Chapter 299: Broken Wings
Bishop Andrew stood in the brightly lit courtyard, the crowd around him bustling and flowing ceaselessly, with knights, priests, escorts, and servants, each performing their duties, from carrying and sorting to organizing, even remarkably orderly.
And the last batch of Artemisia annua, those fresh emerald green plants, was sent to the big kitchen like flowing water.
If there were enough time, Caesar would of course prefer to place the Artemisia annua in the sun and slowly dry it—the components in the Artemisia annua that are particularly effective against malaria parasites have one major weakness: they fear high temperatures, and above thirty degrees, these components could be completely destroyed.
But Caesar could not gamble. After this night, when the sun rose tomorrow, he could not be sure how the conditions of Patriarch Heraclius, Gian, those unfortunate priests and monks who had fallen ill, and the patients who did not know where they were would develop. At this point, even one extra hour would be good.
Now that charcoal trough used for smoking dried meat—when he first saw it, Witt was there openly stealing the prey hunted by the knights under the pretext of tasting—now was filled with stone slabs, copper pots, and black iron shields, a group of children at most only seven or eight years old were constantly turning over the Artemisia annua cut by their mothers on them.
Originally this task was assigned to the people in the kitchen, but they soon discovered that their hands, accustomed to constant work, were covered with calluses and could not accurately gauge the temperature of the stone slabs, copper pots, and shields. After asking for Caesar’s permission, they called their own children. Although the children also had to work, their fingers’ sensitivity was certainly much sharper—some children would even grab the Artemisia annua and place it against their cheeks to test the temperature.
They and their parents were all very eager. There was no way around it; for these poor people, even if it meant working through several consecutive all-nighters, the reward they could receive was enough to compensate for the hardship.
Besides, it was not that hard—for them, it was just monotonous work where fatigue was inevitable. A kitchen maid gently nudged the person beside her: “What do you think these are for?”
The one beside her was, however, a steady and prudent cook: “Do your work and don’t talk too much…”
“I feel like we’re working for a witch,” the maidservant giggled: “You probably don’t know, in my childhood, our village also had a witch who often gathered hay, chopped it up, ground it, and then placed it…”
She stopped, the cook turned her head and looked at her coldly, “If you don’t want to be fitted with a ‘hook’, shut up now.”
The maidservant immediately fell silent. The full name of the “hook” was the Hook of Silence, a torture device used on talkative women. It looked like a metal cage that could be placed over the head—at first just the cage, later adding a wooden stick to stuff in the mouth, gradually evolving into sharp iron hooks. Not only could one not speak, but even moving the head would injure the tongue.
The cook’s heart was not as calm as she appeared. Perhaps others felt the same, but they were servants serving priests and monks, and they had received generous rewards. Could they know more about witches than these masters?
They would do exactly as they were told.
Bishop Andrew stood at the door for a moment, memorized the face of that maidservant, then walked away. He met Damara in the corridor—Damara insisted on staying to look after Gian, which made the bishop extremely grateful, but he still asked Caesar and confirmed that this plague would not transmit from one person to another before agreeing to Damara.
“Are you tired, child?” he said softly: “If you’re tired, it’s fine, call someone to take you back to your room to rest. Gian has us here.”
Damara blushed; she was an open and straightforward girl, but such matters inevitably made her show some shyness: “Caesar is giving him an enema…”
Bishop Andrew silently let out an “ah”. This indeed should not be witnessed by Damara—unlike what later generations imagine, people at this time did not care much about nudity. The castle had toilets, but during marches or outings, only a few overly reserved people would bring a chamber pot.
Most responded to nature’s call in nature, though noble ladies always had attendants and servants around, sometimes one would suddenly see a big white buttocks exposed in the wild grass.
Damara standing outside the door was probably mostly to preserve some dignity for Gian.
Seeing Damara like this, the bishop’s mood improved greatly. If Gian’s condition was still so bad, Damara probably would not have the mind to consider these things. He smiled and entered the room—to minimize the patients’ movement, they had all been moved to rooms on the same floor.
Extracting artemisinin would still take two or three days, but with fresh Artemisia annua, Caesar could already borrow the wisdom of ancient medicine from another world and directly extract the juice from the Artemisia annua through “wringing”. Although this method extracted too few active ingredients, it was still better than doing nothing.
And Haridi had already tried it before—places with rich mucous membranes did absorb medicine faster than oral intake—and fortunately, enema was a common treatment method for people at this time. When Caesar proposed it, no one objected, and the monastery even had ready-made enema tools.
