kingdom of nations

Chapter 299 Broken Wings (17)

Bishop Andrei stood in the brightly lit courtyard, surrounded by a bustling crowd of people, including knights, priests, squires, and servants. Each of them performed their duties, from carrying and sorting to organizing, and the scene was remarkably orderly.

And the last of the wormwood, those fresh, verdant plants, were carried to the main kitchen like flowing water.

If given enough time, César would certainly prefer to leave the wormwood in the sun to dry it slowly—the biggest weakness of the components in wormwood that are particularly effective against malaria parasites is that they are sensitive to high temperatures; above 30 degrees Celsius, these components may be completely destroyed.

But Cesar couldn't gamble. After this night, when the sun rose tomorrow, he couldn't be sure how far the condition of Patriarch Heraclius, Gian, and those unfortunate priests and monks who had fallen ill, as well as those patients whose whereabouts were unknown, would progress. At this point, even an extra hour would be beneficial.

The charcoal trough used for smoking jerky—where Witt was openly stealing prey from the knights under the guise of tasting it when he first saw it—is now filled with stone slabs, copper pots, and black iron shields, and a group of children, no more than seven or eight years old, are constantly turning over the wormwood that their mothers have chopped.

Originally, this task was to be done by the kitchen staff, but they soon discovered that their calloused hands, used to working, were unable to accurately estimate the temperature of the stone slabs, copper pots, and shields. After obtaining Cesar's permission, they called their children. Although the children also had to work, their fingers were certainly much more sensitive – some children would even pick up blades of grass and place them on their cheeks to test the temperature.

They and their parents were very eager; there was no other way. For these poor people, even if they had to work for several nights in a row, the pay they received was enough to make up for the hardship.

Besides, it wasn't that strenuous—for them, it was just monotonous work, and fatigue was inevitable. A kitchen maid gently nudged the person next to her: "What do you think these are for?"

The woman beside her, a mature and steady cook, said, "Just do your job and don't say anything more..."

“I feel like we’re working for a witch,” the maid chuckled. “You probably don’t know, but when I was a child, there was a witch in our village who would often take some hay, chop it up, grind it, and then put it…”

She stopped, and the cook turned around, looking at her coldly. "If you don't want to be 'hooked,' shut up now."

The maid fell silent immediately. The full name of the "hook" is the Hook of Silence, a kind of torture device used on talkative women. It looks like a metal cage that can be put over the head. At first, there was only a cage, but later a wooden stick that could be stuffed into the mouth was added, and it gradually evolved into a sharp iron hook. Not to mention speaking, even moving the head would injure the tongue.

The cook's heart was not as calm as she appeared, and perhaps the others were too. But they were servants who served the priests and monks and were paid handsomely. Could they possibly know more about witches than these gentlemen?

They did whatever they were told to do.

Bishop Andrei stood at the door for a while, memorized the maid's face, and then walked away. He met Damara in the corridor—Damara insisted on staying to look after Gian, which made the bishop extremely grateful. However, he still asked Cesar to confirm that the plague could not be transmitted from one person to another before he agreed to Damara's request.

"Are you tired, child?" he said gently. "It's alright if you are tired. Let someone take you back to your room to rest. We're here for Jian."

Damara blushed. She was a straightforward girl, but even she couldn't help but feel a little shy about this: "Cesar is giving him an enema..."

Bishop Andrei silently murmured an "ah," realizing that Damara shouldn't have been allowed to witness this. Contrary to later generations' imaginations, people at this time didn't care much about nudity. While it was nice that there were toilets in the castle, only a few overly reserved individuals would bring chamber pots when marching or traveling.

Most of them respond to the call of nature in nature. Although noble ladies are always surrounded by servants, sometimes they will still be surprised to see a big white buttocks exposed in the weeds.

Damara stood outside the door, most likely to save face for Gian.

Seeing Damara like this, the bishop's mood improved considerably. If Gian's condition were still so bad, Damara probably wouldn't have been in the mood to worry about these things. He smiled and went into the room—to reduce the patients' discomfort, they had all been moved to the same room on the same floor.

Artemisinin extraction still takes two or three days, but with fresh Artemisia annua, Cesar can borrow the wisdom of ancient medicine from another world and directly extract the juice of Artemisia annua by "squeezing". Although the effective components extracted by this method are too few, it is still better than doing nothing.

Haredi had already tried it before—medication is absorbed faster in areas with abundant mucous membranes than when taken orally—and fortunately, enemas were a common treatment method at the time, so when Cesar proposed it, no one objected, and the monastery had readily available enema tools.

