Chapter 245: The Simplest, The Most Difficult
The other side indeed began talking about matters related to rent and taxes. Golu didn’t understand at first, but the people around him had already started cheering loudly. He recognized them as two acknowledged clever people. At this moment, he couldn’t care less about his own status and hurriedly went up to ask what exactly they were cheering about. The other side glanced at Golu but still answered his question—the new master’s new master’s new master… had exempted them from taxes.
“What does tax exemption mean?” Golu pressed.
“It means no more taxes.”
“No more taxes? How is that possible?!”
“They still have to pay, but only land tax and poll tax, and they no longer have to insist on paying currency tax; they can pay with goods in kind.” This also meant they wouldn’t have to be fleeced by merchants again.
“What about livestock tax?” Golu still raised two sheep.
“No livestock tax this year; it starts from next year.”
“Next year?” Golu immediately raised both hands and began counting. If he hadn’t miscalculated, he might be able to raise one more sheep.
“Will the poll tax and land tax be doubled? And what about supplementary tax and miscellaneous taxes?”
“Land tax and poll tax remain at the original rates, but no supplementary tax, no miscellaneous taxes. Oh, and hearth tax is also exempted.”
“Also exempted… So can we still go into his woods to gather firewood?”
“Yes, but everyone has a quota, and someone will come to tally the amount.” This was no big deal; they had to go gather firewood at a fixed time anyway and take it to the steward to be weighed.
Golu wanted to ask more, but the man was already annoyed. He waved his hand, pushing Golu away like he was shooing a fly.
Meanwhile, his companion had moved to the front. The terrace below was packed with eager people wanting to ask about various details—no different from Golu. They always latched onto one question, asking it over and over. After the strange tax collector answered, they seemed to leave, but only circled around the crowd and came back, asking the same questions again.
Finally, the strange young tax collector lost patience. He went to the black wooden board and wrote a few words on it with something, then drew a few simple patterns and some barely recognizable images of grapes, wheat… and other goods.
Golu’s eyes had long struggled to see clearly in the dark, and now the sun had set. Even standing at the back of the crowd, on tiptoes with his neck stretched, he still couldn’t make out what it was.
But he guessed it must be something very important, because more people surged forward from all sides, even reaching out to touch it, only to be sternly stopped by the priest nearby.
Then he saw several soldiers charge into the crowd, raising whips and lashing out ruthlessly at everyone, until the people finally fell completely silent.
Afterward, the tax collector conferred with the priest and brought torches.
It was the first time Golu had enjoyed such ample light after nightfall. He looked up and saw the tax collector’s robe swaying right in front of him; he didn’t know when the jostling crowd had pushed him under the wooden platform.
Of course, this was a good opportunity. He wouldn’t be foolish enough to step back and give up this prime spot to someone else. Golu reached out and gripped the edge of the wooden platform tightly.
He heard the tax collector speaking—just like before, with the local priest translating on the side, otherwise neither side could understand the other’s words. But when the tax collector pointed to the patterns drawn on the black wooden board while gesturing with his fingers—gesturing with fingers—even these serfs who had received no education could understand the meaning.
One finger meant one, two fingers meant two, three fingers meant three. Then, when the tax collector pressed those fingers under the patterns, some clever ones among them already grasped his meaning.
Then the tax collector had someone bring baskets and place them under the item markers to indicate units. Golu measured the basket’s capacity with his arm and quickly linked the pattern with his fingers. He didn’t know multiplication, but he knew addition—adding them up one by one—and he immediately concluded that the taxes and land rent he had to pay would be much less than before.
He stood there, still unwilling to believe it, but harboring a faint hope, reluctant to leave.
How could it be? How could it be? He stared at those fancy patterns, fixing them in his eyes and mind, until his eldest son dragged him back to the farmhouse. He kept calculating in his head all night, tossing and turning, unable to rest.
Early the next morning, he thought he would be too weak to get up. In fact, his spirits were high as if he had eaten three full bowls of dry wheat rice. He took his two sons and worked a full day of heavy labor again.
