Chapter 306: Qualifications
The number of people afflicted with malaria finally rose to five thousand six hundred and seventy-two, what a terrifying number, a quarter of the entire city was suffering from it.
The luckiest thing was that because Caesar was there, even those with severe cases had half a chance of surviving—while the other half, whether children or elders, men or women, had to leave with regret those who loved them, heading to a distant place.
Those administering their last rites were not necessarily priests and monks; they were continuously praying, bestowing holy grace upon the sick. Some were no longer able to respond, while others had fallen into a drowsy sleep from exhaustion; people could not bear to wake them.
The ones taking on this task were knights and other ordinary folk; they tightly gripped the holy oil, going one by one, listening to confessions, then clumsily performing the rites.
At first there was noise, arguments, panic, but when the end truly came, everyone became calm instead. The gravely ill suppressed their cries and groans, those with milder symptoms did their utmost to care for those around them, and those who were healthy and able to move worked day and night.
They kept taking out the gold coins Caesar had given them to look at. “These are the Little Saint’s gold coins,” they said joyfully, fondling them repeatedly, then speaking of what they would do after the plague passed, according to their different aspirations.
Some said they would find a wife or husband and use this gold coin to learn a craft; others said they would rather go to the wilderness to buy a flock of sheep to herd; still others said they preferred to farm land, wheat, fruit trees, or rose flowers.
Some hoped even more to use this gold coin as capital to become a traveling peddler.
Hearing him say this, everyone burst into laughter. “Aren’t you afraid of encountering the plague again?”
“I’m not afraid,” the man said earnestly. “The Little Saint will protect me.”
A newly arrived patient turned his head to look at them, his heart filled with complex emotions.
He was that little thief who had infiltrated Haridi’s workshop but found nothing. He had once mocked their lord, thinking him too tolerant of those Isaacites, and now he too was sick. He did not know if this was punishment for his disrespect toward the Little Saint.
He could still think now because his condition had not yet worsened to the worst point, but he had seen those in great pain, trembling in fear, even more terrified of the worst outcome—he would perish in this plague.
Hatred grew stronger in his heart. If they had sacrificed those Isaacites to the devil, could he have avoided this plague?
“Probably not.” A voice answered him. Only then did the little thief realize he had unconsciously spoken his thoughts aloud. He looked in surprise beside him, where a person had sat down unnoticed. When she turned the face under her hood toward him, the little thief nearly screamed in fright. It was a white-haired woman whose eyes were a uniform blood-red, as if soaked in blood.
He thought he had seen wrong, perhaps it was moonlight shining on her hair, or maybe she was sick too—he had seen some patients with red eyes—but soon he knew it was not. It was unmistakably silver-thread-like white hair, and those eyes were as bright and clear as rubies.
She looked at him, as if seeing straight into his heart from his eyes; his soul felt pierced, and another kind of fear gripped him tightly.
He looked around at the others in panic, but they acted as if they had not seen this woman. “I didn’t mean that,” the little thief pleaded softly. He knew Caesar had some fanatical followers who would not allow anyone to blaspheme their Little Saint.
“Do you still think your lord should harshly punish those Isaacites and burn them all?”
The little thief said nothing, but his eyes said it all; he did indeed think so.
“Then you are the same as the Isaacites, at least in your lord’s eyes.”
“How could they be the same?” the little thief could not help retorting.
“You are also despised. Though many would think a thief nobler than an Isaacite, that does not stop them from hanging you on the same wooden frame. The only favor you might get is not having a few dogs hung beside you, but likewise you face their contempt and hatred. You are a sinner, destined for hell.”
“But they all say that…”
“If your lord were not Caesar, the outcome you would get is being hung on the street or placed with the dead—if you were not killed on the spot for your blasphemy.” Laila lowered her head. “You are so unreasonable to him only because you know he is a good person, but you do not thank him or respect him for it. Instead, you press him aggressively, taking advantage, exploiting his goodness, testing his limits, and enjoying it.
Sometimes I do not understand why you do that. Do you want to see his other side? Perhaps if he became what you are familiar with, you would say, oh, as expected, there are no good people in the world.”
The little thief opened his mouth, not knowing if it was the fever or something else, but his mouth felt dry; still he insisted: “Then who are you? A conscience inquisitor?”
“No, just someone who thinks it unfair.”
Laila stood up, even tucking in the little thief’s bedsheet, and in an instant vanished without a trace, as if she had never been there.
She moved through the night and soon arrived at the Church of the Nativity.
