Chapter 129: Son Of Count Joscelin Iii Of Edessa!
The aroma of spices was rich and fragrant, silk shimmered with radiant luster, gold and silver vessels gleamed with a warm glow, but none of these could compare to the six female slaves who entered in procession; everyone’s gaze was fixed on them.
The female slaves wore headscarves, veils, and cloaks, with eyes downcast; apart from a pair of eyes, not even a single strand of hair was exposed. From their appearance, the six were almost identical in height, build, and posture.
The envoy called them forward one by one to stand before the King of Ayyarasa Road. They knelt to him, then cast off their cloaks, letting them fall to the ground, and removed their own veils and headscarves. The cloaks and headscarves were the plainest white cotton, and the veils were of ordinary fabric, dull in color.
But just as a shrewd merchant might sometimes place a lustrous pearl in cloth rather than silk—without extraneous things stealing the show, when these girls cast aside their coverings and bared themselves, their beauty was almost piercing to the eyes.
Or rather, beauty was secondary; more striking was the utter obedience displayed in their gazes and postures—the kind of docility and fragility that would make them comply even if ordered to die. Even among Christians, where women are taught obedience, it could not match this seemingly innate innocence.
Even Abigail, who prided himself on loving only the Princess, could not help but straighten slightly, wanting to see more clearly, but his position was truly poor.
This vast hall was unusually spacious, with the entrance on the west side and the king’s throne on the east. Golden and silver-woven canopies hung on either side with white curtains embroidered full of Ayyarasa Road crosses. The throne was magnificent and enormous, its towering backrest easily evoking the pointed helmet of a church.
The king sat high upon it, with Queen Mother Maria and his sister Princess Sibylla to his left, and Patriarch Heraclius and his regent Raymond to his right.
And below them, the three rows of seats on either side were similarly ranked by status.
The first row naturally belonged to those ministers most trusted by the king or whom he was compelled to trust, such as Grand Duke Bohemond of Antioch, and the Grand Masters of the Knights Templar, Knights Hospitaller, and the Provost of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.
The second row belonged to minor vassals and the officials of this city, led by Berion of Ibelin.
David and Abigail, though already knights, could only sit in the third row, right against the wall, as if to remind them that in this grand assembly, they had only the right to observe.
So, where was Caesar’s seat?
Beside the king’s throne stood a dark brown oak high-backed chair, so close that a slight lean forward would allow conversation. Though the chair lacked carvings or gilding beyond its style, when Raymond saw it, he could not help but pale in shock. It was Bohemond who grabbed his hand and pressed his shoulder, preventing an outburst on the spot.
Without the great victory by the Sea of Galilee, they could of course remonstrate or even rebuke. After all, Caesar was now just a knight, and Bethlehem only a small city; he could appear at this gathering, but absolutely not sit beside the king. Yet precisely because Baldwin and Caesar had won that great victory, while they had suffered a severe defeat in the expedition against Mulai—already many were demanding accountability from them, and their image had dimmed.
At such a time, clashing with the young and vigorous king was truly not the act of a seasoned man. Raymond held back, but when he saw Knight Caesar of Bethlehem take the seat without any humility, he could not help cursing inwardly—arrogant upstart!
Caesar of course knew this seat would draw many vicious curses, but even if he did not sit there, would he have fewer enemies? As long as he remained Knight of Bethlehem, bearing the favor of Amalric I and the friendship of Baldwin IV, he must stand by the king’s side, facing their common enemies, whether Christians or Saracens.
Baldwin, however, felt only heartfelt joy. Sunlight streamed from the high window onto his throne; he turned his ring, and the gem refracted light into tiny flecks that danced across the wall, then the ministers’ faces—some peeping, some turning away, some raising hands—all their expressions and movements taken in by his eyes.
This was the feeling of being king. Everything his uncle and father had once enjoyed was now in his hands. He finally understood why sometimes his father had seemed so casual, even with a touch of mockery and disdain.
When you sit in this position, everyone here, no matter how powerful, can only bow and bend before you, obey your arrangements; you can even easily alter their destinies—like moving chess pieces on a chess board. That sensation is unimaginable without experiencing it firsthand.
He smiled, resting his hands casually on the throne’s armrests. From today, he could finally repay his dearest brother with what he deserved.
At this moment, the last female slave had come before the assembly, her demeanor somewhat odd—more untamed than the others. She neither knelt nor immediately removed her headscarf, but gazed around with startled, dazed eyes, looking at those… Christians.
The envoy, a minister trusted and favored by Sultan Nur al-Din, knelt before this young man, surrounded by impressive figures. Was he the King of Ayyarasa Road? So young, so handsome—could she really seek his help?
Seeing the last female slave suddenly freeze in place, the envoy frowned. In the sultan’s court, eunuchs would long since have dragged her away for a whip（ before the sultan and First Lady spoke, she would not suffer severe punishment）.
But this was a Christian castle; he could only rebuke this imprudent female slave with a stern gaze. Fortunately, she finally moved, slowly unfastening her cloak, lifting her headscarf, her veil gently falling as well.
