Chapter 58: Kill?

“Have you ever killed a man?” Jofroi asked.

Cesar paused, instinctively lowering his eyes. “Yes.”

Though it was not his wish nor his pleasure, when Wit and the others extended their hostile invitation, he knew his relationship with these original beneficiaries could only be one of mutual annihilation.

They could be called his first exam—his answer on this test would directly determine his future fate.

He was a coward; he did not believe that if he disappointed Amalric I, Amalric I would mercifully forgive him as he claimed—he had already seen that in this age, a man’s life was as insignificant and fragile as sand in the wind.

Cesar could only tell himself this was self-defense—they wanted to kill him, so he had no choice but to strike back.

“I’m not talking about that,” Jofroi waved his hand dismissively. Since he had taken notice of Cesar, he had naturally investigated his past. Before Amalric I rescued him, he had been a slave of the Ismailis; though no one knew where he came from and he had no memories of his past, the bearing and talent he displayed were unmistakably those of a knight’s son.

As for Wit, despite having received the Blessing, to the Templars he was still just a dried-up pile of dogshit on the road—something you’d have to awkwardly scrape off your shoe if you stepped in it. His death would have no impact whatsoever on the Holy Land, the Holy Cross Fortress, or the Order.

Aside from his mad mother, Jofroi spat inwardly—after Wit’s death, his mother refused to let it go; she had long tried to pull her son out of the monastery but failed. Upon hearing he was dead, she even secretly dug his body up from the grave.

She petitioned Amalric I, of course with no result. Then she went to the Patriarch at the time, who had no interest in a penniless woman. Finally, she even approached the Templar Order—how absurd.

Though the Templars had many conflicts with Amalric I, under these circumstances they would never side with an Ismaili woman. She was mocked mercilessly and nearly beaten to death by soldiers, before finally cursing and dragging her son’s corpse away.

Jofroi, upon hearing this, couldn’t help but curse these men for their incompetence—he immediately led men to pursue her, but the woman was cunning. As soon as the Templars followed her into the Ismaili quarter, she vanished like a fish slipping into the sea.

The knights could have stormed the Ismaili quarter to search, but unfortunately Amalric I was preparing for the arrival of the Byzantine princess; craftsmen were busy building the tournament arena everywhere, and the streets were packed with people, materials, and warehouses… in the end, they had to abandon the pursuit.

But it shouldn’t matter much, Jofroi thought. How much trouble could an Ismaili woman cause?

“No, I’m not talking about that,” he refocused on his conversation with Cesar. “You know your king has decided to attack our castle at Tortosa, right?”

Cesar nodded. “It’s no secret.” After hearing the accusations from the “Hawk’s Nest,” Amalric I immediately summoned the Grand Master of the Templars. He may have intended to mediate, but both sides were already at each other’s throats—there was no room for compromise. Especially the Grand Master’s stance had never been so hardline; Cesar and Baldwin could almost hear Amalric I’s roars from the left tower.

Honestly, he found the hierarchy of this age strangely peculiar—or rather, only in the Holy Land could such a loose, grotesque relationship exist.

Amalric I was the Lord of the Holy Land. Yes, he was also the leader of all the Crusaders; Antioch, Tripoli, and several surrounding Christian cities could be called his vassals. But except for the direct control of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Hospitallers and the Templars answered only to the Pope in Rome.

As the Grand Master said, they fought for God, not for secular kings. Their relationship with Amalric I was merely one of cooperation; they might obey his orders when fighting the Saracens, but otherwise, they did not bow to him—they frequently challenged his authority.

The several factions in the Holy Land were like monsters forcibly glued together by faith, each head possessing its own will, always quarreling and fighting. Though they could barely maintain unity against the Saracens, people were emotional creatures. Cesar watched from the side and found it horrifying—he didn’t know when this fragile amalgamation would suddenly shatter apart.

“Last time, Amalric I hanged twelve of our brothers, which angered and unsettled many of us. But ultimately, they were negligent—they lost a vital military outpost to the Saracens and even surrendered to them. Even if they returned to the Templar Order, they’d still be held accountable, possibly executed.”

“What Amalric I did was harsh, but still within his authority,” Jofroi analyzed calmly. “After all, the Templar Order receives endless donations, privileges, and new recruits precisely because we fight for Christ and exterminate those hateful infidels, ensuring the safety of pilgrims.”

“This is the foundation upon which the Templar Order was founded and has stood to this day. If we fail to fulfill the promises we made to God and the faithful, the Templar Order is a palace built on sand—it will inevitably collapse. But this time is different. The brothers in Tortosa struck against infidels. Even though your king keeps saying he wants to win over this faction that split from the Seljuks and convert them to God.”

