Chapter 297: Broken Wings
Luck and misfortune are two things that seem completely different, but there is one place where they are entirely the same—they always arrive silently, imperceptibly, catching people off guard.
The guard standing in front of Bethlehem’s Dung Gate nervously approached an open cart carrying a corpse—the Dung Gate is a gate in every city, used for dumping filth and transporting the dead—he held a spear and cautiously lifted the linen cloth wrapped around the cold body.
His companion nearby looked on, asking somewhat strangely, “What are you doing? This cart is coming out of the city, and there are no wanted sinners lately, so why be so cautious?”
The guard said nothing; he wouldn’t tell his companion that in his hometown, a plague had occurred as well, and the most vivid image left in his young mind was carts stacked with corpses—though pilgrims falling in Bethlehem happened every day, the recent numbers were truly worrisome.
He lifted the linen cloth a bit and saw no black spots, boils, or abscesses on the exposed skin, which reassured him greatly; a person nearby, likely a friend or relative of the deceased, glared at him angrily and pulled the linen cloth back down: “Poor John died from diarrhea!”
“Isn’t that the truth,” another older, steadier man advised: “If it were the plague, we would have fallen ill too, but we’re still perfectly healthy now.”
The guard stepped back, silent, when suddenly a rapid clatter of hooves rumbled in; whether mourners or guards, all were startled, but fortunately it was bright daylight, and from afar they saw a red flag fluttering in the wind, along with a white horse as if sculpted from ice and snow.
“It’s a Knight of Bethlehem!” a pilgrim said in a low, reverent voice.
The Knight of Bethlehem has always enjoyed the reputation of Little Saint in Ayyarasa Road and surrounding cities; this time with the apparition of Saint Jerome, people say He came for Caesar, to reward his previous merits in the holy war.
Unfortunately, the Knight of Bethlehem would not enter the city through the Dung Gate; they turned not far from the convoy toward David’s Gate, though whether it was an illusion or not, everyone present felt he hurriedly glanced back at them.
Caesar’s mood was heavy; he knew that as one once Chosen by Raphael, his teacher, also a chosen one, wouldn’t fall ill so easily, especially as Patriarch, the highest religious leader in Ayyarasa Road; “hot sickness,” “cold sickness,” “hunger sickness,” “fatigue sickness” afflicting ordinary pilgrims would absolutely not appear on him.
His escort had already gone ahead, calling out his master’s name while raising the flag high; before Pollux’s hooves touched the drawbridge, the guards had already dispersed the crowd at the city gate; people watched the procession sweep past like a hurricane, buzzing with discussion—especially Bethlehem’s residents, as Caesar’s mildness was plain for all to see, and he rarely rode in the city.
Some busybodies followed along, and they saw Caesar heading to the Church of the Nativity.
“Is the Bishop here to discuss something with the lord?”
“Probably not; if it were the Bishop, he would go to the Monastery of Saint Jerome. Besides, isn’t His Holiness the Patriarch at the Church of the Nativity?”
The church was never a single building but a complex; of course, Caesar wouldn’t enter through that main door only four feet high—he wasn’t there to worship the birthplace of the Holy Child—he went around it, spurring his horse toward the rear gate—there connecting to the courtyard, and one wing of the courtyard housed the Bishop’s and priests’ residence.
When the Patriarch resided here, Bishop Andrew could only vacate his room, and several priests were already waiting at the back door; one rushed up upon seeing Caesar, trying to take Pollux’s reins.
Pollux’s temper was worse than that of the king’s mount Castor, another fierce war horse; it merely sidestepped, avoiding the priest’s outstretched hand, and moreover reared up its forelegs; if not for Caesar’s strength in yanking it back, this reckless fellow would surely have suffered.
“Don’t approach it,” Caesar said urgently, leaping down from Pollux; only then could the knight behind him seize Pollux’s reins; Pollux recognized the man but still neighed twice at Caesar.
“Enough,” the knight said: “Your master is burning with anxiety now.”
Caesar spotted Bishop Andrew at once—he didn’t dare wait outside, as anything happening to the Patriarch would impact Bethlehem too greatly; wordlessly, he grabbed Caesar’s arm and dragged him forward, but once they could see the room, it was Caesar dragging him.
All of Bethlehem’s senior priests were gathered here, some entering, some exiting—they were taking turns treating Heraclius.
“Was it an assassination or…”
“Disease, but tricky.” Bishop Andrew said.
Caesar shed his cloak; he had come from the Monastery of Saint Jerome outside the city; though not far, it was dusty, and he had passed through dense crowds—bringing any deadly germs would be adding frost to snow for a critically ill patient.
Before entering, he took out his small silver pot, poured some alcohol into his hands, and wiped his hands and face.
The strong alcohol scent spread through the room, leaving some priests with baffled expressions.
“Teacher?”
Caesar approached the bed; Heraclius lay there, eyes tightly closed, face pale, the air thick with complex smells—vomit, feces, and spices.
“What happened? Tell me—details.”
The priest attending Heraclius stepped forward—he naturally recognized Caesar and knew no need to hide from him: “His Holiness the Patriarch began feverish three nights ago; he called for water, and when I brought it, I found him hot but not severely; after drinking, he slept again…”
“And then?”
“The next day he continued prayer, reading scripture, handling some work; though still somewhat fatigued, he showed no discomfort, but that night he fevered again…”
“Didn’t you urge him to rest?”
