Chapter 283: Broken Wings
“Geese rack!”
As Gian was walking through the smoke-filled camp, he was suddenly hailed by a voice: “Geese rack Gian! Geese rack Gian!”
He recognized at once that it was someone familiar with him, possibly even Magigao from Francia like himself. He turned around angrily, ready to teach this reckless person a lesson.
People at that time often used the names of their ancestors or saints, so much so that if you shouted William or Arthur on the street or in a church, anyone from a prince to a beggar might respond.
So people more often prefixed their birthplace to their name, like Godfrey of Bouillon or Raymond of Toulouse, or gave them nicknames—Red-haired Richard, Coward Henry, or Lame George, and so on.
Most nicknames carried a touch of teasing—Gian got his because when he was very young—perhaps only five or six—he provoked a flock of geese outside the castle. The geese’s attack power was notoriously fierce. Little Gian fled for his life but still couldn’t escape having his buttocks pecked by a goose beak.
When he ran crying into the castle, two geese were still biting his buttocks, making him look just like the racks people used back then to secure large geese, hence the nickname.
He had resolved to teach this loose-tongued fellow a lesson, but upon seeing the two men sitting in the tent, he immediately backed down and even felt a bit awkward. Those two were none other than his father and his future father-in-law—Count Magigao and Patriarch Gerard.
“What are you doing here, son?” Count Magigao asked. “Didn’t you join that inspection team or whatever…?”
“Inspection team,” Patriarch Gerard corrected.
“Right, inspection team. Weren’t you supposed to go on patrol? How do you have time to wander around outside?”
“I’m not wandering,” Gian coughed lightly twice. “We have shifts—now is my break time. I heard a merchant has some fine ornaments, and I wanted to take a look.”
As he spoke, he lowered his eyes to gauge Patriarch Gerard’s expression. In this world, no son-in-law was unafraid of his father-in-law. Their relationship was like that of natural enemies and prey, regardless of titles or strength.
Count Magigao let out a meaningful sound. He knew his son was a simple and pure good child. Though after coming of age he had inevitably been taken by his uncles and elder cousins to a brothel, he had not, like those youths who had tasted the pleasures of love, frequently fooled around with maidservants or farm women.
If he was going to a merchant to pick out a few satisfactory gemstones, it was very likely to please his future wife rather than the prostitutes wandering outside the camp—some might mock such behavior—the Francia Court at that time was not as degenerate as in later eras, but the signs were there. Noble ladies could sometimes be so wanton that even prostitutes were left in the dust.
But as a traditional old knight, Count Magigao still hoped his son and daughter-in-law could have a happy marriage and bear him several or even a dozen grandchildren. He wouldn’t mind—more the better. “Is the money enough? Do you need more? Buy more, child.” Count Magigao tossed over a money bag without hesitation. “A bride’s vanity case can’t be empty. Dress her up. She is your wife, the mother of your children, and should share everything of yours, whether honor or property.”
This was of course an effort to bolster his son’s position.
In fact, Magigao’s territory was neither vast nor prosperous—indeed, it was small and barren. When this marriage landed on his son, he even thought King Louis VII was joking.
But facts proved that Patriarch Gerard was indeed a father with deep love for his daughter. He was unusually determined to marry her off to a place beyond the Holy Land. Count Magigao understood, but sometimes still felt a bit guilty.
“No, no need, Father. I have enough money on hand. Our rewards and pay were received yesterday.”
“How much?”
Gian named a number, and Count Magigao couldn’t help but click his tongue. His territory yielded only three hundred gold coins a year, and Gian had gotten three times that in one go.
Not only that—if he continued following the king or the Count of Cyprus, money would keep flowing into his pockets. Everyone knew those two didn’t care about gold or silver.
This sum was more than enough for a grand wedding.
Count Magigao took back the money bag and turned to Patriarch Gerard: “Looks like we can still hold the wedding for the two children on the feast day of Saint Luke as originally planned.”
“Bishop Andrew discussed this with me. He hopes to personally officiate for the two newlyweds.”
Bishop Andrew had taken vows and was the Provost of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre. Even if he returned to his homeland, he couldn’t overstep and replace the local bishop to officiate the wedding for Count Magigao’s son and his new wife.
But he promised to transfer some savings and income from his property to Gian as a wedding gift. Considering Bishop Andrew truly saw Gian as his heir in worldly matters, this request was not excessive.
“I also heard he left some assets to the Knight of Bethlehem.”
Patriarch Gerard’s finger paused slightly: “Count Caesar of Edessa is not the greedy type. If you want to claim that money from him…” he said mildly, “I can speak to him for you.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean that.” Count Magigao hurriedly explained. “I just feel a bit regretful.”
Gian wore the same expression as his father. How could Caesar have promoted him to his side? He was neither a knight of Ayyarasa Road nor a Cypriot—Caesar treated him differently because of Bishop Andrew. Bishop Andrew’s generosity was paving his way.
But according to their original plan, after conquering Damascus, they would hold the wedding in Bethlehem, after which Gian would take Damara back to Francia.
