Chapter 302: Whose Responsibility?
The most tricky part was still the sewer.
Bethlehem had been destroyed and rebuilt several times in history. The buildings and facilities that remain now were almost all built by the Ancient Romans—they also brought their sewer systems here, but compared to those in the City of Rome where one could walk upright, Bethlehem’s sewer system was not so spacious.
A tall man would need to crawl inside, and even a short man would have to bend his knees. Originally, two dwarfs were responsible for cleaning the sewer—their work was not that heavy; they were only called down to clear blockages when they occurred.
People then made the Isaacites do this job. They were filled with fear about it, crying and wailing, but back then the people of Bethlehem were willing to keep them because the knights said they could make them do the things that Bethlehem’s Christians were unwilling to do. Helpless, they had no choice but to crawl down one by one.
According to Caesar’s request, they had to clear the parts that might cause poor drainage to ensure that the water from the reservoir could flush every part of the sewer. Haridi only glanced at his master from afar, and he was hit on the shoulder with a club. The other man cursed under his breath, as if the Little Saint they revered had been defiled just by being looked at by this Isaacite.
But if Haridi had not misheard, what those people who held Caesar’s hand, kissed his robe, and stroked his accessories and boots as if venerating a holy relic were appealing for—was for him to ensure that their loved ones could return safely to their sides.
But how was that possible? Such a request was absurd and unreasonable to begin with.
If these people truly respected their Little Saint as they claimed, they should not make such ridiculous requests.
It would be normal for those people to die, just like the Isaacites—some among them had malaria but could not receive corresponding treatment and care, and several had already fallen one after another, never to rise again.
If Caesar could have a cold and hard heart and turn a blind eye to it, it would be a commonplace matter, even if he was Bethlehem’s lord—just as said in the Decameron, during a plague, lords and knights would raise the drawbridge and close the castle gates, while the rich would flee to sparsely populated manors or monasteries to continue their leisurely lives.
The populace would not only not hold him accountable but would lament their own bad destiny.
A plague was originally something knights and lords should not and could not interfere with. After the Church had almost monopolized all medical resources, they should appeal to Bishop Andrew, not Caesar—as a knight and lord, his only enemies should be the armies of heathens and heretics.
Ingratitude was not exclusive to the Isaacites. Haridi muttered under his breath, bent down, and slowly crawled into the sewer.
————
At this moment, Caesar felt as if he had returned to another world.
In another world, in the hospital, in every department he rotated through, even the obstetrics full of hope was no exception—every moment he could hear similar appeals: Save my loved one! Save my beloved! Save my friend!
And at this time, he could not even say he would do his best.
He was not a monk or priest; he could only say he would pray to God and the saints on their behalf, praying that their protection would fall upon these unfortunate people.
And he could not stay for long either. Although he had already explained the use of artemisia to Bishop Andrew, Bishop Andrew was still a man of this era and place; he was not skilled in using herbs and could not even distinguish the stage to which a patient’s condition had progressed.
And whether patients or their loved ones, they clearly trusted Caesar more. They would panic if they could not see him, and to get them to accept treatment, Caesar had to step in before they could be sure they were not receiving witchcraft.
Caesar walked among the patients groaning incessantly, letting his hand hang so that these exhausted people tormented by malaria could touch it.
The monks and priests here—even those Chosen by Raphael—were almost at the end of their endurance. They had to prepare potions, mix fish glue（ for oral purified artemisinin）, register new patients’ names and origins, and patrol.
Patrols could not be interrupted. Besides patients’ conditions changing at any time, some patients would do incomprehensible things, such as swallowing a gold coin or silver coin.
Ordinary people swallowing a gold coin or silver coin directly would cause suffocation, internal bleeding, and organ perforation—but at this time people did not understand this; they had only heard that pure gold and silver could absorb toxins and exorcise evil spirits. Even if they had the plague, they wanted to try it, thinking perhaps it would make them healthy again.
