Chapter 119: Whispers of the Wind

The caravan leader may have just been joking, but only he knew how much truth lay in those words.

After all, during this era, merchants were likely the most perceptive and quickest-moving group in society.

Some might wonder: if the lords of fortresses and palaces knew merchants were nothing but profit-driven, double-faced scoundrels who could turn traitor at any moment, how could they tolerate them walking freely through their cities and estates?

This had much to do with the backward state of transportation and information flow at the time.

In every place—even Paris or London—whether peasant, craftsman, knight, or noble, people were born where they lived, rarely leaving their lands unless called to war or pilgrimage; most would never step beyond their streets or villages in their entire lives.

Villages and towns at this time could almost be called societies of familiar faces—everyone knew those around them, and any stranger appearing on the street drew either kind or hostile stares.

Similarly, because everyone knew each other well, numerous humiliating public punishments emerged, such as the famous stocks, hand-and-neck stocks, and hand-and-foot stocks—by name, if someone committed a minor offense but the judge deemed they needed a lesson to remember, he would sentence them to such punishment.

Hand-and-neck stocks pinned a person’s hands and head to a wooden board, forcing them to squat with their rear end exposed, for hours or even days; hand-and-foot stocks fastened limbs to a single board, leaving the punished helpless on cold, filthy ground, subject to mockery and spitting.

Sometimes people threw filth at them.

But most importantly, it made them feel shame so deep they dared not repeat their crimes, and it allowed others to recognize their faces, so they wouldn’t fall victim again.

In such an extremely isolated society, people grew accustomed to self-sufficiency, yet human desires were endless—they always wanted things they lacked.

Thus merchants arose, like rivers flowing through hills, valleys, and plains, constantly bringing new goods and carrying away local products; their greed and betrayal easily stirred resentment, yet no one could deny that without merchants, a city—or even a nation—would swiftly grow lifeless.

This was true in peacetime; in wartime, merchants were indispensable.

This era had no easily stored military rations, cheap industrial goods, or convenient transport; when a knight went to war, being able to equip himself, his retinue, and armed servants with sufficient horses, weapons, and armor was already commendable. Food? Perhaps a little, but it would be gone quickly—then what? Of course, they’d “exchange” it with spear and sword.

You likely haven’t forgotten: we previously mentioned that when war or expedition was decided, lords and kings everywhere posted proclamations forbidding knights from looting along the way…

But this applied only within their own lands; in infidel territory, no such limits existed—for instance, Amalric I’s crusader knights once plundered extensively around Belbeis, seizing all wheat, wine, and oil, and shooting down every bird and beast.

Even so, they could not guarantee they wouldn’t face food shortages during long campaigns.

First, when armies and their followers exceeded local carrying capacity, even torturing every person to death wouldn’t yield more food; second, infidel farmers and garrisons weren’t foolish enough to wait for plunder—they might hide supplies or, like Sawal, burn them all.

At such times, the merchants’ importance became clear: they gathered provisions from all sides and transported them over vast distances to the army’s encampments, selling them there.

They also bore the burden of converting the knights’ loot—vessels, furniture, cloth—items they didn’t need or couldn’t carry—into profit, offering knights coin or other desired goods: armor, horses, weapons; the knights’ expenditures and gains formed a perfect cycle in the merchants’ hands.

Without merchants, knights would likely have no interest in expedition at all, for they could never obtain what they sought from battle.

The caravan leader followed Haridi to Qumran, located at the northwestern corner of the Dead Sea, not far from Bethlehem or their water source, indeed a barren and empty land.

Though for the Essene people, this was a peaceful land, Eden granted by God.

Yet this “Eden” left Haridi’s wife utterly despondent; as she had heard, Qumran’s people lived in low huts, just like the village they’d seen at the water source—no windows, lamps needed even by day, and taller individuals had to bend low to enter or exit.

They met the sage of Qumran; Haridi’s wife felt his gaze upon her held more assessment than suspicion, and when she and her daughter were finally allowed to leave, she fled the room as if escaping.

“You must care for and cherish your wife,” the sage said, watching her back. “She wasn’t raised here, nor has she ever followed our laws or teachings—her eyes are filled with unease; everything here may seem alien to her. Don’t scold or rush to instruct her—she needs only time.”

Haridi remained silent. When he left Qumran, he carried anger and resentment, but over nearly a decade of exile, those feelings had eased; nostalgia for his homeland surpassed youthful indignation—or rather, looking back now, it wasn’t humiliation, merely differing views on doctrine and ideals.

“So, Haridi, after leaving here so long and traveling so far, have you seen anyone who might be the Holy King in your heart?”

Facing the sage’s question, Haridi paused, then shook his head heavily.

“No, Elder. I’ve walked from Qumran to Bethlehem, from Bethlehem to Arassal, from Arassal to Acre, from Acre to Jaffa, from Jaffa to Gaza, sailed to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Belbeis. I’ve met kings, dukes, grand masters of knightly orders, sultans, caliphs, viziers, and emirs.”

I observed their words and deeds, guessed their thoughts, weighed their virtue—but everyone I saw, whether lowly or noble, was merely an ordinary man. Perhaps they still held ideals, but like me, they ultimately bowed to reality.”

