Chapter 6: Jealousy
Caesar saw a somewhat familiar shadow by the stove in the kitchen.
The stoves in the castle were not as refined and elaborate as those recognized by people in later generations; they differed from the hearths used by commoners only in size.
A rectangular fireplace nearly spanned the entire thirty-step length of the wall, deliberately divided inside into a large fire, a small fire, and embers. The large fire section had a soup pot hanging over it, the small fire section had an iron fork resting on it, and the embers were scattered with acorns and pine wood. Amid the rising smoke, poultry and beast meat waiting to be smoked wafted in and out of view.
That short servant who delivered water was squatting by the small fire section, seemingly working diligently, but every so often he would remove the iron fork, cut off a small piece of meat, eat it, then smack his lips and shake his head as if savoring the taste. Several people rolled their eyes at him, but he either pretended not to notice or flashed a malicious fake smile.
He of course knew that the people in the kitchen hated not to take a club and fork to deal with him, ideally shoving him into the hearth all at once, but who let him be the son of a knight and a servant of Prince Baldwin, and possibly become an attendant master in the future? They didn’t even dare approach him, because he would spit at them—this was spit from the person closest to a leper!
Cram’s expression suddenly turned ugly. He strode toward the short servant, yanked him up, slapped him across the face, kicked his buttocks, and drove him out of the kitchen. But the short servant showed no fear at all, always grinning cheekily, bouncing and jumping like a clown.
“Still smug, are you?!” Cram said angrily. “You’re about to be kicked out, you know that?”
The short servant’s smile froze on his face. He widened his eyes, bared his teeth, like a rat backed into a corner: “What are you saying, uncle!” he shouted. “What do you mean I’m about to be kicked out? Who has the power to do that?”
“Too many people,” Cram said. “Who do you think you are? Witt, you’re nothing but my brother’s bastard child, a real fool crawled out of an Isaac woman. I worked hard to get you into the castle with this great opportunity, and you disregarded my good intentions, wasting my favors and money for nothing!”
“What are you talking nonsense about,” Witt shouted. “I’ve always been a good servant, a good slave, always thinking of my good master every moment, diligently serving him and doing work for him!”
Cram actually laughed this time. He shook the leather pouch hanging from Witt’s belt, and silver coins immediately clinked and rolled across the floor. While Witt hurriedly got down on the ground to pick them up, he no longer bothered to hide his disappointment: “You think I don’t know where this money came from?” He pointed inside the kitchen: “See that pretty child by my side? He’s the new attendant King Your Majesty selected for Prince Baldwin.”
Witt’s hand stopped: “New attendant?” he asked. “Is he the son of a count? Or perhaps a grand duke’s?”
“Neither. He was originally just a slave of an Isaacites merchant.” Cram said with disgust. “Look, this position was originally meant to be yours, but you only eyed that little bit of money. Now, the prince has a new companion; he doesn’t need you lot anymore. You’re all to get out!”
“This isn’t fair!” Witt raised his head, his eyes flashing with ferocity. “This isn’t fair! Your Majesty said…”
“Yes,” Cram interrupted him. “Your Majesty said that as long as you win Prince Baldwin’s favor, he would graciously allow you lowly commoners to become the prince’s attendants. But did you? No! The prince doesn’t like any of you! But he only met that child once and allowed him to sleep by his side, gave him his own clothes.”
Witt quickly glanced toward the kitchen. Though the distance was far and he couldn’t see clearly, he still remembered that hasty glimpse in the tower, when he had thought the new servant was like such a woman… “Is it him?” he asked through gritted teeth. “He’s going to drive us all away! Right!”
“Whether it is or not doesn’t matter anymore,” Cram said. “Once I select new servants, you’ll all have to leave the castle—go do whatever you peasants, craftsmen, or cooks do… whatever you want. I won’t care about your affairs anymore, Witt. You’re as useless as your father and your Isaac mother!”
He nearly roared the last sentence, then turned and walked away without looking back.
——————————
Boiling water spurted from the fine spout of the kettle, falling into the wooden bucket lined with silk. Steam billowed upward, making the air instantly hot and humid.
The Church discouraged bathing, for many reasons, one important one being that bathing was undoubtedly a luxurious affair, contrary to the simplicity required by the Church.
