Chapter 300: Isaacites In The Plague
When the angry crowd rushed into Haridi’s workshop with torches, looped a rope around his neck, and dragged him out of the bedroom, workshop, courtyard… like a dying old dog, throwing him heavily onto the stone slab, he did not feel panic in his heart; instead, he felt it was only to be expected.
Although this was only the third night.
Just as Bishop Andrew had once worried, the priests’ actions, named as blessing but actually counting the number of patients, had indeed aroused speculation from some clever people or those with ulterior motives.
And among them, there were no few who had personally seen or even suffered from malaria; they immediately deduced that a plague was spreading in this city, some decided to flee at once, while more people took immediate action—and the ways people of this era used to ward off the plague were nothing more than a few methods.
Prayer, asceticism, burning spices—this could be said to hit the mark by chance; the smoke produced by burning most dried plants could drive away mosquitoes, and Caesar did not prohibit it.
The fourth method was also burning, but not burning spices, rather burning patients along with their clothing and utensils—this method was effective against all plagues, as it eliminated the source of infection.
Some people also used taking mercury, lead, powder ground from unicorn horns— in fact, these unicorns were mostly from unicorn whales—the poor had no access to this, so they relied on smearing feces and mud to avoid harm from the epidemic.
People seeking help from priests were also coming in an endless stream; they might not all have contracted malaria yet, but due to psychological pressure, they urgently hoped the priests could give them comfort.
Moreover, these people were usually hard to refuse; they were major donors to the church, monastery, and priests.
The final method was finding a scapegoat; in remote villages, there was always some eccentric, crazy old woman; while in the city, Isaacites were the first targets—Haridi had made a wrong judgment due to the previous rising panic; during the day, he had run around desperately knocking on everyone’s door, which had already drawn sideways glances from others.
Once they learned he was an Isaacite, the charge was immediately established, and his subsequent behavior of staying indoors was seen as a thief’s guilty conscience.
If Haridi had not been infected, he might have had the strength to escape. But after he passed out, he lost consciousness until these people burst in, when he was only barely awake; the goldsmith had almost no power to resist, and on that short journey, he did not know how many fists and toes he took.
He heard someone shouting loudly, “There’s a dead man here!”
That was Lego; Lego was still barely alive, but the vomit beside him, and the blood and feces beneath him, already proved he was a patient, and one hidden away; the people were furious, they raised pitchforks and hook and chain, dragged Lego down from the bed, across the entire workshop, and shoved him onto Haridi.
“Let these two dogs stay together!”
They bound Haridi and Lego face-to-face; the breath spat from the dying man’s mouth almost suffocated Haridi.
He murmured prayers, which only further incited the crowd’s hatred toward them; someone nearby loudly proclaimed their charges—conspiring with the devil, bringing the plague into this city, and in extreme irony, in the past these charges were mostly false, just bishops and lords shirking responsibility.
This time it was truly real.
The Isaacite leaders had brewed this conspiracy; they might have other accomplices, but so what—even the sages in the synagogue could be sacrificed when necessary, let alone ordinary Isaacites like them.
More Isaacites were shoved, cursed, and beaten, driven out of their homes; though they tried hard to plead their case, no one listened—among them there were young and strong men, yet no one fought back, at most glaring angrily or cursing under their breath.
They stumbled along the streets; having no time to put on coats, their silk garments, golden ornaments, shiny belts and boots were fully exposed, further enraging some pilgrims.
They could not tolerate these heretics living so healthy and prosperous in this holy city; they stripped them of everything, including the clothing the Isaacites used to cover themselves, not even leaving them a single cloth for modesty—the white cloths were thrown to the ground, immediately trampled by countless feet.
Some even began stealing and plundering when rushing into their houses.
A little thief rushed over excitedly, but unfortunately, he arrived too late.
All the boxes in Haridi’s workshop had been opened, tables and chairs taken away, floor stone bricks pried up, and someone had even climbed the wooden beams; there was almost no hidden corner left.
As he hesitated, he saw a neatly dressed pilgrim carrying a box out of the room.
Although the man was tall and moved with composure, reminding him of those dignified lords, he still could not control his greed: “Lord, did you find anything?”
Caesar found the syringe and needle Haridi had hidden; Haridi might conceal it from anyone, but not from him, his master—Caesar of course knew where he hid these precious creations.
Seeing the other not only did not answer him but just glanced at him from under the hood, this silence angered him more than disdain; he even placed his hand on the belt holding the short sword.
“You have already sinned,” Caesar said. “Go away; for the sake that you have not yet profited from this riot, I can forgive you once more.”
“Everyone is doing it.” The little thief hesitated but dared not risk it; the other was nearly twice his height. “And he is an Isaacite.”
“This plague was not brought by Isaacites.”
