Chapter 72: To Egypt! (3)

Longinus heard someone shouting that it was cowardly.

Of course, ambush is indeed a cowardly act, let alone targeting the man’s most vital spot.

What else could he do? He had fasted for days, then been forced to sleep on the stone floor of the cathedral, waking up ravenous, thirsty, and starving, having only gulped down a few sips of water earlier.

And he wore only leather armor—Cesar had picked out a full chainmail suit from his loot for him, but he had carefully stored it in his chest and never worn it; now it was too late to regret.

He now faced three knights, all clad in chainmail with steel plates fixed over vital areas, fully armed, while he had only a short sword and a dagger.

And to him, that fellow who treated a silver coin as a grand reward had lifted his knee-length chainmail, tucking it into his belt to make movement easier, exposing a large expanse of pale thigh and the barely concealed “short trumpet” beneath his linen tunic, and even forgot to lower it when raising his longsword—wasn’t this an open invitation to sin?

—Just as they would surely claim, their sins were caused by the temptation of this Saracen girl.

Longinus always followed the path of virtue. Besides, he had long fought with base thieves and cared nothing for honor or face.

Using the motion of bending down to pick up the coin, he rolled forward, slipping between the knight’s legs, and swiftly drew his dagger, striking him.

The mean, stingy bastard let out a long, wailing cry like a wounded mule, screaming with all his throat, and Longinus, who had slipped behind him, leapt up and plunged the dagger into the back of his neck.

The monk also seemed battle-hardened. Though he screamed, he still remembered to grab the Saracen girl and drag her in front of himself, clutching her hair tightly and yanking it downward; her face twisted in pain.

She shouted something, but no one present understood her; she quickly realized this and struggled harder, kicking and clawing, heedless of her own safety.

But no matter what she did, she could not escape the man behind her—just as she had been unable to when first seized. The physical disparity between men and women, compounded by the crushing age gap (she was perhaps only thirteen or fourteen), and the vast difference between her linen robe and his chainmail, doomed her to be a frail prey, not a hunter.

But the turning point came instantly—perhaps fearing the girl alone would not frighten Longinus, the priest drew his small dagger and held it across her throat, hoping to deter him.

He did not see the sudden flash of joy in the girl’s eyes; she lunged forward eagerly toward the gleaming blade, and Longinus could even hear the sound of skin, blood vessels, and thin muscle tearing beneath the cold metal.

The wound was so deep, so wide, even someone deliberately hacking at her could not have made it more gruesome.

The girl’s head snapped back, blood gushing; the priest suddenly felt the body in his hands grow heavy and tilt sideways, the hair in his grip now warm, wet, and slick—he realized he had lost his greatest leverage.

Longinus did not hesitate. He gripped his short sword, drove it through the girl’s chest, pierced her body, then rammed it through the priest’s foul flesh, linking the most beautiful body to the most vile one.

His eyes burned red as he gasped and pulled the sword free, then cursed under his breath.

For he saw the third knight had risen to his feet, surrounded by a faint but unmistakable glow—he was a blessed knight.

“Do the saints in heaven have no eyes?” Longinus exclaimed, echoing Cesar’s exact tone, and charged forward with his sword.

After just one clash, the seasoned mercenary knew it was over.

He could not possibly match the brute strength and boundless energy of this knight.

Longinus felt a wave of weakness.

He knew it was fear’s symptom, but he had to rally—he imagined what the sole surviving knight would say if he died here.

He would claim he and his companions heard a Saracen woman screaming on the road; when they rushed over, they found a wandering knight about to rape her, and after warning him off, they were cursed and attacked, forcing them to strike back and kill him.

Everyone knew he was Cesar’s servant; if this story spread, not only would his death be unjust and inexplicable, but even Cesar’s reputation would suffer—he had barely managed to secure his place beside Prince Baldwin, and Longinus had no intention of adding more trouble for him.

He thought he might at least die alongside the knight, but that was too hard; he could only keep dodging and parrying as the knight’s double-edged sword swung like a heavy two-bladed mace—any blow landing on him would tear through his fragile leather armor, shredding muscle and bone alike.

His short sword and dagger could barely defend, let alone close in on the knight. Even if he got close, they could hardly pierce the knight’s full chainmail. He was trapped in this tiny space, desperately evading the knight’s increasingly swift strikes while scrambling for any weakness.

Longinus wanted to flee this suffocating space several times—some might wrongly think narrow spaces favor short-weapon fighters, but if the opponent is fully armored, it’s no different than a bare-handed man fighting a grizzly bear—the knight sensed this too, and always intercepted him precisely.

Longinus panted heavily, his legs growing heavier.

The knight seemed to notice this too; in the shadows, he grinned savagely, swinging his sword downward—he could already picture this arrogant brat collapsing with a scream, blood spurting, flesh torn, bones broken.

He did hear something snap—but it was not Longinus’s neck or shoulder. In that life-or-death moment, the wandering knight made an unimaginable decision—he placed his short sword horizontally across his shoulder, right where the double-edged blade would strike.

This suicidal act somehow opened a path to survival—the double-edged sword, carrying death’s breath, slammed into the short sword; it shattered, the flying shard scraped off a large chunk of skin and flesh from his neck, blood flowed, but the vital parts were spared.

Longinus’s left shoulder collapsed—but his right hand’s dagger had already stabbed into the knight’s thigh.

But as he had predicted, the chainmail effectively blocked the dagger’s thrust; the overlapping iron rings caused pain but no bleeding; the knight growled in fury, raised his double-edged sword, and stabbed toward the gap beside him.