Because the bath tubs here, even those used by the prince and the king, lacking tools for fine polishing, inevitably had many fine wood splinters. To avoid injury, each bath required covering with a layer of silk, and these expensive silks, after the torment of boiling water and trampling and pulling, completely lost their original value.
Caesar weighed a pound of dry St. John’s Wort on the scales and put it into the water.
St. John’s Wort was an herb frequently used by monks and commoners, able to treat sunburns, scalds, and cuts, relieve muscle pain, and alleviate symptoms of gout and rheumatism, but its effect on leprosy was minimal. It could only be said to delay some early symptoms like blisters and numbness, preventing them from developing too rapidly. Baldwin, after using it, could only sleep a bit more soundly.
While Baldwin was soaking in the bath, someone knocked on the door again. This time the knock was much more polite. Caesar opened the door and saw a dish neatly stacked with clean clothes.
“Who?” Baldwin asked.
“Someone sent cleaned clothes.” While commoners still treated clothing as an important legacy passed down through generations, the King of Ayyarasa Road only changed his linen shirt daily, but Prince Baldwin, having contracted leprosy, needed absolute cleanliness. Besides bathing, the clothes changed daily had to be taken away by servants, washed clean, and sent back.
The clothes on the large wooden dish were not only clean but quite fluffy, still retaining some warmth from the sun. Deep purple lavender was crisscrossed among the fabrics, emitting a pleasant scent. On top were long socks, under them a shirt, under that a black coat, and beside them gloves and a veil.
“Caesar?”
“I’ll find another coat for you, Your Highness,” Caesar said. “This coat got bird droppings on it.” He pulled out the black coat and threw it on the ground, fetched a milk-white wool coat from the chest, then left the room carrying the “bird-dropping-stained” coat, returning to the tower before Baldwin finished bathing.
The problem with that coat was of course not the bird droppings. More precisely, it wasn’t a coat but a robe. Nobles often wore black coats, trousers, or cloaks, but black robes were still restricted to funerals, belonging to the deceased and closer relatives.
Or rather, if Baldwin were a healthy person, a black robe might not be all that sensitive.
But back when they were at St. John the Baptist Monastery, Caesar, favored by the monks, had learned from them that for those afflicted with leprosy, before being expelled from the city and home, if they received the Church’s mercy, a priest would come to perform a “premature” last rites.
The patient was to wear a black robe, stand in the dug grave surrounded by friends and family, while the priest anointed them with holy oil, sprinkled holy water, heard their confession, and recited prayers. Finally, a group of monks would shovel a few handfuls of sand and sprinkle it on him or her, saying as they did: “You have passed from the mortal world, but gained new life before God.”
Equivalent to a funeral.
If Caesar had been even slightly negligent, or unaware of these matters, and rashly handed the black robe to Baldwin to wear, by those people’s thinking, even if His Highness didn’t immediately fly into a rage, he would surely harbor resentment, or if Amalric I learned of it, he would immediately drive away this either reckless or foolish attendant.
Caesar’s perceptiveness undoubtedly disappointed some people. Before the evening vespers began, the short servant personally came to invite Caesar to a feast. According to him, they had sincerely prepared fine wine and pork pies, and planned to share the secrets of serving nobles with the newcomer.
Whether it was sincere or not, Caesar wasn’t sure, but Witt and the servants in cahoots with him had indeed put in some effort.
Wine wasn’t something servants could touch ordinarily; they could only drink tasteless beer. Pork pies, besides requiring pork—which was rare on Ayyarasa Road because Saracens didn’t eat pork, and the climate and environment here weren’t suited for raising pigs—also required fine wheat flour for the dough, which was fermented and then baked in the oven.
“We mustn’t disturb His Highness’s rest.” Witt said attentively. They were in the defense tower closest to the left tower among the twelve, entertaining Caesar. Besides plentiful wine and pies, they had even found prostitutes, each with exposed bosoms and backs, full of allure. The men in the stuffy little room felt tipsy before even drinking.
There was nothing more to say next: they drank, ate pies, laughed loudly, showing no sign of having learned that bad news. Witt sat beside Caesar, with a prostitute on the other side. Witt leaned in to whisper so-called secrets in Caesar’s ear—actually not much of secrets, just things tempting to corruption, precisely what boys Caesar’s age were most interested in. The prostitutes either held wine cups or pies, constantly feeding him.
