Chapter 307: Qualifications
This answer came as no surprise to anyone, but suddenly Caesar felt a rare spark of curiosity: “If I accept your suggestion, will you really set a great fire in the city?”
Laila glanced at him, her eyes full of the meaning—you’re such a fool—”How could I?” she said bluntly. “I would only kill you.”
Even Caesar was left somewhat speechless…
“You do seem a bit like a devil now. Didn’t you just say you would allow me to retreat or change my mind?”
“Yes, I can’t stop you, but I can kill you.” Laila said frankly, “Although people call you the Shield of the Holy City, please believe that if I wanted to act, I could find an opportunity.
As for that suggestion—if you truly believe me that much, then if I told you to die, you should go and die.”
She suddenly drew close to Caesar again, her tone eerie. “People see you and their hearts soften because you have this face granted by Allah, but I won’t be swayed by such appearances. I am willing to talk to you, seek your aid, and come before you at this time to remind you because I know you are a good person. If you lacked that virtue, what difference would there be from those detestable Christian lords?
I delight in killing them, and of course, I delight in killing you.” She gently stroked Caesar’s eyes, her touch as light as feathers rising and falling in still air, almost imperceptible, but Laila could feel her finger meeting a slight resistance.
“The Prophet’s favor upon you is indeed profound,” she murmured, then nimbly leaped to her feet. “I want to make a bet with you, young man.”
“What bet?”
“I won’t tell you, neither the stakes nor the wager, but from the bottom of my heart, I hope you win.”
——————
Laila left, and Caesar hesitated no longer. He thought of another woman who might have crossed that warning line: his wife Boscia.
Boscia had once told him that when she was very young, out of resentment that her cousins could enter the church for the Choosing ceremony while she could not, she had sneaked into the church, desecrated it, and nearly ruined the ceremony.
For that, her grandfather paid a very heavy price, and Caesar had asked her if, while attending services or Mass in the church, she had ever felt anything. Boscia had thought carefully and confirmed she had not.
Perhaps her intrusion into the church was resolved so hastily precisely because she had not received God’s blessing.
Laila and that Grand Duke’s daughter, however, had been “Chosen,” though for them, it was more like a curse.
Caesar suddenly felt a chill. He immediately thought that if those people were eyeing him, preparing to act against him, then those around him must also be under surveillance. Damara’s current state showed no difference from a sick person, so perhaps her watcher had not yet realized it was not illness but being Chosen.
After all, such a thing happening to a woman, especially without entering the church to pray, was exceedingly rare.
But if Damara, like him, Baldwin, and all the Chosen, had holy light emerge on her body, even with a symbol like Saint George’s Spear, it could no longer be concealed.
He believed Patriarch Gerard would do everything to protect his daughter, and Gian would not be an ungrateful wretch, but Bishop Andrew and the other priests were another matter.
He rushed back to the monks’ residence at the church. Reassuringly, by Damara’s side were only Gian and her father—Patriarch Gerard. Seeing Caesar so frantic, they thought some major event had occurred.
It was indeed a major event, but one concerning only Damara, with little relation to the plague outside.
If there had to be a connection, it was quite possible that after Damara contracted malaria, this saint-like possibility emerged to protect her—”The saint is watching over her!” Gian said excitedly, his hands trembling nonstop. Patriarch Gerard was calmer; he stepped forward and immediately wrapped Damara, bedsheet and all. “Cover her.” Caesar did not know if some unlucky coincidence might occur, like encountering a priest while transferring Damara, and at that moment she began to be enveloped in holy light—that would be disastrous.
Gian paused, then understandingly removed his cloak. He was wearing a black velvet cloak today and promptly wrapped Damara from head to toe.
“Where to?” Patriarch Gerard said urgently.
“The tower—my teacher is there, and the top floor is a small chapel.” Caesar said. Though shrouded in conspiracy, that place was likely the most heavily guarded spot in all of Bethlehem, surrounded entirely by the most trustworthy people.
They hurried along, and Caesar even personally took a large candelabra holding sixteen candles.
“Why such a big one?” Gian asked foolishly.
“Of course to conceal.” Patriarch Gerard said gruffly. He now realized his son-in-law might be a bit dim. It was deep night, pitch black around them. If Damara suddenly felt the holy call and emitted holy light, she would be a glaring target. But with bright candlelight nearby, if her glow was not too obvious, they could pass it off as the candles flaring up.
They carried Damara in one breath to the small chapel and placed her on the couch by the window. This time Gian was quick-witted; he immediately jumped over, closed the wooden shutters, drew the tapestry, and sealed the entire room.
And just as he turned back, he heard Patriarch Gerard praying softly. He himself was dumbfounded. He saw on his fiancée’s body the very light he knew well—the light he saw on the battlefield, in the church, during prayer.
