Chapter 141: On the Road to Aleppo (6)===GLOSSARY=== [{

I am your homeless moon,

give me a bed.

I have not slept for centuries,

I am your Damascus rose,

insert me into the first vase you find.

———— Syrian poet Nizar Kabbani

Haridi knew he had made a mistake, just like those he had once despised and mocked.

When he saw those unforgettable green eyes at the gates of Damascus, and watched him escape death once more under his protection, what surged in his heart was not relief, not gratitude, but an uncontrollable greed.

He knew this man—in Bilbeis, he had delivered justice for them, preventing families from being torn apart; in the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, without this close advisor to the king, the Christians might never have trusted him, given him a chance, and he would never have been able to avenge his own family amid the chaotic battlefield.

Perhaps all the Ishmaelites were like this—blind and ungrateful, he had thought then, that if he could persuade this young man—who was now the king of Arasal’s envoy—and make the Saracens owe him a debt, then if he wished, even if he merely showed a hint of mercy—at the very least, he could regain his freedom, leave this place, and go to other cities and nations…

Worse still, he could try to use this Christian knight to rescue other Ishmaelites; though some among them had indeed taken part in conspiracies and rebellions, others—perhaps out of fear of the former, or simply because they knew nothing—ought to be, perhaps were innocent, at least the women and children—how Cesar had been saved by Amalric I, so too should he save others…

Haridi knew if he dared voice this thought, he would be laughed at—they would surely think me mad—he muttered, but if going mad could save thousands, why not make that deal?

He harbored such delusions, even tried to bargain, but the moment he revealed even a hint of it, those cold green eyes pierced him—just a fleeting glance, and his courage vanished like dust in the wind.

Have you ever seen a leopard toy with a lamb? A storm sweep over flower branches? Their momentary kindness and gentleness stem only from the prey’s weakness, too insignificant to warrant serious attention—just as this youth, Haridi knew every word he spoke was true; if he still wished to flee or turn to others, he would drag him out of the room himself and hang him upside down on a wooden frame alongside those he wished to save.

No, to be safe, he might even kindly cut Haridi’s throat in advance.

Even now, Haridi did not understand why he was valued so highly…

——————

Why? Even if Baldwin asked, Cesar would find it hard to answer.

Here there exists a power absent from his world, yet conversely, this power also stifles this world’s thirst for exploration and innovation—swords are not sharp enough, shields not hard enough, no matter; there is “Grace”; illness or injury, no matter; there is “Bestowal”—as for the poor masses… what needs could they possibly have?

The nobles viewed them as cattle or horses, or even less than that.

Their cries were always ignored; when even their lives were not guaranteed, they did not complain that wooden tools were inferior to iron, nor did they care about coughing, bleeding, pain… countless men collapsed silently while working, and there were the damned “hunger sicknesses” and “demon possession”…

Before the “Chosen Ones” appeared, whether in Arabia, Apennine, or Francia, you could still see witches and “doctors” walking through villages and towns—this was a general term for those who understood herbalism and human anatomy.

But when the Church discovered that those who could merely touch a patient to ease or cure their illness inspired greater trust in the Church—and thus more coins poured into church coffers—these people vanished.

Male “doctors” might become priests; women were only fit to become fuel for the pyre.

And as the “Chosen Ones” multiplied, the Church’s monopoly over “doctors” grew ever more urgent, ever more vicious—even becoming a priest did not mean you could practice medicine freely; such work had to be assigned by bishops, archbishops, even the Pope, and you could not instantly cure patients or the wounded; the extent and duration of treatment depended entirely on higher orders.

Just as Heraclius, before becoming patriarch, could not reveal his ability to prepare ointments; after becoming patriarch, what he gave out was no longer “ointment,” but consecrated “holy relics”—if he dared say these were merely ordinary herbs, even if any mortal could brew them according to the formula, even his own priests would betray him.

After all, besides faith, profit was the thing priests cherished most.

If even the patriarch acted thus, ordinary people were even less likely to resist; those who dared touch this “forbidden flesh” in the Inquisition or Church were the first to be burned at the stake, and under the Church’s relentless, day-and-night brainwashing, even ordinary folk, even if they had been healed or saved by these bold ones—whether by their medicine or their cures—would unhesitatingly betray their benefactors.

With the disappearance of these “doctors,” “medicine” and “pharmacology” naturally became things that had once existed but now seemed like terrifying legends.

Yet when Heraclius taught Cesar and Baldwin, he mentioned that some texts destroyed in Christian lands and cities might still survive in Saracen palaces and libraries; among the Saracens, though there were also “Chosen Ones”—though according to them, these individuals received revelation from the Prophet, granting powers beyond mortal reach—they never further divided such miracles as the Christian Church did; once granted revelation, you could freely choose to be a “scholar” or a “warrior.”

But they did not deny human capability; among them, medicine and doctors still existed.

And the same held true among the Ishmaelites, who called those blessed by God “Sages,” though among them there were no warriors, only priest-like figures, wielding far less power, status, and reverence.

“To earn the Ishmaelites’ respect, you must possess the authority of Mercury (the ancient Roman god of commerce, travelers, and messengers).” Heraclius had added this sarcasm at the time.