But haven’t they converted yet?

The Templars attacking them is like a lion hunting a goat—entirely reasonable. But from your king Amalric I’s perspective, this is a naked provocation—he cannot tolerate it.

So you can see it as a punitive, small-scale war. The scale won’t be large, and Amalric I will surely win.”

“Will the Templar Order… do nothing?”

“Nothing. Neither side will intervene,” Jofroi said bluntly.

Cesar couldn’t help raising his hand. “May I ask a question?”

“Go ahead,” Jofroi replied readily.

“Do you have no jurisdiction over the Tortosa branch?”

“We do have a Grand Master, a Prior, a Marshal, and various other administrators and overseers. But according to our original doctrine, every brother in the Order is equal—brothers are like monks in a monastery. When a brother holds fast to his view, as long as he hasn’t broken his vows, abandoned faith, or desecrated God, we can only advise him—we cannot attack him.”

Otherwise, we would be killing each other under God’s gaze, surely abandoned by the saints and cursed—we would never do such a thing.”

Jofroi then lowered his voice further. “Of course, brothers stationed abroad should and do enjoy greater freedom.” He spoke with implication. “You know, maintaining a military fortress requires vast sums of money.”

Knights do not engage in production. The Templars often call themselves warrior-monks, yet they still despise and look down on labor. But what doesn’t require money? Food, water, clothing, armor…

On their own lands, they tax serfs and merchants. But in Arlazah, what do they do? The same old routine: taxing merchants and pilgrims passing through, and collecting tribute from neighboring powers.

“The new master of the ‘Hawk’s Nest’ took over only a few years ago,” Jofroi said. “But there are dissenters within the ‘Hawk’s Nest’ as well. We all know its founder was Hassan; his son Hassan II inherited his position. After Hassan II’s death, the position should have gone to his child. But the problem was, his son was still young—so Rashid ad-Din Sinan became the new ‘Old Man.’”

Jofroi gave Cesar a knowing look: “Sinan was once Hassan II’s close friend. Some suspect he used Hassan II’s trust to seize the power Hassan II had intended for his heir.”

And when he was in Tortosa—he lived in extreme hardship, so he signed an alliance with us, paying a substantial sum of money to the Tortosa Templars every month.

But later, they signed a new alliance with your king, which included a clause abolishing this tax.”

Hearing this, Cesar suddenly understood: Amalric I was generous—but he was generous with other people’s money.

The Tortosa Templar branch suddenly lost such a large income—he wouldn’t let it go, which is why he launched a military strike to break the alliance between the “Hawk’s Nest” and the Holy Cross Fortress.

And the Templars in Arlazah have decided to remain neutral, because the root cause is too shameful to admit—whether the Lord of the Holy Land, Amalric I, makes peace with the Saracens, no one cares whether the “Hawk’s Nest” belongs to which faction or stance; they only know that those who don’t believe in God are infidels.

And the Tortosa Templars’ alliance with these Saracens dated back several years—this attack on the Saracens wasn’t for morality or faith, but for money.

“But your king also made a condition with the Templars: he may only capture the Tortosa Templars—if they don’t die immediately on the battlefield, he cannot execute them. The Templar Order will pay ransom for them, including some soldiers and squires on the list, but ordinary soldiers are excluded.”

Jofroi said seriously: “To assert his authority and vent his rage, your king will surely choose to kill them all. Do you understand?” He fixed his gaze on Cesar. “Not one or two, not ten or twenty—but many more. You and Baldwin—you’ve been sent to the battlefield by the king, so you must fulfill your duties as squires. One of those duties is walking across the battlefield, through the fortress, after a brutal war, and finishing off those still moaning and crying.”

For those without value, you must pierce their chests with your sword or slit their throats with your dagger, ensuring they’re dead beyond doubt.

There are about fifty Templars in Tortosa. Each knight has one or two squires, three or four armed retainers, and some soldiers—the ones left behind—about a hundred in total. Clergy are exempt, and craftsmen too.”

Jofroi counted on his fingers.

“The remaining soldiers and laborers number four or five hundred. Amalric I wants to harden your hearts, make you see blood—he’ll make you do it. It’s a rare opportunity. But can you do it? When facing someone who wants to kill you, you can strike back. But when facing those unarmed, dying, perhaps crying out for your mercy, desperately trying to live—can you bring yourself to act?”

If you can’t, you must begin preparing now.

“A knight is a hunting dog,” the Templar said without shame. “Whether for God or for Amalric I—a hunting dog that cannot run the field to bring back rabbits and geese for its master is useless. No matter how swift, intelligent, strong, or loyal it is.”