They kept making noise until late at night. “We should head back,” Witt said. “Before we go, shouldn’t we pray a bit?”
The men and women burst into laughter. The prayer Witt mentioned wasn’t literal; he was asking if they needed to use the toilet. The castle’s towers usually had a toilet installed high up, looking from outside like a small room protruding from the wall. Nobles always euphemistically called it a “wardrobe” or “prayer room.” Witt saying it was somewhat sarcastic.
“You go first,” Witt said. “Attendant master, I had someone clean it just before; it’s nice and clean.”
“Alright.” Caesar said slowly. He seemed fairly sober, but his sluggish steps and hand that had to rest on the wall showed he was almost drunk too.
The defense tower’s toilet was Roman style—no, it should be said that almost all toilets in the entire castle were like this. You could imagine it as a stone-built platform with a wooden board placed on it that could seat two side by side, a hole left in the board, and below the board a vertical pit shaft twenty or thirty feet long, ending in a deep pool piled full of people’s excrement.
A foul, cold wind swept up from that pitch-black hole, nauseating, but amid this discomfort that made one want to flee immediately, there was a strange sweet fragrance. For a moment, Caesar couldn’t recall what it was. He groped the wall, searching for candle stubs and flint in the recesses, but found none. There was only a high ventilation opening, but perhaps for defense against enemies, it was small, and being nighttime, he still couldn’t see anything.
He only pondered for a few seconds before wanting to leave, when a black shadow lunged at him, shoving him toward the stone platform. Caesar’s knee slammed hard into the stone, and he uncontrollably pitched forward, but as he fell, he nimbly curled his body and tumbled out through the narrow gap between the board and the assailant’s body—he had once found a way out under the hooves of hundreds of horses and claws of dozens of hunting dogs; this was not difficult.
After his knee, his shoulder also hit the wall, but he felt no pain at all, drawing his dagger in one motion. This dagger had originally been Baldwin’s, its blade only a handspan long, used at the dining table to cut meat and bone, but it worked fine on people too.
A lanky man rushed up. Caesar’s dagger came from below upward, biting into his thigh, tearing open the thin linen. Amid the crisp sound of the cloth ripping, the elasticity and softness unique to human skin and muscle transmitted from the blade all the way to Caesar’s palm. He held his breath, pushing deeper, upward, to that most vital place for a man.
The rusty smell of blood mixed with the fresh hot stench of feces and urine.
The third assailant retreated. He unhesitatingly abandoned his accomplice and fled into the darkness, but Caesar had already recognized who he was.
He stood up; by now he could somewhat make out the surroundings. The first one who attacked him had gotten stuck; no wonder he hadn’t joined the later fight.
It was a big man, stuck in that wooden board headfirst down to his shoulders. Despite flailing his arms, he couldn’t break free, only futilely kicking his legs. But that hole, if Caesar wasn’t mistaken, however large, wouldn’t allow an adult man’s head and shoulders to fit through together.
He sidled over, touching the broken part of the board. The fresh stump was jagged in one part but straight and smooth in another.
Caesar recalled where that sweet fragrance came from. Ordinary people might not think of it, but in the monastery, carving was a skill the monks excelled at too: the smell emitted along with scattered wood shavings when wood was cut.
Someone had carefully sawed through this board but only to the point it wouldn’t fully break, then loosely placed it back on top. If he, sated with food and drink, had lost vigilance and sat down without hesitation upon entering, he would surely have fallen into the feces pool below by now, dying an ugly and shameful death.
To ensure no mishap, that person had also ambushed outside with two others; if he hadn’t fallen into the trap, they would grab him and throw him down.
When Caesar inserted the dagger into the fissure in the board, he considered whether to first tell Baldwin or Cram, or threaten this guy to drag out the culprit behind him, but in the end he only gave a bitter smile.
“This damned world!” he said, then pried at the dagger. The prince’s dagger was indeed thick and sturdy enough; the board immediately creaked under the strain. The stuck man immediately shouted in terror, but hanging upside down, he couldn’t make as loud a sound as when upright; even Caesar could only hear muffled booms.
For that man, this time must have seemed endless, but for Caesar, it was only a minute or two. When he grabbed the man’s legs and threw him down, he didn’t hesitate.
