Notes
Lumbago - radiculitis.
Philip II Augustus (1165-1223) - King of France, was on the Crusade with Richard, but due to disagreements he left home before him.


"So that's how spiritus is made," Anzhelika concluded, closing the lid. Four maids stood beside her in the spacious hospital kitchen, listening attentively. Anzhelika continued, "We'll let it steep until tomorrow, and then we can use it... Oh, and one more thing. Make sure no one gulps it," she added with a sigh.

The maids giggled.

"Lady, what should we do if someone... gulps it?" one of them asked seriously, a thin, short girl named Dalia. She stood out from the others with her blue eyes, unusual for these lands, which shone slightly melancholically on her dark face. She looked about sixteen, but judging by her serious voice, Anzhelika would have guessed ten years older. Dalia was dressed in a high-necked, loose dress, and her hair was tightly hidden under a scarf.

"If anyone drinks too much, give them plenty of cold water to drink and pour some on them—don't be shy. And call me, we'll sort it out," Anzhelika replied, and then continued: "Now one more thing. In the hospital, it's essential to do wet cleaning every day—it helps eliminate any infections and is good for the patients."

The maids nodded, and only one of them, Latifa, a strong and tall girl, made a displeased face, but then she lowered her eyes in feigned submissiveness. "Mutiny on the ship," thought Anzhelika, "oh well, I'll deal with it later." Anzhelika glanced at the other girls—they seemed to have taken the news calmly—said goodbye, and left the hospital. All her patients were feeling well, and nothing more was required of her today.

The weather was rather overcast, much to Anzhelika's delight. She chuckled to herself, remembering how she'd wanted to get away from the rain; but finding herself in this unair-conditioned Middle Ages, she was already beginning to miss the cool air. "And you can't even go to the beach here," Anzhelika thought. For a few minutes, she indulged in nostalgia for those glorious days when her life included beaches, swimming, bikinis, and, for that matter, the sparkling eyes of boys ("Thank God, at least that last one is still there"), but she wasn't one to dwell on sadness for long. Anzhelika thought about what to do, and the idea of ​​visiting holy places occurred to her. Luckily, she was wearing a dress that day, so there was no need to change.

The girl turned into the nearest market (there were markets pretty much everywhere here in the city center) and spotted a beautiful black silk scarf. The seller, of course, didn't have a mirror; the girl turned the scarf over in her hands and decided it would go perfectly with her light hair. After a brief exchange of bargaining ("They ripped me off, they definitely ripped me off," Anzhelika sighed to herself), she paid and draped a scarf over her shoulders, smoothing her light cascade of hair over it. After a moment's thought, she approached the first woman dressed in European clothing she saw.

"Good afternoon!" Anzhelika began. "Excuse me, could you tell me where the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is?"

"Of course, sister," the woman replied, and Anzhelika was instantly surprised—never before had complete strangers addressed her like that. (And then she remembered where she was...) "It's not far from here, let me show you."

"I'd be very grateful," Anzhelika responded kindly and followed the woman. As she made her way through the crowd, it suddenly occurred to her that Jerusalem had a unique sound: it wasn't as quiet as a village, but for a big city it lacked the constant noise of cars rushing back and forth.

"You're a pilgrim, right?" the woman asked almost affirmatively, eyeing Anzhelika curiously.
"No," the girl countered, "I got a job here..."
"A job?!" her companion interrupted in surprise, examining the expensive silk of Anzhelika's dress.

"Well, yes, this is the twelfth century, my dear," Anzhelika thought. "A working woman is a laundress or a maid... And silk is out of the question for her."

"I'm a healer," she explained. The woman looked at her in surprise, and Anzhelika continued, "Well, since I'm in Jerusalem..."
"It's a godly thing," the woman nodded. Unable to resist, she asked again, "Really, a healer?"
"Yeah."
"Is there anything that can cure lumbago?" the woman asked anxiously.
"Horseradish or mustard baths, mustard and garlic ointments," Anzhelika responded. "When it passes, reconsider your lifestyle and avoid sitting in one position for long periods."
"May God grant you His mercy, sister!" the woman said gratefully.

At the entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, she said goodbye to Anzhelika, citing business. Anzhelika threw a scarf over her head and gazed around the church—it was truly enormous, and the girl had to tilt her head back to fully appreciate the beige stone building with its multiple domes. Stepping through the open doors, Anzhelika crossed herself and looked around. In the spacious, high main hall, from which numerous passages led to other rooms, gilded icons hung on the walls, and statues stood in the corners—apparently a relic from the time when this church belonged to the Catholics. After Salah ad-Din captured Jerusalem, the church was handed over to the Orthodox, who sided with the Sultan and even offered him assistance before the assault (though Salah ad-Din did not take up the offer). Large chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lit by numerous candles. The church was quiet; a few people were praying before the icons, and an old woman in a dark dress and headscarf was lighting a candle before a large statue of the Virgin Mary.

A young man in a black cassock was already hurrying toward Anzhelika.

"Good afternoon," Anzhelika said to him. "May I see Golgotha?"
"Of course, sister," the man responded in a quiet, kind voice. "Welcome to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre."