Before even entering the room, Bishop Andrei heard Gian's howl. His smile deepened, and he strode toward the young knight who was being watched by the priests.

After being given water, sugar, and salt, Gian had woken up, but the high fever still made him drowsy. However, perhaps because he was strong, young, and blessed by God, he was very sensitive to the active ingredients in Artemisia annua. Almost immediately after taking the medicine, his body temperature began to drop, and his pain lessened.

Compared to Gian, Chirac was in much worse condition. He regained consciousness once, but then fell into a coma again. Apart from his skin no longer being so hot, he was still experiencing convulsions, vomiting, and diarrhea. To make matters worse, the discharge from his body was reddish.

"What should we do next?" Bishop Andrei asked, looking at the servant who took the basin of water and the copper kettle and walked away.

"Dried wormwood is ground into powder, soaked in strong liquor for twelve to twenty-four hours, filtered, and then taken."

"Isn't this okay?"

“No…” Cesar washed his hands with the help of a servant. “The teacher is seriously ill. Oral juice and… no.” He was thinking about when to go to Haredi to get a syringe. Although an impure extract could lead to organ failure—the malaria parasite could cause the same result. This was a decision to be made only as a last resort.

“I see knights still going out—how much wormwood do you need?”

"a lot of."

"How many people do you want to treat?" Bishop Andrei finally asked. "Ten, a hundred, a thousand?"

"How many sick people did the priests bless?"

“There are already three thousand people, and the actual number may be more. The Isaacs and Saracens will not accept it, and the Byzantines may not be willing either. Some of them may not even have a penny to their name. They may have been deceived, so even if the priests claim that they will not ask for any fees, they will not come out.”

Bishop Andrei asked gravely, “But are you really going to do this? I’ve also heard of malaria outbreaks in villages and armies, which is quite unusual—Bethlehem isn’t a city surrounded by wilderness and swamps, nor does it have many canals and ponds. You yourself said that this disease doesn’t spread from person to person—”

"It's a mosquito. There's a type of mosquito that can transmit this disease."

"So you want us to shut off the pool, fill in the ditch, and sprinkle some powder—though not much." It was said that the Isaacs had brought in some of this powder not long ago, but when the bishop's knights went to knock on the door, they found that the Isaacs had already left, though they didn't know when they had left—this was an ominous sign.

"You suspect this is a man-made disaster."

“Disaster? No, it’s a conspiracy,” Bishop Andrei said. “I know you’re not the kind of person who values ​​empty fame, so from now on, leave everything to me—I’m a priest, I’ve been ‘given,’ and although it’s not without its troubles, if you can explain it to me clearly, I can try to explain it to you.”

He did not advise César to pretend he knew nothing—as long as the Patriarch and his nephew, and some other important figures, were healed—it would be much easier to cover it up, as people had done before.

But thousands of people—this is different from what César had done before. Whether it was asceticism, almsgiving, or building bridges, it was all based on the premise that these things had nothing to do with the "medical care" monopolized by the church.

If the church wanted to, or even just a king or lord wanted to, they could create such a miracle at any time without much concern—but eliminating a plague and allowing those who should have died from it to survive would touch the very core of the church.

Let alone Cesare, even Bishop Andrea would have faced scrutiny from the Church after accomplishing this. Patriarch Heraclius was in Arrassa, but the Roman Church would certainly have investigated thoroughly, starting with when and where he learned this wormwood could cure malaria, then inquiring about its preparation, dosage, and usage. They would have also questioned how many people were saved, and who they were—Christians, Isaacs, Byzantines, or Saracens…and whether any unusual phenomena occurred, such as smoke, lightning, or strange cries…

If one is not careful, it can be seen as practicing witchcraft. After all, wormwood is not among the sacred herbs permitted by the church, and even a patriarch would be in violation of canon law if he used it without permission.

“…Is that alright?” Cesar knew that this would place a heavy responsibility on Bishop Andrei, and he hesitated. Bishop Andrei shook his head: “There has never been anyone who has received both ‘gift’ and ‘grace’ at the same time. The Church has long concluded that if someone does this, they must be possessed by the devil, or even a great devil like Satan.”

In fact, if Cesar hadn't saved his nephew Gian, he wouldn't have been willing to get involved in this mess.

The bishop's concerns were not unfounded, and César was indeed, as he said, not the kind of person who coveted fame and fortune. He readily handed over the next part of the work to the bishop—but he still concealed the matter of the syringe. After all, for people of this era, syringes and malaria parasites were simply incomprehensible things.

