Chapter 248: Gold Coin
Berion of Ibelin saw this and only then slightly relaxed, slowly returning to his own seat. Fortunately, to watch Caesar and William Marshal’s jousting, many nobles had left their seats, approaching the barriers, so his actions were not abrupt or conspicuous.
But… he couldn’t help but look toward Raymond not far away, whose expression was cold; that was an elder once respected, submitted to, and adored by countless knights. Since when, and what thing had twisted him into this state?
Was it power?
Berion only felt a wave of sorrow. Compared to other rough-and-tumble knights, perhaps because he was originally just a second son and lacked those innate power and status, Balian’s thoughts were more sensitive than others’.
Especially as the brother-in-law of the Countess of Jaffa, he had personally witnessed or experienced all sorts of conspiracies time and again, not to mention that when the Countess of Jaffa realized she could not completely sever her familial affection with her daughter and stood by Baldwin’s side, she had entrusted him, as a subject and relative, to protect Baldwin.
But even without such a request, Berion would willingly serve Baldwin. Although in terms of blood relation, he had no connection with Berion, Baldwin was also an unimpeachable Crusader commander, a young but rational, brave, and benevolent king, a noble man in no way inferior to Godfrey of Bouillon. They had once lamented because he suffered from leprosy; now that had instead become the most insignificant flaw on him.
He should perhaps go after this martial arts tournament concluded and seek a handwritten letter from the king, granting him the authority of an envoy. He needed to have more contact with those knights from England.
To bystanders, this would seem merely a casual suggestion.
But if William Marshal and Caesar did not handle it well—or rather, one with great renown, the other with illustrious achievements—as long as one of them felt even a little unwillingness or competitiveness, they could turn this combat into yet another new war between Francia and England.
Most viciously, Raymond proposed not letting them pray for God’s blessing or a saint’s favor. This meant that no matter which side lost, they could not attribute the reason to divine will.
After all, only Jacob had ever wrestled with an angel.
When a person defeats an opponent through their own bravery, people will inevitably mock the loser.
But if one side achieved victory under God’s blessing, the losing side might not be shamed. God’s blessing does not shift or waver with human thoughts. If William Marshal lost to Caesar and Baldwin, people would only say it was unavoidable—who could contend with God’s will?
But Raymond had said they should fight with human flesh and blood and resilient will, meaning that whether William Marshal or Caesar lost, the loser’s reputation would suffer great damage.
William Marshal saw even further—if so, the best outcome would be unsolvable conflict between English and Frankish knights before the expedition, perhaps with England’s knights angrily departing with William Marshal. The worse outcome was that they endured it.
But this source of disaster would not be eliminated, merely hidden. If they encountered a crisis like that during the Second Crusade, they would not only be unable to help each other or provide mutual rescue but would gloat, even watching their comrades and allies fall into peril.
And it was quite rare for two knights of equal renown, equally young, and equally favored by their monarchs to quickly reach a consensus in such a short time. Moreover, beyond reaching an agreement, they had to give the audience a thrilling combat to quell their dissatisfaction.
In the bustling martial arts tournament, there were certainly no few smart people, but there were even more foolish ones. If they thought William Marshal and Caesar intentionally tied, tarnishing the old knight’s honor, and shouted it out, it would be laughable.
But now, until nightfall, as people faced sumptuous food, they were still excitedly discussing—that final strike, how did they do it?
In jousting, with both sides charging on horseback, in that brief moment of passing, striking the opponent’s vital spot was already masterful skill. Yet they even pierced that slender spear shaft with the spear tip. They all saw it—they truly had not prayed. Even if those blessed are always stronger in every way, which knight here had not been chosen by a saint?
In the final days, a few knights tried to recreate that final strike, but none succeeded.
However, some rumors still spread from the barracks. Caesar and William could only meet a few more times and drink together—under their control, they finally extinguished some bad tendencies among the Frankish and English knights.
“I finally know why Richard only wants to fight. At least now I’m impatient to set off for Damascus.”
After quelling the dispute between the two knights over whose escort first used a wooden bucket, William Marshal said wearily. He could no longer maintain the poise and demeanor befitting a knight and lord, lying flat on a sunlit slope.
At this time, the grass and trees had begun to grow lush, birds sang, butterflies fluttered, and above them was a spotless azure sky.
They reminded him of that young king’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you’ve been dealing with these kinds of things all along.”
“Ayyarasa Road will only be more chaotic than London,” Caesar said, then lay down beside William. He too felt mentally exhausted, but there were too few people here they could trust.
Raymond and Bohemond had operated in Ayyarasa Road for decades, their familiarity with the Holy City even surpassing their own nation. No one knew how many had joined their camp. They might still be loyal to the Flanders family, but Raymond and David had blood relations with Baldwin too, and Bohemond’s son might become the father of Ayyarasa Road’s heir.
They might not be evil, nor had their souls been corrupted by power. They just acted according to old habits, making judgments. Caesar could not blame them; he simply dared not casually pull anyone to his side to complete the king’s entrusted task together.
Perhaps in a few more years it would be fine, once Baldwin had an heir—whether through marriage or familial affection. Once so, the subjects in the Imperial Court would inevitably draw close to the king. After all, having an heir meant the ships they boarded would not inexplicably capsize, rendering their investments fruitless.
