A Land of Nations

Chapter 1: Escape From Hell
This is hell.
The air is scorching hot, sand and dust fly everywhere, the stench of blood and excrement fills the nostrils, thirty boys with white, brown, and black skin are brought to a flat-topped hill on the right side of the Judean Mountains.
They will be castrated here, and if they are lucky enough to survive, they will be sold to the courts of Byzantium, Egypt, or Syria.
He is the thirty-first.
He gasps in pain, the breath he exhales hotter than the sand beneath him. Two sturdy black slaves bring him before the slave merchant, a flicker of hesitation passes through the merchant’s eyes.
The goods are sick and weak, and the castration method they use is extremely crude.
After being deprived of their power as males like pigs and horses, the wailing semi-finished products are directly stuffed into pre-dug pits, with only their upper bodies exposed, high temperature and sand being the only means to stop the bleeding.
The castrated slaves must stay here for a whole night; before Venus rises, the merchant will come to inspect, and usually three out of ten can survive.
But he certainly will not be one of those three.
After a moment of hesitation, the slave merchant regretfully shakes his head.
His thoughts are still disordered by the high fever, he can only try hard to remember this suspicious point: the merchant is clearly unwilling.
A slave, out of mercy, gives him a drink of wine that has lots of pomace but is unusually sweet; the alcohol and sugar are like sparks igniting charcoal, restoring his ability to think and act.
Now he is still under the tent with only a canopy overhead, but just three feet from the shadow under his feet is the blinding white light; after adapting to the strong light, he can see yellowish-brown sand dunes, a winding path between the dunes, then the sky and great lake distorted by the evaporating heat.
Perhaps because he is already close to death, those people did not waste shackles and rope on him; after all, even those stronger children can only cry and beg, but if he thinks he can escape because of this…
He touches his arm, confirming that this is not his original body; this body belongs to a boy of only seven or eight, unarmed, completely naked, but still intact.
And besides the few slaves who obey only him, the slave merchant also has four or five guards wandering outside the tent; their gazes hardly fall on the child, seemingly just to guard against external attacks, but if someone wants to escape, they will not stand by.
He is brought outside the tent, the merchant examines him, holding a curved-bladed castration knife that, even though polished bright, still carries an indelible bloody smell.
And at this moment, they hear the sound of hooves coming from not far away, quite a number of them; the merchant and guards immediately become alert. Although the Judean Mountains are only dozens of miles from the Holy City of Ayyarasa, bandits still roam freely; they take everything—money, slaves, or people who can pay a ransom to redeem themselves.
As if in an instant, two nimble ponies appear in their line of sight.
The riders on the ponies are two escorts dressed in high-collared robes, the robes with vertical quilting lines, a leather baldric crossing the chest, and a single-handed sword hanging from the belt.
As soon as they see the people on the hill, they immediately raise the horns hanging from the saddles and blow several blasts, a series of clear, sharp, short, and loud sounds rushing into the sky.
While the horn sounds are still echoing in the air, several knights in chainmail catch up, their mounts all tall armored horses; the slave merchant and his guards, upon seeing the red Jerusalem cross embroidered on the white sleeveless robes of the arrivals on the front chest, hurriedly kneel down, burying their heads deeply in their hands.
The slave merchant peeks out through his fingers, more escorts and knights with flags appear.
Some lead a packhorse loaded full of prey on its back, some hold falcons hooded with leather caps high, dogs circle around their horses’ hooves, constantly barking, and some carry multiple crossbow bolts, javelins, and spears, clearly attendants responsible for providing weapons to their master.
In their midst and rear are ministers and lords dressed even more magnificently, their chainmail covered with colorful velvet and silk, their horses draped in splendid horse blankets, the shields hanging from the saddles depicting exquisite coats of arms.
Surrounded by them, a middle-aged man wearing a crown frowns because he smells an unexpected bloody scent—he is King Amalric I of Ayyarasa Road.
“Who are those on the hill?” Amalric I asks.
His friend, vassal, and brother under God, Count Raymond of Tripoli, only lifts his head for a glance and shows a look of disgust: “An Isaacite castrator.”
Amalric I hears Duke Bohemond of Antioch behind him spit; his originally not-so-cheerful mood becomes even heavier. He says nothing, just gently pats his horse’s neck, and his mount immediately smartly quickens its pace.