Although they already had the theory of humors, believing that timely extraction of a portion of blood could change the composition of bodily fluids, bringing the four elements into balance, and also restoring the body's health, it would be a different story to tell them that there are tiny insects, so small that even blessed knights or monks cannot see them, that multiply and wreak havoc in the human body.

To combat them, a strange substance had to be extracted from the wormwood and then injected into people's blood vessels—it should be noted that the priests at this time had not yet accepted the concept of blood vessels, unless they had studied pagan medical texts.

And these things that they do not understand are very likely to be seen as the devil and the devil's tricks.

When César left the church, he was without any servants and did not attract anyone's attention.

He concealed his figure and face with a hooded cloak, and instead of riding Pollax, he casually picked a horse from the stable and mounted it. He did not notice that, out of his sight, a tall and beautiful figure stood in the shadows of the top of the clock tower, watching him gradually disappear into the distance.

Laila's last mission was to assassinate Abigail.

Although her final outcome might have been better than sending that bastard straight to hell, Sinan didn't approve of her actions. As an Assassin assassin, she should have struck swiftly when the conditions were favorable to her, killed her prey, and made her escape, rather than acting as a hero.

Not to mention, Lyra attracted a band of Christian knights, and the one who came to Saladin's rescue was Saladin's sister—even though she was also a Saracen, her brother was already an enemy of the Eagle's Nest.

If this Saracen noblewoman were to ultimately perish, it might be God's wrath and lash, which could perhaps ignite Saladin's fighting spirit, making him truly like a warrior of God, turning his sharp sword against the Crusaders rather than against his own brothers who shared his faith. As punishment, Layla was chained hand and foot and spent several days in a cave without light, water, or food.

She lay quietly, trying to conserve her energy. But her mind never stopped racing—the faces, expressions, and words of Sinan and the other Assassins flashed through her memory, especially Sinan, the elder and father she had once trusted so much—his attitude toward Saladin's sister chilled Laila to the bone—the male Assassins scorned and mocked Laila because they believed she needed to sell her body to complete the task the elder had given her.

Lyra never refuted it, though she didn't need to, but how could she prove it? She couldn't loudly proclaim that she too had received prophetic revelation, nor could she prove her chastity in a more clumsy way.

Besides, she had never looked down on these people.

But Saladin's sister was an undeniably noble woman, devout and loyal, who often read history books and wrote poetry. She was a fearless mother and wife, and no one could find fault with her.

She was the kind of woman who deserved the protection and love of Saracen men.

But when he heard that Laila had given up the chance to assassinate Abigail in order to free Saladin's sister from this shameful and desperate predicament, even the elder Sinan did not show a relieved smile.

That's women for you, they say without reservation: sentimental, indecisive, acting on impulse, incapable of doing anything, or they just make things worse.

Was it really her fault? Leila kept asking herself.

When Lyra was finally released from the cave and saw the sunlight again, she couldn't help but ask the question, and Sinan's answer did not surprise him.

Although the elder didn't utter any harsh words, his regret and confusion still hurt Lyra. He gazed at her, as if asking if this was an inherent limitation of womanhood. Even though the prophet had given her revelation, she still couldn't do what he asked.

“I used to think I was right and the former master of the eagle’s nest was wrong, but now I realize that he may be the one who is right,” Sinan said. “Your behavior completely contradicts my long-standing teachings.”

“But she didn’t deserve this humiliation!” Leila argued.

"But we are Assassins. Do you know what that word means? For us, nothing is sacrificial, not even faith. We will use any means necessary to get our target. And you, you don't even have to think about it, it's right in front of you."

If you were a maid, a guard, or even just an ordinary courtesan, I wouldn't blame you for doing this. But you're an assassin, Lyra, and you think your thoughts are more important than your mission.

“I can go and kill Abigail.”

"There's no need anymore. His value has changed drastically, and his death can no longer deter anyone, not even his servants."

"If you wish to repent for your transgressions, Laila, I will allow you to choose your target. But if you still fail to satisfy me this time, then I can only declare you no longer a member of the Eagle's Nest. You can continue to make a living anywhere—Alaska Road, Damascus, or Apollo—based on your looks and my training. But from this day forward, you will no longer be able to find any branch location, nor will any assassins contact you. You will be expelled from us, never to return until the end of the world."

These words were once like a curse; just uttering them would make Lyra tremble uncontrollably, wanting nothing more than to prostrate herself at the elder's feet, begging him not to drive her away.

