Chapter 28: Wolf And Jackal
What happened next completely exceeded everyone’s expectations.
The guide’s choice to seize Count Etienne was understandable; among so many people, he alone was a “noble lord,” bearing the title of Envoy to the Holy Land from Louis VII, so no matter what, he would not be the one abandoned.
The best part was that he had just prayed for the favor of Saint Pelagius moments before, when he was weak and powerless—seizing him was far simpler and safer than seizing anyone else.
Count Etienne and his attendant were stunned for a moment; excessive fatigue and tension had indeed affected their reaction speed—the count was rigidly knocked down by the guide, who reached out, one hand trying to strangle his neck, the other tightly gripping a “Mercy” dagger.
The name of this dagger came from its use—when a knight fully clad in armor fell to the ground, breaking his spine or ribs, and there was no hope left, his enemy or friend would draw this triangular-sectioned dagger, thrust it through the gaps in the armor, and stab him to death.
The guide gripping this dagger was certainly not for any damned mercy; its greatest advantage was its sharpness—like a sharp thin awl, it required little strength to thrust all the way through in one go…
As someone who had been on the battlefield more than once, Count Etienne’s instinct ultimately outpaced his thoughts by a step. Though the guide’s collision knocked him to the ground, he still firmly grabbed the guide’s arm as he pounced, and raised his knee to press against the guide’s chest.
Venomous flames burst from the guide’s eyes—if he failed to seize the count, the gallows awaited him; he did not believe he could have the luck of that Isaacite named Witt.
“One of us has to die!” he roared from his throat. Faced with death and unwillingness, this gaunt man erupted with unprecedented strength; he twisted his shoulders, dragged the count’s cloak, and used all his might to tighten it—the count had once praised his goldsmith for making the brooch both beautiful and sturdy, now he wished it weren’t so sturdy; with that sudden pull, his vision went black.
The attendant and the Templar Knights had already rushed over, but the two were already wrestling together; Geoffrey held the short axe, hesitated only slightly, and then saw the two rolling on the ground suddenly disappear.
Everyone present felt their hair stand on end; the two sergeants following the Templar Knights even instinctively drew out the “holy images”（ small icons of saints blessed by a priest） and held them in their hands.
At this moment, Count Etienne’s nephew displayed unusual courage; he held the torch high, shouting “Lord” as he rushed over, only to slip—nearly falling in as well, if not grabbed by Caesar.
“What is that?” Geoffrey craned his neck to look; the monk beside him cautiously crouched down, bringing the torch close to the ground, and now they could all see clearly: it was a long, narrow, and deep fissure, previously hidden under loose pine needles and thin ice, invisible to anyone, just waiting for a man or beast to step on it—this was a natural trap.
Count Etienne’s nephew suddenly felt a chill of aftershock; the monk’s face also turned pale. He stood up, raised the torch high; in such a profound darkness, the torch’s light illuminated not so much the path and surroundings as the person holding it—but he didn’t want others to see anything; he merely pointed the torch toward the previous camp, then toward the hills on the other side. Geoffrey walked a few steps, glanced toward the distant faint glimmer, “It’s a stream, already dried up.”
He walked back, took the torch from the monk’s hand, and tossed it down; the torch fell into the darkness, then hit something, sparks flying, and tumbled unevenly downward a distance, leaving a trail of fleeting faint light, finally stopping somewhere, completely still.
Geoffrey prostrated himself on the wet cold mud not just with knees touching the ground like on Good Friday paying homage to the suffering Savior, but his whole body flat on the ground; he lowered his head, peered down, while straining to listen.
After a while, he stood up, his face as grim as the monk’s: “This is not just a stream, it’s the Devil’s Maw.”
At these words, everyone present involuntarily cried out Jesus Christ; the monk swayed as if about to collapse, and Count Etienne’s nephew already couldn’t help crying.
Caesar hesitated, unsure if he should ask at this moment what the Devil’s Maw was; the sergeant beside him shook his head and explained, and only then did he understand—the so-called Devil’s Maw was a fissure in the ground caused by an earthquake with no obvious displacement.
Sometimes these fissures would close after swallowing people, animals, trees, and houses; sometimes they would remain.
The people at that time could not understand what an earthquake was.
In Ancient Greece, Aristotle overturned the hypothesis that earthquakes were caused by drought or floods and other weather phenomena; he believed earthquakes occurred because the underground was filled with narrow passages or fissures, and when wind rushed rapidly through these “pipes,” it caused the passages and fissures to tremble, thus triggering earthquakes.
Later scholars had their own theories, like the comet theory, poison gas theory, dragon theory…
After the Christian Church conquered most of the world, explaining earthquakes became even simpler: no need for verification or debate; the people just needed to know that if an earthquake struck somewhere, there must be some unspeakable sin there that God could no longer tolerate; they just had to parade with holy images and crosses, or hold Mass in church, or at the very least hang images of saints on the four walls to be safe…
Of course, we all know these forms of penance were of no help to earthquake victims, and even worse; there was once a place where those who ran to church to pray during the quake were buried along with the collapsing church.
“Devil’s Maw” was the name Christians gave to the ground cracks produced during earthquakes; not understanding what earthquakes were, they naturally didn’t know how such byproducts formed—these fissures that swallowed everything and could disappear in an instant, or if remaining, exceeded their comprehension; to survivors, weren’t they just like the devil’s great maw?
