The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 15 Germination

As a world-renowned academic center, Al-Azhar attracts scholars from all over the world. Even pagans, as long as they are "followers of the Bible," are usually given a certain degree of respect and permission to enter.

Jacob, speaking fluent Arabic, explained his intention to "pursue wisdom" to the elderly man at the entrance who was registering people. He also had Lyon stammer a few lines of prophecies from various religious classics that he had already rehearsed, and they successfully blended in.

The university courtyards are not filled with lifeless religious recitations or confrontational logical sophistry, but rather with "learning circles" spontaneously formed by scholars and students.

A tutor sat in the center, surrounded by students in a semi-circle, sitting cross-legged on the carpet with wooden boards and notes on their laps.

The participants included students from various religions and their branches, such as Muslims and Christians, as well as Jewish healers quoting Maimonides' works and Coptic Christians explaining Ptolemaic astrolabes. Their religious identities and academic viewpoints were diverse and dazzling.

In the library or copy room, Lyon and Jacob saw works of Aristotle, Plato, Galen, and even various classics condemned as heresies, annotated in Arabic, far more complete and profound than European translations.

Lyon watched the students passionately discussing philosophical works, speaking fluent Arabic and quoting classical texts. For the first time, he realized with such clarity that if he didn't understand this language, the vast ocean of knowledge before him, and the expansive world it nurtured, would forever remain closed to him.

He hesitated before speaking, "Father, their scriptures are no different from the ones we recite in class; their God is also there to save all people. Their appreciation and yearning for knowledge seems... far greater than our preference for swords and killing. Then why... must we fight for the same heaven?"

He began to vaguely realize that, at the level of survival and life, the boundaries between ordinary people were far less clear-cut than those drawn by nobles and bishops in high positions.

Jacob gazed lovingly at the pensive Lyon and gently placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Do you think the strength lies in the sword of the Crusaders? No," he shook his head slightly, his gaze profound, "true strength lies in the mind that can understand all wisdom and use it to its own advantage. Latin allows you to understand the Bible, but Arabic allows you to understand the world."

He then squatted down and used a twig to draw the first Arabic letter in the sand.

"Look carefully, this is 'Alif'. Today we'll learn ten words. If you don't learn them, you won't get any honey cakes tonight."

Just as Lyon was protesting about dinner that evening, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar white figure out of the corner of his eye.

Lyon's pupils dilated suddenly, and his breath caught in his throat.

This time, Assassin did not hide in the shadows. He stood beneath a colonnade, immersed in a torrent of knowledge, appearing as a contemplative scholar himself. Most strikingly, he was not wearing a hood.

His face was exposed to the light; it was a young, tired, yet unusually calm face, topped with light black hair, looking no different from any other ordinary young man.

His gaze held no murderous intent. He walked through the crowd and quietly landed on Lyon, who was diligently learning to write Arabic letters.

Lyon's limbs went limp, and he desperately tugged at Accord's clothes. Accord looked down at the direction Lyon's face turned pale with fright, and his heart stopped and his blood ran cold.

Just as Accord was about to grab Leon and jump up to run away, the young Assassin did something that made their brains go blank.

He walked over to them as if no one else was there, flicked his white robe, and sat down naturally. His gaze fell on the characters in the sand, and he spoke in a clear voice with a slight foreign accent:

"The articulation point for this sound should be further back."

Accord and Lyon were completely dumbfounded. The expected clashes and battles didn't happen; instead, they were given an Arabic lesson taught by anthropomorphic, cold-blooded animals?

"The stronghold in Alexandria has been completely eradicated." Assassin's voice remained steady, but a slight slur in some letters revealed his inner turmoil. "My mentor is missing."

Accord forced himself to calm down, his voice still trembling slightly: "Why... tell us this? You weren't like this before..."

Upon hearing this question, the young Assassin did not answer immediately for the first time.

He paused for a moment, and the cold, indifferent aura he exuded, as if in complete control, melted away quickly like frost under the sun, even revealing a hint of embarrassment that was completely incongruous with his identity as an assassin.

"Because..." he seemed to choose his words carefully, "this situation was never taught by our mentor. It has also rarely occurred in the organization's history."

He raised his eyes and looked at them. His eyes, which had once held only murderous intent, now held a hint of bewilderment. "What I learned from my mentor is almost entirely based on the existence of an organization, and the nearest stronghold of that organization is far away in Jerusalem... Apart from cooperating with you and that count you seem to know... I don't know what to do."

The fear on Accord's face slowly faded like the receding tide, replaced by an expression of utter absurdity, as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, finally squeezing out a sentence through gritted teeth:

"So, you, the fearsome Assassin master, are now... homeless and trying to hitch a ride with us?"

Assassin shook his head: "Not a master, I'm just an apprentice."

Leon, standing to the side, stared blankly at the young assassin.

Once that mysterious and cold exterior was stripped away, he discovered that the other person even looked... excessively young.

The oppressive feeling that had made him tremble disappeared, replaced by a sense of bewilderment, as if they were both fellow sufferers.

His tense body unconsciously relaxed; although vigilance remained, fear had given way to immense curiosity.

Jacob persisted, asking, "Isn't your organization's mandatory course all staged? Maybe this is all a pretense, an attempt to feign weakness and extract intelligence or secrets from us? If you wanted to go to Jerusalem, you could have easily slipped onto our ship like that night with a ghost. Why go through all this trouble?"

"The Assassins are men, not ghosts. How could they possibly stay on a ship crammed with knights all the way to Jerusalem without eating or drinking?"

"And what about the dream this little fellow spoke of? Weren't you wary of his sleep-talking? And Count Raymond, his father was assassinated in the street by the Assassins! You Assassins kill people as easily as drinking water, why should we believe you?"

Assassin fell silent, then said softly, "Because I believed his dream—as for the count's father, I don't know. I wasn't even born when his father died."

Accord looked at Leon beside him in surprise. Leon scratched his head, completely bewildered. All those images and words in his dream were just casual remarks. This guy not only believed them but also didn't pursue the matter.

"Believe it or not, don't forget the poison in your bodies." He stood up, brushing the dust off his clothes. "I will come to find you on the day of your return."

After saying that, he turned to leave.

Suddenly remembering something, Leon asked his retreating figure, "Can you tell us your name?" He then realized the question was a bit abrupt and added, "Some names also appeared in my dreams..."

Assassins stopped in their tracks without looking back:

"Atyra".