Gian, as if in an indescribable illusory dream, floated lightly to Damara’s side and knelt devoutly, not daring even to touch her.
So what was Damara doing?
Damara knew she was dreaming. She had not imagined this day when she was blessed by God and Chosen by a saint.
She had not rashly rushed into a Choosing ceremony. Though in the church, it was full of devout and pure people; she did not stand out. And even as a woman, she lacked the striking beauty of Princess Sibylla, the wisdom of Queen Mother Maria, or even the resilience of the Countess of Jaffa. She knew what she was: an utterly ordinary noble lady.
Because of this, she had not, as some thought, secretly fallen for Caesar. She knew it was futile.
She had quietly accepted her father’s arrangements.
Be it her first husband or her second, to her joy, Gian was also a good person. She knew she would pass her remaining years peacefully—in Francia’s Magigao, perhaps with her grandsons and granddaughters gathered at her knees, begging for a story, she could tell them of that young man like King David, how he once offered her his loyalty and defeated an entire Saracen army for her alone.
At this thought, she could not help but smile. If Caesar heard such rumors, he would surely look embarrassed. He was so reserved, his humility making it hard to believe he was young.
But today’s dream seemed different. She had become the companion of a noble lady.
That noble lady was not Princess Sibylla; from her attire, she seemed more like an Ancient Rome woman. To other noble ladies, she was a kind and gentle big sister, but to others, she was a shocking heretic. She rejected marriage, rejected love, rejected worship of any god but God.
Unfortunately, because of her beauty and gentleness, the Governor of Sicily wanted her as his wife. Upon refusal, the enraged governor threw her into prison.
Hearing this, Damara’s heart broke. Ignoring her parents and friends’ dissuasion, she rushed all the way to the prison.
There, she saw her big sister, her clothes torn, body covered in wounds. At the sight, Damara cried uncontrollably. She did not even dare touch her big sister, fearing more harm.
The other just showed a familiar smile: “Go, my sister,” she said. “Do not fear what you encounter. You are blessed; you will surely get what you desire.”
Damara was utterly baffled, but by then the vicious thugs had arrived. They pulled Damara away and tortured her big sister: whipping her, burning her, hooking her chest with iron hooks.
Not only that, the governor himself pressed red-hot coals mixed with shattered pottery onto her body, but no matter what, her big sister did not beg for mercy.
The governor asked: “Why do you not obey orders?”
She answered: “My body belongs to the Lord, not to you or anyone.”
Obey what orders? Damara wondered, then she understood—by the Emperor’s command, all Christians must publicly sacrifice to pagan gods, or face punishment.
No, no, no! she cried, but made no sound. The noble lady answered the governor.
She said, my body belongs to the Lord, not to you or anyone.
The governor finally gave up trying to force her conversion. He inflicted the final punishment—depriving this noble lady of her most prominent feminine feature.
Throughout, Damara wept without stopping, until hands from the prison reached out gently, drawing her into an embrace. Leaning into that warm hold, she felt grief she could scarcely contain, but then she saw light descending from above.
An apostle of Jesus Christ appeared in this dark cell. He reached out to touch her big sister’s body, and the hideous wounds vanished instantly. The jailers melted away like snow in sunlight, and the solid black iron and wood disappeared.
“Wonderful!” Damara nearly burst into laughter. “Leave this place, good person,” she cried. “Let’s go together, away from this terrible place.” But the sister just looked at her, unmoving.
“God will not allow me to flee. He sent His apostle to give me faith, not for my escape. I will not go. I will wear the crown of suffering like Jesus Christ, just as you see.”
“I don’t want to.” Damara sobbed. “I don’t want to watch you suffer.”
“You are a faithful good child, but the trials you will face may be no less than mine.”
“Here, I bless you. You may lose worldly honors, but here you will gain greater glory.” With that, she leaned down and kissed Damara’s cheek.
“I am Agatha.”
Damara barely had time to grasp her garment when she saw her dissolve into intensifying light. Damara could hardly keep her eyes open.
But to onlookers, Damara had been peacefully asleep the whole time. The light from her body overflowed, then gathered into a jewel she wore—a relic given by Gian.
A small wheel of gold set with a ruby. At the time, both Gian and Caesar thought it a fake relic.
In the Mediterranean region, such things were common, valued more for the gemstone and gold. But now it seemed otherwise. The relic they mistook for a wheel—its true name might be Agatha’s breast—for she had endured the torture of having her breasts removed.
This was a true relic.
“Did you know?” Patriarch Gerard looked at Gian, who quickly denied, “I just happened upon an ascetic once. I gave him water and bread, and he gave me this. It was in a cloth bag then; I didn’t know it was so valuable.
