Chapter 226: Followers
For Caesar, meeting a woman like Boccia was already a comforting surprise. As for Boccia saying she would give him a gift—he did have some small expectations… What would she give him? A flower, a small bird, or perhaps a book?
Given that Boccia had already admitted she was not good at needlework, he did not expect to receive a cloak or a robe from her.
He recalled the large handkerchief that Damara had given him at Holy Cross Castle. Although the true significance of this large handkerchief lay in the map hidden under the embroidery, Damara had earnestly embroidered it for a long time, and even now, the Prince still remembered this handkerchief vividly. He had even complained to Caesar that ever since then, his room rarely featured colorful, intricate tapestries.
He did not notice that Boccia had mentioned her grandfather Dandolo twice during their conversation.
Dandolo was born in 1107 and was now over seventy years old. For people of this era, he was already a dying old man. Both friends and enemies would subconsciously think he had entered the twilight of his life, where he might pass away at any moment, needing no attention or concern.
But was the reality truly so?
Most of the Venetians who came with Boccia were her uncles, close associates of the Doge of Venice, but some were confidants of her grandfather Dandolo. They fully obeyed Dandolo’s will, which meant they followed Boccia’s orders, no matter how outrageous they sounded.
The incident erupted the next morning, but even after the whole matter was settled, no one could say what the initial cause of the conflict was.
Was it over a basket of fresh olives? Or a bunch of roses covered in morning dew, or a spirited little horse—possibly a pretty girl. In short, at the Market, the escort of the Princess of the Byzantine Empire clashed with the priests around the Pope’s niece.
The relationship between the Eastern and Western Churches had once been quite tense, to the point where their leaders excommunicated each other and regarded the other and their followers as heretics deserving of hell. It had only eased slightly in recent years, but mutual contempt and hatred still persisted, so much so that when they quarreled over something, they could hurl the crudest, sharpest insults.
The priests from Rome loudly declared that the Princess of the Byzantine Empire was a product of **, an unclean witch—and that was true enough, after all, the so-called niece—everyone knew that after Manuel I became the final victor, he seized all the wives and daughters of his brothers, which was an indisputable fact.
The officials from Byzantium, without any disguise, compared the Pope’s niece to a bastard crawling out from under a sacred white robe—well, that was also true. In terms of bloodline, the Pope’s niece might not even match the Emperor’s niece. The mother of the Emperor’s “niece” was at least a noble lady in purple robes, while the Pope’s mistresses were mostly prostitutes…
But being called out like that only made both sides’ emotions harder to calm.
At the height of the quarrel, a Venetian noble happened to pass by, and he imprudently stepped forward to try to persuade both sides to calm down—the people of the Gerard family were still hanging on the wooden frame, and the local lord had already told everyone here with words and actions that his view of sinners would not change based on their gender, age, status, identity, or even faith.
He might have meant well.
But unexpectedly, his “master of the house” posture instead provoked resentment from both sides. The two-faced nature of the Venetians had long dissatisfied the Roman Church and the Byzantine Empire; the former called him a shameless traitor, the latter a scheming heretic.
Now things were worse: three parties were drawn into the vortex instead of the original two.
Even worse, as the crowd of onlookers grew denser and the quarreling voices louder, with everyone’s emotions boiling like magma ready to erupt at any moment, a Byzantine official suddenly screamed and fell to the ground, his abdomen stabbed. People immediately began searching for the culprit, but the perpetrator had already slipped into the crowd and escaped.
This unfortunate fellow finally ignited the powder keg. Three groups of men immediately began slaughtering each other in the square.
Some might have retained some reason, but when the enemy’s sword was about to cleave into you, you couldn’t just stand there and wait to die—anyway, this disaster came swiftly and inexplicably.
Fortunately, the Governor’s Palace was not far away. Caesar’s knights and soldiers rushed out from the side door, dispersed the gathered crowd, and then arrested everyone present who was still holding swords, whether they were victims forced to fight back, perpetrators, or both.
Hurrying behind them were the priests from the cathedral and the monk knights from the Knights Templar. Their arrival was very timely, and in the end, the conflict caused no irreparable consequences.
Only two people lost their arms, and another would likely be a cripple for life.
——
“Our lord is very angry.”
“That’s inevitable,” a Cypriot said. “These days, even the most unruly young nobles have laid low and behaved—the brothels are deserted, the arenas empty, and even the taverns have seen less business.
After all, no one wants to end up swaying on the wooden frame.
“Not just them—the Templar Knights have also reined themselves in a lot. They weren’t like this in Acre, on Ayyarasa Road, or in Antioch… But after seeing him actually throw the priests of the Roman Church, along with the officials of the Byzantine Empire, into prison, some people left Cyprus.”
“You mean those wandering knights?”
“Not all wandering knights—some are knights with surnames, families, and escorts… They think he lacks piety… But I think our new lord is indeed a just and upright man. He may be strict, but only toward sinners.”
“For some people, having no privileges is suffering enough,” his companion said.
At that moment, he saw a Crusader knight walk in from outside the tavern, followed by an escort, with two armed attendants outside.
The two Cypriots immediately focused on eating and stopped talking, quickly settled the bill, and left with their friend.
The knight’s escort glanced at them but paid no mind. He helped his master sit down, removed his cloak and helmet, and placed the long sword within easy reach.
The knight ordered bread, olive oil, cheese, and roast lamb from the tavern owner—not only for himself but also for his escort, and even the two armed servants tending his horse received a portion of stew and a barrel of light wine, ensuring they ate their fill.
Once the food arrived, they ate and drank heartily, satisfying their empty stomachs, before starting to talk. “You’ve heard about it, haven’t you?” the escort asked worriedly. “The Young Count doesn’t seem as pious as people say. Do you still plan to follow him? Though you were once his grandfather’s attendant, after Edessa fell, you were a slave among the Saracens for several years and have fought for him for another ten or so— that’s enough to repay that favor.
Not to mention, you’ve already killed over a dozen Saracens, fulfilling your oath to God and outshining countless knights.
You’ve been away from home for decades now, and at your age, even if you quit the Crusades and return to your castle, no one could criticize you.”
