Chapter 308: Excommunication
The monk calmly walked into the room. The people in the room were already extremely exhausted. When they saw him, they merely nodded in greeting. He, just like each of their colleagues, placed his hand on his chest and saluted them. And in that short distance, he casually supported a staggering priest.
No one showed any sign of doubt. The monk was even more delighted in his heart.
Assassin assassins never shy away from disguising themselves as all sorts of characters during missions. They could be knights, or perhaps farmers or pilgrims. He had even once actively followed an ascetic.
He deceived the ascetic, saying that although he was a Saracen, he had deeply repented. He no longer believed in Allah, but wanted to convert to Christ.
The ascetic was of course overjoyed. He accepted this Assassin assassin and treated him like his own child.
He followed this priest and, though he lived quite a harsh life for a time, learned prayer, asceticism, performing sacraments, and reciting scripture from him.
When he felt he could already walk among the crowd as a Christian monk, he unhesitatingly killed that ascetic. When he acted, he showed no hesitation whatsoever, and even felt great pride.
The monk walked toward the bed concealed by the curtain and bent down.
He carried no spear, no sharp sword, not even a small dagger. But on his finger, he wore a ring of iron thorns. As long as he pierced his own skin with this ring and let his blood flow onto this elder’s chest, he could kill him.
Before acting, he cautiously glanced at the other’s face. Besides confirming the target was correct, it was also to appreciate the prey’s struggles and pain in its dying moments.
But in that moment when their eyes met, he discovered the other’s eyes were bright and alert, completely unlike those of a dying patient. The assassin immediately leaped up, wanting to flee, but his hand had already reached the other’s chest. The other’s arm was like a heavy beast trap, snapping shut with a bang and clamping him tightly!
He had already turned the ring, stabbing the bloodied iron spike toward the other’s skin. His blood was fiercely toxic, surpassing that of venomous snakes and scorpions. Even if it only slightly paralyzed this hunter, he could find a chance to escape.
But the assassin could feel that the touch of the iron ring was not human flesh, yet also not like hard shield armor. He looked up and saw that this knight was covered all over in a layer of brilliant white light.
“Caesar!”
He shouted loudly. As a Christian knight, Caesar had an extreme reputation among the Saracens. One side, like Saladin, admired him greatly, while the other saw him as Allah’s enemy, the utterly evil devil. In truth, both sides were right. And the Assassins were the most vehement of the latter—not just because Caesar was a Christian. There were not a few Christian lords they collaborated with; they had even reached an agreement with Jerusalem’s King Amalric I. What made them fear was Caesar’s character and deeds.
The Assassins had stood from founding until now not by stability, but by chaos.
If all the lords were as lenient and peaceful as Caesar, they would have no place to use their skills. And the fate of useless tools goes without saying.
This male Assassin assassin was one of the people who most despised Caesar. He was delighted to accept this mission to destroy a Christian “elder,” and this old man was even their great leader.
But he knew it was impossible now. What he most needed to do was escape. He was not one of those young Assassin assassins who truly believed that dying would send them to heaven to enjoy the service of seventy-two virgins.
What he enjoyed were all sorts of privileges unavailable in the caliph’s and sultan’s courts: money and women. But in what seemed an instant, the room was filled with enemies. Those present were certainly all monks, but they were martial monks like Templar Knights. They lifted their robes and drew weapons from their waists, closing in on the Assassin assassin.
They were all covered in that hateful layer of white light.
“Caesar, come out! I know you’re here! You coward who only dares to send others to fight!”
The assassin bellowed loudly. Indeed, Caesar was here. Since realizing the malice he faced, he could not let the patriarch leave his protection. His movements had always been restricted to the vicinity of the Church of the Nativity: whether the place of the Holy Child’s birth, the church, the monks’ residence, or Manger Square before the church.
No one listened to the assassin’s ravings.
If it were on the battlefield, facing a fully armed Saracen warrior, they might grant him some respect. But assassins were the most despised everywhere, and even if they were originally nobles and knights, they no longer enjoyed corresponding treatment.
When a short sword pierced into this Assassin assassin’s waist, he knew survival was hopeless. Instead, he revealed a ferocious smile. He raised his hands to his throat, pulling at that vulnerable spot connecting to his chest, and dug his sharp fingernails deeply in, tearing outward.
In a moment when all were caught off guard, his body burst like a ripe swollen sac. Blood splattered everyone, and the entire room was defiled by a layer of sticky blood.
