Chapter 174: Bad News, Or
The breeze was very warm, and the sunlight was sufficiently bright. Even for Ayyarasa Road, which rarely sees rain, today was a rare good weather.
Baldwin, however, felt somewhat embarrassed, as he had to stand nearly naked in the center of the room under two stern gazes, accepting observation from the two doctors.
And he had to accept this scrutiny—Hippocrates’ theory of the four humors seems quite absurd and laughable to later generations, but you must admit that when humanity was still in an ignorant era, this doctrine was still a major leap for humans detaching from nature and worship of the divine, turning to observe themselves, even if it was crude, rough, twisted and not quite right, but without this foundation, modern medicine would be like a castle in the air, difficult to establish from nothingness.
And in the 2nd century AD, the famous Ancient Rome doctor Galen inherited and developed the four humors theory of the famous Ancient Greece doctor Hippocrates, believing that humans have four temperaments: those with excess blood act with enthusiasm and intensity; those with excess phlegm have steady, calm dispositions, good at thinking and calculating; those with excess black bile are more persevering but also more extreme; those with excess yellow bile are prone to anger and extremely stubborn.
After them, doctors and priests further inferred from this that if someone’s temperament changed, it indicated that the four bodily fluids inside him were imbalanced, and then based on the manifestations, judge whether there was excess blood, excess bile, or excess phlegm, and only finally observe the stars, complexion, and urine to diagnose the condition and treatment.
This sounds like a complete joke, but in fact, emotions do cause changes in physical condition, and in this regard, the theory is correct: intense emotions are often harmful to the body, while calm moods can make wounds heal faster, and alleviate or reduce illness.
Therefore, Heraclius had warned Baldwin from early on that no matter the situation, he must try to keep his emotions stable; great joy, great anger, great sorrow could all lead to worsening of his condition.
And those terrifying marks that spread overnight seemed to prove Heraclius’ words.
To monitor the development of Baldwin’s condition, Heraclius used a very ingenious method—that was to grid Baldwin’s body; he used a soft tape measure to draw grids on Baldwin’s chest, back, legs, and arms, each grid about an inch, and after each measurement, by checking previous records, one could know if new spots or rashes had appeared.
After this measurement, Heraclius’ expression was so serious it was frightening.
Scars, rashes, and patches seemed to spread to more places in an instant, with the expanded area about one-fifth of the original. Don’t underestimate this one-fifth; since Caesar racked his brains to prescribe medicine and prepare ointment for Baldwin, for several years, the newly grown parts were only one or two grids.
Not only that, the numbness in Baldwin’s left hand had become even more pronounced.
Meeting Heraclius’ displeased gaze, Baldwin smiled apologetically; he knew his teacher, and his friends and brothers valued his health more than their own. He also knew that the best way to face Abigail’s provocation was to let him bark alone, no need to pay him any attention.
But he also knew that behind Abigail was not only his father Bohemond, but also his sister Sibylla—after Amalric I departed far from them, the person closest to him on Ayyarasa Road was his sister Sibylla.
Their birth mother, Countess Jaffa, was not here; with Queen Mother Maria in Holy Cross Castle, if she moved into Holy Cross Castle, it would inevitably create a situation of two queens facing off.
She did not want to do that; besides adding more trouble for her son, the King of Ayyarasa Road, it would be of no benefit.
And how Baldwin tolerated and cherished his sister was seen by all; in return, he hoped his sister could give corresponding return, but things went contrary, especially when he discovered Sibylla’s conspiracy was clumsy, but this clumsiness carried more contempt for him, as if mocking him—that he was still a child unable to leave his sister.
This realization caused him great pain, to the point that for the first time he let his emotions control his action, unhesitatingly abandoning Holy Cross Castle and Ayyarasa Road, heading straight to Bethlehem.
Caesar gently touched Heraclius’ elbow, hoping his teacher would not be so harsh; he could have his current steadiness and calm, but that was because his body did not house a young man’s soul.
He was much older than Baldwin and had already entered society. Moreover, in his world, the external information people received was hundreds, thousands, even tens of thousands of times more than here.
No matter how mature Baldwin was, he was still only fifteen; by next February, he would turn sixteen. For a child still craving family affection, committing such a mistake was not surprising, especially since he made amends later.
With his help, Baldwin put his clothes back on; Heraclius shook his head at them helplessly and put away the records: “No next time, Your Majesty; you should know that not everyone can get what they want, even if you are king.” He did not continue, but the punishment was still unavoidable.
The next day, a priest brought the so-called holy water; it was not clear, very turbid, and scalding hot; even before approaching, one could smell a sour and bitter taste.
Baldwin was somewhat incredulous: “I have to drink this?”
“Drink it.” Caesar said; ointment alone was completely insufficient now; Baldwin needed to add a daily potion to curb the continued development of the condition.
“Do I have to keep drinking it?”
“At least a month.” Caesar said sympathetically, “If to consolidate the effect, possibly a year.”
“A year.” Baldwin repeated in despair, “Still have to drink for a year.”
He looked at the size of the cup, estimating it impossible to swallow in one gulp, his expression becoming more panicked.
But he at least remembered not to ask what it was? Of course it was holy water, always holy water.
“Can I rinse my mouth? Or eat a candy.”
“No.” This was bitter root; Caesar had finally gotten some from several Saracen merchants; though confirmed to be bitter root, he knew nothing of how it was previously processed, only after experimenting on rabbits, goats, and patients, determining it caused no harm to humans and could indeed curb the development of leprosy.
