Chapter 284: Broken Wings
“There are some rather unpleasant rumors circulating outside now…”
“What kind of rumors?” Heraclius asked without turning his head.
The monk reporting to him on the church renovation matters hesitated for a long while before cautiously saying, “They say that the Count of Edessa accepted a bribe from the Damascus Saracens, which led him to agree to their plea for peace, and he used past ties to sway the King into making the wrong decision.”
“They?”
“Yes, they say that the King is too tolerant of the heathens in the city. They should be grateful just to keep their lives, rather than still enjoying their property and residences in Damascus, even slaves—their scholars should all be put to death, not simply driven out and exiled as now. What’s the difference from releasing a wolf pack back into the wilderness? Once they leave, they will bring other Saracens to retake Damascus.”
“Nonsense.” Heraclius finally looked up at him graciously: “The people of Damascus are not without the power to fight. There are still sixty-five thousand in Damascus—not counting women and children. They are less merchants, craftsmen, and scholars than sixty-five thousand warriors.”
Though he too was puzzled by the Damascus Governor’s swift choice to surrender, was it only Damascus that was exhausted and on the verge of collapse?
As the Patriarch of Ayyarasa Road, an old man, this time he had not set out with the army but arrived in Damascus just before the siege began—he had followed Amalric I through several sieges and knew by the fifth week that they had little time left to expend.
Moreover, unlike Ayyarasa Road, Damascus’s economic significance far outweighed its political and religious importance. Though scripture mentions its straight street and saints briefly resided here, it is not Ayyarasa Road, not even Bethlehem or Nalessa.
A city like this, if the besiegers insisted on turning it into a hell of blood and flesh on earth, would cease to be any Earthly Paradise and become a worthless liability.
In 1099, Crusader soldiers first stormed into Ayyarasa Road. Though priests claimed it was a fair and glorious judgment by God, saying the Temple should run with the blood of heathens—and they did so, with streets piled high with heads, feet, and hands, sparing not even women and children.
And the result? The result was that after most Crusaders left（they had only come to join the holy war） Ayyarasa Road remained a virtual ghost city for twenty years, showing signs of recovery only under Baldwin II, and it did not become prosperous and bustling again until Amalric I took the throne…
If the Crusaders this time were only after plunder, they need not care about such things.
But if the King of Ayyarasa Road wanted to use it as a fortress against the Saracen armies and a financial center, he could not burn it to the ground.
It could be said that even if Amalric I were here, he would agree to the request of the Damascus Governor Razis.
Of course, Razis’s threat played a part too.
If Damascus had no such value, like the small city of Bosra before, even if its Governor threatened to burn it to ashes, Amalric I might even be pleased—at least at night, there would be fewer torches in the camp.
So those spreading rumors are purely talking nonsense—anyone with a bit of sense wouldn’t believe it. Baldwin is willing to trust Caesar, but the other ministers and lords won’t heed a young knight so readily.
But it must be said that the position of Damascus Governor has indeed sparked jealousy in some.
Unlike Baldwin’s pride in it, Heraclius always felt something was off.
No matter how moving Razis’s words or how humble his posture, he is a Saracen. Both Baldwin and Caesar are their enemies.
Heraclius had even considered staying temporarily in Damascus, using the pretext of rebuilding the Cathedral of Saint John to clear away some undue eyes and noise for these two young men.
Besides the matter of Damascus, there was another issue: the letters he had sent to Rome had sunk like stones into the sea, with no reply.
These letters were not directly related to Damascus for now, mainly concerning the canonization of Amalric I.
Canonization requires two core conditions. One is the standard of virtue; if the candidate died as a martyr, he must have suffered violent death for the faith.
Amalric I meets this; he was assassinated by heathens during the expedition and died of wounds on the battlefield.
The other, beatification requires a posthumous miracle, canonization a second; this is not hard, not even needing fabrication. Amalric I should thank his son and the companion chosen for him.
The first miracle was the resurrection of Byzantine Emperor Manuel I.
Then the Emperor had been pronounced dead by all priests present; they even gave him last rites, until two young men came to his aid.
Some say the young Knight of Bethlehem breathed holy and pure breath into him, while the young King of Ayyarasa Road knelt beside him, praying to God and the saints, summoning invisible lightning to strike his chest and drive out the devil within, allowing him to return to the world.
Many witnessed this miracle; for Heraclius, it was effortless to document.
The second miracle is before everyone’s eyes—Caesar’s bridge, built recently with three hundred knights and escorts, and a thousand craftsmen.
That bridge spans eight hundred feet of water, wide enough for twelve fully armed knights to walk abreast, accommodating horses and wagons without issue, and in such short time—this is simply beyond human capability.