Laila thought Caesar was in his room, but he was not. Using her assassin skills, she searched around and found him in the church, praying before the manger where the Holy Child was born.
She listened for a while, then came out and revealed herself. Caesar saw her but was not startled.
If it were another Assassin assassin, he would think they came to kill him. But if it was Laila, he was not sure.
“I think I need to thank you,” Laila said. “In Damascus, you did not leave me there as that fool said.”
“I must thank you too. Whatever your reason, whether the person you saved was a Saracen or a Christian, you spared an innocent from harm.”
“But you stirred up a lot of trouble for it, right? At least that vile man and his father must hate you to death.”
“I’m used to it.” The two great vassals by Amalric I, Count Raymond of Tripoli and Grand Duke Bohemond of Antioch, had disliked him from the start. Baldwin had told him Raymond might despise his origins—in the beginning, they did not know he was the son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa.
And Raymond was always the strictest about status and bloodline.
As for Grand Duke Bohemond of Antioch, though his ancestor was a mercenary, that did not stop him from looking down on everyone—yes, that was how Amalric I put it, but Caesar always felt his hostility toward him was especially strong, unsure if it was due to Abigail’s influence.
This time Bohemond’s hostility was utterly blatant and unmasked; perhaps he felt the ending had come, whether for Abigail or for himself.
“What about you?”
“Me?”
“You failed to assassinate Abigail, and you did something quite superfluous for an assassin. No one held you accountable?”
Laila smiled, hand on the dagger at her waist, and walked before Caesar. “Of course, I am the student of the Old Man of the Mountain Sinan, or one could say his foster daughter, but that does not mean I escape punishment for wrongdoing. No, my punishment is heavier than others’, not lighter, because I am a devil.”
“You are different from others.”
“Yes, do you know why he chose me? Every city has Qiyan, and plenty of them, not to mention the singing girls and dancers kept in Saracen nobles’ homes. Children like me are too many.”
“You were chosen.”
Laila threw her head back in a silent laugh. “So you noticed even when we fought.”
“An ordinary woman, no matter how harsh her training, could not fight me, especially when I had obtained the saint’s favor.”
“Was it because of this that your parents abandoned you?”
“How could it be, lord? Look at me. I was abandoned in swaddling clothes. They saw me as a devil because of my white hair and red eyes.”
“It is a condition.”
“A condition, what a novel way to put it.
Even my teacher, the wise Sinan, thought it a sign that the devil had once possessed my body. He even believed my being chosen might be for this reason, perhaps what I hear is not all the Prophet’s revelation.”
“I recall that Saracens also pray in the temple during the choosing ceremony.”
“Like you, only males, though the age limit can extend to twenty.” Laila sat before him. This was a rare experience: in a place sacred even to Christians and Saracens, a woman seen as a devil sat face-to-face talking with a knight hailed as the Little Saint, their identities being an Assassin assassin who kept countless rulers awake at night and a Crusader lord.
“I heard your prayer; you were praying for that noble lady you once loyally served, begging the Prophet for mercy to heal her. But have you not considered? Does her sign subtly overlap with another scene?”
Caesar’s eyes widened suddenly, that somewhat childish expression making Laila smile.
“I too once endured high fever for several nights. I was conscious and could hear. If not for my uniqueness,” she pointed to her white hair and red eyes, “I would have been abandoned by the slave merchant, but he could not bear to, even calling scholars to treat me. I clearly heard his curses and the scholars’ insults—when they realized I was not sick but receiving the Prophet’s revelation, they deemed me a devil.
The merchant regretted the energy, time, and money he had spent on me. The scholars felt disgusted for touching me.”
There was already the example of Witt, who had not undergone the church ceremony and was past the age limit, yet in a life-and-death crisis he still received the saint’s protection. This was a heavy unresolved puzzle weighing on Caesar’s heart. He could not understand: if, as the priests said, God granted favor only to the most pious, bravest, and purest, Witt likely met none.
How could he become one of the chosen? Even if the power he gained was so weak, it surpassed mortals. If not for offending Baldwin, the king and their teacher Heraclius had already decided his fate; with this slight favor, he might have lived well.
So, could there be those who receive blessing without the choosing? Yes, though rare, and they often went to extremes: either immensely powerful or so weak as to be nearly nothing.
Witt was undoubtedly the latter.
In the past century-plus, several of the former appeared, but only one was absorbed by the Church for her unique ability; the others became devil-possessed. Their endings need not be said: if they did not resist, they were purified by fire or water, buried as forgiven Christians, but still dead.
