Chapter 298: Broken Wings
Of course, there was no need, nor could he tell Bishop Andrew about such things. People had always grumbled about Patriarch Heraclius frequently teaching him things that only priests should learn, but since most were superficial like fur, they dismissed it as a teacher’s favoritism toward a student—after all, Caesar became Heraclius’s student first, and was chosen “Chosen by Michael” later—what’s more, the patriarch’s other student was the King, and though there were many places needing his help, it certainly wasn’t with herbs.
Knights occasionally used red-hot swords, liquor, and enemas to relieve their companions’ illnesses; if investigated deeply, there would be trouble, but basically it was a case of no plaintiff, no judge…
But when it came to gathering medicinal herbs and refining potions, besides priests, only wizards（ regardless of gender） and the devil could do such things.
Caesar did not want to test at this time, in this place, whether Bishop Andrew’s faith had surpassed his loyalty to the King and obedience to the patriarch; there was just one thing that, with the teacher already in a coma, he could only ask Bishop Andrew to do for him.
“What?” The expression Bishop Andrew revealed immediately let Caesar know this matter might not proceed smoothly: “Why do you want to do this?”
“It’s just malaria,” he repeated: “Although that… ‘mortality rate,’ meaning it might bring death, but so what? This city—no, anywhere—people are continuously dying from various causes, and even more so here—
I think,” he glanced reproachfully at Caesar: “You should be more concerned now with your teacher’s body. Quickly send someone, or go personally to Ayyarasa Road, to Acre, to Cyprus, to Constantinople, and ask the churches there to send more powerful, more pious priests to pray for your teacher, our leader. God willing—if it’s just malaria…”
“I will, but if we continue to let the plague rage now…”
“Plague? Where is the plague from, young man?” Bishop Andrew’s tone grew stern. “Just fever and diarrhea, a few every day—who knows if those people weren’t tempted by the devil and brought hell’s seeds here? If they are steadfast, being in the place of Christ’s birth, how could they not endure?
If they die, then we can only say they received the punishment they deserved.”
Caesar then realized he had said the wrong thing; he shouldn’t have mentioned mortality rate. Bishop Andrew obviously believed it—perhaps he just believed Heraclius’s student, thinking the patriarch had once researched it, or gathered information in the army—but he believed, which was worse than not believing.
He didn’t care at all about the lives of the people here, especially when the death toll was so low; Bethlehem now had so many people that even one-tenth dying wouldn’t attract notice.
Bishop Andrew didn’t even think he and his knights would catch the disease; he shared the same thought as many who hadn’t yet faced great calamity—they would surely be the lucky ones, with disaster not inexplicably falling on their heads.
Caesar clenched his fist; he had knights and servants who could knock on every inn or pilgrim-hosting residence in Bethlehem, but doing so would undoubtedly cause panic, which was one reason Bishop Andrew flatly refused—though Bethlehem’s lord was Caesar, and in religious matters, with the patriarch down, he was undoubtedly in charge.
Even when Caesar suggested having priests bless the sick in Saint Jerome’s name—the least disruptive and most discreet method—Bishop Andrew was unwilling. These priests, especially those “Chosen by Raphael,” should at this critical moment cluster around the patriarch to pray for him; what’s more, without the patriarch, would no other nobles fall ill?
“Perhaps you are right.” Caesar said: “Then perhaps you can have those priests burn incense, drain the fountain, and cover those damp places with sand and soil.”
“Why?”
“Teacher told me malaria breeds from muddy, filthy places.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the door; the bishop called after him: “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to give some instructions.” Caesar said. He couldn’t just stand here uselessly reciting scripture; he knew what could treat Heraclius and the others with malaria—fortunately, as an ancient herb, Artemisia annua could work right from the start without modern purification.
He just couldn’t decide yet whether to go personally or send others; unfortunately, those savages were all left by him in Damascus and hadn’t come back, so he could only select from the knights who had once gone with him to Hula Valley.