It sounded a bit mercenary, but everyone was like that.
Except for this young man beside him, William thought. Those people were jealous of the king’s trust and favor toward him. Indeed, even William Marshal had not been cherished by Henry II as another self. But truthfully, if they could achieve what Caesar had, they too could be regarded differently by the monarch— so why didn’t they?
A small white butterfly fluttered over, circled them a few times, and finally chose to land on William Marshal’s nose tip. William Marshal amusedly lowered his eyes to watch the little white wings flapping before him. He did not disturb the butterfly or try to catch it, just waiting for it to tire and fly away on its own.
But on second thought, even William Marshal could not do the things Caesar had done for Baldwin—perhaps those people were annoyed that he had raised the bar for loyalty so high.
Previously, as long as they did not publicly humiliate or slander the king, refuse to fulfill their vassal obligations, refuse to pay tribute, or harbor criminals pursued by the king, they could call themselves good subjects.
It could even be said that when the king was weak, some subjects refusing obligations, tribute, or even rebelling with troops was possible. Except for the last, they would hardly face severe punishment. Even some who rebelled, if someone at court interceded, might only have the leader relinquish power and retire to a monastery as punishment, settling the matter, with their territory still passing to their son and their name and bloodline continuing.
No one could deny that Caesar’s current status—both in people’s hearts and the king’s—was earned through his own courage, honor, even life.
At first, they could say it was because of his lowly origins, forced to use such fawning means to prove loyalty. But after he was confirmed as heir to the County of Edessa and became Lord of Cyprus, such talk gradually vanished amid refutations.
Not to mention that he kept himself clean, upright in character, never humiliating, torturing, or slaughtering innocent commoners—whether Christians, Saracens, or Isaacites—nor disrupting the city’s economy with arbitrary taxes, debased coinage, or rampant issuance of charters and monopolies.
Moreover, he was willing to listen to everyone’s voice.
What people talked about most eagerly was that in Ayyarasa Road and Bethlehem, if you saw a Knight Master riding a white horse, with black hair and blue eyes—if you truly suffered injustice, you could step forward to stop his horse and appeal to him. He would patiently hear you out, investigate, and give judgment. His judgments were impartial; facing the poor, he would even reduce punishments appropriately so they would not be bankrupted at once.
He even used his own money to make up shortfalls in fines. Can you imagine?
A merchant said this, his tone full of astonishment, but another merchant scoffed and interrupted, “You should hear what the Cypriots say—he actually cut and waived taxes, and that decimal system, new numerals, all invented by him for those pitiful folk who couldn’t count past ten—now the serfs on Cyprus aren’t so easily fooled.”
He said somewhat regretfully, and the crowd burst into laughter, teasing him to stop, or that Knight Master would hang him from a tree and whip him if he found out.
“So what? I’m not one of those Isaac dogs,” the merchant said indifferently. “They’re the most anxious, like their tails are on fire, darting everywhere. They even had intermediaries offer the lord and his lady extremely valuable gifts. Do you know?”
It was a golden crown adorned with blooming roses, petals all of ruby. Any single one could be worn on a bishop’s finger, but they not only received stern rebuke—the crown was publicly returned.
“Returned? Why return it?” In this era, receiving payment did not mean giving corresponding response.
Superiors held power of life and death over the lower populace—this populace not only serfs and servants but also merchants, craftsmen, even soldiers. They could hang and strangle them at any time, confiscate their property.
They offered gifts, but it was not a contract. Caesar could take the items and still refuse their service, or renege anytime.
“I heard the Isaacites offered fifty thousand gold coins a year? Just for tax farming rights.”
“Oh, that’s a fortune,” a merchant said in surprise. Last year Genoa’s total annual revenue was only sixty thousand gold coins, meaning Cyprus’s Isaacites were willing to buy out the taxes Caesar’s subjects must pay with a nation’s income.
“I don’t believe they’re doing it out of kindness—even for the Lord of Cyprus, those wretched Isaacites never make losing deals.”
“Isn’t that right? I hear they’re buying the Lord of Cyprus’s new-minted gold coins at three Roman gold coins each. How heavy are the new coins?”
“About one-tenth ounce （ around 3.2 grams ）,” answered the most splendidly dressed merchant among them loudly. He proudly produced a small cloth bag, untied it, then took out a small reliquary box from inside, finally opening the reliquary box to retrieve a gold coin— one of those newly minted by Caesar.
Before leaving Cyprus, Dandolo had swiftly sent the pattern, size, and weight requirements to Venice and rushed to mint a batch first. This batch did not circulate but was given as gifts and rewards to people. No one knew how this merchant got it, but it indeed drew gasps of amazement.
People in the tavern rushed over to see. Seeing the crowd grow, the merchant hurriedly took a chain, threaded it through the pre-drilled hole in the gold coin—like the women in the Sultan’s harem—and wore it as an ornament. He looped the chain around his neck, still holding the coin, allowing only looks but no touching or getting too close. This drew boos, but there were too many curious; even the tavern master brought a torch and stuck it high up.
Under the torchlight, the gold coin gleamed with an enviable luster.
