novelSusiti Chapter 139 Baldwin's Illness
Chapter 139 Baldwin's Illness
Chapter 139 Baldwin's Illness (Part Two)
Despite already knowing Baldwin's fate, Leon still asked, clinging to a sliver of hope, "Can he be cured?"
Brother Gilles made the sign of the cross: "Only by the grace of God. The King's relatives and subjects can only pray and practice asceticism to purify their souls and ask God to grant the King a physical miracle."
"Miracles don't fall from the sky," Abu stated bluntly. "All we can do is alleviate the pain and slow its progression. My fumigation method can reduce neuralgia, Cicero's ointment can prevent the ulcers from spreading, and as for Brother Gilles' bloodletting—"
He paused, then chose a more tactful approach: "At least it will calm His Majesty down for now; excessive blood loss can cause one to fall into a coma."
Lyon's gaze swept over the medical equipment.
Those blood-draining knives resembled torture instruments, the fumigation hoods were like hoods to torture prisoners, and the smell emanating from the ointment jars was nauseating.
These were all the means by which human medicine in the 12th century fought against incurable diseases.
Is he conscious now?
"It's intermittent," Giller said softly. "The fever goes down sometimes and comes back again. This morning he seemed lucid for a moment, insisting that we prepare to welcome you, and then he fell into a high fever again."
Lyon took a deep breath and walked to the bedside.
The three doctors tacitly stepped aside and left the room.
Just as Leon knelt down on one knee by the bed, Baldwin's eyelids twitched.
Then, those misty eyes slowly opened.
Despite the lack of focus and vitality, and the mere gray and murky appearance, Lyon could still sense something piercing through the disguise of the disease—the sharp, self-evident light of Baldwin, as if he had seen right through him.
"close the door."
Baldwin's voice was barely audible.
Lyon gestured for Accord and Balian to leave, and the heavy door closed behind them.
Baldwin and Lyon stared at each other in silence for a moment.
Or to be more precise, it was Leon staring at Baldwin, while Baldwin could only perceive Leon's presence through sound and faint light and shadow.
"Come closer, Lyon," Baldwin said. "Let me—hear of your victory."
Lyon walked forward and stopped three steps away from the bed.
"Closer," Baldwin hissed. "Are you afraid I'll infect you? Huh?"
Lyon hesitated for a moment, then strode forward, knelt on one knee beside Baldwin, and took Baldwin's hand, which was not yet completely deformed.
The king's hands were chilling to the touch; his skin was as dry as parchment, abnormally hot, and his bones twisted and protruded beneath thin skin and flesh.
"I have returned, Your Majesty."
Baldwin's fingers tightened slightly.
"Beka Valley—Beirut—I received reports of victory from Guy and Raymond." He paused, his breathing becoming heavy and labored. "Tell me, how did you know Saladin would ambush in the Beka Valley? And how did the fire in Beirut come about?"
Lyon hesitated for a moment: "Intuition, Your Majesty. And—"
"Intuition?" Baldwin suddenly let out a sound that resembled a cold laugh, which then turned into a violent cough.
He turned to the side and covered his mouth with a silk scarf. When the scarf was removed, dark red spots were visible on it.
"What kind of intuition can an eleven-year-old have? Lyon, I ascended the throne at thirteen, and at sixteen I faced Saladin in Mongisa."
I know what intuition is; it's a combination of experience, observation, and talent. And what you have—" he gasped, "is not intuition."
Lyon remained silent.
What could he say? He couldn't very well say he was a time traveler with precognitive abilities, could he?
"You don't need to answer." Baldwin's voice suddenly softened. "I don't care what your secret is. Whether it's divine grace, a devil's deal, or even just luck, I don't care. Jerusalem needed victory, and you brought it. That's enough."
The king struggled to sit up, adjusting his posture, each small movement causing him obvious pain.
"But, Lyon, let me tell you the truth about war."
Baldwin closed his eyes, as if gathering strength.
"Your victory this time was built on three miracles. First, the Greek fire; second, the foresight of Saladin's ambush in the Bekaa Valley; and third, the massive fire at the port of Beirut, which seemed like divine punishment descending from the heavens. Tell me, what would have happened if any one of these three conditions had been missing?"
Lyon pondered, a sense of lingering fear creeping over him: "Then—the Jerusalem delegation, including myself, will be completely wiped out outside Jaffa, the Beirut port will be unable to be relieved, and we will lose a crucial port in the north."
"Correct." Baldwin nodded. "So your victory is essentially built on the perfect execution of a complex plan. It's a beautiful, clever victory, epic in its own right, but it's fragile. Real war isn't like that."
The king raised his hand with difficulty and pointed to the map of the Kingdom of Jerusalem hanging on the wall.
"Imagine you and Saladin's armies are facing each other on a plain. You have three thousand men, including five hundred knights, one thousand infantry, and the rest are lightly armed troops and archers. Saladin has five thousand men, mainly cavalry, who are highly mobile."
"How would you arrange the formation?"
Lyon was stunned.
His mind flashed through the interface of the game Total War, with its digital armies that could be paused and micro-managed.
He struggles even to control the army in the game; his mind is like a single thread, and he's constantly fumbling around.
They would pause, move one unit, and then move another. As a result, they would often completely forget about the first unit, leaving it to be wiped out by the enemy without them even realizing it.
If this is the case in games, what about in real life?
"I—I will position the infantry in the center, the knights on the flanks, and the archers in front—"
He laughed at himself when he said that.
"Standard formation, no mistakes," Baldwin interrupted. "But now the wind is picking up, not a gentle breeze, but a sandstorm from the east. Dust is engulfing your army, reducing visibility to fifty paces. You hear horns in the distance, but you don't know if it's the signal for a general attack or a feint. What will you do?"
Leon opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything.
"You'll hesitate," Baldwin answered for him, his voice devoid of blame, only gentle admonition. "In a real battlefield, all you can see is the chaos before your eyes. The officers on the left are shouting something to you, but the wind is too strong to hear them."
The infantry line on the right flank began to falter, and some began to retreat; the central army flags were being violently tossed about by the wind, and messengers were getting lost in the dust.
The king's breathing quickened, but he continued, "In the few breaths you hesitated, Saladin's horse archers had already completed their maneuver. They wouldn't charge head-on; that would be foolish. They split into three groups: one to harass your archers from the front, and two to flank you from the left and right, beginning a hail of arrows at your rear."
"Your knights are ordered to attack, but attacking means leaving the protection of the infantry and exposing them to the mobility of the desert cavalry. Your archers' range is halved in the sandstorm, and their arrows are blown off course by the wind. Your infantry are holding shields, but arrows are coming from behind and the sides, and the shields can only protect one side."
Baldwin paused, remaining silent as he waited for Lyon to process the information.