Act XIV: The Dance of the Seven Veils (Part 7)

seven

Eudosia went to the Hospitallers' quarters just across the street every day. "Has Pascal returned?" she asked the most understanding nun in the monastery, clutching a freshly made sausage. "Have the knights who went to Karak not returned yet?"

Unfortunately, even the most understanding nun refused to speak to her. "Go back, young lady," the nun said helplessly to Eudosia before being pulled away by the other nuns. "You came here with great love, not selfish desires. You should take care of your own reputation and also be mindful of the honor of knights. Keep these sausages and sell them; monks and knights are not allowed to eat such extravagant food often, and they cannot accept such gifts."

Eudosia had heard these words countless times, to the point that her ears were practically calloused, and they filled her with shame and indignation for the umpteenth time. “But these sausages aren’t for Pascal,” she said, clutching her small bundle and stiffening her neck as Margo had taught her. “These are for the patients here. But if you won’t tell me where Pascal is and instead presume to know me so rudely, I won’t donate them.”

Was her voice loud enough, her presence imposing enough? Eudosia wondered anxiously. When she saw the patients on the beds turn their gazes away, and the beggars at the door reaching out to surround her, half of her anxiety vanished—even the awkwardness and embarrassment lessened considerably, and she could even withstand the nuns' scrutinizing and judging gazes.

“I apologize on their behalf.” An unfamiliar old monk hurried over and scolded them, “There is no reason to refuse donations based on such unfounded speculation! Girl, give me the sausage, and I’ll ask about the knight for you.”

Eudosia wore a triumphant smile, her back unconsciously straightening. She breathed a sigh of relief and left the stale crowd amidst whispers.

"What do you do?" the old monk asked. "You are well-mannered and speak Latin quite well."

“I sell pork sausages,” Eudosia said, opening the package to show him. “These are all handmade by me.”

The monk leaned closer, his bald, bluish scalp nestled in her arms. "So that's how it is," he praised. "If you hadn't told me, I would have thought you were a fallen nobleman."

Eudosia blinked cautiously, remaining tight-lipped. "You're new here?" she asked. "I often come to see Pascal; many people here know me."

“Indeed, I was just transferred here last week. I’m not familiar with the rules here, nor am I as rigid as they are.” The old monk smiled and led her towards the backyard. “Pascal, you want to ask about this knight?”

“As usual, he comes here every Monday and Thursday to take care of the patients and children.” Eudosia followed closely behind him. “But he was transferred to Karak and hasn’t been back for several weeks.”

"Kharak!" the old monk exclaimed. "Surrounded by Saladin's army, he's in grave danger!"

Yudosia felt her heart pounding in her chest. "But didn't the king personally lead the troops to relieve the siege?" She secretly clutched her sausage package, trying to remain calm. "I heard that Karak has the strongest walls; the people inside will be safe!"

“That’s true.” The old monk suddenly dropped his frightening expression and chatted as usual. “Look at how nervous you are. Are you infatuated with a Hospitaller Knight? That shouldn’t be the case.”

Eudosia opened her mouth, frowned, and her cheeks burned. "...I know this shouldn't be." She suddenly realized that she didn't know the real answer to the question either. "He's just someone I know."

"really?"

"really."

"Are you married?"

Eudosia suddenly panicked. "...Not yet."

How old are you?

The girl remained silent—she wondered, at 26, was she still a girl, or an old maid? This question troubled her, but remembering her brother's abusive language and Pascal's past cluelessness, she felt she should be this way, that no one else needed to tell her what to do—this took great courage. It might not seem like much to others, but it was the most unconventional thing she had ever done, and she had paid a heavy price.

“It’s human nature, I understand.” The old monk chuckled as he observed her distressed expression. “Come with me, I’ll take you to ask the others.”

The two men, carrying the fragrant sausages, first went to the priest on duty. "The knights who went to Karak should have returned the day before yesterday," the priest said, taking a sausage from Eudosia, chewing it before speaking. "They were probably delayed on the way."

"Why?" Eudosia asked impatiently. "What happened?"

“Saladin has already withdrawn his troops, what could possibly happen?” The priest seemed quite disgusted by her speculation. “Even if something does happen, there will be messengers to deliver the message. If no one delivers the message, then nothing is wrong.”

“If nothing’s wrong, if nothing’s wrong…” Eudosia felt his tongue was too clumsy to speak, “Were there any casualties? Any news of the knights?”

The priest clicked his tongue. "What does it matter if knights are injured or killed?" he said coldly. "What city defense doesn't involve casualties?"