As he fell, he still retained some consciousness, thirsting to see these enemies die with him. But reality disappointed him. The monks merely silently gathered around. Blood slowly coalesced from their faces, clothes, and hands, then flowed down. Their skin remained as clean as ever, showing no sign of poison corrosion. No one collapsed wailing, convulsing, or struggling.
“Truly…” A monk swallowed this word.
Normally, he would not hesitate to praise, but now almost everyone here knew what kind of slander and judgment Caesar would face after this plague ended.
Though they were monks, they were also mortals. Not everyone had the resolve and determination to face such malice head-on.
——————
Caesar sat by the patriarch’s bed, holding his hand. Since learning of the enemy’s conspiracy, he of course would no longer naively think their conflict could be resolved by negotiation and transaction.
Though he was not entirely clear why he had drawn such deep hatred. After all, a weapon like excommunication was not something just anyone could wield at will.
Alexander III had done so because he was about to die. Before dying, he had wanted to secure his family’s foothold in Cyprus through marriage, but Caesar’s refusal had foiled that plan.
Everyone knew the pope’s authority, though supremely prominent, had indisputable temporality.
A dead pope could at most add a crown to a noble’s coat of arms, but beyond that, seeking any benefit thereby was impossible.
He had to arrange all his illegitimate children and family before being anointed with holy oil—not just Cyprus, but Francia, Germany, the Apennines all bore traces of his envoys’ visits. But it was still not enough, far from enough, never enough.
At this time, someone must have made promises to him, offered a price satisfying this Holy Father. Who could it be? Perhaps Byzantium’s Emperor Manuel I. It was certainly possible.
If Caesar were ultimately sentenced to excommunication, his betrothal to Princess Anna would be declared invalid, and Cyprus would remain Byzantium’s.
The emperor would indeed do so, even if it cost one or two cities, over a hundred thousand gold coins—it would be worth it. But what about here in the Holy Land? Here too there must be agents of the emperor and pope.
So what interests on him were worth others scheming for?
There were: Bethlehem and Damascus. But now it seemed Damascus had been drawn into the Count of Tripoli’s ambitions. Compared to Mersin, he preferred his son David to become this city’s master.
Could it be him? What price would he pay to satisfy Alexander III?
Gold, territory, or privileges—especially Ayyarasa Road.
But Caesar always felt such a conspiracy was beyond Raymond’s devising, even if Raymond had ambitions and some dissatisfaction with him.
Then could it be Antioch’s Grand Duke Bohemond? But what was Bohemond’s motive?
His son Abigail’s betrothal to Princess Sibylla was shaky. Abigail might recover in the future, but people could not wait indefinitely in uncertainty. Princess Sibylla was young, but a woman’s childbearing years were only so many, and Baldwin’s condition allowed no casual delay. They still hoped the future heir could grow under Baldwin’s guidance.
Then was it to secure his position in Ayyarasa Road Court?
But if Princess Sibylla later married another lord’s son—David, Guy, William were all possible. By then, Caesar might even turn from the grand duke’s enemy to friend?
In politics, it was countless: first enemies, then friends, then friends again, then enemies. Only a killer weapon like excommunication was almost impossible to use.
This was even more vile than a dagger in the back sending one to hell.
It meant all social relationships centered on the victim would shatter. His wife, children, relatives, and friends would all be affected. His territory would be carved up and swallowed. His surname would become a shame. He could not even enter a church graveyard.
Such hatred was absolutely irreconcilable.
Look, after Henry IV suffered excommunication, did he not stand in winter snow for three full days and nights in sackcloth, barefoot, with wife and children, begging the pope’s forgiveness?
In the end, the pope got his retribution too. Even more chilling, afterward the papacy and Franconian dynasty continued fighting for over a century, with neither gaining much benefit.
Just like a beast baring its fangs at you—at that point, wondering if it was protecting cubs or needing to fill its belly was quite ridiculous. The only thing you could do was strike back with all your might.
But sincerely, Caesar felt little fear in his heart. He even had some faint anticipation. In this age where faith reigned supreme, he could finally know: when people looked at him, were they seeing a real person, or the little saint of their imagination?
He knew he was just an ordinary man, and the education he received in another world inevitably made him clash with this one. Former King Amalric I, their teacher Heraclius, Baldwin, and even those close to him had all noticed.
His goodness came from his own heart, not from God’s guidance. But perhaps precisely because of this purity, they loved him more.
So would this respect and affection vanish with the Church’s excommunication?
He was uncertain, but he knew he could not go on like this forever. He was like a great tree not meant to grow here. In youth, his peculiarities could be overlooked, but as it grew larger, its influence spread wider, and his thoughts and actions would be laid bare before all.