A useless sword is broken and reforged; a hunting dog is the same, and so is a man—especially you, who serve Baldwin, who has received the Blessing. Those near him are no longer tainted, and his position has become highly coveted again.

If not for his insistence, he wouldn’t have even one attendant now.

Amalric I probably won’t be pleased. If you can’t demonstrate greater value, Baldwin won’t be able to protect you,” he placed his hand on Cesar’s shoulder and pressed down hard. “You’re the most divinely favored child I’ve ever seen—you seem flawless. Perhaps that’s precisely why he gave you this greatest weakness.”

You must overcome it. Don’t see those groaning on the ground, staring at you with helpless eyes, as innocent pilgrims. If you were lying there, they wouldn’t hesitate—they’d be even more cruel.

They are your enemies. Treat them exactly as you treated your enemies before,” he shook Cesar’s shoulder hard, his expression grave as he whispered, “Understood? This is what you must do.”

——————

“Do you really like him so much? You’re teaching him like you’re instructing a new brother.”

Shortly after Cesar left, a Templar who had observed the entire conversation stepped forward and sat across from Jofroi.

“Isn’t he worth it?” Jofroi asked.

“He won’t even listen to your advice and leave Baldwin to join the Templars,” the other said with a smile.

But they both knew—if Jofroi said this, and Cesar immediately joyfully abandoned his former master to join the Templars—

Of course, Jofroi wouldn’t break his word; he’d still accept him. But he’d lose the respect of the Templars.

Even if the Blessing made him envied or even hated, he’d become nothing more than a spear or shield the Templars used without hesitation. Even if he miraculously survived, he’d remain forever a soldier, never promoted to knight, let alone further.

A man who betrays his former master will inevitably betray his new one—that thought was engraved in every heart.

“Many are inquiring about the prince’s squire,” the later Templar said. “After all, which lord, noble, or king wouldn’t want such a beautiful, capable little attendant? For them, keeping such a pleasing ornament in court is no hardship.”

“He refused?”

“No, those invitations never even reached him.” After all, for those who knew the truth, such invitations were nearly an insult—they didn’t understand the bond between Baldwin and this squire; they only thought money could buy him.

“Still,” the later Templar said, “once William Marshal emerged on the tournament grounds, everyone’s attention shifted. After all, a nine-year-old squire, no matter how promising his future, can’t compare to a knight who can fight right now. Even Amalric I wanted to invite him into the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre—but William Marshal refused.”

“Expected,” Jofroi said.

William Marshal wasn’t just English—he’d recently received a favor from Queen Eleanor. The Templar recounted the story of William Marshal and Queen Eleanor, then continued: “With such a debt, Amalric I couldn’t press further—he could only give this brave knight a set of silver-plated chainmail and some money.”

But I think when William Marshal returns, Queen Eleanor and King Henry the Younger won’t hesitate to reward him.”

“Of course—he came to this tournament to establish King Henry’s authority,” Jofroi said. At the time, co-rulership was common—sometimes a queen mother ruled with the king, sometimes an old king ruled alongside a new one. King Henry the Younger was exactly this case: Henry II was still alive, maintaining a vast court and retinue, and though he had abdicated, he still held most of the power.

King Henry the Younger was very young and immature. Even with Queen Eleanor’s support behind him, he couldn’t confront his father directly.

So William Marshal had to make a name for himself, so his master wouldn’t be shamed.

“He did it,” the later Templar teased. “The offers from lords and envoys were downright tempting. Even I was tempted.”

Jofroi nodded in agreement. “After hearing a few of those offers, I thought it wouldn’t be surprising if William Marshal wavered.”

“Ah,” the later Templar asked with a smile, “aren’t you the one who always said a man’s character is like a flawless porcelain plate—once cracked, it can never be repaired?”

“William and Cesar are different,” Jofroi said frankly. “William Marshal was originally the second son of a count. Before meeting Queen Eleanor, he had already passed the ‘Selection Ceremony’ and been knighted. Queen Eleanor merely redeemed him from someone else—she saved his body, not his soul.”

But Cesar… though I very much hope he becomes a Templar, I must say that without Amalric I, he’d still be an Ismaili slave, sold to infidels.”

Do you understand? Even if he was baptized before, when he dies, no one will perform the rites for him. His soul will plunge into the fiery pit of hell, burned for ten thousand years until the end of the world before he might be rescued.

Amalric I’s grace to him is utterly unlike Queen Eleanor’s to William Marshal—these two cannot be compared.”

——————

“Baldwin?”

“Hmm?”

“If…”

Baldwin waited patiently. He had never before seen Cesar look so hesitant.

(End of Chapter)