Chapter 148: The Sultan’s Funeral
“Has anyone here seen Count Joscelin III of Edessa? I mean Caesar’s father.”
A knight asked, but he soon realized he had made a mistake. Count Joscelin III of Edessa had been captured when Zengi took Edessa Castle and was taken to Acre. At that time, he was just a five-year-old child, and for the next decade or so, he had been lingering on like a prisoner in Apollonia City Castle or other remote fortresses.
Whether it was Tripoli or Antioch, or even Ayyarasa Road, they all seemed to have forgotten him. Even when their envoys came to Acre, they never mentioned this person, let alone propose to ransom him.
“I have seen the father of Count Joscelin III of Edessa— that is, Joscelin II. In fact, even this father, when continuing his rule in western Edessa（ at first Zengi had not annexed the whole of Edessa）, seemed to have no intention of rescuing this only son, whether out of loyalty to God, or thinking that paying a large sum of money or ceding territory for an heir who might appear at any time was truly not a wise move.”
In any case, even when he himself became a captive of the Turks, he did not achieve anything noteworthy, just as Caesar’s sister had said, Count Joscelin III of Edessa had been able to send the two siblings out of Acre largely due to the efforts of Edessa’s former archbishop and those loyal attendants.
“I have seen Joscelin II,” an elderly knight said hesitantly, “but he was just a crude and unlearned fellow, with little resemblance to Caesar in appearance. But I heard his wife, the Armenian Princess, was indeed an unforgettable beauty.”
“That’s right!” The atmosphere among the knights immediately livened up.
“I’d say Caesar’s appearance takes after either his grandmother or his mother. Yes, he is indeed somewhat delicate. I’m not saying he lacks manliness. I mean…”
“Ha, we understand what you mean, we understand. Sometimes I also think he should be placed on an altar for people to worship.”
“If it were in the time of Ancient Rome or Ancient Greece, those heathens might really have done that.”
“His father would surely be very happy to see him. Who wouldn’t want such a son?” a knight sighed, and the other knights began to mock him. They only wanted to be Caesar’s friends, brothers, or brothers-in-law, but he was fancifully dreaming of being Caesar’s father.
“I don’t have such extravagant hopes,” another knight said. “As long as my future son has one-tenth of Caesar, I’ll be content.” He clicked his tongue. “I wouldn’t even dare expect him to have a third or even half of Caesar. If so, I’d even feel fear. My God, he wouldn’t belong to a mortal at all.”
This remark was probably just offhand, but it made the atmosphere in the room stagnate for a moment. Whether young or old, the knights present all stiffened unconsciously. No matter how old they had grown, even if they themselves had become fathers and grandfathers, the shadows and fears left by their male elders still clung to them like maggots on the bone, impossible to shake off.
It was just that some realized this was a mistake, while others still held it as a standard.
Some say that as a son, the greatest hope is to hear his father say, “Son, I’m proud of you.” But conversely, what a son fears most is his father being disappointed in him, especially in this era, when as the monarch of the family, the father holds great power over his children.
When they are disappointed in a child, lightly they set them aside, cold-shoulder them, whip or curse them; severely they exile them, force them into a monastery or the army. Sometimes when there are too many sons and they truly bring too much trouble, the father might even strip him of his inheritance rights and surname, making him completely fall into the class he once trampled upon.
If Caesar were only six years old now, his father’s return would of course be a good thing, but he was almost sixteen…
The knights looked at each other: “His Majesty will find a way to handle this, right?” a knight said hesitantly, while the more experienced older knights held little hope. Baldwin IV was indeed a brave and fearless knight king, but clearly, he was still somewhat immature in politics, one could say utterly inexperienced.
After the great victory in the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, anyone could see he was getting carried away, even Caesar found it somewhat unbearable, yet he was oblivious. When Caesar’s background was exposed, he only saw the benefits and not the dangers.
“I heard this mission was strongly promoted by Patriarch Heraclius,” a knight said softly. The other knights nodded knowingly.
A slight cough suddenly came from outside the door, and the knights immediately shut their mouths and straightened their postures. Sure enough, Geoffrey walked in from outside.
These chattering little birds! the old knight grumbled inwardly, but he also knew not to be too demanding at this time. If it were just an ordinary mission, it would be fine, but this mission was accompanied by the death of Sultan Nur al-Din. The city was plunged into immense grief—just like Ayyarasa Road recently for Amalric I）, and over the next seven or eight days, this pain and anger would intensify and spread further, with nowhere to go. It was imaginable that a massive storm front large enough to cover all of Acre would soon condense here.
And they were now right in the center of this storm front. It seemed calm, but if any one of them overstepped even slightly, it would immediately draw everyone’s ire—at that point, even the sultan’s son might not be able to stand against the surging public sentiment. Judging by the Saracens’ frenzy, they might be torn directly into countless pieces.
So this time, all members of the delegation could almost only stay in their own rooms or walk in that small and exquisite courtyard, and could not leave Apollonia City Castle to stroll in the market or elsewhere, let alone train or gallop as before. According to the Knights’ code, they also could not play chess or gamble.
These days were indeed tough, but as he listened outside the door, he found their words becoming increasingly bizarre and off-track, so he knew he had to come in and stop them. After these ten days or so of interaction, the vast majority in the Knights had become Caesar’s admirers.
This was not surprising; people are always superficial. A perfect appearance can become evidence for many to convince themselves. Previously, some had doubts about him because they feared he was all show—no rarity even among the Crusaders—plenty were figures depicted by minstrels as like Saint Peter or Saint George, only to reveal natures like hyenas, rats, or even maggots when truly spending time together.