More than one knight claimed to have seen the saints they venerated in the water, working together to plant firm pillars in such raging currents—something they could never do normally.
The craftsmen who built the bridge insist that working on it was never so easy and smooth; no one was injured throughout, which is unimaginable.
In the past, not to mention bridge-building, even felling trees would kill some.
Unlike other holy relics that are fleeting, this one endures; anyone can see it for years to come.
At this time, requirements for canonization were not as strict as later—no need to wait five years after death, nor mandatory Roman Church review and approval. Heraclius’s approach was more notification than request for permission, but in any case, the Pope of Rome should respond.
This silence means either he is on his deathbed, unable to attend to outside matters, or still resentful over Caesar refusing marriage to his niece—which is trouble.
After Caesar became Lord of Cyprus, Heraclius used past connections to bribe and promise Roman cardinals, hoping they would not kick him while down.
He thought that if they held out until Alexander III（that devil clinging to power and refusing to die） passed away, Caesar’s predicament would resolve. But now it seems Alexander III is determined to oppose them. He can control priests and monks in Ayyarasa Road and surroundings, but not those who came with lords from Francia, the Apennines, and the Holy Roman Empire—especially Romans and Genoans.
In fact, after the Crusader states were founded, amid the chaos of the Holy Land, Christian lords dealing or even allying with Sultans, Caliphs, or Emirs were not few; someone could make an issue of it, but age is the problem.
If Baldwin now were Amalric I’s age at accession—over thirty, or even twenties—the opposing voices from the shadows would not be so loud.
As for Caesar, his student and heir, the malice he faces is far greater than Baldwin’s. Baldwin grew up in Holy Cross Castle; from birth, Baldwin II said he would have Ayyarasa Road, raised alongside heirs of nearby territories.
Though Caesar has noble birth too, to those young men he remains an outsider. What troubles Heraclius most is, as if mocked by destiny, this young man’s rise is far faster than imagined.
Before Amalric I’s expedition to Egypt, he thought securing a fief for Caesar before Baldwin’s death would suffice; they even prepared to sacrifice Caesar’s marriage for it.
But now Caesar has three territories: Cyprus, Bethlehem, and Damascus—if he truly masters them, Heraclius could say henceforth even the King of Ayyarasa Road and the three Knights orders would depend on him.
Now few compare him to David or Abigail; the latter still awaits inheriting their fathers’ lands, while the former stands equal to their fathers, on battlefield or in court.
—————
“So you still have to endure?” Bohemond asked.
Raymond said nothing. He looked to the sky outside the window, clear blue, flocks of birds passing through, resting on white minarets and golden domes, amid tawny buildings dotted with swaths of green.
Even now, he felt somewhat dazed; they had taken Damascus so easily, and this ease made him feel unbalanced—he had joined the Second Crusade, yet they failed even to enter Damascus’s city gate before forced retreat, led by two of the most pious and brave monarchs, their knights resolute and blessed.
But then God did not favor them, granting victory not to them but leaving Damascus to two young men.
“You don’t believe those rumors too, do you?” He suppressed his unwillingness. “We all know it’s impossible. The Count of Edessa is of the Flanders family, blood of Guardian of the Holy Sepulchre Godfrey; he couldn’t do anything to stain his name and faith.”
“He hasn’t converted; he’s still a Christian. He just traded our interests for his power.”
“What made Damascus submit was His Majesty, and him.”
“Then those Saracens should hate him, not revere him, talking of benevolence, tolerance.” Bohemond flicked his fingernails. “We could do that too, couldn’t we?”
“We too swore under the True Cross not to plunder, rape, or kill? We must restrain our knights. So how are we different from the Count of Edessa?”
Swearing under the True Cross yet forced to act, versus following one’s heart—the outcomes can’t be the same?
Raymond thought, but out of self-interest, he did not refute Bohemond.
“If it were my son—I mean Abigail—that would be one thing.” Bohemond’s voice grew sharp—even Raymond showed sympathy.
In the previous siege, Abigail was practically dragged up the siege tower by his father Bohemond. Though chosen and guarded by saints, he was always first injured, first to retreat, first to show cowardice. Knights with him despised him; enemies scorned him as useless and exploitable. Even Bohemond despaired, yet had to grit teeth and drag this burden into battle.
What else? When asked what the Princess’s husband did during the siege of Damascus, could he say sleeping in his tent?
He knew some knights called Abigail “Lord of the Bed.” If this continued, even if Sibylla bore a son who became King of Ayyarasa Road, the rough lords and knights would not let Abigail hold real power.
Bohemond’s decades of toil would be for naught.
