Chapter 295: Broken Wings
Just as Solomon, descendant of David, ruled Ayyarasa Road—from the surface, it still appears a holy and great city. But in fact, beneath the ornate gold ornaments and exquisite carvings, not only are Moses’s Ten Commandments and legal codes preserved, but countless secular gold and silver treasures are also stored.
This evident filth completely obscured the holy light of God, causing Solomon and his subjects to quickly fall into depravity, and drawing down heaven’s anger, leading to their ultimate destruction by the Assyrians.
Hatefully, the people are attracted by immediate petty gains, unable to see the holy light of God, unable to see how they are heading toward inevitable doom.
The ascetic finally resolved his thoughts; they must eliminate this demon devil, even if it requires some sacrifice.
For these busy and blind flock of sheep, punishment is also fitting. Without blood and fire to awaken them, how could they suddenly repent and realize their errors?
“Come, child.” He lit a very small candle, just enough to barely make out the other’s face, then took a very small earthenware pot from the wooden box beside him, took out some oil from it, and applied it to his own body and face.
Then he did the same to the young monk. September’s weather was still somewhat hot and stifling, and they were both wearing hooded long-sleeved robes. The young monk felt uncomfortable. “Can we not apply this?”
“This can prevent us from receiving the devil’s curse.”
“Is there really a devil here—the man who just passed by… but I don’t think he looks like a devil at all.” The young monk’s voice gradually trailed off.
He fearfully glanced at the ascetic. Though the ascetic did not flare up in anger, he already sensed the elder’s displeasure. He lowered his head, said no more, and let the other apply thick oil to every inch of his exposed skin. “How long do we have to apply this? Didn’t that devil leave?”
“He will return; how could he easily let go of prey already in his mouth?” the ascetic said. “But we do not need to stay long—three days, five days, or a week. Once those sinners receive their punishment, we can leave.”
In fact, the young monk did not really want to leave. He had originally been the son of a steward, living on a farm. Later, his father managed to scrape together some money and sent him to church for the Choosing ceremony, and he was undoubtedly quite lucky—not only selected among some ten-odd children, but also catching the priests’ attention.
He still did not fully understand those complex relationships, only knowing that he had gone from one city to another, finally arriving at a very large monastery, where he was asked many questions and, at some people’s requests, did many things—though even now he did not understand what they were, from their expressions, it seemed they had discovered something interesting, or a useful item.
He had once tentatively said he wanted to go home, resulting in a good beating with a handboard and several days of fasting, allowed only water.
His teacher was the ascetic before him now, and he did not dare disobey him, though he felt it a pity—Bethlehem’s prosperity surpassed any city he had passed through, and it was freer.
Though he was firmly controlled by the ascetic, he could still feel the vibrancy of the people here, something he had not sensed in the farm or Francia’s cities. He pursed his lips, recalling fragments he had occasionally overheard—he vaguely felt something terrible was about to happen, but could only extend his hands and hug himself.
——————
Caesar had already returned to the Monastery of Saint Jerome.
Next, he would pray through the night; Baldwin would return to Ayyarasa Road tomorrow, after all, he had been away from Ayyarasa Road too long—Patriarch Heraclius might linger in Bethlehem for a time; he was somewhat worried about Caesar, that lingering shadow always haunting his heart, but with his large retinue, he could only stay at the Church of the Nativity.
“I have already instructed the Abbot of the Monastery of Saint Jerome; he will take good care of you,” Heraclius said when Caesar saw him off.
Caesar was somewhat amused, he was no longer a nine-year-old child, but he was still joyful at this care.
Though he had been here only a few short years, matters of another world felt as if separated by a century—he still remembered them, yet often felt estranged, and sometimes he even doubted whether he was merely in a long nightmare: whether he, heir of Count Joscelin III of Edessa, had dreamed of that world, or he of that world had dreamed of the heir of Joscelin II, Count of Edessa.
He took Heraclius’s hand and placed it on his forehead.
