Chapter 71: To Egypt!
Although he accepted his young master’s request, Longinus held no hope at all.
Caesar was right; indeed, some people always regretted and resented not being able to hold the Choosing ceremony, blaming all the setbacks in their lives on their relatives’ stinginess and the priests’ greed. Even Longinus, when he lost his servant, horse, and armor in the Holy Land, had once hated his father and brother while drunk.
But afterward, he met many people with similar experiences—they came to the Holy Land seeking opportunity but never succeeded. Those naturally violent and vicious people aside, even the originally good ones—some of whom had even helped Longinus—could not escape the curse.
Harsh circumstances, complicated human hearts, and the darkness of an unseen future could break a person in a single night.
Some joined the Knights, but they could only become the lowest foot servants and laborers, or horse boys, just as Longinus had once been in the Knights Templar.
They harbored a sliver of luck, thinking that if they could participate in combat, perhaps they would be noticed by a Knight Commander or priest in the Knights and promoted to escort.
Some had only sworn to kill a certain number of heathens before returning home, or rather, to have a foundation to stand on after returning to Francia or the Apennines.
But none of these people had a good ending, at least Longinus had not heard of any—if there were, the rumors in the taverns and Market would surely be burning hot.
Most fell to become beggars and criminals, or both.
They robbed pilgrims, robbed merchants, robbed priests; they committed crimes without restraint, living every day like their last. Longinus had sharpened his sword on them.
These people’s faces haunted his nightmares every day, flashing by as they laughed and reached out their arms, as if welcoming Longinus to join them.
Among them was Longinus’s friend（ whom he met after arriving on Ayyarasa Road）, and also Longinus’s enemies; they said, as if in blessing or curse, that Longinus would ultimately become one of them.
If Longinus suddenly woke up drenched in sweat, it was surely after he stabbed a man, flipped over his body, and saw his own face.
But since following his young master, such nightmares had lessened, though he had yet to have any noteworthy good dreams.
As Longinus hunched his back and knelt by the altar, he thought that if he was not selected—which was most likely—he would pretend to have broken his leg and stay in the castle at Ghazalafa.
Of course, that way he could not repay his young master’s debt or fulfill his oath to kill three Saracens, but he knew Caesar required him to hold the Choosing ceremony only to gain a sliver of chance in the brutal war to come—he was always so good.
Longinus shook his head, raised his eyes, and gazed at Jesus Christ on the crucifix and the saints surrounding him, involuntarily recalling how he had led the pilgrims one by one through the pine wood gate, black oak gate, and cedarwood gate.
When those pious people prostrated on the ground, shedding tears and weeping and confessing freely, what was he thinking?
Money.
How much for a man, how much for a woman, three times as much for Isaacites; how much for light sins, how much for heavy sins; how much to touch the baptismal stone, how much to step into the Place of Suffering, how much to lift the wool cloth on the Holy Sepulchre.
Want relics? How much for a candle, how much for a cross—even a stone or a handful of sand each had a price.
For someone like him, even if the ground split open and he fell straight into the lake of fire, he would not be surprised. How could he expect those saints high in heaven to lower their eyes to gaze upon such filth?
Before meeting Caesar, he had even planned that when he no longer wanted to live, he would steal a horse, charge to Damascus or any place with Saracens, fight the first to rush out, then the second, the third… until they killed him.
That way, even without holy oil or sacrament, he would at least not fall straight into hell but wait in purgatory for the end times.
So now he was calm.
Being selected would be great glory and a surprise; if not selected, staying safe in Ghazalafa would spare his young master worry. That was fine—being a servant was not bad, and with Caesar’s character, he might even get a decent grave.
————
Longinus was knocked awake by a group of angry monks; he was groggily dragged up by them and pulled a long way until shoved out the door, which slammed shut behind him with a boom.
He looked up at the pitch-black sky, the few flickering stars, and the gray-white sandy land, realizing he had likely fallen asleep during the Choosing ceremony.
The wandering knight smacked his lips, feeling his throat like he had swallowed a handful of embers—dry and parched.
What time was it? Longinus guessed it was the second shen zheng（two to three in the morning）, meaning he had spent a day and a night in the church, perhaps more.
This lean, swarthy man laughed; it seemed his young master would be disappointed. He had merely slept—though it was possibly the most comfortable, most satisfying sleep of his life, and he had a good dream.
In the dream, he was a robber imprisoned, and every year the Governor of Rome had one chance to pardon a prisoner. He of course hoped to be pardoned, but knew the odds were slim.
Because in the cell next door was a good person. Though he had never seen him, he had heard he was a man of great talent, yet merciful and selfless.
His crime was not murder, or raping a woman, or stealing money, but his good deeds infringing on the interests and authority of the Isaacite priests and elders.
Especially after entering Ayyarasa Road, people rushed to see him, laying palm branches and clothing under his feet, escorting him to the temple, countless coming to hear him preach and spread the gospel…
For such a man versus a lowly thief, everyone knew who to choose.
But the fact was so ironic: the one released was not the good person, but this bad person.
He thought he would flee quickly, but he did not; he draped the robe over his head, watching that man stripped of clothing, scourged until covered in wounds.
Then, this innocent man was forced to bear a heavy cross beam, and under the Roman soldiers’ arrows, he stepped out of Ayyarasa Road step by step to Golgotha, where he was nailed to the cross.
