Netenyahu of the 16th Century by The Protected by Allah - HTML preview

Chapter Seven:

Beside the Leader

 

Johannes collapsed onto his cot in the drivers' hut, his frame vibrating with a cold, jagged fury. It was the same bed where he had spent five days of convalescence, yet the four days that followed had returned him here with a heart unrecognizable to the man who had left.

In those few days, he had been battered by the deaths of nearly forty souls whose agony he had shared. He had looked into faces —four distinct lives—and felt their features blur into memory before he could even learn them. He had somehow forged a kinship with the captive villagers, feeling their grime beneath his own skin. And then, with some words, he was commanded to cast it all into the abyss and join the ranks of their butchers.

He buried his head beneath the thin blanket, pressing his fingers into his ears to drown out the gales of laughter erupting from the next room. There, his new "brothers" gathered around grease-stained tables, drinking and playing cards with a chilling indifference, as if their cruelty toward their own kin—those starving shadows just a wall away—was an act of mercy rather than tyranny.

He dreaded sleep, for it would only hasten the dawn; yet he loathed wakefulness, which left him to sear in the heat of his own roiling emotions. He writhed between these two hells until the inevitable guest arrived: the morning.

 

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The dawn revealed a different Johannes. The pallor of the pits was gone, hidden behind a scrubbed, white face and a crisp uniform. The stench of bitter sweat and the marks of toil had been erased. Yet, for all his fine attire, he lacked the courage to look at the sky.

The Chief driver’s voice, thick and grating, splintered the dawn silence. "I trust you won't show a flicker of pity or a grain of tolerance. Bear in mind: these are cattle, not humans." Johannes’s expression remained a mask of stone. "I should point out," he replied hollowly, "that we treat cattle with far more dignity than we do our own flesh and blood."

The Chief shrugged. "Perhaps. But if you soften for one of them, he’ll start thinking he’s back in his mother’s parlor. Listen to a man of experience—I’ve spent ten years at the head of this work. I know whereof I speak." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Remember the Leader’s laws. You want your status back, don't you?"

As the Chief walked away, the slaves began their frantic, rhythmic trek into the mine. Johannes bowed his head. For the first time, he stood at the front, watching the procession he used to be in its rear. He felt the sickening weight of his full stomach, a phantom of the morning meal he had just consumed. He cracked his whip, his own skin crawling at the sound. He watched them haul the coal, his own back aching with the memory of its weight. He stood rooted, his legs twitching with the urge to join the labor. To endure it, he distracted himself by noticing the way they use their picks, remaining shrouded in a

 

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tomb-like silence so none would recognize his voice or realize the magnitude of his betrayal.

At dinner, Johannes sat at the head of the table. The other drivers fell upon their food like scavengers, while Johannes barely touched his plate, his eyes telling a story of a soul in constriction. "You did well today," the Chief said from his right. "You aren't nearly as soft-hearted as we feared yesterday." Johannes said nothing. Another man chimed in, "I told you— hunger makes men do strange things!"

"Aye," a third mocked, "but Alex is the one who paid the price for Vilmos's hunger."

Alex rubbed his throat, grimacing. "It still stings today."

A collective laugh erupted, only to be severed by the thunderous crash of Johannes’s palms hitting the table. He stood, his eyes casting sparks of pure malice. He stormed toward the sleeping quarters, the door slamming behind him like a gunshot. "I was trying to change the way he saw himself, you fools!" the Chief hissed. "And you start braying like donkeys the moment he sits down?"

Before they could respond, Johannes burst back in. He snatched his whip from the peg, his voice a low growl. "You all owe me a lashing, and I intend to tear every stripe of it from your hides right now!"

The men froze. The Chief recoiled from his chair. "I never laid a finger on you, sir!"

"We were only following orders!" another cried, scrambling up. "You know that we—"

 

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The whip cut him short. Johannes descended upon them, a whirlwind of repressed hatred, lashing and striking until his thirst for vengeance was sated. He moved to the next, then to Alex, pouring out a volcano of rage. One by one, he made them taste the gall they had forced down his throat for months.

An hour later, the room was silent save for the ragged breathing of the broken. One by one, the drivers dragged themselves to their beds. The food remained on the table, a grim centerpiece for a bloody supper. Johannes stood panting, staring at the ruin he had wrought.

"I believe that was necessary," the driver whispered from behind. Johannes turned to him, his face looking almost diabolical. "I hate you all!"

The Chief remained unshaken. "And now your heart is empty of its bile, sir. Let us begin anew." Johannes glared at him, but the Chief continued, "They didn't resist because they know you are their master. We have treated you with respect from the start, as I’m sure you’ve noticed."

Johannes let out a sharp, jagged huff of breath. "We all long for your restoration, sir," the Heaf added. "We are your men. Our honor is tied to yours." The last thing Johannes heard as he closed his door was: "We’ll be waiting for you at the card table tomorrow!"