He should have gone back to rest; he hadn’t slept well the night before. If he didn’t rest properly the next day or the day after, he might fall ill from exhaustion and die—they serfs like him couldn’t afford to pay a priest to treat them. But uncontrollably, he came again to the small chapel, and that black wooden board surprisingly hadn’t been taken away.
Perhaps because two soldiers had been guarding it the whole time, not only preventing anyone from taking the board but also standing by to keep anyone from approaching or touching it.
Golu stood there for a long time. Finally, his desire for tax reduction overcame his fear of the soldiers and officials. He shrank forward and asked, “What is this?”
“This is the master’s thing.” The soldier answered irrelevantly, and he had already raised the club in his hand. Golu could only retreat, but he still wasn’t willing to leave right away and just stared blankly.
His odd behavior soon caught the attention of the people in the chapel. The new tax collector was a Venetian, very young—not much older than Golu’s eldest son—and still harbored some pure benevolence and curiosity.
Seeing this crude serf lingering by the wooden platform like a starving dog circling under the dining table, he couldn’t help asking, “Who is that? Why is he always hanging around here?”
The priest was enjoying a cup of wine and replied without looking up, “Shall I have the soldiers drive him away? What else can they do? Probably eyeing that wooden board you brought.” To be honest, that board was pretty good. If he put it under his bed, his bed probably wouldn’t creak anymore.
“Why do I feel it’s not about the wooden board?”
“Not the wooden board—what else? The numbers you brought?” The priest said amusedly. He too was learning numbers from this tax collector, as required by their new lord.
Their new lord, though a Crusader knight, had earnestly kept those rude Franks in check, preventing them from running rampant on this island, plundering, raping, and slaughtering. This priest, though from the Orthodox Church, was still willing to accommodate his officials. After all, it wasn’t about performing Roman Church ceremonies, crossing themselves their way, or taking the Eucharist—just learning some numbers was no big deal.
Though switching from duodecimal to decimal all at once felt inconvenient, fortunately he had hands. When he caught himself unconsciously using duodecimal, he raised his hands to remind himself—”one two three, oh, add a zero.” He gestured with his hands and muttered to himself. The Venetian turned to look outside. In the torchlight, he saw the serf making the same gestures.
“Let’s call him in anyway.”
Even now, he hadn’t figured out how to teach these serfs numbers. Did they have the time? The energy? The brains?
The Ancient Romans once called slaves speaking furniture, two-legged cattle and horses. These serfs were the same to the masters. He thought their new lord was a bit fanciful.
Once the serf was called in, the Venetian’s interest dropped by half.
He looked no different from any serf—pale-faced, legs trembling, kneeling on the ground at the sight of them, as if he might faint from fright at any moment.
“What are you doing?” the Venetian asked. “Do you want that wooden board?”
“No no no,” though he did want it, Golu denied immediately, “I just want to confirm if we really only have to pay that little tax?”
The Venetian couldn’t help frowning. He was thoroughly fed up with these serfs asking the same questions over and over. To him, they should just go back to work hard. When tax time came, he could come once more to supervise them paying according to the new tax laws. Why let them count and calculate themselves?
“So… I need to pay twelve baskets of grapes… fifty wooden boards, thirty feet of fencing, and also three barrels of sheep’s milk, two barrels of wheat, or peas…”
Golu timidly stated the numbers he had calculated. At first, neither the tax collector nor the priest paid attention. But gradually, the tax collector’s eyes widened first, then the priest was so shocked he dropped the branch in his hand—he had been sliding it around on the sand tray.
As the local priest, he had to collect tithes for the Church, so of course he knew every serf household’s situation well.
How many houses, how much livestock, how much land, how many children… they knew it all clearly. The Venetian shot him an inquiring look. “Did he get it wrong?”
No, for later generations it was just the simplest addition and subtraction, not hard for the priest, merchants, or nobles at this time either, but coming from an uneducated serf, it was truly astonishing.
“How did you calculate it?”
“By counting on fingers, master. Didn’t you say ten makes a dozen?”
“Not a dozen, never mind.” Of course it was a wrong way to put it, but such understanding was already good. The Venetian suddenly took interest. “Can you already link the digits to what they represent?”
Golu was dumbfounded, having no idea what he was talking about.
At this point, the Venetian realized he had made a stupid mistake—what would the other understand by “digits”?
