Chapter 140: On the Road to Aleppo (5)

Haridi pushed himself up, as if to say something, but his first attempt was a violent fit of coughing—Cesar’s shield had arrived just in time to save him from the soldiers’ spears, but before that, he had been imprisoned and beaten; the most absurd part was that the very soldiers who had stormed the Isaac quarter and expelled all Isaacians had inadvertently saved his life.

He tilted his head upward, gazing at the tall, slender yet strong man standing with his back to the sun, looking down at him: “Yes,” he rasped, “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

In the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, Haridi played the most crucial role—if he had not produced that vital document, the Christians would never have met Sultan Nur ad-Din, let alone confirmed his condition.

Precisely because they now knew Nur ad-Din’s days were numbered, Grand Master Philip of the Knights Templar dared to attempt what could be called reckless—even mad—this answer, obtained by Haridi at great personal risk, dispelled the fears of many.

And for those who truly achieved merit, Baldwin never stinted rewards—whether Christian, Isaacian, or Saracen; after the great victory at the Sea of Galilee, Haridi could have asked for anything—rebuilding the Isaacian settlement in Qumran, relocating to Bethlehem, or even Arasal, or requesting to serve Baldwin directly—and Baldwin would have granted it all, yet after the war ended, he quietly vanished into the crowd.

His actions proved he had no loyalty to the King of Arasal; at the time, Baldwin and Cesar assumed he had gone to another Isaacian settlement or returned to Frankia or Apennia, after all, he had only recently helped the Christians defeat the Saracens—no one could be certain someone hadn’t recognized him outside the battlefield.

“Can you stand?” Cesar asked.

Haridi wanted to say yes, but then he saw the young green-eyed knight extending his hand; he wished to refuse it, yet before he could move, he fainted.

Fainting, for him now, might be a blessing—in eternal darkness, he could drift aimlessly, thinking of nothing, remembering nothing; his teacher, companions, wife, and daughter were all gone, forever lost; he lived only because he could not betray their teachings—he refused to enter hell as a suicide, yet fate was always cruel.

He came to Damascus, but even a quiet life did not last until the third month.

When he awoke, Haridi found himself lying on a bed, soft and plush, surrounded by fluffy down cushions; on a small round table beside him stood an exquisite copper lamp, cast in the shape of a plumaged peacock, its wick protruding from the bird’s beak, the flame enclosed within a fist-sized glass sphere, glowing brilliantly.

It took him a long while to recall what had happened.

His teacher had entrusted him with the ancient scrolls hidden in the caves, hoping he would use them to return to the “Secret Place” in the desert—the last refuge of the Isaacians—but he had betrayed his teacher’s hope; at that time, he had let his hatred consume everything, faith and people alike.

Otherwise, every day after would have been unbearable; if he did not avenge them, what meaning would there be even if he returned to them? Even buried underground, one day the fire within him would burn him alive.

But now that he had done it, all that awaited him was endless suspicion, hatred, and revulsion—from city to city, not only from Christians or Saracens, but even among his own kin; once they learned what he had done, they would instantly reveal their most monstrous faces.

He often asked himself: did he regret it? He thought, no, he did not regret it—only exhaustion, extraordinary exhaustion, as if he might collapse at any moment and never wake again.

When the young knight handed him a cup of scalding wine, he felt a flicker of resentment—if he had died then beneath the Saracen spears, would he have found peace? Perhaps he would, he admitted; he was not as pious as his teacher, yet he had once earned great merit—for the Isaacians, he believed this merit alone was sufficient to earn him a place in heaven.

He sat up and drank the wine, then saw Cesar rise and leave, returning with a small cloth pouch; he opened it and poured out its contents: several small gold objects, scattered unfamiliar fittings, and embedded gemstones: “These are my things—you retrieved them?”

He had not dared hope much. When one of his own people tried to frame him—he claimed Haridi had stolen finished goods and materials entrusted by customers.

At first, Haridi thought they had discovered his role in the Battle of the Sea of Galilee; in truth, he had merely annoyed some people—though they too were Isaacians, that did not stop them from burning with envy; they seized a good opportunity to falsely accuse him of theft.

They stormed his workshop, ransacked it, seized everything he was making or planned to make, along with precious raw materials, then imprisoned him, trying to force him to confess to all the charges—before the Saracen soldiers burst in, he had gone three full days without proper food or even much water, subjected to threats, humiliation, and beatings.

