Chapter 140: On The Road To Acre
Haridi propped up his body. He seemed about to say something, but as soon as he opened his mouth, a series of violent coughs came out—Caesar’s shield arrived very timely, preventing him from dying under those soldiers’ spears. But before that, he had already been imprisoned and beaten. The most ironic thing was that the soldiers who burst into the Isaacite area and drove out all the Isaacites had instead saved his life.
He tilted his head back, looking at the tall, gaunt but strong man who stood with his back to the sun, head lowered watching him: “Yes,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
In the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, Haridi was the most crucial step—if he hadn’t produced that important document, the Christians would never have had the chance to see Sultan Nur al-Din, let alone confirm his physical condition.
And it was precisely because they confirmed that Nur al-Din had little time left that Grand Master of the Knights Templar Philip was willing to take a bold, even mad gamble. It could be said that the answer Haridi obtained at the risk of his life eliminated the doubts of many people.
And for those who truly achieved merit, Baldwin never stinted on rewards, whether he was a Christian, an Isaacite, or a Saracen—after the great victory at the Sea of Galilee, Haridi could have made any demand, whether to rebuild the Isaacite settlement in the Qumran area, or to relocate to Bethlehem, or to Ayyarasa Road, or even to offer to work for Baldwin; Baldwin would have granted it. But after the war ended, he quietly melted into the crowd and disappeared.
He proved with his actions that he did not wish to be loyal to the King of Ayyarasa Road. At that time, Baldwin and Caesar only thought he had gone to an Isaacite settlement elsewhere, or returned to Francia or the Apennines—after all, he had just helped the Christians defeat the Saracens. No one could guarantee that he wouldn’t be recognized outside the battlefield.
“Can you stand up?” Caesar asked.
Haridi wanted to say yes, but then he saw the young green-eyed knight extend a hand to him. He wanted to refuse that hand, but before he could make any move, he fainted.
Fainting was perhaps a good thing for him now. In the eternal darkness, he could let himself be dazed and confused, thinking of nothing, recalling nothing. His teacher, companions, wife, and daughter had all gone far from him, impossible to find again. He lived in the world only because he could not go against their doctrine; he did not wish to enter hell as a suicide, but destiny was always so cruel.
He came to Damascus, but even a peaceful life could not last until the third month.
When he woke up, Haridi found himself lying on a bed, soft bedding surrounded by plump fluffy feather cushions. On the small round table by the bed was an exquisite copper lamp, cast in the shape of a peacock with abundant feathers, the wick protruding from the bird’s beak, the flame enclosed in a fist-sized glass sphere, emitting brilliant light.
It took him a good while to recall what had happened before.
The teacher had given him the ancient scrolls hidden by the Isaacites in a cave, hoping he would use them to return to the “Secret Land” in the desert—the Isaacites’ last refuge. But he had failed his teacher’s expectations. At that time, he had indulged his hatred, letting it consume everything, whether faith or kin.
If he had not done so, he could not have found peace in any subsequent day. Without avenging them, even if he could return to those people, what meaning would it have? Even deeply hidden underground, sooner or later there would come a day when he would be burned alive by the flame in his heart.
But since he had done it, what awaited him was only endless doubt, hatred, and scorn—from this city to that city, not just from Christians or Saracens, but even his own people, once they knew what he had done, would immediately show their most ferocious faces.
He often asked himself if he regretted it. He thought, no, he did not regret it, he just felt tired, extraordinarily tired, as if he might collapse at any moment and never wake up again.
When the young knight handed him a cup of scalding wine, he even felt a trace of resentment—if he had died under the Saracen soldiers’ spears at that time, could he have found peace? Perhaps yes, he admitted. He was not a pious man like his teacher, but he had once achieved supreme merit—for the Isaacites, using that merit as capital to ascend to heaven was, he believed, sufficient.
He sat up and drank the wine, saw Caesar stand and go out, then bring him a very small cloth bag. He opened the cloth bag and poured out its contents: several small gold items, some miscellaneous unidentifiable fittings, and gems for inlaying. “These are my things. You retrieved them?”
He had not held out much hope. When one of his clansmen tried to frame him with this—claiming he had stolen finished products and materials entrusted to him by customers.
At first Haridi thought they knew about what he had done at the Sea of Galilee, but in fact it was just that he was in some people’s way—though they were Isaacites like Haridi, this did not stop them from harboring intense jealousy. They found a good opportunity to slander him with theft.
