Chapter 1: Escaping from Hell

This is hell.

The air was scorching, dust swirling; the stench of blood and urine flooded his nostrils. Thirty boys—with white, brown, and black skin—were brought to a flat-topped hill on the right side of the Judean Hills.

Here they would be castrated; if they were lucky enough to survive, they would be sold to the courts of Byzantium, Egypt, or Syria.

He was the thirty-first.

He gasped in agony, his breath hotter than the sand beneath him. Two sturdy black slaves dragged him before the slave merchant, whose eyes flickered with hesitation.

The merchandise was sick, weak, and the castration method used was brutally crude.

Like pigs or horses, stripped of their masculinity, the half-dead remnants were shoved straight into pre-dug pits, their upper bodies exposed, heat and sand the only means to staunch the bleeding.

Castrated slaves had to remain here all night; the merchant would come to inspect them before Venus rose, and typically three out of ten survived.

But he certainly would not be one of those three.

After a moment's hesitation, the slave merchant shook his head in regret.

His thoughts remained clouded by heat; he could only cling to this one detail—the merchant had clearly been reluctant.

One slave, out of pity, gave him a sip of wine thick with sediment but astonishingly sweet; the alcohol and sugar acted like sparks igniting charcoal, restoring his ability to think and move.

He was still beneath a tent with only the sky above, but just three feet from the shadow beneath his feet lay blinding white light; once his eyes adjusted, he saw yellow-brown dunes, a winding path between them, then the sky and the great lake, warped by rising heat.

Perhaps because he was nearly dead, they had not bothered to shackle or bind him—after all, even the stronger boys only screamed and begged—but if he thought he could escape with this advantage…

He touched his arm, confirming this was not his original body. This body belonged to a boy of seven or eight, unarmed, naked, yet intact.

Besides the few slaves loyal to him, the slave merchant had four or five guards pacing outside the tent; their gazes rarely fell on the child, seemingly posted only to deter outside threats—but if anyone tried to flee, they would not stand idle.

He was brought outside the tent; the merchant inspected him, hand gripping a curved castration knife—polished to a gleam, yet still reeking of blood.

At that moment, they heard hoofbeats approaching—not far off, many riders. The merchant and his guards instantly tensed; though the Judean Hills lay only dozens of miles from the Holy City of Arasal, bandits still roamed freely, taking anything—money, slaves, or those who could pay ransom.

As if in an instant, two swift little horses appeared in their sight.

The riders were two attendants in high-collared robes, each with vertical quilting lines, a leather weapon belt across the chest, and a single-handed sword hanging at the waist.

Upon seeing the men on the hill, they immediately raised the horns slung from their saddles and blew—sharp, short, clear notes piercing the air.

Before the horn calls had faded, several armored knights arrived, riding tall warhorses. The slave merchant and his guards, the moment they saw the white, sleeveless surcoats of the newcomers emblazoned with the red Jerusalem cross, dropped to their knees, burying their heads in their hands.

Through his fingers, the slave merchant saw more attendants and knights emerging, carrying banners.

Some led packhorses laden with game; others held high falcons in leather hoods; hounds circled their horses' hooves, barking incessantly; still others carried multiple crossbows, javelins, and spears—clearly servants tasked with supplying their lord's weapons.

Among and behind them rode more elaborately dressed nobles and lords, their chainmail covered in colorful velvet and silk, their horses draped in splendid trappings, shields at their saddles adorned with intricate coats of arms.

Amidst them, a middle-aged man wearing a crown frowned at the unexpected stench of blood—he was Amalric I, King of Arasal.

"Who are those men on the hill?" Amalric I asked.

His friend, vassal, and brother-in-faith, Raymond, Count of Tripoli, lifted his head for a single glance and showed revulsion: "An Isaacite castrator."

Behind him, Bohemond, Grand Duke of Antioch, spat. Amalric I's already sour mood darkened further; he said nothing, only lightly tapped his horse's neck. His mount immediately understood and quickened its pace.