That night was a burning quiet. Johannes tossed in his bed, his mind a labyrinth. The Chief driver was a serpent of wisdom; he had orchestrated this entire play, ensuring Johannes would feel

 

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"justified" in his revenge to reclaim his shattered pride.

But as the hours passed by, the haunting stare of that little boy followed him into the dark. Unable to escape his own reflection, Johannes fell to his knees to pray. His chest felt heavier than a ton of coal. He remained prostrate for a long time, apologizing to God, insisting that the boy’s death was a mere "oversight"—a slip of the hand—and that he simply needed time to learn how to loathe cruelty. He emptied his feverish justifications onto the floor until he went numb.

In the months that followed, the Johannes who spent his nights drinking with the murderers of his friends was not the same Johannes who had found faith with the Deacon. Neither was he the Johannes who had married Catherina, nor the profligate Johannes who had once toyed with suicide. Jonathas was molding him, rolling him like dough between manipulative fingers. Yet it rankled Jonathas to know that a son, even if he is your mirror image, is never truly you.

Three months passed—comfortable months, compared to the agony of the pits. One afternoon, Johannes walked in to rest when the Chief driver met him with a smile so wide it gave Johannes pause.

"You look as though you're holding a secret," Johannes said, his pulse quickening.

The Chief rubbed his nose, teasing Johannes’s patience. "What will you give me if I tell you?"

Johannes’s face lit up. "Is it... is it the news?" The Chief let out a short laugh. "Go on then—convince him to let

 

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you stay with us!"

Johannes threw his whip into the air, a burst of genuine laughter escaping his throat. Finally! He was leaving the valley. Catherina’s flight had cost him six grueling months of his life, but he had survived. At least, he thought, he hadn't become in her shoes— not entirely.

Immediately, Johannes washed his face, shaved his beard, and began his ascent from the valley. He ran without a backward glance, folding away a dark chapter of his wounded pride. His boots struck the very same stones he had descended six months prior—back when he had walked down into the shadows of his own shame.

He met the main doors with a firm chest, casting his gaze toward the heavens before the building itself. "Lord," he whispered to his soul, "this time, I enter as a man different from the Johannes You once knew."

Johannes stepped inside with a newfound gravity, his head held high, indifferent to the prying eyes of the onlookers. He requested an audience with the Leader and waited, enduring the guards' suspicious scrutiny. Finally, he entered and sank to one knee before Jonathas, who remarked with biting sarcasm: "Look, Julia, see who has come to visit me. Where have you been all these days? You’ve been gone so long, I’ve nearly forgotten... what was your name again?"

Jonathas chuckled softly, then shifted into a chillingly serious tone. "Do you know why I summoned you?"

"No, sir."

"I simply wanted to share some joyous news. Yesterday, my men

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abducted five women. Guess who was among them?" Johannes hesitated for a heartbeat. "I have no idea... but it certainly wasn't Catherina."

Jonathas’s mocking laughter died instantly. "And why 'certainly'?"

"Because if she were here, you would have preferred to shatter me with the sight of her in a state I’d despise, rather than opening with mere words."

Jonathas fell silent for a moment, then whispered as if comforting himself, "Well, I suppose I cannot expect my own son to be a fool."

The words hit Johannes like a bucket of ice water. His heart hammered against his ribs as the truth he had long suspected finally dawned. Catherina had been right all along, though he had rejected her observations at the time. This was the first time the Leader had ever acknowledged him—calling him son.

"Your son, Father? It seems you’ve missed him dearly!" Julia interjected, her voice dripping with irony. Jonathas turned a cold, mocking gaze toward her. "The fact that you are stout and he is not doesn’t change the fact that he is your brother, you simpleton!"

Stunned, Julia looked at Johannes. "He doesn't look shocked! Am I the only one who was kept out of the loop?"

"No," Jonathas countered, "you are simply the only one out of your mind." He turned back to Johannes. "Your final words to me that day rang in my ears until I finally realized what you meant. And for that..."

Johannes bowed his head until it nearly touched the floor. "I

 

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thank you for deigning to forgive me, my Lord and my Father. I realized my error against you that very first night. I swear, I shall never betray your trust again."

A heavy silence lingered before Jonathas took a deep breath and smiled deviously. "Indeed, I deserve every ounce of gratitude, for I always honor Myself." His voice suddenly thundered with rage. "But 'never betray my trust again'? Who was it that exploited the absence of my eyes to feed the slaves? And that mongrel dog?" He leaned in. "If I asked you now why you did it, you’d simply say: 'I pitied them.' As if you went to the valley to loiter, rather than to learn where pity leads you."

