Gradually, the hall filled with guests. Everyone took their designated seats.
At the head of the table sat Lady Adelaide. Simon was to her right. Roger was seated on her left.
Baron Rollo also arrived and took the seat next to Roger. Behind Lady Adelaide stood the Captain of the Guard, vigilantly watching over her.
Roger recognized most of the people present—but there were a few unfamiliar faces.
Among the lower-ranked guests sat Victor's older brother, someone Roger had never met before. He assumed many of these men were knights or nobles his father had recruited during the Crusade.
The Bishop of Messina arrived as well, taking his place far across from Lady Adelaide, at the opposite end of the long table.
Roger silently prayed: Let this end quickly.
And, for the most part, it did.
The bishop solemnly read Count Roger's final will. No one objected. Everything proceeded smoothly. No surprises. No disputes.
And then the feast began.
The minstrels began to sing—for once, the tune was light and cheerful.
Roger also saw the court fool, clumsily performing tricks to lighten the mood and sow a bit of harmless chaos.
Lady Adelaide played the perfect hostess, going out of her way to greet everyone and ensure no one felt slighted. But her worry was unnecessary—most guests were quite content with the food.
Only Simon and Roger barely touched their meals. Neither had the appetite.
Dishes were brought out one after another. The servants flowed in and out like water, though some inevitably delivered to the wrong places.
A few guests received double portions of the same dish, while others got none at all.
One man fed his meal to a dog under the table. Another shouted at a servant until his voice cracked.
The food tasters each fulfilled their assigned tasks, sampling every dish as soon as it hit the table, and drinking every wine as soon as it was opened.
Roger thought to himself that what those men really needed wasn't loyalty—but a strong stomach.
At the stone hall entrance, guards carefully scrutinized every servant coming and going. If anyone looked remotely suspicious, they were searched—no one was allowed to bring in anything that shouldn't be there.
Roger's attention was drawn to a beautiful maid, her face flushed as the guards thoroughly patted her down—for the third time today. She had entered and been searched three separate times already.
Then came the main course.
Roger knew it would be fish—it was Wednesday, a day of fasting. People might ignore such rules in private, but with the bishop present, formalities had to be respected.
A man Roger didn't recognize appeared, carrying a massive basin—so large a baby could have bathed in it. He approached the head of the table.
The Captain of the Guard stepped forward instinctively, positioning himself protectively near Lady Adelaide.
Then everything exploded.
The basin was hurled at Simon.
The Captain drew his sword, intercepting it midair.
Water and fish splashed all over Simon.
The fish thrashed violently. Simon convulsed.
The unknown man lunged toward him—only to be run through by the Captain's blade.
Simon collapsed, seizing, and slid from his chair.
The fish flopped on the ground, crackling violently—it was discharging electricity.
Roger's mind raced.
Rollo had already drawn his sword and stood up.
Adelaide sat frozen in shock.
Several knights—Crusaders who had fought in the East—leapt to their feet and drew their swords.
Victor's older brother remained seated, chewing his food as though nothing had happened. So did the man beside him.
Roger's heart pounded in his chest.
He dashed past Adelaide and dived toward Simon.
Simon now lay flat on the floor—unmoving.
The fish twitched near one of the food tasters. The man caught it in his hands.
The Captain, blood still dripping from his sword, reflexively swung again—this time toward Roger.
The wounded attacker collapsed, clutching his bleeding stomach.
The Captain froze. His sword pointed at Roger—but he hesitated.
Baron Rollo rushed forward, intercepting the blade with his own.
Roger planted both hands over Simon's chest, arms straight, locking his elbows. Using the momentum from his dive, he pressed down hard in a vertical series of compressions over Simon's sternum.
Once.
Twice.
The attacker coughed blood and shouted:
"I am the sacrifice of our Lord—Hussan!"
One of the knights cried out:
"Fida'i! Assassin!"
Victor's brother finally stood, having just swallowed his food.
Roger didn't stop.
Six compressions. Seven.