Those discovered could have the gold coin or silver coin taken away and be forced to vomit; those not discovered basically had no chance of survival.
Although the priests had God’s blessing, they lacked knowledge of anatomy, and there were no machines to locate the gold coin. Even powerful priests who could instantly stop bleeding and heal wounds could not remove the swallowed gold coin.
Caesar had come to tend to these patients and also to select the first patient to try the new treatment.
This might be his only inescapable and heavy selfish motive—he hoped the patient was already at death’s door, with almost no chance of survival even without drug complications—and he was similar to his teacher Patriarch Heraclius, this old man who had once given him new life and hope—from age, physical condition to disease progression…
“What are you looking for?” a weak voice asked. Caesar was slightly startled. He looked toward the sound and saw a pair of bright eyes staring at him in the darkness.
He walked over, and the priest beside him immediately raised the oil lamp. In the flickering light of the oil lamp, he saw her—that was a woman.
“We really are quite fated, Lord. We meet again.”
“So you’re still in Bethlehem, Nelly.”
“Why shouldn’t I be here? Although my husband’s relatives and friends… would love to beat me to death, I did win the duel. Thanks to you, my days have been pretty good—at least better than the past twenty years. But now… it seems destiny is finally coming to collect… those things that shouldn’t have belonged to me.”
She spoke haltingly, clearly forcing herself to raise her voice.
Caesar silently reached out to check her temperature. Her temperature was very high, and a foul, turbid, sticky smell lingered around her.
“Are you having diarrhea?”
“Diarrhea… and vomiting, Lord. My condition is very bad. Several people… just like me have already been dragged out and buried.
I haven’t… urinated blood yet. They say if I urinate blood… I’m doomed to die. Is that true, Lord?”
Caesar did not want to comfort her at this time; there was no need. This woman seemed always quite lucid; she knew what she wanted and would strive for it with all her might.
“May I confess to you, Lord?” Although there were plenty of priests and monks here, if someone insisted on confessing to another person, as long as he was a Christian, it was not impossible.
The monk beside Caesar understandingly stepped away a few paces, while Nelly revealed a strange smile.
“I think you’re looking for something? You are looking for something, right.”
“I’m looking for a patient.”
“Someone you know?”
“No.”
“Then he must have something special.”
“Indeed, he needs to have some similarities to another person.”
“Can I do?”
“Do you know what I want to do?”
“I don’t know, but you’ve never done evil, at least as far as I know, never.” Neili was a woman and somewhat younger than Patriarch Heraclius, so Caesar could not be sure her condition matched Heraclius’s.
But once the drug was injected, as long as there was no allergy or organ failure, the medication could be repeated.
“I do have to do something, but you might not understand it.”
“I don’t need to understand, Lord. If you want me to be blind, I’ll be blind. If you want me to be deaf, I’ll be deaf. Even if you want me to be dead, I’ll accept it. You’ve saved me three times already. Even if I repay my life to you this time, I’ve still profited twice.”
Caesar stood up and instructed the priest beside him, “This is a lady I know. Arrange a quiet place for her.”
The monk looked at Neili in surprise. Neili was a standard bottom-class woman; from appearance to clothing, from speech to posture, there was no trace of ever having lived in luxury.
But since Caesar had said so, there was no need for him to resist. He nodded and moved Neili to another room.
This room could not even be called a room; it was just a relatively spacious corner, but it had a small window, in a much better position than what most patients had.
Caesar did not hesitate; he had Neili turn her head and lie on her side.
Then she felt a hand lift her robe.
Nelly was not plump; her bones protruded, and due to prolonged diarrhea, even though someone had wiped her, some skin was still ulcerated. No man would feel any desire upon seeing her, but she still trembled slightly when she felt warm fingers touch her.
How strange; she had lived so many years in the world, yet this was the first time she was touched like a human being.
