Chapter 130: Son Of Count Joscelin Iii Of Edessa!
They had not seen each other for a full six or seven years, but as soon as she saw Caesar, she knew he was her brother who had been lost to who-knows-where—he had grown up, but his features had not changed much, except that they had become even more delicate, especially those eyes like emeralds—she remembered that when her brother was four or five years old, if she needed to take him out, their adoptive mother would wrap a headscarf around him to cover his face, but it still attracted many people’s gazes, all because of those eyes.
Even after she later entered the Sultan’s Harem and saw so many beauties, she never saw anyone with such a pair of gorgeous eyes. At first, she almost couldn’t believe it. She knew her brother had been sold into slavery just like her—according to those detestable slave merchants, the most likely fate for a boy as handsome as him was to be castrated and then enter the Caliph’s or Sultan’s Harem.
The thought of encountering her brother in Sultan Nur al-Din’s Harem made her tremble all over in fear, but she had not given up the idea of continuing to search for him—even if he had already… he was still her brother, and she had to find him.
Even if he was destined never to have marriage, a wife, or children again, she could still bear an heir for him. But even in her sweetest dreams, she had never imagined that her brother would be sitting beside the King of Ayyarasa Road, being intimately called brother by him, sharing his glory and power.
Her initial hesitation was because she thought she was in a dream. When she woke up, she would still be in that small room where more than a dozen women lay, waiting to be summoned by the Sultan or never—until she hugged him tightly and felt the pain of the cold chainmail and cross pressing against her skin, then she knew it was all real.
“I found my brother here with you. I once thought I would never find him again. I thought he was dead or had fallen into an even worse situation, but no, he was standing right there.”
She turned around and pointed at Caesar. “Look at him. He is not Caesar. He is Joscelin IV, inheriting the names of his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father. He is your cousin, Your Majesty, the future Count of Edessa. His father and your mother came from the same womb.”
She spoke decisively and logically, making it hard for anyone to think this was the ravings of a madwoman, and everyone present was dumbfounded and found it hard to believe.
The first to believe were David and these young knights. They had long said that someone like Caesar could never be the son of a farmer or craftsman, much less a bastard of some Turk.
But some ministers furrowed their brows, their gazes toward Caesar now tinged with doubt—like Raymond, Bohemond, and some others who stood with them, who even showed contempt on their faces. They thought this could only be a lie, or perhaps even a spy deliberately sent by the Saracens to sow discord and stir up trouble among them.
But their reactions were never the most important—Baldwin IV stood there, taking perhaps a few heartbeats to understand what this Saracen female slave was saying, then he jumped up, truly jumping up, his feet leaving the ground by at least three feet.
He shouted excitedly, actually jumping straight onto Caesar, hugging his neck tightly, planting fierce kisses on both his cheeks, then bursting into laughter.
“God! God!” he called out. “I knew it! I knew it! Caesar, I liked you the moment I saw you, and you were so close to me from the start, even though I was a leper who could be exiled at any moment back then! We were so happy together, before and after, none of my other companions surpass you, because you were my brother all along, blood brother—our blood can flow together!”
“Your Majesty!” Raymond shouted loudly, but Baldwin now could hear nothing.
In the end, Queen Mother Maria stood up, gently placing her hand on Baldwin to guide him back to his seat, then also had Caesar return to his, while she took hold of that black-haired female slave—no, if what she said was true, she should be a count’s daughter, a noble lady.
The Queen Mother had always liked Caesar very much, but her thoughts oddly aligned with Raymond and the others. She too worried this might be a conspiracy deliberately orchestrated by the Saracens, or even a trap.
A female slave and a noble lady receive completely different treatment from the King, and with the County of Edessa already fallen today, she could only be kept in Holy Cross Castle. Given Caesar’s gentle attitude toward women and Baldwin IV’s trust in him, she was very likely to become a handmaid by the princess’s side, with many places in the castle open to her, allowing her free movement without hindrance or surveillance for internal and external communication.
“So, the proof, child?” she asked mildly yet sternly. “Proof—we cannot determine the ownership of such an important title and territory based solely on your word.” Even if Edessa was already Saracen territory, the Count of Edessa could seek aid from Christian countries in the name of reclaiming his lands—money, men, and supplies.
“Of course I have it, but it’s not with me,” which was natural. Every female slave sold into the Sultan’s Harem underwent a thorough search and inspection. After entering the court, they had to do all sorts of hard work, bathe under the supervision of the chief palace maids, and more than a dozen slept in one room. It would be absurd to think they could hide anything.
Heraclius raised his hand to signal her to be silent for now, then turned to the Saracen envoy who had first been stunned speechless and then at a loss. “Do you have her birth certificate?”
The envoy nodded. Contrary to what later generations imagine, the girls sold into the Sultan’s court, though all abducted, almost always had verifiable origins—whether they were daughters of craftsmen, farmers, merchants, or even nobles, the prices differed. Where did they come from? Did their parents have surnames? All this required detailed records.