Anzhelika followed him into one of the side rooms. Her own footsteps on the stone slabs seemed strangely loud, so she tried to tread as quietly as possible. Together, they turned several dark corridors, and finally, the young man showed Anzhelika an unlocked entrance to a rather large room. It was decorated only with a few icons, and in the center rose the tip of a white rock, emerging from the stone floor.

"Thank you," Anzhelika muttered, coming closer. The guy had tactfully left her alone, and she was grateful for that, too. For some reason, she longed to be alone, and she was glad she didn't see anyone else around.

Anzhelika sat down thoughtfully on the floor in front of the rock, crossing her legs. She remembered how her grandmother had said many times that she wanted to visit this temple, but she never had the chance. "I did it for you, Grandma," Anzhelika thought. Then came thoughts of the rest of the family. "May they not cry too much for me," the girl wished with all her heart. She sat, recalling various little details from her past life, so recent and yet so distant, and for some reason her sadness was easy and very light.

Finally, Anzhelika stood up, about to leave, when a muffled male voice from somewhere in the depths of the room made her flinch.

"Forgive me, O Lord, for I have sinned."

Anzhelika had been to church only once in her life, as a child, and had never encountered the deep repentance she could hear in the stranger's voice. She rose quietly and walked around Golgotha. A man, richly dressed in European style, stood before the rock, his head bowed in prayer and his eyes closed.

"What happened?" the girl couldn't help but ask.
The man looked at her sharply, somewhat shocked, but still answered:
"I came here to defend the holy faith, but I found only cruelty and bloodshed."
"Well, you didn't know that beforehand," Anzhelika said soothingly.
"I followed Richard, I trusted him! I trusted that we would do a good deed. But after he executed thousands of hostages from Acre, I spent almost a year here, in repentance. Now I'm returning home... What are you—an angel?" the man suddenly asked, looking anxiously into the girl's eyes.
"No, I'm just Anzhelika," the girl sighed and tugged at the man's hand. He took her hand lightly and followed her to the exit. "Let everyone answer for themselves... before God. And you're a good man for making such a decision."

The two of them walked out of the church and into the street.

"God bless you," the man said before leaving.
"And you," Anzhelika responded.

Lost in thought, she reached the palace, oblivious to everything around her. Only once inside did she glance around, noticing the slight commotion that reigned there. Just as she was thinking, "I wonder what's going on here," she heard someone calling her name.

The girl turned around and saw Abbas, a member of the city guard. A couple of days ago (it seemed like such a distant past!), Kamal had introduced them.

"Salam aleikum, Angelica!" Abbas smiled. "Kamal told me that Salah ad-Din hired you as a physician. Congratulations!"
"Thank you!" Anzhelika responded happily. "And how is he?"
"He's resting at home for now."
"By the way, did something happen here? There's so much activity..."
"Salah ad-Din's brother, Al-Adil, has arrived," the boy explained. "They're locked in a council meeting now. Al-Adil leaves for Egypt tomorrow, so I think the Sultan will spend the rest of the day with him."

Anzhelika sighed discreetly. Abbas didn't let her get bored for long.

"Will you come sit with the guys in the backyard after lunch? There will be some guards here—you've already seen some of them, plus some from the palace guards, and a couple of guys from the army."
"Great!" Anzhelika brightened. "Of course I'll come."


***

A small fountain gurgled and sparkled in the rays of the sun, which had finally decided to emerge from behind the clouds after lunch. Anzhelika, perched on a bench in the backyard, sat surrounded by Salah ad-Din's warriors, blissfully immersed. It was cool and pleasant in the shade of a few trees, a pitcher of cool sherbet was at hand, and the boys vied with each other to tell inspiring stories. And what stories they were! The boys reminisced about real battles, skirmishes, and reconnaissance missions; some of them had already been with Salah ad-Din in more than one war. And they recounted these experiences with the same enthusiasm with which the boys at home told Anzhelika about joy rides and parties...

"I remember, I was near Hattin back then..." began Rahman, a young man in the army, about thirty years old.
"Angelica, do you know what 'Hattin' means in Kurdish?" asked Abbas.
"Nope."
"We've arrived," Abbas translated.
"Well here they come," Rahman chuckled. "To their doom. The entire Crusader army was routed then by our glorious Sultan! I was fortunate to be next to Salah ad-Din in his tent when he personally chopped off Chatillon's head with his sword... Have you heard of the knight Chatillon, Angelica?"
"I have," the girl replied, "he violated the truce with Salah ad-Din."
"That's right. We called Chatillon the Jackal of the Desert," Rahman said. "Like a jackal, he would come out to howl when darkness fell."
"Jaccalion," Anzhelika chuckled, and the boys greeted the nickname with a burst of laughter.
"Yes, yes," Hashim, a young man from the guard, interjected, "and their king, Lusignan, like the previous one, Baldwin, never stopped him..."
"Although Baldwin himself asked for a truce," Abbas interjected. "After his vassals miraculously won the battle against Salah ad-Din, he lost the next two battles with our Sultan—that's when Baldwin asked for peace."
"If it hadn't been for the drought and crop failure that year in the Sultan's domains, Baldwin would never have seen peace," Omar, a palace guard in his thirties, interjected sullenly.
"Yes, he was lucky," Rahman agreed. "Well, at Hattin, Chatillon lost his head—and three months later, the Crusaders lost Jerusalem..."
"And they won't get it back," Omar concluded sternly.
One by one, the assembled crowd supported him.