Eudosia's anxious heart couldn't find peace. She wanted to ask a few more questions, but the old monk grabbed her arm and pulled her away. "There's no news about this person; he's just making excuses to you." The monk led her towards the door. "I'll take you to ask someone else."

They left the monastery and headed north towards the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which was right next to it. The old monk looked around at the people and found a scruffy mercenary wearing leather armor with a cross sewn onto his body. "You...you came back from Karak with the King?" Eudosia never dared to talk much to such desperados, but now he didn't care. "Do you know what the situation was like? Were the casualties high?"

The mercenary glanced at her and held out his dirty palm. Eudosia immediately slipped a silver coin into it. "The city hasn't fallen, and not many people have died." He was too lazy to say more.

Not many people died, but how many did die? Eudosia had no idea. "If they were knights, wouldn't they all have survived?" she blurted out. "Most of the dead weren't knights, were they?"

The mercenary's lips curled into a fierce smirk at her question. "That's hard to say." He spat on the ground as if he were spitting on the face of some detestable knight. "Catapults don't have eyes; they don't just target the lowly."

When the old monk brought Eudosia back to the monastery where the Knights Hospitaller were headquartered, she was so consumed by her terrible delusions that she wouldn't listen to anything he said. "It's getting dark, come back tomorrow," he patted the girl's shoulder. "We'll have news in a few days."

“I’m not leaving. I’ll stay here and do volunteer work.” Eudosia tossed the sausage package aside and stared at the tips of his shoes. “I’ll stay here until we hear news of Pascal.”

The old monk awkwardly clenched his fingers and called over a nun. "If you stay here, you'll have to take care of the sick and the children," the nun said deliberately, trying to discourage him. "You'll have to clean up everything—the latrines, the pus-filled bandages, the corpses and limbs—all the filth and stench."

“I live here.” Eudosia’s eyes widened. “I’ll do whatever you tell me to do!”

The nun, at her wit's end, could only exchange helpless glances with the old monk before retreating to the foot of the cross to discuss the matter. Outside, darkness gradually fell, and the stone monastery grew increasingly quiet and dim. Candles were slowly lit before the patient's bedside. Eudosia heard them whispering to her.

She suddenly felt a pang of regret. Making sausages in the kitchen already seemed like a dirty and exhausting job; the sight of pigs and sheep hanging in front of the butcher's door always sent shivers down her spine. Did she really want to do that backbreaking work of cleaning corpses and carrying latrines just to wait for news from Pascal? Once she left the monastery's tightly closed gates, crossed the Patriarch's Pond, and walked a little over a hundred steps, she could be home with Naya and her daughter, resting and relaxing. Was Pascal worth it? She recalled all the knight's virtues and flaws, and asked herself honestly, did she truly love him that much?

Eudosia looked toward the gate—suddenly the sound of horseshoes echoed from behind it, and then the gate was pushed open. The newcomers were travel-worn, dressed in black robes with a white octagonal cross on them.

The girl's feverish body broke out in a cold sweat. She immediately ran over, not forgetting to grab the sausage she had brought. She spotted Pascal in the group of knights at a glance—not because she missed him so much, but because he was the only one riding in, his helmet upturned, being led by a horse, standing out from the crowd.

"Pascal!" Eudosia called his name without a care in the world, jumping up and down with joy. "I was worried about you... I was so afraid you wouldn't come back!"

Pascal didn't respond to her at all, nor did he show his usual awkward and shy smile; he simply kept his head down on horseback. Eudosia's raised smile froze and fell as she watched the other knights help the man she longed for dismount and put their arms around his shoulders. She thought it was as if the chainmail contained a sack of flour, not a living person.

“What’s wrong with him?” Eudosia asked.

“He fell ill in Karak,” a knight casually replied.

"What illness?"

"have no idea."

Eudosia pushed through their ranks and peered closer. She bravely grasped Pascal's gloves—they were terribly hot even through the wool lining and chainmail, like the sun-baked cobblestones of a holy city in summer, instantly making her palms itch. His comrades helped Pascal remove his helmet—his eyes were bloodshot, his forehead was covered in sweat, his collar was covered in red rashes, and he stared blankly, muttering something.

Was this still the handsome knight she remembered? Eudosia was startled, terrified by the sight, and filled with self-reproach for the thought. She cautiously leaned closer to Pascal's trembling lips, trying to hear what he was saying. Was he unwilling to see her in this sickly state and desperately trying to avoid her? Would he, seeing her clinging so desperately, want to berate her and kick her out of the monastery?

"If I die there in battle, I wish I could go to heaven..." Pascal trembled fearfully, "Lord, please don't let me die of illness..."

Eudosia heard it. All the grand image and tender affection instantly crumbled in her heart. She suddenly felt incredibly calm and clear-headed, as if she had been awakened and needed to wave goodbye to her dreamlike life.

