Chapter 269: Spreading Wings
After seeing off Count Berion and receiving the promise of more rewards, everyone felt greatly invigorated.
If Caesar had not forbidden it, the craftsmen might have lit torches and worked through the night, but bridge-building is not the same as working on solid earth; in a place lit only by fire, lamps, and moonlight, if someone fell into the water, even Caesar could not guarantee rescuing him.
The craftsmen could only reluctantly stop work, watching the crimson afterglow set the river ablaze, bonfires lit, and the aroma of food wafting from iron pots; everyone felt a wave of comfort and relaxation.
After completing the most difficult work, the knights’ tasks turned to hunting, training, and patrolling. While Gian and Caesar were discussing the night’s shift order, they saw a small black dot in the distance rapidly growing larger—someone was galloping toward them.
The knights immediately went on alert and stood up one after another.
But soon they could see the rider wearing a surcoat with a yellow Ayyarasa Road cross on a white background. “It’s a knight, one of Count Berion’s attendants!” someone shouted in surprise. “Did he forget something?”
Indeed, he had forgotten something—the knight reined in his horse dozens of paces away, then dismounted and hurried toward Caesar. “Lord, I have a letter here from a certain Madam who asked me to deliver it to you,” he said with a smile. “She eagerly awaits your reply.”
Hearing this, a few knights showed knowing smiles, but those who knew Caesar felt somewhat puzzled.
So since Damara had annulled her oath with Caesar, many noble ladies had indeed extended olive branches to him, including even the handmaid of Princess Sibylla.
But Caesar had never cared much about gaining the favor of noble ladies; he was willing to protect women and children because they were the weak, and protecting the weak had always been the duty of the strong.
But this did not mean he was willing to maintain a precarious relationship with a noble lady like walking a tightrope; it was not just a matter of morality and ethics, but also that he did not want to duel over arguing which noble lady was more worthy—not out of cowardice, but because precious life should not be wasted on such things.
He did have someone to whom he needed to prove his loyalty, but that person was Baldwin, who was not yet married, and their friendship needed no such “oaths” to strengthen it.
But this trend had grown even more intense after Caesar married, though he had been in Cyprus before; even upon returning to Holy Cross Castle, he was busy with the work assigned by the King and some administrative matters he needed to handle—those of Bethlehem and Cyprus.
He rarely attended banquets or escorted noble ladies on outings or hunting trips. Even at martial arts tournaments, when presenting wreaths, he would methodically give them to whichever woman in the field had the highest status—leaving many noble ladies of such beauty and wisdom grinding their teeth, considering him an incorrigibly cold man, though this only further ignited their competitive spirits.
But those familiar with Caesar knew that indeed, to date, he had not accepted any noble lady’s invitation.
Who could this Madam be?
By now, the knight had approached within an arm’s length of Caesar. He reached into his surcoat as if to retrieve something from inside, but what he pulled out was not a parchment letter written in elegant script, but a bundle of silk.
The silk wrapped a dagger.
People always instinctively dodge the glint of a weapon—but this assassin was so cunning; he had used the silk as a sheath for the dagger. When the silk was raised high, even Gian standing right beside Caesar did not realize this would be a fatal strike—he was still smiling until he was shoved away by a great force.
In the haste, Caesar only had time to raise his hand and grip the assassin’s dagger tightly, but an assassin who came to kill Caesar was of course no ordinary man; his first strike missed, but he did not retreat—instead, he kept gripping the dagger and pushed it toward Caesar’s chest.
Caesar had now called upon the saint’s favor; the visible blessings covered him like a dragon’s scale armor—every inch, even his fingertips. He was being watched by the Prophet, flashed through the assassin’s mind, but he did not lose heart and continued applying force to his weapon. He too had received a revelation from the Prophet, and the favor the Prophet granted him was a sturdy body and immense strength.
During training at Alamut Castle, he could even shatter a stone brick a foot thick with his own strength alone, emerging unscathed himself; he had also once strangled a wild boar to death by crushing.
The knights had reacted and rushed forward, their swords striking the assassin.
But aside from ruining his surcoat and leather armor, they caused him no harm.
Carpenter Toma rushed over quickly, raising his prized short axe and smashing it onto the assassin’s helmet; the helmet dented noticeably, but the man inside seemed utterly unaffected.