The horses are like this, and those attending the king are even more perceptive; Count Raymond of Tripoli raises his hand and waves it forcefully forward, the knights let out thunderous shouts in response, the hoofbeats like drumbeats, from slow to fast, dust rolling, heads crowding; in less than the time for a cup of tea, they can leave the hill permeated with the smell of blood behind.
But just before the king’s Percheron gallops off, a small riot erupts less than a hundred feet from him.
Hunting dogs bark madly, falcons flap their wings, horses bounce and twist under the knights’ control, their huge hooves leaving deep depressions in the sand, gravel flying everywhere.
Amalric I is a knight king, his gaze sharp; at a glance, he sees what caused the commotion.
A slave escapes from the Isaacites’ tent; taking advantage of the merchant and guards prostrating on the ground, with incredible speed and courage, he leaps over low backs and heads, rolling down from the hill like a nail fiercely struck by a giant hammer, thudding right into their group.
Arriving here does not mean his life is preserved.
All war horses are trained to trample anything that rolls under their hooves（ especially strangers）; even the strongest knight in full armor, once fallen from his horse on the battlefield, is sometimes inevitably trampled into blood mud wrapped in iron plates by enemy hooves.
The dogs even more regard him as prey like a small beast, each snarling fiercely; a child with no defense at all relies entirely on his slender body and quick reactions to fight for a way to survive amid the hooves, iron boots, and dogs’ claws and teeth.
What’s more, escorts have already raised crossbows and drawn swords.
If a monk had not suddenly spurred his horse to jump between him and the others, he would surely be dead. This monk is recognized by everyone: Heraclius, the king’s friend and religious minister, the resident priest of Holy Cross Castle.
“Stop!” the monk calls: “The king wants to see him.”
The people make way, the king rides forward; this mighty Percheron has a shoulder height of no less than six feet, and the equally tall Amalric I looks down coldly at the escaped slave.
The slave is covered in dust, but his skin can still be seen as fair; he is a boy, not an undeveloped girl, with disheveled black short hair; one of his hands hangs limply at his side, possibly a sprain or break.
He breathes with difficulty, trying to stand; when someone shouts “Kneel!”, he kneels, but stubbornly only drops one knee—this posture is more taxing than both knees on the ground, especially for someone already at the end of his strength.
While the king gazes at him, he slowly lifts his head; what beautiful eyes, Amalric I thinks, a pair of flawless emeralds. What will he do? How will he beg me to save him? If he is indeed a Christian, coming to beg the Christian king?
The slave is also thinking; besides this unfamiliar body, he has nothing, no one to vouch for or defend him, and Amalric I will not give him much patience or time.
He raises his arm, under the vigilant gazes, sucks a mouthful of blood oozing from the wound; a little liquid moistens his throat, allowing him to speak fluently.
“I will sing to Jehovah…” Then he lifts his head, gazes at the unfamiliar crowd, and slowly, slowly says, “for he has triumphed gloriously, throwing horse and rider into the sea…”
This is a language that Amalric I and the surrounding crowd absolutely cannot ignore—vulgar Latin; though a bit hoarse, slow, and with some words misread, it is indeed the language familiar to Christians, and familiar poetry, like syllables and words engraved in their souls.
The crowd involuntarily sings along loudly, almost drowning out the little slave’s voice: “…Jehovah is my strength and my song, and he has become my salvation… This is my God, I will praise him, the God of my father, I will exalt him…”
The king even more lowers his eyes, raises one hand to his chest: “…Jehovah is a warrior, his name is Jehovah… Jehovah, your right hand wields power and shows glory, Jehovah, your right hand shatters the enemy.”
He recites lowly, “Jehovah led his people out of the place where they were slaves with a mighty hand, and said, because they are my servants, whom I brought out of the land of Egypt, they shall not be sold as slaves—so, child, you are a Christian. You come to me for salvation, as the Isaacites cry to Jehovah for help.”
“Yes.”
“Then I should save you,” the king says. “Take him, Heraclius; this may be the greatest gain from this hunt.”
The monk called Heraclius bends down to obey; he jumps down from his horse, wraps the naked boy in his own cloak; upon touching his skin, he startles, “He is feverish!”
“Is it an epidemic?” Amalric I asks.
“I will take him to the Church of Saint John the Baptist first,” Heraclius says.
An escort takes a money bag containing dozens of silver coins from Count Raymond of Tripoli here—an Isaacite slave merchant does not even qualify to talk face-to-face with a knight.
