Chapter 108: Bethlehem
When Caesar served as escort beside Amalric I, the King was entirely focused on the upcoming expedition and did not hold royal court, nor was there any need— the territory of Ayyarasa Road was not large, the King had no need to consolidate his power or gain the people’s support during his tours, and while there were many who opposed Amalric I during his lifetime, there were scant few with the courage to raise a rebellion.
He had only seen overseers punish those thieves, tax evaders, or peddlers passing off inferior goods as quality at the Market, and that could hardly be called judgment; the overseer would at most glance once or twice to know who was plaintiff and who defendant, and who among them was guilty, then simply mete out punishment.
Bethlehem’s court was also held in the square, this square called Manger Square, right in front of the Church of the Nativity.
In the center of the square, people had erected a platform, on which stood a long table and three high-backed chairs; the middle high-backed chair belonged to Caesar, and in this he yielded to no one—this was also the best opportunity to make the people of Bethlehem know him. If he showed timidity here, or a mildness that might be mistaken for timidity, they would still see Bishop Andrew as Bethlehem’s master.
Sure enough, when the people saw a youth of exquisite beauty seated in the bishop’s place, they began whispering among themselves, but when Longinus led the guards over, they still doffed their hats and bowed their heads in respect—Bishop Andrew sat to Caesar’s right, while to his left sat a merchant Jacques, this merchant renowned in Bethlehem for his wealth, generosity, and fairness. The bishop told Caesar he could regard him as the people’s representative.
Jacques bowed in greeting when he saw them, and only sat after the two had seated themselves. Caesar was not entirely unacquainted with him, after all, just the previous evening he had delivered an entire box of gold coins, a fine horse, and three silk robes.
First brought before them were some minor disputes; people of this era spoke and acted without logic—those who had not received systematic education were all like this, with scant evidence, mostly hearsay. One man even claimed his constant hiccuping was because his neighbor had cursed him…
The bishop and Jacques appeared utterly relaxed, as if watching a farce or a few jokes. If impatient, the bishop exchanged a glance with Caesar（ while Jacques offered no opinion）, then simply raised a finger to call the guards to drag them off for a few whacks with sticks.
Then finally, the first murderer who ought to be taken seriously was dragged forward: a dog.
It was a large dog; Caesar could not tell its breed—people of this time had no concept of breeding—but it was clearly vicious and pugnacious. Even with its fur covered in bloodstains and one leg broken, it still growled low incessantly.
Its owner was the plaintiff; he angrily and sorrowfully recounted the circumstances—this dog he had bought from a peddler, raising it from a puppy to its current size, consuming grain enough to feed three people. Though afterward it never betrayed its master’s rearing: it guarded his cattle and sheep, his residence, never erring.
But just a couple days prior, while in the residence, it suddenly went berserk and tore his child from the cradle, devouring it.
He believed either the dog was innately cruel and ungrateful, or possessed by the devil. He could of course simply beat it to death, but he did not want to let it off so easily; he besought the lords to give it fitting punishment and cast it into hell, unpardoned even at doomsday.
We today, seeing someone speak thus, would surely think him mad, but at that time, his request was entirely reasonable; he had paid the filing fee, and the bishop had no objection to consigning a dog to hell.
Caesar mildly expressed condolences to this unfortunate man. The case was of course easy to judge, but as he signed the judgment document, he hesitated slightly; he saw the dog’s eyes—it was not drooling, its eyes not red, fearful of wind and water; it did not look like a mad dog.
But some large dogs would without warning turn vicious toward a “child,” especially an infant in swaddling clothes, deeming it lower in status or provoked. Still, he casually asked: “Did anyone see this dog bite the child? You, or the wet nurse?”
His question made the bishop pause, and the plaintiff look baffled: “What? Lord?” He recalled, pain contorting his face like dough, “No, I didn’t see; I heard the child’s wet nurse screaming, we rushed over to find the cradle edge bloodstained, we followed the dropped items, the blood, and found the dog—and my child…”
Caesar slightly lowered his head, gazing at the man whose face still bore tear streaks. “Did you see it tearing at the child with your own eyes?”
The man seemed about to answer: “Yes,” but he hesitated: “I’m not sure…”
Caesar hypothesized the scene: the dog going mad, the wet nurse screaming, then the swaddling carried far away…
“How far from the cradle was the place you found the dog and child?”
“Several hundred feet,” the man said.
“I’m not seeking to pardon a murderer or let a devil escape, but if your child is not yet laid to rest, go measure the wounds on him, see the distance between two teeth—I know it’s a sorrowful thing, but—if you’re willing, measure the wound size on the child, then compare to the dog’s.”
A dog’s life was of course no great matter, but the true culprit was likely not this dog, or something else.
“Lord, what do you mean?” the man stammered.
“I can’t be certain what happened—after all, my saint cannot glimpse the past—had it gone mad before, bitten you or others?”
“No,” the man said: “Children had played with it before, even hurting it, but it never bared its teeth.”
“Then go see,” Caesar said: “Whatever must be done, there’s no rush.”
