Chapter 28: The Wolf and the Jackal (Part 2)

What happened next completely exceeded everyone’s expectations.

The guide's decision to seize Count Étienne was entirely justified—among all these people, he alone was a "noble lord," bearing the title of Louis VII's envoy to the Holy Land; he could never be the one left behind.

Best of all, he had just moments before begged for the grace of Saint Peragius, and was at his weakest—kidnapping him was far simpler and safer than seizing anyone else.

Count Étienne and his attendants were stunned for an instant; excessive fatigue and tension had indeed dulled their reflexes—the guide tackled him flat, one hand gripping his throat, the other clutching a “Mercy” dagger.

This dagger’s name came from its purpose—when a fully armored knight fell, his spine or ribs broken, and death inevitable, his enemy or friend would draw this triangular-bladed dagger and thrust it through the gaps in his armor to kill him.

The guide held this dagger not for any damned mercy—its greatest advantage was its sharpness—it resembled a slender awl, so it required little force to drive it all the way through…

As a man who had fought on more than one battlefield, Count Étienne’s instincts still moved faster than his thoughts. Though the guide’s tackle knocked him down, he still seized the man’s arm as he lunged, lifting his knee to press against the guide’s chest.

The guide’s eyes blazed with venom—he would hang if he failed to seize the count, and he did not believe he could be as lucky as the Ismaelite named Wit.

“One of us must die!” he growled from his throat; before death and despair, the thin man unleashed unprecedented strength, twisting his shoulders, dragging the count’s cloak, and pulling it taut with all his might—the count had once praised his goldsmith for making pins both beautiful and sturdy, and now he wished it were less so; with one sudden yank, his vision went black.

The attendants and Templar knights had rushed over, but the two were already locked in struggle; Geoffroy gripped his short axe, hesitated a moment, then realized the two rolling figures had vanished.

Everyone’s hair stood on end; two soldiers behind the Templars instinctively pulled the “holy medallions” (small blessed icons of saints) hanging around their necks into their hands.

At this moment, Count Étienne’s nephew showed unusual courage—he held his torch high and shouted “My Lord!” as he charged forward, then slipped—almost falling himself, had Cesar not grabbed him.

“What is that?” Geoffroy leaned forward to look; the monk cautiously bent low, bringing the torch near the ground—now they could all see: a long, narrow, deep fissure, previously hidden beneath loose pine needles and thin ice, invisible to all, waiting for anyone or any beast to step upon—it was a natural trap.

Count Étienne’s nephew shuddered with relief; the monk turned pale. He rose, raised the torch higher—its light in such profound darkness illuminated not the path or surroundings, but the man holding it—but he did not wish anyone to see anything; he merely pointed the torch toward the former campsite, then toward the hills on the other side. Geoffroy took a few steps, gazed at the faint glimmer in the distance, “It’s a stream. It’s dried up.”

He returned, took the torch from the monk’s hand, and dropped it downward—it fell into darkness, struck something, sparks flew, then bounced and tumbled further down, leaving a trail of fleeting glimmers, finally coming to rest somewhere, utterly still.

Geoffroy bowed as if before the crucified Savior on Good Friday—not merely kneeling, but prostrating his entire body on the cold, damp earth, head lowered, straining to listen.

After a moment, he rose, his face as grim as the monk’s: “This isn’t just a stream. It’s the Devil’s Mouth.”

At those words, everyone involuntarily cried out “Jesus Christ!” The monk swayed, and Count Étienne’s nephew burst into tears.

Cesar hesitated, unsure whether to ask what a “Devil’s Mouth” was; the soldier beside him shook his head and explained—he finally understood: a “Devil’s Mouth” was a fissure formed during an earthquake with no obvious displacement.

Sometimes these fissures closed after swallowing people, animals, trees, and houses; sometimes they remained open.

At this time, people could not understand what an earthquake was.

In ancient Greece, Aristotle overturned the theory that earthquakes were caused by drought or flood—he believed they resulted from long, narrow tunnels or cracks beneath the earth; when wind rushed through these “pipes,” it shook the tunnels and fissures, triggering quakes.

Later scholars proposed their own theories: comet theory, poison gas theory, giant dragon theory…

After the Christian Church seized half the world, explaining earthquakes became simpler—no proof, no debate needed; the people only needed to know that whenever an earthquake struck, it meant some unspeakable sin had festered there, provoking God’s wrath—just carry holy icons and crosses in procession, or attend Mass in church; at the very least, hang saintly paintings on all four walls, and you’d be safe…

Of course, we know these penitential acts helped nothing to earthquake victims—worse still, in one place, those who fled to church for prayer were buried alive when the church collapsed.

“Devil’s Mouth” was the name Christians gave to ground fissures formed during earthquakes—they didn’t understand earthquakes, nor how such byproducts appeared; a fissure that swallowed all, vanished in an instant, or—if it remained—exceeded their comprehension, to survivors, was surely like the Devil’s gaping maw.

