Chapter 43

Baldwin also saw the scene in Cesar's eyes. He thought he would be overjoyed. If contracting leprosy was being cast into hell, then "being chosen" was undoubtedly a spider silk lowered from heaven. He dared not harbor a luxury hope of being cured in an instant, but at least there was a glimmer of hope.

But when it really came, he searched again and again, yet could not find a shred of excitement or joy.

Where did it go wrong?

In any case, Cesar should be more qualified than himself.

Was it because he smashed the holy image? Or because he left the original place where the ceremony was held—the sanctuary? Or was it because he faked the miracle?

More likely, it was because he insisted on staying by his side, staying by the side of a cursed or punished leper?!

Compared to Baldwin's panic and anxiety, Cesar was much calmer. Before the ceremony, Heraclius had publicly acknowledged him as his student, and his lowest starting point was a monk or a cleric.

Thinking about it now, Heraclius's move certainly had an element of appreciation for him, but more of it was to stabilize his state of mind. After all, there were only him and Baldwin during the selection ceremony.

Everyone has moments of losing control, no exceptions.

Cesar was about to find a way to appease Baldwin, who looked completely panicked, but suddenly got stuck.

He saw the same light in Baldwin's pair of sapphires.

——————

The poet cursed inwardly. This reckless fellow completely interrupted his rhythm, but the other party was a burly brute, and when excited, his clenched fists seemed bigger than his head. He didn't want to test how hard that thing was, so he could only take a few breaths before barely saying: "Prince Baldwin received the blessing."

As soon as this sentence landed, the tavern fell silent. Most people showed disappointment, and the poet was even more unhappy.

Since he could become a scholar, his father would not be a dull and lowly farmer. If traced back by blood and surname, their family could completely claim kinship with a lord.

Even without the knight's instructions, he wouldn't specifically mention a small attendant. Hey, what "Little Saint," only these lowly fellows would elevate an Isaac-slave like this!

But now he had to say it, so he hurriedly added: "The attendant beside him also received the blessing."

The man showed joy, then keenly confirmed: "Is it Cesar, that green-eyed, black-haired child?"

"Yes, yes."

The poet took a deep breath and shouted in the loudest voice: "They were both chosen, Prince Baldwin and his attendant, Cesar!"

He waited for people's cheers, but got a strange silence, so quiet that the poet thought he had done something terrible.

Could it be that his eyes were covered by spirits, and he hadn't walked into a human tavern, but instead fallen into a trap in hell? Those surrounding him were all devils, so after hearing this news, not only did they not feel happy or relieved, but instead became angry?

Of course not.

When great joy comes, people will also appear at a loss, until someone accidentally knocks over a wine cup on the table. The wooden cup fell to the ground with a bang, then rolled far away, and was finally blocked by the threshold. Only then did someone let out the first hearty shout, followed by more screams and blessings.

People stomped their feet and clapped their hands, but soon, such simple actions could no longer carry their abundant emotions. They jumped onto the tables and danced thump-thump on them.

If it were normal times, the tavern keeper would have already scolded them. These poorly made tables couldn't withstand several people jumping on them, but this time he also jumped onto the counter and danced among the hanging dried meat and pots.

How worried and depressed they were at the beginning, they were now that happy and excited. Before long, someone had already rushed out the door to tell others the good news.

Only then did the poet let out a heavy breath, hugged his lute, and sat back in his seat, exhausted.

The tavern keeper handed over a large cup of mellow wine as if waking from a dream. The poet drank it all in one gulp and pinched his ears—the cheers of the crowd made his ears ache. His task was completed, and he still had to go to the next place.

There were hundreds of poets like him, and they were like seeds scattered by the King, falling into every corner of the Holy City.

Amalric I and Heraclius wanted to spread this story throughout Al-Azar, or even further, within a day.

————————

While these poets were sparing no effort to promote this new miracle, the Patriarch ran in a panic to the room of the Pope's envoy. Their plans had all fallen through. Next, the vengeful Amalric I would definitely not let him go. He needed his accomplices to come up with a second plan quickly.

Should he announce penance? The kind where he sees no one?

Or should he continue to maintain a tough attitude? Tell people that this was the last chance God gave Amalric and his son, and they should be more pious, more obedient, and more humble, instead of threatening His shepherd wantonly with the army and power God had given them.

But before he could kick open the servant lying at the door, the door opened. The Patriarch's heart sank. He rushed into the room, and sure enough, he only saw an empty space. The envoy was not in the room at all. He rushed to the bedside, touched the bed, and it was cold. That is to say, the envoy might have slipped away hours ago.

He not only slipped away but also took all the valuable things in the room, from gold and silver utensils to rich furs, and then to silk curtains... The Patriarch was mad with anger and kicked the servant at the door several times viciously.

"Are you a pig? Are you a dog? They just left like this, and you didn't notice at all!"