And in Francia, a young knight like him would likely have little chance of advancement. Louis VII’s court was full of talent and rife with bad customs. Someone like Gian would not only fail to be welcomed there but might even be ostracized.
Gian shared the same thought. He wanted to stay in the Holy Land. Along their journey, the scenery was not as barren and savage as imagined. Apart from fighting the Saracens, there was hardly anything bad here.
Here, he could have his own territory, castle, wife and children, and spend his days with those he admired, riding shoulder to shoulder and fighting together—his time with Caesar in the Hula Valley had been the happiest of his twenty-odd years, and perhaps would remain so.
He had once heard minstrels in the castle sing of this young knight’s legends, and at that time he hoped his own name could stand alongside it.
But neither Count Magigao nor Gian could voice this intention. They knew Patriarch Gerard hadn’t sought a better match for Damara precisely because he was weary of the fear of losing loved ones at any moment.
Seeing the topic veering toward an unpleasant direction, Count Magigao quickly asked about his son’s work lately. The inspection team was a novelty for the Crusaders, first appearing in Fustat. People thought it was just a youthful whim, fleeting like a flash in the pan.
Unexpectedly, it reappeared in Damascus—this job wasn’t for everyone. First, even the escorts following the knights had to be selected.
They had to face not only fellow Crusader knights who were Christians but also potentially dangerous natives—those accursed Saracens. The former might lash out to evade guilt or in humiliated rage; the latter went without saying. If hatred could vanish completely like flame tossed into water, it wouldn’t be hatred.
“Some are still committing crimes—looting, blackmail, or rape. And some city residents died resisting.” Here Gian grew somber, though according to Church teachings, the suffering of heathens was what they deserved.
But a naturally upright person could hardly split himself into two entirely different beings in this regard. Someone like Gian had been a beloved heir in Magigao; he wouldn’t suddenly turn villainous in the Holy Land.
The knights’ actions even shamed him.
If you hate a Saracen, a heathen, you should meet them on the battlefield with real steel, not bully helpless women and children after the fighting ends, victory is decided, and a treaty signed, with no threat remaining—like how knights boast of hunting a male bear or wild boar but not of how many rabbits they shot. But he struggled to articulate this feeling precisely.
“Does this happen often?” Count Magigao asked with concern.
“Not much,” Gian replied. “First, we have to clear the naphtha from the city.”
Though Razis revealed the naphtha burial sites after the Crusader knights and lords swore oaths, his word might not be fully trusted. So a thorough search was essential—the army hadn’t fully entered Damascus.
Also, the long prior siege had exhausted many lords who rushed here from elsewhere. After taking money and glory from the King of Ayyarasa Road, they prepared to head home—some directly from Acre, others via pilgrimage to Ayyarasa Road then Jaffa. They seemed unwilling to stay a moment longer; the camp outside was half-empty, let alone inside the city.
It was also their advantage in the final battle that prevented this Crusade from failing before Damascus’s city walls.
“I heard Damascus is a city like an Earthly Paradise—is it really?” Count Magigao asked curiously. “Has it been affected by the war? Has it become very desolate and ruined?”
“Not at all,” Gian said honestly. “The city walls and nearby residential areas were hit worst—but that area was always a buffer between fighting and living.”
But the buildings and people inside the city suffered almost no real harm. We passed Straight Street—mentioned in the Bible. It is straight and long, lined on both sides with residences and shops. They are all beautiful, Father. Every residence opens to the street, leading to a square courtyard with a fountain and trees, besides flowers, laden with fruit.
“Are the residents still inside?”
“By the king’s order, they stay in their rooms and don’t go out, just leave the gates open for us to search.”
But many residences are vacant. I heard after their Sultan Nur al-Din died, Damascus was attacked several times—by their own kin—so many fled.
“Those Saracens must want Damascus for themselves. Who wouldn’t? But Damascus surely has its own ideas.” Patriarch Gerard said. Having lived in the Holy Land for decades, he knew Damascus’s residents had long hoped it could become a free city.
That is, not subject to any sultan or caliph, managing themselves and paying only some taxes to the monarch.
That might work in Europe, but not in Syria.
“So we got a bargain.”
“You could say that, Father,” Gian said. “I did hear that during the second expedition, Conrad III and our king faced a Damascus like steel, while we faced one of clay, battered and scarred—meaning even if they held out this time, the next invader would surely succeed.”
“When can we enter Damascus? I really want to see the city with my own eyes, and that largest heathen temple. Oh, right,” Count Magigao said, “have they cleared out the heathens’ evil symbols and turned it into a church?”
“That may take more time,” Gian said. His father had no concept of such things, but he did—he had watched craftsmen build a bridge. “But the True Cross and altar are already set up. Patriarch Heraclius has entered and held a grand Mass. It’s just not decided yet—whether to still call it Saint John’s Cathedral or something else. They may need to consult Rome.”
“Rome? That’s not Heraclius’s style.” Patriarch Gerard said.
