Chapter 112: Bethlehem (7)

“But the ministers in court, the Grand Master of the Knights Templar, and the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller will surely stop him.”

“Of course they will stop him when they see no hope. But if they see it,” Le Gao said, “the information we received is absolutely true. Nureddin’s illness has been recurring, his three sons all have their own ambitions, not to mention his ‘emirs.’” Le Gao sighed deeply.

“You know about the tensions between Nureddin, Shirkuh of Egypt, and his nephew Saladin, don’t you?”

If Nureddin were healthy and strong, he would never target Shirkuh and Saladin at this moment—he had just fought a war against Arslan of Marash, and his soldiers had not yet recovered from the fatigue and exhilaration of battle—but he had no choice, for his emirs were watching him.

If he does not punish Shirkuh and Saladin, they will suspect that the lion has grown old, his teeth loosened, his claws fallen off, and he will be attacked by all.”

“Doesn’t he have sons?”

“The worst part is he has three sons, plus his elder brother and his brother’s children—all of them eyeing Nureddin’s throne and lands, waiting for him to show weakness. That’s why he must put on such an utterly stern face toward those two Kurds; if possible, he might even use them as examples to intimidate those plotting against him. Do you know their recent movements?”

“Merchants from Damascus reported that Nureddin once summoned Shirkuh and Saladin back to Damascus or Aleppo under the banner of holy war, but although those two Kurds verbally acknowledged the Sultan’s decree and appeared fearful and obedient, they never moved a step.”

“They moved the Fatimid capital from the burned Fustat to Cairo. Word is they’re gathering craftsmen to rebuild Cairo’s walls, palaces, and fortresses. Shirkuh is now the Fatimid Grand Vizier, and his nephew Saladin holds full military power—clearly, they have no intention of returning to Syria.”

“If I were them, I wouldn’t return either,” Le Gao said. “After all, they are slaves of Sultan Nureddin, his emirs. It’s fine when they’re apart, but if they meet and still dare to defy the Sultan, Nureddin has the right to take his longbow and hang them.”

“But now, do you think Nureddin is truly preparing for a holy war, or just looking for an excuse?”

“Hard to say.”

No matter how deeply Baldwin IV had been blessed and watched over by God and the saints, he was still only fourteen—so young and lacking foundation—Jacques meant that this heir to the throne, afflicted with leprosy and forced into solitude, had few trustworthy friends or subordinates.

His two ministers, Count Raymond of Tripoli and Prince Bohemond of Antioch, were his rightful elders. If he showed the ordinary child’s natural reverence and obedience toward his elders, he would merely be a puppet.

Thinking of this, Jacques could not help but show a trace of worry. From the Knights of Bethlehem, their new king might not be a cowardly or useless man. But entering such dangerous political struggles, they feared they might be swallowed by sudden whirlpools.

“What we’ve done hasn’t harmed the interests of those great lords, nor have we openly urged the new king to act. But if our intelligence helps him reclaim his power sooner—I dare not say we’ll gain much, but at least in commerce, we should gain great convenience and privileges.”

What Le Gao didn’t say was that he wanted to seize this chance to win greater influence for the Israelites before the new king. Every generation of Israelites tries this—some succeed, some don’t—but even those who succeed can only show meager results—the Israelites remain largely excluded from guilds, forbidden from owning land or becoming officials.

They can still only work as merchants, moneylenders, or currency changers—occupations no one respects.

He once had a friend who was a master goldsmith, but after being rejected by the guild, he moved to Bilbays—“By the way,” Le Gao suddenly said, “I once had a friend living in Bilbays. When the city fell, he escaped. Now he’s heading elsewhere, but his daughter is ill—I’ve lodged them in an inn to wait a few days until she recovers, then we’ll decide what comes next.”

“If possible, I’ll arrange for you to meet him—he’s a wise and kind elder. I think you’ll learn things from him you can’t learn from me.”

Jacques would never refuse. He knew his father-in-law saw him as another son; every piece of advice he gave was for his good. To suddenly send him to meet such a man must mean there was some important reason he couldn’t yet know.

Le Gao nodded in satisfaction.

For this son-in-law, he felt equally pleased—except that he wasn’t an Israelite.

But if he were an Israelite, he wouldn’t have made him his son-in-law or heir—after all, to face the Christians, an Israelite simply wouldn’t do.

After Le Gao left, Jacques sat alone at the table for a while, reflecting again on the events of these past days and his plans for the future. Since they had decided to actively involve themselves in the war between the Saracens and the Christians—they had to act with extreme care, leaving no trace, yet still make sure the new king saw their achievements.

He pondered until the candle beside him had melted into a pool of wax, then rose and returned to his bedroom. His wife stood up immediately upon seeing him.

“What are you doing?”

Jacques asked in surprise, for he saw his wife opening a chest and laying out several garments on a nearby stool.

“It’s my aunt,” his wife frowned. “She came to visit me today, pouring out her hardships. I plan to give her some clothes—and perhaps some money.”

