Chapter 49: Encounter
After he finished speaking, he stepped out of the tent in one stride, suddenly moving from the shadows into the light. The Saracen dressed in a black robe couldn’t help but close his eyes, only able to open them after a moment.
Only after opening his eyes did he realize that the blinding light came not only from the midday sun, but also from a person.
“He shines with radiance, like a poem.”
“What?”
His attendant followed him out of the tent and saw the reason, his mouth agape in disbelief.
A boy dressed in Byzantine clothing was walking past them, the crowd around parting to make way—Caesar’s features were already flawless, and in these past months he had grown taller, and as Baldwin had said, those who received the “blessing” would experience certain enhancements in their constitution.
And we all know that a healthy person is rarely ugly; their eyes are bright, their skin smooth, their steps light, without any sluggishness or distortion.
Today Caesar wore another loose robe with a golden base, embroidered with emerald green flowers and birds and diamond patterns, cinched with a golden belt, draped in a silver thread cloak outside, fastened with a white opal brooch. These did not diminish the wearer’s brilliance at all; instead, like leaves framing a flower, they made him shine even more brilliantly.
Compared to him, Baldwin, who held his arm, though also wearing an orange-red robe with gold thread embroidery and cinched with a golden belt, was inevitably overshadowed like a new moon under the blazing sun; almost no one noticed him, which suited Baldwin’s intentions—he was still a bit fearful.
As for Damara, the noble ladies in the castle had long given up comparing themselves to Caesar. It wasn’t that they couldn’t match him, they said; after all, he was a man, and we are women—what was more natural than a man being more perfect than a woman?
When it came to literary cultivation, the poor attendant was of course no match for his master. The master could recite a line of Saracen poetry on the spot, while the attendant could only go “aba aba aba…”
After they had passed, he sighed and sincerely exclaimed: “What a beautiful child! Allah must have put a lot of thought into creating him. It’s a pity he’s a Christian.” He couldn’t help looking in that direction, as if he could bring them back by staring: “He must be a little prince carefully raised; his father is probably an official of Manuel I.”
He immediately guessed it was an official rather than other officials because, although “official” originated earliest from the Ancient Rome, where they handled simple message-relaying and interest work, ever since the Roman Empire split, the East Roman Emperor used officials to replace the former captain of the guard—possibly because the latter was too close to the Emperor.
The official was a whip in the Emperor’s hand, able to threaten enemies or intimidate colleagues. Undoubtedly, to become an official, he must rank above all other officials—Amalric I was about to marry Manuel’s grandniece, the bride would arrive in Jaffa in a week, the official accompanying her, so it was no surprise for his child to appear on Ayyarasa Road at this time.
The other shook his head: “No,” he said. “That’s not a Byzantine.”
The attendant was about to ask when he saw his master walking in that direction; he could only hurry to catch up.
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Gentlemen a thousand years later might see accompanying a lady shopping as a chore, but men at this time might not.
Although this place was called the holiest and could be considered a prosperous great city, the people of Ayyarasa Road still lived in day-after-day dullness and boredom. For those who didn’t need to scramble for their next meal, their usual amusements were only playing music, dancing, watching clowns in the castle do somersaults, or listening to poets sing familiar old stories.
So much so that those young people, especially the energetic young men, found almost anything fun as long as it wasn’t staring at walls, prayer, or training.
One more thing to note is that men of this period were as vain as women, even more flamboyant.
They grew long hair, then covered it with silver thread or gold thread hairnets adorned with pearls; their armor was engraved with family names, Bible verses, or patterns; their saddles and shields were either gilded or silver-plated, their boots embedded with golden spurs, their hats pinned with gemstone brooches; they loved velvet, silk, wool, and the more vibrant the colors, the better.
A knight defeating his opponent in a martial arts tournament, or flogging his bare back until blood dripped in a penitential parade, could earn the nobles’ admiration; sometimes noble ladies would directly toss down their shawls or cloaks, and the knight would pick them up, drape them on, and show them off to everyone.
This trend had grown even more intense nowadays, so much so that the Knights Templar’s “original rules” had to sternly declare: “Long robes must have no fine decorations,” “If any brother wants better, more luxurious clothes（all Knights Templar equipment is issued by the Knights Templar）, give him the worst.”
But this was also unavoidable, after all, people at this time had a hard time discerning one’s status—let alone proof of status, most were illiterate—not to mention those like Longinus, who had sworn an oath to Christ and would absolutely not reveal their origins or names until the oath was fulfilled.
What could prove them was only the clothes worn on their mortal frames: what a monk should wear, what an attendant should wear, what a prince should wear—all had clear regulations. Although Ayyarasa Road didn’t have the intricate and strict laws of Constantinople, as long as a person stepped before the crowd, people could gauge his status and occupation pretty accurately just by his clothing.
If you dressed like a beggar or a fool, you were bound to face provocation from some ill-tempered person.
So for merchants, a noble lady was certainly a respectable customer, and a knight could be an impressive big buyer, with many noble ladies willing to foot the bill for knights.
