Chapter 70: A Three-Wound Shawal

“Why not?” Cesar asked strangely. “In Alasal, I asked you if you had been ‘chosen,’ and you told me you had never even attended the ‘Selection Ceremony,’ because your father could no longer afford the fee.”

And at that time, Longinus’s elder brother had already seized control of most affairs in the castle, waiting only for their father’s death to conveniently drive away the younger brothers; this sum, enough to buy a vineyard, he preferred to spend on his own son.

“I am willing to pay this sum for you,” Cesar said, “and I won’t rush to demand repayment. You can pay me back slowly later—I’ve also asked my master, and he will grant you a special charter. Though you’ve passed the age for the Selection Ceremony, it’s not without precedent.”

Some people, having received an unexpected gift or inheritance, chose to quell their resentment—even at twenty, thirty, or even sixty years old—by petitioning the local bishop for a dispensation and holding the ceremony as an elder; of course, such methods required more money and greater concessions.

But in Alasal, Longinus’s status and age were no obstacle.

“I know,” Longinus replied. “Others may not understand you, but how could I not? You are the kind who feels pity for strangers you’ve never met and never will meet, and helps them. I am your servant—though I cannot match your nobility or excellence, I believe I have not betrayed your trust, completing every task you assigned me.”

But before I met you, I…”

Here he felt ashamed. “I worked as a broker at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, secretly profiting from pilgrims’ piety—I served the priests of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and with that advantage, I could bring two or three people inside daily for pilgrimage; that was my way of earning money.”

My lord, I have entered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre countless times, knelt countless times before Christ’s feet in prayer, yet He never answered me, and I never felt any saint’s call.”

I think it is precisely because I committed such sacrilegious acts and accumulated so much sin that I could never be chosen. If so, why waste your money and the patriarch’s grace?”

“But if you say that,” Cesar said, walking ahead without turning back, “what of the priests who steal from pilgrims’ pockets just to let them step into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?”

You’ve lived in Alasal long enough—you should know that the saints’ favor never follows standards perceivable or visible to ordinary men.

Who knows?

Perhaps Wit is also a devout fellow.” Here he even felt sick.

Longinus, however, seemed comforted. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said after a moment, head bowed. “If even that kind of man can receive blessing, I’m at least better than him.”

“Then will you try?”

“Good heavens, I’m thirty years old, my young master. I’m sure everyone who hears this will laugh themselves to death.”

“They also call you a slave’s slave—and you don’t care about that. Why care about a few sour words from those people? Even if you’re not chosen, you have a patron willing to pay for you, a priest willing to pray for you. Do they?”

Longinus could no longer suppress a smile. He remembered those gloomy, dim tavern nights, those men he had sworn never to become.

They really were good people. Without them, perhaps he would have already fallen, never meeting Cesar—a master nearly perfect, save for being a bit small.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He knew neither Baldwin nor Cesar would allow others to enter their rooms at will. He set down the copper jug, bowed to Cesar, and left.

Cesar watched him turn the corridor corner before opening the door, placing clean linen cloth on the chest, then bringing in two copper jugs—one filled with boiling water, the other with ordinary river water. He set the river water in the corner, then lifted the third jug, containing purified water.

He had heard the ancient Egyptians possessed some device or substance to purify river water, but with foreign invasions, it vanished like most inventions into the river of history. He used charcoal filtration: washing charcoal clean, letting it sit in water for two days and one night to obtain clean water.

Unfortunately, this method could not be promoted or popularized. People today did not understand why putting charcoal into water made it clean and sweet. They would only think it witchcraft—annoying enough, but worse were the Church and those with ill intent still watching.

Far from home, Baldwin could not bathe daily, relying instead on wiping to keep his skin dry and clean.

For a leper, this step was vital. Any infection or wound would cause rapid, incurable skin decay.

He endured the pain to wash himself, only letting Cesar help with areas he could not see—his back. As Baldwin twisted to inspect his elbows and the backs of his knees, he reminded Cesar to wear gloves; goat-skin gloves perfectly blocked possible contamination.