Johannes answered with submission "I have learned it through hardship. Pity is like wine; it addles the mind and is often difficult to quit." He shifted his tone. "But I promised to put your will above it. This grueling experience taught me that I owe everything to you. You are my pride and my dignity. Without you, I am nothing."

Jonathas’s expression softened into a satisfied smirk. He turned to Julia. "Those words you just heard took three months of agonizing thought to produce."

Johannes smiled, remembering the long days he spent rehearsing that very speech. But Jonathas cut the moment short: "Stand up!"

Johannes rose, his gaze still humble and lowered. Julia stared at him, her frustration boiling over. "And how did it even occur to you to doubt that you were Jacobus’s son?" Johannes paused to gauge the room, then replied, "To be honest... it was Catherina."

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Jonathas raised his eyebrows, narrowing his eyes in genuine admiration. "That devil of a woman!"

"No!" Julia cried out. "A woman figured it out while I sat here blind! Damn it all!"

Jonathas sounded almost amused "This is why I have walked against the grain of society since I was a boy. I realized that all the laws around me were mere illusions living in my head, having nothing to do with reality."

Julia crossed her arms, biting her lip. "Why did you both lie to us in the first place?"

"It was merely a gift for the sterile Jacobus," Jonathas laughed. "But, truth be told, I took the gift back after seven years." His face darkened. "Yet you carried your grandfather’s name because of him."

Julia grabbed her father’s arm coquettishly. "And what would you have named him?"

Jonathas shrugged with total indifference. "I didn't care. I never intended to keep him." He shot a wicked look at Johannes. "You are lucky I am so fond of My own face."

Johannes recoiled. It flashed through his mind that when Jonathas kicked him in the face, he was trying to erase those features—to make it easier to kill him. He was haunted by the realization that he had survived all these years only because of the resemblance he had grown to hate. Jonathas smiled, reading his thoughts, until Julia’s choked voice broke the silence. "It's true. You look nothing like Jacobus. I see my father's face in yours... Curse it, I won't accept you as a brother!"

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"Perhaps," Jonathas said, rising to his feet, "you will accept him as a master instead."

The statement left both Johannes and Julia speechless. The Leader turned his piercing eyes to Johannes. "Your boundaries are the limits of this building. You have no authority. And know this: any act of pity will cost you your allowance at the very least."

Johannes hurried to kiss his father's feet in gratitude for his reinstatement. Julia, desperate for clarity, asked, "What am I supposed to understand from what you just told me?"

Jonathas spared her only a sharp glance before walking out, ignoring her. She stomped the floor with a heavy sigh and turned on Johannes, her face dripping with spite. "What else are you hiding?"

Johannes struggled to compose himself. "I was in the valley. I’ve only just returned. You’re the one who should tell me what happened in my absence."

Julia sighed, her eyes narrowing. "Is it enough for you to know that Jonathas is... unwell?"

Shock erupted across Johannes's face. "Unwell? He looks fine!"

"He is trying to look fine. None of the men must know; the vultures are circling."

Johannes looked down, his voice heavy. "This is staggering. Now I understand why he forgave me so easily, so unlike him. Has the doctor failed?"

"Yes. In fact, he told him the illness will take him within a few months."

 

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Johannes’s eyes widened, his palm flying to his face. "I always thought of his death, but now that it’s a reality... I want to run from it."

"So do I," Julia whispered.

Johannes returned to his old room. Entering, he remembered the ill-fated day he had left it, never imagining the destiny that awaited him. Now, he returned under the weight of a monumental shock. He had always viewed life through the lens of Jonathas; even his belief in God had been sparked by Jonathas’s shadow. What vacuum would his absence leave? Could he even function without him?

He opened the window and gazed down at the path where he used to carry coal. He remembered stealing glances at this very window, dreaming of the day he would return. Now he was back, but his heart bore a hundred scars. Nothing was as it seemed when he had looked at it through his youthful arrogance. The past months had shown him life from a sharp, jagged angle he once thought beneath his dignity.

As night fell, the silence of the room grew heavy. He hurriedly lit a lamp, terrified that the darkness would remind him of the gloom of the pen—of the ghosts lingering there, drinking their own tears to endure the fire of oppression.

Suddenly, Johannes fell on his face, muttering: "Jacobus's affection and Jonathas's face; I searched for You to protect me While I Was in your protection!" Johannes smiled gratefully "You are not only the strongest, You Are My Real 'Father'. Johannes

 

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raised his head: But my question is, why should you create me from this particular man?

Restless thoughts hammered at his mind until his patience snapped. He strode toward Jonathas’s chambers. Upon entering, he saw a beautiful servant kneeling, tending to Jonathas’s nails. The air was thick with the scent of luxury, and the room was filled with the finest furniture he had ever seen. Ten lamps blazed, turning night into day. To Johannes, this familiar scene now felt strangely hollow and grotesque.

