Chapter 13: The Son of God and the Son of Man

Cesar later heard that David had participated in several more duels among squires and won each one without doubt; he divided the spoils into two parts, one offered to God, the other to Princess Sibylla, thus washing away the shame of defeat and reclaiming his honor—after all, David was not yet a true knight.

But all this had little to do with Cesar; he and Baldwin were now consumed by an obsessive love for the foals Polax and Castor.

Polax and Castor were the twin offspring of Amalric I’s black stallion and a white Arabian mare, inheriting all the virtues of both parents: small heads, long necks and legs, short backs, and broad chests; even though they were less than a year old, everyone who saw them believed they would become outstanding warhorses.

Polax was black, with a white star on his forehead; Castor was white, with a black star on his forehead; their names came from the twin stars of Greek mythology, sons of Zeus and Leda—Polax was the son of a god, Castor the son of a man; thus, in Baldwin’s original plan, he would give Castor to his most trusted friend, the son of the Count of Tripoli, David.

Now Castor belonged to Cesar.

Castor was unlike any horse Cesar had ever seen or touched; this horse, born for war, had already displayed traits far beyond those of its kind even as a foal; more than that, it was smarter than many dull servants and more responsive than any steel vehicle; even though Cesar rode it for the first time, he could feel intensely how agile and in tune it was.

Without Castor, Cesar did not believe he could have captured David so easily.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” he said: “At that moment, my knees and calves pressed against Castor’s body; I could feel his heart pounding violently, in perfect rhythm with mine—as if, for an instant, my thoughts had flowed into his mind; we were tightly bound, fused into one.”

“All great knights should begin with such a bond with their four-legged friend,” Baldwin said: “I too wish I could have such a first battle with my Polax.”

He extended his hand, palm open, holding a piece of dried apple; Polax immediately stretched out his long tongue to lick it, the tickling sensation drawing from Baldwin a rare smile befitting his age: “But it’s not so bad now—since my father still wishes me to become a knight and his heir, my first true battle alongside Polax may come on an actual battlefield.”

This stirred Cesar’s interest: “An actual battlefield? You’re not even a squire yet, Your Highness—can you go to a battlefield?”

“Once the Selection Ceremony is over,” Baldwin said: “Whether you receive ‘Grace’ or ‘Bestowal’”—here, to avoid speaking the Archangel’s holy name too often in informal settings, people used these two terms to mean being chosen by Michael or Raphael; ‘Grace’ referred to being chosen by Michael, ‘Bestowal’ by Raphael—

“If we both are fortunate enough to receive ‘Grace,’ then what follows needs no words; but if one of us receives ‘Bestowal,’” his expression turned solemn: “I will remain by my father’s side. As for you, I hope you will make the same choice.”

“I swore to you and your father that I will not leave you unless you banish me.”

Baldwin nodded approvingly. “You need not use formal address with me, Cesar—between friends, there is no need.” He paused thoughtfully. “Still, if worst comes to worst, we should have contingency plans.”

“Mm.” Cesar replied, asking no further questions. His future—more accurately—was not tied to the foal Castor, but to Baldwin; he was Baldwin’s spear and shield; before the knight dies, the spear must break, the shield must shatter.

He sighed silently, refocusing his attention on the foal Castor, vigorously brushing his pure white coat with a boar-bristle brush; the foal, whose coat was once meant to be named Polax, had instead received the name Castor—because before naming the foals, Baldwin had been diagnosed with leprosy; in profound grief and resentment, he had given the name Polax to the black foal and Castor to the white one—and this was understandable.

It was also understandable that Abigail, son of the Duke of Antioch, felt envy; white horses had always been the mounts of kings and bishops; had it been Baldwin or David who received it, he might not have been so bitter—but why had Baldwin given Castor to Cesar?

Perhaps sensing the brush had stopped, Castor turned his head and nuzzled Cesar, as if urging him on; the foal’s large, luminous almond eyes could soften even the cruelest heart—and Cesar, who was naturally gentle, was no exception.

He raised the brush again, thoroughly cleaning Castor’s coat, which seemed to glow, then braided his long mane so that in the hot summer, the foal would stay cooler.

Baldwin had done the same, though his braids were less neat and tidy; Polax snorted, as if displeased. “Alright, alright,” Baldwin laughed: “It’s too late tonight—I’ll have Cesar braid you tomorrow morning.” He looked at Cesar: “Have you ever slept in the stable?”

“I don’t remember,” Cesar said: “But I can try.”

After lying down on the fluffy hay, Baldwin fell asleep quickly; Cesar, however, stared at the flickering torchlight, the frozen sky, and the twinkling stars—for a long time, until his eyes ached; unlike Baldwin, he had no retreat; soon, in the Selection Ceremony, he must be chosen, or he would perish too soon; even though Baldwin had promised not to abandon him, a slender spear, a thin shield—how long could they endure the coming storm?

——————

“How can one increase the chance of being chosen?”