He casually tosses the money bag in front of the merchant, then wheels his horse around to catch up with the group, so he does not see the merchant’s overly ugly expression, which far exceeds that of losing a valuable piece of goods.
——————————
As soon as Heraclius sees that child, he guesses he has a good chance of being saved. This relates to his astonishing courage and decisiveness, also to his skin color and faith, but most importantly, Amalric I’s only son, little Baldwin, is exactly this age.
If it were before, this similarity would not be enough to stir mercy in Amalric I, but just a few days ago, little Baldwin was confirmed to have leprosy.
Leprosy, a virulent contagious disease; anyone contracting it will have hair fall out, body covered in red rashes, patches, swollen lymph nodes, limbs numb, atrophied, and deformed, making their faces and bodies as terrifying as devils.
In Byzantium, Francia, and Britain, lepers are isolated from normal society（ this is even written into the law）.
They are not allowed to live in the city, not allowed to enter church（ nor receive sacraments）, nor appear in any crowded places（ like the market）; they cannot inherit or be inherited, nor bring lawsuits or defend others.
The Church holds two views on them: one sees them as unclean, believing they must have committed unknown sins to be punished by God; the other sees it as a trial, though also given by God, but at least nominally… more consoling for lepers.
Little Baldwin having leprosy, whether seen as sin or trial, means the current situation in Ayyarasa Road will undergo earth-shattering changes.
The luckiest part is that Amalric I and the previous kings of Ayyarasa Road have not yet had time to enact laws on lepers; he can keep Baldwin in Ayyarasa Road and Holy Cross Castle, and continue to fight for various political and legal powers for his only son.
All kinds of doubts, condemnations, and pressure surge like tides; Amalric I has not shown a happy face for many days, so there is today’s hunt.
His friends and ministers all agree he should go out—though hundreds of prey failed to lift the king’s mood, until this small accident occurs.
Perhaps for Amalric I, redeeming a Christian life from the devilish Isaacite slave merchant is like adding a precious chip to the scales hanging with his only son’s fate; perhaps this chip can prevent the pitiful little Baldwin from falling into purgatory too quickly.
Therefore, Heraclius does not despise this task because the child he holds was once a slave; he spurs his horse to gallop, arriving at the refuge run by the Church of Saint John the Baptist in less than half an hour.
The refuge is the prototype of a hospital, initially set up for knights and pilgrims injured or sick in the First Crusades, now serving all of Ayyarasa Road and surrounding Christian countries and territories.
Upon hearing of a feverish patient, Abbot John immediately brings several monks over; they check to confirm if the patient carries an epidemic; after examination, confirming it is only due to hunger, weakness, and fear causing fainting and hot blood, they relax.
“Ah,” after hearing Heraclius, John says in surprise: “He does not look like the son of a serf or craftsman.”
“Mm,” Heraclius says: “He may have a good background and have received proper education.”
They say this not without reason; besides the child being able to recite complete and correct scripture, after wiping his body with clean water and light wine, no old scars are found on him, nor irreparable disabilities; all wounds are minor and fresh—traded for his lost freedom.
Such a situation is rare in ordinary poor children.
They sleep with livestock on straw piles, bedbugs and fleas feast on them; they are beaten with clubs by parents or masters, whipped by overseers and guards, scalded by torches, scalded by boiling water, bitten by dogs, kicked by horses.
From infancy to youth, nutrition only from dried peas, acorns, and barley porridge results in them generally being thin, short, hunchbacked; hard labor makes their joints coarse like their families’, fingertips rough, fingernails thickened.
They are often barely clothed, barefoot or wrapped in a few ragged cloth pieces, so their soles have a thick, dirty layer of calluses; their teeth are loose, brittle from long chewing of rough hard food, sometimes permanent teeth fall out as soon as they grow.
But none of these are found on this unfamiliar patient; a monk jokes, “His soles are more tender than my palm.”
“The more so,” Heraclius says: “the more unfortunate he proves.” If not for them passing by, the child’s best outcome would be becoming a eunuch in the harem of the Byzantine Emperor or Fatimid Caliph.
The monks, upon hearing, inevitably show shame and mercy; the joking monk even makes several crosses on his chest in confession.
“Take good care of him,” Heraclius says: “The king may come to see him again.”
New Year, new story!
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May the new year continue to give me guidance and encouragement!
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