“Not them, then who? Lord, that is exactly their role.” The little thief sensed the other was reasonable, so he grew more bold. “They are sinful by nature, yet they feel no shame or confession for their crimes, instead regarding them as glory.
For these people, even if God were willing to save them, it would be useless; they demand too much—even if immediately elevated to heaven, they would still be dissatisfied; they are the devil’s reserves, unworthy of any trust or protection.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Did not at first, but now I do; he is yours, is he not?”
The little thief stepped back two paces. “Little Saint, you love us so much, and we love you so much, but please do not waste your goodwill on these Isaacites; they are unworthy.”
“You may be right, but as a lord, I cannot sit by and watch unauthorized trials and executions occur in my territory.”
“You will regret this.” The little thief said, then leaped backward out the small window; his landing was light and soft, doubtless he did this often.
Caesar sighed softly; Isaacites were hated by many, but among those he knew, not all were irredeemable—like Haridi, and like Lego.
He knew Lego had restarted his business and home in Nalessa; his courage and resolve impressed Caesar, but he did not know why he suddenly returned to Bethlehem.
Caesar did not believe Lego was the one spreading the plague—not out of kindness, but because there was no need; no Isaacite would lightly throw away their life; they knew well that without life, even amassed wealth was for naught.
Moreover, they were not the first to show symptoms; there were two or three others before them.
——————
In Manger Square, the excited crowd had piled up firewood and erected a stake. They bound Haridi, Lego, and other Isaacites to the stake, awaiting only the master of ceremonies’ order to light the fire.
The people beside Haridi—aside from those already too ill to speak or move—were all shouting their innocence loudly; they were indeed innocent. Haridi knew not to assume Isaacites always helped each other and relied on one another—he himself was a sage’s student and knew some sages cared only for their own interests; ordinary Isaacites were not kin to them, but useful tools.
When acting as white gloves or black gloves for lords or bishops, these kin were endless chess pieces.
But how could these ordinary Christian residents know the intricacies? They only knew that any disaster befalling them must be the work of these Isaacites.
They could not even distinguish which Isaacite was which, let alone understand their tight organizational relationships and hierarchies.
But just before lighting the fire, a troop of knights arrived; their escorts swung clubs to disperse the crowd.
The lead knight came before the master of ceremonies—a strange monk. “The lord does not permit you to do that,” the knight said coldly. “Release these Isaacites, remove all your firewood and wood.
If you insist on lighting a fire or something, throw in some dried mint or pine needles; this helps curb the spread of the plague.”
“We are curbing the spread of the plague; once we deal with these Isaacites, the devil’s hounds, it will leave as swiftly as it came.”
“Are you willing to take responsibility for those words?”
“Take responsibility?”
“Yes, if after burning these Isaacites the plague does not leave.”
“I am a monk.”
“Yes, you are a monk, like these Isaacites, residents of Bethlehem; they pay taxes to our lord. Now that you have burned these Isaacites, will you pay their taxes?”
“I hear your lord is a pious man.”
“Very pious, deeply favored by God and the saints; for that reason, he needs people to work for him, not troublemakers at a time like this.”
“He needs these Isaacites to work for him? The devil does not pay taxes, does not exchange coins, nor lend usury to these mongrel dogs.”
His words sparked an uproar; clearly, the crowd was mostly settling old scores.
“If you feel there is any injustice, go plead your case to the lord!” the knight shouted louder. In other places, the crowd would not believe it, but in Bethlehem it was different; they fell instantly silent.
The monk immediately showed some anger. “Does your lord wish to save these Isaacites?”
“Not quite; rather, if there is to be judgment and punishment, that is the lord’s power. And right now, the lord needs them—of course, not to deal with the devil.” But close enough, the knight said softly, then raised his voice: “Bishop Andrew is planning to gather all the patients together, then have people care for them.”
“And treat them as well?”
Someone asked hopefully, doubtless with kin suffering from malaria.
“Yes, priests and monks will care for and treat them. But there are not enough hands to… serve them; they need a clean, quiet environment, ample nutrition.
We need people to cleave firewood, boil water, wipe and massage patients, feed them water and food; dirty bedsheets need washing, chamber pots need emptying—these tasks, are you willing to do them?”
No one dared answer; malaria was a mild plague—at least not more terrible than smallpox or the Black Death—but how would they know it spread via mosquitoes?
Prolonged contact with patients might infect oneself; this notion was deeply ingrained.
Except for those passionately loving their kin and friends, few would have such courage.
Seeing this, the knight was not surprised.
He nodded. “Looks like you are not too willing either; why not make use of waste? Gentlemen, we need some slaves whose loss would not be regrettable.”
He turned to the released Haridi. “Are you willing?”
“I am willing,” Haridi said weakly, and though the other Isaacites were less willing, they knew this was already the best outcome, unless they preferred returning to the stake to be burned alive.