His judgment was correct—but Longinus had already used the moment to roll desperately away from him, sprinting toward the door.

In an instant, many thoughts flashed through his mind, but none helped—he felt only regret, deep regret: he should have stayed in the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, praying earnestly and humbly, not sleeping there like a fool.

If he had seen a saint, he might not now be so helpless.

He even considered jumping straight into the well—though suicide was an unforgivable sin, he immediately dismissed it; if he killed himself, the knight would only call him a coward, a cowardly sinner, and no one would believe Cesar’s account.

No—wait—he could hide in the well.

Even if the knight cut the rope, he could float and sink for a while; now his slim frame and leather armor were advantages—a bulky man could never squeeze through the narrow well opening—but the knight might still throw stones at him.

But Longinus no longer cared—he ignored his wounds and ran toward the octagonal stone well, grabbing the rope and leaping down.

The knight saw and guessed his intent; he roared toward the well—but all he saw was ripples on the water; the damned fellow clung to the rope, looking up at him. The knight did cut the rope—but what good did it do?

He stared at Longinus with a chilling gaze, then raised his double-edged sword—perhaps he could throw it down and kill him, but the knight did not want to lose his most trusted weapon before battle; he shook his head and turned into the ruins, searching for stones and bricks.

Longinus waited in terror, painfully stripping off his wet leather armor and placing it atop his head, hoping not to be crushed immediately.

He waited a long time—the knight’s footsteps kept circling around; was it really so hard to find a stone? Longinus muttered.

Then he cheered up—he heard the knight’s terrified shout: “Saracen!”

Then he heard a calm voice reply: “Yes, a Saracen.”

They began fighting; the clash of blades never ceased. Longinus felt both dread and disappointment—if the newcomer were a righteous knight, he might still have a chance to survive.

But since it was a Saracen, he would not save a Christian. The only comfort was that if this Saracen killed the knight, he might also kill Longinus—or abandon him to drown from exhaustion.

When they found him, they would only think he was killed by a Saracen—his death would not taint his young master.

Longinus listened tensely, but from the well, he heard only muffled, faint sounds; from the knight’s few loud cries, he could tell the Saracen was no easy foe—and calm enough.

Aside from declaring his Saracen identity, he spoke almost nothing, attacking relentlessly.

Longinus’s stab to the knight’s thigh had not been fatal, but it hindered his movement; those dragging footsteps were his, and the Saracen had clearly noticed and exploited it.

The knight retreated to the well’s edge, perhaps thinking to use it as a barrier to counter or stall—but it did no good; it only made Longinus hear more clearly: he heard the knight pleading, “Let me pray, let me pray, don’t let me go to hell.”

But the Saracen only replied: “Did you let Saracens pray?”

Then came the sound Longinus knew all too well—the blade piercing flesh and the final sigh of a human life. He hoped the Saracen would not notice him—but fate was against him.

Moments later, heavy footsteps approached; a head appeared at the well’s mouth.

Longinus suddenly remembered how he himself had once stuck his head out of a well to scare his young master and Prince Baldwin—so this was truly karma.

He could not see the Saracen’s face or expression; the man merely glanced at him once, then turned away—he could only wait for the final judgment.

When the Saracen appeared again at the well’s mouth, Longinus thought he was surely dead—but the man only tossed down a sturdy rope: “Can you still hold the rope?”

Longinus could not hold it—but he could wrap it around his waist, then tugged the rope to signal the man to pull him up.

The Saracen indeed pulled him up; Longinus crawled out of the well with one hand, collapsed onto the ground, and stretched out his limbs, gasping desperately.

Fortunately, it was September—the air still carried the heat of daytime, so he did not shiver from cold.

The Saracen took a leather flask from his waist, uncorked it, and held it to Longinus’s lips; he smelled the sweet, honeyed fragrance and immediately drank deeply.

Then the Saracen actually dragged him up, propping him against the well wall: “I saw the girl’s body,” he said. “Tell me what happened here.”

Don’t you already guess most of it? Longinus thought bitterly—but he dared not defy this man; not only could he save or kill him, but the man clearly carried the air of a superior—his tone carried unyielding authority.

Longinus thought for a moment, then told the truth—everything that had happened since he arrived.

Yes, he carefully withheld his identity—he did not say he was Cesar’s servant, nor that he was here for the selection ceremony; he was merely a wandering knight who happened to pass by, seeking water, only to witness a shameful crime.

“A crime?” The Saracen lifted his lips slightly: “You think it’s a crime.”

“I didn’t used to,” Longinus answered honestly. “But I serve a merciful master. To him, this is a crime. At all times, the strong must protect the weak—not prey on them.”

“But she is a Saracen.”

“What difference does it make? I don’t think a girl under five feet tall could kill three knights with a bucket.”

He heard a pleasant laugh. “You see? As an old Eastern proverb says: the master reflects in the servant.”

“Knight, you are a cloudy wine—if you mix in honey, you become a rare vintage; if you mix in aconite, you become a deadly poison.”

He stood before Longinus and said: “You have a good master. That is your fortune.”

Without waiting for Longinus to ask his name or origin, he walked into the collapsed bathhouse. Longinus heard him praying—in the Saracen way.

Then he saw the man wrap the girl in his black cloak, sling her over his shoulder, and vanish from Longinus’s sight.

Longinus immediately fell asleep—or rather, fainted.

When he awoke again, the light blinded him; he tried to raise his hand to shield his eyes, but found he could not move.

“Longinus?” A hand reached out to him.

(End of Chapter)