Chapter 10: Representing the Holy Body

Heraclius did not tell the children the exact time or place—lest further trouble arise—and even now Amalric I had found no trace of the source of the leprosy.

As Cesar suspected, the nearest cluster of lepers, a leper valley, lay fifty li away from Arasal Road; even if a leper had hidden among the pilgrims, he could not easily approach Baldwin.

Baldwin was only nine, neither squire nor retainer; beyond rare hunting trips, his movements were confined to the inner citadel of the Holy Cross Castle, and those around him were either the lord’s heir or the sons of ministers, none of whom had since fallen ill—could it truly be that God was displeased with Godfrey and his descendants for refusing to hand Arasal Road over to His emissary, and had sent an angel to punish him?

Heraclius and Amalric I shared identical views on this matter: it was not a natural disaster, but man-made calamity.

To prevent a second man-made calamity, Heraclius would not detail his and the king’s plans to any third party.

“There is another task for you,” Heraclius said again. “Tomorrow, during Mass, you shall receive the Holy Body on Baldwin’s behalf.”

“Receive the Holy Body in another’s place?” Baldwin exclaimed. “Isn’t that a grave sacrilege?”

“Receiving the Holy Body in another’s place refers to the presumption of those un-baptized, un-confessed, and untaught in Church doctrine—you are not among them, Baldwin,” Heraclius said calmly, revealing nothing of how many times he and Amalric I had argued with the Patriarch of the Holy Land over this matter in recent days.

Baldwin breathed rapidly.

“Your father told you,” Heraclius said, “you may trust him.”

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“How can he stand before all these people?” Abigail, son of Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, stared fixedly at the black-haired boy standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Princess Sibylla.

“Because he acts on Prince Baldwin’s behalf,” Bohemond murmured lazily. “He has every right.”

“But he ought to know his station,” Abigail spat. “Such a lowly creature…” yet he stood so close to her, his breath mingling with her fragrance.

Bohemond merely lifted his eyes in disdain—he knew what his son was thinking—

“Then will you go?” he whispered, lips barely moving, voice level with the crowd’s murmur yet faintly blurred, ensuring only Abigail, pressed close beside him, could hear: “I can petition Your Majesty to permit you to serve His Highness. But the question is,” he shifted his knee slightly—the chapel of the Holy Cross Castle stood high atop the main tower, yet still could not escape the chill seeping through the stone—

“Do you have the courage? To remain constantly beside a leper? To hold his golden cup, carry his cloak, sleep beneath his bed, breathe his exhalations—do you dare? If I recall correctly, when you first heard the king’s only son, your friend and future lord, was a leper, you wept uncontrollably, your knees buckled, and you knelt before me, begging never to serve as the prince’s squire again.”

Here the prince even curled his lips: “You said you’d rather become a monk, fight the Saracens, die—anything rather than dwell day and night beside a sinner punished by God.”

Hearing this, Abigail’s face flushed crimson. He opened and closed his lips, breathing hard, but by the time the monks finished singing one verse, he still lacked the courage, and finally stammered: “He’s just a slave…”

“‘For they are my servants, whom I brought forth out of the land of Egypt; they shall not be sold as bondmen,’” Bohemond repeated a passage from Scripture (we may find it in Leviticus). “When Amalric I bought him from that Ishmaelite slave merchant, he ceased to be a slave.”

Abigail had no reply, but for this stubborn youth to relinquish his resentment was no easy matter—Bohemond saw at a glance the malice brewing in his heart, and sighed inwardly at how he had produced such a mediocre eldest son.

Sibylla, eldest daughter of the King of Arasal, was thirteen, slender-waisted, her blossoms swelling, lips, forehead, and cheeks radiant even without rouge, like the morning sky. Some said she was as pure as the Vestal Virgins of the Palatine Hill; others claimed she possessed the wisdom and talent of the Queen of Sheba of Marib. From Galilee in the north to Halil in the south, countless men sought to wed her, as numerous as the sands of the desert.

To gaze upon her shadow upon the dust was sacrilege—and yet this humble slave, merely because he served the prince, now stood beside the princess as if a close friend, receiving from her hand the golden cup and the sacred bread. How could a pure-hearted youth not burn with envy?

Bohemond cared nothing for Abigail’s adoration of the princess; what troubled him was that his eldest son was so foolish as to fail to grasp what he truly ought to control, turning ends into means.

For a nobleman like Bohemond, Sibylla’s greatest value lay in her right of succession to the Kingdom of Arasal.

The Kingdom of Arasal, the County of Tripoli, the Principality of Antioch, and the defunct County of Edessa—all recognized primogeniture (male heirs preferred); if a king had no male heir, his daughter inherited all and passed it to her husband—in other words, if a kingdom died out, an outsider could acquire it through marriage.

When King Godfrey I of Arasal strongly supported this system, it was because he had three daughters, who successively married the lords of Antioch, Tripoli, and Edessa—and as Godfrey I had hoped, each briefly became regent after her husband’s death—except Edessa. Perhaps precisely because of this, the County of Edessa had always been distant and cold toward the Kingdom of Arasal, so when it was attacked by Saracens and Amelians, Arasal and its two allies ignored past oaths and stood idle.

Yet, Bohemond mused bitterly, Godfrey I likely never imagined his succession law might one day harm Arasal: he died without issue, and his brother, then Count of Edessa, Baldwin, inherited Arasal. But Baldwin’s son, Baldwin II, also died childless, and his kingdom passed to his son-in-law.