But Golu had indeed understood: the words the master wrote on the black wooden board represented fingers—one pattern for one finger, another for two fingers, and so on.
“Too interesting.” The Venetian said excitedly. “Sit down. I want to ask you more things.”
Such things were happening in more cities and villages. Serfs like Golu, naturally highly sensitive to numbers, were still a minority. But as the saying goes, the best way to learn something well is to be interested in it—and which serf wouldn’t care how much tax they had to pay?
They almost chewed the digits and base systems in their mouths, clutched them in their hands. Looking out, they didn’t see a few strange lines, but a bright future.
Though the new officials repeatedly emphasized that the miscellaneous taxes were only suspended this year to let them recover and recuperate, and would resume next year, so what?
For these people always living as if with a noose around their necks, let alone a year—even a month, a day of breathing room would let them endure. Compared to working the fields like cattle and horses with ropes around them, how much harder could it be to learn and get familiar with new numbers and bases?
Besides, this calculation method was indeed more convenient than the old duodecimal. They weren’t merchants; things needing to divide evenly weren’t common in their lives.
With decimal, they could stretch out their hands or toes anytime. In less than two months, clever serfs had learned to use one hand for five and two hands for ten. Their seemingly rigid brains just needed to remember: whatever it was, at ten, carry over one.
And this counting method let them avoid being cheated by officials, merchants, even craftsmen. Even though some still clung to duodecimal—especially the Isaacites who had always used it to fool Christians.
But the farmers had learned to fight back.
The Isaacites could use their nimble minds to bully them; they could use the new lord to intimidate these Isaacites. They even dared say openly that the new lord was on their side—otherwise, why not use these Isaacites as tax collectors, why reject the old numbers and calculations?
——————
“Do you know people are already praying for you?” Dandolo asked.
Caesar just nodded calmly.
Here, whether superiors or those of lowly status, no one took commoners, serfs, or slaves seriously—yes, not even the serfs themselves thought they mattered much.
When Caesar proposed tax reductions, some even thought him odd. They vowed it pleased no one, and he faced Orthodox Church believers, not Christians.
Caesar never argued. He even joked that if they gave him a piece of Frankish land, he would pity the Christian farmers on it too.
Of course, no one would give him territory just to test if he treated Christians or non-Christians equally. But under Patriarch Heraclius’s mediation, the matter was soon defined as a good deed done by Caesar on God’s behalf, inspired by a saint—case closed.
In any case, Caesar was still a Crusader knight, a warrior of the Roman Church. Any asceticism he did or merits he gained, the Roman Church would surely share in—priests had no business meddling or criticizing.
Not to mention, Caesar would soon undertake an even greater good deed.
Soon, Caesar too would lead knights to fulfill his service—King Baldwin IV of Ayyarasa Road had set the date for June 24, the birthday of Saint John the Baptist, to expedition against Damascus.
All knights and subjects had to arrive at Ayyarasa Road before Lent to heed his summons and arrangements.
For the knights, it was certainly good—even for Caesar, a duty and chance for merit. But for his granddaughter Boccia, not so much worth celebrating.
Dandolo looked worriedly at Boccia’s still flat belly. For months, people had been eyeing her stomach to see if she was pregnant—some out of malice, some goodwill.
Their lord, though young, was a knight ever ready to fight the evil Saracens to the death. Everyone said his favor was more than any knight’s, even matching their king’s, but did knights and kings who died in battle before lack God’s blessing? They had it, but death treats all equally.
But whether from the Venetian, Cypriot, or Crusader standpoint, no one could let Caesar stay in Cyprus like an ordinary mortal living out his later years peacefully.
Everything he had now came from war—even what he inherited. But if they had a child, even a girl, Dandolo was somewhat confident of holding Cyprus in a worst-case scenario. No child was trouble.
Those eyeing it greedily might claim the marriage invalid. But whatever Dandolo thought, this was something he couldn’t join or plot—even wanting Caesar to take Boccia on campaign, this expedition was no small matter. Given the King of Ayyarasa Road’s trust and regard for Caesar, he would surely stay by his side often, with few chances for nights with Boccia.
“You don’t need to worry like this.” Caesar comforted. “I’ll return safely.”
