Chapter 449 - 318: The Story of Saint George

"And these dead?" Eric gestured to the corpses lying behind the man. "Who are they?"

"Saracens, Count."

"You’re killing Saracens?"

"It is the will of God, Lord," the leader replied cautiously, seeming to sense Eric’s displeasure.

"It would be more appropriate if they were warriors." Eric chuckled, then pointed to Turandot at his side. "This man is a Saracen, and he is my friend. Will you kill him?"

"Here in the East, we have some Heretic friends as well. Friendship is a necessity in an Exotic Realm, a point I believe God would agree with, Count." The leader glanced at Turandot. "If he comes in peace, he will live."

"And what about me?" Eric pressed. "How do you plan to treat me?"

"No, Count, that is a question I should be asking you. How do you plan to treat us? Your glory and achievements are worthy of our respect."

"And this massacre?" Eric asked contemptuously. At that moment, a few floating Saracen corpses drifted by in the river. It was obvious the men were in the process of disposing of the bodies by throwing them into the water. "Is this massacre worthy of respect?"

"We are no worse than the Saracens, Lord Earl. These are necessary measures. When you occupy a territory, it’s impossible to please everyone. Inciting one side to eliminate the other is often the best choice.

Just as..." The leader chuckled. "Just as you did in Cilicia. You know this path well, don’t you?"

"What’s your name?"

"Guymer Crespin. Just like my father, I love my homeland, even if I’ll probably have to spend my whole life scraping a living from this filthy land."

.....

Across the river was a village of considerable size, inhabited by fishermen and farmers.

The village had a tavern and a blacksmith’s shop, as well as a pebble-strewn riverbank. This bank belonged to another branch of the Ostron River, one larger and wider than the stream they’d crossed to enter the village. The two branches enveloped the settlement before continuing south to merge at Hama Castle, forming its natural barrier.

Smoke curled up from fires on the riverbank, where dried fish hung on racks. Children played nearby, shooing away the white wagtails and bullfinches that tried to snatch the fish. With the sun setting, it was a peaceful scene—though Eric could still smell the lingering stench of blood in the air.

Ruined houses, lingering bloodstains on the road, and debris piled to the side were all signs of the brutal struggle that had recently occurred here. A white cloth strip marked with a cross was tied to a window left ajar. Beside a bed, an oil lamp was lit, its flame making the cross flutter.

"How did you know we were coming?" Eric asked.

"A Priest told us, Lord," he said.

"A Priest?"

"One who came from Cyprus, Lord. He traveled all this way from Cyprus and brought news of King Robert. It’s incredible that he made it here safely, all by himself.

Of course, we’d known for a while that the Pope intended to launch a war to punish the Heretics. But this Priest... he knew a great deal, and he was an excellent storyteller. Many people were willing to listen to him. He left about half a month ago."

The Priest traveled on horseback with his vestments bundled and tied behind his saddle. As he crossed Syria, every Christian household he came to offered him aid, providing a fresh horse and an escort to guide him around the larger Turkic garrisons.

He brought a message for the Christians of Syria. However, what interested them even more was the outlandish tale he told: that Saint George had appeared to King Robert of England in a dream, telling him how to win the war and finally reclaim Cilicia.

The dream supposedly occurred when Robert first arrived in Little Asia, during a period of defeats while resisting the Turkic People. Though it never actually happened, the Priest’s eloquence and passionate speeches moved the listening Christians to tears, and they believed him without a flicker of doubt.

At the time, some Christians were in hiding from their Turkic conquerors. The story of this dream was like a hunter’s arrow, aimed straight at the hearts of Syria’s Christians, for no Saint in Syria was more revered than Saint George.

Saint George was an icon for all Christians in the East, the holiest of holy men from this land. Every family of true Devotion prayed to him daily. He was born in Cappadocia, Anatolia, within the Roman Empire, and martyred in Lida, in the lands of Israel. Whenever the will of an Eastern Christian wavered under the oppression of the Turkic Heretics, they would remember the tale of Saint George slaying the dragon, and trust that the faith of Christ would ultimately triumph over evil.

The story of Saint George helping Robert defeat the Turkic People sparked an irrepressible, foolish idea in the minds of some Christian villagers—an idea that sprang forth as quickly as partridges fleeing a harvester’s scythe.

All Christians ought to rejoice in Robert’s victory and would undoubtedly grow weary of and detest their enslavement under the rule of the Turkic Heretics.

Eric knew almost immediately that this was Odo’s doing. In the story the Priest was spreading, Eric had been recast as a hesitant, overly cautious character. He was even said to have been led astray from his line of march, tempted by a beautiful Turkic woman. Although he was still the commander who led the army to reclaim Cilicia in the end, the embodiment of reason and wisdom was his second-in-command, Odo.

In the tale, it was under Odo’s righteous counsel that the ’weak-willed’ Eric returned to the proper path. It was also Odo who, the very moment Robert spoke of his dream of Saint George, was the first to affirm him. And it was with Odo’s powerful support that the wise King Robert overruled all dissent and made the correct decision, following the will of Saint George.

’Damn. No one could write such a bullshit story unless they were getting paid in Odo’s pence.’

But no matter how much it disgusted Eric, the story had already created a massive stir. It had, at the very least, profoundly influenced the Christian communities near Hama Castle.

’Though what the leaders of these Syrian Christians *should* have done,’ Eric thought, ’was thank the Clergy member for the good news and then lock him up like a dog.’ Instead, they had summoned the Bishop of the Apamea Diocese to hold a thanksgiving ceremony in the Apamea Church.

The Apamea Diocese was part of the Antioch Patriarchate, situated on its fringes and repeatedly caught in the tug-of-war between the Byzantine Empire and the Heretics. Among the dioceses of the Eastern Orthodox Church, it was the most dilapidated, only slightly better off than that of Jerusalem.

That it had survived to this day was no small feat, entirely thanks to the Bishop of Apamea’s skill in playing both sides.

The Bishop was no fool. He promptly ’fell ill’ and rode off to a small city farther north to ’recover his health,’ but a foolish Priest named Ephremius took his place.

This foolish Priest then delivered a fiery sermon in the Apamea Cathedral, claiming that George had descended from the heavens to lead the Normans to victory. This ridiculous tale convinced the predominantly Christian Armenian villages near Hama that God and Saint George were about to permanently liberate their lands from the Turkic Heretics, just as they had done for Cilicia.

And so, the massacre began.