Chapter 80: Isaeans and Isaeans

The noisy place was not far from where Baldwin and Cesar were, separated only by three houses and an alley.

Knights drawn by the commotion had already grown impatient; he glanced at the Templar leaning listlessly against the wall, ready to swiftly end this nuisance—he cared nothing for justice or good and evil; after all, there were tens of thousands of Saracens in this city, and they were both treasure chests and powder kegs, with no time to waste.

But his squire suddenly ran up and whispered a few words to him; he froze for a moment, then pulled the torch from the wall and stepped out.

The others in the courtyard fell silent, uneasy, unsure what had happened.

Soon after, the knight led another group inside—its leaders were two young squires, dressed more nobly than the squire, yet still wearing silver spurs.

In the flickering light, both squires had dark hair, though one was darker still, almost black; the black-haired squire had green eyes that seemed to glow in the dark, while his friend had gentle blue eyes, but with a greater air of solemn restraint.

They saw the arrogant Templar—who had never respected anyone—suddenly lower his hand, walk to the blue-eyed squire, and bow his head in salute, then reach out to pat him—whereupon the green-eyed squire stepped back, avoiding the gesture with a formal bow; the Templar muttered something like “a vengeful little brat” and stepped aside.

“What happened here?” Baldwin asked.

Cesar observed the scene: it was a typical two-story house in Bilbays, with a rooftop platform for drying grain and clothes, the second floor for the owner and family, and the ground floor a workshop or shop; walls extending from either side formed a small courtyard, one side of which held a large olive tree, its branches heavy with golden and green fruit.

Those gathered beneath the olive tree included every ethnic group in Bilbays: the victorious Christians, the defeated Saracens, and the Isaeans—despised and shunned by both—yet strangely, the usually tight-knit Isaeans had split into two clear factions, glaring at each other.

Baldwin waited for an answer, when suddenly a man threw himself at his feet; he nearly ran him through—had Cesar not seized his arm in time; he looked down and saw an Isaean dressed as a Frank: pointed shoes, tight breeches, a short tunic, and an outer cloak… what marked him as an Isaean was the small round cap he wore, called a “kipa” in Hebrew, meaning “covering,” worn by Isaeans to show reverence for God.

“An Isaean?” Baldwin frowned, stepped back, and asked the humble, fawning face: “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Allow me to petition you, my lord,” the man said, “I am an Isaean, but also your father’s servant; I obeyed his orders, buying him wheat, barley, beer, and beans; my name is Laban. If you’ve ever heard of me, you know I am the most honest and loyal of men.”

These words made everyone present laugh.

Laban took no offense; he knelt, clasping his hands—he sensed Baldwin was not the type to humiliate others, and spoke meekly: “I come to save my people, but have been obstructed; if you will grant me justice, my lord, I will repay you with a chainmail hauberk and three silk robes.”

This reward was enough to bribe any knight or official; though Baldwin was a prince, he was still underage, without lands or personal knights—and as a youth, he had many expenses.

But to the Isaean’s disappointment, though young, the prince displayed maturity and caution beyond his years; he was unmoved by Laban’s offer, merely waved him aside, and scanned the crowd: “Besides him, does anyone else wish to speak?”

“I…”

“Hadrir…”

Two voices spoke at once; Baldwin glanced at them: one was a middle-aged man dressed in traditional Isaean garb, the other a Saracen.

“You first,” he said, pointing to the Isaean.

The Isaean stepped forward, wearing a multi-horned hat, a shawl, a loose robe, and brown leather sandals; “My lord,” he bowed, then said with sorrow, “I am Hadrir, a simple goldsmith, blessed by God and the Caliph—and now, by King Amalric I’s clemency—I make my living in Bilbays through my craft…”

“He, his wife, and his two daughters were my captives,” said the Templar—the familiar Geoffrey—interrupting, reminding Baldwin and Cesar… these were not the King’s property.

“Yes, yes,” Hadrir said, “this knight captured us outside the city… but he is a merciful man; he allowed us to ransom ourselves.”

“After all, this isn’t when Arlath was taken, is it?” Geoffrey said, thinking himself witty; the joke only made most in the courtyard shiver involuntarily.

Of course, it was impossible for captives to pay for their own freedom—just as in a tournament, when a knight was unhorsed and taken prisoner, his horse, armor, even his clothes became spoils; he had to pay extra to redeem himself—here it was the same.

“He told me,” Geoffrey said, “that though he left Bilbays, he didn’t take all his wealth; some he hid in a secret place—in his own house—and he offered to show me. I agreed. God be praised, my mood has been good these past days—but…” He raised a hand toward the house, the implication clear.

The house had long been looted: furniture, ornaments, vessels, silk carpets—even doors, windows, mosaics, and torch and candle holders had been torn away, leaving only whitewashed walls and faded floral murals—yet it was still evident that, when its owner lived here, it had been a warm, peaceful home.

“No, no, no,” Hadrir hurried to say, “I swear I did not deceive you; I hid my wealth in a place no one knew, and could never be found—” He turned to Laban, “but before I left, I told this secret to the one person I trusted most—or so I believed…”

“I don’t care,” muttered the Templar. “If you can’t pay, I’ll just find another buyer.”