The patient was utterly undignified, all of which Eudosia witnessed. The doctor said it was either typhoid or dysentery, but it was definitely a disorder of the body's vital energy, and bloodletting was necessary. Pascal first refused to eat, then talked incoherently, and finally suffered from diarrhea day and night, his bedpan filled with bright red blood, and he reeked. But Eudosia didn't leave him; she simply tried every day to cook him the softest porridge, change his clothes and sheets, and read verses from the Bible to him.

She watched helplessly as the vibrant and beautiful person grew thinner day by day, until in less than two weeks, she was as thin as a pale skeleton.

"Can I go to heaven?" Pascal asked her during his last moment of lucidity before his death. "I am a weak and useless person..."

“‘I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness.’” Eudosias pointed to a page in the Bible and showed it to him. “According to the Pope, you killed heretics, your sins are cleansed, and you can go to heaven.”

The knight, provoked by the answer, curled up and wept, as vulnerable as a beggar. Eudosia gently wiped away his tears with her handkerchief, and cleansed the sweat from his rash. She saw that Pascal's ribs were covered by skin, jagged like barren mountains—Pascal was dying. Eudosia suddenly felt a heavy responsibility weighing on her shoulders.

“But the Patriarch of Constantinople doesn’t think so.” So she frowned. “We Greeks say that the way to heaven is never paved with blood. To kill is a sin, even if the person is a heretic, and one must repent. And whether one can go to heaven depends on God’s judgment.”

Pascal gripped her hand tightly. "Where am I going? Am I going to hell?" His once bright green eyes had become cloudy. "How could you do this to me… You love me, yet you curse me?"

"Do you think I can go to heaven?" Eudosia looked at his withered appearance with pity. "Isn't it also a great sin, an evil deed, to love a hospital knight, to love a servant who is devoted to the Lord, and to be judged?"

She gazed deeply into Pascal's eyes, trying to discern every trace of his emotion, whether foolish or wise—Pascal was first stunned by her blatant confession; then, he was ashamed and angry, timid and hesitant, as if defeated; soon, he sank into an endless, boundless confusion, helpless like a sleepwalker, waiting for someone to hand him a lifeline to climb out of his misery. Eudosia thought, everyone says that the dying are the most magnanimous. Could he awaken? If he couldn't, would he die with self-hatred? This once brave and devout knight, who had galloped across battlefields, now needed someone to lean on for peace.

She gripped Pascal's hand tightly in return, taking on that responsibility.

Finally, Pascal seemed to understand something, and his eagle-claw-like fingers slowly loosened. The knight leaned back on the soft pillow, closing his eyes with a mixture of helplessness and relief. "I am guilty," he confessed to Eudosia, "Lord, forgive me."

“Everyone is guilty,” Eudosia comforted him. “Don’t worry.”

Pascal died before the priest could give his confession.

Even buried clad in armor and with his sword laid aside, Pascal's frail body was so different from his life that he was unrecognizable. Eudosiat, however, vividly remembered his horrific deathbed appearance, while the handsome smile that had once been so memorable was completely forgotten. The knight, who died of illness, could not be given a grand funeral and was buried quietly and simply in the soil of Jerusalem, like an ordinary monk. His funeral was unremarkable, overshadowed and forgotten by the approaching Christmas, swallowed up by the festive atmosphere.

When Yudosia returned to her pork shop, she saw Naya packing her belongings. She was embraced by a female slave who patted her back to comfort her.

“You’ve grown up.” Naya knelt down, looking up at the girl’s determined eyes. “I’m leaving you to do my own thing.”

"Did Lord Jubius summon you back?" Eudosia asked.

“It wasn’t him, it was my own idea to do it.” Naya gripped her arm tightly. “You’ve learned everything you need to know, you have everything you need to have. You can handle everything on your own, I believe in you.”

Eudosia pursed her lips, unable to speak.

“I’m entrusting my child to you, okay?” Naya asked. “She’ll be better off with you than with anyone else.”

“I will definitely take good care of her.” Eudosia nodded stubbornly. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

She looked at the female slave before her with a smile of relief mixed with sorrow, a smile that concealed bitterness, as if she were about to face her death. Naya loosened her clothes, revealing her chest. Eudosia saw a bright red, wound-like mark on her heart—like a mouth with sharp teeth, dripping blood. The symbol looked somewhat familiar; it seemed to be the crest of Noctennias.

"After I leave, no matter how great the difficulties, you must never seek out Lord Eubius again," Naya earnestly advised her. "From now on, whenever you see this mark, stay far away from it!"