Moreover, girls from different classes received different education, which also affected their value. So in the slave market, it was not a crowd gathered below the stage watching a slave merchant drag out a girl, strip her naked, and display her to the crowd—that was just Renaissance painters’ secondary creations based on their imagination and public interest.
On the contrary, like all trade processes, the transaction was extremely serious and formal. The “commodity” had production dates, composition ratios, and quite detailed notes.
The two parties to the transaction would often write a long, dense（ the higher the price, the more detailed the content） description and agreement on the sales contract, and those female slaves of unknown origin and no skills, unless their beauty was truly incomparable and stunningly gorgeous, had little chance of being selected by the Chief Eunuch for the Sultan. Otherwise, they could only become the lowliest maidservants or be sold to other noble families.
The envoy glanced at Caesar and also thought fate was truly wondrous.
But given that this knight had not long ago arranged their Sultan’s appearance and cleaned his body, out of gratitude for that favor, he didn’t mind making a small return now. He took out the documents belonging to this black-haired female slave from the box. It consisted of several sheets of parchment—what merchant had bought her from another merchant, and how that merchant had sold her into the Sultan’s court—
At the time of sale, how old was she? Who were her parents? What was her physical condition? Were her teeth missing any, did her skin have obvious scars or moles, did she have brothers or sisters—all clearly recorded.
Raymond snatched it first, flipped through it for a moment, then frowned. It clearly stated their parents’ identities—if what she said was true, then her father was just an ordinary knight, and her mother just an Armenian woman. It did not say she was nobility.
“They are our adoptive parents,” Nathia said quietly. “The birth certificate is fake, to evade Nur al-Din’s pursuit and search.”
“This matter grows ever stranger. You say your father is Joscelin III, but pardon my bluntness—he seems to have been captured by Zengi at age five, along with his mother and the Archbishop of Edessa.” Bohemond finally spoke. On this matter, he stood with Raymond—for balance between the old and new forces in the court, Amalric I had granted Caesar a fief, Bethlehem, before his death. He was not a landless man to be mocked.
And Caesar’s great victory with the King by the Sea of Galilee had further solidified his unquestionable status as a key minister. If left to develop further—their relationship with Baldwin IV was one of mutual support and achievement, not to mention their confirmed blood ties, and the Countess of Jaffa would unhesitatingly support them with Berion of Ibelin—this would shatter the balance, and in a direction unfavorable to them.
“If you give me a little time,” Nathia said, “you can discern the whole story.” This was also why she had to raise her claim to the King of Ayyarasa Road in such a public setting.
“But the negotiations…”
Baldwin IV interrupted Raymond: “The Count of Edessa is still alive.” Still in Nur al-Din’s castle. If what this girl said was all true, then undoubtedly, they must find a way to ransom the Count of Edessa… even if just for Caesar.
And this daughter of the Count of Edessa had calmed down, her initial ecstatic joy slowly fading. She knew every word she said next would be extremely important: “My father, Count Joscelin III of Edessa, was unfortunate from birth.”
This opening remark made most people in the hall show displeasure or embarrassment again.
Edessa’s fall had many causes, but inevitably included neglect and betrayal by allies—it was always the weakest link among the four Crusader States, even called the outpost of the four Kingdoms of Christ, with territory surrounded on three sides by fearsome Saracens.
According to lordly law, customary law, and doctrine, when the County of Edessa was attacked, Antioch, Tripoli, and Ayyarasa Road should all send timely aid. This was a mortal covenant and God’s law. But the problem was, Joscelin II was a hot-tempered ruler. After he took the throne, he got along very poorly with Raymond, the ruler of the nearest Principality of Antioch.
This discord manifested in every way: they mutually declared themselves each other’s protector, demanding loyalty from the other, then undermined each other against outsiders—one attacking an Emir while the other made peace with that Emir, and vice versa.
The outcome of such self-serving behavior was of course catastrophic.
In the deep autumn of 1144, Joscelin left Edessa as usual for Tupesay（ a city west of Edessa） when a herald hurriedly found him and told him that Sultan Zengi’s army had surrounded Edessa. Hearing this, Joscelin II was naturally terrified. He sought aid from Antioch but was refused by Raymond.
Raymond plainly stated he had no obligation to help a vassal who refused to acknowledge him. Then Joscelin II sought aid from Tripoli and Ayyarasa Road. Unfortunately, the Count of Tripoli was then embroiled in an inheritance war with his illegitimate son. As for Ayyarasa Road, Fulk I and Queen Melisende did agree, but gathering their army took a long time, and before they could set out, they received news of the County of Edessa’s fall.
In this war, Joscelin II was in Tupesay, so he luckily avoided becoming Zengi’s captive. But everyone in Edessa city was either killed or became the Sultan’s slaves, including his wife and son, and the Archbishop of Edessa.
That boy, only five years old, was Joscelin III. Fifty-nine years later, Joscelin II died in a Seljuk prison, though all he could inherit was an empty crown.