“Your aunt,” Jacques thought, recalling the person: “The one living on Arasah Road?”

“Yes. She married a Christian knight. But I heard this marriage wasn’t recognized by the Church—after all, her husband was a Crusader.” His wife sighed, unsure what to say about her poor aunt.

The Israelites had always been cautious about intermarriage, for their sacred scriptures recorded that the saint Abraham had said, “Do not marry the daughters of Canaan.”

At that time, God commanded Abraham to sacrifice his only son Isaac. Abraham obeyed, but at the last moment, God sent an angel to replace Isaac with a pure lamb. When Isaac grew up and needed to marry, Abraham sent his steward to his homeland in the Fertile Crescent to find a pure Hebrew woman—not to let Isaac marry a local Canaanite woman.

Thus, the prohibition against intermarriage became an Israelite tenet.

But all tenets can be broken, especially in Arasah and surrounding lands—this was always a multiethnic region, and the Israelite population was too small to uphold this law strictly—they had to either leave Arasah or marry outside their faith.

Still, Israelite women marrying out remained rarer than Israelite men marrying Christian or Saracen women. Jacques marrying Le Gao’s daughter was tacitly assumed by the Israelites to mean he would eventually convert—though for now, it was merely for convenience in trade with Christians; the Israelites could be quite flexible.

But his wife’s aunt was different. She had always been stubborn; no one believed this marriage could succeed.

Jacques had once been merely a craftsman’s son, then a merchant. Marrying an Israelite or Saracen woman drew little attention. But a Crusader knight marrying an Israelite woman—especially twenty years ago—was nearly unthinkable.

At least the clergy and the knights of the orders firmly believed the marriage was invalid—they were merely lovers, their child an illegitimate bastard. And the feared outcome came: within two years, the knight died on the battlefield. His wife, unable to claim his inheritance, was expelled from the castle along with her child.

Had the knight not had a brother who was the castle’s steward, the mother and child might have starved.

“Isn’t her son named Wit? Didn’t he already become a servant in the castle?”

Hearing this, Jacques’s wife gave a strained smile. “Something happened,” she said vaguely. “Unfortunately, he died.”

Jacques didn’t care. A widow losing her son turning to wealthy relatives wasn’t unusual. He even walked over, picked up the money pouch, and counted the coins inside. “Is this enough? Should I add more?”

“It’s enough,” his wife said. “She’s just stopping here for a few months. I heard she plans to return to Apennine next year—she has other relatives there.”

“Indeed,” Jacques said sincerely. “A lone woman staying in Arasah is far too dangerous.”

————

Early the next morning, Jacques’s wife went to visit her aunt. To be honest, she didn’t much like her—her aunt had always been arrogant, though that wasn’t hard to understand. Though an Israelite, she had once possessed beauty like morning dew and roses, and it was precisely because of this that the knight had fallen desperately in love with her.

She had once said that rather than be married off by her father to an Israelite, bear Israelite children, and endure scorn and torment, she would rather stay single forever—and if she could marry a Christian knight, even better. When she defied her mother’s tears and her father’s curses to marry him, not only did the Church refuse to recognize their union, but among the Israelites, she was as good as dead.

In Jacques’s wife’s faint memory, her aunt had returned once before, standing far outside the Israelite quarter. Her grandfather had immediately shut the windows and doors. Even when her father had stammered to go out and see her, he was cruelly refused. But to say they had truly severed ties was not entirely true—at least after the knight’s death, her grandfather had once tried to bring her back.

But her aunt refused. Jacques’s wife didn’t know what she thought—but she had hidden something from her husband: she knew her aunt’s son Wit had once served the prince and had unexpectedly received God’s blessing—this was what her father Le Gao had uncovered. Later, Wit became a monk, and then, for reasons unknown, he died.

Le Gao had revealed this in drunken talk, then forced everyone who heard it—his wife, his daughter—to swear never to speak of it. It seemed connected to some great figure…

“Madam?” she whispered.

In the narrow inn room, Wit’s mother still wore coarse black linen, her hood and veil drawn. When she turned her head, her eyes glowed like two points of light in the dark.

Jacques’s wife jumped. She pressed her chest, stepped inside, and came alone—after all, this woman was already “dead.” If an Israelite “wise man” saw her, she would be punished.

She brought her aunt clothes, food, and money—having received her husband’s permission, she added a little more, enough for her aunt to board a ship to Apennine and even find a monastery or small cottage to stay in. But her aunt merely flipped through them, then set them down with boredom.

“I brought you a talisman,” Jacques’s wife said.

The pure silver talisman—when her aunt left the Israelite quarter, she had taken nothing but a thin robe; their “wise men” would not allow her to carry any Israelite holy objects. Jacques’s wife feared she might fly into rage or scorn it—but she took it, examined it carefully, then hung it reverently around her neck.

Jacques’s wife felt a sigh of relief. “I must go,” she said. “The ship is arranged. When you board and reach Apennine, write to me.”

But her aunt only pulled down her veil and gave a strange smile. “Then kiss me, my dear little niece.”

(End of Chapter)