Chapter 129: The Son of Joscelin III, Count of Edessa! (1)

The air was thick with the scent of spices, silk shimmered with radiant luster, and gold and silver vessels glowed with a soft radiance—but none of these could compare to the six female slaves who filed in one after another; all eyes were fixed upon them.

The slaves wore headscarves and veils, cloaked in mantles, eyes lowered; not a single strand of hair was exposed, nothing but their eyes. From the outside, all six appeared nearly identical in height, build, and posture.

The envoy ordered them to step forward one by one before King Arasaluh, where they knelt, then let their mantles fall to the ground, removed their veils and headscarves—the mantles and headscarves were nothing but plain white cotton, the veils of ordinary texture and dull color.

But just as shrewd merchants sometimes place smooth pearls in burlap rather than silk—when external distractions are stripped away, and these girls reveal themselves unadorned, their beauty is almost painful to behold.

Or perhaps beauty is secondary; what struck more deeply was the utter submission evident in their gazes and postures—the gentle fragility, the unquestioning obedience, even to death; even among Christians, women were taught obedience, yet none could match this innate, childlike docility.

Abigail, who claimed to love only princesses, could not help straightening slightly to see more clearly—but his position was truly poor.

The vast hall was eerily empty; the entrance lay to the west, the king’s throne to the east, flanked by white curtains embroidered with Arasaluh crosses beneath a canopy of gold and silver; the throne was magnificent and enormous, its tall backrest evoking the spire of a cathedral.

The king sat high upon it, to his left were Empress Maria and his sister Princess Sibylla, to his right sat Patriarch Heraclius and his regent, Raymond.

Below them, the three rows of seats on either side were equally stratified by rank.

The first row belonged to the king’s most trusted ministers—or those he could not afford to ignore—such as Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, and the Grand Masters of the Templars, the Hospitallers, and the Archdeacon of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.

The second row was for minor vassals and city officials, led by Balian of Ibelin.

David and Abigail, though already knights, could only sit in the third row, a position pressed against the wall, as if reminding them that in this solemn assembly, they had only the right to observe.

Then where was Cesar’s place?

Beside the king’s throne stood a tall, dark-brown oak chair, so close that a mere lean forward would allow conversation; though it bore no carvings or gilding beyond its shape, Raymond turned pale upon seeing it—only Bohemond’s grip on his hand and shoulder kept him from erupting on the spot.

Without the great victory by the Sea of Galilee, they could have persuaded—or even scolded. After all, Cesar was merely a knight, Bethlehem merely a small town; he might appear here, but never sit beside the king. Yet precisely because Baldwin and Cesar had won that great victory, while they themselves had suffered crushing defeat in the campaign against Mule—many now demanded accountability, and their standing had darkened.

At this moment, clashing with the young, impetuous king was no act of a seasoned man; Raymond held his tongue, yet when he saw the knight of Bethlehem, Cesar, sit without a hint of deference, he could not help cursing inwardly—arrogant little worm!

Cesar knew this seat would draw many venomous curses, but even if he did not sit here, would his enemies diminish? As long as he remained the knight of Bethlehem, bearing Amalric I’s favor and Baldwin IV’s friendship, he must stand beside the king, facing their common foes—whether Christian or Saracen.

Baldwin felt only genuine joy. Sunlight streamed through the high windows onto his throne; he turned his ring, and the scattered glints from the gemstone danced across the walls, then over the faces of the ministers—some squinted, some turned away, some raised their hands—all captured in his gaze.

This was the feeling of a king. Everything his uncle and father had once possessed now rested in his hands. He finally understood why, at times, his father had seemed casual, even mocking.

When you sit in this seat, every person here—no matter how powerful or exalted—must bow before you, obey your will; you can alter their fates as easily as moving chess pieces—a sensation no one can imagine unless they have felt it.

He smiled, resting his hands casually on the throne’s armrests; from today on, he could finally grant his dearest brother the reward he deserved.

At that moment, the last slave had reached the assembly; her demeanor was strange—more defiant than the others. She did not kneel, nor immediately remove her veil, but gazed around with a look of shock and daze, studying those… Christians.

The envoy—a minister trusted and favored by Sultan Nuradin—bowed before this young man; beside him stood several figures of unmistakable dignity. Was this the king of Arasaluh? So young, so beautiful—could she truly seek his aid?

Seeing the last slave stand motionless, the envoy frowned. In the Sultan’s court, eunuchs would have already dragged her away, beaten her in some secluded corner (before the Sultan or First Lady ordered punishment, slaves were not severely punished).

But this was a Christian fortress; he could only glare sternly at this ignorant slave. Fortunately, she finally moved, slowly unfastening her mantle, lifting her headscarf, the veil gently falling to the floor.

“Ah,” Empress Maria sighed involuntarily; the slave’s face felt familiar—and before she recalled who it was, she had already taken a step forward, arms outstretched, as if to kneel before the king like her companions.