As the horse went, so did the king's retinue—sharply alert. Raymond raised his hand and slashed it forward. The knights roared in unison, hooves pounding like drums, dust rising, heads surging forward; in less than the time it took to drink a cup of tea, they left the blood-soaked hill far behind.

But just before King Amalric I's Percheron broke into a gallop, a small commotion erupted barely a hundred feet ahead.

Hounds barked wildly, falcons flapped their wings, horses reared and twisted under their riders' control, their massive hooves sinking deep into the sand, stones flying everywhere.

Amalric I was a knight-king; his gaze was sharp. He saw instantly what had caused the disturbance.

A slave had escaped from the Isaacite tent. While the merchant and guards lay prostrate, he leapt with an unbelievable speed and courage, clearing low backs and heads, rolling down the hill like a nail struck by a giant hammer—thud—he slammed into their ranks.

Arriving here did not mean his life was safe.

All warhorses were trained to trample anything that rolled beneath their hooves—especially strangers. Even the strongest knight, clad in full armor, if thrown from his mount in battle, might still be crushed into bloody mud wrapped in iron.

The dogs saw him as prey no larger than a small animal, each snarling ferociously. A defenseless child, relying solely on his slender frame and quick reflexes, fought for his life between hooves, iron boots, and the claws and teeth of dogs.

Moreover, attendants had already raised crossbows and drawn swords.

Had not a monk suddenly spurred his horse between him and the others, he would have been dead. The monk was known to all—he was Heraclius, the king's friend and religious minister, the resident chaplain of the Holy Cross Fortress.

"Stop!" the monk cried. "The king wishes to see him."

The crowd parted. The king rode forward. His Percheron stood over six feet at the shoulder; towering above, Amalric I looked down with cold indifference at the escaped slave.

The slave was covered in dust, but his skin was pale—he was a boy, not an undeveloped girl. His short black hair was matted. One arm hung limp at his side—possibly sprained or broken.

He gasped painfully, trying to rise. Someone shouted, "Kneel!" He knelt—but stubbornly placed only one knee on the ground. The posture was more taxing than kneeling on both knees, especially for one already at the end of his strength.

As the king watched him, he slowly raised his head. What beautiful eyes, Amalric I thought—a pair of pure, unblemished emeralds. What would he do? How would he beg me to save him? If he truly were a Christian, coming to a Christian king?

The slave was thinking too. He had nothing but this unfamiliar body, no one to vouch for him or defend him. Amalric I would grant him little patience or time.

He raised his arm, and in the wary gazes of all, sucked a drop of blood oozing from his wound. The small liquid moistened his throat, letting him speak clearly.

"I will sing to the Lord…" Then he lifted his gaze to the unfamiliar crowd, slowly, slowly speaking: "For He has triumphed gloriously; He has hurled horse and rider into the sea…"

This was a language Amalric I and the crowd could not possibly ignore—Vulgar Latin. Though hoarse, slow, and with mispronounced words, it was unmistakably the language of Christians, the familiar hymn, the syllables and words etched into their souls.

The crowd could not help but join in, nearly drowning out the slave's voice: "... The Lord is my strength and my song; He has become my salvation. He is my God, and I will praise Him; He is my father's God, and I will exalt Him…"

The king lowered his eyes and placed a hand over his chest: "... The Lord is a warrior; His name is the Lord. The Lord's right hand has shown His power in glory; the Lord's right hand has shattered the enemy."

He murmured, "The Lord brought His people out of their slavery with a mighty hand, saying, 'For they are My servants, whom I brought out of Egypt; they shall not be sold as slaves.' So, child, you are a Christian. You come to me, as the Isaacites come to the Lord, begging for salvation."

"Yes."

"Then I shall save you," said the king. "Take him, Heraclius. This may be the greatest prize of my hunt today."

The monk named Heraclius bowed and dismounted. He wrapped his cloak around the naked boy. The moment his skin touched the child's, he recoiled. "He's burning up!"

"Is it plague?" Amalric I asked.

"I'll take him to the Church of Saint John the Baptist," Heraclius said.