After several minutes of silently comparing this opulence to the misery of the valley, Jonathas finally looked up, leaning on his fist. "This time, your visit is truly a surprise."

"I’ve wanted to see you for six months," Johannes said. "A few minutes today wasn't enough."

"Hmm," Jonathas mocked. "Has it really been six months? It felt like six days to me. All drinking, playing, lounging..." he yawned, "...and sleeping."

Johannes hardened his features, realizing that his resemblance to his father was his only weapon. "Strange. A man even misses being stung."

They locked eyes before Jonathas gestured for the servant to leave. He turned to Johannes with a smirk. "It seems you enjoyed the toil down there. Your muscles have grown, your features have sharpened. I could almost call you a man now."

He laughed, leaning back. "I was younger than you when I began the struggle to get here."

 

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"Tell me, was that whole affair not an act of revenge?"

"It was," Jonathas explained. "Revenge against your excessive weakness. I hoped you would understand that life belongs to the strong." He sighed. "But I finally gave up on you. That is why I brought you back—after I learned the slaves were making a habit of falling at your feet 'for some reason'."

He cast a razor-sharp look at his son, whose face went pale. "So, you told me you’d choose my obedience over pity, didn't you?" Flushed with embarrassment, Johannes’s voice cracked. "Forgive me... but the condition you put me in made me realize the logic that the food we received was not worth the labor we gave." Jonathas exploded. "Of course it isn't worth it! I want to suck the life out of them until they die so I can replace them periodically, you idiot!"

Johannes’s expression went cold. His father regained his composure. "You were supposed to learn how to defend your own life, not the lives of others."

Johannes wiped sweat from his brow. "Fine. I admit my outlook has changed fundamentally. I am not the same man who left. But don't you think you exaggerated the 'lesson' just a little?"

A muffled laugh escaped Jonathas’s throat, baring his teeth. "That part? That was what Catherina Did to you. Tell me, do you still Love her, my child?"

Grief flickered in Johannes’s eyes as he looked away with a sigh. Jonathas laced his fingers together. "Let me guess... that look in your eye and this midnight visit mean Julia told you?"

"Yes."

Jonathas stretched out his legs, watching them tremble slightly.

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"All my life, I was careful not to let my son kill me as I killed my father. And now, I find I am dying at the same age as my father without anyone having to lift a finger. That is why I drowned you in debauchery—to keep you weak and harmless."

Jonathas studied Johannes’s face before adding quietly, "And now... it is too late. You are emotional, ignorant, and dependent. I have only a few months to fix what I did, and I will fail." Johannes remained stoic. His father continued, "I won't succeed. But you can. It is your choice. Just as I decided my path, you can decide yours. But you cannot replace me in a few months, no matter what. You have only just reached the point of poverty from which I began.

If I closed my eyes now, I would be handing you over to them as either a slave or a sacrifice."

Johannes took a deep breath and smiled. "I thank you for doing this to me!"

Jonathas’s eyes searched his for meaning as Johannes looked away. "Now I know that I can leave this place without feeling like I’ve lost a thing."

Jonathas’s smile was perceptive. "You believe in God, don't you?" The sudden shift caught Johannes off guard. He stumbled over his words, his face a mask of confusion. Jonathas burst into laughter. "You aren't talking to a fool. Believe it or not, your eyes told me!"

Johannes had rehearsed this confrontation a thousand times, yet in the moment, he was paralyzed. His father actually encouraged him. "Don't hesitate! Express your convictions with strength, whatever they are."

 

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Johannes stared in disbelief. Jonathas replied, "Your life belongs to you. If you want to put a God in your world, you are free to do so. Live in whatever way makes you happy."

Jonathas leaned back, gazing into the distance. "As for me, I tried to taste every truth. I surrounded myself with everything that brings joy. I lived as a king, while my fathers died as miserable peasants."

"Now it’s your turn. Do you want to be a slave like your ancestors? If that weren't the easiest path, everyone wouldn't be doing it!"

He laughed mockingly. Johannes finally raised his head, his voice trembling despite himself. "You have owned me my entire life. For twenty-two years, you were my master, doing with me as you pleased. So... may I ask you to listen to me during these final days of your life?"

Jonathas crossed his legs, his eyes dancing with dark mirth. "Johannes, you madman! Don't you see what I've done? I have thrived in defying God every second of my life! I relished it! I boasted of it! If I saw Christ himself standing before me, I would hasten to kill him!"

"But even if you killed Christ," Johannes countered, "it would Not save you from the One who never dies!" Jonathas placed his thumb and forefinger against his mocking lips. "Haha! Why do you insist on making yourself a laughingstock? I told you: believe what you wish. As for me, I have drunk my happiness to the dregs. You do with yours as you

 

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please."