"What's going on?!" someone shouted.
Eight. Nine.
"What happened?!" more voices joined in.
Ten. Eleven.
"Fratricide!" yelled some of the righteous, misunderstanding everything—they drew their swords and charged toward Roger.
Twelve. Thirteen.
"Protect Roger!" cried others—opportunists who also misunderstood, but drew swords to block the righteous attackers.
Adelaide stared at Roger, her mouth open, but no sound came out.
Seventeen. Eighteen.
Roger's arms were cramping. He was nearly out of strength.
A quick-thinking Crusader rushed to the assassin's side to examine him.
Meanwhile, several knights had broken into a chaotic brawl. Others stood, swords drawn, watching one another warily.
Twenty-three. Twenty-four.
Roger bit his lip—drawing blood—the pain kept him focused.
"Enough! Step away from Simon!"
The Captain of the Guard swung again—this time using the flat of his blade, trying to knock Roger off.
Clang!
Rollo parried him instantly.
Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.
Roger's mouth was full of blood. He couldn't go on.
"Everyone stop!"
At last, Adelaide shouted.
Both the righteous and opportunists halted. Rollo and the Captain stood off, weapons still drawn but unmoving.
Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.
Roger's vision blurred. But he wouldn't stop.
Everyone in the hall stood frozen, watching him—as if time had stopped for them but not for him.
Thirty.
Roger stopped compressions, quickly checked Simon's airway.
Then, blood still pooling in his mouth, he spat to the side and began mouth-to-mouth.
One breath.
Two.
He lifted his head. He couldn't manage a second round. He was spent.
No one stepped in to help. He knew there'd be no explaining this.
He could be burned as a sorcerer. Exiled as a madman.
And truthfully, if he'd just done nothing, he could have inherited the title of Count.
Even with some resistance from "honorable" vassals, Lady Adelaide would have supported him.
But now…
He looked around.
Everyone stared at him like he was a monster—even his mother.
His mouth dripped blood. His arms trembled. His body was screaming in pain.
Then he looked down—and saw Simon open his eyes.
His lips were streaked with Roger's blood, his chest rose and fell with returning breath.
The court physician rushed forward to examine both brothers and declared:
"They're both in good health."
Roger wanted to shout:
"What part of me looks healthy to you?! My arms are cramping, my knees are scraped raw, my lips are bleeding—and if I weren't so out of breath, I'd spit in your face!"
A well-traveled Crusader checked on the food taster.
Like the electric fish in his hands, the man had no wounds—but he was dead.
The Crusader spoke solemnly:
"This is a Nile catfish from Egypt. It's cursed. Touching it means death—even animals that drink from the same water die."
Lady Adelaide whispered with the bishop.
Then the bishop stood and proclaimed:
"The newly anointed Count of Sicily, Simon, is under God's protection. The heretic curse holds no power here. All glory to the Lord!"
"Hallelujah!" the crowd echoed.
Adelaide apologized on Roger's behalf, claiming:
"He was simply frightened and acted improperly."
"He's just a child who feared for his brother," she said.
"As everyone knows, the Hauteville family is united. Please don't attach sinister meanings to his actions."
The righteous and opportunists alike knelt on one knee, renewing their oaths of loyalty.
Everyone returned to their seats.
Lady Adelaide declared: "The banquet shall continue."
The minstrel resumed singing—off-key and nervous.
The fool trembled through his juggling.
The servants moved with visible fear.
One Crusader boasted:
"Back in the East, we ate meals sitting atop enemy corpses."
The newly recruited knights nodded in admiration.
Recklessness dispelled fear.
Cowards had no place at tables where men bore swords.
Blood and wine stirred the guests to a fever pitch.
Boasting, brawling, heavy drinking—the atmosphere reached a raucous climax.
By the end, the guests left satisfied.
Everyone agreed that only a feast soaked in blood was worthy of their status.
Praise for the Crimson Feast echoed across all of Messina.
And along with it, a rumor sped through the streets—
faster than an arrow.