It sounds outrageous, but as long as this knight had sworn an oath to the noble lady, he was essentially hers; he would serve for his love, becoming the lover’s vassal.
Just as knights polish their armor and feed their horses, noble ladies would care for their knights, buying them armor, horses, mink fur or silk clothes, and recommending them to their fathers or husbands.
Of course, in return, the knight must never disobey any command from the noble lady he had sworn to, even if she demanded he flog himself, fight wild beasts, or go to his death—he must obey.
Even if she said nothing, he should defend her honor anywhere, anytime. Many knights, upon arriving at a place, would hang a sign at the inn or lodging declaring that a certain lady’s beauty and virtue were unmatched in the world.
If another knight objected, he would ride up on horseback, spear in hand, to smash the wooden sign and duel him.
Such duels usually ended with one dead.
“That’s Elena and her knight.” Damara said softly.
Standing at the entrance of a shop was a noble lady wearing a hennin and veil; her knight was half-kneeling on the ground, letting her step on his knee to mount the horse. After mounting, the noble lady lifted her veil and smiled faintly as reward for his attentiveness; she removed her ring, and the knight immediately took it and slipped it onto his little finger.
“Isn’t that Gerard de Ridford?” Baldwin frowned. “Wasn’t he applying to join the Knights Templar? If he swore an oath to a noble lady, how does he plan to fulfill it?”
“Elena isn’t a harsh person,” Damara said. “She can release him from the oath, as long as that sir is sincere enough. Besides, if the rumors are true, that this knight joined the Knights Templar heartbroken because he couldn’t win her love, vowing to keep chastity for her, that would still be a beautiful tale.”
“This… is that allowed?” Caesar asked hesitantly.
“Why not?” Damara said. “Several of my friends hope for a knight willing to die for them, or become a monk and remain chaste for life.”
“And you?” Baldwin asked immediately.
“Me?” Damara glanced at Caesar. “I wouldn’t want my knight to die. Staying with me forever would be best.”
“Do you want to marry Caesar?” The Gerard family wouldn’t agree.
“Why not? Caesar is so beautiful.”
“I’ll consider Caesar’s marriage carefully.” Baldwin said. Damara wasn’t a good match for Caesar; Caesar’s foundation was too weak—best to find him a heiress with money or territory.
Caesar didn’t hear the rest of their conversation; he somewhat understood why chivalric love was so highly praised.
In this era where only men could inherit property（mostly）, serve in the military, govern, or even do business, for women to gain honor, the quickest and most effective way was to have knights who adored them proclaim it everywhere.
Whether that knight died or defeated his rival, it could establish the lady’s lofty status. People would say, if she weren’t truly pious, benevolent, and wise, how could she make a man lose his most precious life for her?
For the knight, it was beneficial too; when poets performed in castles and courts, they would mention his name, spreading his bravery and strength. Also, if a knight defeated another, the loser’s armor and horse became his—many knights accumulated their assets this way.
At this point, that Sir Gerard de Ridford came to bow to the prince, but discreetly without disturbing others. If possible, he even wanted to serve as the prince’s temporary guard, but alas, he had to escort his mistress back to the castle.
“Do you want to continue?” Longinus asked.
Baldwin hesitated a bit. Today wasn’t market day, but the king’s wedding had brought crowds of merchants and their customers—Byzantines come to celebrate, envoys from various countries, and knights wanting to join the martial arts tournament, all crowding every corner of the Holy Land.
And the merchants, whether carrying baskets, pitching tents, or borrowing shops, displayed goods that were rough but impressively varied.
He was set on finding his mother a one-of-a-kind treasure in the world, but its preciousness shouldn’t lie in its price.
“I’ll look a bit more.”
They passed several shops and tents; Baldwin even inspected goods piled on the ground, but found nothing suitable.
Damara was getting tired; she turned her head, looking around for a place to rest. “Ah,” she said, “they’ve started practicing.”
She meant the actors; performers were essential at a wedding, especially the king’s, because from the moment the bride entered Ayyarasa Road, from the gate to Holy Cross Castle, people had to perform various plays on high wooden platforms along the way, mostly related to marriage.
Besides these, there were jugglers, magicians, dwarfs, and dancers. Some came on their own after hearing the news, some were hired by the castle steward, but none waited idly; with the surging crowds outside, they took the chance to earn some drinking money.
Damara seemed drawn to a place rehearsing “Solomon and Sheba.” Baldwin and Caesar followed, only to find she was watching a “slaughterhouse.” Caesar didn’t know what to call this game, if it could be called one.
The game was simple: just an open space, some chickens and ducks. The host buried them in the soil, leaving only their heads exposed. Those willing to play paid to enter and take a stick, taking turns to hit the chickens’ and ducks’ heads. Whoever knocked a head off in one blow got that chicken or duck.
Chickens’ and ducks’ necks were very flexible and reactive, but if one missed, there was always a second, third… And there were plenty of trained attendants and escorts here.