Though Cesar claimed he was among the low-sensitivity group—unlikely to contract leprosy—Baldwin still could not relax.

Before his condition worsened, he thought he had been blessed by heaven. After it worsened, he dared not take his illness lightly again.

Fortunately, Heraclius, after receiving Cesar’s prescription, gathered nearly all the herbs within days—except those found only in the distant eastern continent.

But he also said Alasal was always a great city connecting east and west, a center of religion, economy, and commerce. If silk and porcelain from the East could travel thousands of miles intact to reach here, why should dried herbs trouble these merchants?

The only difficulty was making these merchants keep silent.

“But if your father conquers Egypt—or even just Fostat or Damascus—those merchants, for the sake of their trade routes and lives, will guard this secret tightly.”

“Baldwin?” Cesar whispered. Baldwin realized he had already finished applying ointment to his back; now came the parts he could reach himself. He hastily took the ointment with his left hand.

“How do you feel now?” Cesar asked.

“Very well.” Precisely because of its immediate effect, he had grown greedy. If the ointment had done nothing, he would never have let Cesar try again.

His left hand had been the most visibly affected. When it first worsened, he could barely feel it. Now, when using it, he felt only as if wearing a thin goat-skin glove—less sensitive, but not hindering daily tasks or martial practice, let alone mounting horses or fighting.

After applying the ointment and waiting a while until its scent fully dissipated, Baldwin put on his silk tunic.

Normally they did not dress this way. As servants, they fed horses, polished helmets, carried loads, and ran errands; silk would tear or soil instantly.

Such luxury was beyond even the Sultan or Caliph’s means—war reparations at this time were still measured in silk robes.

But today was different. Today, the envoy from Fostat would present himself to the king and deliver his letter.

Though they knew its contents would involve pleading, reproach, and threats, for the two boys it was a rare opportunity—the king had already decided they should attend and absorb this invaluable experience.

Beforehand, Heraclius had given them a lesson, helping them understand the current Fatimid Caliphate’s condition.

Why had Amalric I attacked Fostat now? Of course, there was a reason. And this reason traced back to when the current Fatimid Caliph, Adid, ascended the throne.

Adid was also a second son. His elder brother, who had ascended as a teenager, died soon after. When Adid took power, he was still a child who understood nothing.

“He is about your age. Frankly, according to merchants we bribed, he is a foolish, cowardly, yet ambitious child. His original vizier, his prime minister, was a wise and reliable man. But that minister soon died, and his son inherited his position.”

At this time, a cunning, treacherous man named Shawal won the young caliph’s favor through flattery, then murdered the young man and replaced him.

But his actions angered others in the Fatimid court; they drove him out and appointed another man as vizier.”

“Is this Shawal the one who promised my father two million gold coins?”

“Yes, him. He briefly served as grand vizier, but when everyone opposed him, he fled to Nur al-Din of the Seljuk Zengid dynasty.”

Nur al-Din sent two generals to Fostat; they killed Shawal’s opponents, but Shawal never realized his move was driving out a tiger only to invite a wolf—the wolf stayed after the tiger left.”

So he sent envoys, begging your father, our king, to send troops and drive out Nur al-Din’s army—what?”

“They’re all Saracens, aren’t they?” Baldwin asked.

“All of them. As I said before,” Heraclius replied, “we have the Latin Church and the Orthodox Church; they have ‘Traditionalists’ and ‘Orthodox.’ ‘Traditionalists’ choose leaders by negotiation or election; ‘Orthodox’ favor leaders with the bloodline of Prophet Muhammad. The Fatimid Caliphate is ‘Orthodox’; the Seljuk Zengid dynasty is ‘Traditionalist.’”

“Is it similar to ancient Rome’s Senate and Caesar and his descendants?”

Heraclius nodded approvingly: “Exactly. But ultimately, they are two fruits on the same vine—so we can say they are both our enemies.”

He smiled: “But Shawal doesn’t seem to think so. When Nur al-Din’s army refused to leave, he turned to Christians for help, utterly disregarding his dignity and faith.”

Your father, for the sake of those two million gold coins, agreed—back in 63.”