Baldwin frowned; Cesar asked: “Are you asking us to help you recover this money?”

Hadrir shook his head; he knew full well: meeting this Templar, he had thought himself doomed; that the man allowed him to ransom himself and his family was already more than he dared hope—especially since the knight agreed to enter the city with him. When he discovered the hidden chamber was empty, it felt like a thunderclap—but he still had sense; he knew further pleading would be greed, and that the Templar not killing him was nothing short of saintly.

“Oh,” Geoffrey said, “this is how it is, Cesar: I was about to take them away and sell them to whoever—” he meant the slave traders—“when,” he gestured to the Saracens, “they came out demanding to ransom these people.”

Cesar turned to the Saracens: about five or six men, all wrapped in turbans; their leader had dark skin, wore a large Saracen robe like the one he’d seen in the market—but not black, but natural linen, and on his leather belt, faint hooks for a scimitar were visible, likely removed hastily before negotiating with the knight to avoid conflict.

Yet even so, even if he wasn’t on Amalric I’s list, he was no ordinary Saracen commoner.

“How much?”

“I ask for little,” Geoffrey tapped his cheek, “ninety gold coins.” He nodded toward Hadrir: “He has two daughters, like flower buds.”

The price was low—but now Cesar grew even more puzzled; a standard chainmail hauberk cost at least forty gold coins (just the torso), a silk robe ran eight to nine coins each—Laban’s earlier promise to Prince Baldwin alone equaled this ransom sum…

“We’ve already agreed,” the Saracen said, voice tight with anger, “we came too hastily and didn’t bring enough money; we’ve sent someone to fetch it.”

“Who knows what you’ll do with my people once you buy them?” Laban leapt up, snarling, “I’ll pay triple!” As he turned to Geoffrey, his tone softened: “My lord knight,” he said respectfully, “you needn’t wait—I have the money now.”

“My husband’s money…” Hadrir’s wife spat bitterly.

“Don’t speak nonsense, woman—may the devil tear out your tongue!” Laban snapped, “Your husband left me nothing!”

He turned again to Cesar and Baldwin with a look of innocence: “My lords, consider: if a man decides to flee this city, abandoning his wife, daughters, home, property, everything—why would he leave money for me?”

“That money wasn’t left for you!” Hadrir finally shouted, “It was because I planned to leave, but some of my people chose to stay—I feared that if… if something happened, you would use that money to help them escape their suffering!”

“Oh, oh,” Laban sneered, “listen, listen—what a saint…”

Geoffrey chuckled.

Laban paused, glanced at them in confusion—he hadn’t yet realized there was a true “little saint” here—and continued: “So now what? You abandoned your people, failed to escape, and now you regret it—wanting to use this money to save your own skin?”

This was moral coercion—though the term didn’t yet exist.

But Hadrir, though not eloquent, was clearly a clear-minded man; he stepped forward, eyes bright: “If a man does not love himself or his own family, yet claims to love others—that is the true madness of the devil.” He lowered his eyes slightly, “Though this does stray from my original intent, I am still only a mortal.”

“How much money did you hide here?” Cesar asked.

Hadrir hesitated: “Fifty gold coins, plus several gems worth over forty more, and a bolt of deep blue silk—a customer commissioned it for a sacred reliquary.”

Geoffrey sneered, staring at Laban—he was certain this man had taken the items, and planned to find an opportunity to extract the truth from him.

“You’re Saracens,” Cesar asked, “then why pay such a large sum to ransom an Isaean?”

“Hadrir is our friend,” said the dark-skinned Saracen, “though he is an Isaean and follows his people’s laws and faith, he has always been honest, upright, lived here twenty years without quarreling, never lied, never lent a copper coin…” He glanced at Laban, “Unlike his own kind.”

“And,” he added, “he is a scholar—he teaches our children mathematics, Latin, and astronomy.”

Saracens deeply respected scholars, especially one who willingly imparted vital knowledge to their children.

“You’re a teacher?” Baldwin asked.

Here, “teacher” did not mean what we think today; among Isaeans, it referred to a teacher of oral law—akin to Christian priests or Saracen elders.

“Of course not!” Laban interrupted, furious, “He’s just a craftsman!”

Hadrir pressed his lips together.

“You don’t get along with him,” Cesar asked, “yet he’s willing to pay nearly three hundred gold coins to ransom you?”—nearly a tenth of a count’s fortune.

“It wasn’t free,” Hadrir said, “Isaeans cannot enslave other Isaeans, but if I owed him debt, I had to repay it with my workshop and labor; three hundred gold coins would take me until death—and…”

“And?”

“And he has long wished to marry my daughter. As I understand, he has a friend just as cruel and vile as himself—he’s already arranged that once he marries my eldest daughter, he’ll arrange for his friend to marry my younger one; in return, the friend will give him a generous payment.”

Baldwin instinctively glanced at Laban; he wasn’t ugly, but he was older than Hadrir; his frame wasn’t short, yet precisely because he was tall, when he hunched his back, he looked like a hyena—repulsive.

Laban offered no rebuttal; Hadrir’s words sounded plausible, yet Cesar felt something was off.

“Can you make a ruling yet?” Geoffrey yawned, bored. “I want to go to sleep.”

(End of chapter)