Chapter 244: The Simplest, The Most Difficult
For the serf Golu, every day seemed the same.
He opened his eyes and saw a dim darkness, the air filled with a pungent smell, perhaps with a bit of smoke that made him want to cough—definitely that lazy woman adding damp branches to the fire, he thought.
In a moment, he would pull out the poker and, before starting work, viciously whip her buttocks three times—not too many, not too few; Golu was precise, so it wouldn’t injure her and let her slack off later, but it would vent his anger and teach her a good lesson.
At the same time, he could feel the little brats beside him still snoring comfortably. “Am I raising a bunch of masters?” he muttered, then casually grabbed something—probably the cloth belt he used to tie his pants—and whipped toward that steaming pile.
This strike was like hitting a rat’s nest; the little things squealed and cried as they scrambled up. Each had their own chores: the older boys would go with him to the vineyard to work, the girls to the mill or sheep pen, or to gather firewood, while the younger children—as long as they could walk, understand words, and lift a wooden bowl—had to work too.
This home didn’t keep idlers.
At this moment, Golu’s wife came in from outside, moving the door aside—rather than pushing it, because the door was just a bundle of branches.
At night when they slept, they blocked the doorway with it and propped it with a wooden stick; when going out to work, they instructed the smallest child at home to watch the family property carefully—if that rickety wooden frame that looked ready to collapse at any time, covered with straw, along with the coarse linen clothes on the children and wife that were so loosely woven a finger could poke through, and the single earthenware pot on the fire could be called property.
Right, they also had a small vegetable patch with some peas, cabbage, and leeks.
But after an entire harsh winter, there was little left to eat inside.
At this point, Golu, as head of the household, noticed a tiny figure huddled motionless on the large bed shared by the whole family; rage surged up, and he shoved the thing viciously.
That dog-like little body tumbled two or three times and landed on the ground with a dull thud; his eldest son ran over immediately, then looked up with wide eyes: “He’s dead.”
He said, and handed his youngest brother to Golu. Golu then remembered that the little son had been crying from hunger these past days, but with limited grain, it had to go to the family member who could work the hardest—after all, without workers, the rest couldn’t get food and would starve, and the house they lived in now would be taken away.
The little son had always been staggering and listless; on the way back from work, he had given him a few tender branches to chew raw, but it seemed to have no effect.
He tried hard to recall the few words his father had said by the fire—those edible things—but couldn’t remember, and the person was already dead…”Why are you still holding that thing?” he flared up. “If you have that strength, why not spend it in the vineyard!”
His eldest son trembled, hurriedly set down his little brother, and ran out.
Next, as the priests said, he should go to the church, ask the priests to give his son the last rites, hold a funeral, and bury him. But where was the money for that? Even if there was money, wouldn’t it be better to buy some dry beans and wheat to eat more filling food?
He racked his brains for a moment, grabbed the dead child, shoved him into his wife’s arms, and whispered: “When we’re all gone, quietly carry him behind the house, dig a pit, and bury him.”
His wife seemed about to cry a bit, shed a few tears for the poor child. Then Golu’s palm slapped her face. “Be quiet. Do you want people to know our child is dead?” If so, they’d have to hold a funeral, and then more people in their house would die.
His wife instantly understood, hugged the dead child, and hurried off. Golu got up, put on the only pullover robe in the home—a decent garment that shouldn’t be worn for work, but as an outsider to this village, his house was quite a distance from the vineyard. He could dress in rags like the others—but he’d had enough of the villagers’ mockery.
But he knew they were jealous; he had a wife and many children. When the children grew up a bit more—even if it meant paying more poll tax—his family would quickly prosper here.
Today was the third day of “Saint Joseph, Spouse of the Virgin Mary”（ March 19）; grapes needed planting next month.
Before that, the frozen land needed re-plowing and ridging with ditches—a very heavy, laborious task that determined his harvest for the coming year, so Golu took it very seriously and cautiously—what annoyed him was that on the way to the vineyard, his second son kept muttering complaints, perhaps sensing crisis from his little brother’s quiet death.
One moment he said it would be good if they had an ox at home, the next if this vineyard were their own, then if they could pay less tax or do less corvée.
But to Golu, these complaints were useless except for wasting precious energy; still, he wouldn’t waste extra effort beating him. He just called his eldest son to his side and made his second son stand in front of the wooden plow like cattle and horses.
“Today you’ll pull the plow.”
At these words, the second son’s face paled. This job had always been the eldest son’s; he was the strongest after Golu in the family. The second son was three years younger, just barely adult; if not for his nagging annoying Golu, Golu wouldn’t make him start pulling the plow at this age.
“From today, you’ll take turns with your brother.” Golu said. He went behind the wooden plow—controlling its direction and depth required both strength and experience, so it had to be done by the most authoritative person in the home. He glanced at the eldest son standing awkwardly nearby. “You’ll hold the wooden plow with me.”
The eldest son immediately came to his father’s side, face lit with joy.
Today was more about learning, but if he didn’t play small tricks like the second son, he might take over this job in the future, making things easier for Golu.
But the second son’s words were like a curse lingering in Golu’s ears; he too thought it would be good to have an ox, for the vineyard to be his own, for less tax and rent.
But he knew that even if there were meatless tigers in the world, there were surely no masters willing to reduce taxes and land rent for serfs.
