Chapter 71: To Egypt! (2)

Although he accepted the young master’s request, Longinus had no hope at all.

Cesar was right—some people truly regret and rage over never being chosen in the “Selection Ceremony,” blaming every setback in life on their relatives’ stinginess and the priests’ greed; even Longinus, after losing his servant, horse, and armor in the Holy Land, had once cursed his father and brother in drunken stupor.

But afterward, he met many others with similar fates—they came to the Holy Land seeking opportunity, yet never succeeded; the vicious and cruel need no explanation, but even those originally kind—some of whom had once helped Longinus—could not escape the curse.

Horrible circumstances, tangled hearts, and the darkness of an unseen future could shatter a man in a single night.

Some joined the knightly orders, but only as the lowest foot servants, laborers, or stable boys—the very roles Longinus once held in the Knights Templar.

They clung to a sliver of hope that if they took part in battle, they might catch the eye of a knight marshal or a priest and be promoted to squire.

Others had sworn to kill a certain number of infidels before returning home, or simply to gain a foothold upon returning to Francia or the Italian peninsula.

But none of them ended well—at least, Longinus had never heard of any who did; if they had, taverns and market gossip would have burned hot with the tale.

More still sank into beggary and crime, or both.

They plundered pilgrims, merchants, priests; they committed crimes without restraint, living each day as if it were their last—Longinus sharpened his sword on them.

Their faces haunted his nightmares every night, laughing, reaching out arms as if welcoming him to join them.

Among them were friends he’d met after arriving in Arasal, and enemies too; they spoke as if blessing him, or cursing him: Longinus would one day become one of them.

When Longinus woke drenched in sweat, it was always after stabbing someone, flipping their body over, and seeing his own face staring back.

But since following his young master, these nightmares grew rare—he still had never had a single memorable good dream.

As Longinus bent his back and knelt beside the altar, he thought: if he wasn’t chosen—which was most likely—he’d pretend he’d broken his leg and stay in the castle of Gaza Lafa.

Of course, that meant he couldn’t repay his young master’s debt or fulfill his vow to kill three Saracens, but he knew Cesar demanded the “Selection Ceremony” only to give him a sliver of survival in the brutal war to come—he was always so kind.

Longinus shook his head, raised his eyes to the crucified Christ and the saints surrounding Him, and recalled how he had guided pilgrims one by one through the pine gates, the black oak gates, and the cedar gates.

When those devout souls knelt on the ground, weeping and wailing in repentance, what had he been thinking?

Money.

How much for a man, how much for a woman, how much triple for an Isaacite; how much for minor sins, how much for grave ones; how much to touch the baptismal stone, how much to step into the Place of Suffering, how much to lift the woolen cloth over the Holy Sepulcher.

Want relics? Candles cost this, crosses cost that—even a stone or a handful of sand had its price.

Someone like him, even if the ground cracked open and swallowed him into the Lake of Fire, wouldn’t be surprised—how could he expect the saints high above to lower their eyes to gaze upon such filth?

Before meeting Cesar, he’d already planned: when he no longer wished to live, he’d steal a horse, ride to Damascus or anywhere with Saracens, fight the first man who came out, then the second, the third… until they killed him.

That way, even without holy oil or sacraments, he wouldn’t plunge straight into hell—he’d wait in Purgatory for the Final Day.

So now, he was at peace.

To be chosen would be great honor and surprise; if not, he’d stay safely in Gaza Lafa and spare his young master worry—let it be so. Being a servant wasn’t bad; at least with a man like Cesar, he might even get a decent grave.

————

Longinus was jolted awake by a group of furious monks; half-asleep, they dragged him up, hauled him a long distance, then shoved him out the door, which slammed shut behind him.

He looked up at the black sky, a few flickering stars, and the gray-white sand, realizing he must have fallen asleep during the “Selection Ceremony.”

The wandering knight clicked his tongue; his throat felt like he’d swallowed a handful of burning coals—dry and parched.

What time was it? Longinus guessed it was the second Shengzhengjing (between two and three in the morning), meaning he’d spent a full day and night in the church, perhaps longer.

The thin, dark man smiled—he’d surely disappoint his young master; he’d merely slept, though it was the most comfortable, most blissful sleep of his life, and he’d even had a good dream.

In the dream, he was a bandit, imprisoned, and every year the Viceroy of Rome had one chance to pardon a prisoner; naturally, he hoped to be freed, but knew the odds were slim.

For in the cell next to his was a good man—he’d never met him, but had heard he was mighty, merciful, and selfless.

His crime wasn’t murder, rape, or theft—he’d merely harmed the interests and authority of the Isaacite priests and elders through his goodness.

Especially after arriving in Arasal, people flocked to see him, laying palm branches and garments beneath his feet, crowding him into the temple; countless came to hear his sermons, spreading the Gospel…

Who, anyone could tell, should be chosen between such a man and a lowly thief?

Yet the irony was this: the one released wasn’t the good man, but the wicked one.

He thought he’d flee at once—but he didn’t. He draped his robe over his head and watched as the man was stripped, whipped, until his body was lacerated.

Then the innocent man was forced to carry a heavy crossbeam, step by step out of Arasal under Roman soldiers’ arrows, to Golgotha, where he was nailed to the cross.

Each hammer blow, each spear thrust pierced Longinus’s heart; his body went numb, motionless; he wanted to laugh, but found himself weeping…

“You die for me,” he whispered, “I live for you.”

