In the Name of Ioannes (1)
After spending a passionate dawn with Miriam, the pre-dawn sunlight slipped through the gaps in the awning, stabbing right into my eyes. I forced them open, and a queasy morning sensation from my college days—waking up hungover in a buddy's dingy apartment after a night of heavy drinking—flashed through my brain. Of course, the key difference was that the one lying next to me wasn't a sweat-stinking bro but a beauty scented with floral perfume.
As my vision cleared, the first thing I saw was the familiar ceiling of my bedroom. Then, there was Miriam, sleeping soundly, using my arm as a pillow and my body as her bed. Outside the window, sunlight was pushing away the remnants of dawn, stubbornly spreading to herald the morning.
Vivid memories resurfaced: in the scorching heat beneath the courtyard wall, we'd lost ourselves exploring each other until Miriam finally ran out of battery. I'd carefully carried her exhausted form up to the pallet. My last recollection was her collapsing the moment I laid her down. The soft touch of her skin and the acacia scent mixed with sweat still lingered heavily in the room. Should've aired it out, I thought.
Looking at Miriam, buried face-first in my chest and sleeping so deeply she wouldn't notice a stampede, stirred complicated feelings. I'm insane. No matter how starved I was, she's just barely an adult... But that thought melted away as I gazed at her angelic sleeping face. Modern ethics? They felt a bit dulled in this medieval air. Environment shapes people, after all.
In the 12th century, she was right at marriageable age... or by my standards, freshly adult. Any later, and she'd be on the spinster track. I shelved my modern qualms. No ballsy friends or acquaintances around here to call me a thief anyway.
I shook her awake with a deliberately stern voice. "Miriam, morning. Time to get up."
As I gently brushed her tousled hair behind her ear, she let out a pleased "Mm..." and burrowed deeper into my chest. She'd been pretending to sleep deeply until a second ago, but now she cracked her eyes open and rubbed her face against me—pure temptation.
"Baraka... morning already?"
Stroking her head as she played up her sleepy, vulnerable charm, I replied, "Yeah, morning. I'd love breakfast together, but we're slammed today."
"Mm... can't we stay like this a little longer?"
The comfort we found in each other—I got it. Nothing sweeter than cuddling on the pallet and killing time. But reality was a dumpster fire. For a hardworking laborer like me, rest was a luxury for the grave. My schedule was packed tighter than a masochist's to-do list.
No work-life balance in the modern world, and this barbaric medieval era? Worse. Hell, I'm the boss here, so it's even more brutal. Coup to become king? Nah, scrapped that idiocy. In this turbulent age, thrones meant death by paperwork, stress baldness, or assassination—one of the three.
Better to stay factory lord for my sanity. But exploiting slaves? Modern conscience grabs my ankle. Besides, even slaves would just do grunt work like the laborers. Management, coaching, R&D, and schooling backstabbers? All on me.
No quitting time in this cursed medieval grind. If I returned to the modern world, I'd demand a sabbatical. This labor-obsessed life had even me, a modern guy, chained like Gollum to his precious.
"Ugh... Baraka, all you think about is work. Can't we take one day off?"
Miriam rolled off the pallet onto me, whining honestly as I rose. Petting her head, I mixed empathy with facts. "You think I don't want to? I'm human too. But if I slack, the whole complex grinds to a halt. Artisans and craftsmen handle production, but final approvals and tech guidance? That's me. Plus, we already took off for the parade and your birthday?"
"Mm... true, but..."
Her eyes rolled dramatically at my airtight facts, flinching cutely—the cutest moment of vacation. Childish clinginess mixed with mature restraint to let go. How could that not melt me? Call it rose-tinted glasses; she was adorable. My rough edges softened around her—who'd complain?
Thud!Thud!
Our fluffy time ended. The heavy thud of the hydraulic hammers outside urged me: Get to work if you're not out of bed yet. The workers' bustle grew; time to move.
Dressed and ready, Miriam tidied my clothes with her usual brisk touch—like a wife tying her husband's tie. Ah, resignation letter incoming.
Stepping out, the complex—back in full swing after three days—blasted heat from every factory. Upgraded smelters roared hotter and bigger; rested hammers pounded powerfully. The familiar din confirmed: back to routine.
"Factory Lord! Good morning!"
En route to my office, Kalim came panting up, face blooming with vacation-rested smiles. But what caught my eye? The ledgers and parchment stacks clutched tight. Ominous—and spot on, as always.
"What's with the face this early?"
"How could I not be thrilled? That trash knight's locked up—no need for subtlety, kids are gossiping and even made up chants!"
Expected end. His rep had plummeted to hell after trying to steal tech in front of the Malik. I nodded calmly, flopping into my office chair. "Par for the course. But what's with the paper avalanche?"
"Ah! Spoils from the Malik. The guy's gear, assets, commercial rights—all confiscated to the complex."
Warehouse under Justus's alias, Western raw materials, distribution ledgers. Kalim called it reward; to me, it screamed your new paperwork mountain. Skimming: dinars and ducats were nice, but the real goldmine? Info and routes.
Supply worries post-parade? This was rain in drought. Still endless, though. After Kalim's "That's all! Haha!" curse and exit, I sighed, rubbed my dry face, and wrestled numbers alone—until the door opened again.
Did Kalim forget something? "What'd you lea—"
Words died; I tilted my head at the intruder. Her silhouette peeked through the door—she always timed visits for my breaks.
"Ugh... skipping breakfast to dive straight into work. Can't stop you, Baraka."
Miriam, hair tousled, basket in hand, peeked and grumbled. Awkward, sure—but her next move? She shut the door, approached briskly, plopped the basket on the desk, and settled on my lap. Soft butt met knee; brain.exe stopped.