But the servant just stared at him, as if he didn't understand his meaning at all. He might have drunk a lot of wine—the cleric beside him reminded in a low voice, "Deal with this useless fellow!" The Patriarch said in a hoarse voice, while quickly adjusting his emotions, letting them fall from a boiling state to freezing point.

The look in his eyes when he looked at the servant seemed to have frozen over. The cleric dared not disobey his meaning and had to hurriedly command two guards to drag the unlucky fellow away.

The Patriarch immediately made a decision. He waved away those who wanted to follow, called only his two most trusted students, and began to hurriedly pack his own luggage. The students were a bit hesitant; packing luggage was not an easy and simple thing, but the Patriarch just waved his hand and said, "Only gold, silver, holy relics, and jewelry."

That is, those things that were smallest in volume and heaviest, and easiest to carry. He didn't want anything else. Although this made his heart feel like it was bleeding, he also knew that after the miracle Amalric I created spread throughout the city, he would be the second "important pending matter," and he didn't have much time to waste.

And just at this time, a servant stumbled in and said, "My lord, someone wants to see you, my lord."

"Who!?" The Patriarch's voice was like a tightened bowstring, sharp and trembling.

"Someone buying an indulgence."

The Patriarch's heart went from heaven to earth, and then jumped back into his chest. "I'm not seeing anyone right now."

Logically speaking, the servant should have retreated obediently at this time, but he was still in a hesitant state, "But he is here to buy an indulgence."

"Even if he is here to buy your life, tell him to get out."

"But he wants to buy a ten-thousand-year indulgence, according to the Count's price, my lord."

The Patriarch's hand packing the documents stopped.

Count Etienne once used a five-hundred-year indulgence to redeem the sin of rushing into a church and snatching a bride; Baldwin and Cesar's act of destroying the holy image was twice that; when Amalric I hinted to Heraclius to burn the Sanctuary Church, he also promised Thomas a one-thousand-year indulgence.

A ten-thousand-year indulgence, that was such an astonishing number, even the Patriarch had never seen it—a person could actually take out such a large sum of money at once.

To say something very interesting, the original indulgences were not priced like this.

Although the pricing varied by region and bishop, taking the Troyes region of the Franks as an example, murder: 8 gold coins, blasphemy: 7 gold coins, witchcraft: 7 gold coins, forgery: 6 gold coins, adultery with someone else's wife: 5 gold coins...

The lighter the crime, the lower the price, and a few copper coins at the lowest was not impossible.

But please note, this was the price for commoners. When nobles, lords, and kings committed crimes, it depended on how many zeros the bishop and the Pope added after deliberation.

But after people bought indulgences and heard clerics constantly condemning various sins in their sermons, saying things like adultery would be burned in the lake of fire for five hundred years, blasphemy would be burned in the lake of fire for eight hundred years, murder would be burned in the lake of fire for one thousand years... and so on, and so forth.

There were witty fellows who said in secret, isn't this just a five-hundred-year, eight-hundred-year, or one-thousand-year indulgence?

And those who needed indulgences also seemed to feel that compared to saying how much a certain indulgence cost, it was more elegant and appropriate to express it in terms of the time of punishment. This form of address gradually replaced the original price tag.

A ten-thousand-year indulgence was equivalent to being able to kill ten people, commit adultery twenty times, oh, right, and be able to marry one's sister thirty times.

If it were normal times, the Patriarch might not have met someone who wanted to buy an indulgence at such a critical moment, but unfortunately, the Pope's envoy had knocked away a large sum of his money, and hiring the Assassin's assassins had cost him another sum of money. What made his heart ache most was that his current assets would shrink by more than half if he took them to Rome.

He touched the letter in his chest. In this letter, the Pope promised him that no matter what the outcome of the matter he did—if Amalric I indeed lost his son, or if he himself died... at the very least, if he was devastated, he could take the opportunity to turn Al-Azar into a theocratic state, and the Luo Majiaohui would fully support him in sitting firmly in this position.

Perhaps in the future, the Luo Majiaohui would send a new bishop, but at least in this generation, he was the master of the Holy Land, a king in vestments.

But if the devil was at work and the matter was not done, he also had a way out.

The Pope's envoy brought a handwritten letter from the Pope, which gave him two dioceses and a bishop's position. Of course, compared to the position of Patriarch of Al-Azar, the weight of this bargaining chip was obviously very light, but it was precisely because it was light that it settled the Patriarch's heart—if even this bit of leftovers was not willing to be given, what credibility could the Pope have?

It was just that when he arrived at the diocese, received the holy office, and paid for the money to be spent up and down, the taxes, and the various expenses given to the church, it would definitely not be small. Thinking that his money box would be empty for a long time, the Patriarch's heart could not help but feel a sharp pain.

"Alright, tell him to come in, but tell him that I have a very important thing to do and cannot give him much time, please ask him to be as fast as possible."

