The Final Battle (2)

"Quite a magnificent march, isn't it?"

Walter rode up to a towering hill, reined in his horse, and watched the endless column stretching away below. At his side stood Geoffrey, his old partner of decades. The Knights Templar had existed for decades as well, yet even they were rather astonished that they had made it this far. After all, after nearly fifty years in the Holy Land, the Order had decayed and rotted faster than even the Church of Rome.

What had Walter thought back then? He had thought that if he could hold on for one more day, then he would hold on for one more day; if he could endure for one more day, then he would endure for one more day. He still had to fight those heathens and defend the land God had bestowed upon Christians, yet his heart had been lost in a fog. The people around him had taught him a harsh lesson: there was nothing holy and pure in this world. Everything would rot.

Even a knightly order would be like a fresh apple, crawling with maggots in its final hour.

"Perhaps this is a dream I had," he could not help saying to Geoffrey.

"I can hand over some of my work to you. I'm sure you'll soon feel alive again."

Walter immediately looked terrified and waved his hands again and again. He had no desire to do Geoffrey's work—Geoffrey's position was important, and unless one was Cesar's most trusted person, it was utterly impossible to hold it. Yet the account books piled like mountains and the endless documents alone would make Walter tremble from head to toe.

This Templar, who had never shown the slightest cowardice even before tens of thousands of enemies, had once sworn solemnly that he would help