At this moment, he immediately thought of one person—Gian of Magigo. Besides having gone to Hula Valley too, there was another reason—that he had indescribable trust and admiration for Caesar. This matter couldn’t explain the reason; some knights might even think he had gone mad, perhaps harbor doubts, or carelessly gather other weeds… Gian wouldn’t.
Thinking of this, he immediately headed to Gian’s residence, which was one of Bishop Andrew’s properties. Once Gian confirmed the address, he sent someone to tell Caesar.
They went and knocked on the door, but waited a good while before a servant hurriedly opened it. Upon seeing the arrivals, he looked terrified as if seeing a group of Saracens—the unusual behavior immediately aroused the knights’ suspicions. The lead escort shoved him, nearly making him fall, and after the servant clumsily got up, he even tried to block them.
And a smell had already wafted out from the tightly closed room door, a smell Caesar had just smelled in the patriarch’s room.
Caesar hesitated no longer; he rushed toward the room. Someone else tried to block him, but how could they stop him—he smashed the door bolt with one strike. The door slammed against the wall with a loud bang and rebounded, nearly hitting a knight who closely followed Caesar in.
“Gian!”
Caesar’s eyes could still be falcon-sharp even in darkness. The servants hadn’t lit candles in the room, had closed the shutters, hung silk rugs, sealing the entire room airtight.
Gian lay under the blanket, seemingly resting, but with such a loud noise, he was like he had lost all senses, motionless. Caesar yanked off the blanket, and a more intense stench rolled out. Without regard for anything else, he scooped Gian up.
The other knights had already restrained the servants. Seeing a young, strong knight so weakened, they were all filled with righteous indignation; one even cried out: “Lord, Gian he!?”
“Still alive.” Caesar said concisely, calling an escort to notify Bishop Andrew, and also, he hesitated: “Gerard’s Damara.”
The escort departed on the order; Caesar bent down and carefully laid Gian down, while another quick-reacting knight preemptively removed his cloak and spread it on the ground, earning Caesar an appreciative glance.
But before this knight could smile, his expression froze on his face.
After opening the robe wrapped around Gian, by the faint remaining sunset light, the rot and swelling on his body were fully visible; someone immediately drew in a sharp breath: “Black…”
“No!” Caesar hurriedly interrupted him. “It’s fever; skin disease from not tending properly after diarrhea.” His first action was to touch Gian’s armpits, throat, lymph nodes—no swelling—that was the clear sign of the black death.
Sure enough, while Caesar wiped Gian, the knights saw most wounds on his back, inner thighs, etc. “Those damned scum!” They too had had negligent servants and knew this was indeed from poor care.
“This is the plague!” One of the nearby servants was still shouting defiantly: “Plague! Lord! For us to stay here and serve him is already utmost loyalty!”
“At first it was probably just fever—then vomiting and diarrhea.” Gian’s symptoms were similar to Patriarch Heraclius’s: ferocious onset, rapid progression, affecting the patient’s consciousness—meaning Gian had likely been in distress days ago, and only his strong body let him persist to now without care, covered in filth.
And these servants stayed not for Gian; they didn’t think it was the plague either—Gian just had “fever.” He didn’t know which of them discovered Gian in a coma and got evil ideas—
“Lord, found it!” A knight shouted loudly as he came out, having searched a large handful of gold coins from the servants’ luggage.
“We did steal, but we didn’t kill!”
“You were just waiting for him to die!”
A voice came from outside; the servants went pale, while Bishop Andrew strode in with a ghastly expression. Upon seeing Gian on the ground, he instantly felt the world spin, leaning on those beside him to stagger to Gian and kneel heavily.
He was a priest, sworn to chastity; Gian was his heir.
“Ah…” He let out a long, pained sigh. Once high and mighty, dismissive, he had cast aside Caesar’s warnings and admonitions—but Caesar was right; the patriarch wasn’t an exception. Death and epidemic spared no one. Everything he relied on was fragile before God’s power—yes, what God granted them, He could take back at any time.
