noise of the battlefield.

The Mamluks turned to look at Gerald, who had spoken. His visor concealed his expression, but Gerald could still sense their disdain and mockery.

Gerald stood there, his body ice-cold.

The Ayyubid heavy infantry closed in on him, and the archers turned their bows and arrows, aiming at Gerald, who was standing alone on the north side.

The Mamluks and Ghulam cavalry slowly approached, drawing their scimitars.

Gerald wanted to run, but his legs felt as heavy as lead.

He tried to shout, but no sound came out of his throat.

"Lay down your weapons, Franks," a Mamluk officer said in broken Latin. "Sultan Saladin will treat you as you deserve."

Gerald's sword fell to the ground.

He was captured.

He was not captured after a heroic defeat, nor was he captured after exhaustion; rather, he was abandoned on the battlefield like a stray dog, left behind by his own men.

This is more shameful than death.