Each strike and stab of the soldiers felt like it pierced his heart; his body went numb, unable to move. He wanted to laugh but found tears streaming down his face…
“You die for me,” he murmured, “I live for you.”
“I am Barabbas.”
Then Longinus was beaten awake by the monks.
He picked up the leather armor and weapon thrown out with him by the monks, donned them, and stepped out of the shadow of the Church of St. John the Baptist, still somewhat dazed and wooden.
He looked at his fingers, then twisted to check his back, legs, and shoulders—no sign he had been selected, no light, no music, just as ordinary as every day before.
“I need some water,” he said to himself, then by the bright daylight surveyed the surroundings—on his first day in Ghazalafa, he had not stopped, working while riding or walking to scout the terrain and buildings around Ghazalafa for his young master.
His young master Caesar had a skill that amazed people—perhaps many skills.
Anyway, before Caesar, Longinus had never seen anyone who could draw a map eight or nine parts accurate just from his description, even marking curved lines and numbers to indicate if an area was a depression or hills, using shading for lakes, double lines for rivers… and some symbols even Longinus could not understand.
But even if incomprehensible, Longinus had to say that with such a map, he could lead an army to attack Ghazalafa.
Though it was not pretty, with no images of saints, no borders or decorations, no houses, trees, or flags—just bare lines, numbers, and letters… that was the essence of a map.
Caesar had revised it many times, burning the discarded maps. While cleaning, Longinus found a quarter sheet, miraculously intact, only palm-sized; he picked it up, hesitated long, then hid it in his leather armor.
He remembered a well square not far from the Church of St. John the Baptist; as the name implied, an octagonal stone well stood in the center with icy, sweet water. Thinking of it, he could no longer endure and hurried there to drink deeply and quench the burning in his chest.
The square was deathly silent, not a soul in sight. Longinus cursed under his breath, realizing he had no jug or wooden bucket—could he jump in and drink? He should have made those suffering priests open the door and ask for water.
But then he had an idea: pull out the cotton shirt from his leather armor, lower it with rope, soak it, and haul it up—the water would taste off, but not fussy, Longinus had drunk mule urine when lost in the desert; his own taste could not be more nauseating.
But just as he reached the well, he kicked a wooden bucket.
Longinus’s face darkened instantly; he did not think people here would casually discard a wooden bucket—for commoners, a wooden bucket was a legacy worth passing down, an indispensable piece of furniture for every family or person.
He slowly approached the wooden bucket, lifted it—some water sloshed inside. He raised it, drinking and pouring, extinguishing that flame; his eyes and ears sharpened.
The wandering knight heard a whooshing like wind over sand, a whooshing like wood burning in a furnace, and a creaking and clanging like a door banging its frame with iron hinges—these sounds were faint, easily ignored by the careless or cautious.
For a moment, Longinus just wanted to leave; he had seen such things before and never meddled.
Why bother? If injured, he had no money to hire a priest for treatment, only sand and cloth strips to staunch bleeding. He had also burned with fever, cooled only by God’s Blessing on cold stone slabs—he dared not bet everyone he saved was a good person like Caesar.
But he thought of his young master, who said he would go before the brutal Templar Knight to convince him to abandon his castle, and before King Amalric I to convince him not to slaughter those inside—all for some lowly people he never knew, who might never know someone had been willing to sacrifice his life for them…
He stood there, feeling it lasted a century, but it was just time for the wind to dry the last droplet on his cheek.
Longinus suddenly turned and strode toward a direction—a derelict house, likely a bathhouse the Saracens who once occupied here used to cleanse themselves. After the Crusader knights took Ghazalafa, these heathens’ buildings defiling the Holy Land were all demolished—of course, the grand temples excepted.
This bathhouse was only broken walls; anything valuable stripped, no door, no window, just ragged ceiling and standing walls. Rounding a half-man-high pile of bricks and stones, Longinus saw inside by faint outer light.
The whooshing like wind over sand came from a girl’s muffled mouth, the whooshing from a thug’s heavy breathing, the door banging and hinge sounds from their chainmail, shield, and weapon.
No explanation needed; at a glance, Longinus understood the girl had likely sneaked out at night when all slept to fetch water.
As for why, no need to say: with the army gathering in Ghazalafa and preparations dragging, no locals dared approach those cowhide tents anymore. King Amalric I kept receiving complaints—from heathens, Isaacites, even Christians.
But such things were unavoidable; back home, even in the smallest territory war, farmers and craftsmen suffered ravaging.
There were three in robes and chainmail: knights. One held the girl firmly to silence her, two held long swords, warily watching the newcomer.
Seeing Longinus dressed as a wandering knight, their expressions eased, even annoyed. One knight lowered his long sword, fumbled at his belt, tossed a silver coin over.
Longinus did not catch it; the silver coin hit the ground, spinning.
“Not bad already, bastard,” that knight said. “Take the money and scram; no share for you here.”
“Who is that girl?”
“A Saracen, a heathen prostitute,” another knight answered. The girl heard, struggled desperately, eyes wide, dew-like tears flowing from her deep brown eyes.
“We are about to convert her with pious kisses and embraces.” The one holding her said; Longinus then noticed he was not a knight but a priest in chainmail.
“She will become pious, a good Christian,” the priest continued. “If she refuses, or anyone disturbs this holy ceremony, they will all go to hell.”
He smugly saw the wandering knight hesitate, then bend to pick up the silver coin.
But the next moment, he screamed!
