Chapter 266: Spreading Wings
“No!”
Carpenter Toma let out a shrill scream; he was falling.
They had been away from the main army for a full four days and were about to face the fifth night; before sunset, they had to cross this steep and rugged ridge.
People in the world would probably find it hard to understand why, in this era, there were professions like guides, messengers, and pathfinders—they were called craftsmen and were quite respected by others.
But once they truly arrived here and gazed upon this boundless wilderness, they would immediately understand the importance of these professions—this world had not yet been tamed by humans, and most areas were still under the rule of nature, this tyrant; vines and thorns climbed the ground, beasts and raptors hid in the dense forest, and while walking, falling rocks, cliffs, insects, venomous plants, sudden flash floods, or even hunger and thirst could all take your life.
And their path had no support at all; even the Romans had not extended their great roads here, and the only thing the group could somewhat rely on was beast paths—small trails formed after herds of beasts trampled and walked over them, narrow, rugged, twisting, and intermittent.
Even so, it was still better than traversing those traps woven by the earth and plants together; you could see protruding stones and avoid them, but what about the things hidden under those interlaced dense branches and leaves—that might be a venomous snake, or a depression, or more likely a bottomless cliff.
Everyone in the group, even their horses and mules, walked with extreme caution, fully focused; carpenter Toma was no exception, but who told him to be carrying his own luggage—the leather pouch that nearly covered his entire back contained his most important things.
The short axe left to him by his grandfather, the pulling knife left to him by his father, and the saw obtained by his wife selling her last decent piece of clothing.
This saw was brand new, possibly specially forged by the blacksmith after arriving here for siege engines, with sharp little iron spikes, indicating it had not yet been worn by tough wood and stones; when touching it, Toma’s fingers felt waves of slight pain, look at its dark blue color, look at the white light flashing—almost no different from the swords held by those Knight Masters.
And because they were so precious, when the luggage on his back suddenly tilted—perhaps due to a gust of wind, or maybe the tools shifting.
In any case, when it tilted to one side, Toma instinctively reached to support it, and this support caused his body to lose balance.
Toma uncontrollably fell toward the air, flailing his arms and legs, just wanting to grab something—someone else’s clothes, the mule’s reins, or protruding branches.
The more he hated these obstacles that hindered their walking during the march, the branches that would snap back and lash their eyes after being pushed aside, the more he now longed for them, but his hands could only futilely scratch at the air, unable to grasp anything despite his utmost effort.
He thought he was surely dead this time, but immediately after, he felt his throat tighten; the collar of that coarse linen tunic tightly choked his throat, just in time catching the heart that was about to leap from his mouth; he was lifted up, then put down, and only after a good while did he realize he was saved.
Hurry, hurry and thank the Little Saint, someone was urging him, but when he turned his head, he only saw a white back.
The knights here all wore white robes, but among the many similar figures, they could spot his benefactor at a glance; Toma didn’t dare chase after to kiss his robe’s hem in thanks, only prostrating on the ground, pressing his face tightly to the path he had walked, dust filling his nose and mouth, but it smelled and tasted as sweet as freshly ground flour.
——————
Caesar’s mood was somewhat heavy, although death was inevitable.
He had only sensed a saint, not being a saint himself, and besides Saint Joshua, who else could lead a large group of people from a familiar place to another completely unknown place? Even so, the scriptures did not say that these people arrived intact without any loss.
But these laborers who followed him were not those ungrateful, greedy fellows—while resting under a wind-sheltered rock tongue, they were still devoutly praying.
“Can you imagine?” a laborer said excitedly: “I’m alive, Toma is alive, old Som is alive…” He listed several names in one breath; for a farmer, this memory was already quite good.
Not only that, he counted on his fingers and then his toes—those around him were also silently or loudly calculating, “Only seventeen people met with misfortune.”
After reaching the same result as him, they all showed joy on their faces（ and some argued that even the dead weren’t unfortunate, as even those who fell off cliffs had prayers said for them by priests, which they couldn’t afford normally）.
“This is simply a miracle.” one said firmly, “When I get back, I must tell this story to my friends and family members.”
Seventeen, whether beasts, venomous snakes, or missteps—he didn’t have Toma’s good luck—or sudden fevers or chills, or some who inexplicably collapsed speechless while walking.
Anyone who had participated in an expedition—sometimes their lord would take them from their land to fight elsewhere, and before battle, laborers would usually lose nearly a tenth, after all, compared to knights and escorts, the protection and assurance farmers got was even less than the mules and horses in the army.
And they lived obscurely and died obscurely, with no one caring about them.
They had also heard that some joined pilgrimage groups, and these pilgrimage groups would lose at least half on the round trip, with some groups completely wiped out, none returning.