“He never fulfilled his promise.”

“Who could have imagined the Fatimid grand vizier would be as faithless as an Isaacite? The victor was your father.”

But Nur al-Din’s general—a Kurd—incited the Egyptians to breach the Nile dam; the flood separated our army from Nur al-Din’s.”

And winter was approaching; supplies were low. The king had to retreat, and Shawal used this as an excuse to refuse payment of the two million gold coins.”

Heraclius added thoughtfully: “They even defaulted on the tribute agreed upon during Caliph Hafiz’s reign—annual payments from the Fatimid Caliphate to Alasal.”

“Is Shawal still the grand vizier?”

“Yes, still him. Though from a Christian standpoint he is a deceitful, vile little man, from another angle, he has helped us considerably.”

He managed to stir Nur al-Din’s suspicion against the two Kurds; while armies failed, letters succeeded.”

Nur al-Din recalled the two generals. They are probably in Damascus now.”

“Besides those two,” Baldwin asked sharply, “does the Fatimid Caliphate have any capable generals?”

“What do you think?”

“How could he do this?” Baldwin could not believe it. “Even the stingiest hunter knows to feed his dogs.”

“That’s the diversity of men. Children, if this war achieves your father’s—” he looked at Baldwin, “your king’s—” he looked at Cesar, “expected outcome, he may knight you on the battlefield, granting you sword belts and golden spurs. It is an honor no one can question. But becoming a knight means assuming all adult societal responsibilities.”

You will meet more people, and they will be more complex. You must learn to judge a man’s character. A fool is nothing; a villain is nothing; you can even use their foolishness and wickedness.”

But if a man is both foolish and wicked—like you said, a rotten peach quickly rots all others around it—you must eliminate such men immediately. They harm not only themselves but others.”

Of course, from our enemies’ perspective, the more such men, the better.”

“What do they want from my father?”

“I think he will demand more gold, hoping your father will withdraw.”

“Withdraw? My father has already spent nearly the entire wealth of Alasal on this. They refuse to pay two million gold coins—how could they afford such a massive indemnity? Or are they willing to mortgage Fostat?”

Baldwin’s words made Heraclius smile. “After all, he succeeded before,” he said mercilessly.

Originally, Amalric I had launched his campaign for Shawal’s promise of two million gold coins, only to waste manpower, resources, and money, gaining nothing but mockery and distrust.

So now, no matter how eloquently Shawal speaks, Amalric I will not change his mind.

After finishing the lesson, as they prepared to attend the king, Cesar hurriedly mentioned Longinus to his teacher: “I don’t need him to feel a saint’s call—but war is coming. Anyone in the army must fight. If he receives blessing, his chance of survival increases. That’s my selfish hope.”

Heraclius had no objection to Cesar’s request. Besides, Cesar had few cards left—Longinus was one of them.

Heraclius always acted swiftly. The next day, Longinus was dragged off by monks for bathing, fasting, and prayer, then thrown into the Church of Saint John the Baptist on the fifth night.

Like the monastery Cesar had once stayed in, this church also venerated Saint John the Baptist, who, it was said, had baptized Jesus Christ and many others in the Jordan River, granting him an exceptionally sacred status among saints.

Like the monastery where Cesar once stayed, this place also venerates Saint John the Baptist, who is said to have baptized Jesus Christ and many others in the Jordan River, granting him an exceptionally special status among the saints.

Because its foundation was the Philistine temple of Dagon. When the Byzantines took it, they built a church atop it. When the Saracens captured Gaza, they built a mosque on the ruins.

When the Crusaders seized it, the mosque became a church again.

It was a nesting doll.

Worse still, the accompanying priest proudly told Longinus that the legend of Samson pulling down the temple pillars, killing himself and his enemies, was said to have occurred right beneath their feet—in the temple of Dagon.

He meant this was holy ground. But Longinus uncomfortably recalled that his young master had once been nicknamed “Little Samson” by the monks for his strength.

He meant this place was also a holy site, but Longinus grimly recalled that his young master had once been nicknamed “Little Samson” by the monks for his strength.

(End of Chapter)