Baldwin II’s grandson, Baldwin III, Bohemond, and Raymond of Tripoli were all his squires, friends, and brothers; they spent their entire childhood and adolescence together in the Holy Cross Castle, until Bohemond had to return to Antioch to fulfill his duties. Unsurprisingly, he would soon be summoned back to Arasal to become Baldwin III’s right hand, wielding immense power.

But fate played cruel tricks: Baldwin III died suddenly, never having married. His younger brother, the Count of Edessa—who later became Amalric I—took the throne of Arasal. Though he recalled Bohemond, truthfully, Bohemond and Amalric I were not close.

To remedy this, he sent his eldest son, Abigail, early to serve beside Amalric I’s only son, young Baldwin, hoping he would forge a strong friendship with the future king, as Bohemond himself had.

To his disappointment, Abigail’s relationship with young Baldwin was lukewarm—or rather, he had redirected all the attention and time he should have devoted to the king’s son toward the king’s daughter. But after young Baldwin was found to have leprosy, Bohemond’s attitude shifted from opposition to ambiguity—everyone knew lepers did not live long, and could not bear children.

Yet what troubled the Prince of Antioch was that, between Abigail and Sibylla, it was clearly Sibylla who held the upper hand. Given the precedent set by Godfrey’s daughters, Bohemond could not help fearing Abigail would become a puppet, helplessly manipulated by Sibylla.

One among many.

Abigail was not the only youth enamored with the princess: David of Tripoli, Judas of the Templars, Roger of the Hospitallers, William of Acre, Nasi of Galilee, Guy of Arabia…

All had once served the king’s son and been close friends of Sibylla’s beloved younger brother. Among them, some were cowards like Abigail—but others, like David, were brave to the point of recklessness—he had requested to return to the prince’s side even after learning of Baldwin’s illness.

Amalric I, of course, denied him.

Any one of these men, if he merely released a sliver of malice, would be enough to crush this servant with no lineage or background. Bohemond thought this, and couldn’t help rolling his eyes inwardly—his foolish son hadn’t even thought of this, yet rushed forward first to display his ugly, useless face—didn’t he realize that if anything happened to this boy, he would be the first to bear the blame?

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Cesar took the golden cup.

To say he was unaware of the burning stares and surging malice behind him would be absurd. In truth, save perhaps for Amalric I, few in the chapel held any fondness for him—he was a slave from an Ishmaelite merchant, of unknown origin, worse than a bastard or a commoner; no one could guarantee he was not a spy or an infidel.

If Amalric I had merely made him a lowly servant, none would have cared.

But after Baldwin contracted leprosy, Amalric I bore two crushing burdens—for himself and for Baldwin—he had to answer for his kingdom, fight for his faith, and uphold his duty to vassals and subjects… the pressure nearly drove him mad, twisting his temperament into bitterness.

The more they demanded Amalric I strip his son of status, title, and power, the more he elevated him beyond reach—though Baldwin remained confined to his room, he would lavish Cesar with extraordinary favor to show all: his son remained the most noble heir of Arasal! Even his servant deserved to look a count or duke’s son in the eye.

To the timid and fearful, this was torment—but to Cesar, it was merely responsibility equal to power. Unless he wished to accept the era’s and land’s brutal inequalities of blood and rank, he would not refuse.

The clergy’s discontent centered on “receiving the Holy Body on another’s behalf.” “This has never been done!” they cried, for the wine and unleavened bread in Mass represented Christ’s blood and flesh, and until now, only believers themselves could receive them; if a believer was immobile, a priest would bring the sacrament directly—not allow another to receive it in his stead.

But Baldwin’s case was different: whether leprosy was God’s punishment or test remained uncertain. Though Church law forbade lepers from receiving sacraments, Amalric I had clearly pushed the boundary.

Yet no matter how they complained, Amalric I would not change his mind. Receiving the Holy Body on Baldwin’s behalf was merely the first step—he would make all understand: Baldwin’s status and dignity would not waver one iota, even as a leper.

Under everyone’s gaze, Cesar held the golden cup of wine and the unleavened bread wrapped in fine linen, and departed through the secret passage behind the chapel. The guard of the passage was a stout, gloomy monk who bowed to Cesar, then opened the door.

The passage was narrow, reeking of stone’s metallic tang; thin light pierced through small holes in the walls, barely illuminating the steps. Cesar reached the left tower within minutes.

Seeing him, Baldwin drew a deep breath; seeing the Holy Body, he exhaled in relief.

He took the unleavened bread from Cesar’s hand, dipped it in the wine, and swallowed it whole.

Baldwin had wished to ask about the scene, the reactions—but before Cesar could put away the cup, servants arrived—new servants, for the former ones, all gentle as lambs, had been hanged; though perhaps they murmured ill thoughts in their hearts, acts like Wit’s—publicly sprinkling salt in water, by doors, along corridors to ward off evil, demanding rewards, slacking off, drinking, gambling—had ceased entirely.

They reported: Princess Sibylla had come to visit her brother.

At that moment, they heard a series of rhythmic taps, like small hammers striking a xylophone—the sound of the princess and her maids’ wooden or hardened leather shoes striking stone steps.

And the faint rustle of silk and linen skirts brushing against walls and floor, the whispering like nightingales’ trills—without seeing, one could imagine a group of lively, charming young girls.

“Don’t dismiss your squire,” came a clear, beautiful voice from outside the door. “These lovely ladies have come to see him.”

(End of Chapter)