Chapter 130: The Son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa! (2)

They had not seen each other for six or seven full years, but the moment she saw Cesar, she knew he was the brother she had long lost track of—he had grown, yet his face had changed little, save for becoming more exquisite, especially those eyes like jade—she remembered that when her brother was four or five, their foster mother would wrap a headscarf around his face whenever they went out, yet still, many would stare, drawn by those very eyes.

Even after she entered the Sultan’s harem and saw countless beauties, she had never seen eyes so strikingly beautiful; at first, she could hardly believe it—she knew her brother, like herself, had been sold into slavery—she had heard those vile slave traders say that boys of such striking beauty were most likely castrated and sent into the caliph’s or sultan’s harem.

The thought of encountering her brother in Sultan Nur ad-Din’s harem made her shudder, yet she never gave up searching for him—even if he had… he was still her brother, and she would find him, no matter what.

Even if he was doomed never to marry, have a wife, or children, she could still bear him an heir—but even in her most beautiful dreams, she had never imagined her brother sitting beside the King of Arasalu, called his brother, sharing his glory and power.

Her initial hesitation came from believing she was dreaming; she thought that when she awoke, she would still be in that small room filled with a dozen other women, waiting to be summoned by the Sultan—or never again—until she clutched him tightly, feeling the cold chainmail and cross press painfully against her skin, and knew it was all real.

“I have found my brother here—I thought I would never find him again; I thought he was dead, or worse—yet here he stands.”

She turned and pointed to Cesar. “Look at him—he is not Cesar. He is Joscelin IV, bearing the names of his great-grandfather, grandfather, and father. He is your cousin, Your Majesty, the future Count of Edessa; his father and your mother were born of the same womb.”

She spoke with unwavering clarity, logically and precisely—hardly the babbling of a madwoman—and all present stared in stunned disbelief.

The first to believe were the young knights like David, who had long insisted that someone like Cesar could never be the son of a farmer or craftsman, let alone a Turkic bastard.

Yet some ministers frowned, their eyes narrowing with suspicion toward Cesar—Raymond, Bohemond, and others aligned with them wore outright contempt; they believed this could only be a lie, perhaps even a deliberate ploy by the Saracens to sow discord among them.

But their reactions mattered least—Baldwin IV stood there, perhaps taking a few heartbeats to comprehend the slave woman’s words, then leapt up—truly leapt, his feet clearing the ground by at least three feet.

He cried out in ecstatic joy, leaping straight onto Cesar’s body, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and planting fierce kisses on both cheeks before bursting into laughter.

“God! God!” he cried. “I knew it! I knew it! Cesar, from the moment I saw you, I loved you—and you, from the moment you saw me, were so close, even though I was then a leper who might be cast out at any moment! We were so happy together—never before, never again—you surpassed all my companions, for you were always my brother, my true brother, our blood could flow together!”

“Your Majesty!” Raymond shouted, but Baldwin heard nothing now.

Finally, Queen Mother Maria rose, gently placing her hand on Baldwin’s shoulder, guiding him back to his seat, then motioned for Cesar to return as well, before taking hold of the black-haired slave girl—no, if her words were true, she was a count’s daughter, a noblewoman.

The Queen Mother had always liked Cesar, yet her thoughts strangely aligned with Raymond’s—she too feared this might be a deliberate Saracen plot, even a trap.

A slave girl and a noblewoman received utterly different treatment at the King’s court; and with the County of Edessa now destroyed, she could only be kept within the Holy Cross Fortress. Given Cesar’s gentle demeanor toward women and Baldwin IV’s trust in him, she would likely become a lady-in-waiting to the Princess, granted access to many parts of the castle, able to move freely and communicate inside and outside without hindrance or surveillance.

“Then where is the proof, child?” she asked, gently but sternly. “Proof cannot rest on your word alone—we cannot determine the rightful heir to such a vital title and territory.” Even if Edessa now belonged to the Saracens, the Count of Edessa could still seek aid from Christian realms under the pretext of reclaiming his lands—money, men, and supplies.