But if he could be true to his appearance and also fulfill these young knights’ fantasies in other ways, they would not only not be jealous but would believe in and revere him even more, just like the knights once gathered around King Arthur—each of noble birth, skilled in martial arts, outstanding in looks, who could be respected lords anywhere, yet they were willing to unconditionally obey King Arthur, following his orders on expeditions, precisely because King Arthur was indeed a perfect saint.
But if they brought such thinking into the current environment, it would be somewhat inappropriate. After all, their leader was the Grand Master of the Knights, their king was Baldwin IV of Ayyarasa Road, and what they should follow and worship should be God, not a mortal of flesh and blood.
He was more worried that after Count Joscelin III of Edessa was released, these knights would show this guarded vigilance. If Joscelin III thought it was at Caesar’s behest, it would worsen this unfamiliar father-son relationship, even making it worse.
He recalled the parting instructions from King Baldwin IV of Ayyarasa Road and couldn’t help shaking his head inwardly, only hoping Patriarch Heraclius’s arrangements could steer the feelings between this father and son in the direction people expected.
He gave the knights a final warning glance, left the room, and went to Caesar.
Once, Caesar could only have a wheeled bed under the prince’s bed or sleep wrapped in bear skin outside Amalric I’s door, but now he had a room entirely his own. This room was furnished completely to the standard of a sultan’s son: the ceiling, walls, lintel, and window frames all had exquisite carvings and vibrant paintings, according to Saracen doctrine. These carvings could not depict human figures, only herbs and birds and beasts, but the craftsmen’s skill was so superb that being inside felt truly like being in a deep dense forest.
Against the wall stood a wide soft couch, with lapis lazuli and golden curtains hanging above. On the couch were piled soft pillows, cushions, furs, and silks tangled together like flowing water spilling to the floor, covering the couch completely, revealing only the four gold feet carved as tiger claws at the base.
Just one glance, and Geoffrey felt the urge to pounce on it and sleep soundly.
Caesar, however, was not resting further but had lit candles and was reading and copying those precious medical books by the window.
“Is it so necessary to seize every minute?” Geoffrey said. “It’s already quite dark; this isn’t good for your eyes.” As he spoke, he lit another candle for Caesar. “This counts as consuming the enemy’s assets,” he added jokingly, but the suddenly brighter light did make Caesar’s eyes much more comfortable.
“It was my oversight; it wasn’t that dark before.” Caesar set down the scroll, leaned back, stretched his stiff limbs, and stood up from the chair.
He invited Geoffrey to sit and personally poured tea for both himself and him.
In his world, leprosy was no longer incurable. Through various methods, whether traditional Chinese or Western medicine, patients could be healed or at least kept from worsening or relapsing. But in this world, in the Kingdom and society of Christians, doctor had become a taboo word, and herbs were products of wizards and devils. Though many, including nobles, secretly sought them avidly, they were ultimately not a card that could be played openly.
Finding related records in the Church was even more impossible. Even if they used herbs, they would only tell you it was the most precious relics or holy water blessed by a bishop. And the only one who could treat lepers with powers not existing in another world was an old monk by the Pope of Rome, utterly loyal to the Pope, who would not let him leave the Vatican; they had no chance to contact him.
Caesar tried to find something usable in documents related to him, but the materials were almost all meaningless ravings—not hymns of praise, but legends—like placing his hand on a leper and the leper being instantly cured. Better to read scripture; Jesus did the same.
But what use was that to him and Baldwin now? None.
Whereas in Saracen medical books—and it might surprise some—in this era, Saracen medicine, after absorbing various traditions, had reached a new peak. They had standard medical textbooks, medical schools and libraries, internal and external medicine… In the medical books Caesar borrowed, there were even complete case histories—written records almost identical to modern ones.
They organized records by time, dosage, and disease progression, including those healed by the power given by the Prophet.
Though in these records Caesar still found no cases of leprosy being cured, he did see records of lepers whose lives were successfully extended to forty-five years under a “scholar’s” prayer and treatment.
And for Baldwin and Caesar, even extending one day would be good. As long as it extended one day, Caesar’s research could continue one more day, and perhaps achieve something remarkable that day? Such things weren’t unheard of even in another world: a long-ailing patient could rapidly improve with a new treatment, and this rapidity could be a year, a month, a week, or even a day.
Especially the hope the “chosen one” brought to patients—this was for Caesar a completely new and highly effective treatment method. He wasn’t just reading but learning voraciously. Even if people said one who received “Chosen by Michael” could not receive “Chosen by Raphael,” so what?
Did he lack priests around him? He could fully explain his ideas to those priests and have them try and implement according to his calculations.
If not for that, he wouldn’t have shown such an aggressive stance in Damascus—he realized that hesitating for false fame might miss a precious opportunity, one that was fleeting and might never return.
“They’re all worried about you,” Geoffrey said.
Caesar was stunned for a moment, then couldn’t help but chuckle wryly. “Thank them for me.”
“You’re not worried at all?”
“Every problem has a solution,” Caesar said. He owed this body, even though when he arrived, the soul inside had already perished in agony from high fever and pain. But undeniably, this body’s birth parents not only brought him into the world but sent him out of Acre Castle. He wasn’t sure what he’d be like if left in Apollonia City Castle, but certainly not better than now.
Even his once being sold as a slave was because Count Joscelin III of Edessa trusted the wrong person, not his intention.
This favor he must repay. But he wasn’t the type to blindly obey parents just because they were parents. If they crossed his bottom line, he would likewise constrain them.
After all, he had long cultivated an independent personality and correct values in another world. He wouldn’t be swayed by those priests’ words, nor blindly follow all the rules of this world.
Geoffrey was about to say something when a melodious and resounding call interrupted, like singing or prayer. “Their priests are calling them to prayer,” the old knight said.