I even tried to find him later, but couldn’t.”
“This may be God’s will.” Patriarch Gerard grasped Caesar’s hand. “I beg you not to speak of this.”
“I can keep this secret.”
But the problem was, Damara and Gian were betrothed, and after their wedding in Bethlehem, Damara was to return with Gian to Magigao. Gian would inherit his father’s title and territory, and Damara would become an ordinary lady of the manor, living out her life humbly and quietly as her father wished. But now that was impossible.
Gian looked pleadingly at Caesar, but Caesar could not vouch for him. If the matter leaked, death awaited Damara.
That Grand Duke’s daughter had been imprisoned only because her father paid a huge ransom, and her treatment was merely to stay alive, gazing at four walls her whole life, with a small hole for food and filth. If that was the case, Patriarch Gerard would rather Damara died.
They had not yet decided what to do when they heard Damara sigh long and wake.
Upon waking, Damara saw three faces looking at her with concern. The girl was puzzled; for someone who collapsed without warning, she remembered nothing of what happened.
Her memory stopped at the moment she fell asleep, and upon waking, she thought it just exhaustion.
At that moment, whether Damara’s father, her fiancé Gian, or Caesar, all were immensely glad they had believed that female Assassin.
In the sealed room, Damara was surrounded by light no less than that of any knight or priest. The soft, brilliant holy light burst from her bosom, enveloping her.
The three present felt an indescribable joy and lightness—Patriarch Gerard reacted fastest, immediately drawing his dagger and slashing his wrist.
The blood did not even have time to drip before the wound healed. It was “Chosen by Raphael.” Indeed, for Damara—and most Christian women—her temperament, experiences, and prior education would not lead to “Chosen by Michael,” becoming a knight.
But for a woman, whether “Chosen by Raphael” or “Chosen by Michael,” it was not to be. Patriarch Gerard was in a bind. If Caesar had not fallen into the trap, he could have given Damara to Caesar, sending her to Cyprus. As long as she lived quietly, few would notice anything amiss, and he could pay Caesar to build a monastery in Cyprus for his daughter to live out her later years peacefully.
But now that plan was unfeasible. Patriarch Gerard rose with a troubled face, while Gian wept helplessly into his hands, unwilling to tell Damara this dreadful outcome.
——————
Not far from the tower, Laila crouched like a sturdy night owl amid the dense branches and leaves of an olive tree, her eyes piercing the boundless darkness and thick stone wall to glimpse inside.
Gian’s actions were timely, but Laila could still confirm that the Christian girl was not merely ill—or rather, she was ill, but the torment on her body had roused her soul’s resistance, and the place she was in happened to be the Church of the Nativity—this most holy site, full of true relics.
So, even without ceremony, without Mass, without prayer—she was so lucky, not abandoned by her fiancé, father, or friends. On the contrary, they did everything to conceal it for her.
Though how long this concealment could last was unknown; the girl’s fate was surely fraught.
But for Laila, the most valuable was that unspoken wager. “You win, boy,” she whispered.
The little thief was brought before a priest. In the room, only two torches flanked the priest, casting flickering shadows below, and the cold glints from the shadows’ hands showed they held either spears or swords.
The priest did not lower his hood; instead, he pulled it tighter, completely shrouding his face in shadow.
He coldly scanned the room. It was large—seemingly a cleared cellar. “How come so few people?” he said, dissatisfied.
“Some died.” A monk beside him mumbled. The priest glared at him disapprovingly.
“Do you think I’m a fool?”
The monk could only look to the heavens. Since so, he had to say it straight: “Lord, some backed out.”
“Backed out? What do you mean?”
“They think they truly encountered a saint. They refuse to do what you ordered.”
“Ordered? Isn’t it the truth?
Knights receive the saint’s favor to become more agile, stronger, more powerful, to battle those vile heathens and reclaim our Holy Land.
Priests receive the saint’s favor to heal others like Jesus Christ, making the dumb speak, the lame dance, curing leprosy, even restoring flesh and bone.
But no one has ever seen one person with both abilities.
Even God has not yet granted such a miracle to His beloved Son. How could it happen to a mortal?
If one person shows such power, it can only mean he is a devil escaped from hell.” He looked at them; though his face was unseen, his gaze felt like a venomous snake’s—icy and vicious.
“Now, as said before, each recite your oath.” He pointed to one—a middle-aged man, somewhat plump despite malaria, clearly once well-off. Even here, he had groomed his hair and beard; he could even read.
