Chapter 141: On The Road To Acre
I am your homeless moon,
Offer me a bed.
I have been sleepless for centuries,
I am your Damascus rose,
Put me in the first vase you find.
————Syrian poet Nizar Kabbani
Haridi knew he had made a mistake, just like those he had once despised and mocked.
When he saw those impressive green eyes at the city gate of Damascus and escaped death once again under his protection, what surged in his heart was not relief, nor gratitude, but an uncontrollable greed.
He knew this man; in Bilbeis, he had upheld justice for them, preventing families from being torn apart; and in the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, without the close minister by this king’s side, the Christians might not have trusted him or given him an opportunity, and he could not have personally avenged his family on the chaotic battlefield afterward.
Perhaps all Isaacites were like this, blind and ungrateful; what he thought then was that if he could persuade this young man—he was now the envoy of the King of Ayyarasa Road and had made the Saracens receive his favor; if he was willing, or even just showed a little mercy—the minimum level, he could regain his freedom, leave here, and go to other cities and nations…
Even more, he could try to rescue other Isaacites through this Christian knight; although some among them had indeed participated in the conspiracy and rebellion, there were also some who perhaps out of fear of the former, or truly knew nothing—should be, maybe innocent, at least those women and children—how Caesar was saved by Amalric I, he should also save people in that way…
Haridi knew that if he dared to voice this idea, he would surely invite ridicule; they would definitely think I am a madman—he muttered, but if going mad could save thousands of people, how could this deal not be made?
He harbored such delusions in his heart, even trying to bargain, but as soon as he revealed a little hint, he was seen through by those cold green eyes—just a light glance made his courage vanish like dust in the wind in an instant.
Have you ever seen a cheetah toying with a lamb? A storm sweeping over flower branches? Their momentary mercy and gentleness were only because the prey was too weak, not worth their effort or vigilance—and this young man was the same; Haridi knew every word he said was true; if he still wanted to escape or defect to others, he would personally drag him out of the room and hang him upside down on a wooden frame together with those he wanted to save.
No, to be safe, he might even “kindly” slit Haridi’s throat beforehand.
Although Haridi still did not understand until now why he valued him so much…
——————
Why? Even if Baldwin asked, Caesar could hardly answer.
There were powers here that did not exist in his world, but correspondingly, such powers also suppressed this world’s thirst for exploration and innovation—swords not sharp enough, shields not sturdy enough, no problem, there is “Chosen by Michael”; sick or injured, no problem, there is “Chosen by Raphael”—as for the poor common people… what needs could they have?
The nobles regarded them as cattle and horses, or rather, not even as good as cattle and horses.
Their cries were always ignored, and in the present where even life might not be preserved, they would not complain that wooden farm tools were not as good as iron ones, nor care about coughing, bleeding, pain… there were plenty of people who silently collapsed while working, and there were those damned “starvation sickness” and “devil possession”…
Before the “Chosen by Raphael” and “Chosen by Michael” appeared, whether in Arabia, the Apennines, or Francia, you could still see witches and “doctors” walking in villages and towns—this was a general term for people knowledgeable in herbs and human anatomy.
But when the Church discovered that those who could just touch patients to alleviate or even cure their illnesses could better inspire the people’s trust in the Church and make them pour money into the church’s boxes, these people disappeared.
Male “doctors” might still become priests, but females would only become fuel on the fire stake.
And as more and more “Chosen by Raphael” and “Chosen by Michael” appeared, the Church’s monopoly on “doctors” became more urgent and vicious—even if one became a priest, it did not mean you could practice medicine freely; such work had to be assigned by the Bishop, Archbishop, or even Pope, and afterward, you could not just cure patients or the wounded all at once; the extent and duration of treatment depended on the orders from above.
Just like Heraclius; before he became Patriarch, he could not reveal that he knew how to make ointment, and after becoming Patriarch, what he offered was not “ointment” but consecrated “relics”… if he dared to say these were just ordinary herbs that even mortals could mix according to prescriptions, even the priests under him would betray him.
After all, besides faith, interests were what priests were most enthusiastic about.
If even the Patriarch was like this, ordinary people need not be mentioned; in the religious court and the Church, anyone daring to touch this “forbidden territory” would be the first sent to the fire stake, and under the priests’ day-and-night persistent brainwashing, even ordinary people, even if they received benefits from these bold ones—whether cured of illness or saved from death—would unhesitatingly betray their benefactor.
With the disappearance of these “doctors,” “medicine” and “pharmacology” naturally became something that once existed but now seemed like terrifying legends.
But when Heraclius was teaching him and Baldwin, he mentioned that some ancient texts long destroyed in Christian countries and cities might still be preserved in Saracen palaces and libraries, and although there were “Chosen by Raphael” and “Chosen by Michael” among the Saracens—though according to them, these people received revelation from the Prophet to gain powers beyond mortals—they did not further divide such holy relics like the Christian Church; as long as you received revelation, you could happily be a “scholar” or a “warrior.”
But they did not deny mortal powers because of this; among them, there was still medicine and doctors.
Moreover, the same situation appeared among the Isaacites; the Isaacites collectively called those blessed by God “sages,” but among them there were no warriors, only existences similar to priests, with far less power, status, and respect.
“To make those Isaacites respect you, you need authority like Mercury（ the god of commerce, travelers, and messenger of the gods in Ancient Rome）.” At that time, Heraclius timely mocked with this remark.