These young men excitedly paid, turning the area into chaos: chickens and ducks stretching their necks and squawking desperately, amid spectators’ gasps, cheers, and jeers, with feathers flying and blood splattering.
After just a few glances, Caesar turned away first; Baldwin lowered his eyes, and Damara raised her hand to modestly cover her eyes, seeming a bit scared but mostly thrilled.
“What’s that?” Baldwin turned away, and Caesar looked along his gaze: a small tent that could hold maybe three or four people, but with a long line outside. Longinus hurried over to inquire and reported back: “That’s a monk’s tent. He says he channels the saint Enoch; those who’ve tried say his prophecies are accurate—”
He hesitated, then said: “He says for mothers divining for sons, or sons for mothers, in remembrance of Gabriel prophesying the holy birth to the Virgin Mary, he charges no fee.”
Baldwin didn’t care about a few silver coins or gold coins; what moved him was “sons divining for mothers.” He hoped the Countess of Jaffa would have smooth sailing and long life henceforth, but the world was changeable, destiny fickle, and her fief was Jaffa, a throat key to any war— this monk’s appearance seemed like an omen…
“I want to try.” He whispered to Caesar.
The knights went to disperse the crowd, entered the tent to search; the diviner was indeed a monk, and alone. But he insisted that for each divination, only one person could enter, as he used geomancy, and the third to know the result would be plagued by misfortune.
The knights naturally refused, but Baldwin insisted. Caesar thought for a moment. “Tie him up,” he said. “Leave his mouth and eyes free.”
“Then how does he mark points on the ground with a stick?”
“With his teeth.”
The monk glared at Caesar.
Having settled this minor matter, Caesar stepped aside to rest. Damara was very curious about the monk, forgetting her fatigue, circling the tent. Longinus and the knights could only watch her closely, fearing she’d suddenly slip inside.
“Sir,” Caesar said, “why have you been following us?”
The other let out a soft laugh.
He was a Saracen, at least by his clothing: wearing a black robe, a cowhide belt as wide as a palm holding nothing but a scimitar.
The scimitar had no decorations; its leather sheath was black, the handle wrapped in brown leather strips. Over the black robe was an open-front overcoat with vertical tea-white stripes, both of thin wool.
He wore a dark headscarf with no brooch, made of plain linen, but on him it looked like a crown.
“I saw you looking at that… game earlier, child.” The man didn’t answer Caesar’s question, instead asking mildly: “You don’t like that game?”
“I don’t.” Caesar said. “And you? Do you like it?”
“Nor I.” The man said. “Then may I ask why you don’t like it?”
A knight approached them; Caesar waved it off, signaling nothing was wrong. The knight stopped but kept one eye on them. Caesar looked at the man, who seemed utterly unconcerned with the knight—though his attire was like any common Saracen merchant.
Caesar thought for a moment and replied: “To put it this way, in the education I once received, there was a saying: if you want to be a benevolent person, don’t approach the kitchen.”
The man repeated the phrase. “That can’t be literal.”
“Indeed not,” Caesar affirmed. “It comes from a dialogue between a sage and a king. The king once saw someone leading a cow past him and asked, where are you taking it? The man said, to sacrifice to the gods, so I’m killing the cow. Seeing the cow weeping, the king said, I’ll redeem it with a sheep.
Word spread, and people mocked him, saying pitying the cow but not the sheep was hypocritical.”
The man listened intently, subconsciously stroking a large silver ring with his finger—the only ornament on him. “What did that sage say?”
“He said, having that much benevolence is already very good,” Caesar said. “In that king’s time, many nations surrounded him, warring almost daily; to fight, their subjects paid heavy taxes, barely surviving.
The sage said: You felt pity for the cow and not the sheep because you didn’t see the latter—isn’t that saying your heart of benevolence already exists within you?
Compared to you, aren’t those who see and feel nothing more deserving of blame?”
“…Ah,” the man said after a long pause. “Truly a sage; he saw not just the shell, but the soul hidden within.”
He gazed at Caesar: “So that’s why you didn’t want to watch such a scene—you’re a Christian, but the sage you mentioned reminds me of our Prophet.
He taught us to slaughter livestock with the sharpest knife, severing three tendons swiftly, without causing them pain. Because we eat them to survive, not for pleasure.”
“Yes.” Caesar said. “I eat meat too; I can slaughter livestock—even have good culinary skills—but I wouldn’t torment them like that.”
“Every place seems to have similar principles.”
“Because human hearts tend toward goodness.”
“Is that so?” The man smiled. “You are so pure, like a new sprout after rain. Allah preserve you, so that when we meet again, you still hold this rare purity.”
——————
When Baldwin emerged from the tent, he saw Caesar standing there, expression grave, as if lost in thought.
He called Caesar’s name and saw his hand clutching something.
“What’s that?”
Caesar showed him: a crudely made silver ring lay in his palm.
“Who gave you this?” Baldwin held up the ring. “Eagle?”