Jonathas stood up and stretched. "When you wish to be ridiculous, do not argue with the wise—not for any reason other than to keep them from ruining your moment." Jonathas scrutinized the room with sharp eyes before turning on his heel. "For your information," he said, "I am barely holding my tongue. Go to sleep and save your mood while you can."

Gathering his resolve, Johannes spoke with a sudden, daring edge: "Do you know who is really going to kill you? It is 'Jonathas.' Yes, you are the one who made the Lord sentence you to death at the same age your father was when you murdered him!" Jonathas turned back, his face twisted in a mocking sneer. "Ha! So you’ve joined the cult of 'God-of-Coincidences' too? Wait until my death is certain before you start gloating. How would you feel if, for some reason, I didn't die? How would you explain your 'divine justice' then?"

He chuckled softly at his son’s bewildered expression, then added:

"Do you know why you are so shaken? It’s not just fear—it’s ignorance. I’ll take this moment to teach you a piece of wisdom: never defend a thing until you have fully grasped it. You have put your faith in a religion you know nothing about."

"No," Johannes defended himself, "I have learned, and—"

"Have you been baptized?" Jonathas cut him off. Johannes recoiled, his breath catching. "What do you mean?"

Jonathas smiled with pure condescension. "See? Baptism is the very first step of becoming a Christian. My own father baptized

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me; I went to church every Sunday. Even your peasant grandfather could best you in a debate, so what chance do you have against a man who has been a profligate for forty years?"

Johannes lowered his head in embarrassment. His father spread his arms wide. "And yet, I have no desire to defeat you with words. I am opening the door for you; go and learn, and understand for yourself.

Guess what? Tomorrow is Sunday. Go early to the Church of Mervian and attend the Mass."

"And does this church believe that Christ is a Teacher, and not the Lord Himself?"

Jonathas shrugged in disgust. "What are you talking about, Johannes? No such church exists. The Lord, the Christ, and the Holy Spirit—the three are one. That is the Holy Trinity."

Johannes raised his gaze. "A deacon once told me there are Christians who believe Christ is a messenger from the Lord, and —"

Jonathas’s brow arched with suspicion. "And where did you find this strange deacon?"

"He was a slave in the mine. But he died." Jonathas smiled bitterly. "Do not listen to such heresy, or you’ll lose your faith entirely! Regardless, go and search. Perhaps someone has made up a new story!"

Jonathas opened the inner door to his bedchamber, yawning. "When you find yourself ready, come to me and we shall debate. Don’t forget, I’m waiting for you!" His voice echoed from within the room: "Even if I am busy torturing some bishop, I’ll finish up

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and come at once!"

A crude laugh followed, and the guard slammed the door, leaving Johannes boiling with self-fury. He had squandered the opportunity to argue because of the fear that had tied his tongue. He couldn't even explain what it was he believed in. How could he rid himself of the looming shadow of Jonathas—a shadow that had grown in his heart since the terrors of his childhood? It was a question to which he had no answer.

Johannes walked aimlessly, his mind spinning in cycles. Eventually, he entered his room to find it glowing with candlelight. A lavish dinner awaited him on the table, and a beautiful maid greeted him. He stared at it all, surprised, feeling a sharp pang of nostalgia for a time when this was the only life he knew.

He sat, the savory aroma of meat filling his senses, but contrasting images flickered in his mind. A shiver ran down his spine as he remembered that horrific final night in the life of the starving deacon. He exhaled and reached for the food, shaking off his conscience—a conscience that insisted on conjuring images of the hungry souls he had been forced to lash every morning.

With a heart wrung with shame—having frequntly broken his promise to the Lord over the past three months—he tightened his grip on his spoon. His gaze fixed on the bag of coal beside the fireplace, he whispered: "For the sake of that promise, I must convince Jonathas; perhaps he will let me regain the Lord's trust in me. In truth, there is no one but the Lord to deter him” Johannes spent a long night in deep reflection before setting out

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at dawn. He rode his horse through the mountain passes toward Mervian, determined on two fronts: first, to learn so that Jonathas would have no leverage over him; and second, to sit with Jonathas in the evening to study his mind and slowly dismantle his childhood phobia.

"The only promising thing is that Jonathas does not refuse a debate," he thought as he entered the church. A large crucifix greeted him, and he approached it, studying the details of the carved figure, trying to discern the features of the man who had changed the world.

After a while, the priest entered, raising his hand to greet the congregation in an incomprehensible tongue. The people responded in kind. Johannes took a seat, observing this environment that was so foreign to him.

The priest held a decorated book, speaking words Johannes could not understand. When the congregation stood, Johannes stood with them to see, but eventually sat back down out of boredom. He looked at the ornate decorations. "Do all these people understand what he’s saying? This is the first time I’ve heard someone speak in another language."

