The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 48 Calleburg

In early April of 1182 in the Julian calendar, sandstorms from Transjordan, carrying with them the heat, swept over the ancient and sturdy city of Kall.

Originally built during the Roman era, this fortress was further expanded during the Second Crusade, becoming a formidable defensive structure. Every other day, a small fortress or castle was established between Caleb and Jerusalem, and their lighthouses were lit every night to assure Jerusalem that the border was secure.

Meanwhile, Caleb was situated on the Damascus-Amman-Petra trade route, a route where caravans had repeatedly suffered from harassment and plunder by Lord Reynald of Caleb, enduring immense hardship. Therefore, most caravans were forced to bypass Caleb, passing through Jerusalem, crossing the Jordan River, and finally reaching Amman, controlled by the Ayyubids—a long and circuitous route. A small number of caravans, to save costs and avoid the detour, took the risk; if Reynald happened to be away from the castle or not intending to plunder, they could pass safely.

Nearly a year ago, after Lord Reynald of Caleb returned from Jerusalem, he unexpectedly toned down his aggressive tactics. A dozen or so daring caravans passed safely through his territory, and as word spread, more and more caravans lowered their guard and rejoined this lucrative shortcut. Suddenly, the roads outside Caleb were filled with the sounds of camel bells, making the trade route, which had previously been used only by caravans from the Kingdom of Jerusalem, bustling again.

However, this period of ease lasted only a little over six months, and Reynald quickly reverted to his old ways. Instead of sending cavalry charges as before, he ambushed crossbowmen on the high ground, catching the caravans completely off guard, and the goods and dinars all ended up in his pockets. The trade routes fell into disrepair once more, and no merchant dared to take the risk again.

At this moment, Reynald was inspecting his troops in the castle's drill ground. Standing atop the tower, he looked down upon eighty elite soldiers, uniformly dressed, armed with new crossbows and clad in chainmail. Surrounding the castle walls and passageways stood two hundred lower-ranking soldiers, also armed with new crossbows but clad in padded armor. They all wore grooved Norman helmets with inner chainmail turbans, steel crossbow bolts hanging from their right hips, battle axes from their left, chainmail mittens on their hands, and only leggings on their feet. Even Lyon would be astonished to see such a waste of denarius resources.

Reinald looked at his army with a smug look on his face, his chest heaving with pride.

"Look, my dear Stephanie," Reinald said, turning to his wife beside him, his voice brimming with pride, "I told you, my pleading with Jocelyn and protecting the infidel caravan was all worthwhile! I didn't squander these denarii; every single one went to the Lord's holy cause!"

Stephanie's gaze swept over the silent soldiers, a hint of interest playing at the corners of her lips. "They certainly look quite formidable, but I wonder... how it will actually turn out in a real fight?"

Reinald let out a short, snicker. He didn't answer, but simply raised his arm and pressed it down sharply.

The elite crossbowmen on the training ground sprang into action instantly, their movements fluid and synchronized. The front rank knelt on one knee, while the rear rank stood upright, their crossbow arms raised in unison. Then came a barrage of fire from multiple ranks, the sharp whistling of bolts piercing the air blending seamlessly, a dense rain of arrows relentlessly pelting the distant targets with almost no pause.

"See that?" Reynald spread his arms wide, his unrestrained laughter echoing across the city walls. "With firepower like that, even in the open, we could tear the enemy to shreds! But I can't bear to take them out into the field. They should stay here, and if Saladin dares to come..." He clenched his fist, his eyes flashing with a mad light, "he'll be utterly defeated!"

He was extremely satisfied with the crossbowmen's performance and waved for the army to disperse. At that moment, however, he was preoccupied with something far more important—a secret plan that even his wife hadn't told him, a plan Guy had described as "mad." The dinars spent arming these crossbowmen cost less than half the amount needed for that plan.

Just then, a scout on horseback galloped into the training ground, kicking up a cloud of dust as he reined in his horse. Sweat and fear mingled on the rider's face as he looked up at the city walls and reported, "My lord! An army has been spotted in the direction of Montreal, flying the Sultan's flag!"

Reinald's face darkened. He strode down the city wall, grabbed the reins, and fired off a barrage of questions: "How many men? What's their configuration? Do they have siege equipment?"

"At least twenty thousand!" The rider's voice was hoarse with tension. "Very few infantry, mostly heavily armored cavalry, including several thousand elite Mamluks! But we... haven't seen any siege equipment."

"Damn it, they said it one minute and here it is the next?" Reinald gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles tensing. Although the truce was not yet over, he knew perfectly well that his recent acts of plunder were enough to enrage the Sultan. Since he had broken the agreement first, it was not impossible for Saladin to come and demand an explanation.

He dismissed the scouts and immediately ordered his own messenger to be dispatched at breakneck speed to Jerusalem for aid. Turning to Stephanie, his tone brooked no argument: "My lady, go to the main tower immediately and stay inside. Do not come out unless I tell you to!" After watching his wife hastily depart under the escort of her servants, he abruptly turned and roared to those around him: "Men! Put on my armor! All hands on deck!"

Saladin's army maintained a steady yet imposing pace, advancing eight farsachs (approximately 25 kilometers) per day, like the tide slowly washing over the beach. Passing through Tafila near Kallerburg, they caught sight of the castle's silhouette perched on a distant ridge by noon the following day.

Saladin sat astride his warhorse, his gaze calmly sweeping over the massive stone structure. He felt neither love nor hate for the lifeless fortress itself, but the name of its lord was like a poisonous thorn, deeply embedded in his heart. Over the years, he had spent vast sums consolidating his army, seizing control of Damascus, and appeasing various factions, nearly depleting the national treasury. The rest and recuperation in Cairo, along with the efforts to win over the Assassins, had incurred another enormous expense. Reynald's indiscriminate plundering of the Ayyubid caravans had further exacerbated his already strained finances.

He raised his hand, gesturing for his nephew Farooq Shah to come forward.

"Order: Infantry to hold the rear, Tawash and Ghulam in the center, horse archers on the right, and light cavalry on the left. The entire army shall advance to a distance of one thousand paces from the castle and halt." Saladin's voice was deep and steady, with only a hint of coldness flashing deep in his eyes. "Mamluks, come with me into battle. It's time to... 'greet' that madman."

Farouk accepted the order and departed. Soon, the massive army began to shift formations with effortless precision, its various units spreading out in an orderly fashion to form a huge and threatening semi-encirclement. Saladin waited quietly until the formation was fully formed, then he spurred his horse and, surrounded by five thousand of his most elite Mamluk cavalry, slowly rode towards Kallberg like the tip of an arrow.