Heraclius extended his other hand, gently stroking his black hair. He truly had to rejoice now that he had not forgotten this child back then, even recommending him to Amalric I, and before the Choosing ceremony, resolutely selecting him as his student, giving him a status—otherwise, after Amalric I’s death, he would have been left alone until death.
After seeing off his teacher, Caesar remained in the hall, now accompanied only by the candles filling the altar and stairs, Jesus Christ standing with hands hanging and gazing at him, and the saints serving beside Jesus Christ, while on the holy image of the apparition of Saint Jerome, faint holy light still flickered, and blood still dripped from the clear stigmata.
At his feet coiled a lion—perhaps the people here had seen lions, but the craftsmanship could only be called passable; though Saint Jerome was carved saintly and solemn, the lion still looked like a somewhat larger hunting dog.
And beneath the lion sat several cups made of gold and silver, to catch that holy blood.
Caesar knelt down. Though the saint he had seen was not Saint Jerome, he still had to thank this saint; at least he had not come down to tell his believers there were two outright swindlers.
Once the lie was accomplished, there was no possibility of change; never before had any knight discovered he had seen the wrong saint.
“Lord.”
Though Caesar had not requested to be alone, the priests had already tactfully left, and few could quietly enter at this time—the newcomers were Gian of Magigo and Damara of the Gerard family.
He had not seen Damara for some time; though only a little over a year, this girl seemed to have truly undergone a complete transformation into a respectable noble lady.
“God bless, Lord, may we touch the holy image of Saint Jerome?”
Gian asked somewhat nervously. Caesar chuckled, “What would prevent it?”
He stepped aside, watching this pair of newlyweds, like a pair of pigeons, join hands and approach the holy image of Saint Jerome. Gian was overjoyed, and Damara also showed a happy smile.
Damara was like a sister to Caesar; of course he hoped this somewhat mischievous but sufficiently rational and strong girl could have a good home: “Have you already set a wedding date?”
“We plan to wed on Saint Denis Day（ October 9）, Lord; we hope you will be our witness,” Gian requested earnestly.
Contrary to what later generations often misunderstand, at this time, the two represented by chivalric love—the noble lady and her knight—usually shared no true love, neither bodily nor spiritual; they were more like mutual accomplishments.
The knight proved his fearlessness and loyalty by serving the noble lady and fulfilling her requests. The noble lady used the knight to prove her piety and chastity; her husband would not be displeased that his wife had admirers—in fact, if a noble lady had no knight willing to serve her and proclaim her virtues everywhere, it would draw mockery, like a bright gem with no one pursuing it, inevitably leading some to suspect it was a glass fake.
Damara’s good name had long been proven by Caesar—his single-handed victory over a Saracen army for her had already become the minstrels’ most oft-recited tale, though inevitably somewhat exaggerated, none failed to praise Damara’s virtues, beauty, and steadfastness.
Otherwise, how could such an outstanding knight risk life and limb for her?
And for this reason, the Count of Magigo was so overjoyed upon hearing that the patriarch of the Gerard family actually intended to become his in-law.
“It’s just a pity I cannot see your children,” Caesar said. The patriarch of the Gerard family would surely hope Damara could quickly return to Magigo in Francia with her new husband, rather than remain in the Holy Land.
Gian held back for a moment but could not restrain himself.
He said eagerly, “Even after marriage, Lord, I can still stay here! Please allow me to serve you; let me be your knight.”
“No!” Damara and Caesar said in unison—the patriarch of the Gerard family would go mad upon hearing this.
The three were first taken aback, then burst into laughter together.
“Then wait until Damara has the child,” Gian said full of anticipation. “When they are old enough to walk alone, I will come to the Holy Land and fight alongside you.”
Caesar glanced at Damara and saw no unusual expression on her face—which made sense; women of this era and place did not demand much emotional value from their husbands. For them, as long as there were heirs—preferably more than one—it was good if the husband went off to war.
War could bring back glory, money and titles, even territory; for someone like Gian fighting for God, it could also ensure remission of sins for him and his family.
At this point, Damara suddenly thought of something: “After you complete your fasting and asceticism, will you return to Cyprus?”