So this time, his insistence on embarking for Aleppo was partly due to this—Baldwin’s chronic illness still hung like a weight on his heart and the hearts of many others; no matter how relaxed, comfortable, or joyful the moment, it pricked them like a tiny thorn.

Cesar’s medical knowledge, stripped of modern equipment and drugs, could hardly cure Baldwin (at least not prevent recurrence in his lifetime); he knew some herbs could achieve better therapeutic effects than current ointments, but in Arasal’s markets and merchant ships, he and his teacher had found nothing—what if in the Saracen court and treasury?

And Haridi was an accident.

Sultan Nur ad-Din was their enemy, yet a worthy one; to let him rot, swell, turn black and stink—even the most hostile Tripoli Count Raymond would find it excessive—and Cesar was no stranger to corpses—but what he could not imagine was that while cleaning Nur ad-Din’s ribs, he found a needle puncture on the gray-white skin?!

As a doctor, he would not mistake it—it was not an arrow wound, nor any other sharp injury; it was a needle puncture—and poisoned, with signs of ulceration and swelling.

He carefully searched Nur ad-Din’s clothing and body, and finally found, nestled in the folds of the belt, something resembling a broken gold thread—more accurately, a slender crossbow bolt.

Cesar had once accompanied his teacher (from another world) to treat a patient, an zoo employee who had been accidentally struck by an anesthetic dart while helping colleagues sedate a lion…

The prototype of the dart—the blowgun—dates back to the Stone Age; if the dart that struck Nur ad-Din was merely a blowgun arrowhead coated with poison, he would not have been so astonished—but this blowgun dart was hollow, and from its end structure, it employed the same principle as modern anesthetic darts: upon piercing the skin, the liquid would automatically inject into the animal or human body due to air pressure.

And when Haridi mentioned he used toad venom, Cesar was not surprised at all; compared to toad venom, what truly interested him was how he had crafted such a thin, sturdy hollow tube, and the device to fire this special crossbow bolt—how many things require small yet durable components.

Even in this era, no king would foresee the future; they might value only the crown and scepter Haridi forged, yet Cesar dared not risk it; even if Haridi had done nothing wrong, he could not let him out of his sight, out of his control.

“What’s so special about that Ishmaelite?” Geoffrey asked, interested.

“He’s the one from the Battle of the Sea of Galilee,” Cesar said. Geoffrey instantly understood.

Though Baldwin was still a young king, he had no habit of appropriating his subordinates’ achievements to adorn his throne; he lavishly praised and thanked Grand Master Philip of the Templars, and mentioned an Ishmaelite, declaring him indispensable; moreover, the cave the man described indeed contained countless ancient texts that even Patriarch Heraclius could not help but marvel at—the knights didn’t care, but the Church would gladly pay a fortune for them.

Whether they would be destroyed or venerated afterward was uncertain.

“But it seems the fellow is ungrateful.”

“Then keep a close eye on him.”

“You seem distracted.”

“Because… because I’m thinking,” Cesar paused, “I want to go out and see.”

“See?”

“This is Damascus.”

When they were in Bilbeis, though the city hadn’t been utterly destroyed, they entered as conquerors; the residents were wary and terrified of them, and their fears proved justified; later, as overseers, he and Baldwin had traveled many places, yet found almost nothing of value—either destroyed or looted.

Fustat was even less worth mentioning.

Now, in Damascus, as “guests”—if one could call them that—they might, as observers, see a true Saracen city.

“Then together?” Geoffrey, as expected, raised no objection; they went to Kamal to state their intent—mainly to avoid being mistaken as spies—and under the guidance of two local guides provided by Kamal, they changed into Saracen clothes and stepped into the streets of Damascus.

——————

Kamal listened to his subordinate’s report, nodded, and released a pigeon.

The pigeon flapped its wings, shooting straight into the sky like an arrow, then swiftly shrank to a black dot and vanished from Kamal’s sight.

It flew hard until dusk, when it folded its wings and landed on a terrace, where a young eunuch stood guard; seeing it, he immediately seized the pigeon and carried it inside, carefully removing the copper tube tied to its leg—he did not open it—if he did, he would die—instead, he delivered it at once to another senior eunuch.

The senior eunuch glanced at the copper tube—not something he was meant to know—and immediately sent it to another room; the First Lady’s eunuch rose from the carpet, checked the wax seal, opened the tube, and presented it to his master.

The First Lady opened it, glanced once, and frowned.

She was about to give an order when a loud shout came from outside; a boy of about ten rushed in and hugged her tightly—he was the youngest son of Sultan Nur ad-Din, Salih, born to a concubine permitted by the First Lady.

“What’s this?” he asked, seeing the small slip of paper in her hand.

“Nothing… Kamal wants to kill the Damascus agent, let him do as he pleases—a Kurdish bastard,” the First Lady said dismissively.

“And this?” Salih pointed to another slip of paper on the side, reaching to touch it, but the First Lady held him back: “Also a trivial matter.”

She said, then seized the paper and burned it on the lampstand the eunuch promptly brought.

(End of chapter)