“You’re different; your son is David, David of Mersin, David of Tripoli. I hear William Marshal praises him highly, surrounded by like-minded knights. He’s not some cruel, pleasure-seeking bastard, and he’s true blood kin to the King.”
“It’s already somewhat distant.”
“Not much farther than Caesar.” Bohemond said this insincerely.
Baldwin’s mother and Caesar’s father are siblings; David is one degree further, as his grandmother is Baldwin II’s daughter. Raymond is Amalric I’s cousin.
Raymond might demand Damascus from Baldwin, but whether Baldwin agrees, he couldn’t abandon his Tripoli.
“You don’t think Damascus is the end, do you?” Bohemond said casually: “Our King, though gravely ill and young, is a rare sovereign.
Today Damascus, tomorrow perhaps Homs or even Acre, or Cilicia, or Egypt. He has ambitions beyond his father and grandfather.
And Saint George granted him that invincible spear; he is invincible on the battlefield.
I don’t know how long this lasts—who knows? Wherever—west, north, south…”
Bohemond gestured, painting a splendid picture for Raymond.
“Sadly, besides him and Caesar, no one else. There might have been Sibylla, his sister, but since that affair, he hardly loves her, even exiling her and her husband to Nalessa, with no intent to recall them except if necessary.
I don’t know the future. If Sibylla bears a son, he might take the child to raise—I once hoped so, but now I care little.
Look, I have such a son; I nearly slap myself thinking of his stupid deeds.”
Raymond, hearing this, truly wanted to advise his colleague and rival.
But he didn’t know what to say; Abigail truly had no redeeming qualities.
“Perhaps my original plan was wrong. They still have no children—that unborn one doesn’t count. And I, I’m old; you are too. But your David is in his prime. Haven’t you thought of it?”
Raymond’s throat trembled slightly, but he said nothing.
“Your David has Flanders blood too.
Fine, even if not for your son, consider yourself. Baldwin never trusts us; we once advised Amalric I to abandon him, send him to a monastery, remarry, and have sons. Though not wrongdoing, as the party involved, he surely hates us.
He doesn’t trust us, so promotes trusted ones from his side, and Caesar is his most vital chess piece, using him to win others and pressure us old ministers. Haven’t you noticed?
How long since our names were mentioned? We once saw that young man as our junior—Caesar—but now he equals us. His long sword points not at our sons, but us.
Once he becomes Damascus Governor—though we had no such post before—if he truly holds Damascus, Cyprus, and Bethlehem so near Ayyarasa Road, guess in ten years, when Baldwin can no longer hold on, lying in bed, who he gives his crown to?
To Sibylla and Abigail’s son?
Or to you, or David?
Will he? No, he will only…”
“Enough, stop! That’s far in the future…”
“Far? How do you know? Think Amalric I foresaw meeting God in his forties? If so, he wouldn’t have rushed to knight his son, give Bethlehem to his attendant, appoint you Regent, and betroth my son Abigail to Princess Sibylla.
How laughable; he gave you barely two years, and that marriage just to push me against you in strife, letting his son Baldwin safely pass the transition and seize power.
He succeeded, didn’t he? If we let things continue unchecked…”
“How to check? Rebellion? I won’t. Bohemond, we have a king even Godfrey the First might not match. Some things about him are annoying, but you must admit he’s humble and tolerant enough.
If it were Amalric I, we couldn’t be this leisurely.”
“Sadly, I don’t plan to eat his leftovers. We deserve the best—at least the best after the King.
And before us is one obstacle. You know Heraclius is preparing to canonize Amalric I, publicizing the two miracles after his death?”
Bohemond leaned back, hands folded over his belly, feet rudely on the table. “I know, damn it—both miracles involve the Count of Edessa. He has the King’s favor, the people’s support, knights’ loyalty, the Patriarch’s love. His greatest flaw, his birth, is proven— even if Baldwin doesn’t choose him, he can crown himself.”
“What way to pull him down?” Raymond felt regret; even after Amalric I’s death, they had chances, but he always hesitated, dragging to now.
“There are always ways.
Besides, think he still has so much goodwill? Cyprus aside, Bethlehem is barely acceptable. But Damascus—I don’t know what those Saracens think; perhaps they think like us. In this world, not only swords kill.
During ordeals, priests have choked to death on bread with salt.”
“You mean—they, those Saracens?”
“Why not? For another, such means might fail; most have no virtue toward heathens. But the Count of Edessa’s reputation comes mostly from Saracens, from Syria’s Sultan Nur al-Din to Egypt’s Sultan Saladin—his ties with Saracens run deep.”
Bohemond mocked maliciously: “I doubt a man who becomes Sultan truly indulges an enemy out of personal liking.”
“You mean he can’t get real help from those Saracens?”
