Chapter 113: Bethlehem (8)

Cesar stayed in Bethlehem for over a month.

For those dozens of days, he rarely spent a single day alone; the people of Bethlehem were eager to meet this new lord, and he wished to know them too—from Bishop Andrew, to the Constable of Knights, from guild masters to merchant heads, to representatives of Christians, Saracens, and Isaacites—daily banquets and receptions, endless gifts, letters, and contracts.

They all showed great deference, and Cesar did not disappoint their hospitality; he refused no invitation or gift except those from courtesans. This dispelled their greatest fear—that the new lord was a hermit or a crude, unrefined man—after all, Cesar’s reputation as the “Little Saint” had already reached Bethlehem.

Those who held seats in Bethlehem’s Mass were not foolish enough to believe that a man of integrity was necessarily good; humans had desires, original sin, and would always commit sins—this one or that one—gold coins, wine, and women, even jewels and fine robes, were all things they could easily offer; Bethlehem, second only to Jerusalem, was a holy land rich enough to support a king.

As for the young knights, they were the easiest for Cesar to win over; though Cesar was not one to boast of his exploits, when they asked about his campaign in Egypt, he could not remain silent.

He spoke of the tents stretching from Gaza’s port to the city, endless as clouds or wild grass; the army marching along the road like a river, the banners of knights and lords rising like sails upon the water; the olive and fig groves outside Birej were so dense they darkened the sky like night, their fruits glittering like stars within.

He told how the people of Birej walked reverently to Amalric I’s tent, prostrated themselves, and offered the city’s keys, chests of silk robes, golden crowns, and silver sacred vessels; how the ransom money paid by the city’s Saracens piled into shimmering dunes upon the sand; how they entered the city, cleansed the pagan temples, and turned them into churches, where priests held Mass—just as they later did in Fustat.

Cesar said little about Fustat, for it involved Amalric I—his negligence had been the root of the disaster, and the disaster had led to the crusade’s ultimate failure; though the crusading knights had gained the gold and glory they sought, had Amalric I’s original plan prevailed, both Birej and Fustat should have become Christian cities.

He also spoke of Prince Baldwin, Arthur (Richard) of Aquitaine, and several other knights who had left a deep impression on him.

Then they went together to hunt outside the city, exterminating bandits and infidels who preyed on pilgrims on the roads—during the campaign, none who had been under Cesar’s protection failed to admire him; in Bethlehem, the knights faced far less danger, yet they still felt the same exhilaration and security in freely fighting and riding.

Soon, they grew accustomed to clustering around Cesar, cheerfully and noisily going here and there.

“I heard the knights who followed King Amalric I greatly admired him; I didn’t expect my boys to be any different,” said the Constable of Knights, watching the knights file into the square from the window: “At first, they hated him.”

“No matter his origin or character, the Saint’s favor is real,” said Bishop Andrew: “Not just these naive young chickens—even years ago, I heard that Geoffrey of the Templars, John of the Gerard family, and Count Etienne of the Franks all begged the king for him, but the king refused them all.”

“It wasn’t Amalric I who refused—it was his son Baldwin,” said the Constable: “The prince treasured this companion; they received God’s blessing together in the holiest of holies, freed from the murder of sinners under Christ’s care; they were bloodless brothers, having sworn to guarantee each other’s safety—”

“They don’t want to approach him; they want to approach the king—Baldwin IV.”

“By the way, Amalric I is dead; the election for Grand Master of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre should already be underway. Have you received a summons?”

“Likely within these days,” said the Constable. The election methods for the Grand Masters of the three great orders in the Holy Land—the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, the Templars, and the Hospitallers—were nearly identical: initiated by the Archdeacon, then voted on by all Constables; yet often, such votes were symbolic, especially for family-dominated orders like the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.

Even if Prince Baldwin had not received God’s blessing, even if he remained the sickly boy who could not lift a longsword, could they possibly elect another Grand Master? Not to mention that Amalric I had flawlessly fulfilled all his duties; every king of Jerusalem was the “Guardian of the Holy Sepulchre.” It would be the greatest joke if the Grand Master of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre were not the king of Jerusalem.

“When you return, the Bethlehem knights will go with you, won’t they?”

“Of course,” the Constable nodded. “Are you worried he’ll do something? In Bethlehem, or in Jerusalem? I doubt he’s so impulsive. Whether he’s as good as people say or not, even if he were a wicked man, he’d know his roots are still too weak to stand firm in these years.”

Bishop Andrew sighed deeply: “I don’t know what to do. If I stand as a member of the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, we should stand behind the young king Baldwin IV, resisting Bohemond, Raymond, and the Templars. But I also fear that if Baldwin IV gains real power, he will favor the Bethlehem knights too much—like those Eastern emperors…”

He made a gesture; the Constable nodded in understanding. They had come from Francia, the Apennines, or even Britannia, only to discover that there existed strange, wondrous courts like those of Eastern emperors—from the Byzantine emperor, to the caliphs of Syria and Egypt, to the sultans—their administrative systems differed utterly from those of kings or queens.

They could truly achieve a single sovereign—whether caliph, sultan, vizier, or emir…

So originally, Prince Baldwin’s court could never have only one man; men like David of Tripoli, Abigail of Antioch, William of Aleppo, and others were all sons of dukes and counts, destined to become the king’s right and left hands, balancing and supporting each other. But who could have foreseen that the prince would contract leprosy? At that time, they withdrew—not only from fear of the dreadful disease, but also because they believed Baldwin’s only future lay in a monastery.