“How did you manage it?” These people were determined to kill him; even proving he had been a student of the “Wise One” was useless; sometimes he truly wondered if his own people were as blind as the Christians mocked—like blind puppies.

The Isaacians still tried to argue, even though these items were now irrevocably theirs no longer (the dead own no property)—they insisted Haridi was a thief, as if this could lessen their own guilt or earn Saracen mercy. But resolving such matters was effortless.

Cesar merely examined the evidence and artifacts they submitted, then picked up an object resembling a reliquary and asked the accuser, “Do you know what this is? Since you claim it was stolen from you, and belongs to you?”

The Isaacian goldsmith hesitated a long while before answering: “A reliquary.”

Small enough to fit in the palm, square, engraved with intricate patterns, clearly not matching Saracen aesthetics—it was likely custom-made by Christians; a reliquary was the most plausible.

“Unfortunately, this is not a reliquary,” Cesar ruthlessly shattered Haridi’s last hope.

“Even when I first saw it, I could hardly believe it,” Cesar said. “This is not a sacred object—it is a weapon, and it has been used, correct?”

“I don’t understand your meaning.”

“No need for such empty pretense,” Cesar sat before Haridi and withdrew from his robe a slender wooden box—“You probably don’t know that Sultan Nur ad-Din didn’t die immediately after his fall from horseback; he lingered for some time before finally passing, and by then he was already in Arasal—perhaps the Devil’s mockery, forcing him to fulfill his promise in this manner.

When he departed, though peaceful, he was filthy—dirt, blood, bodily fluids… If left alone, his body would quickly breed maggots and rot. We tried to have other Saracens perform the cleansing, but they all showed fear and refused—according to them, only the Sultan’s brothers or sons could do it.

So I performed his ‘purification.’”

Haridi lifted his head.

“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I washed his entire body, trimmed his hair and beard, and then I found something very small beneath his ribs—if I hadn’t been there, someone else might have overlooked it.” He opened the wooden box; against the black velvet, a thin golden thread glimmered in the candlelight—so slender, perhaps only one-tenth the thickness of a reed tube, or less; except for its tip, the rest was twisted beyond recognition.

“It pierced the Sultan’s skin and muscle—I removed it. Then I examined it closely and discovered it was hollow.” When he realized this, Cesar trembled violently—nothing was more familiar to a physician.

This thickness was sufficient for injection—there must have been other parts left on the battlefield, but time was too short to search for the needle’s connecting components; yet its existence proved one thing: Nur ad-Din’s sudden death may not have been due solely to age or illness.

“Open it.”

Cesar handed the “reliquary” to Haridi; Haridi remained silent for a long while, then, under Cesar’s gaze, gently opened it—inside lay a dense array of intricate mechanical parts, one pressed against another, overlapping, interlocking, tightly connected.

“What did you fill it with?”

“Pus from toads—I extracted a white powder from it. It drives animals mad until death.”

“You killed Nur ad-Din.”

“Yes, but if you intend to blackmail me, I advise you not to—I have no desire to serve a king, nor a count. Grant me freedom. I will pray for you before God—if you hand me over to the Saracens, I will not complain.”

He expected Cesar to fly into a rage, but Cesar merely looked down at the tiny object, no larger than a few inches square: “I don’t want to,” Cesar replied bluntly, leaving Haridi momentarily stunned.

“I thought you were a merciful man.”

“Precisely because I am merciful, otherwise I would have already hung you from a rack—you have exploited my mercy, again and again.

But I am still willing to forgive you, because I need you to work for me.”

“What do you need this for? You’re no assassin of the Eagle’s Nest. Your victories should come honorably from the battlefield, not through deceit.” Haridi pleaded: “I am merely a goldsmith, not even a ‘Wise One.’ Though once blessed by God, I cannot ride into battle or scale walls—even a few ordinary men could destroy me. I am useless to you—you are not a man who craves glory, you don’t want a crown or a reliquary.”

“Why do you think that? Your skill and talent are vital—so vital that I will not grant your request to release you. You must come with me to Aleppo, then return with me to Arasal—I will recommend you to Baldwin.”

Cesar smiled at him: “You might create something beyond even your own imagination.”

(End of Chapter)