Before this uninvited guest stepped into the Patriarch's room, the Patriarch, just in case, called two guards to stay by his side before sitting down at the desk. However, there was no chair opposite him, and the slighting attitude was evident.

The guest walked in with his head held high, carrying a large box, wearing a set of bright leather armor, a silver belt, and a hooded cloak. He bowed respectfully and wanted to step forward to kiss the Patriarch's ring, but was waved away by the Patriarch: "You are still a sinner, sir."

"Then I will just stand here," the guest answered gently, letting the Patriarch's heart relax a little more. "I heard you need a ten-thousand-year indulgence."

"Yes, I need it very much, and it is very urgent."

"What crime did you commit?"

"A sin of incomparable weight, but one I must complete."

"For a woman?"

"No."

"For a property?"

"No."

"For a title?"

"No."

"For a grudge?"

"No."

"That is truly strange. You spend so much money, for what? It's not like you want to kill someone for no reason."

"It can't be called for no reason."

The guest placed the heavy box on the ground, then opened the lid. The dazzling golden light inside immediately made the Patriarch dizzy. He almost wanted to reach out from his eyes and grab them into his arms.

"If you don't say what kind of crime you are going to commit, how can I specify your crime on the indulgence?" the Patriarch said, his tone much gentler.

Indulgences were not, as some people thought, things produced in batches like banknotes or slips of paper.

Like all travel permits and charters, it was a piece of parchment one foot long and half a foot wide, with exquisite patterns and portraits of saints hand-drawn around it.

At the beginning and middle of the paper, the bishop or Pope who signed this indulgence wrote down the person's crime with his own hand, followed by an explanation of how they, according to the requirements of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, forgave this person and asked him to do penance, and finally how he would do penance, how long he would do it, and what he would do to redeem this sin.

Then the signature was on the bottom left, and the seal was on the right. Only such an indulgence had validity, and it was not something that could be dismissed by casually writing "I forgive this sinner."

"Then write it like this," the guest said, "I am going to kill a villain who has usurped a high position."

The Patriarch's eyes lit up, "Very high?"

"Very high."

The Patriarch whispered as if afraid of being heard by someone, "Is it a count? Or a duke? Or a prince?" He guessed all the way up, bit his lip when guessing the last word, and was almost about to laugh out loud.

He carefully looked at this person. This person was tall, and even if he pulled down his hood and hid his face in the shadows, he still looked elegant and extraordinary. Such a person could easily walk up to Amalric I and kill him.

This was exactly what the Patriarch wanted. But if you say he would give up part of his own interests, it was harder than letting a dog give up the fat meat in its mouth.

He just immediately and readily wrote down the crime committed by this person on the indulgence, and in the name of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, forgave him, but he had to build a small chapel to redeem his sin and do penance for ten years.

After writing, he made a big stroke, signed his name, and then turned the ring on his hand to dip in the ink pad and stamped it.

He inserted the quill, sprinkled sand on the parchment, blew on it, shook off the sand, held it by a corner and handed it to the guard, and the guard passed it to the person who came to seek the indulgence.

That person took it from the knight and read it carefully. After confirming there were no mistakes, he rolled up the parchment, stuffed it into a small copper tube, and carefully placed it in the money bag at his side.

The Patriarch saw that this money bag was hung on the belt with a sturdy iron chain and covered with a chain-mail-like iron ring net, and his heart was even more satisfied.

He saw this person bow deeply to him again. He thought he was saying goodbye to him—and he was right, he was indeed saying goodbye to the Patriarch, just a final goodbye.

The guest took advantage of this posture to draw the short sword at his side and rushed straight up. The Patriarch's guards immediately met him, but how should I put it, the visitor was stronger than them, reacted faster than them, and had more courage than these people who were just taking money. He was not afraid of injury, nor was he afraid of death.

We all know that a person who is not afraid of death is not so easy to die.

The two guards died very quickly. After a few rounds, they wanted to scramble to escape, leaving their backs to the guest. He stabbed one, and then the second.

Seeing this, the Patriarch was terrified. He yelled and scrambled, wanting to run out of this blood-stained room, and he almost succeeded.

But the guest just kicked the open money box, and the golden, round coins poured out with a clatter, just spilling on the Patriarch's path. He stepped on those little things he used to like so much and immediately fell face-first.

The guest stepped forward calmly, stepped on his back, stabbed his heart with a sword, and then grabbed the Patriarch's sparse short hair, lifted him up, and exposed his throat. He embedded the short sword into the layers of fat and cut his throat and blood vessels with one sword.

In the Patriarch's eyes full of hatred and pleading, and the wheezing sound of blood, the guest stood up straight, patted the money bag hanging at his waist with satisfaction, and inside was an indulgence that could pardon his deep sin.

Then, he stepped over the Patriarch's fat body and walked out the door calmly. Along the way, no one dared to come out to stop him.

———

"So, you come and be this Patriarch." Amalric I said.

(End of chapter)