Chapter 291: Broken Wings
Bethlehem is an extremely ancient small city, so ancient to what extent? So ancient that the first prominent figure born here was not the Savior Jesus Christ as people say, but King David, one of the greatest Isaacite kings who occupies a large portion of Isaacite history.
And in 6–4 BC, to escape King Herod’s manhunt, Saint Maria and Saint Joseph came to Bethlehem.
At that time, Bethlehem was filled with crowds coming from all directions, with no place for them to stay. But an innkeeper took pity on the heavily pregnant Maria and arranged for them to stay in a cave.
This cave was used by the owner to stable horses, and Jesus Christ was not born in a gleaming silver cradle, nor did he lie on a bed made of fragrant wood, with no purple curtains or attentive attendants around him; he fell alone into that rough manger.
And this stone manger had become an indisputable holy relic a thousand years later, with a church built above it—the Church of the Nativity.
When searching for a location to hold the Choosing ceremony for Baldwin and Caesar, the Church of the Nativity was also one of the candidates, and in front of it is Manger Square.
In the past, Manger Square was always thronged with people, shoulder to shoulder, all eager to personally go to the sacred manger to touch the holy place where the Savior first lay.
Even now, you cannot say there are fewer people on this square, but obviously, after fulfilling their long-cherished wish, they did not leave as usual, but hurried out of the city.
Saint Jerome was born in Stridon, and after growing up, he received instruction from many Roman scholars and was particularly interested in philosophy and theology. For this, he even came to Antioch—when Antioch was still ruled by heathens—but he still successfully translated a large number of ancient texts from Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome with supreme courage and extreme piety.
Of course, for the Church, there was nothing worth preserving in these heathens’ cultural assets. But in the following years, Saint Jerome successfully translated the Bible, originally in Hebrew, into Latin, and this accurate and detailed work was ultimately recognized by the Church, meaning that the scriptures people recite today almost all originate from it.
Unfortunately, Saint Jerome’s brilliant mind did not take him far in the court or the Church; he once did research in Rome and served as secretary to a bishop, but was ultimately expelled for angering the bishop.
Finally, he came to Bethlehem and spent the latter half of his life in a monastery there.
This monastery is the Monastery of Saint Jerome.
When Saint Jerome’s holy image suddenly glowed, the priests were holding morning prayer.
At first, they thought it was some priest’s fervent prayer that drew the saint’s attention, or that an apprentice monk with Talent had been selected—such cases were not unheard of.
But soon they discovered that the holy radiance was emanating from the holy image. Not only that, but five stigmata appeared on the wooden holy image—on the hands, feet, and side—and they were clearly in the shape of holes, from which holy blood flowed.
The priests immediately fell into ecstasy.
Saint Jerome had indeed shown miracles before and after his canonization, but unfortunately, not in Rome or Antioch; the place where he truly lay in eternal rest had always maintained the quiet befitting the dead.
Therefore, this monastery was not favored by the priests. Monks with ambitions who came here would try every means to change their circumstances, especially those religious people not prepared to spend their remaining lives copying, farming, and winemaking.
Those who could stay here had desires in their hearts that were no longer so strong, to the point that when they saw these strange phenomena, they could still remain calm and did not immediately announce it.
They determined it was not someone playing a prank, nor collective hysteria from eating moldy grain（which is common in monasteries）, nor the devil at work, so they hurriedly sent someone to notify Bishop Andrew and Patriarch Heraclius.
The abbot of the Monastery of Saint Jerome rarely donned white vestments, a crown, and took up the pastoral staff. He did not immediately appear before the boiling crowd, but knelt before the altar. He gazed at Jesus’s crucifix, then turned his gaze to the image of Saint Jerome placed beside Jesus Christ—that was the wooden image where the miracle had occurred.
The holy image’s expression was so humble, its posture so lowly, head bowed, one hand holding a book, the other an iron pen, and both the book and the pen were stained red by the continuously seeping blood. The blood dyed down along the splendid silk robe (at such times, people always dressed the holy image in various clothes）and dripped from the hem, falling onto the brass peacock and partridge—the former representing eternity, the latter truth.
Ultimately, it flowed down the steps and directly into a copper bowl filled with water. These copper bowls symbolize purity—the holy blood flowed in without being diluted; instead, it became thicker. The crimson water surface reflected the golden and resplendent dome, making this bowl of holy water seem as if it had come alive with a soul.
The abbot dared not look any longer. He hastily stood up and walked to the door. The people outside originally wanted to push their way in, but upon seeing the abbot, they stopped and stared at him with eyes full of expectation: “Is it real, Lord? Has a miracle truly appeared?” someone asked loudly.
“At least as I saw, it is real,” the abbot answered without hesitation. “But we still need to wait for the patriarch to send someone to verify before giving the final result.”
“Then let us go in first to see, to bear witness for you.”
The abbot shook his head in refusal. “Be patient, everyone. After the patriarch’s people approve it, everyone will have the opportunity to make pilgrimage here.”
Such an answer naturally could not satisfy the people. When they grew restless, the monks could not help but step forward, also raising their scriptures, incense boats, and large Crosses—these things could be used as weapons if necessary. The abbot came from Rome; he had experienced such scenes countless times.