But he also didn’t know if drinking water or eating something else after would affect its effect; given its already minimal efficacy, Caesar did not plan to add any extra variables.
After the priest delivered the holy water, he withdrew. Only the two of them were in the room; Baldwin stared intently at the large silver cup, held it in his hands, then took a deep breath—clearly, he wanted to drink it all at once.
But unfortunately, this cup of “holy water” had a somewhat viscous texture and was hot. When swallowing the first mouthful, he made a muffled retch; it was Caesar’s quick hands that pressed one on his nape and one on the cup, forcibly suppressing the instinctive urge to vomit.
Baldwin only felt the potion in the cup and in his stomach come alive. They were like two armies fighting in his mouth, throat, and stomach—one desperately trying to rush in, the other madly trying to rush out.
He could feel Caesar’s hand firmly gripping his nape; he wanted to tell him to stop immediately—treating the king this way was too rude! But Caesar drew on his pediatric rotation experience, skillfully suppressing while applying pressure, forcing Baldwin to finish the potion in the cup.
Though some spilled, he drank more than half—Heraclius should have remembered the dosage when preparing the potion—it was sufficient.
As soon as Caesar let go, the silver cup fell straight to the ground with a loud clang, then rolled gurgling to the corner; Baldwin clutched his throat with both hands, eyes rolling back, uncontrollably sliding from the chair to the floor.
If someone saw this scene, they would probably think Caesar forced him to drink not holy water, but poison.
Alas, one could say Baldwin would rather drink poison than touch this potion again; thinking he had to drink it continuously for a month, even a year, he felt utterly hopeless.
“Hell’s lava wouldn’t be worse than this!”
After a good while, he groaned, letting Caesar drag him up, back to bed—the chair was no good; he couldn’t sit at all now.
Fortunately, though this potion tasted disgusting and bitterly astringent, after swallowing, there was basically no nausea. He sat with mouth open, like a fish long out of water, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Caesar found it both amusing and helpless.
Unfortunately, Baldwin’s suffering might have to continue for a long time, until he produced the syringe and extracted the injection fluid.
The syringe was given to Haridi in Bethlehem, and while in Damascus, he commissioned a complete set of floral dew distillation equipment in his sister Nathia’s name.
Indeed, at this time, whether in Europe or Syria, quite mature distillation technology already existed.
The earliest stills were invented by Isaacites, taking shape around the 1st to 2nd century AD. From the 8th to 9th Century, Saracen craftsmen had begun using stills to distill flowers to extract floral dew and essential oils, and now, on the Apennines, people had started using stills to distill light wine; the liquor they distilled reached at least 40 to 50 degrees.
Because in the poets’ descriptions, splashing wine into fire makes the flame burn more fiercely, not extinguish.
Therefore, besides a more precise and clean syringe, Caesar needed to distill purer alcohol, then use ethanol extraction to extract active ingredients from medicine, and throughout, avoid the Church’s omnipresent eyes.
He didn’t know how long the whole process would take—possibly long enough to cause despair—but from Haridi, he discovered his own blind spot: he had not yet adapted to the other set of laws governing this world—this world had extraordinary power, just like Haridi, who could judge if the inner wall of a hair-thin hollow needle syringe barrel was smooth enough, and polish it with even finer, harder metal wire.
Among these many blessed people, some always had different abilities; perhaps trivial to others. But if applied in places they never imagined, perhaps greater miracles could be created.
Finding such people might also require time, money, and power, but far better than Caesar struggling alone.
He only hoped that person, those few people, could also be Isaacites.
Though thinking this was indeed selfish, how could Caesar safely use Haridi if not because he was an Isaacite? Christians hate Isaacites more than Saracens; if an Isaacite dared go before a Christian to expose another Christian’s crime—and that Christian was a knight lord and noble—the other would surely laugh heartily, then, for telling such a big joke, drag him out and hang him directly.
But if the other was a Christian—Caesar dared not take the risk.
“What are you thinking?” Baldwin finally recovered, grimacing as he came to his side.
Though his eyes kept glancing at the water pitcher on the table, he endured without pouring a cup to drink and wash away the bitterness in his mouth.
“Thinking when we can return to Bethlehem.”
He sent Haridi back to Bethlehem; besides him working here drawing too much scrutiny, he might face extra questioning and difficulty.
Even Witt, who was only half Isaacite, faced rejection and contempt from people—of course, perhaps his innate malice was the main reason. But undoubtedly, it became ironclad proof, as some said: even half blood, he was an Isaacite, like one drop of ink polluting the entire cup of water.
If Witt was like that, no need to mention a purely extreme Isaacite like Haridi.
But with him in Holy Cross Castle and Haridi in Bethlehem, when Haridi encountered problems, they needed someone to relay messages to communicate. Not to mention letter security, without face-to-face, problem-solving was exceptionally slow and error-prone.
“You have to wait, until you’re better, until I’m better.” Baldwin said.
This wait was a full seven months.
Caesar finally returned to Bethlehem; to his delight, Haridi had made great progress on the syringe barrel; what he showed Caesar could already draw potion and inject, perhaps with some leakage, but no big deal.
Nathia also produced distilled liquor; as a noble lady, her craftsmen tinkering with stills wouldn’t draw attention, whether floral dew or liquor—essentials for nobles’ enjoyment.
And while Caesar was testing alcohol concentration, a message—whether bad news or good—arrived in Bethlehem.
Princess Sibylla had given birth to a stillborn.
