Chapter 163: Brief Encounter

As he stepped into the room, Longinus paused in surprise.

In that instant, he almost believed he was still in the Castle of the Holy Cross or Bethlehem, not yet arrived in Damascus—that all he had experienced was merely a dream born of excessive worry over Cesar.

As Cesar’s servant, he had certainly entered Cesar’s room hundreds of times before.

Cesar’s room was utterly unlike what people today considered fashionable; some who saw it even thought it belonged to an elderly, devout ascetic.

Whether in the Castle of the Holy Cross or Bethlehem, Cesar’s room was always bare: apart from the essential bed, desk, wardrobe, and corner cabinet, the only item worthy of being called a luxury was a brass water clock.

The ceiling and walls were only painted with chalk, hung with adjustable lamp racks; the floor was empty, exposed stone or wood, no carpet, no thick layers of lavender, rush, or dried rose petals.

The bed held only wool or cotton padding, linen and cotton sheets—no mink fur or silk; his drinking cup was wooden, not silver or gold; no heavy tapestries adorned the walls or windows, only shutters.

Except during the coldest days, these shutters were always open—sunlight, wind, even rain could enter through the windows, keeping the room’s air fresh and damp.

Sometimes, when the weather grew too dry, Cesar would order servants to sprinkle water on the floor.

But only Longinus and a few servants knew that, in terms of luxury, Cesar’s room rivaled even that of a prince or the current king, Baldwin IV.

He demanded extreme cleanliness: no dust accumulation, no grease residue, no rats or snakes allowed—even fleas and bedbugs, which even former kings and queens could not avoid, had to be utterly eradicated here.

Eradicating these pests was no simple matter—even nobles had long grown accustomed to their bites, and they migrated easily; a clean, fluffy, cotton- or wool-scented mattress could breed thick clusters of insects within months.

The only way to keep them away was constant airing and washing.

When conditions allowed, Baldwin’s and Cesar’s bedding and clothing required a team of twelve washerwomen; every few days, people saw these women carrying huge bundles of fabric out of their rooms and bringing back clean ones.

Never mind the waste of water and soap—just the wear and tear on the textiles, even ordinary cotton and linen, cost a fortune; of course, a knight could afford it, but why care about such tiny insects? They caused no real harm—wouldn’t it be better to spend that money on a good drink?

But the result was obvious—how to put it?

His room was always bright, spacious, clean, with not a trace of unpleasant odor.

Everyone who entered for the first time would unconsciously take a deep breath—they didn’t know what the scent was, but it was comforting: not like a church, not incense or myrrh, only glass-clear air, the crisp fragrance of distant plants and trees, and the faint bitterness of ink and parchment—the room’s owner loved reading and writing deeply.

The room Saladin had prepared for Cesar, though its furnishings, decorations, and style differed sharply from Christian ones, somehow felt strangely familiar to Longinus.

This room was also empty: a blackened bronze lamp rack hung from the center of the rounded dome; the ceiling and walls were a soft cream-yellow, with only intricate floral patterns painted along the window and door frames.

The floor was gray stone tile, again no carpet or fur—only a few delicate small kneeling pads neatly arranged to one side, presumably for the servants who must remain at Cesar’s side but must perform their seven daily prayers.

Then Longinus looked ahead and saw, beyond a slender archway, a wide, low couch; upon it, no fabric qualified as luxurious—no velvet, no silk—only white and pale yellow wool and cotton.

A dozen pillows were stacked neatly into a small nest, surrounded by plain gauze curtains—Longinus hurried over and saw the face that had tormented him for the past ten days; he breathed sharply, reached out, touched Cesar’s neck, and felt a strong pulse.

He was alive—God be praised—he was still alive, not killed by those Saracens.

Longinus did not know what he would do if Cesar had truly died here…

Long before Amalric I’s campaign into Egypt, Longinus had already killed three Saracens on the battlefield, fulfilling his vow to God and earning the right to reclaim his surname—but when the king summoned him and asked his origin and name, he hesitated.