“That’s how it was; they just exploited the young man’s impulsiveness. Look at Damascus now; under anyone else, the Saracens here wouldn’t be so peaceful. They even made an inspection team—believe it? Harming Christians’ interests for heathens.”
“I don’t think that’s bad.”
David was on the inspection team too; Raymond was nearly convinced by his son.
“Then my point stands: can’t we do it?
If not us, can’t David? Even Abigail—with a few sticks, he’ll obey me.
I’m worried we’ll end up making wedding clothes for others.
I never believe in purely good people. Even a monk ascetic in the desert for fifty years seeks God’s mercy, hoping to be closer to heaven than anyone.
No matter how pious, pure, ascetic—he has purpose, often grander than others’.”
“You think the Count of Edessa is that kind.”
“Why not? Since appearing in Ayyarasa Road, every deal he’s made profited. Soon time to collect his final profit.
Raymond, we either sit and wait, or act.”
“Have you acted?”
“You’re getting cunning; you’ve learned lessons. Yes, I’ve acted. I wrote two letters: one to Pope Alexander III in Rome. The other to Emperor Manuel I in Constantinople.
“Alexander III?”
This is the Holy Land; countless defy the Roman Church, and Alexander III is old and frail. Raymond shook his head uninterested, doubting the old man could do anything.
“As for Manuel I… Caesar saved him once, and he values Caesar, marrying his daughter to him with Cyprus as dowry.”
“His son—oh, no, his illegitimate son Prince Alexios had his head cut off by Caesar, though for rebelling in Cyprus.” Bohemond smiled: “Don’t make that face; we know the reasons, don’t we?”
How to put it? Raymond’s father once fought his illegitimate son-uncle many times, even seeking aid from Nur al-Din and then-Damascus Governor Unur—allying with former enemies against his own illegitimate son-uncle. Astonishingly, the alliance succeeded.
This shows inheritance and territory disputes are always bloody and naked, heedless of morals, law, or faith.
Before the assassination attempt on bride Anna, some praised Caesar’s luck; after, anyone with brains knows Manuel I repaid kindness with enmity, diverting disaster.
For him, best was Crusaders and his son fighting to mutual ruin in Cyprus, letting him declare the marriage invalid and reclaim a clean Cyprus effortlessly—but things didn’t go as wished.
“Forget it; no good for us.” Manuel naturally wants back his carelessly lost Cyprus.
And David is Lord of Mersin; without Cyprus’s protection, Mersin between Armenia and Byzantium grows dangerous, Christian sea power and trade affected, Pilgrimage Road possibly cut.
Bohemond said one thing: “He offers five hundred thousand gold coins for Cyprus, and Sivlikae（a port city near Mersin） for your loyalty.”
“And you?”
“I might get a city in Cyprus.”
“What can Alexander III give us?”
“Well, the Pope’s blessing?” Bohemond joked, then sighed: “Pity I have only one son.”
“You mean David marries his illegitimate daughter.”
“It would be a fitting trade.”
“He could meet God anytime; a Pope’s illegitimate daughter’s marriage isn’t valuable.”
“Then Damascus? Even… the throne of the King of Ayyarasa Road?”
“Baldwin lives; he has at least a decade more.”
“Who knows? Accidents come unexpectedly.”
“You’re mad.”
“No, quite rational. I’m offering reconciliation, even sacrificing my son.
Yes, Spear of the Holy City and Shield of the Holy City are impressive, but don’t you know David won’t be Sword of the Holy City? Just as how do you know he won’t be a good king?”
As Bohemond spoke laughing, Raymond smiled too—first a grin, then a smile, then guffaws. Then he sobered, stood: “No, no, I never knew you were such a joker. Sorry, I have work; you must too, now we have Damascus.”
He turned to pass Bohemond, but Bohemond grabbed his sleeve with such force he nearly fell back. Raymond gripped the table edge, silent, but after decades together, Bohemond saw his thoughts.
He suddenly leapt up, gripped Raymond’s neck, shoving him to the window: “Look down.”
What to see? This Saracen castle now belongs to the new Victor. Hearing the horn, city gate opens; the King and Count of Edessa enter side by side, dismounting with escorts’ aid.
Courtyard knights approach, bowing—including Sir William Marshal and Raymond’s son David.
Seeing this, Raymond trembled involuntarily. A cold voice behind: “Look. If you remain so cowardly, this scene will replay thousands of times in your final days. Can you endure? If yes, walk out; for God and our past, stay silent.
I’ll act; I can’t bear some bastard from nowhere above me. Even if it costs my life, I don’t care what charge—murder or treason—I’ll fight to the death.
As for you… wait till that little slave wears the crown, then grovel to him—of course with your son David, and David’s children.”