Taking the parchment, he hesitated, but recited: “I, Wom, swear here to Almighty God and His Son Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mary, I swear on the Cross, on my father and mother, every word I say is true, without falsehood. I…”
He paused, but under the priest’s icy pressure, continued. “I accuse here the Knight of Bethlehem, the Count of Edessa, and the Lord of Cyprus. He worked terrible witchcraft on us, claiming to drive out the plague, yet forced us to commit unforgivable sins…
He forced us to urinate on the Cross, eat the bones of dead fetuses, speak filthy blasphemies against God and the Holy Child, he… he made women dance naked, copulate with devils… and, and killed several children to sacrifice to his hellish master…”
He started slow, then sped up, finally blurting the last word in self-abandonment.
Then a woman, an old man, and a boy of ten or so.
The little thief watched wide-eyed. Yes, they had long been given work—or task—by the Church, and in return, money enough to change their lives.
Of course, some worried: what if they truly caught the plague?
The Church priests generously promised treatment from the monks.
The little thief did get treatment from a monk, but not here.
Every face here was unfamiliar; the monk who saved him was absent.
Ugh, if they were with Caesar, they might be seen as heretics or devil-possessed.
The little thief saw fewer and fewer beside him, growing anxious. He didn’t know what to say—he had originally looked down on his new lord. Though noble, handsome… learned, with saint’s favor, his purity only highlighted the little thief’s filth. He hated that feeling, spoke rudely, even with secret glee and pride.
The man pitied him, unaware his foolish mercy and generosity would bring suffering.
But suffering malaria in the monastery, the little thief thought differently.
Malaria is a strange plague. Compared to the Black Death or smallpox, it more easily induces inescapable near-death sensations; its agony and exhaustion make one feel death is imminent.
That repeated drowning in death—no one wants to endure it.
And the one who pulled them from that misery—wasn’t he a saint?
Finally his turn came. He knew he just needed to step forward, recite from the parchment, and his work was done.
In return, five gold coins.
But standing before the parchment, staring blankly at the twisted letters, they seemed like red-hot irons. If he opened his mouth, they would leap in, shatter his teeth, scorch his tongue. He mumbled, unable to speak.
By then, the priest showed impatience. With a light wave, two knights seized him. “Why not recite?” the priest asked.
The little thief knew he should loudly recite the young lord’s charges. He desperately tried convincing himself: even if proven guilty—he was the King’s cousin, Palace Steward, with vast territories and knights. At worst, some reprimand, loss of some power.
And him? Just a nobody, never meant for great struggles. Though greed made him step in—at least now he could side with the lord’s enemies.
The lord was so benevolent; even knowing his past sins, he would not punish harshly. But his glib tongue failed now. Whether reciting lines or excuses to refuse…
The priest had no patience to think.
He was not alone; this time those high lords had invested heavily, with several such places.
Still, he would not let this one leave easily. With a slight signal, the knights pinned the little thief. An executioner approached, holding a horrifying implement.
He struck the little thief’s face hard. As he cried out involuntarily, the man jammed tongs into his mouth, clamping his tongue precisely, yanking it out, and drew a dagger to cut it off.
“Since the devil has bewitched you,” the priest said lazily, “this tongue is useless.”
The executioner raised the dagger, and the little thief despairingly closed his eyes. He didn’t know if the priest would release him or if he’d change his mind, but to his shocked sorrow, he felt no urge to submit.
Perhaps the old little thief died in the monastery; a pure new soul entered this ugly body. Righteous and noble like their lord, refusing vile sin. The little thief closed his eyes, resigned.
Screams rang in his ears—he thought his own. No, not his—the executioner’s. The man’s wrists fell to the ground with his tool. Panicking, the pressure on the little thief’s shoulders vanished. He opened his eyes to flickering firelight—in an instant, all room torches were extinguished.
People shouted in chaos, fleeing. The priest, monk, and guards’ knights struck ruthlessly at any approachers; many fell. But it availed nothing against the silent arriver—she was a gray-white whirlwind, sweeping the room. When the little thief struggled free from the dead, wide-eyed, lit a candle on the table with flint from his sleeve, he was alone.
Laila had just passed by, but killing one monk and their bought men changed little in the grand scheme.
The Assassin did not linger; she needed to reach Patriarch Heraclius on Ayyarasa Road before the moon reached its zenith.
Her teacher, Old Man of the Mountain Sinan, had accepted a fatal commission.
If Patriarch Heraclius lived, the Assassin would end his life.
The monks guarding Patriarch Heraclius had rotated several times; some yawned uncontrollably, others dazed and sluggish. Thus, when someone in a linen robe, barefoot, hooded, joined their ranks, no one noticed.
“Wait.” The knight at the door called. But when the other lowered the hood as ordered, revealing a familiar face, he relaxed. “God bless you,” he said, then watched the monk enter the Patriarch’s room.