They burst into his workshop, ransacked it, took all the items he was making or about to make, along with precious raw materials, then locked him up, trying to force him to confess to all the charges—before the Saracen soldiers rushed in, he had gone three days without proper food or much water, and had been subjected to threats, humiliation, and beatings.
“How did you do it?” These people were determined to put him to death. Even proving he had been a “sage’s” student was useless. Sometimes he truly wondered if his clansmen were indeed as the Christians sarcastically said, blind as unweaned pups.
Those Isaacites indeed still wanted to quibble, even though these things were destined not to belong to them anymore（ a dead man would of course own no property）—they insisted Haridi was a thief, as if that could lighten their own sins or earn the Saracens’ mercy. But resolving such a matter was effortless.
Caesar only briefly examined the so-called evidence and exhibits they submitted, then picked up something that looked like a reliquary box and asked the plaintiff, “Do you know what this is? Since you say it was stolen from you, that it belongs to you?”
And the Isaacite goldsmith hesitated for a good while before saying: “Reliquary box.”
It could fit in the palm, square and neat, engraved with exquisite patterns, not quite matching Saracen aesthetics—it was probably something commissioned by Christians, most likely a reliquary box.
“Unfortunately, this is not a reliquary box.” Caesar ruthlessly shattered the last trace of Haridi’s illusion.
“Though when I saw this, I almost couldn’t believe it either.” Caesar said, “This is not a relic, but a weapon, and it has been used, hasn’t it?”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“No need for such futile efforts.” Caesar sat down in front of Haridi, took out something from his robe—a slender wooden box—”You probably don’t know yet that after Sultan Nur al-Din fell from his horse, it was some time before he finally expired, and by then he was already on Ayyarasa Road. Perhaps it was the devil’s prank, making him fulfill his promise in that way.
When he passed, though peacefully, his body was filthy with mud, blood, bodily fluids… If we had just left him there, maggots and rotting flesh would soon breed on him. We once thought to have other Saracens do it, but they all showed fear and refused—according to them, this was something only the Sultan’s brothers or sons could do.
So, the one who performed his ‘purification’ was me.”
Haridi raised his head.
“You understand what I’m about to say, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I wiped his entire body, trimmed his hair and beard, then under his ribs I found something very small—if it had been someone else, they might have overlooked it.” He opened the wooden box; against the black velvet, a thin gold thread gleamed in the candlelight. It was so fine, perhaps only a tenth of a reed tube, or less, and everywhere except the foremost part was twisted out of shape.
“It had pierced the Sultan’s skin and muscle. I extracted it. Then upon close inspection, I found it was hollow.” Upon realizing this, Caesar shuddered all over—nothing could feel more familiar to a doctor.
This thickness was sufficient for injection—there must be other parts left on the battlefield, but time was limited, and they could not possibly go searching for the syringe components it connected to. But its existence proved one thing: Nur al-Din’s sudden death might not have been solely due to his age and illness.
“Open it.”
Caesar handed the “reliquary box” to Haridi. Haridi was silent for a long time, but under Caesar’s gaze, he gently opened the “reliquary box.” As soon as it opened, it revealed intricate complex mechanical parts inside, one next to another, overlapping, interlocked, all tightly connected.
“What did you fill it with?”
“Pus from toad blisters. I extracted some white powder from them; it can drive animals mad to death.”
“You killed Nur al-Din.”
“Yes, but if you mean to blackmail me with this, I suggest you don’t—I have no desire to work for a king, much less a count. Give me my freedom. I will pray for you before God—if you hand me over to the Saracens, I will have no complaints.”
He thought Caesar would fly into a rage, but the other only looked down at the small object, perhaps just a few inches square. “But I don’t want to.” Caesar answered directly, truly startling Haridi.
“I thought you were a benevolent man.”
“Precisely because I am benevolent—otherwise, I would have strung you up on a wooden frame long ago—you have exploited my benevolence time and again.
But I am still willing to forgive you, because I need you to work for me.”
“What do you want this for? You’re not an assassin from the Eagle’s Nest. Your victories should be won honorably on the battlefield, not through conspiracies and tricks.” Haridi tried hard to persuade him: “I am just a goldsmith, not even a ‘sage,’ though I have received God’s grace before, I cannot ride in combat or assault city walls. Even a few mortals can bring me eternal ruin. I am truly of no use to you—and you are not one to show off, wanting no crown or reliquary box.”
“Why do you think that? Your craft and talent are extremely important. So important that I won’t grant your request to release you. You must come with me to Acre, then back to Ayyarasa Road with me. I will recommend you to Baldwin—”
Caesar smiled faintly at him: “You might create something beyond even your own imagination.”
