Chapter 242: Trivial Matters
“Someone just sent me a gift,” Boccia said.
“What is it?” Caesar asked, though he didn’t care much.
Ever since arriving at Holy Cross Castle, he had grown accustomed to such things. Here, a superior’s every word and action, even a single glance, could decide the destiny of the lowly. Therefore, aside from those big shots at the top of the pyramid, whether knights or merchants, all would try their utmost to win the ruler’s favor.
This was neither flattery nor a bribe; it could only be called routine.
Although superiors must not appear too greedy, if those of lowly status kept showing indifference, they would be seen as having lost their reverence for status and power—people might even think he was mad to refuse to follow this law that, though never formally proclaimed, was exceedingly strict and applied to everyone.
Merchants were undoubtedly far more diligent than knights. A knight might simply honor the oath he had sworn（just like that knight who was so steadfast that even after being exiled for swearing loyalty to the king, he still offered his best spoils of war to the king）, but merchants sought much more—passes, charters, monopolies… and favoritism in court. Once involved in a legal dispute with someone else over certain matters, they could only rely on the bishop and the lord.
When Boccia opened the box and lifted out the heavy flower crown, even Dandolo, who was always impassive, slightly changed color. Caesar took the flower crown, weighed it in his hand to estimate its value, then passed it to Dandolo.
Dandolo held it up in his hand. “Solid,” he said. “The gemstone quality is good.”
Though the father-in-law and son-in-law said nothing, they completed a tacit exchange in silence.
“What does he want?” Caesar asked again.
“He wants the agency for rock sugar,” Boccia said.
Excluding the goldsmith’s workmanship fee, the gold used in the flower crown itself was enough for Caesar to mint three hundred new gold coins. Plus the ruby on it, its price could roughly equal the ill-fated Count Etienne.
Agency was not a monopoly. In other words, he only sought permission to wholesale rock sugar from Caesar’s workshop and sell it elsewhere.
Rock sugar was of course a good thing, just like silk. Besides the huge profit, if you had goods like rock sugar, it meant you could easily enter every castle and court. If you ran into trouble, for the sake of the rock sugar, those high-and-mighty nobles would be willing to hear your appeals.
“But these still aren’t worth a crown fit to offer the Empress of the Byzantine Empire. Can your workshop mass produce now?”
Dandolo asked.
“Not yet,” Caesar replied. Since he planned to give the rock sugar production method as a reward to those loyal people, he wouldn’t build large workshops. Now, rock sugar production was done by the family members or escorts of those knights, deliberately split into several separate steps—and these people knew these were ultimately their own industry, so they were cautious and careful.
Nowadays, this rock sugar was more often used for social interactions and as rewards for knights.
Knights received a piece of rock sugar as a daily benefit.
Some knights, upon getting rock sugar, wouldn’t eat it right away, letting only their own tongue and stomach enjoy it—especially those knights with family members. They might bring the rock sugar to their wife and children, or save it up, sell it, and have the money sent back to their families far away.
Caesar had never hyped rock sugar to a scorching price like tulip bulbs or glass mirrors in later generations, also to avoid incurring the wrath of those nobles when he spread the production method in the future and mass production from various workshops pushed rock sugar from its peak into the abyss.
Caesar was a knight, a lord, not a merchant. He could certainly gain considerable interest in the short term, but were all those willing to exchange gold for rock sugar just fools to be deceived? When they discovered the deception, whether intentional or not—they would fly into a rage, which would greatly damage Caesar’s reputation.
Caesar had never been greedy, especially for this wealth he had decided to hand over.
Precisely because she knew this, Boccia could so keenly detect the malice hidden beneath this ostentation.
“Leave this matter to me,” Dandolo said. After all, who understood merchants better than a merchant?
This was somewhat presumptuous, but Caesar still agreed to Dandolo’s request. It was not only a man embroiled in a conspiracy seeking to clear his name, but also a grandfather’s love for his granddaughter.
However, all three present roughly guessed that this matter was likely related to the Isaacites who had been jumping around lately.