He watched the ritual, finally finding something he understood during the sermon, which reminded him of the deacon’s words. When he saw the crowd moving forward to receive a small piece of bread with intense solemnity, he reached out his hand like the others. But the priest’s piercing, scrutinizing gaze made him pull back; he didn't understand why a piece of bread required such profound awe.

 

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Suddenly, the walls of the church shook with a massive sound he had never heard before—the organ. Johannes felt the echo of the music vibrating in his chest. Then the choir’s voices rose in a melody that surprised him; it was nothing like the instruments or the tavern songs he knew. He froze, watching the choir, trying desperately—and failing—to catch a single intelligible word.

At the end, he stood by the exit, whispering to himself: "Either the priest explains this to me with full conviction, or Jonathas will do it with full mockery."

He turned back to the priest and spent over two hours listening as the man explained everything from scratch. The priest suggested baptizing him, but Johannes refused. Finally, he left the church, walked a few paces, then turned back to look at the building from a distance and burst into uncontrollable laughter. When the stares of passersby began to prick at him, he composed himself, took his horse, and rode home, his face flushed and a smile on his lips.

When Jonathas saw him at the drinking session, he smirked with his usual irony "Welcome, Saint Johannes the Baptist!" Johannes smiled. "Does attending a single Mass make me a high saint?!"

"Did you not 'bite' Christ? The Holy Spirit is with you now!" Johannes replied with disapproval, "They didn't give me the bread because I am not baptized. But do they truly believe the bread becomes a part of Christ?"

Jonathas roared with laughter. "And did you try dancing to the

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rhythm of the organ pipes?"

Johannes frowned. "Forget the organ... I just wish I had understood a single word!"

Jonathas waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, I forgot not everyone understands Latin. I neglected to mention that yesterday." He extended his hand, and Johannes leaned in to kiss it as was custom. Jonathas gripped the front of Johannes's head, gloating with a look of victory.

"See? If I had debated you yesterday, what a fool you would have been!"

"I admit it," Johannes said. "But if Christ is not merely a Teacher, then I will not believe in him, sir."

The following day, Johannes rode between village churches, searching for a church believes in the human nature of Christ, but his efforts were in vain. At sunset, he was returning slowly on his horse when he passed the Montis-Ferrus junction. He stopped, remembering the night he had gambled with his fate, his soul filled with terror. Now, it was all over.

"I wonder where you are, Kati?" he murmured with a smile. "What would you say if you knew I had turned to religion?" Memories of that night flooded back until he reached a thought that made him jump. He spurred his horse; the animal reared and bolted, and he barely managed to direct it toward Pratus, his spirits soaring. The road that had exhausted him while running months ago seemed like nothing beneath the horse's hooves.

He reached the trees as the sun dipped below the horizon. He dismounted and took the same path Wilius had taken when he

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slipped away that night. There, he found children running between the houses. Within seconds, they stopped, staring at the stranger.

"Do you know where I can find a man named Wilius?"

"That old man! Over here!"

The boys led him to a dilapidated house. Johannes stared at the decaying door before reaching out to knock. At the first touch, it creaked wide open, revealing an empty house. He stepped inside to explore, his boots leaving prints in the thick layer of dust.

In the other room, he found a man lying in bed like a dying soul. He approached, trying to recognize the sleeping face, only to realize that on that dark night, he hadn't actually seen Wilius’s features clearly. He had no choice but to call out: "Wilius!"

The man’s withered eyes snapped open. "Who are you?"

"Are you Wilius?"

"Yes... and who are you?"

Wilius pulled himself up to a sitting position, leaning against a pillow, as Johannes answered: "I am the young man you spoke to about your religion when he was about to end it all... by the trees."

Wilius rubbed his face. "Ah, yes... I remember you. So this is your face! You... you look like... Vilmos the Leader... yes, him!" Johannes replied, startled, "So you know my father!" Wilius rubbed his sleepy eyes and said, "I left his gang ten years ago. Though I have nothing left to lose... I ask that this remains a secret, please."

 

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"Do not worry, I won't tell him. I came to continue our talk about your religion... what was its name?"

"Islam. And the one who follows it is called a Muslim."

"Ah, yes! Did you know I still pray even now?"

Astonishment crossed Wilius's face. "But you haven't learned how to pray; I only showed you the general form." Johannes’s brow furrowed in shock. "What? But doing it that way makes me feel the Lord. What is the mistake?"

Wilius pulled back his covers and moved his legs toward the floor with a heavy effort.

"You didn't seem this old a few months ago," Johannes remarked. "Yes. Someone poisoned me a year ago, and the poison destroys my body every day, as you can see."

"That is horrific!" Johannes cried. "You look as though you’ve aged ten or twenty years!"

"That is why I felt distressed seeing you waste your young body. By the way, you have changed too, but for the better; your frame is more masculine, and your words have more strength." Johannes fell silent, looking aside as he remembered his father’s words. Wilius added:

"Would you bring the water closer, please?"