This “Devil’s Mouth” was hidden with exquisite cunning—when the stream still flowed, it was a “lake” concealed beneath calm water. When winter came and the water dried, it froze; dry, fluffy pine needles settled atop it, maturing over three or four months into a thin layer of humus, which caught more fallen leaves, broken branches, animal fur, and soil, eventually forming a trap so expertly crafted even the most seasoned hunter might miss it.

No one knew how deep the “Devil’s Mouth” was—not even dropping a torch or a rope could determine it.

Such fissures could never be as clean-cut as sliced cheese; if someone could draw its cross-section, you’d find it jagged, uneven, rising and falling, sometimes narrowed or twisted by protruding tree roots or buried stones.

They lit more torches (luckily, this was a pine forest); after inspection, their hearts sank further—the fissure was barely one and a half of Geoffroy’s shoulder-width. The count’s attendant dipped a wad of coarse undergarment in oil, lit it, and lowered it—only five or six French feet of depth were visible; at that depth, the fissure narrowed to barely enough for one person to pass.

They shouted into the fissure, hoping for a groan or curse—yet heard nothing but wind of unknown origin; Geoffroy even shuddered—he felt the wind sounded more like the Devil laughing.

“Good thing you oiled him already,” said the Templar knight; his words drew a smile from the count’s monk, uglier than crying. “Is there no way?” he asked.

Geoffroy remained silent. All here were veterans—they knew a wounded knight rarely escaped death’s grasp, let alone Count Étienne, who had fallen into a fissure they could neither see nor hear—he might already be dead; even if alive, he lacked the strength to grip a rope and climb out…

They were all doomed—they would face Amalric I’s wrath, and Count Étienne’s attendants would be held accountable by Louis VII.

“I might… have a way.”

Everyone turned—the voice belonged to the youngest among them; his green eyes gleamed in the torchlight.

Geoffroy’s chest tightened with impatience—he did like the boy, but now, such impulsive initiative was annoying.

The Templar knight saw no merit in his suggestion—Cesar was only nine, not yet an adult, not even qualified as a squire—if he had already undergone the “Selection” and been chosen, perhaps there was a sliver of hope—not because they believed him, but because they believed the saint he invoked.

“Tie a rope around me and lower me down.” He could crawl along the fissure’s bottom, searching inch by inch.

The count’s monk was first stunned, then delighted.

They certainly had ropes—every traveling party carried them; the count had more than one bundle, the Templars had theirs too—altogether at least fifty royal feet. If this fissure didn’t lead to hell, his idea wasn’t merely the foolish babbling of a child.

But the plan carried great risk—those left at the fissure’s edge might face bandits, pagans, or returning wolf packs and other beasts; they might be forced to abandon him, leaving him to cry out uselessly in darkness.

He might break a leg, be struck on the head by rocks, bitten by a venomous snake, stung by a scorpion, or go mad from darkness and confinement; or worse—Count Étienne might already be dead or immobilized, and that vile, bribed guide still lived; seeing Cesar, he’d surely drive a dagger straight through his chest.

Geoffroy frowned. His fondness for Cesar wasn’t strong enough to risk Amalric I’s reward. “Are you certain?” He feared the boy had spoken bravely but would crumble in action—he’d seen such men before; nearly every battle produced a few first-time squires who became the laughingstock of the company.

Cesar said nothing. It was no longer his turn—he could only wait for their decision.

The count’s attendants and Templar knights held a brief discussion—they could not refuse. After all, they’d lose only a young servant; even if Prince Baldwin asked, the Templars could claim he was dragged off by wolves or died suddenly of illness.

The count’s monk had considered assigning someone else—not out of affection for Cesar, but like Geoffroy, he feared Cesar would be overwhelmed by terror before reaching the bottom, screaming to be pulled up, wasting time and strength.

Yet among them, Cesar was the smallest; even the attendants were at least twelve, squires fifteen, knights far larger—broad-shouldered, thick-bodied; even if they could enter the fissure, they’d likely get stuck after descending a short distance.

The monk brought a bottle of wine—now was no time to consider alcohol’s harm; the fissure was far colder than the surface, pierced by bone-chilling winds. Cesar took it, gritted his teeth, and drank it all.

Geoffroy removed his sheepskin cloak—Templars shouldn’t wear luxurious furs, but due to the brutal winters of Arassar and surrounding lands, they were permitted sheepskin. Cesar hesitated, then took it, slipping it on; the cloak was far too large, its hem brushing his ankles.

Geoffroy chuckled, “How amusing,” he said, “You look just like a Templar knight.”

They recited the Lord’s Prayer fifteen times (it was mandatory!), then wound the rope around Cesar’s armpits and thighs, securing it with tight knots—one end fastened to a tree, two strong knights holding the other.

The monk gave Cesar a bell, agreeing on signals: one shake meant all was well but nothing found; continuous shaking meant an impassable obstacle or danger—pull him up quickly; one shake, then another, then another—that meant good news—he’d found Count Étienne!

“Begin,” said Geoffroy.

As the rope lowered inch by inch, the light before Cesar dimmed; in his hand he held the flint and steel Geoffroy had given him, the torch stuck at his waist; he closed his eyes slightly—there was nothing to see anyway; he relied solely on sensation to sense his surroundings.

(End of Chapter)