By then, neither Baldwin nor his teacher could fully protect him. Who could shield a towering giant tree? Not even he himself.
“Lord, we have captured that Assassin assassin.” A guard hurriedly ran into the room. He bowed at the door and only slowly approached after Bishop Andrew’s permission. He wore no helmet, his appearance somewhat familiar, his demeanor no different from the guard at the door. But a few steps from the bed, a light like Caesar’s suddenly shone from him.
He rushed toward the patriarch. Bishop Andrew roared and blocked in front, only to be slammed straight into the opposite wall. Stone bricks shook, plaster fell rustling, raising a cloud of dust.
But he did not attack the patriarch directly, instead smashing a fierce fist into the floor.
The monks’ residence was not single-story. It was a three-story small building with an attic, and the patriarch’s room was of course on the best floor, the top one where the abbot formerly lived. Below were the monks’ rooms.
This punch was so forceful that the stone slab cracked and wood shavings flew.
The Assassins had thought that in such a sudden situation, those in the room would fall into the prepared bloody maw—at least the patriarch on the bed would be unable to resist. But he had truly underestimated Caesar’s reaction speed. Caesar scooped his teacher onto his shoulder, then leaped onto a lamp stand in the corner, looking down at him from above.
The scene was utterly bizarre. Not to mention Caesar, the patriarch was gaunt but no shorter than any knight. Yet these two tall men perching on a small black iron lamp stand felt not cramped at all, even quite composed.
That Assassin assassin had already been forced into the room below. He looked up at Caesar full of malice. The revelation he received was similar to Caesar’s, able to grant protection to others and himself. His fighting style relied mostly on his indestructible body, crushing enemies with immense strength. He could even collide head-on with a fully armored war horse and win.
The dust had not yet settled when this Assassin assassin sensed something wrong.
In this room, they had planted several more Assassin assassins. No matter who fell—Patriarch Heraclius or Caesar—three spears would greet them.
And these spears’ tips were fused with holy vessels like the “giant’s” dagger, able to harm those protected by saints.
But after he landed, no one in the room moved. Only then did he sense something amiss, but with a thud, a spear pierced straight through his back and out his chest. He gripped the blood-soaked spear tip tightly, wanting to turn his head.
The person behind seemed to sense his intent and gave a soft laugh, slowly walking over to stand before him.
Seeing this person, the Assassin assassin’s eyes nearly burst.
“It’s you! You! You devil!”
“You’ve called me devil so many times,” Laila drew close to his face and whispered, “Of course I’ll do devilish things!”
The Assassin assassin crashed to the ground, eyes bulging.
Laila stood in that room now full of corpses, looking up.
Sinan had always kept secret that she once received the Prophet’s revelation. This meant even seeing her, the Assassin assassins could hardly raise their guard.
They thought her merely a Qiyan who completed missions with her body, unworthy of the Assassin title. She was the kind of woman most despised in the Saracen world. They called her devil more for her filth than her terror. By the time they realized, it was too late.
Laila watched for a while, still unable to confirm if the one Caesar held was Patriarch Heraclius. But she was glad to see her future master finally had sufficient vigilance.
“Farewell.” She mouthed silently, then bowed and leaped out the window like the wind.
“Who was that?” Bishop Andrew asked puzzledly. Her attire seemed that of an Assassin assassin, yet she had helped them kill the other Assassin assassins.
“It’s a bit complicated to explain.”
For this era, people could hardly imagine a woman like Laila, with independent thinking and willful temperament. But in Caesar’s world, such women were common.
Thus, though he had only met Laila a few times, he knew she was no hunting dog or falcon content to be caged. Even if so, she would bite her master’s throat or peck out his eyes at her whim.
Before leaving, Laila specially went to check on Damara. This lucky girl was still somewhat at a loss. Her fiancé and father had found her thick cloaks, but whether mink fur, velvet, black, red, or white, none could conceal the light overflowing from her.
She had revealed to Caesar the true reason for Damara’s fever, wanting to see how he would treat a “devil.” Afterward, though Caesar showed no disgust, it might have been feigned—to win her over, like Sinan once did.
When Caesar personally lifted Damara, she knew she had lost. But she lost happily.
If he did not truly like this child, and was indeed as he said without prejudice toward chosen women, he would not do this himself.
Sinan had always tried to avoid touching Laila. Laila once thought it respect, but later knew it was an instinctual disgust suppressed by reason.
————
The little thief walked the street, not knowing where to go.
Then he saw the Church of the Nativity shining in the sunlight. After hesitating a moment, he walked toward it.