"...Miriam? Daytime's a no-go for this."
"What's wrong? I'm helping."
She flashed a sly smile, wiggled to get comfy, and boldly sorted papers. How'd she survive conservative Middle East? Her confession solved it.
"I'm a merchant's daughter, y'know? Dad drilled numbers into me. No relatives around—with quick math, how else would we survive the village?"
Question marks flipped to exclamations. Merchant spawn. Explained her sharp tongue and wits. Gazing at my veteran secretary on my lap, medieval drudgery felt lighter.
Her soft hands rustling ledgers overlapped with dawn memories; body twitched involuntarily. She swayed her hips in silent protest—sit still. Seeing me groan, she smirked. Targeted revenge for leaving her this morning. But work was work; even she focused, mimicking me.
Her fingers danced over ledgers, scanning and calculating faster than an Excel macro at a mid-sized firm.
"Whoa, check this. Justus, that creep—lived frugally while scheming. Backroom deals with old Western priests and nobles; dedicated routes."
"Ho. Impressive."
"Yeah. But issue: to swallow this honey pot, they won't accept it. Western zealots? 'Weapons by some new pagan smith, neither our faith nor yours'? They'd foam at the mouth."
Spot-on. S-grade goods flop if the brand repels. Shell company for laundering? As I pondered, she set down the pen, staring up.
"But... Baraka. One thing I've wondered forever. Where are you from?"
Straight to my strike zone—after holding back.
"My homeland?"
"Yeah. You said Shiraz, but your Arabic's flawless, and handling that pilgrim? You know lots. Sometimes you seem like a mysterious sky-fallen being. But last night... you felt pretty normal..."
Her amber eyes trapped me, blushing at dawn memories. Half pure curiosity, half dogged man-investigation. But "Shiraz" was set; confessing future-world now? She'd check my fever first.
History brain spun: a story fitting her worldview, boosting our new brand sky-high. Holy bait to smash Western victory-high egos.
"Not lying—it's farther east. But imagine, Miriam: no priests, missionaries, not even a Bible... at the edge of the far east, a nation sprouts faith in the One God through pure scholarly pursuit and truth-seeking?"
Her amber eyes widened. To a 12th-century mind, spontaneous faith was divine miracle. Korea's unique Catholicism history? Pure fantasy here.
"My homeland has plenty worshiping the One God you and the West share."
Prester John legend filled my head—not riding it directly yet, Europe unspanked. But dope their post-First Crusade high? Perfect.
She sparkled. "Heavens... so you're like an envoy from that holy eastern kingdom?"
"Not quite envoy, but sent here with knowledge... a foreigner bearing it. Mysterious enough?"
Booping her nose playfully, she blushed but exhaled in relief, roots grasped.
"Then... Western export name's set. 'Weapons sent from the holy eastern kingdom for brothers-in-faith.'"
My secretary nailed it. Grinning, I pulled blank parchment.
"While we're at it, let's craft a legal thug product to fleece those Western lords dry."
Western armies: fancy knights, but cannon fodder? Ragtag peasant levies. No lord arms serfs with pricey steel. Solution: dirt-cheap, no steel needed, penetrates chainmail but not Sirion—disposable ranged killer.
Pen flew: familiar shape—weapon they knew. Crossbow.
"Isn't this... a crossbow? Why's it thuggy?"
Her lips mouthed Qaus al-rijl; auto-translate hit: crossbow. Nodding, "Not just any. Unlike their crude hunks of metal—ultimate cost-performance lords would lose their minds over."
"Ultimate cost-performance?"
"Yeah. Crossbows pack power, but heavy, pricey to bend. Lords won't arm peasants with that—cheap spears as meatshields."
I tapped the prod. "This? No steel. Layered composite: woods, horn, sinew from my homeland's methods, laminated tight."
"No steel? Won't it lack punch? Needs to pierce chainmail for lords to flip."
"No way. Draw weight near 50 ratls—200 pounds. Weaker than their cranequin beasts, but light, two-hand drawable. Mobile."
Envisioned 12th-century slaughter. "Peasants with plow arms? Line 'em up, shoot—worth more than one meatshield."
Her eyes bulged. "Heavens... rock-bottom cost sans steel, knight-killing power? Lords'll scramble to arm masses!"
"Right? But real killer? Not the body."
I sketched beside: stubby, baby-arm bolt. "This sweeps cash. Bodies at cost to marks—er, customers."
Sinister genius: flaw bolts only work with it. Rip off? Reverse-engineer nightmare. Lords, pointing at each other in domain wars, buy out stock crying. Printer cheap, ink gouges—K-capitalism incarnate!
Miriam, horrified yet awed at devilish scheme—merchant's daughter couldn't hide admiration. Her glee? Infectious. I'm feeling merry, some random line popped.
Grinning, I engraved Latin letters huge at the grip bottom—not my name.
[ IOANNES ]
The pathetic hope Crusaders would invent in despair against Islamic hordes: Prester John. Before it sprouts, I hijacked the bait, processing into faith-capitalist super-drug. Faith and capitalism's monstrous hybrid born here.
Future humans learning this epic scam started in Damascus' dingy office—to sell weapons pricier? Priceless faces.
Fun just thinking. Religious-pragmatic marketing snags noble wallets and faith. Manipulating their coin and opinion? Thrilling.
Lost in Miriam-time from morn to dusk. Then, Kalim's urgent voice shattered hall silence outside darkening office.
"Factory Lord! Secret visitor at back gate. Uh... Sir Guillaume!"
We smirked in sync. Sniffed bait pre-toss. Money scent? VIPs first.
"Let him in. VIP customer—be polite."
Faint smile; mouth ready to hook. My biz, faith-backed, prepped for legend. Or legendary wallet-raid curtain rose.