The man hesitated a moment, looked to the bishop, who nodded; only then did he bow to Caesar and hurry off with several others—clearly intending to do as Caesar said.
This case set aside for now, several men dressed as farmers came forward, knelt on the ground, and stated their request.
They accused a swarm of insects—yes, insects. “They ate our olives!”
The farmers said they had even caught some insects and brought them in woven grass cages as representatives of the defendants. “Every year,” they said angrily, “these wretched little servants of the devil, when the olives ripen, fly in and lay eggs on the fruit; their maggots suck dry the juice, making the fruit drop or shrivel, yielding no good oil.”
“Today they’re especially thick, five eggs on every ten olives,” the farmer said in despair: “More than any year past, Lord. If we can’t drive them off, we can’t harvest olives, press oil, trade for wheat, pay taxes, and many will starve.”
This matter was far graver than the previous case. Caesar looked to the bishop, who merely shook his head: “These years the devil’s servants have indeed multiplied beyond past times. We’ve held Mass, paraded with holy images, sprinkled holy water on the olive trees—but I think it’s because someone among them committed an unforgivable sin.”
He turned to the farmers, stern-faced—he said he would send a priest to investigate; if it proved human sin, then as God’s representatives in the mortal world, they would take extremely cruel measures, punishing the sinner with fire or water torture.
But if no sinner found, it could only be God’s punishment; all the villagers must serve corvée, pay fines, and do penance.
And if even so the plague persisted, it must be the devil’s doing; he would issue proclamation and documents, excommunicating these insects and casting them into hell—Caesar watched the bishop, seeing he was utterly serious… not joking or jesting.
Afterward, the bishop had the farmers bring up the captured insects and personally executed the harsh “crushing” torture; these were maggots from some fly, squelching as crushed. Caesar scarce knew what expression to make—but he gravely raised his hands, clapping to show admiration and emotion for the bishop…
But this surely wouldn’t do.
Caesar was prepared to seek out the bishop that evening for a talk; after all, Bethlehem’s olive industry was part of his income, and his involvement would not be questioned as overstepping.
The bishop wiped his hands, changed his shoes, and returned to his seat; the grateful plaintiff withdrew. Next should have been the man and woman’s case, but clamor arose from nearby; looking up, who else but that dog’s owner-cum-plaintiff?
Seeing Caesar, he immediately threw himself down before the platform, tearful, saying they had indeed found the truth behind this tragedy as Caesar instructed.
They examined the wounds on the child; the two deepest bites did not match the dog’s canines. Then they sternly questioned the wet nurse, learning she had been negligent, dozing against the cradle; only hearing the infant’s wail did she find it dragged off by a beast.
Before she screamed, the dog had chased after; when people arrived, seeing the dead infant and dog, they thought the dog attacked the infant, and she, to cover her fault, went along saying the dog bit the child.
People pursued further and indeed found an old wolf dead by the roadside.
Dragged wolfishly before the platform, she still blustered excuses, insisting she bore no responsibility—this was God’s will, the devil’s trick, dooming the child to suffering… Of course, saying so earned her more fists…
The bishop was furious too, mainly that this foolish woman equated God and devil; he gave her severe punishment: imprisonment, corvée, and compensation for her employer’s loss.
And the lucky dog was taken home by its owner.
“But how did you guess the dog went to protect the child, not harm it?” the bishop asked.
“I’ve heard similar tales—a loyal dog, seeing its little master attacked by a wolf, bravely pounces to fight the beast and carries the little master’s body home; but people see its bloody teeth and body, think it reverted to savagery and ate its little master, beat it to death—when it merely fulfilled its duty.”
“First time I’ve seen such a thing,” the bishop said: “Like beholding King Solomon.” He committed the story to memory, planning to copy it into his diary upon return.
This case was indeed worth much talk, and piqued interest in subsequent judgments.
The third case was not very complex; in modern terms, a divorce case.
Before court opened, someone had dug a pit in the square; now guards went over, lifted the wooden boards; the pit mouth half a man’s height, a man’s width in diameter. Now plaintiff and defendant came forward: once husband and wife, now seeking divorce for irreconcilable strife—if one were king, or they could pay the Pope for proof declaring the marriage invalid—this would be no matter.
But if mere commoners… yet still divorcing, then only by “duel divorce.”
Duel divorce meant the couple fought to the death.
“The husband clearly has the advantage here,” the bishop whispered to Caesar.
Now the sturdy husband had one hand bound, lowered into the pit; his free hand gripped a thick wooden stick.
The wife was indeed much slighter than her husband; she stood outside the pit, holding a cloth bag with a stone inside. She could strike her husband with the stone; if she knocked him out and dragged him from the pit, she won.
Conversely, if the husband struck down the wife and dragged her into the pit, he won.
“What if she wins?” Caesar asked.
“Wife wins, husband beheaded; husband wins, wife burned,” the bishop said.
Before the duel began, the wife suddenly looked up to the platform; Caesar nearly cried out in surprise. At first he didn’t recognize her, but seeing those eyes beneath her tangled hair, he recalled: wasn’t this the woman who, years ago during his asceticism at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, had been sent by Heraclius and Amalric I to plead her case?