He cast these fantasies aside and earnestly taught his eldest son. They worked until shadows shrank to their feet before stopping. Luckily, February in Cyprus wasn’t that cold, nor as scorching as July or August; though drenched in sweat, they wouldn’t catch cold or heat sickness.
But Golu found he couldn’t control the trembling in his calves and arms; he felt the ground underfoot not hard mud, but soft moss. His body seemed split: above the shoulders floating up, below the knees sinking down.
He sensed something wrong, knowing he’d come down with hunger sickness—common among serfs. Some recovered after lying down a bit; others collapsed and never got up.
He’d just cursed his second son and didn’t want the two boys looking down on him now. Even with vision blacking out, he persisted—until, as they nearly finished the last patch, he collapsed.
The two children were startled and hurriedly dragged their tall father to some shrubs.
Luckily, their mother arrived then with food.
Far in the Mediterranean region, serfs ate almost the same as those in Francia: vegetables, wheat, and beans mixed into an indistinguishable mush. Cyprus was better—in the mush, serfs could add dried grape leaves and pomace left from winemaking.
Of course, this pomace was precious to serfs like honey to the rich, though sour and bitter. Even so, the trace sugar and alcohol revived Golu; he seemed to regain strength to scold and urge the two sons to hurry back to work. He didn’t rest but stood up again.
Though the sun still dazed him in waves, he staggered forward and, with the eldest son, lifted the wooden plow again.
But he thought that at dinner tonight, he might tell his wife to reduce his portion further. He realized he was old, no longer as strong or enduring as a young man. He admitted a trace of unwillingness, but as per the family law he’d set, no work meant no food; less work meant less food—the best went to the hardest worker. He wouldn’t break this law himself.
Normally they worked until dusk fell and fields were invisible.
But today he had to end the day’s labor hastily while it was still light.
Because the steward ran up breathlessly to tell him new masters had come to the village—sent by new masters’ new masters’ new masters—to announce things, requiring everyone present; women and children might be excused, but household heads must attend, best bringing the eldest son.
He instructed thus, then hurried off to notify another.
Golu was baffled, but he knew that in this world, besides God, the devil, and priests, masters were the last to offend.
Though he’d never seen any new masters’ masters… their shadow clung to the family like constant hunger and fatigue. Golu’s heart leaped; he exchanged a panicked glance with his eldest son. Last time they were summoned to hear a master speak, it was because the lord here added a loyalty tax or defense tax or such—they didn’t understand, only knew Golu’s little son and two sisters could have survived, but grain that might have gotten them through winter became tax.
They watched carts full of grapes, wheat, and beans roll away, hearts blank, little rage.
Golu had heard from his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father: they’d wandered many places, all the same—his great-grandfather was a slave, captured from Sicily to Constantinople when Normans fought Byzantines; there he converted and was luckily freed by his master, gaining land as a freeman.
But soon the land was reclaimed after great-grandfather died in war and grandfather was disabled; they bought another but sold it unable to pay taxes, then came to Cyprus, where winters weren’t too cold, less likely to freeze—though land rent and taxes were heavy burdens.
Golu stopped himself thinking more—it was useless. He hurriedly took the wooden plow home—their most valuable property—told his wife with the other children to block the door and let no one in, then took the eldest son to the village’s small chapel.
There, the square already held several hundred people clutching hats or with straw-like unkempt hair, looking around anxiously. The small wooden platform once for sermons now had a chair, table, and a wooden board of unclear purpose.
But that board was fine—large, smooth, thick, painted black pigment. Golu thought if he could take it home for his door, his house would be much warmer in winter.
He could tell everyone was tense; many shared his thoughts.
Golu and his eldest son could only stand isolated at the crowd’s edge; he took no offense, even smiled obsequiously at a few.
These were among the village’s wealthier people.
He’d been to one’s home: it had a wooden frame with several earthenware pots and dishes.
Then the village steward entered the crowd, looked around to confirm every household head and eldest son was there, then respectfully entered the small chapel to invite the master inside to speak.
Besides the priest master Golu knew, there was a strange master, but from dress, not an Isaacite; Golu’s heart eased. Their village was managed by a distant relative of the master; the steward wasn’t benevolent but no bad person.
But he’d heard other villages had Isaacites collecting taxes, having bought the right from their master.
People there hated and feared Isaacites—not just from whips or clubs; Isaacites weren’t good at those, hiring soldiers and overseers.
Serfs most dreaded Isaacites’ dazzling words—they couldn’t grasp what, only knew the hateful heretics pulled out paper, pens, ink, and calculated accounts; the words from their mouths like raindrops pattering on the roof. Serfs couldn’t spot flaws or errors, nor tell if they spoke or sang.
They only knew if an Isaacite tax collector appeared, everything—including wives, children, themselves—no longer belonged to them.
Not that Isaacites could sell Christians as slaves, but somehow endless debts piled up; they worked harder than ever but saved not a copper plate. Many were bewildered, unaware they’d lost the most important thing…
If a knowledgeable, insightful person came then, he’d tell Golu the last thing lost was hope.
But no one came to Golu; he was unnoticeable as dust on the ground, just wringing his hands, staring tightly at the strange master, fearing he’d spout numbers and incomprehensible words, instantly leaving him alone—children leaving, wife leaving.
Whether by living or dying ways.