This “Devil’s Maw” was hidden extremely cleverly; when the stream still had water, it was a “lake” concealed under the calm flow. When winter came and the water dried up, it froze over; dry loose pine needles fell on it, maturing over three or four months into a thin humus layer; the humus layer caught more fallen leaves, branches, animals’ fur, and mud, ultimately forming a beast trap so ingenious that even the most seasoned hunter might not detect it.
No one knew how deep the “Devil’s Maw” could be; even dropping a torch or rope couldn’t confirm it.
A fissure like this could never be as neat and flat as a knife-cut through cheese; if someone could draw its cross-section, you’d see it jagged like saw teeth, twisting and undulating; sometimes protruding tree roots or buried stone blocks made the gap even narrower or more twisted.
They lit more torches（ fortunately this was the Pine Forest）; the result of the inspection made their hearts sink further—this fissure was probably only one and a half of Geoffrey’s shoulder widths. The count’s attendant soaked a rough cloth undergarment in oil, lit it, and lowered it to see, managing only five or six feet deep, and at five or six feet, the fissure’s width allowed only one person to pass.
They shouted into the fissure’s depths, hoping to hear something—groans or curses would do—but aside from wind sounds from who-knows-where, they heard nothing; Geoffrey even shivered, feeling those wind sounds more like the devil laughing.
“Fortunately you’ve already oiled him.” The Templar Knight said; his words drew a smile from the count’s monk more ugly than crying. “No way out?” he asked.
Geoffrey was silent; everyone here had seen battlefields and knew a wounded knight rarely escaped death’s clutches, let alone Count Etienne having fallen into an invisible, inaudible fissure—he might already be dead; even if not, he couldn’t have strength left to climb a rope…
They were all doomed; they would face Amalric I’s wrath, and Count Etienne’s retinue would be held accountable by Louis VII.
“I might… have a way.”
Everyone looked over; the speaker was the youngest among them, his green eyes gleaming in the torchlight.
Impatience rose in Geoffrey’s chest; he liked the child a bit, sure, but at this moment, such presumption was annoying.
The Templar Knight didn’t think he could offer any good suggestion; Caesar was only nine, not yet of age, not even qualified as a knight attendant—if he had undergone the “selection” and been chosen, there might be some hope—not faith in him, but in the saint he sensed.
“Tie me with rope and lower me down.” He could search along the fissure’s bottom bit by bit.
The count’s monk was first stunned, then delighted.
Of course they had ropes, essential for any long journey; the count had some, more than one bundle; the Templar Knights had some too, adding up to at least fifty royal feet; as long as this fissure didn’t lead to hell, his proposal wasn’t just a child’s ignorant babble.
But this approach carried great risk; those at the fissure edge might encounter thieves, heathens, or returning wolf pack and other beasts, forcing them to abandon the site, leaving him calling vainly in the darkness.
He might break a leg, get his head smashed by stones, bitten by a venomous snake, stung by a scorpion, or go mad from the darkness and confinement; or perhaps Count Etienne was dead or immobile, while that vile rebel, the bribed guide, was alive—he’d see Caesar and stab a dagger into his chest.
Geoffrey frowned; his fondness for Caesar wasn’t strong enough to risk Amalric I’s reward for him. “You sure?” He worried the child showed courage in words but would turn coward in action; he’d seen such types, attendants on their first campaign becoming the laughingstock nearly every time.
Caesar said nothing; it wasn’t his domain next, just waiting for them to decide.
The count’s retinue and Templar Knights briefly discussed—if they refused, at worst they’d lose a young servant; even if Prince Baldwin asked, the Templar Knights could say he was dragged off by wolves or died suddenly of illness en route.
The count’s monk had considered sending someone else—not out of care for Caesar, but the same worry as Geoffrey: afraid Caesar, before even landing, would be overcome by fear, screaming to be pulled up, wasting time and strength.
But among them, the slimmest was surely Caesar; even attendants needed to be twelve, escorts fifteen, knights even more so—with broad shoulders and sturdy builds, even if they entered the fissure, after dropping some distance, they might get stuck.
The monk brought a bottle of wine; now wasn’t the time to worry about alcohol’s harms—the fissure was far colder than the surface, with bone-chilling drafts; Caesar took it, gritted his teeth, and drank it all.
Geoffrey removed his sheepskin robe—Templar Knights shouldn’t wear luxurious furs, but due to the harsh winters on Ayyarasa Road and surroundings, they were permitted sheepskin—Caesar hesitated, took it, put it on; the sheepskin robe was much too big, the hem reaching his ankles.
Geoffrey looked and laughed, “How interesting,” he said: “You look just like a Templar Knight.”
They recited the Lord’s Prayer fifteen times（ this was essential!）, then looped the rope under Caesar’s arms and legs, tied secure knots, one end fixed to a tree, the other held by two strong knights.
The monk gave Caesar a bell and agreed on signals: one shake meant all smooth but nothing found; continuous shaking meant an insurmountable obstacle or danger, needing quick pull-up; one shake, then another, then another—that was good news—he’d found Count Etienne!
“Beginning.” Geoffrey said.
The light before Caesar’s eyes dimmed inch by inch as the rope lowered; in his hand he gripped the fire steel and flint Geoffrey gave him, torch at his waist; he slightly closed his eyes—anyway, he couldn’t see much, just feeling his way to sense the surroundings.