So this time he insisted on going as envoy to Acre, partly for this reason—Baldwin’s chronic illness was still a weight hanging over him and many others; no matter how leisurely, comfortable, or joyful the moment, it would prick their hearts like a small thorn.
The medical knowledge Caesar possessed, after losing modern equipment and medicine, could hardly cure Baldwin（ at least not relapsing in his lifetime）; he also knew some herbs could have better therapeutic effects than current ointments, but he and his teacher had always found nothing in the markets and merchant ships of Ayyarasa Road, but what about in Saracen courts and treasuries?
And Haridi could be said to be an accident.
Although Sultan Nur al-Din was their enemy, he was also a respectable enemy; letting him rot, swell, and turn black and stinking all over—even Count Raymond of Tripoli, who hated the Saracens most, would find it excessive, and Caesar was not encountering a corpse for the first time—what he could not imagine was that while wiping Nur al-Din’s side, he found a needle mark on the grayish-white skin?!
As a doctor, he would never mistake it; that was indeed not an arrow wound or injury from another sharp object; it was a needle mark—and poisoned, with signs of ulceration and swelling at the wound.
He carefully continued searching Nur al-Din’s clothing and body, and finally found that thing resembling a broken gold thread in the folds of the belt; more accurately, a slender crossbow bolt.
Caesar had once followed his teacher（ from another world） in treating a patient; he was an zoo employee who was accidentally hit by an anesthetic flying needle while anesthetizing a lion with a colleague…
The prototype of the flying needle—blow darts first appeared in the Stone Age; if what hit Nur al-Din was just a blow dart with poison wrapped on the tip, he would not be so surprised—but this blow dart was hollow, and from the structure at the end, it used the same principle as modern anesthetic flying needles, where after the needle pierced the skin, the potion would automatically inject into the animal or person’s body due to air pressure.
And hearing from Haridi that he used toad poison, Caesar was even less surprised; compared to toad poison, his ability to craft such thin yet sturdy hollow needle tubes, and the device to launch this special crossbow bolt, was what concerned him most—how many things required small yet sturdy parts.
Even in this era, no monarch would foresee the future; they might only value more the crowns and scepters Haridi made; Caesar did not dare to take risks; even if Haridi was innocent, he could not let Haridi leave his sight or escape his control.
“Is there anything special about that Isaacite?” Geoffrey asked with interest.
“He is the one from the Battle of the Sea of Galilee.” Caesar said, and Geoffrey immediately understood.
Although Baldwin was still a young monarch, he did not have the habit of plundering his subordinates’ merits to adorn his throne; he greatly praised and thanked Grand Master of the Knights Templar Philip, and also mentioned an Isaacite, considering him indispensable; moreover, that cave he spoke of indeed contained a large number of ancient texts that even made Patriarch Heraclius dizzy with fascination—the knights certainly did not care about this, but the Church would definitely be willing to spend a large sum to buy them.
As for whether to destroy or enshrine them afterward, it was hard to say.
“But it seems that guy is a bit ungrateful.”
“So keep a close eye on him.”
“You seem a bit distracted.” Geoffrey was sometimes very perceptive.
“Because… because I am thinking,” Caesar paused, “I want to go out and see.”
“See?”
“This is Damascus.”
When they were in Bilbeis, although the city was not completely destroyed, they entered as conquerors, and the residents were full of vigilance and fear toward them; and facts proved their worries were not wrong; afterward, as inspector, he and Baldwin had passed through many places, but found almost nothing of value, either destroyed or looted.
Fustat need not be mentioned even more.
Now, they were in Damascus, as “guests,” so to speak, so as onlookers, they might see a real Saracen city.
“Then, together?” Geoffrey naturally did not object; they went together to inform Kamal—mainly to avoid being seen as spies by the Saracens—and under the guidance of two local guides provided by Kamal, changed into Saracen clothes, and stepped into the streets of Damascus.
——————
Kamal listened to his subordinate’s report, nodded, and then released a pigeon.
The pigeon flapped its wings and shot straight into the clouds like an arrow, then quickly became a black dot and disappeared from Kamal’s sight.
It flew strenuously until dusk, then folded its wings and landed on a terrace, where a young eunuch was always on guard; upon seeing it, he immediately grasped the pigeon, took it back to the room, carefully removed the copper tube tied to its leg; he did not open it—if he did, he would be dead—and immediately sent it to another grand eunuch.
The grand eunuch glanced at the copper tube—it was not for him to know—and immediately sent it to another room; the First Lady’s eunuch rose from the carpet, checked the wax seal, opened the copper tube, and presented it to his mistress.
The First Lady opened it and glanced, showing a troubled expression.
She was about to give some instructions when loud shouting came from outside the door; a boy of about ten rushed in and hugged her tightly—he was the son of a concubine permitted by the First Lady, and also Sultan Nur al-Din’s youngest son Salih.
“What is this?” he asked, seeing the slip of paper in the First Lady’s hand.
“Nothing… Kamal wants to kill Damascus’s agent, whatever, a Kurd bastard,” the First Lady said indifferently.
“What about this one?” Salih pointed to another slip of paper placed aside; he reached to touch it but was held down by the First Lady: “Also a small matter.”
She said, then grabbed that slip of paper too and burned it on the lamp promptly brought by the eunuch.