“Many young people share your thoughts,” the sage said. “They hear the Messiah must return and strive to find this Holy King among men. But we know he has not yet descended—certainly not before Judgment Day; he has already atoned for us. I have never heard a debt repaid twice.”

And humanity has always been ungrateful and forgetful.

Just days ago, someone came to me saying we should rebuild our kingdom—not chase some elusive savior or Holy King. But didn’t we once have our own kingdom, our own temple, our own king? We had David, Herod, Solomon—all wise rulers, yet none resisted temptation: wealth, honor, power—all utterly changed them.

I told him: stop placing your hope in others. As long as he is human, he cannot escape sin.

Haridi, since you’ve returned, you must know: all we can do is wait—for the final day to come. When the Messiah sees us, may our repentance and endurance move him to wash away our sins and raise us to heaven.”

“I still harbor hope,” Haridi said. “But perhaps you are right.”

After speaking these words, he felt as if a great stone had lifted from his chest, and a serene smile appeared.

The sage’s face softened with relief. Young men often cling to stubborn views and stray; Haridi was his favorite student, and he hoped Haridi would one day take his place—not just in Qumran, but perhaps his departure was meant to prepare him for an even greater role.

“And about that merchant,” the sage said. “Though he is of our people, he has absorbed too much outside greed. I do not wish to see him—so you go. We need no money, but we need salt, and sugar—salt most of all, sugar indispensable. Perhaps some oil too.”

“Do you also believe war is coming here?”

“I can see certain things: an old star is about to fall, and a new one is rising—but alas, its light fades in an instant.”

————————

Baldwin did not know that, barely a hundred miles away, someone had already made the most accurate judgment of his fate.

He decided to “tour,” for many reasons.

First, Amalric I departed too hastily, and during the prior period, he had suffered severely from leprosy, unable to leave the Holy Cross Fortress, let alone accompany his father on his tour.

He had only seen cities, castles, ports, villages, and settlements on maps and scrolls, learned of them from his teachers and lords like Raymond, but their true condition—even Heraclius could not guarantee—and without face-to-face contact, he could never know how nobles and knights truly felt toward him.

They might fill letters with flattery, but Baldwin didn’t believe them—if war broke out, would they truly supply him with provisions, equipment, and knights at his command?

The state of these castles and towns also needed careful inspection: were supplies sufficient? Training adequate? Were walls crumbling or breached? Could residents live in peace?

Moreover, though the ministers of Arassal refused to believe his judgment—and likely planned to invade Mule’s lands soon—he could only use the pretext of “touring” to observe the Saracens up close, watching for any signs of movement.

Also, at the recent tournament, Cesar firmly refused the princess—despite Maria, the queen mother, being the highest-ranking woman present, Sibylla would see Cesar’s rejection as an insult; the last man to bring her such shame was Count Etienne.

And to the princess, Cesar’s current status still couldn’t match a Frankish count; her fury would only burn hotter.

Baldwin had to worry: if Cesar remained in the Holy Cross Fortress, what mad, ridiculous acts might his sister commit?

He still felt some kinship toward her; their father had left them, and he only hoped they could support each other in the years ahead—not rush to bare their fangs over power that might not even exist.

But he also believed that given the chance, Sibylla would show Cesar no mercy.

In Bethlehem, Baldwin received an extraordinarily grand and magnificent welcome—not to mention Bishop Andrew, who had practically watched him grow up.

Just consider the merchants: they always believed Bethlehem’s holiness rivaled Arassal’s; Arassal had the Holy Sepulchre, yes, but they had the Nativity Site.

If the future king turned even a fraction of his attention to Bethlehem, they believed—even if it could never replace Arassal—the holy city might one day become two.

Cesar received in Bethlehem what Baldwin received threefold, yet the merchants carefully withheld courtesans; no one knew the young king’s health condition—though Baldwin noticed something missing from the banquet: courtesans were essential, like a vase without flowers, drawing unwanted attention.

“I heard you refused all the courtesans they sent,” Baldwin teased, raising his cup. “You needn’t worry about me—ladies of the Holy Cross Fortress have complained you’re too unromantic. A too-lewd knight is no good, but occasionally you might admire the jewels and pearls before you. If you like someone, tell me—I’ll find out her wishes.”

“You need a loyal lady.”

Cesar didn’t know how to answer. In his other world, he knew syphilis had traces as early as the 8th century, evidenced by Vikings; he couldn’t be sure any courtesan carried spirochetes. And given the era’s hygiene standards, inflammation and fungi were common dangers—even if Heraclius said the blessed were less prone to illness—he had no intention of risking it.

“Didn’t I already swear loyalty to a lady?”

“Queen Mother Maria?” Baldwin hesitated. Not impossible—but before she was queen mother, Maria was a Byzantine princess.

“No,” Cesar said. “Your younger sister, Isabella. I declare here: she is the most beautiful, noblest, kindest, and most devout lady in the entire world.” He spoke solemnly. “What do you think?”

Baldwin burst into laughter.

(End of Chapter)