He was still roaring madly until he shoved Caesar toward a steep embankment; Caesar’s back slammed hard against it—since receiving God’s blessing, Caesar had felt such pressure only a few times.
On the battlefield, he had endured enemies’ desperate charges multiple times; such impacts were often from cavalrymen over a hundred pounds, even two hundred, along with their thousand-pound war horses. If an ordinary man were hit, he might be dead before hitting the ground, his bones shattered and organs ruptured.
But such impacts meant little to Caesar; aside from brief chest suffocation, he could almost immediately leap up from the ground and continue fighting.
But this assassin made him feel as if a hundred enemies were charging him at once.
What he did not know was that this Assassin was also surprised.
He had assassinated countless dignitaries before. At Alamut Castle, ordinary assassins could only trade life for life, and even sacrificing their own might not kill the target, but those like him who had received the Prophet’s revelation were entirely different.
They were the sharpest daggers in the Old Man of the Mountain’s hand; he often thought of himself as a hammer, believing he could smash all who dared block his master’s path, whether Sultan, Caliph, or Christian King. He had heard this knight was called the Shield of the Holy City, and the knights he protected on the battlefield were like wearing a second suit of armor—but so what?
He had killed Fatah and Emirs before who could raise shields for themselves.
His dagger was also a relic; legend said it was originally a nail that pierced the Prophet to death, which people retrieved and forged into a dagger. Because it had pierced the Prophet’s sacred body, it could pierce any mortal’s body—and facts proved it so.
But today, it was gripped tightly by a hand of flesh and blood.
The assassin could feel people rushing at him. Others tried to choke his neck from behind or stab his eyes and throat through the helmet’s gaps. He thought this time he might truly meet his end here, but he felt no fear—all Assassins feared no death; heaven awaited him and his comrades.
He suddenly began praying aloud; the knights often heard such prayers on the battlefield, and their attacks grew fiercer. But this assassin was like a piece of steel forged onto Caesar—impossible to dislodge. Gian pounded him madly with his fists, battering his own hands bloody.
The assassin felt the dagger sinking in, joy surging in his heart, but then he heard a steadier prayer—it was that Christian knight, praying to their saint. He did not know who, but suddenly a searing light flooded his vision, engulfing him in an instant.
The assassin felt his soul detach from his body in that moment, rising upward.
No! No! He wanted to see if he had completed the task Elder Sinan gave him. Then he saw it—a pair of resolute green eyes gazing at him, without the chaos and dissipation of death.
Had he failed?
He could hardly believe it; he had been within inches of success.
“‘The Giant’ failed.”
In an Assassin secret outpost in the Galilee mountains, a member monitoring the assassination reported respectfully.
“That is the Shield of the Holy City, after all.” Sinan read the excuse on the man’s face.
Saint Jerome was no prophet acknowledged by the Saracens; he might be a scholar worthy of respect—people said the knight sensed him—but Sinan did not believe it one bit. Not to mention he could see things others could not, but given the strength Caesar displayed, even if he claimed revelation from the first Prophet, Sinan would believe it.
Sinan was not surprised by the outcome, though he had held a sliver of hope. If this Christian knight died, it would be a major blow to the King of Ayyarasa Road, whose health was already poor, surrounded by schemers; if handled right, he might even be unable to govern and die.
And with chaos in the King of Ayyarasa Road’s nation, Sinan would have a chance to negotiate with these Christians, then use their power to confront Saladin—but now it seemed impossible.
“Should the others’ tasks continue?”
“Continue,” Sinan answered coldly.
“Should we… tell…” an Assassin member asked quietly, meaning tell this to Saladin?
“Saladin rejected us too,” Sinan said. “And if he crushes the Crusaders, it does us no good. After taking Damascus, his next move will surely be Homs, Acre; once he controls Syria, Alamut Castle becomes a nail he must pull.”
“Then shall we kneel before him and beg mercy?”
“He won’t. No monarch tolerates an organization that can place daggers and letters at his bedside. Even if not for himself, he must consider his offspring.”
At this, a mocking smile appeared on Sinan’s face—Saladin’s son lacked the qualities he expected. “What a pity.”
It was unclear whom this pity was for. As Sinan turned his gaze to his only female student Laila, an Assassin member rushed in suddenly. He knelt two or three paces from Sinan, kissed the ground, then looked up, eyes filled with ecstatic joy.
“We succeeded! Elder,” he shouted. “Our assassin successfully assassinated Sultan Saladin!”
