A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Chapter 438: Chapter 312: Still Drooling Even After Being Cured

A cell somewhere in Antioch.

The air was thick with a nauseating stench. The reek of excrement and filth mingled with the damp smell of mold, as if every breath sapped the very strength from one’s body.

The cell’s two windows had long been nailed shut with heavy wooden planks, letting in not a single ray of sunlight. The prisoners could only distinguish day from night by the faint light that occasionally pierced through the cracks, but in this gloomy cell, time had long lost all meaning.

The cell, not particularly large, was crammed with over thirty Frankish and German nobles. Prolonged starvation had left them weak and exhausted. They leaned against the walls, many drifting in and out of consciousness.

Most of them hailed from the northern and central regions of the Frankish lands and Germany.

They were among the first Crusaders to march to the East. Most of them held lands near Clermont and had personally heard the Pope’s impassioned speech calling for a Holy War. Some had even been granted the cross by the Pope himself.

They had eagerly returned to their castles and immediately set out, fearing that a moment’s hesitation or delay would cause them to lose God’s favor.

At the same time, to display their generosity and magnanimity, many of them had granted the pilgrimage requests of commoners, leading the destitute and combat-ineffective masses eastward along the Danube River, across Germany and Hungary, and into the Byzantine Empire.

Emperor Alexios, disgusted and angered by this rabble, had them ferried across the Bosphorus Strait.

This motley army soon ran into trouble in Anatolia. Although the Knights and Barons fought valiantly, they were largely powerless to protect the great mass of commoner pilgrims behind them.

The commoners were ruthlessly abandoned. By the time they reached central Anatolia, the force of nearly ten thousand pilgrims and low-quality Infantry had dwindled to only about a thousand. The nearly one thousand Knights had been reduced to around three hundred.

Still, they had managed to cross Anatolia and reach Antioch, a city of great renown even in the West.

After a reckless assault on Antioch, they were crushed without suspense. Now, all that remained of their once-massive force were these thirty-odd nobles.

The Turkic Bey of Antioch had little interest in killing these Christian nobles. His reputation no longer needed to be burnished by cruelty.

The Turkic Bey only wanted to extort a worthy ransom from this rabble, but the Frankish and German nobles, whether truly devout or merely self-proclaimed, refused to bow to Heretics and remained silent about their identities and wealth.

“Those damned Turkic dogs.”

A middle-aged noble huddled in a corner of the cell, withered rushes scattered around him. The dim, occasional light made it hard for him to see his own fingers.

He fumbled around for a moment before finally finding a small stone. He picked it up and, with almost all his remaining strength, raised his arm to etch a cross on the damp wall.

His arm trembled uncontrollably from hunger and weakness, each stroke seeming to drain a part of his life away. In the end, the vertical line he drew was crooked and twisted like a wave, looking terribly ugly compared to the previous crosses.

Above this misshapen cross, however, were neat rows of densely packed crosses, each one symbolizing a day of their imprisonment.

Time had left its mark on these etchings. The prisoners’ bodies grew ever weaker and their memories began to blur, yet their faith did not waver.

Though they no longer had the strength to count the crosses, they still remembered clearly that every moment of their suffering was an offering of glory to God.

“My lord, have some water,” an older man said in a low voice. He held a broken shard of pottery containing a murky liquid that gave off a nauseating smell.

The young man instinctively wanted to push the shard away, but he held back. He knew that as prisoners, they had no other choice. Drinking this foul water might temporarily relieve his thirst.

He took the shard and forced himself to drink. A sickening bitterness filled his throat.

He had almost forgotten the taste of clean water, forgotten the luxurious life he once led on his family’s estate. He forced his eyes shut, telling himself this was just a trial. ‘Pain is a gift from God, a ladder for the soul’s ascent to Heaven. I must persevere. I must endure it all. Only through suffering can I earn God’s favor.’

But soon after drinking the water, a sharp pain shot through his abdomen. The stabbing sensation almost made him groan, but he clenched his jaw, trying his best to remain silent. At the same time, the bleakness of his future filled him with rage.

‘No! No! No!’ he screamed in his heart. But the emotional outburst could not be contained, and his voice finally shattered the silence. “This is nothing like I expected! Jerusalem! Jerusalem!” His voice grew more and more hysterical. “If this is truly God’s will, why am I being tortured here like a rat? I am a Baron! I have an estate in the Frankish lands—vast manors, fertile fields, scores of servants! That is Heaven! That is Heaven!”

The young man then grabbed a short, middle-aged man by the collar. “Lord Simon, have you forgotten?! You are a Viscount! Born of the noble Mongford Clan! You and your family are trusted by King Philip! How can you allow yourself to die in humiliation in a Saracen’s cage?”