The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 19 The Priest and the Weasel

Raymond's curiosity about the child next to Jacob grew daily. The child didn't cry or make a fuss, but stayed in the cabin all day, engrossed in reading the Arabic children's picture books that Raymond had borrowed from him—books that he had specially brought back to Jerusalem to give to Crown Prince Baldwin.

He tried several times to subtly probe Jacob's background by using the child's intelligence as a starting point, but the priest could always instantly switch to a sorrowful expression, insisting that he was "the son of a deceased friend," and his performance of mourning a dead friend was flawless. Since he couldn't get anything out of Jacob, Raymond took advantage of the fact that Jacob had slipped away to the deck to drink and boast with the knights and found the cabin.

Lyon put down his book, slightly surprised: "Your Excellency? What brings you here...?"

Raymond tiptoed closer, sat down in the chair, glanced at the cover of the picture book in Gion's hand, and said in a gentle tone, "The Priest and the Weasel? Do you like it?"

Lyon nodded.

"Do you speak Arabic?"

"Studying now."

"Is your home in Greece?" Raymond asked tentatively, then realized his abruptness and added, "Your Latin is fluent, though with a slight Greek accent."

Lyon blinked his seemingly innocent eyes, carefully discerning the count's intentions, before replying in a soft, childlike voice, "I don't know what an accent is, Your Excellency. Uncle Jacob has always taught me that."

"I see," the count stroked his short beard and continued, "What do you think of... Uncle Jacob?"

"Uncle Accord is handsome, has a nice voice, and knows a lot. I really enjoy being with him!"

"Uh..." The count was taken aback by the answer, and his expression stiffened slightly. "Then... have you thought about changing teachers? Uncle Jacob is a priest after all, and he always has teaching duties to attend to. We can't always make him... too tired."

Are there any other teachers?

"Of course!" the Count immediately replied. "Archbishop William of Tyre, although he is also a clergyman, mainly teaches the Crown Prince at the Jerusalem court—you know the Crown Prince, right? He's the future king!"

Lyon hesitated before asking, "But he's already teaching the Crown Prince, why would he need to teach me too? Wouldn't that just shift Uncle Jacob's burden to Uncle William?"

The count smiled. "How sensible. Well then... how about I teach you?"

Good heavens, the true intentions have been revealed. Count Raymond III of Tripoli has no heir; so this is what he was planning...

Lyon was momentarily at a loss for words.

Just then, the door was pushed open with a bang, and Jacob's teasing voice came from behind the Earl: "Well, Earl, instead of handling official business, you sneak out here to play with the kids?"

The count coughed twice to cover his embarrassment: "I just... saw you were out drinking all the time, and the child was left unattended, so I came to keep him company..."

Jacob sighed, his tone softening slightly: "Earl, if you like children and want an heir, you can adopt one from a close noble family, or wait a little longer; perhaps... someone will come along eventually. Why the rush..."

The count silently stood up, patted Accord on the shoulder, looked deeply at Mong, shook his head, turned and left, his back view revealing a hint of loneliness.

"Sigh, the Earl has it tough," Jacob said, closing the door behind him. "Such a noble status, such a renowned reputation, such illustrious power, such a wealthy fiefdom... yet he doesn't even have an heir. No wonder he's harboring ill intentions towards you."

"Hey, hey, hey, what do you mean by 'having ulterior motives'?" Leon scoffed. "The Earl's terms were so good, I almost agreed. If you hadn't suddenly barged in..."

"Oh? What did you say?" Accord suddenly leaned closer, his left ear almost touching Leon's mouth, and exaggeratedly cupped his ear as if listening intently. "You didn't just say that—'Uncle Accord is handsome, has a nice voice, and knows a lot. I love being with him!' Come on, repeat it to your dear Uncle Accord again?"

Leon's face flushed instantly: "Wow! You were eavesdropping!"

Jacob pouted again, mimicking him in a high-pitched voice: "'I don't know what an accent is, Earl~ Uncle Jacob has always taught me that~'" Before he could finish, he broke character, bursting into merciless laughter, "Hahaha!"

The cabin was instantly filled with a cheerful atmosphere.

Count Raymond did not return to his captain's cabin. Alone, he stood at the bow, letting the salty sea breeze lash his weathered face. The colossal ship beneath him was cleaving through the azure Mediterranean, just as his power was unquestionable in the Levant. The wealth of Tripoli, the respect of the Jerusalem court, even the right to negotiate face-to-face with Sultan Saladin—he possessed everything many men dreamed of.

But now, his hands, gripping the cold ship's railing, felt a deeper, more profound powerlessness. These hands could wield swords and command armies, could write treaties and forge alliances, yet they seemed forever unable to pass on his bloodline and name to the shoulders of the next heir. His vast empire, the ideal nation he had fought for—who would inherit it after his death? The thought of those covetous distant relatives, or the greedy faces in the court, sent a chill, more biting than the sea breeze, seeping into his very bones. The intelligent, calm gaze of that black-haired boy had just lingered in his mind, like a silent mockery, reminding him of this most illustrious yet most failed void in his life.

He tilted his head back, took a deep breath, and tried to exhale the loneliness along with the stale air.

The dark clouds that had enveloped the mast outside the cabin gradually dispersed, and soft sunlight streamed through them. A sailor atop the mast squinted at the sunlight as he gazed into the distance—on the horizon, a dark dot was becoming clearer and larger.

"Land!" the sailor cried out in delight.

The deck was instantly ablaze. The sailors and knights who had been wiping the deck and tidying the rigging straightened up and rushed to the starboard side. No binoculars were needed; the dark line was now clearly visible, slowly and steadily rising and thickening in their field of vision. Some began pointing at the increasingly detailed outline in the distance, arguing about its features.

"Look at that terrain! There's no mistake, it's the hills surrounding Jaffa!"

"Smell this breeze! It smells of olive trees and citrus groves!"

"It's Jaffa, guys, we're almost home!"

Above the ink lines, the outlines of undulating hills began to emerge, taking on varying shades of bluish-gray in the morning light. Then, at the edge of a prominent headland, small white dots began to shimmer, like scattered pearls. Those were the houses and walls of Jaffa Port, the first to welcome ships.

Beneath the mast, Earl Raymond stood by the railing, the deafening cheers of the sailors and knights seeming to pass through an invisible barrier. He gazed at the land that was gradually coming into focus, the land that held all his ambition and despair, his expression complex. The holy land was so close, yet behind him, there was still no one.

We are about to arrive at Jaffa, the gateway port to the Holy Land of Jerusalem.