Heraclius furrowed his brow tightly; he was the same age as Amalric I, but due to his extreme thinness, deep wrinkles had long formed on his forehead, around his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth; his nose and cheekbones stood high, his lips always drawn inward, making him appear stern even when not smiling; had it been David or Abigail, they would have fled at once—but to Cesar, this appearance was not frightening; on the contrary, he felt a touch of nostalgia—his past headmasters had all looked much the same.

“Ask that question outside, and you’ll be branded a heretic immediately,” Heraclius said: “How dare a mere mortal presume to fathom God’s will?”

“Then I retract my previous question,” Cesar said without fear: “How can we feel God’s joy more deeply, more acutely?”

Heraclius glared at him, then allowed a faint smile; Baldwin’s leprosy placed him between sinner and tested soul; neither he nor Amalric I needed a fanatic as the prince’s squire. “Piety and diligence,” he said, fearing Cesar might miss the subtlety: “And strict fasting—purify your body and soul, not just as you’re doing now; by the time of the Selection Ceremony, it will be stricter still—your food will be provided entirely by the monks.”

Cesar blinked. So the king and Heraclius’s method lay in the food; he did not press further. “Thank you for your teaching, and for your comfort.”

“Be steadfast,” Heraclius stroked his head: “Child, you must be more steadfast, more pure than anyone else.”

Cesar understood; doubts about Baldwin might haunt him for life because of his leprosy; as his squire, Cesar must demonstrate advantages others lacked—proving Baldwin a perfect monarch through his courage, wisdom, and devotion.

Just as King Arthur was surrounded by twelve knights—some using Arthur’s fame to elevate themselves, others like the wise Gawain, the pious Galahad (finder of the Holy Grail), the loyal Bedivere (guardian of Arthur to his final moment)—men of noble character and exceptional virtue who proved Arthur worthy of devotion and reverence.

He had no complaint; this was his duty. But after thinking, he made another request.

“You wish to cleanse the Church of the Holy Sepulchre yourself—every inch?” Heraclius exclaimed: “Child, do you know how large the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is? It is one-third the size of Mount Calvary.”

“I have decided,” Cesar said: “I am but a humble mortal; the only thing truly mine is my body—and I can do only this small work.”

After some thought, Heraclius granted his request.

He warned Cesar seriously: such public acts of devotion, once begun, must not be abandoned lightly; everyone in the Holy City would watch him; he must not neglect his duties as a squire—he had little free time to spare.

But since Cesar had spoken thus, it meant he had weighed it carefully. His origins, like Baldwin’s leprosy, were a weapon Suishikebeidirenyonglaicixiangtamen ；Baldwin cannot change his leprosy, nor can he prove himself the son of a knight or lord—but at least he could prove one thing: that he was a devout Christian.

It was not difficult; countless believers and monks before him had sought to demonstrate the purity and fervor of their faith to God or man.

Generally, prayer, chanting, and kneeling were common among commoners; to go further, they chose pilgrimage—not as in centuries later, when they had to save food from meager rations, offer gifts to lords or churches to obtain a permit (a document like an identity card) to avoid being arrested as vagrants; after barely escaping beasts, bandits, or knight-lords no better than bandits, they still faced trials of getting lost, poisoning, or disease; if, by God’s grace, they overcame these barriers and reached their destination, they still had to pay a fee to the custodians of the Holy Land to touch relics or witness miracles.

But it was not without reward; those who completed pilgrimage and returned home intact became “persons of influence” in their villages; people would listen endlessly to their stories; lords would remember their names; officials selecting helpers like “harvest overseers” would place them after relatives; perhaps they would become the first commoner to receive communion; their sons might join the choir.

Nobles and monks had even more options: besides attending Mass and pilgrimage, they practiced fasting (commoners ate two meals of gruel daily—hardly distinguishing fasting from feasting); they donated holy vestments, relics, candles, even entire churches; some tortured their bodies to prove the purity of their souls—knights wore coarse ropes tightly bound beneath their shirts; monks whipped themselves until bloody; others abstained from bathing (even from wiping their faces with cloth)—a practice popular among noblewomen and monks.

Compared to those who spent years filthy, using grime as armor, or vowed to build churches and monasteries, Cesar’s vow was not extraordinary; if a monk made such a vow, he might not even be remembered—but he was only nine; boys of this age were typically playful and lazy; would he truly, as he promised, sacrifice half his precious sleep to clean the vast Church of the Holy Sepulchre after fulfilling his squire duties?

Unlike the skeptical Heraclius, Baldwin embraced Cesar’s asceticism wholeheartedly; though the Pope in Rome and the Patriarch of Jerusalem had refused his father’s request, this gentle child still believed the fault lay with the Church and its servants—not with God or His messengers; this was why, upon being diagnosed with leprosy, he accepted the harsh trial with reason beyond his years.

He fully supported Cesar’s penance: “I will go to bed two hours earlier, so we can wake at the rising of Venus (half past three). I will pray; you, with my blessing, will carry out your task. We will meet again after morning prayer.”

This gave Cesar four extra hours of free time; his sleep loss was reduced to two hours—no longer a great sacrifice.

“Thank you,” Cesar said. Baldwin looked at him; suddenly, Cesar understood. He smiled and stepped forward, embracing his friend tightly.

(End of Chapter)