This wasn’t empty talk; the Damascus they faced this expedition was no longer the fortress the Crusaders met in the Second Crusade.
In recent years, Damascus had been harassed by surrounding powers; its garrison was much weakened. And—though sieges are always hard—don’t forget Caesar had homemade Greek fire.
He couldn’t be sure if his Greek fire matched the real thing’s power, but in the previous Cyprus pacification campaign, it proved able to threaten wooden city gates greatly. Its extreme heat could scorch stone and mud too, crumbling wall foundations for quick destruction.
“I’d love to believe you,” Dandolo said, “but are you sure you’re only taking fifty knights?” And two-thirds were old knights once loyal to Joscelin II, gathered from everywhere. People had to admit they were experienced and seasoned, but compared to young knights, they lagged in stamina and physical condition.
“If you lack soldiers, I can provide some.”
“If we were attacking Alexander instead of Damascus, I’d need some Venetian soldiers.” Venetian navy could dominate the Mediterranean, but this was Damascus, deep in Syria’s interior—no port or coastline. Venetian aid would help little, whereas those old knights… might prove unexpectedly useful.
Though they had lost Joscelin II and Edessa before, for over a decade after they had roamed the Syrian region, fighting Saracens. They knew it well enough—not fingertip familiarity, but with some grasp. With these old men, the campaign would be twice the result with half the effort.
“As for knights…” Caesar trusted Baldwin wouldn’t lack forces there. Even if not called by the Roman Church, Baldwin’s two great victories since ascending had drawn many knights and lords responding to the “Guardian of the Holy Sepulchre’s” call.
Even Richard was coming, but stopped by Eleanor of Aquitaine. Besides inheriting the Duchy of Aquitaine, since 1176 he had been busy per his father Henry II’s orders quelling Aquitaine vassals’ rebellion, unable to leave.
Otherwise, he would surely join this expedition.
Richard didn’t come, but the Marshal did.
William Marshal, just over thirty this year—prime age.
Since his pilgrimage, his fame had grown. Though William Marshal said Henry II didn’t want him joining this expedition—the king was old, increasingly feeling threats from his elder sons.
He wanted William Marshal by his side, but unfortunately, the Marshal had his own ideals.
Last time Richard sneaked here for Amalric I’s expedition, he hadn’t joined. Richard got stern criticism from his parents upon return, but William Marshal envied him greatly. This time, he wouldn’t miss it.
William still remembered the little friend who once fought shoulder-to-shoulder with Richard. He didn’t go straight to Ayyarasa Road, stopping over in Cyprus.
Today’s banquet was held to welcome him—or rather a farewell banquet. After it ended, Caesar would leave with William for Ayyarasa Road tomorrow morning.
Boccia hadn’t touched alcohol much for months.
Caesar had told her that for a healthy strong infant, mother and father should avoid alcohol during preparation. But today she especially craved a drink to dispel her lingering worries.
Boccia had a good tolerance for alcohol, but for some reason… perhaps emotional influence, just a small cup of wine made her drowsy, unable to hold back.
When a minstrel raised his harp and walked to the great hall’s center to chant a ballad Boccia usually loved—describing her husband and the King of Ayyarasa Road’s great victory over the Saracens—the familiar tune and lyrics didn’t soothe her irritation but made her inexplicably restless.
Boccia suddenly stood, hurling the golden cup at the minstrel’s feet.
“Stop singing!”
The minstrel was visibly startled, immediately stopping his strumming. The hall fell deathly silent; everyone stared at Boccia in shock.
She stood there flushed, expression sorrowful; everyone could see she wasn’t glad to see her husband leaving.
The minstrel was quick-witted; he stepped forward, picked up the cup, half-kneeled, and thanked Cyprus’s mistress for her reward.
Nearby, Dandolo had stood and hurried to his granddaughter. He couldn’t understand how the usually steady rational Boccia would do something so rash. Boccia felt a wave of regret, hand on her chest, said to Dandolo, “Sorry,” then turned to look at Caesar, lips moving.
Thinking this might be their last meeting, she was overcome with grief. But before she could utter a syllable, darkness came crashing down, engulfing her completely.