Before even entering the door, Bishop Andrew heard Gian’s howls. His smile deepened, and he quickly walked toward the young knight surrounded by the priests.
After supplementing water, sugar, and salt, Gian had woken up, but the high fever still tormented him into a daze—perhaps because he was strong enough, young, and deeply favored by God, he was very sensitive to the active ingredients in Artemisia annua. Almost shortly after administration, his body temperature began to drop, and the pain in his body was also alleviating.
Compared to Gian, Heraclius’s condition was much worse. He woke once, then immediately fell unconscious again. Apart from his skin temperature no longer being so scorching, the convulsions, vomiting, and diarrhea persisted, and worse, the filth coming out of his body was red.
“What to do next?” Bishop Andrew asked. He watched the servant walk away with a water basin and copper pot.
“Grind the dried Artemisia annua into powder, soak it in liquor for twelve to twenty-four hours, filter, then… take it.”
“Isn’t the current method working?”
“No…” Caesar washed his hands under the servant’s service: “Teacher is in critical condition. Just oral juice and… no.” He thought about when to get the syringe from Haridi. Although impure extracts could cause organ failure—malaria parasites would cause the same result—this was a last resort decision.
“I see knights still constantly going out—how much Artemisia annua do you need?”
“A lot.”
“How many people do you want to treat?” Bishop Andrew finally asked: “Ten, a hundred, a thousand?”
“How many patients have the priests blessed?”
“Already three thousand, the actual number may be more. Isaacites and Saracens won’t accept it, Byzantines may not be willing either, and some people may not even have a penny on them. They may have been deceived, so even if the priests claim no fees will be charged, they won’t come forward.”
Bishop Andrew asked gravely: “But are you really going to do this? I’ve also heard of malaria in villages and armies. This situation is truly unusual—Bethlehem is not a city surrounded by wilderness and swamps, nor does it have numerous canals and pools. You said this epidemic does not transmit from person to person—”
“Mosquitoes. A kind of mosquito can spread this epidemic.”
“So you want us to close the pools, fill the ditches, sprinkle medicine powder—though there’s not much powder.” This powder was said to have been imported by Isaacites not long ago, but when the bishop’s knights went to knock, they had already left, unknown when—this was an ominous sign.
“You suspect this is a man-made disaster.”
“Disaster? No, a conspiracy.” Bishop Andrew said, “I know you’re not the kind of person who values false fame, so from now on, leave all matters to me—I’m a priest, Chosen by Raphael. Though there will be some trouble, if you explain it clearly to me, I can also manage to explain it.”
He did not persuade Caesar to pretend to know nothing—as long as he cured the patriarch and his nephew, and some important figures—like what people had done before—covering it up would be much easier.
But thousands of people—this was different from what Caesar had done before. Whether asceticism, almsgiving, or bridge-building, it was all based on the premise that it had nothing to do with the “medical” monopolized by the Church.
If the Church was willing, or even if just a king or lord was willing, they could produce such miracles at any time, and they would not mind too much—but eliminating a plague and letting those who should die from it survive would touch the Church’s fundamentals.
Not to mention Caesar; even Bishop Andrew would face the Church’s accountability after completing this. Ayyarasa Road had Patriarch Heraclius, but the Roman Church would definitely investigate to the bottom: when and where he learned that this Artemisia annua could cure malaria, then ask about the preparation method, dosage, and usage of this Artemisia annua, and further ask how many people were saved because of it, who they were—Christians, Isaacites, Byzantines, or Saracens… and whether any unusual phenomena appeared, like smoke, lightning, strange cries, etc.
Any carelessness could be seen as practicing witchcraft. After all, Artemisia annua was not among the sacred herbs permitted by the Church. Even a patriarch using it without permission would violate canon law.
“…Is that okay?” Caesar knew this would place a heavy responsibility on Bishop Andrew. He hesitated a bit, but Bishop Andrew shook his head: “No one has ever appeared who was both Chosen by Raphael and Chosen by Michael. The Church has long ruled that if someone is like that, they must be possessed by the devil, even a great devil like Satan.”
In fact, if not for Caesar saving his nephew Gian, he would not have been willing to get involved in this trouble.
The bishop’s concerns were not unfounded. Caesar was indeed, as he said, not the greedy type. He straightforwardly handed over the next part of the work to the bishop—but he still concealed the matter of the syringe. After all, for people of this era, syringes and malaria parasites were fundamentally incomprehensible things.