Caesar’s rejection of the tax farming system had indeed cut off their main routes, even if those roads led only to prison or gallows—they were reluctant to give them up.
They might not be sure how much discontent and conflict this golden flower crown could stir, but as long as there was a crack, they were sure to exploit it.
Boccia finally sighed in relief. After all, she was a new wife. Though she could feel Caesar’s respect for her, she knew a few months of living together weren’t enough to build sufficient trust.
She was very worried: if Caesar suspected her of hinting or scheming, bringing this disaster, what should she do?
Fortunately, the two men here weren’t idiots who would presume guilt in their close ones.
But after a moment’s thought, she considered another matter. “May I go see my sister?” she asked Caesar. “I’m worried… someone might whisper things in her ear too.”
Boccia’s concern was not unfounded. Both Caesar and Dandolo had experienced countless conspiracies. They certainly knew that against a cunning enemy, he wouldn’t use just one tactic.
If they found no expected effect with Boccia, it was hard to say whether someone might approach Nathia and try to sow discord between her and Boccia.
Moreover, this matter was hard to explain. For Boccia had indeed accepted the gift from that merchant’s wife, and if the other side claimed Boccia intended to seize Nathia’s rock sugar monopoly, even if Boccia denied it, as long as Nathia took it to heart, the knot would lodge in their hearts, creating an irreparable rift in their relationship.
Caesar glanced at the water clock in the corner of the room: “Perfect, it’s time for evening prayer. Why don’t we go to Olive Court（Nathia’s residence） for dinner.”
The light outside had already dimmed. Though not yet time to light torches and candles, the breeze blowing in already made exposed skin feel a distinct chill.
They were now in Rose Court, where Caesar and Boccia lived together. For some reason, Nathia had arranged her room in the most remote corner of the Governor’s Palace.
Fortunately, this place had the widest courtyard in the entire building, with tall olive trees growing in the courtyard, climbed by ivy green vines.
But in January, while the olive trees might still stay green, the ivy was left with only dark branches, which against the white walls looked like deep patterns etched by a curse of time.
Someone suggested removing or trimming the old branches and leaves of the ivy, but Nathia refused.
When the attendant reported that Caesar, Dandolo, and Boccia were all coming to her place, Nathia wasn’t surprised.
Caesar rarely dined alone. At Holy Cross Castle, he ate with Baldwin; on the mission to Acre, with the knights; and in Bethlehem, with Bishop Andrew or Longinus.
At the dining table, they would often joke, gossip, and discuss matters that weren’t particularly important or serious.
Nathia also loved sharing delicious food and chatting with her brother and his wife. She felt it was like falling from cruel reality into the beautiful dream she most longed for—and this dream was actually real.
She instructed the servants to set up the table and chairs.
“In my sewing room,” she instructed. “In the Byzantine way.”
That is, a round table with four chairs.
The sewing room was undoubtedly the most luxurious room in Olive Court.
It had glass windows.
Though people now couldn’t make transparent glass clear enough for an unobstructed view like in later generations, they could make small panes of glass and assemble them into beautiful stained glass windows using lead strips.
This was also why the room was often used for receiving guests—it was brighter than other rooms, and even at night, it had more candles and torches.
“Did they say when they’d come?”
“After evening prayer, Madam.”
With Dandolo here, it was equivalent to a dinner banquet for guests. Though not as grand as one in the great hall, there should at least be some preparation.
Nathia checked the water clock, confirmed she had ample time to prepare, and relaxed: “Go instruct the kitchen—slaughter a young lamb, make a dish of saffron stewed lamb, check the docks for fresh eel—or mussels… I remember someone sent an albatross a few days ago… roast it too, but don’t serve it with feathers stuck in, and prepare a piping hot thick soup…”
Entertaining guests certainly couldn’t follow their usual evening habits—they ate very lightly at night.
In the Sultan’s harem, Nathia had no right to enjoy delicious food. Even occasional rewards would be snatched or stolen by other female slaves in the room, so she had grown accustomed to not craving good things.
When Caesar asked what she liked to eat, the only thing she could recall was the goat cheese from her childhood. But she knew all her brother’s preferences. Though by the standards of the time, they seemed quite odd—Caesar’s eating habits were almost completely opposite to most people’s.