This was also why many only went on pilgrimage when nearing the end of life, and even after reaching the Holy Land, never returned.
The knights agreed with the laborers on this point and also thought it was an extraordinary miracle.
Although they restrained themselves, or their conversation would have shocked those priests, but their eyes and expressions showed that these fellows in their hearts were thinking the same.
Caesar didn’t know whether to comfort or grieve.
When he had gone on expedition to Egypt with Amalric I, he hadn’t noticed these laborers, as the work he had to bear then was truly too much, and in the army, an escort had little say.
But before this time, he had made preparations, including ample supplies of sugar and salt, and meat powder dried, ground into powder, and packed in leather pouches—meat powder was nothing else but sheep and pig livers.
Back at the castle, he had instructed the kitchen to take out the livers he bought, dry them, and grind them into powder.
People at this time mostly suffered from night blindness, caused by lack of vitamin A.
He couldn’t synthesize vitamin A here, but he knew animal organs contained plenty of it—unlike the resource-rich future, people now were still in prolonged scarcity, even nobles wouldn’t luxuriate in discarding organs and bones.
Commoners were fortunate to fill up on beans and wheat usually, let alone touch these expensive foods.
But it must be said, their overly depleted bodies were like parched land cracked open; even a little dew would be fully absorbed and utilized by them.
In just a few days, the laborers’ vision greatly improved; the time they could see extended by a full two or three hours, delaying from the original sunset to the last ray of sunlight extinguishing.
After night fell, they could maintain a calm and quiet mindset, not in constant fear from poor visibility, where a bit of light or noise would make them run around like headless flies.
The low losses were also because Caesar in this group set an example; out of instinct, whenever he saw a laborer slip or fall ill, he went to rescue.
And the knights here were either the old ones utterly loyal to Caesar, or young knights he had selected and tested on Cyprus and Ayyarasa Road before accepting their fealty, and knights blessed by saints wouldn’t feel tired even after fighting a whole day, let alone just climbing and trekking.
They were originally benevolent and upright; even if at first they overlooked these laborers—after all, in the education they received before, these laborers were just tools.
But seeing Caesar care for and help these lowly craftsmen and farmers, they did the same; anyway, for them, it was no burden.
Only thus could the current situation arise, with the number of losses actually worth the farmers celebrating joyfully.
——————
Caesar woke, sat up, and sniffed a scent different from nature.
He turned and saw a bonfire nearby with an iron pot hung over it, boiling a pot of thick soup fragrant everywhere.
When he first left Holy Cross Castle, the marching rations Templar Knight Geoffrey showed him left a deep impression.
Referencing future seasoning cubes and compressed rations, he guided the cook to make things that could be eaten directly or boiled into thick soup in a pot, containing oil, grain, and ample salt and sugar.
“Don’t add sugar to my portion again.” Caesar instructed, and only after seeing Gian nod did he go aside, simply wiping his teeth and mouth with dew on leaves; when he returned to the bonfire, the knights had started sharing the first meal of the day.
He was generous to the laborers, and even less stingy with his knights; besides the original sugar and salt in these foods, each knight got a full pack of about two pounds of rock sugar, which they added to every meal without hesitation, even diligently adding to Caesar’s.
When Caesar first unwittingly drank a bowl of thick soup sweet to bitterness and nearly vomited, he strictly forbade everyone from adding sugar to his food.
The knights didn’t quite understand—sugar was so tasty—so despite his strict prohibition, someone would sneak in one or two pieces, but the problem was, everyone thought they should add one or two, so by the time it reached him, it became eight or ten.
Now, the only one strictly following his order not to add sugar to his soup was probably Gian.
Right, Gian didn’t stay with King Baldwin, though they all hoped so—after all, after this expedition, he was to marry Damara.
And his father-in-law, patriarch Gerard, also hoped he would stay where he could see him, but this young man had missed the first chance to fight alongside Caesar, so how could he give up the second.
He insisted on coming along and believed following Caesar would bring more glory and achievements than staying with the king, which wasn’t wrong; Baldwin kept them as reserves, so if the Crusaders gained advantage in battle, they might not even fight.
When the wisps of mist enveloping them finally fully dissipated, Caesar stood up; before him unfolded endless blue, emerald green, and brown, plus lakes and swamps reflecting bright light like shattered mirror shards.
Hula Valley was right before them.
The Jordan River’s flood season is in early spring, when upstream Mount Hermon’s snow melts into cold streams leaping into the riverbed; just as scholars repeatedly study the scriptures of the Isaacites describing how, when the Isaacites sought the Land of Milk and Honey promised by God, they also had to cross the Jordan River.
Then the river was wide, the current swift, but God and angels protected them, showing a miracle; priests carrying the ark stepped into the river, no matter how surging or rapid, never overturning them.