For over a decade, Leila had been the elder's student and an Assassin's assassin. Even after ascending to heaven as a woman, she didn't know where to go.

But one thing she was certain of was that, with each setback and reflection, the Eagle's Nest no longer seemed to hold such a strong allure for her.

Some might say that the Eagle's Nest was her home, but if there was nothing in that home to fill the void in her life, the outcome would be predictable.

Leila thought that perhaps, as her biological father had said, she was a monster, a devil, to be so ruthless.

When Leila heard about the apparition of St. Jerome, she guessed that the Christians who had conquered Damascus would immediately rush to Bethlehem—for them, conquering Damascus was already an unexpected surprise, and the apparition of St. Jerome in Bethlehem was the most reliable proof of this surprise.

Perhaps the Prophet and God also think so. Bethlehem has become a lush lake with countless large fish swimming around, completely unaware of the danger approaching. She can freely choose her targets from among them.

She had considered including King Baldwin of Arathi Highlands on the assassination list, but she quickly dismissed the idea. Lyra was not afraid of the sharpness of the Holy City's spear; she simply couldn't help but envy the young man's vibrant energy.

Lyra's white hair, red eyes, and gender identity had repeatedly plunged her into difficulties, almost to the point of no return. The Christian king also faced numerous crises brought about by unchangeable facts, but instead of being defeated, he grew strong like a seedling that had broken through a hard rock and faced the sun.

His friends deserve the most credit.

Lyra had met and even seduced this young knight, but he didn't fit her perception of Christian knights. She was filled with doubt: could such a person really exist in the world?

She had once thought Elder Sinan was one, but now she realized he was just a mortal. Sinan had once said that the dark-haired boy might overthrow the Eagle's Nest, but how could that be possible? Lyra always felt that to overthrow the Eagle's Nest, one would need to be at least someone like Godfrey of Bouillon, while Cesar, in her eyes, was more gentle and fragile.

What's even stranger about him is that Lyra can't find any trace of his growth; it's as if he suddenly became like this one night, or even earlier.

After Lyra saw him walk away, a pair of weary-looking priests emerged from an alleyway. One of them saw the crowd in front of the church, let out a cry, and slowed his pace even further, as if he did not want to go back.

“I’m exhausted,” he said to his companion. “Let’s find a place to rest and have a drink.”

His companions immediately agreed, leaving their servants behind as they headed for a tavern with a dried chicken hanging on the wall. Lyra guessed they must be the priests sent to check the number of patients, and she only paused for a moment before following them.

Sure enough, she heard their complaints. One of the priests, having drunk quite a bit at the urging of his friends, became even more visibly resentful. "Just for a title? Isn't a little saint enough? What else does he want? To steal the powers that belong to us?"

He's just a knight, right?
Everyone knows he fought alongside the king, and his battlefields were on Saracen territory, not in the church. What is he up to? He seems possessed by the devil.

"Who else could do such terrible things besides this? This goes beyond mere self-promotion."

"It will do him no good unless he can entice people to believe in him and offer their bodies and souls to him," his companions echoed.

The priest laughed heartily upon hearing this. Judging from his expression, he did not believe his companion's words, but he had certainly memorized them.

“We should go back,” his companion suddenly said. “If we don’t go back soon, we might be punished by the bishop.”

"Let him be. I think he's got some mental issues, or maybe he's been bewitched by Satan. That's certainly possible, but that would be too scary."

That's a bishop, after all.

"So what if he's a bishop? Is that devil's teacher still Patriarch Heraclius?"

"That's unlikely, he's a patriarch."

"Who knows? Just as the devil once seized our Savior, took him to the highest mountain peak, lifted the roof, and let him see all the wonders of the world."

"If the devils were to tempt anyone, wouldn't it be more profitable to tempt a king than a commoner? And to corrupt a pious person is more satisfying to the devil than to send a lowly criminal to hell."

"So you want to try it?"

"try what?"

"You were originally born in Rome, but you stayed here on a pilgrimage. Don't you want to go back to Rome...?"

Leila didn't listen any further; she didn't need to hear a reply.

The Assassins patiently waited until the two priests emerged from the tavern arm in arm before silently following them.

The two priests, drunk and oblivious to the most ordinary pilgrims, were slit in the throat like two docile rabbits. Lyra dragged their bodies into a corner, piled a clump of hay on top, and they might still be found.

But by then, those two guys were no longer relevant to her.

She went to look for César, only to find him standing in the shadows, watching a group of people making a ruckus.

(End of this chapter)