He felt nothing for his family—neither father, mother, nor siblings—he knew his nephew, older by a year, looked down on him; the boy had even said at a banquet that he’d only grant his little uncle the position of a guard.

When he had thrown himself into Arasal, he had truly hoped to earn a title through his skill and talent, then return home in glory—but now that it seemed possible, he hesitated, even wanted to laugh—what would he do with all this?

Challenge that child? He might become a guest of some lord or king, perhaps even receive a small fief—he could see the end of this path clearly: sleep, train, gamble, feast, father children with his wife, teach them, attend mass, beat the peasants’ feet to extract most of their grain, fight other knights for seats at banquets, join tournaments, kill or be killed.

Like his father, his brother, and his nephew.

When he said, “Call me Longinus,” Amalric I laughed—he had seen many like him before—and Longinus ultimately stayed in Arasal, beside his young master.

He stood at the head of the bed, gazing down at Cesar’s face. The beautiful features had lost all color; his hair had grown slightly longer, tangled on the fluffy cotton pillow; his lips were gray-white, eyes tightly shut.

For the first time, he noticed how thick and long Cesar’s eyelashes were—he had only seen such lashes on infants before.

Fortunately, he saw no flush of fever—fever, whether among Christians or Saracens, was a terrifying thing; even the chosen could die from it, and they suffered more than ordinary people.

He checked Cesar’s hands and feet—they had been washed clean, no sticky sweat, nails neatly trimmed and rounded.

He pulled the blanket over Cesar, about to rise and leave, when he heard a long sigh.

Longinus instantly turned, lunging to the couch—he saw those eyes open; at first, the pupils could not focus, but slowly, the emerald-green eyes regained life.

He turned slowly toward Longinus and smiled: “You, Longinus.”

Longinus sat cross-legged, took Cesar’s hand; the servants and physicians, seeing Cesar awake, immediately sprang into action.

While Cesar slept, they dared not disturb him.

According to their experience, those chosen ones who had received the Prophet’s revelation might, even in sleep, be listening at the Prophet’s feet, receiving divine comfort and instruction—awakening them abruptly could cause unbearable pain and even harm their path to ascension.

But once awake, they rushed to give him medicinal waters and honey cakes infused with cinnamon, cardamom, musk, cassia, saffron, sandalwood, and cloves—this was a precious medicinal dish, usually reserved only for sultans and caliphs.

Cesar had barely time to ask, “How is Arasal?” as they hurriedly propped him up on pillows.

Longinus knew he most wanted to hear about Baldwin IV—he immediately replied that though the king remained restless, Maria the Empress Dowager and Patriarch Heraclius kept him from leaving the Castle of the Holy Cross.

He likely knew that rushing to Damascus would not help Cesar’s situation—only cause more chaos.

If he had come to Damascus and Saladin chose to detain him, Cesar might truly lose his life—and perhaps his honor.

After all, future generations speaking of Baldwin IV’s foolish act would surely blame Cesar.

As for others, no need to elaborate—the Grand Masters of the Hospitallers and Templars were both astonished and delighted to hear Cesar had returned with all ninety knights intact.

Though they had earlier believed the mission posed no great risk—mocking Baldwin IV’s needless anxiety.

But as the saying goes, a villain’s elaborate schemes cannot match a fool’s sudden insight—who could have foreseen that Nur al-Din had barely been buried when his three sons immediately turned on each other, and the most absurd part: the victor turned out to be a nine-year-old boy?

This nine-year-old clearly lacked the wisdom Baldwin or Cesar had at that age—he still needed a guardian.

The guardian was Nur al-Din’s former chief eunuch and his first wife, a woman, a eunuch—they could easily imagine how chaotic Aleppo had become.

In such chaos, all promises could be void, the situation could shift violently at any moment—fortunately, Cesar was decisive and not greedy.

