Chapter 429: Hayam

Chapter 429: Chapter 305: Hayam

In the end, someone found they couldn’t just abandon Abu Ali’s disciple. A young man stepped forward resolutely and shouted, “Spare this poor man!”

The young man wore only a thin tunic, his slender figure a stark contrast to the heavily bundled crowd on this cold night. The wind howled, and though everyone around was wrapped tightly in heavy coats, he seemed unbothered, as if the bone-chilling cold meant nothing to him.

The tunic’s collar was low, and as he strode forward, it revealed a large tattoo covering his neck.

The tattoo was an intricate astrolabe. Its fine lines traced the paths of the stars, as if a patch of the night sky had been etched onto his skin.

The cold wind blew open his collar, and as the crowd glimpsed the astrolabe’s outline, they broke into whispers, their gazes filled with unconcealed surprise and doubt. In this land of fervent Devotion, tattoos always carried a hint of rebellion, and the complexity and beauty of this astrolabe pattern made it clear this was no impulsive act.

Some of the more timid people unconsciously made way for the strange young man.

Eric, too, turned his gaze toward the strange young man.

The appearance of someone who stands apart from the crowd tends to inspire either fear or hatred.

A few people in the crowd frowned. Someone muttered, “Who is this kid? How dare he stick his neck out at a time like this?”

A man who looked like the leader, club in hand, walked over. A deep scar ran across his face, from his right ear to just above his jaw.

He seemed to take the young man’s actions as a provocation, shoving his scarred face close to the youth’s and spitting, “This man is a drunkard, an unbeliever, and a philosopher!”

The final word, “philosopher,” was hissed like a curse.

“We don’t need philosophers!” the onlookers roared in agreement.

To these people, the word “philosophy” represented secular, blasphemous Greek science. In simpler terms, it meant anything that was neither religious nor literary.

The sudden roar from the crowd startled the young man. He hadn’t seemed to expect his actions would be met with such contempt.

Seeing the young man’s hesitation before the crowd, the scarred man snorted. He turned back to the collapsed Jaber, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed his head violently against the ground. He kept smashing it, and just as it looked like he was about to kill Jaber, the young man grabbed his hand.

“Spare this poor man! He’s just a widower, a sick man, a madman. Can’t you see? He can’t even move his lips anymore.”

The scarred man shook off the young man’s hand and sized him up again. He noticed the belt at the man’s waist—a special kind that scholars typically wore over their robes or coats.

This particular belt was called a Kamalban. It wasn’t just decorative; it also supported the weight of the garment and was used to hang small tools or items, such as pens, ink bottles, or a Money Bag.

And this young man’s belt was laden with items. The slightest movement caused several small bottles to clink together, making a clear, crisp sound.

‘He’s clearly not a full scholar, but he’s a student at least.’

‘Still,’ the scarred man thought, ‘I’ve never heard of any master taking on a tattooed student. Then again, students with prominent facial scars are rare too.’

The scarred man gestured toward his own beard and said, “You seem to know him well! Who are you? You black-haired devil, you’re not from Antioch. What part of Persia are you from? No one in this city has ever seen you.”

The young man pushed the scarred man’s hand away, but he did it gently, careful not to give the man an excuse to attack him.

The scarred man took another step forward, pressing him. “Stranger, what is your name?”

Unwilling to get dragged into trouble, the young man lifted his eyes to the sky. A Crescent moon was just emerging from behind a wisp of cloud.

He remained silent, then let out a long sigh. He began to walk away from the crowd, counting the stars, hoping to get back to safety.

But the crowd closed in, surrounding him. Some began to push and shove him, pulling him back to reality from his thoughts.

His plan to casually walk away had failed. The young man had no choice but to relent, saying:

“My name is Hayam, son of Ibrahim of Nishapur. And who are you?”

As the young man’s words fell, the scarred man’s eyes lit up.

He turned back to his followers and bellowed, “My God! How could I not recognize Hayam—son of Ibrahim Kaiyum of Nishapur? Hayam, the Star of Khorasan, the Genius of Persia and Mesopotamia, the King of Philosophers!”

He placed his hands on the sides of his turban and bowed to Hayam. His mocking tone succeeded in drawing a roar of laughter from the onlookers. “How could I fail to recognize the man who wrote such a ‘pious’ quatrain?

“Lord, You have shattered my wine jug,

And barred the path to my delight.

You have spilled my crimson wine upon the ground,

Forgive my bluntness—are You drunk tonight?”

Hearing the recitation, the young man named Hayam was furious. But fearing what the scarred man might do to him, he denied it without a second thought, shouting, “I don’t know that poem! This is the first I’ve ever heard of it! But I did write a poem of my own:

“They know nothing, nor do they wish to know.

The ignorant are the masters of this age!

If you don’t join them, they call you an infidel.

Pay them no mind, Hayam, and continue on your way.”

The young man named Hayam really should not have used the word “ignorant” to taunt his opponents.

And just as one might expect, the moment they heard this, the crowd swarmed him, tearing at his robes.

Hayam dodged and weaved, but he stumbled, his back hitting someone’s knee, and he collapsed onto the cobblestones. The weight of his pack pressed down on him, feeling as if it would crush him. He stopped struggling. ‘It’s too undignified,’ he thought. He resolved to let the mob tear his clothes to shreds and make him a martyr.

He felt nothing and heard nothing. He sealed himself away, numbly enduring their fists and kicks.

But the pain soon vanished, along with the jeers and insults shouted in his ear.

“How long are you planning to lie there? Need me to carry you?” The voice was unfamiliar to Hayam.

Hayam opened his eyes. He stared in disbelief at the scene around him—bodies were strewn across the ground. The very men who had been so arrogant moments before were now clutching their stomachs, groaning in agony.

Then he noticed someone standing before him—another person who, like himself, seemed utterly out of place on this street. No, this man was even more of an outsider than he was.

The man wasn’t a Syrian, nor one of the Persians. He wasn’t even one of the Muslims.

He was impossibly tall, and in the dim surroundings, his golden hair shone like the sun.

Eric pulled Hayam to his feet.

“Thank you for your aid, my unknown Lord,” Hayam said, first in Greek, and then again in Arabic.

Eric nodded. He tossed aside his scabbard—which had been bent out of shape and half-shattered from being used as a club—and then pointed his Longsword at the scarred man.

“What are you waiting for?” Eric said coldly, his gaze sweeping over the scarred man and his remaining cronies.

The scarred man’s face went white. His hands trembled, his knuckles white as he gripped his club, but he couldn’t suppress the terror in his heart.

Just then, ten Armed Soldiers burst through the crowd. Their felt hats bore the light green insignia of the Akhadas—the patrol of Antioch. The moment the assailants saw them, they backed away. Then, in an attempt to justify their actions, they started shouting at the patrol, “He’s an Alchemist! He’s an Alchemist!”

The scarred man and his thugs demanded that the other onlookers act as witnesses.

Because in the eyes of the Lords, being a philosopher was no crime, but practicing Alchemy was a death sentence.