“If it’s because of my arrogance, then punish me!” His trembling hand stroked Gian’s burning skin; in just a few short days, his ribs had become visible. “It’s my fault, my fault!”
“He’s still alive, Lord, still alive.” Caesar comforted softly. Compared to the patriarch, Gian’s condition was entirely man-made delay—his reward from Baldwin had stirred greed in those around him. They lacked courage to act directly but could kick him when he was down.
“…What are you waiting for?” Bishop Andrew looked up; his priests immediately stepped forward briskly, hauling up the still-shouting servants. Seeing the tide turn, they started babbling wildly, but the priests were experienced—a fist sent their teeth flying.
Then they didn’t bother finding elsewhere; they just found a spot in the courtyard and strangled them. While one priest went to find corpse collectors, Bishop Andrew steadied himself, leaning on Caesar to stand; Caesar silently supported him, showing no unusual expression from prior conflict.
But Bishop Andrew didn’t let go; with vise-like fingers he gripped Caesar’s arm, watching the priests treat Gian while unobtrusively pushing Caesar to a corner: “I have words for Caesar alone.”
The following knights could only step back. Bishop Andrew raised his spectacles, wearily eyeing Caesar: “I won’t ask how you knew—Heraclius or Saint Jerome—but I can see you have a way—”
“I do, but…”
“I know; I’m not that greedy sort. Only God controls life and death—I only ask, is there a way?”
Caesar nodded.
“You came looking for Gian…”
“Originally I wanted Gian to go find… those things we need.”
“A lot?”
“The more the better, and must be fresh.”
“I understand. And that matter you mentioned before, I’ll have the priests do it…”
The matter was resolved, but Caesar’s mood grew heavier.
“Lord!”
Bishop Andrew looked up; it was his nephew’s fiancée, Gerard’s Damara. Seeing this bright girl, he finally burst into tears: “Poor child,” he cried: “My poor child!”
——————
When the priest knocked, Haridi immediately jumped up from the chair!
He hurried to the door and peered out, seeing only one priest standing outside under two escorts’ protection, looking impatient. Haridi breathed slightly easier; he had thought a crowd would come, torches raised, eyes full of hatred.
“Do you have any sick here?”
“No, priest master.”
“Open the door!”
Haridi placed his hand on the door bolt, hesitating. “But I’m an Isaacite.”
The priest paused at his words. The door opened; sure enough, inside was a bearded, hatted, robed Isaacite. He immediately showed disgust—an Isaacite qualified for a saint’s protection? Of course not!
He even stepped back but still gave Haridi an extra glance: “Sure none?”
“None, lord, none.” Haridi said: “Everyone knows my apprentice went home, my wife and daughter died at Saracen hands; I live alone here, and I’m very healthy.”
“You’d better not be lying, heretic!” the priest barked harshly. In the end he didn’t enter; Haridi closed the door, feeling utterly drained. Of course he lied—there was a sick person, Lego, who fell ill on his second day here: fever, chills—Haridi treated him, but with little effect.
Now Lego couldn’t even get up, had lost normal consciousness, only mumbling deliriously. Haridi pondered and decided to go to Synagogue of Isaac once.
He now loathed Synagogue of Isaac almost as much as Christians’ churches; every visit brought either blackmail or traps. But now he couldn’t just leave Lego outside.
Before leaving, he checked Lego again; his condition was the same, continuously, slowly sinking—he took some powder and sprinkled it around Lego’s body. This was dried, ground Dalmatian chrysanthemum powder, brought by Alexander the Great to Persia, used to repel insects—lest flies lay eggs around his eyes and nose.
Originally he hadn’t cared so much, but helplessly his master was cleanliness-obsessed. When Caesar first came to his workshop and saw flies mingling with gems, bedbugs flying with gold dust, his face changed dramatically—not a bit of “Shield of the Holy City” awareness.