Although they already had the theory of bodily fluids, believing that timely withdrawal of some blood could alter the composition of bodily fluids, balancing the four humors and restoring the body’s owner to health, but telling them there were tiny creatures, so small that even blessed knights or monks could not see them, breeding and raging inside the human body.
And to combat them, extracting something strange from Artemisia annua, then injecting it into people’s blood vessels—to know, the priests of this time had not yet accepted the concept of blood vessels, unless they studied the medical ancient texts of heathens.
And these things they did not understand could very well be seen as devils and the devils’ tricks.
When Caesar left the church, he had no attendant by his side and did not attract anyone’s attention.
He concealed his figure and face with a hooded cloak, did not ride Pollux, but casually picked a horse from the stable to ride—and he did not notice that beyond his line of sight, a tall and graceful figure stood in the shadows on the top floor of the bell tower, gazing at him as he gradually departed.
Laila’s last mission was to assassinate Abigail.
Although the effect she ultimately achieved might be better than directly sending that scum to hell, Sinan did not approve of her actions. As an Assassin assassin, she should strike quickly under favorable conditions, kill the prey, and then leave decisively, not play the hero.
Not to mention, Laila had drawn a team of Christian knights and rescued Saladin’s sister—though she was also a Saracen, her brother was already an enemy of the Eagle’s Nest.
If this Saracen noble lady ultimately died, it might be the thunder and whip of Allah upon them. Perhaps it could even stir Saladin’s blood, making him truly point his sharp sword at the Crusaders like a warrior of Allah, instead of at brothers with the same faith.
As punishment, Laila was chained hand and foot and spent several days in a cave without light, water, or food.
She lay quietly the whole time, using this method to minimize her consumption. But at the same time, her mind never stopped— the faces, expressions, and words of Sinan and the other Assassin assassins kept flashing in her memories, especially Sinan, the elder and father figure she had once trusted immensely—his attitude toward Saladin’s sister chilled Laila. Those male Assassin assassins despised and mocked Laila because they thought she needed to sell her body to complete the elder’s tasks.
Laila never refuted, though she did not need to. How could she prove it? She could not loudly declare that she too was one who received revelation from the Prophet, nor use cruder methods to prove her chastity.
Besides, she had always scorned these people.
But Saladin’s sister was an undeniably noble woman: pious, loyal, often reading histories and writing poetry. She was a fearless mother and wife; no one could find fault in her.
She was exactly the kind of lady who should be protected and cherished by Saracen men.
But when they heard that Laila had abandoned the chance to assassinate Abigail just to free Saladin’s sister from that humiliating and desperate predicament, even Elder Sinan did not show a relieved smile.
That’s women, they said without disguise: sentimental, indecisive, acting only on emotional impulses. They could accomplish nothing, or lead things to the worst outcome.
Was it really her fault? Laila kept asking her heart.
And when Laila was finally released from that cave and saw the sunlight again, she could not help but ask this question, and Sinan’s answer did not surprise her.
Although the elder did not say those harsh words, his regret and confusion still hurt Laila. He stared at her, as if asking whether this was an inevitable limitation of women. Even if the Prophet gave her revelation too, she still could not do what he required.
“I once thought I was right, the former master of the Eagle’s Nest was wrong. Now I realize he may have been the correct one,” Sinan said: “Your actions completely contradicted my long teaching.”
“But she should not have suffered such humiliation!” Laila argued,
“But we are Assassins. Do you know what that word means? For us, nothing is unsacrificable, not even faith. As long as we can hunt the target, we can use any means. And you, you didn’t even need to think; it was right in front of you.
If you were a handmaid, a guard, or even the most ordinary prostitute, I would not blame you for doing so. But you are an assassin, Laila. You think your thoughts are more important than your mission.”
“I can go kill Abigail.”
“No need. His value has greatly changed. Now his death cannot intimidate anyone, not even his servants.
If you want to atone for your mistake, Laila, I permit you to choose a target. But if this time you still cannot satisfy me, I can only declare you are no longer part of the Eagle’s Nest. You can rely on your beauty and my education to make a living anywhere—Ayyarasa Road, Damascus, or Acre—but from now on, you cannot find any branch location, no assassin will contact you. You will be expelled by us until the end of the world, never to return.”
Once, these words were like a curse; just saying them would make Laila tremble uncontrollably, wanting only to prostrate at the elder’s feet and beg him not to drive her out.