Most people had two meals a day; he had three.
Most ate little and simply in the morning, feasting only at night; Caesar had a hearty breakfast and lunch, simple dinner.
Others ate vegetables raw, fruit cooked; Caesar liked stewed vegetables, vegetable soup, and fruit fresh.
So when Caesar came to Nathia’s Olive Court for dinner, she would arrange dishes to his tastes: light flavors, small portions, easy to digest.
But serving guests those dishes would be rude.
When the star and crescent hung high and the olive trees outside the window were coated in a thin silver glow, the candles in the room were all lit, and this small family banquet began.
Dandolo had heard a bit about Caesar’s quirks. But to him, it would be strange if a lord couldn’t eat what he wanted as he pleased.
As long as Caesar didn’t roast live people over fire like the Crusaders at the siege of Antioch, he could accept it calmly.
He especially liked one dish of saffron-cooked lamb, possibly with other spices added. Golden in color, thick broth, of course with rock sugar—the pure fresh sweetness with almost no other flavors whetted his appetite.
The roasted albatross was good too. Though without feathers, the crisp skin gleamed, the meat was tender and falling apart, without losing its shape. Even the stuffing he hadn’t liked before—onions, lovage—became utterly delicious after absorbing the meat juices.
He had two servings and ate some almond pastries. This sweet originally needed honey, but here purer sugar was used instead. Honey had an aroma sugar couldn’t match, but sugar, especially pure sugar, had a sweetness honey couldn’t compare to.
When the servants cleared the plates and brought steaming drinks.
At first Dandolo thought the brown liquid in the silver cup was coffee or honey water, but upon leaning in, he saw the color was much lighter.
He saw his granddaughter Boccia skillfully adding rock sugar to hers; Nathia was doing the same beside her. Only Caesar added nothing, just picked it up and took a sip. “No sugar?” he asked.
“No, I prefer the original taste…” Caesar watched Boccia open the spice jar, his expression complex.
At this time, adding sugar, honey, or precious spices to drinks was common—especially among nobles. They thought drinking plain water didn’t suit their status. Besides, priests kept saying sugar, honey, and spices could remove impurities from water or wine, making people healthier…
Wonderfully, this wasn’t entirely wrong, because fuel was scarce in this era—people drank water from rivers, wells, even puddles—what bacteria and microbes were in there goes without saying…
Even Caesar at Holy Cross Castle could only drink light wine or hot soup.
“Try it,” Caesar thought for a moment and advised. “It’s a drink beneficial to health, but some can’t stand its bitterness, and others think this practice too ‘ordinary’—a waste of heaven’s gifts.”
Dandolo scoffed. “To hell with waste of heaven’s gifts. Tell me that when they stop eating like monkeys, grabbing food with their hands.”
Venice had once—or still did in political stance—leaned toward Byzantium, and Byzantines had used utensils beyond knife and spoon, i.e., the fork, for over a hundred years. They were accustomed to hands remaining clean after a banquet.
As for those priests and political enemies who, seeing him use a fork, accused him of some grave sin—Dandolo only felt annoyed.
He admitted some food could be eaten by hand: bread, nuts, some vegetables, as they didn’t dirty fingers. But for certain dishes, like stew with gravy, sweets drizzled with honey and syrup, and oily cold cuts.
At occasions where he had to eat with fingers（like certain Frankish banquets）, Dandolo was often troubled by the grease and smell on his fingers. A man who valued cleanliness could hardly endure the lingering oily scent. Some didn’t care, even saw it as a sign of wealth, but Dandolo, born in a silver cradle, didn’t think so.
He didn’t add expensive spices and sugar to his tea to show status and taste like some. Instead, imitating Caesar, he lifted the cup and took a small sip. Indeed, as Caesar warned, tea was a bitter drink—especially for those long indulging in sweets without restraint—but for Dandolo, this bitterness nicely balanced the lingering sweetness in his mouth.
Those tongues dulled by heavy spices and sugar seemed revived, reborn under tea’s catalysis.