“Alas.” Queen Mother Maria sighed instinctively; this female slave’s face felt familiar. Before she recalled who it was, the woman stepped forward, arms opening as if to kneel before the king, like her companions.
But suddenly, she froze, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, as if witnessing something inconceivable.
Later, Queen Mother Maria recalled that her expression was like suddenly seeing light beam from heaven, a saint descending white steps, extending hands to lead her to heaven; or like hell opening before her, countless devils crawling from the rift, seizing her feet, vying to drag her down.
She stood rigid, features contorted, beauty nearly vanished. Even the king showed concern; out of respect for all women, he asked mildly, “What is the matter? Have I done something wrong? Do you know me?”
He saw on her face an expression of wild joy, as if grasping something, but he did not recall seeing this girl before.
It was no surprise Baldwin IV misunderstood. For she had all along stared fixedly toward the throne.
Heraclius had already risen, wanting to order her dragged away—he feared this Saracen female slave might throw herself at the king’s feet, clutching his knee with untimely pleas. And indeed, as he thought, she suddenly lunged toward the throne.
She was just a petite woman, unlikely to receive a prophet’s revelation or a saint’s favor, but such behavior could still be seen as an assassination attempt against the king.
But the Knight of Bethlehem beside the king had already stepped in front. His speed was so swift, as if he had always stood there, and the female slave had already clung tightly to him.
Until then, people still thought her target was the king, but the next moment, she cried out loudly.
“Jocelin, Jocelin! Don’t you recognize me? I am your sister! Jocelin, I am Nathia! Your sister!”
The hall erupted in uproar; some looked toward the envoy, who was equally baffled—he had heard nothing whatsoever about this Nathia or her brother when leaving Acre; these six female slaves were just part of the gifts—who concerns themselves with a golden cup or a silver platter?
Damn right, no one.
Others looked toward Caesar, eyes shifting between him and the woman, seeking resemblances—indeed there were, especially the jet-black hair that could blend into night, and similarities in eye and lip shape. Some, confirming it, felt complex emotions—if truly siblings, a sister’s beauty outshone by her brother’s was rare.
Even Baldwin IV rose involuntarily. He took two steps forward to observe the female slave more closely, but Caesar barred him with one hand, then advanced two steps with the human attachment clinging to him. With the situation unclear, he could not be sure if this female slave sought to approach the king for assassination.
At this point, several venerable ministers finally stood, joining Raymond in ordering silence in the hall and summoning knights from outside to guard strictly against these Saracens and their gifts.
The female slave clinging tightly to Caesar was not pulled away. First, if she spoke truth, she was the sister of the Knight of Bethlehem; whatever their parents, she was a noblewoman deserving knights’ respect—they could not treat her roughly. Second, if Caesar wished to dislodge her, he could anytime; he was one who at ten had withstood a raging she-bear.
The knights swiftly cleared the room, leaving only Christians and the sole Saracen—the envoy Sir.
Caesar placed hands on the female slave’s shoulders, gently pushing her back. His expression grave—he felt the body pressed to his bore no weapons, no firm muscles or rough calluses; just an utterly ordinary girl. After steadying her, he did not immediately withdraw, leaving her alone under scrutiny, but stepped back, gazing at her as he spoke.
“First, I must tell you, Madam,” his voice held a gentle, soothing magic: “At nine, I fell gravely ill with high fever; I remember nothing before. I only know that by God’s arrangement, when I met the King of Ayyarasa Road, Amalric I, it was amid the scorching Judean Mountains.
At that time, I was still a slave to an Isaacites merchant, facing an utterly wretched fate or death. Of course, I did not wait idly; as the king’s mounted procession passed and all knelt in obeisance, I escaped the tent, reclaiming my health and honor.
The king saw me and said Christians cannot be sold as slaves. He redeemed me from that Isaacites merchant, brought me to the castle, and generously, benevolently allowed me to companion his son. As you see, Baldwin treats me as a brother, seating me beside him—this is all I recall—but in these memories, there is no you.”
These words made the black-haired female slave tremble. “I don’t know if I forgot you, or if what you say is a lie. But if you wish to speak, we can take time to listen…”
“Wait,” a voice interjected suddenly, “If it’s just about someone’s background, no need to delay negotiations, nor make these busy, overburdened lords play house with you.”
Abigail’s words brought anger to the king’s face.
But he was not wrong; some nodded—gossip is enticing, but trivial compared to weighty state affairs.
“But what I must reveal is a matter of utmost importance, no less than this negotiation you are to hold.” The female slave said.
Baldwin IV slightly raised a brow, gesturing for her to continue.
The female slave passed by Caesar’s side, knelt forward—she felt his gaze still on her. Arms open as if praying, she gazed at the King of Ayyarasa Road and spoke slowly.
“I am Nathia, daughter of Count Joscelin III of Edessa and Armenian Princess Mana. And he,” she turned back, gazing fondly at her handsome brother.
“He is my brother, the only son of Jocelin III, his sole heir.”