Caesar hesitated a moment: “If I can, I will.” He might even wait until Boscia gave birth; afterward, he might return to Damascus to govern the city for Baldwin, but once the child was old enough to withstand travel, he could bring Boscia along.
But he could not be certain, for knights often had to go to war, their wives handling pregnancy, birth, and postpartum without the husband present; often a knight returned from war to greet him either a newborn child and mother, or one of them, or possibly two cold stone coffins.
If Caesar said he was specially returning to Cyprus just to attend his wife until after birth, it would be an incomprehensible oddity—even Boscia’s letters to him scarcely mentioned the child, and the envoy delivering them would not report on it unless Caesar asked.
And when chatting with Baldwin, what he saw was not a fetus or infant, but a sturdy boy already running about, who could serve as an escort—Heraclius had only reminded him to remember, after the child’s birth（ if a boy）, to quickly return to Cyprus, acknowledge him, and give him inheritance rights.
Their doing so was understandable; medical knowledge and doctors of this era were almost entirely monopolized by the Church, and priests even viewed women’s pregnancy and birth as a fitting punishment, offering no treatment—they did not consider that the child was still in the mother’s womb.
Even after birth, thirty to fifty percent died before adulthood, so people rarely invested emotion in undeveloped children—Amalric I’s love for Baldwin only grew gradually after he was six, and a large part of it was because Baldwin was an only son.
Gian of Magigo was not an only son; he had several brothers, but in the Count of Magigo’s mouth, they seemed not to exist.
And Longinus—after fulfilling his promise, he still refused to reclaim his surname and origins; he could do so, but saw no need, having received no warmth from that family.
But Caesar was certain his own children would not be like that, whether boy or girl, eldest or youngest.
And Baldwin—he had not given up hope; he hoped to hold Baldwin’s child too, placing that small, soft, murmuring bundle of flesh on his shoulder.
——————
“That is Gian of Magigo and Damara of the Gerard family,” the attendant said. And Bohemond, standing on the hills and gazing afar at the Monastery of Saint Jerome, showed a mocking smile—the patriarch of the Gerard family was a mediocre man, but with keen instincts; after Prince Baldwin contracted leprosy, he sensed trouble and had been devoted to sending his only daughter out of the Holy Land—even stooping to a completely mismatched marriage.
Bohemond had once intended to ally with him, even offering Abigail’s marriage if needed, but was politely refused—for which Bohemond had caused him no small trouble; after all, there were plenty of fools in the Gerard family.
“If that lady has an accident…” the attendant asked cautiously. He was a member of the Guiscard family, and due to blood ties, knew more than others.
“He will be greatly shaken,” Bohemond laughed. “As for what you worry about, do you think I, Raymond, or Emperor Manuel I of Byzantium, or Pope Alexander III of Rome, and our allies who either participated or tacitly approved without participating, would step forward to admit this is our plan?”
He raised his whip and held it before his eyes; the whip was large, while distant Bethlehem was so small: “This is merely God’s punishment inflicted on sinners, just as God once inflicted leprosy on Amalric I’s only son—and now, his only son is as arrogant and proud as he was then; he rejected God, and now God rejects him too.”
He slightly turned his eyes, still smiling: “Are you pitying them, pitying these sinners?”
A chill instantly ran up the attendant’s spine.
“How could I, Lord? I am just worried… there are many merchants and pilgrims in Bethlehem, and once… it erupts, they will surely flee everywhere.”
“That is why Raymond is in Damascus, I in Ayyarasa Road, to avoid such problems. Of course,” Bohemond pressed his temple, feigning an unbearable expression, “I still have to deal with our king. God knows what Amalric I is thinking with that young child… he needs elders’ guidance to distinguish right from wrong and act rationally…
And you need not worry too much; it is not something terrible—you have even gotten it before.”
“What?!”
Regardless of the attendant’s shock, Bohemond turned his horse and left this city soon to become a victim of conspiracy; he had to return to Ayyarasa Road—there was still much to do.