One attendant took a purse containing dozens of silver coins from the Count of Tripoli—a slave merchant had no right to speak face-to-face with a knight.

He casually tossed the purse before the merchant, then wheeled his horse and rode back to the procession, never seeing the merchant's ghastly expression—far worse than losing a valuable slave.

——————————

Heraclius, the moment he saw the child, guessed he had a good chance of survival. It had to do with his astonishing courage and resolve, his skin tone and faith—but most importantly, King Amalric I's only son, young Baldwin, was precisely this age.

In the past, this resemblance alone would not have stirred Amalric I's pity. But just days ago, young Baldwin was confirmed to have leprosy.

Leprosy, a violent contagious disease: those afflicted lost their hair, developed red rashes, patches, swollen lymph nodes, numbness, atrophy, and deformities of limbs, rendering their faces and bodies monstrous.

In Byzantium, Francia, and Britain, lepers were banished from normal society (this was even written into law).

They were forbidden to live in cities, enter churches (or receive sacraments), or appear anywhere crowded—like markets. They could not inherit or be inherited, nor file lawsuits or defend others.

The Church held two views of them: one, that they were unclean, punished by God for some hidden sin; the other, that it was a trial—though sent by God, at least in name… it offered lepers a measure of comfort.

With young Baldwin afflicted, whether seen as sinful or tested, it meant the current state of Arasal would be overturned completely.

The most fortunate part: Amalric I and previous kings of Arasal had not yet enacted laws regarding lepers. He could keep Baldwin within Arasal and his Holy Cross Fortress, continuing to fight for his only son's political and legal rights.

Doubts, condemnations, and pressures surged like waves. Amalric I had not smiled in days—that was why he went hunting today.

His friends and ministers all urged him to go out—even hundreds of hunted game failed to lift his spirits, until this small accident occurred.

Perhaps for Amalric I, redeeming a Christian's life from the monstrous Isaacite slave merchant was like adding a precious counter to the scales balancing his son's fate—perhaps this counter would keep poor young Baldwin from plunging too swiftly into hell.

Thus Heraclius did not disdain the task because the child had once been a slave. He spurred his horse, racing for half an hour until he reached the refuge of the Church of Saint John the Baptist.

The refuge was the prototype of a hospital, originally established for wounded and sick knights and pilgrims during the First Crusade; now it served all Christians in Arasal and neighboring lands.

Upon hearing of a feverish patient, Abbot John immediately arrived with several monks. They confirmed whether the patient carried plague. After examination, they determined he had merely collapsed from hunger, weakness, and terror—his blood was merely overheated. They relaxed.

"Ah," John said, upon hearing Heraclius's account, "He doesn't look like the son of a serf or craftsman."

"Indeed," Heraclius said. "He likely came from a good family and received proper education."

They spoke not without reason. Besides the child's ability to recite scripture correctly, after being washed with clean water and diluted wine, his body bore no old scars or irreversible deformities—all wounds were fresh and minor—the price he paid for his lost freedom.

Such a condition was rare among ordinary poor children.

They slept with livestock on straw, fleas and lice feasting on them. They were beaten by parents or masters, whipped by overseers and guards. They were burned with torches, scalded with boiling water, bitten by dogs, kicked by horses.

From infancy to youth, fed only dried peas, acorns, and barley gruel, they were universally thin, short, hunched. Hard labor made their joints thick and fingers rough, nails hardened.

They often went half-naked, barefoot or wrapped in ragged scraps, their soles thick with filthy calluses; their teeth, worn from chewing coarse, hard food, grew loose, brittle, sometimes falling out even as permanent teeth emerged.

None of these conditions were found on this unknown patient. One monk joked, "His soles are softer than my palm."

"The more so," Heraclius said, "the more unfortunate he is." Had they not passed by, the child's best fate would have been to become a eunuch in the harem of the Byzantine Emperor or the Fatimid Caliph.

The monks, hearing this, could not help but show shame and pity. The joking monk made several signs of the cross in penance.

"Care for him well," Heraclius said. "The king may come to see him."

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(End of Chapter)