She felt something smeared on her exposed buttocks, bringing an unusually clear coolness, and then she smelled alcohol—liquor, she thought.
Although several years had passed, Caesar still easily found the feel. The needle pierced the skin and entered the muscle. He slowly rotated the syringe barrel. Although some liquid still leaked, he could feel that most of the drug had entered Nelly’s body.
Next was waiting for the results. If no redness, swelling, pain, induration, rash, or severe itching within thirty minutes, it passed the first trial.
If no difficulty breathing, throat constriction, or bronchial spasm within one hour, it passed the second trial.
And if no disappearance of blood pressure and pulse, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain or diarrhea, confusion, or shock within twelve hours, it passed the final trial.
However, within a week, the patient might still develop fever, joint pain, and jaundice, but as long as their life could be saved, these torments were almost negligible.
He did not leave but stood quietly on the platform outside, gazing at the gradually brightening fishbelly white on the horizon.
When he left, malaria had almost vanished from another world; he had no personal experience treating malaria patients and did not know when it would take effect.
He only roughly knew the course was three days, but as long as within the next twenty-four hours Nelly’s body showed none of the above symptoms and even improved somewhat, the drug’s safety would be assured.
No adverse reactions appeared on Nelly’s body. He injected two more small doses（ intentionally avoiding intravenous injection; using intramuscular injection was also to reduce side effects）. By evening, Nelly’s vomiting and diarrhea had stopped, and afterward she even fell asleep rather than continuing in a coma.
After a while, Nelly let out an unusually deep sigh: “Now I feel like I’ve come back to life, Lord.”
Caesar was also nearly exhausted. “Thank you, Nelly.” He rested his forehead on Nelly’s hand: “You have indeed come back to life.” He called the monks and told them to observe Nelly’s condition carefully and report any reactions to him immediately.
Afterward, he hurried back to Bethlehem.
Bishop Andrew cleared the room of people, then watched him inject Patriarch Heraclius.
Caesar could feel he was very nervous. Although similar devices had appeared, most were for “enemas” and much cruder—now Caesar was directly injecting these liquids into the patient’s body, not through the mouth or rectum, but through so-called muscles and blood vessels.
He had also studied Saracen medical texts on blood and circulation, but deep down, he felt they were more like the bizarre teachings of heretics and did not really believe them.
Although he had seen severed limbs on the battlefield, he still could not confirm what Caesar said—that blood could transport many things throughout the body, like nutrients, air, and such.
“Is this Saracen research?”
Not really. Caesar nodded slightly; he could not lie, but explaining to Bishop Andrew… was simply impossible.
As a knight, it was impossible for him to know more medical knowledge than a priest, let alone that the knowledge from another world was an entire system—he could talk about it for decades if he started.
Patriarch Heraclius’s condition was more severe than Nelly’s. He had held on this long entirely because priests and monks had continuously treated him, greatly delaying the time of his summons by the Grim Reaper.
Even so, it was not until the next day that his temperature dropped somewhat. Fortunately, no worrying side effect symptoms appeared.
In the early morning of the fourth day, he finally stirred slightly. Seeing he was about to wake, Caesar stepped forward quickly and gripped Patriarch Heraclius’s shoulder.
After these days of suffering, the already gaunt Patriarch Heraclius looked even more like a leather pouch drained of flesh and blood, with nothing inside but protruding bones. He opened his eyes slightly, saw Caesar, and showed a faint smile, which was then drawn away by Bishop Andrew’s joyful call.
“God! Your Excellency! Patriarch Your Excellency! You’re really better!
This is a miracle, Your Excellency, even a holy relic!” Bishop Andrew even forgot to lower his voice; he was too excited: “I’ve never seen any potion that could drive the epidemic from a person so quickly!”
Patriarch Heraclius’s lips still held a smile. Having just woken from prolonged coma, he did not immediately understand Bishop Andrew’s words, but the moment he did, his expression changed drastically.