“You know, His Holiness the Patriarch’s diligence matches his piety; we urged him, but he said he felt no discomfort, but… around morning prayer, he suddenly writhed in agony, unable even to finish the prayer; we helped him back to the room and treated him—after a while, he improved and resumed prayer, but after breakfast, he began vomiting.
After vomiting came diarrhea—then sweating, chills; we summoned more brothers, who took turns treating His Holiness the Patriarch, but after brief improvement, the condition worsened.
Until… now…”
Caesar fell silent, sitting beside Heraclius, then reached out, cradling the old man’s neck; upon touching the skin, his heart sank—not just the scorching heat（ probably around 104 degrees）, but also dampness and tautness, the carotid artery pulsing wildly, the body shuddering in waves.
Moreover, Heraclius murmured lowly; Caesar leaned in to listen—he was calling that he was cold.
Caesar already had a suspicion: “Besides His Holiness the Patriarch, has anyone else fallen ill?”
The priests averted their gazes instinctively; only Heraclius’s servant sighed helplessly, looking to Bishop Andrew, who hesitated: “Four or five brothers showed similar symptoms—” he quickly explained: “Only one fell ill before the Patriarch arrived, and he never left his room.”
Caesar understood—at least the Patriarch hadn’t infected them.
“I have no intent to pursue; no matter who, as long as not deliberate,” Caesar reassured them: “I just want to know if my guess is correct.”
“Follow me.” Bishop Andrew said.
Once they left, a priest nudged his friend nearby: “I recall this is a Chosen by Michael knight.”
“Before being chosen, he was His Holiness the Patriarch’s student,” his friend warned with a glance: “His Holiness the Patriarch is greatly favored, exceptionally capable, rare even in Rome.”
The priest chuckled but said no more.
Caesar followed Bishop Andrew to see those priests—they had all been isolated—and priests always handled this better than the populace.
“This is the tools room, somewhat dim but dry enough, remote.”
Called isolation, yet priests still tended their brothers; the men saluted Bishop Andrew and Caesar: “Who will describe the situation?” the Bishop asked.
One priest stepped forward, calm and clear: “…Yes, only four, same symptoms… fever, chills… two with diarrhea, vomiting… another confirmed as just chilled; he’s fully recovered now and helping care for the others.”
“Brother Bernard…” a priest suddenly ran up, glancing fearfully at the group, unsure if he should interrupt.
“Speak.” Caesar said.
“He was tending Brother Bruno, the most severe case—what’s happened?” If not important, he wouldn’t run over now.
“The devil possessing him…” the priest murmured, “Look…” He uncovered a grayish-white linen cloth, soaked with deep red bloodstains.
“He vomited blood?”
“No, no, no,” the priest said three no’s in a row, “Not from the mouth, but from his… this is his urine.”
Bishop Andrew was stunned: “Did someone strike him?” As a Martial Monk, he knew well that without armor, blows to the waist or groin could cause blood in urine.
“No, lord, absolutely not!” the priest hastened to say.
The bloody urine nearly confirmed Caesar’s guess; they rushed into that room—small, perhaps because the original room had been forcibly partitioned into several areas—barely space for one bed.
A patient lay on the bed, a flat clay chamber pot shattered in front; apparently, this priest, while emptying it in the light, saw it full of “blood,” dropped it in shock, and staggered over…
And that Brother Bruno was already gasping his last; Caesar approached to check, finding his lips purple-black, face white as chalk smeared on walls, while other priests had brought holy oil for his last rites.
Then they lifted him by head and feet, carrying him out of the “room,” as the floor there was filthy; they could only sprinkle lime on the outer stone slab to form a cross, then place him upon it.
Caesar gripped Bishop Andrew’s arm, pulling him aside; under a shadowy olive tree, he whispered: “I already know what illness it is—
It’s malaria.”
Bishop Andrew shuddered violently but then his shoulders relaxed: “Malaria… just malaria—excellent.”
He had reason to say so; malaria was a plague common in dense populations, bringing death and pain, yet better than tuberculosis, diphtheria, Black Death, or smallpox.
“It’s malignant malaria,” Caesar said, not releasing the hand clutching his tightly: “Malignant, with a 30 to 50 percent death rate!”
Though untreated malignant malaria should have a 15 to 20 percent death rate, that was in another world, where people’s constitutions far exceeded here—locals were mostly malnourished and frail, so the death rate would only be higher, not lower!
“Then,” Bishop Andrew clearly tensed: “Then His Holiness the Patriarch…”
Why did the priests’ treatments cause the condition to fluctuate? Simple: people then couldn’t comprehend plague origins, nor that malaria came from plasmodium, a mosquito-borne pathogen breeding in human bodies—priests saw only skin, muscles, not even delving into blood vessels or organs, so of course they knew not how to heal it.
They only knew: fever, then cool it; bleeding, heal the wound; pain, relieve it—but without addressing the root, it only recurs and worsens.
If Caesar had arrived in this world earlier, he might truly be helpless, but perhaps divine protection guided it—he had recently gone ahead to Hula Valley to build a bridge upstream on the Jordan River against Saladin’s army.
In Hula Valley they encountered savages; Caesar restrained the knights from killing them, instead taking them as slaves to Damascus—en route, a knight showed fever and chills; the savages picked some wild herbs for him, and he soon recovered.
Of course, everyone tacitly “forgot” the matter.
But Caesar recognized the wild herb with its scattered small yellow flowers at first sight, knew its use, and its other name—
Artemisia annua.
