Chapter 399 - 282: Abandoned Cilicia

"Sometimes that’s not a bad thing. It makes it easier to guide them, for a good purpose," Eric said.

Laila shook her head at Eric. "Lord Eric, you are an outsider and don’t understand this place well enough. In this Empire, there has been more than enough ’guidance.’

I have lived in this Empire for twenty years. The Empire’s rule has grown increasingly convoluted, and this complexity has brought the people no happiness—only suffering.

The Empire once promised Armenia and every other race that settled within its borders that they would receive equal and comfortable treatment, as well as strong and effective protection.

The rulers of the Empire now increasingly use abstract theories to explain their failure to fulfill these promises. They’re just like that Priest I mentioned—full of learned rhetoric, acting as if he knows everything, always able to quote the classics with ease.

But the faithful receive not a shred of comfort or relief from such a learned man. Instead, they are shamed. The Priest fails to serve his purpose in any capacity, and his very presence causes the believers pain.

That Priest is just like the rulers of this Empire: dressed in magnificent clothes, of noble blood, unapproachable, and seemingly erudite. And the common people? They toil all day without rest. They must work themselves to the bone just to afford their taxes, lest the greedy tax collectors whip them. All they can do is work ceaselessly.

But even then, they are still whipped, because the tax collectors and other officials can always find ways to torment them. That’s how they shake loose gold coins—gold that falls into their pockets, not the Emperor’s.

Now, on top of all that, there are the Turkic People. The Turkic People don’t just want gold coins and torture—they want our lives.

While the people of Cilicia prayed helplessly for aid, Constantinople was in utter chaos.

Unscrupulous court rivals, rampaging eunuchs, treacherous generals colluding with the enemy, cunning and battle-hardened Heretics, and an incompetent Emperor unworthy of the throne...

They are forever blaming each other, never thinking to solve the problems. Even when people are starving to death, they won’t toss them a few pieces of bread to fill their bellies.

They always push all the blame onto their predecessors, always vowing that they would never do the same. But once they gain support and take that position, they do exactly that.

Honestly, Lord Eric, that Imperial Purple Robe you’re holding has no appeal here. In fact, it might even backfire. Most people here have no fondness for Constantinople and no interest in who is sitting on the throne.

Instead of waving around a fancy robe from Constantinople, you’d be more effective just tossing a few pieces of bread.

If you truly believe you are here to save them, to help them, then do not do it in the Emperor’s name. Do it in the name of Christ—whether it’s the Christ of the Latins, the Christ of the Greeks, or the Christ that belongs uniquely to you Normans.

Do it simply in the name of Christ’s love. My lord, Cilicia today doesn’t need empty promises. It needs real love—spiritual love, and worldly love."

"You seem to care a great deal about them," Eric said, smiling at Laila.

"Of course. Isn’t it obvious? I’m practically their Messiah." Laila straightened up, looking somewhat smug.

The next moment, however, Eric lifted a bundle and shook it vigorously in front of her.

The bundle was full of gold and silver jewelry.

Laila’s expression turned ugly, and her body went rigid.

"What were you planning to do with this? Hmm? Messiah." Eric stared at her.

Laila averted her gaze, refusing to look at Eric, and hugged her elbows.

After a long moment, Laila spoke:

"The game is over, so it’s time to end it. What’s so strange about that? I’m not the real Messiah, and I’m certainly not Christ. I can’t feed so many people with fish and bread. I... I’m just a Bedouin. Maybe... maybe even a Heretic.

What’s wrong with leaving this place and going back to my own home? What is there to blame me for?"

Laila said this defiantly, though she still kept her head turned away.

"I don’t give a damn, I really don’t give a damn, about Catholicism, Orthodoxy, Monophysitism, or whether you’re Shiite or Sunni. Leavened or unleavened bread, Greek or Latin, holy bloodline or not—none of this trivial bullshit matters!

Language is for communication, bread is for filling your belly, and holy bloodlines have nothing to do with ordinary people. To die for such inconsequential things is the most idiotic..."

Before Laila could finish, a Knight entered and came before Eric. "My lord, a group of Armenians has come to the village."