If they dared resist? Even worse, facing attacks from both Church and secular powers. Clearly, lords did not want such uncontrollable power in their territory—not their sons, nephews, or equals, but those they saw as furniture and cattle. Who knew if they would risk it, using devil-borrowed power to attack a master? Especially those cruel, greedy masters, forever fearful.
And women… Heraclius had scarcely discussed this with Caesar.
He only mentioned a noble lady who once intruded into the church. No one knew what she did, but her end was clear: locked in the castle’s tower, the smallest room at the top, with the connecting stairs destroyed. Daily she lowered a basket for food, and people emptied her chamber pot of filth.
Thus imprisoned for over twenty years, she died in solitude.
“Are you not afraid, lord?”
Caesar started slightly, realizing Laila had come very close, her breath brushing his skin with a faint itch, the heat from her body roasting him like flame.
The tall woman almost crouched over Caesar. Unlike women he had seen, Laila had Qiyan training; no one knew better how to display her unique allure before a man. Even the arrogant Razis had to succumb to her.
“Afraid?”
“Yes, afraid. Like those I have seen before.” Whether Assassin assassins, her colleagues, or her teacher Sinan.
Laila once wrongly thought Sinan was special, but she found he was perhaps watched by the Prophet too, yet his mind and concepts were unexceptional. Unlike others’ fear and loathing, he treated her more like a sharp weapon.
He was so arrogant, thinking he could control a devil—he had tried using favors and affection as chains on Laila, but he underestimated his foster daughter, raised as a boy. Laila’s temperament was fierce, surpassing anyone, Christian or Saracen.
If at first her interest in Caesar was due to Sinan, now her heart was filled with a wondrous, fresh feeling.
“If I said… I think there is no essential difference between women and men. You may be slightly inferior in physical strength, but your minds are the same. Like if taught, a boy knows one plus one equals two, a girl would not think one plus one equals three; in this they are equal.”
If a vile maggot-like wretch like Witt could gain blessing, why not Laila?
Even as an Assassin assassin, Caesar had to admit Laila was beautiful, strong, agile, like a leopard racing through moonlit desert, unforgettable at first sight.
Laila almost cupped Caesar’s face, gazing intently into those green eyes for insincerity or ulterior motives, but found none; he truly thought so.
She suddenly released Caesar and lightly jumped to her feet.
“You truly are a different sort,” she said softly, “but here you pray for a lady not closely related to you, without thinking of yourself?”
Caesar straightened, having guessed what Laila wanted to say. “You mean I am caught in an airtight net.”
“You have many enemies.”
“It was my misjudgment.”
Crusaders were warriors fighting for God, sharing faith, law, and one vital ambition: to drive heathens from this holy land, so God’s light could cover the entire Arabian Peninsula.
Though after founding Edessa, Tripoli, Antioch, and Ayyarasa Road, Crusader discipline, thought, and purity had faded, he never expected such shortsightedness.
Laila curled her lips. “You know, in the Eagle’s Nest all those years, the deepest lesson I learned was you cannot just stand on your own side, using your thinking to understand vicious, vile people.
They will do anything, and mere defense is far from enough.
You care little for power, money, or women, quite like the Saint Knights you revere—if you die fittingly, you might truly become a saint.
But will they believe it? What they crave is your indifference to those things, and you are married with children. If not for yourself, do you not love your offspring?
Of course they did not expect things to change so fast. Think: just a few years, and they cannot wait, unwilling to watch a fierce rival grow.
Especially if you stand with your friends and brothers, with the King of Ayyarasa Road, you will oppose them. No better timing.
If I were you, I would flee Bethlehem immediately.”
“Flee?”
“Do not care for the people in this city, those craftsmen, merchants, pilgrims—they are useless to you. Even if all die, in time new settlers will refill it.
See, they deliberately chose malaria.
If black death or smallpox, the city might stay empty for years, but few care about malaria. As for those you care about, take them all, along with all the priests and nobles in the city. With them, no one can accuse you, and you can use your little herbs; they will keep silent.
But now it is different. How many have you saved?
Your teacher must have warned you countless times: as a knight, a knight Chosen by Michael, you absolutely cannot do a priest’s work. You have crossed the most dangerous line.
And you knew it was their sword aimed at you, yet rashly charged into it.
But perhaps it is not too late now.”
Laila looked toward the Temple outside, in a seductive tone: “How about a big fire? Flames can purify everything and cover all traces.”
Some might indeed shrink or despair after rash impulse, fearing bad outcomes.
Caesar just smiled.
“You know I will not.”