Johannes hesitated, then moved slowly to bring over a large basin with a water jug. Wilius gripped the jug. "This is what you must do before you pray."

Wilius began cleaning his mouth and nose, washing his face and hands, wiping his head, and finally washing his feet.

 

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"It’s called 'Wudu'. The point is to wash yourself clean after you've relieved yourself."

Johannes stared at the water with a heavy gloom. "Is this holy water? Is there anointing oil?"

"No," Wilius replied simply. "It is water from the river. Any clean water will do."

Johannes shrugged his shoulders. "I’ve prayed many times before, and I never did this."

"Before, you were merely trying to pray. Now, I will teach you how to actually pray."

"Wait a moment," Johannes interjected, his voice hardening with caution. "I won't enter your religion until I know everything about it—until I am certain! Do you have a church?" Wilius’s gaunt features sank. "I see. I thought you were asking me to teach you the prayer... No, Muslims have a 'Mosque,' not a church. And of course, there isn't one to be found here."

Wilius paused for a heartbeat before adding, "But I can tell you this: any room where a group gathers to pray can be called a Mosque."

Johannes scratched his head, trying to twist the images of churches in his mind to fit this new concept. "Do you do nothing in this Mosque but pray?"

"The leader of the prayer might give a short sermon, urging the people toward faith and doing good deeds." Johannes rubbed his eyes and sat on a nearby crate, asking his question for the tenth time that day: "Before we pray, explain the foundation to me. Do you believe that Christ is just a human

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teacher?"

"Of course," Wilius replied. "But he was not the last. Because Christ’s message grew old over time, Allah sent a new Messenger to renew the path, to remove the errors that had crept in, and to make the truth easy to find once more."

Johannes’s face lit up at the word "of course"—the very word he had been waiting for all day. He leaned forward, buzzing with excitement. "What do you mean by 'Allah'? And where is this Messenger? Is he alive?"

"Allah is God, the Creator, in our tongue. As for the Messenger... he passed away. Over a thousand years ago."

Johannes clapped his hands together, his voice rising in sharp annoyance. "A thousand years? And you call him a new messenger?!"

"But Christ’s message is over two thousand years old!" Johannes smirked sarcastically. "Aha, I see. So a thousand years qualifies as 'new' in your book!"

Wilius let out a soft laugh. "You remind me of myself when I used to mock my servant as he answered me... only to be left speechless like a fool in the end."

Johannes lunged at the opportunity. "That is exactly what I need! Something to leave others speechless!" He followed it with a bashful laugh. "Fine. I’ll stop the mockery. I will listen, and only then will I judge."

Wilius took a breath, smiling. "'So yeah, Islam' is an Arabic word. It means to 'submit' yourself and all your affairs to God alone,

 

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believing there is no deity but Him..."

"That," Johannes interrupted enthusiastically, "is the only thing I am already certain of!"

"The second pillar," Wilius continued, "is to believe He sent Messengers to guide humanity."

"I have no problem with that."

"Among these Messengers are Moses, Jesus the Christ, and Muhammad..."

Johannes pointed a finger. "I only know Christ, and I am happy for him to be a Messenger."

"Yeah, Moses was the Messenger of Judaism..." Johannes’s expression shifted into high alert. "I’ve heard of that religion. What do they believe?"

"Whatever they believe, they do not welcome newcomers. We call it an ethnic religion."

Johannes’s face relaxed. "Let us leave them be, then. That leaves the final Messenger?"

"Yes. The Messenger of Islam: Muhammad."

Thus, Johannes continued to interrupt Wilius as he recounted the story of the Prophet 'Muhammad.' The criminal within him sought to criticize it, just as he had criticized the story of Christ, driven by an eagerness to find a myth that would confirm his intuition in debunking religious narratives and validate his own convictions.

The specter of his desires yearned deep within for what Jonathas had taught him throughout his life; he was terrified of being forced to change his accustomed lifestyle. Yet, it was the very dominance of Jonathan that had originally forged within his heart the opposing force to embrace his passion for seeking the truly

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powerful.

By midnight, Johannes was riding back to the mountain, his head still spinning. But as he approached his quarters, the blaring sound of instruments jolted him. It was the "Loot Celebration"— the gang’s rowdy feast for their latest spoils. Johannes went pale. He had completely forgotten the party. He tried to slip through the crowd like a shadow, praying desperately that Jonathas hadn't noticed his absence.

But as he raised his eyes toward the Leader, he found Jonathas’s gaze fixed on him like a pair of poisoned arrows. Johannes swallowed hard. He took a deep breath, trying to stifle his fear, and slowly waded into the festivities until he almost lost himself in the noise.