For these dozen years, Laila had always been the elder’s student, an Assassin assassin. Even as a woman ascending to heaven, she did not know where to go.
But one thing she was sure of: with blow after blow and reflection, the Eagle’s Nest’s attraction to her no longer seemed so strong.
Perhaps some would say the Eagle’s Nest was her home, but if this home had nothing to fill her void, the result was beyond doubt.
Laila thought, perhaps as her birth father said, she was a monster, a devil, to be so ruthless.
When Laila heard of Saint Jerome’s apparition, she guessed those Christians who conquered Damascus would immediately head to Bethlehem—for them, conquering Damascus was already an unexpected delight, and Saint Jerome’s apparition in Bethlehem was the most reliable proof of that delight.
Perhaps the Prophet and Allah thought the same; Bethlehem had become a lake rich in water and grass, countless big fish swimming in it, oblivious to the approaching danger. She could freely pick her target from them.
She had considered adding King Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road to the assassination list, but soon rejected it. Laila did not fear the sharpness of the Spear of the Holy City; she just could not help envying the vitality of this young man.
Laila’s white hair, red eyes, and female identity had once trapped her in countless dilemmas, nearly irredeemable. And this Christian king had also faced numerous crises brought by unchangeable facts, but not only did he not collapse, he grew vigorously toward the sun like a seedling breaking through hard rock.
And the one most indispensable to this was his friend.
Laila had seen and tempted this young knight. One could only say he did not match her perception of a Christian knight; her heart was filled with doubt. Did such a person really exist in the world?
She once thought Elder Sinan was one, but now realized he was just a mortal. And Sinan had said that black-haired young man might overthrow the Eagle’s Nest—but how could that be—Laila always felt that to overthrow the Eagle’s Nest, it would take someone like Godfrey of Bouillon, and Caesar in her eyes leaned more toward gentleness and fragility.
And the strangest thing about him was—Laila could not detect traces of his growth. It was as if he suddenly became like this one night, or even earlier.
After Laila saw him pass by, a pair of weary-looking priests with dragging steps emerged from an alley. One spotted the crowd in front of the church and let out a wail, his steps even slower. He seemed unwilling to go back.
“I’m exhausted.” He said to his companion, “Let’s find a place to rest, have a drink.”
His companion immediately agreed. They left their servant behind and went to a tavern hanging a dried chicken. Laila guessed they were the priests sent to survey the number of patients. She paused only a moment before following.
Sure enough, she heard their complaints. One priest, persuaded by his friend to drink quite a bit, made his pent-up dissatisfaction even more pronounced: “Just for a title. Isn’t Little Saint enough? What more does he want? To seize our exclusive authority?
He’s just a knight, right?
Everyone knows he followed the king to war, his battlefield was on Saracen territory, not in church. What does he want? I think he’s possessed by the devil.”
“Who else but that could do these terrible things? This has gone beyond seeking fame.
No benefit to him at all, unless he can tempt people to believe in him, offer their bodies and souls.” His companion echoed.
The priest laughed heartily upon hearing this. From his expression, he did not believe his companion’s words, but had certainly noted them in his mind.
“We should go back.” His companion suddenly said, “If we don’t, we might be punished by the bishop.”
“Whatever. I think his brain has gone wrong too, or he’s been tempted by Satan. That’s possible, but it’s too frightening.
That’s a bishop lord.”
“Bishop lord how? That devil’s teacher is still Patriarch Heraclius?”
“Unlikely. That’s a patriarch.”
“Who knows? Just like how the devil once seized our Savior, took him to the highest mountain peak, opened the roof, showed him all sorts of things in the world.
If devils tempt someone, isn’t tempting a monarch more worthwhile than a commoner? Making a pious person fall is more satisfying to devils than making a lowly sinner fall into hell.”
“So will you try?”
“Try what?”
“You were born in Rome, just stayed here for pilgrimage. Don’t you want to return to Rome…”
Laila did not listen further; she did not need to hear the answer.
The Assassin assassin patiently waited until the two priests stumbled out of the tavern arm-in-arm, then silently followed.
These two priests were drunk and did not notice an utterly ordinary pilgrim. Like two docile rabbits, their throats were slit. Laila dragged their corpses into a corner, piled hay on top. They might still be discovered.
But by then, these two would have nothing to do with her.
She went to find Caesar, but saw him standing in a shadowy spot, watching a group of people arguing noisily.