Their tribesmen followed into the river; the priests stood firm from start to finish until the last one crossed, then proceeded to the opposite bank.
To Caesar, they likely met a natural dam, perhaps an upstream landslide temporarily blocking the river, reducing the flow and exposing the riverbed.
And those priests were probably like the current knights and priests, chosen ones, strong-bodied and resolute, standing in the river as a barrier for the then Isaacites, further reducing risks.
Thus, under the blessing of faith, the Isaacites crossing the river, crossing the Jordan River, had a reasonable explanation.
Caesar sighed; alas, such miracles had only happened once in thousands of years.
When they entered Hula Valley, the riverbanks were still solid land, but unfortunately, these places didn’t meet Caesar’s requirements: either the water too swift, too deep, too wide, or no space on both banks for ten thousand people, or the opposite side had a steep natural fortress where a small force could completely pin them on the bank.
They rested one night; at noon the next day, Caesar saw a dense forest and was considering a temporary rest there when he heard two advance escorts on horseback suddenly shout; from the golden reeds and green papyrus burst a nearly naked person, so they couldn’t even tell if it was a man or woman.
He（let’s say so for now） panicked, glanced at them, then swiftly ran toward the forest.
“Savage!” a knight shouted, immediately spurring his horse to chase.
The few people Templar Knight Geoffrey killed before Caesar—that tragic family, Caesar still remembered vividly, and later he gradually learned why Geoffrey was so merciless.
Besides needing a safe shelter then, commoners now were either imprisoned in cities or confined to villages, rarely venturing out alone, and even pilgrims on roads consciously formed groups of dozens or hundreds to resist beasts and bandits.
Moreover, they carried staffs and attached shells to hats or headscarves to show their status.
Like this one farming and hunting alone in remote areas, most were savages, also called drifters or criminals, and some hot-tempered lords called them beasts.
But they were just pitiful people unable to endure the Church and lords’ harsh miscellaneous taxes, or unintentionally in debt, or committed crimes; you can’t imagine how many taxes and charges could be applied to commoners in this era.
A simple example: why did canceling one year’s miscellaneous taxes make Cyprus commoners weep with gratitude?
Some harsh lords even had fart tax, shit tax, piss tax—why? Because the land you stand on belongs to the Knight Master; you fart polluting the master’s air, piss dirtying the master’s land, shouldn’t you pay a price?
Thus, some unwilling to endure such crushing and torment fled villages with family members to live in the wilderness; without taxes, they could save some, even build houses, feed children.
But the problem was, such people were deeply hated by lords and priests; they were useless, not paying taxes, not supporting superiors, and would inspire imitation.
Thus, once caught, most were hanged, or made examples, tortured then killed.
Geoffrey killing them without hesitation was perhaps mercy to them.
The knight saw this ragged person and immediately realized he was a savage, unprotected by any religion or secular law, a false believer.
But Caesar just glanced and saw something wrong; he immediately reached out and grabbed that knight’s reins, his strength so great that the tall Percheron horse was pulled back two steps.
Of course, the knight’s tone held only question, no dissatisfaction; if Lord wanted to show mercy and let them go, it was Lord’s will, they couldn’t defy—but he soon knew why Caesar stopped him.
The two escorts who chased ahead of him suddenly sank.
Their mounts neighed mournfully, then sank deep into what seemed flat solid ground—under the lush grass was swamp.
And Caesar had already dismounted, grabbing the rope hanging by the saddle—since knowing they were coming to Hula Valley, every horse’s saddle had such a rope prepared; he simply looped a running knot in his hand, accurately threw it, immediately pulling over an escort struggling with only hands and head above the swamp.
The other escort reacted more nimbly, jumping up the moment his mount sank.
Now he lay half on the swamp in panic—turns out this swamp wasn’t fragile like others; on the contrary, its surface had a quite thick mud shell, thick enough to support grass growth.
From the surface, it looked like flat ground for knights to gallop, but in fact, a person might run on it, but not a horse or fully armored knight.
And as Caesar pulled up the unluckiest sunk deepest, the other escort was also hauled up by his knight; once on solid ground, they immediately trembled and vomited nonstop.
This wasn’t cowardice; swamps were one of the nightmares knights feared most.
Yet the savage opposite hadn’t run far; peeking from reed cover toward them, whether illusion or not, his face even bore a wicked smirk.
The knights flared in anger, but the distance was too far; bow and crossbow might not harm that scum.
And arson—one of knights’ specialties—would be hard to use here; after all, in June or July, not flood season, it might be hard to ignite a big fire.
“This is a trap, but not every place is a trap.” Gian caught up, said coldly, “We need to find them, Lord; they might be a band of Saracen bastards; once we pass, they’ll summon others to attack us.”