“I am Barabbas.”

Then the monks woke Longinus.

He picked up the leather armor and weapons the monks had tossed out, donned them, and stepped from the shadow of the Great Church of John the Baptist, still dazed and hollow.

He looked at his fingers, turned to examine his back, legs, shoulders—no sign of being chosen: no light, no music, as ordinary as any other day.

“I need water,” he told himself, then, under the bright daylight, surveyed his surroundings—on his first day in Gaza Lafa, he hadn’t stopped moving, working while riding or walking to scout the terrain and buildings around his young master’s domain.

His young master Cesar possessed an astonishing skill—or perhaps many.

Before Cesar, Longinus had never seen anyone who could draw a map nearly accurate from mere description alone; he even marked curves and numbered lines to show depressions or hills, shaded areas for lakes, double lines for rivers… and symbols Longinus couldn’t even understand.

But even if he didn’t understand them, Longinus knew: with such a map, he could lead an army to storm Gaza Lafa.

True, it was ugly—no saintly images, no borders, no decorations, no houses, trees, or flags—only bare lines, numbers, and letters… yet that was the true essence of a map.

Cesar had revised it countless times; all discarded maps were burned. While tidying, Longinus found one-quarter of a sheet—no larger than a palm—miraculously intact; he picked it up, hesitated long, then hid it inside his leather armor.

He remembered a well square not far from the Great Church of John the Baptist; as the name suggested, a stone octagonal well stood at its center, its water cool and sweet. Thinking of it, he could no longer wait, and hurried toward it, eager to drink deeply and quench the fire in his chest.

The square was silent, not a soul in sight. Longinus cursed under his breath—he hadn’t brought a jug or bucket; could he jump into the well and drink? He should’ve knocked on the monks’ door and demanded water.

But then he had an idea: he could pull out the cotton lining from his armor, tie a rope to it, lower it into the well, soak it, then pull it up—the water would taste odd, but frankly, when lost in the desert, he’d drunk donkey urine; his own taste couldn’t be worse.

But as he reached the well, he kicked a wooden bucket.

Longinus’s face darkened—he didn’t believe anyone here would casually abandon a bucket; to common folk, a bucket was a valuable heirloom, an indispensable household item.

He walked slowly to the bucket, lifted it—the water inside sloshed faintly. He raised it, drank and splashed it over his head; the fire instantly died, his eyes and ears sharpened.

The wandering knight heard a whisper like wind over sand, a hiss like wood burning in a furnace, and the clatter and clang of doorframes and iron hinges—faint sounds, easily missed by the careless or the cautious.

For an instant, Longinus wanted to leave immediately—he’d seen many such things before, and never meddled.

Why bother? If he got hurt, he couldn’t afford a priest’s healing, only sand and cloth to staunch blood; he’d once had a fever, and only God’s mercy cooled him on cold stone—he dared not assume every man he saved would be as good as Cesar.

But he thought of his young master, who said he would walk to the brutal Knights Templar and persuade them to abandon their castle, then to King Amalric I and persuade him not to slaughter the castle’s people—for the sake of lowly strangers he’d never met, people who might never know someone had once sacrificed his life for them…

He stood there, feeling as if a hundred years had passed—but only as long as it took the wind to dry the last drop of water on his cheek.

Longinus suddenly turned and strode toward a ruined house—once a bathhouse used by the Saracens who lived here; after the Crusaders seized Gaza Lafa, all such structures used by infidels to desecrate the Holy Land were torn down—except the grand temples.

The bathhouse stood only as broken walls; anything valuable had been stripped away—no doors, no windows, only a shattered ceiling and standing walls. As Longinus rounded the half-man-high brick rubble, he glimpsed the interior by the faint outside light.

The whisper like wind over sand came from a girl’s muffled mouth; the hiss came from the brute’s heavy breathing; the clatter and clang came from their chainmail, shields, and weapons.

No explanation needed—just one look, and Longinus understood: the girl had slipped out at night, when everyone slept, to fetch water.

As for why—no need to say. As the army gathered around Gaza Lafa, preparation dragged on; no locals dared approach the leather tents. King Amalric I received constant complaints—from infidels, Isaacites, even Christians.

But such things were unavoidable; even in his homeland, during the smallest lordly war, peasants and craftsmen suffered.

Three men in robes and chainmail stood there—one held the girl tightly to silence her, two held long swords, watching him warily.

Seeing Longinus’s wandering knight attire, their expressions relaxed, even grew impatient; one lowered his sword, fumbled at his belt, and tossed a silver coin.

Longinus didn’t catch it; the coin clattered to the ground, spun once, twice.

“That’s generous, bastard,” the knight said. “Take the coin and leave. This isn’t your share.”

“Who is the girl?”

“A Saracen, a heathen whore,” another knight answered. The girl twisted violently, eyes wide, tears like dew spilling from her dark brown eyes.

“We’re converting her with pious kisses and embraces,” the one holding her said. Longinus then realized—he wasn’t a knight, but a priest in chainmail.

“She’ll become pious, a good Christian,” the priest continued. “If she resists, or if anyone interrupts this holy rite, they’ll burn in hell.”

He smiled, satisfied, watching the wandering knight hesitate, then bend as if to pick up the coin.

But the next instant, he screamed!

(End of Chapter)