On the journey to Aleppo, he had already subdued the unruly knights; they now obeyed his orders, allowing the entire force to withdraw intact from Aleppo, despite several ambushes—the final battle before Damascus drained their strength and nearly left Cesar crippled, yet the outcome remained favorable.

Their courage and valor convinced Saladin to release them; all three knightly orders saved a vast sum.

Of course, other lords and ministers voiced dissent—such as the deaths of Count Joscelin III of Edessa and his wife, the Armenian Princess—but blaming Cesar and his men was a stretch.

First, they had died before the embassy even reached Aleppo, and the killers were Saracens; though they did not know why the Saracens broke the agreement, in such chaos, anything could happen—especially since the current ruler was a woman.

“To expect reason from a woman is like asking a lion to eat grass.”

Raymond, Count of Tripoli, remarked without concealment.

“Perhaps they were caught in some conspiracy—the Saracens’ scheming rivals even the Byzantines,” said Bohemond, Prince of Antioch; his son Abigail, unusually, said nothing—perhaps because his father had already given him enough slaps.

David, however, upon hearing Cesar was trapped in Damascus, pleaded with the king to replace him and go to meet Cesar.

“Did Baldwin agree?”

Longinus nodded. “He will arrive a few days after me.”—for he had to carry Baldwin IV’s gifts for Saladin and others.

Though Saladin claimed he would demand not a single gold coin as ransom, Cesar was Baldwin IV’s close friend and brother—he could not pretend ignorance; moreover, he was truly grateful, regardless of Saladin’s motives, for he had saved Cesar’s life.

“There is one more thing I must tell you,” Longinus said. “When I entered Damascus, I saw Le Gao.”

“Le Gao? That merchant?” Cesar asked.

They had first suspected Nur al-Din might soon die, and thus deduced he might launch a campaign against Arasal, precisely because Le Gao had clashed with a group of Aleppo soap merchants.

Now, looking back, it was likely just a trick they played—casually leaking information to him.

But after their great victory at the Sea of Galilee, Baldwin IV had rewarded them accordingly—this matter was settled.

“How did they come here?”

“When I was in Bethlehem, I heard some…” Longinus hesitated, then continued, “some bad news.

Le Gao had gathered all the Isaacites in Bethlehem and allied merchants, raising nearly a hundred thousand gold coins.”

“They meant to…”

“Yes—they meant to ransom you. It is a profoundly disrespectful and presumptuous act,” Longinus whispered.

If a lord were captured and his son or wife taxed his subjects to pay the ransom, no one would question it.

But if merchants within his domain did so, their intent would be scrutinized—and provoke the displeasure of superiors.

For taxation demands duty; their self-organized collection carried the air of charity and mockery—as if the lord were merely a pitiful slave.

Cesar leaned back on the pillow, thought a moment: “Saladin expelled them, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Longinus smiled. “When I saw them, they wore only long undergarments, barefoot, no donkeys, no servants—they’ve clearly made a disastrous loss.”

Neither Saracens nor Christians would tolerate such lowly creatures acting as they pleased.

Cesar nodded slightly, but Longinus noticed his expression showed little concern: “Will you punish them?”

“They’ve already been punished,” Cesar said. “A hundred thousand gold coins—even for Tripoli or Antioch’s small coins—is a massive loss for these penny-pinching Isaacites; they must be writhing in regret and anguish.”

But as Longinus suggested—waiting until they returned to Bethlehem to punish them again—Cesar felt it unnecessary; they were clever men—just a hint would make them recognize their error.

And ultimately, he felt no real attachment to Bethlehem—his anchor remained in Arasal, in the Castle of the Holy Cross.

Longinus wanted to say more, but Cesar had closed his eyes again; the Saracen physician gestured for silence.

Longinus sighed, stepped out of the room, letting his young master rest.

After all, there was plenty of time.

(End of chapter)