Haridi started doing this only at Caesar’s insistence, but soon noticed benefits: his skin became clean, rarely diarrhea, no more constant itching—this helped him focus better at work.
It was just a bit expensive.
He donned his hooded cloak—whatever the priests’ reason for asking about sick people, as an Isaacite he should be cautious.
The goldsmith avoided people’s sight, especially those priests and monks in twos and threes, and reached Synagogue of Isaac. He was surprised to find no “sage’s” students standing outside, and the gate ajar.
Fear rose in Haridi’s heart; he quickly passed through every room—hall, meeting room, library, bedroom, dining room, toilet, cellar… none! Not a soul, and not just people—the precious holy vessels, exquisite vessels, sacred amulets, sturdy cabinets, wine, food… all gone. The place was empty, as if Synagogue of Isaac had never existed.
He didn’t know what came over him; his head buzzed, a terrible suspicion forming. This Isaacite, always avoiding conflict and eyes, ignored everything else; in rising fury, he dashed out of the synagogue. Amid pedestrians’ astonished gazes, his wooden shoes clacked on the stone slabs.
Where was he going?
Of course to the sage and his friends’ places! But even running through the market, Isaacite quarter, taverns, and anywhere they might visit—no, none! They had vanished without trace, and when Haridi asked, the last to disappear was seen seven days ago.
At a loss, he ran to the lord’s mansion, but Caesar wasn’t there at all; his knights were out too—they seemed busy, and the guarding escorts didn’t know Haridi. Damn! Seeing an Isaacite, they were either mocking or hateful; before they could hang him on a wooden frame, Haridi fled.
He could of course explain to them, but he knew fools’ destructiveness was greatest. Even if Caesar returned, proved his identity, punished these incompetent escorts—could Haridi dangling from the wooden frame come back to life?
Returning home, seeing barely breathing Lego, Haridi’s mood grew more complex. While running through the market and quarter earlier, he’d long heard similar illnesses spreading among Isaacites—he wasn’t sure what it was, but it seemed milder than smallpox and black death, but no matter how mild, it was plague!
If when Lego fell ill he still couldn’t be sure if man-made or heaven’s will, now he could conclude.
Lego, and perhaps not just one Lego—how many pilgrims surged here from Saint Jerome’s apparition?
The scene Lego had described to him full of joy and anticipation couldn’t happen; they—had no intention of letting Lego rise again. Though Lego was an Isaacite, to Bethlehem folk he was the aggrieved party, to Nalessa folk an invader—either was enough for them to let Lego die.
“This is Isaacites!”
Haridi cursed lowly. Not only did they want Lego dead, they wanted him to suffer, to squeeze his last use—nothing worse than sucking marrow from bones—and he—what could he do…
The goldsmith collapsed to the ground, sobbing aloud, clutching his chest, while beside him was his once close friend, dying.
And moments later, Haridi horrifiedly discovered—he too was starting to fever.
——————
“Artemis’s gold!”
A knight joyfully shouted, comparing under torchlight to the color sketch Caesar had drawn him. Though they had used this herb in Hula Valley, their lord said this weed didn’t grow only there; it was a tenacious plant, possible anywhere damp, fertile, with sunlight.
So they followed Jordan Valley all the way; sure enough, before reaching Sea of Galilee, they found several dense clumps of “gold.” Compared to Hula Valley, the wormwood here was flowering, dense yellow florets like gold foil adorning emerald velvet.
They were overjoyed; after accompanying priests carefully identified, they not only called the laborers but harvested big handful after handful with swords, piled high on the open carriage.
Two escorts covered the wormwood with coarse cloth.
“If anyone asks.”
“Say it’s fodder for the horses.” The escorts answered in unison.
The priest nodded satisfiedly.
One priest secretly drew out a stalk of wormwood and hid it in his sleeve; his colleague pretended not to see. If it really worked, it meant a new asset; whether for promotion or family benefit, it was a rare boon.