"Civilians?" Eric asked.

"Probably soldiers, though they’re so shabby they look more like a pack of thugs. It seems they came to plunder. They mercilessly crushed a woman’s hand under a millstone and even tried to steal our Warhorses.

Lord Belem gave them a harsh whipping, but he didn’t kill them. It was just a lesson."

"That’s Tigran. They’re a gang of bandits who run rampant through the countryside, stirring up trouble and acting lawlessly. They hunt down deserters for the Armenian Nobility. They also massacred the Arabs settled in Cilicia—the obvious and defenseless ’outsiders.’ They were the ones who dragged all the men from the village away," Laila spoke up.

Eric tossed the bundle in his hands back to Laila. "I respect your choice. In fact, your decision is perfectly understandable. I’m no Christ either, but I will try to alleviate the suffering of the Armenians, in the name of Christ’s love."

...

Eric came out of the Church and walked toward the village.

Guided by a Knight, he arrived at a courtyard where the earth had been turned over everywhere.

Two children were still crying, though now it was just soft sobbing. They clung to a woman’s skirt, whimpering. The woman’s eyes were red, clear evidence she had just been crying, but she was doing her best to remain strong.

She held up her hand; several of her fingers were swollen and twisted at unnatural angles. At her feet lay the corpses of two dogs, ropes cinched around their necks. They had been hanged.

This is what had happened. A short while ago, that group of Armenian soldiers had stormed into her courtyard. First, they tore the house apart. Then, they prodded the ground with their sabers, looking for freshly turned earth. They slapped her husband several times and then beat her. Next, they hanged their two hunting dogs side-by-side. Seeing her husband remain impassive, they tied her hands behind her back, bound her thumbs together with rope, and hoisted her up to a tree branch, leaving her toes barely touching the ground. But her husband still said nothing. So they let her down and crushed her thumb with a stake from the corner of the fence. Still, the man remained unmoved.

As the children cried out, the woman, lying on the ground with her thumb still under the fence stake, screamed that she knew her husband had hidden the silverware and a pile of gold scraps—their savings from the hard years of the war.

She didn’t know where he had buried the gold and silver, but she knew that he *had* buried it. At first, she begged him to tell them, then pleaded with the soldiers for mercy. When her husband still refused to speak, she begged the soldiers to kill him first, so she could at least watch with satisfaction.

The woman’s screams had alerted Belem and some of the Knights, who quickly beat the eighteen Armenian soldiers to a pulp.

Belem had been annoyed that he couldn’t find any decent women in the village. These fools, who had willingly run to him to serve as his entertainment, actually brought him some pleasure.

He loved using his whip to "paint pictures and add color" to people’s backs, savoring their wails and pleas for mercy.

In the courtyard, a group of ragged Armenian ’soldiers’ were bound and kneeling naked on the ground.

Belem was laughing maniacally as he swung his whip, looking as if he’d been holding back for ages. The long whip danced through the air, lashing across the backs of the kneeling Armenian soldiers.

The Armenian soldiers were in a wretched state. Some tried to flee, only to be tripped and thrown to the ground. Others clutched their heads, shouting, "OW! Stop! Stop!" while feigning tears and crying, "I’m innocent!"

But anyone who managed to run a short distance was promptly kicked back into place by a nearby Knight.

The villagers of Chenxi Village stood to the side, cursing the Armenian soldiers and spitting at them. Although they were countrymen, they loathed them utterly, for the suffering these men had brought them was no less than that caused by the Turkic People.

One of them, clearly the leader, Tigran, was shouting loudly. Even as a Knight viciously whipped his face, leaving horrifying wounds, he held his head high, refusing to bow, and roared.

"We’re Duke Ruben’s men! Duke Ruben! Duke Ruben will punish all of you.

You! Normans! You’ll be torn apart by hounds! Duke Ruben won’t let you die an easy death!"

Tigran cursed the Normans, then turned his gaze to the watching villagers.

"And you! You Armenian traitors, colluding with outsiders! You will be scorned by all Armenians for generations to come."