Whether this miracle was man-made or truly real, there would always be a period of chaos like this, so he immediately announced that a Thanksgiving Mass would be held for the arrival of this miracle, along with a citywide parade to pray for blessings and grant indulgences for everyone, until the miracle was confirmed.
At this time, any sacraments performed by monks and priests required payment. For poor pilgrims, this was like another miracle; they immediately became docile and let the priests arrange everything.
Of course, if kind donors were willing to give alms, the priests would not stop them.
——————
Haridi calmly closed the door—even one could say all Isaacites in Bethlehem city were doing so.
After centuries of “experience,” Isaacites already knew that when Christians fell into revelry, it was best for Isaacites not to participate—not to mention that most of what they celebrated contradicted Isaacite doctrine; more often, they became the sacrificial victims of the celebration. At such times, if people said to burn one or two Isaacites for fun, it was not some hellish joke, but the most likely thing to happen.
Not to mention in such a grand parade driven by thousands of people, if a few ill-intentioned guys took the chance to loot and rape, no one would be surprised, especially if the victims were Isaacites.
Haridi passed through the small courtyard, across the entire workshop, and came to the bedroom in the back. This bedroom connected to a narrow skylight, which was almost like an alley, but at its end was a door hard to spot from outside—this was Haridi’s prepared escape route.
At this moment, he heard an extremely faint knock. Haridi immediately became alert. He drew a dagger from his boot, gripped it tightly in his hand, then leaned against the wall beside the door, not behind it.
For camouflage, this door was short and small, covered with only a thin wooden board without iron bars for reinforcement. When he painted it with chalk, it looked almost indistinguishable from the surrounding walls, but this also meant that if a spear-wielding soldier stood outside, a spear could thrust in while Haridi answered from behind the door.
What reassured him was that the person outside did not seem rough. After lightly knocking a few times, they stopped. Few people knew this door existed, and almost all were Isaacites.
Haridi knew that pretending nothing was happening and leaving quickly was the best choice now, but he was worried that if the person outside was who he suspected— he had recently done something wrong to them.
If they needed Haridi’s help now, and Haridi evaded, it would be like doing evil to them twice. The other seemed to know Haridi had heard the knock and guessed he was standing by the door, so they lowered their voice and softly pleaded: “Haridi, open the door, open the door, it’s me.”
Who was it?
Of course, it was Lego, who had been ordered never to return to Bethlehem.
Haridi hesitated repeatedly but still sheathed the dagger back in his boot and yanked the door open from inside, pulling in Lego, disguised as a monk. Lego was startled by him and nearly fell to the ground.
“Why did you come back? Lego?”
When Haridi saw Lego, he could hardly recognize him as the former chubby, smiling guy who seemed never to have worries befall him. He was now dark and thin, but fortunately, those eyes were the same—full of ambition and desire.
“All the Christians are in Damascus now. What are you worried about?”
“Pah!” Haridi said angrily. “There are a thousand Christians right outside our door.”
Lego chuckled.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” Haridi asked.
“I came on the orders of Nalessa’s sage. And there’s a private matter to handle,” Lego said. He looked around for a suitable chair, but then glanced at himself—for disguising as an ascetic no one would notice or care about, he had deliberately made himself filthy: matted hair, tattered clothes, thick mud, and lively fleas and bedbugs.
If there was a mirror, even he would feel disgusted looking at himself, so he did not sit on any chair but directly sat cross-legged on a stone slab in the courtyard. He did not know if it was age or the long journey that exhausted him, but he always felt his head was foggy.
“I’ll pour you a cup of wine.”
“Good,” Lego replied weakly. This damned weather was too hot and too dry; he felt he must have heatstroke.
But when Haridi brought a cup of wine—though the wine was quite good, not too acidic, and Haridi had added honey or rock sugar to it—Lego only managed two or three sips before stopping. He did not know what was wrong with him; perhaps he should sleep.
Haridi was a heartless guy. But he knew as long as he came, Haridi would not begrudge him a bed.
“Call your apprentice to serve me.”
“They’re not here.”
“Not here?”
“I sent them back to their parents,” Haridi said. Although he knew earlier they had betrayed the workshop’s secrets, out of tolerance for his kin, Haridi had kept it hidden and allowed them to continue as apprentices. But perhaps because he had been too kind before, after revoking their privileges, the two children even started complaining.
Haridi was too lazy to argue with them and just drove them away.
Of course, as an obligation every Isaacite must fulfill, he still had to accept two Isaacite apprentices, but for now, he could enjoy a month or two of peace.
“I’ll serve you today. Those two apprentices left, and their beds are empty.” As Haridi was thinking whether to get a blanket for Lego, he heard a name he could not believe. “What?” He thought he misheard. “Who did you say?”
“My poor sister,” Lego said hazily. “Though I said I’d never care for her again, she wrote me a letter saying she couldn’t stay in Bethlehem and wanted to come to me, but she owes money to the innkeeper and he won’t let her go until it’s paid.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
After that, Haridi could hear no more; his head buzzed because no one knew better than him that Lego’s sister had died long ago—killed by his own hand, and thrown outside the city by his own hand.
Haridi was a cautious man; he had confirmed the woman’s skull was caved in.
So, who wrote this letter to Lego?