As the first light of dawn crept in, the gang members staggered away, drunk and exhausted. Only then did Johannes feel a heavy hand tap his shoulder. One of his father's guards gestured for him to follow.

Johannes approached Jonathas, who was visibly wasted. His body was limp, yet his hand still gripped his chalice with a deathly vice. Jonathas raised his head, his bloodshot eyes boring into Johannes.

"Where the hell were you, you —?! Why are you so late? Did I not command you yesterday to return by nightfall?" Johannes knelt, his mind racing with the knowledge of how violent Jonathas became when he was drunk.

"Forgive me, sir. I was in Bellavar and lost my way. It took great effort to find the path back; the night was too cloudy."

 

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Johannes bowed his head until it touched the floor, his heart trembling. He knew that a mistake with a drunken Jonathas usually meant being tortured to death. He felt the seconds stretch into an eternity until Jonathas finally spoke. "You are not to leave your room for a week!"

"As you command! I shall begin my punishment immediately."

Johannes rose cautiously and hurried away, eventually breaking into a run until he slammed his door shut. He panted for a minute before the danger receded and a sense of safety returned. He exhaled his terror into the air and crawled into bed, whispering to himself: "I’m grateful for the prostration. It feeds his ego in a peaceful way."

For the next two days, Johannes paced his room, turning Wilius’s words over in his mind, comparing them to the priests and to Jonathas’s thoughts. He tried to pray five times a day, though the Arabic words—which he couldn't memorize—stood between him and a full experience. He settled for remembering their meanings, grumbling to himself about how religions were so tied to languages.

On the second night, Jonathas’s guard came to fetch him. The moment Johannes walked in, he saw it in his father's eyes: Jonathas was out of his mind again. Johannes cursed the wine under his breath and knelt in anticipation. But Jonathas spoke in a strangely calm voice."Come and sit beside me, Johannes. I want to teach you how to live!"

Johannes swallowed hard and sat beside him, his muscles tensed. He expected Jonathas to sink his claws into him at any moment,

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and he knew he couldn't resist. But his father calmed him with a mocking tone. "No, don't be afraid! You are here to learn from your Master!"

Jonathas began to boast, regaling Johannes with "wisdom" and lessons from his life of vice. Johannes’s pulse slowed; he realized his father was a "happy drunk" tonight. He decided to play the situation to his advantage. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Magnificent! I am truly in awe of your wisdom and your immense power..."

Jonathas gestured grandly. "Say: Absolute!"

"Yes, your 'absolute' power. And speaking of our recent talks, I was wondering... how were you able to see through the deception of the... the priests and the churches so easily in the beginning?"

Johannes waited, his heart thumping. Jonathas shot him an annoyed look, making Johannes flinch, but then his father’s lips curled into a smirk. "Don't say 'see through' it... their deception is as obvious as the sun!"

Johannes breathed a sigh of relief. "Exactly! But other people couldn't see it like you did!"

"Of course! Who told you that other people were 'like me' anyway? Even back then, I was sharper than them all. I was the most skilled at reading, and..."

"And what is 'reading,' sir?"

Jonathas looked at Johannes with utter disdain before breaking into two minutes of hysterical, mad laughter. When he finally stopped, he attempted to explain "reading" to the patient Johannes in words that cleared up nothing at all.

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Jonathas drained the last of his cup and threw it to the floor, the golden vessel clattering loudly. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, exhaling the fumes of his intoxication. He began to tell the story of his youth, half-boasting, half-lying: "I was brilliant from the start, more beautiful than the largest gemstone. The priest at the church noticed and told my father I could be a saint if I started learning young. My father put me in the seminary, and my skills began to shine like the sun! I learned Latin as if it were my native tongue. I became the fastest reader and the cleverest at inventing convincing interpretations. Everyone envied me—even God Himself!

Because I was so sought after and famous at such a young age, my father used to brag about me and seek my blessing. It made me incredibly fond of myself. I believed I was born a saint and didn't need anyone to recognize me as such. And since the 'Holy Spirit' was with me, it would inspire me to perform my own special 'charities'... I alone could 'bless' the young women, and I alone deserved a share of the Lord’s gold, and... and...

But later, I thought simply: if I can convince people of whatever I want, even when I know it’s flawed, why shouldn't there be someone else convincing me and mocking me in return? That made me hate touching their Holy Book. I believed it was their way of manipulating me through 'Faith'—that broad term that saves you in every dilemma!

One day, I grew tired of being trapped in 'God’s Cage.' I gathered all the alms I could and emptied the 'pockets' of the congregation, and I decided to run. I renounced the religion, tore off the monk's robes, and set out to enjoy this life.

 

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With My wits, My strong body, and My quick feet, I began taking what I wanted before the owners even knew it was gone. I quickly learned that the angry glares of the masses brought a far sweeter pleasure than their praise ever did!"

 

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