But suddenly she froze, lips slightly parted, eyes wide—as if something impossible were unfolding before her.

Later, Empress Maria recalled, her expression was like seeing divine light descend from heaven, saints walking slowly down white steps, arms outstretched to lead her to paradise; or like hell opening before her, countless devils crawling from the fissure, seizing her feet, vying to drag her down.

She stood rigid, features twisted, beauty all but vanished. Even the king could not help showing concern; out of respect for all women, he asked gently, “What is wrong? Have I done something amiss? Do you know me?”

He saw on her face the ecstatic look of someone who had seized something—but he did not recall ever having seen this girl before.

Baldwin IV’s misunderstanding was not surprising; she had kept her gaze locked on the throne.

Heraclius had already risen, ordering the slave dragged away—he feared she would throw herself at the king’s feet, clutch his knees, and make some untimely plea. And indeed, as he expected, she lunged violently toward the throne.

She was merely a small woman, incapable of divine revelation or saintly favor—but such an act could still be deemed an assassination attempt against the king.

But the knight of Bethlehem beside the king had already stepped between them. His speed was astonishing—as if he had always stood there—and now the slave clung tightly to him.

Until then, all assumed her target was the king—but the next moment, she cried out loudly.

“Joscelin! Joscelin! Don’t you recognize me? I am your sister! Joscelin, I am Nattia! Your sister!”

The hall erupted in uproar; some turned to the envoy, who was equally bewildered—he had heard not a whisper of this “Nattia” or her brother; when he left Aleppo, he was filled with dread, and these six slaves were merely part of the gifts—would you care about a golden cup or silver platter?

Of course not.

Others turned to Cesar, their eyes shifting between him and the woman, searching for resemblance. There was indeed—especially her jet-black hair, nearly merging with night; the shape of her eyes and lips bore some similarity. Some, upon confirmation, felt complex emotions—if they were truly siblings, it was rare indeed that the sister’s beauty fell short of the brother’s.

Even Baldwin IV rose to his feet. He took two steps forward, wanting to move around for a better view—but Cesar blocked him, then, with the woman still clinging to him, took two steps forward himself; the situation was unclear, and he could not be certain whether the slave sought to use this moment to approach the king and assassinate him.

At last, several venerable ministers rose, joining Raymond in commanding silence, then summoning knights from outside to guard the Saracens and their gifts with utmost vigilance.

The slave who clung tightly to Cesar was not pulled away—first, if she spoke truth, she was the knight of Bethlehem’s sister; regardless of their parents, she was a noblewoman deserving of knightly respect, and they could not treat her roughly; second, if Cesar wished to disengage, he could do so at any moment—he was the man who, at age ten, had held off a furious she-bear.

The knights swiftly cleared the hall; only Christians and the lone Saracen—the envoy—remained.

Cesar placed his hands on the slave’s shoulders and gently pushed her away. His expression was grave—he could feel the body pressed against him bore no weapons, no hardened muscles or calluses, merely an ordinary girl. He let her stand still, then stepped back, watching her as he said:

“First, I must tell you, lady,” his voice carried a gentle, soothing power: “At age nine, I fell gravely ill with high fever, and I no longer remember anything before that. I only know that, by God’s design, I met King Amalric I of Arasaluh amid the scorching hills of Judea.

At that time, I was a slave of an Ishmaelite, facing a fate of utter degradation and despair—or death. But I did not surrender. When the king’s caravan passed, while all knelt in homage, I escaped from the tent, reclaimed my health and honor.

The king saw me and declared: ‘Christians shall not be sold as slaves.’ He ransomed me from the Ishmaelite, brought me to the castle, and generously, mercifully allowed me to accompany his son—as you see, Baldwin treats me as a brother, lets me sit beside him—this is all I have known. But in these memories, there is no you.”

The black-haired slave trembled. “I do not know if I forgot you, or if what you say is a lie. But if you wish to speak, we may spare some time to listen…”

“Wait,” a voice cut in abruptly. “If this is merely about someone’s lineage, there is no need to delay the negotiations, nor force these busy, high-ranking lords to play at family games.”

Abigail’s words stirred anger on the king’s face.

But he was not wrong—some indeed nodded; though gossip delighted all, it paled beside matters of state.

“Yet what I have to say is no less vital than the negotiations you are about to hold,” the slave replied.

Baldwin IV raised an eyebrow slightly, urging her to continue.

The slave stepped past Cesar and knelt before him—she felt his gaze still upon her; she opened her arms, gazing at the king of Arasaluh as if in supplication, and spoke slowly:

“I am Nattia, daughter of Joscelin III, Count of Edessa, and Princess Manah of Armenia. And he,” she turned, gazing fondly at her handsome brother,

“is my younger brother, the only son and sole heir of Joscelin III.”

(End of Chapter)