Life is unpredictable. They could understand Amalric I’s stubbornness toward Prince Baldwin, but that Baldwin would gain the Saint’s favor and grow so strong was beyond expectation; Amalric I himself likely never imagined he would die so soon, nor that the Byzantine princess had borne him a daughter.

Only Prince Baldwin could inherit his throne.

Bishop Andrew gave a sarcastic smile. Fortunately, he had already been in Bethlehem then, avoiding deep entanglement in Jerusalem’s political struggles. But now, if he did not act soon, it would be too late—yet which side should he choose?

“When you return,” he said to the Constable, “please visit the king on my behalf.”

“Visit him for what?”

“I know some are trying to send intelligence to Baldwin IV through the Bethlehem knights,” said Bishop Andrew: “Several bold Isaacites—they want Damascus.”

The Constable looked incredulous: “Them? Damascus?”

“Who doesn’t want Damascus?” Bishop Andrew gestured meaningfully to the Constable’s dagger—its origin was Damascus: “They’ve long maintained ties with the Asmara family of Aleppo. Though they’re Saracens, merchants are merchants—they’ve always wanted to sell their soap to Europe.”

“For… soap?”

“Partly because Nur al-Din, that old lion, can no longer control his fierce generals,” said Bishop Andrew, interlacing his fingers: “The actions of those Kurdish uncle and nephew have revealed much. Compared to Fustat or Alexandria, Damascus is far more attractive. I could even say that if Nur al-Din truly dies, the Zengid court and army will collapse—then…”

“We have a king with no achievements, and the last campaign ended in dismal failure,” the Constable quickly replied: “Even if we rekindle a crusade within a year, two, or three years, it will be extremely difficult—our lord will still try.”

“If he truly captures Damascus, even for the next fifteen or twenty years, until his death, no one will dare defy him. But if he fails…”

“He remains king of Jerusalem, guardian of the Holy Sepulchre. Even Godfrey didn’t win every battle.”

The Constable grew deeply troubled: “Should we warn the Bethlehem knights…”

Will he listen? Or will he think we’re seeking power, trying to sideline him?

“Warn him. At least prevent him from openly inciting the king. Those ministers, unable to place their sons beside the king, already burn with envy. If they catch even a single slip, they’ll never rest until they drag him down.”

————

Cesar also felt it: after only a month away from the Holy Cross Castle, it had suddenly become crowded.

Not only Abigail of Antioch, David of Tripoli, but also young nobles like William of Aleppo, Nasir of Galilee, Guy of Arabia—all had undergone their “Selection Ceremony” in various churches and could not become “bloodless brothers” with Baldwin, yet they were sons of dukes and counts; once knighted, they could serve as the king’s attendants.

Raymond also knew Cesar was entirely different to Baldwin—he had no intention of severing their bond immediately; if it were that simple, Bohemond would have done it long ago, and Heraclius would not have kept Cesar away so long—but he could make these youths, including his own son David, serve the king.

No king ever had only one man beside him. Besides, Bethlehem was a vital military stronghold and economic center, with a sacred status second only to Jerusalem. Cesar could not remain beside Baldwin forever, doing nothing. Since Amalric I had granted him a fief, he must fulfill his duty as lord.

When David saw Cesar, his heart filled with a tangled, stiff, bitter knot. His father had already explained the stakes: they were grown men now, no longer children to act recklessly—refusing to return to Baldwin’s side out of guilt for the past was foolish, for both Baldwin and David.

“Cesar is not the Count of Bethlehem, nor its Duke. He is merely a Bethlehem knight. To hold a title, he must earn sufficient merit in one or more wars, or the king must find him a noble heiress. Either way, it will take years. Will you refuse to stand beside the king because of a momentary misstep then?”

“Don’t you know that Baldwin needs you most now? You, Abigail, Guy, William, Nasir—you are the ones who will someday accompany the king into battle or stand beside him in court. As for Cesar, I admit he is clever and shares deep bonds with the king, but he is still only one man, and Baldwin must rule a kingdom.”

Yes, David thought—he could admit Cesar surpassed him in every way. But the king could not have only one man beside him. He extended his hand: “Cesar,” he said, “long time no see—welcome back.”

He would accept Cesar, and demand others do the same. They must unite—for themselves, and for Baldwin.

Cesar naturally did not refuse. He took David’s hand, and at the same time, his gaze swept over several faces not entirely unfamiliar—years had passed, they had grown, yet traces of their youth remained visible.

“Abigail isn’t here,” David misunderstood his look: “He…”

“Always attends the princess,” said a servant, sparking a round of laughter—unfriendly laughter.

——————

“Whose letter is this?” Abigail asked sharply, having just entered and seen the princess reading a letter with a smile.

“None of your concern,” replied the princess’s maid rudely. Before Abigail could rage, Princess Sibylla raised her hand: “It’s nothing,” she said. “It’s a letter from Damara of Gerard.”

Hearing it was from the princess’s maid, Abigail’s expression softened. “You seem very pleased.”

“Yes,” said the princess. “She has granted my request.”

“What request?” Abigail asked curiously—Sibylla rarely used the word “request.”

“She will release Cesar from his vow. Cesar is no longer her knight.”

(End of Chapter)