novelSusiti Chapter 138 Baldwin's Illness
Chapter 138 Baldwin's Illness
Chapter 138 Baldwin's Illness (Part 1)
In early February of Julian year 1183, the Crown Prince of Jerusalem, Lyon de Anjou, who was blessed by God, arrived in his faithful Jerusalem.
In February, the cold wind in Jerusalem still carried a sharp, razor-sharp edge.
When Lyon's troops appeared at Jaffa Gate, horns sounded from the city walls.
The sound of the horn did not sound like a triumphant, resounding chorus, but rather a low, restrained tone, almost mournful.
The city gates slowly opened, but instead of the king's retinue, they welcomed Bishop William, his mother Maria, and a troop of royal guards.
"Your Highness," William bowed deeply. The old man, who had once served as the king's tutor, had sunken eyes. "The king has decreed that all triumphal processions are cancelled. Please proceed directly to the palace."
Lyon looked down at the old man from horseback, catching a fleeting glimpse of despair in his eyes: "How is the king?"
William gave a vague answer: "The King is waiting for you. He—has been waiting for many days."
Leon looked at his mother beside him, puzzled. Maria's eyes darted around, and she sighed, "He's in a lot of pain right now. Leon, go quickly. Seeing you might—make him feel a little better."
Balian, standing behind Lyon, frowned and said to Lyon, "Could it be—that His Majesty's condition has worsened again—"
Lyon was startled and immediately spurred his horse to lead his entourage swiftly along the streets of Jerusalem toward the palace.
Citizens gathered on both sides of the road, silently watching the eleven-year-old crown prince with complex expressions.
Lyon saw in it awe, gratitude, and also unfathomable worry.
News of the victories in the Bekaa Valley and Beirut should have spread throughout the city by now, but the holy city did not seem to rejoice. A sense of oppressive unease hung in the air, as if the entire city was holding its breath, waiting for something.
The palace was shrouded in an unusual silence. The colorful flags and coats of arms that should have been hanging were nowhere to be seen. The palace guards stood straight, their expressions solemn like a funeral procession.
Lyon dismounted and, accompanied by Balian and Jacob, walked through the familiar corridor.
He noticed that there were twice as many candlesticks as usual on both sides of the corridor, and all the candles were burning even during the day.
When Lyon arrived at the entrance to the royal palace, he heard faint sounds of arguing, the clanging of metal instruments, and—a few muffled groans suppressed to the extreme—coming from behind the tightly closed doors.
Lyon took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy oak door of the bedroom.
Upon entering, a complex aroma of herbs, incense, rotting flesh, vinegar, and some kind of sweet ointment hits you.
The windows of the sleeping quarters were all open, but the cold wind seemed unable to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of illness.
The room had been renovated; all the sharp edges of the furniture were covered with soft cloth, thick carpets covered the floor, and dark tapestries hung on the walls.
Three doctors were gathered around the king's pine bed.
An elderly Frankish monk named Gilles, with gray hair and dressed in a simple monk's robe, was tidying up his tools on the table—three tourniquets of different widths, three small daggers of different sizes, and a copper bowl waiting to collect blood.
Cicero, the Greek physician sent from Constantinople, was carefully preparing a jar of dark green ointment.
His worktable was filled with rare medicinal herbs from all over the Mediterranean: Cypriot pine resin, Cretan saffron, and Asia Minor myrrh.
“Skin ulcers are a sign of toxins leaking out of the body,” he explained to the king in a low voice. “My ointment is based on the formula of Dioscorides and can cool overheated bodily fluids and promote wound healing.”
The last one was Abu Suleiman Daoud, the renowned Kurdish physician sent by Saladin, who was currently putting a mixture of herbs into a small copper stove.
A leather cone-shaped cover is attached to the top of the stove, with the tip of the cover aimed at the face of the patient on the bed.
"The fumigation method," he explained to the king in fluent but heavily accented Latin, "is that the heat opens the pores, allowing the essence of the herbs to penetrate the skin and relieve pain deep within the nerves. This is a method passed down by the masters of Baghdad."
On the bed, Baldwin lay flat, his entire body covered only from the waist down with a thin blanket.
His exposed body was a sight to behold: his skin was covered with red patches and light-colored numb areas, and some parts were ulcerated, oozing yellowish-white pus.
His finger joints were swollen and deformed, and the tips of his right index and middle fingers were missing. The wounds were wrapped in linen soaked in medicine.
What was most unsettling was his face; the edges of his nose and upper lip began to collapse, as if a wax figure were slowly melting under high temperatures. His eyes were red and swollen, his eyelids trembled constantly, and although his pupils were not completely cloudy, they were already covered with a layer of grayish-white mist.
Brother Gilles has just finished a bloodletting.
Baldwin had a tourniquet on his left wrist, and a fresh cut on his forearm was slowly oozing blood that flowed into the copper bowl below. The blood was unusually dark, almost brownish-black.
"Another bowl, Your Majesty," Gilles whispered to the king, who was practically unconscious, as if the king could hear him, "The black bile must be expelled—"
"Enough!" Dr. Abu suddenly shouted. "You've already bled eight ounces of blood today! His pulse is as weak as a fledgling's!"
"This is a necessary evil!" Giller retorted. "How can healthy bodily fluids regenerate without removing the putrid ones?"
Cicero remained silent, gently applying the ointment to a festering spot on the king's chest.
Baldwin's body twitched violently, and a gurgling sound came from his throat, but his eyes remained tightly closed.
"A neurological reaction," Cicero explained to Baldwin, his voice weary and apologetic, ""Even in a feverish coma, the body can still feel pain. This ointment—it will stimulate new granulation tissue, and the process will be very uncomfortable, Your Majesty—"
endure."
Abu brought the fumigation hood closer.
The smoke from the herbs rose and enveloped the king's face.
This time, Baldwin's brow furrowed slightly, whether from the irritation of the smoke or the relief his pain from the herbal scent within it, it was unclear.
"Gentlemen," Leon's voice rang out in the room.
The three of them turned around at the same time.
The dagger in Gilles' hand fell into the copper bowl with a thud. Cicero stood up abruptly, while Abu slowly moved the fumigation hood away and bowed deeply.
"Your Highness," Gilles began, his Latin thick with an Occiac accent, "His Majesty is unwell today. He has had a high fever for three days, and we are doing everything we can to help him."
"What's wrong with the king? His eyes—" Leon interrupted him, his gaze falling on Baldwin's misty eyes.
The three doctors exchanged glances.
Finally, Cicero stepped closer and explained in as plain a language as possible: "Leprosy, Your Highness, it attacks more than just the skin. It travels along the nerves, like vines winding around a tree trunk. When it reaches the facial nerves, it first affects the eyelids. You see, Your Majesty's eyelids cannot close completely, which leads to the eyeballs being exposed for a long time, becoming dry and infected."
He pointed to a row of small bottles on the bedside table: "We have to put eye drops in him every hour, but the effect is limited."
Abu added in a low voice, "The disease itself can directly attack the eyeball. In our medical texts it's called 'leprosy of the eye,'" the membrane in front of the eyes gradually becomes cloudy, like clear spring water being poured into mud. First, vision becomes blurred, then only light and shadow can be perceived, and finally—"