“I do have proof—it’s just not with me.” Of course—every slave girl sold into the Sultan’s harem was thoroughly searched and inspected; after entering the palace, they performed arduous labor, bathed under the watch of senior ladies-in-waiting, and slept in rooms with a dozen others—how could they possibly hide anything?

Heraclius raised his hand to silence her, then turned to the Saracen envoy, who had first stared in shock, then looked utterly bewildered. “Do you have her birth certificate?”

The envoy nodded. Unlike later generations imagined, the girls sold into the Sultan’s court, though captured, almost always had verifiable origins—whether daughter of a craftsman, peasant, merchant, or noble—each carried a different price. Their place of origin, their parents’ surnames—all were meticulously recorded.

Moreover, girls of each class received different educations, which directly affected their value. In slave markets, there was no crowd gathered below, watching a slave trader drag a girl naked before them—this was merely Renaissance painters’ fanciful invention, catering to popular curiosity.

Quite the opposite: like all proper transactions, the sale was solemn and formal. The “merchandise” bore exact dates of origin, composition details, and specific notes.

Both parties often wrote lengthy, densely packed descriptions and agreements on the contract—higher value meant more detail. Girls with unknown origins and no skills, unless their beauty was truly unmatched, would never be chosen by the Sultan’s eunuch chief; they would become the lowest servants or be sold to other noble households.

The envoy glanced at Cesar, thinking fate truly strange.

Yet because this knight had recently cleaned and groomed their Sultan, out of gratitude, he was willing to offer a small favor—he took from his chest the documents belonging to the black-haired girl: who had bought her from whom, and how she had been transported to the Sultan’s palace—

How old was she when sold? Who were her parents? What was her physical condition? Were her teeth damaged? Did she bear scars or birthmarks? Did she have siblings? All were recorded with meticulous clarity.

Raymond snatched the papers first, flipped through them, then frowned—they clearly stated her parents’ identities: if her story was true, her father was merely a common knight, her mother an Armenian woman, with no mention of nobility.

“They were our foster parents,” Nattia said quietly. “The birth certificate is forged—to evade Nur ad-Din’s pursuit and searches.”

“This grows stranger still,” Bohemond finally spoke. “You claim your father is Joscelin III, but forgive me—he was captured at age five, along with his mother and the Archbishop of Edessa, by Zengi.”

Bohemond stood with Raymond on this matter—King Amalric I, to balance the court’s old and new factions, had granted Cesar the fief of Bethlehem on his deathbed; he was no landless man to be mocked. And Cesar’s great victory beside the Sea of Galilee had firmly established him as an indispensable minister. If allowed to grow further—he and Baldwin IV were mutually supportive, mutually elevating, bound by undeniable blood ties; the Countess of Jaffa would unhesitatingly bring Berlion of Ibelin to their side—this balance would shatter, and decisively against them.

“If you grant me a moment,” Nattia said, “I can explain the full sequence of events.” This was precisely why she had insisted on making her plea before the King of Arasalu in public.

“But negotiations—”

Baldwin IV cut Raymond off: “The Count of Edessa still lives.” He remains in Nur ad-Din’s castle. If this girl speaks truth, we must ransom him—out of Cesar’s sake alone.

The daughter of the Count of Edessa had now calmed; her initial elation was fading. She knew every word she spoke henceforth would be vital: “My father, Count Joscelin III of Edessa, was born to misfortune.”

This opening remark drew uneasy or embarrassed expressions from most in the hall.

The fall of Edessa had many causes, but surely included the indifference and betrayal of allies—it had always been the weakest of the four Crusader states, even called the forward outpost of the four Christian kingdoms, surrounded on three sides by terrifying Saracens.

By feudal law, customary law, and doctrine, when Edessa was attacked, Antioch, Tripoli, and Arasalu were obligated to send aid promptly—this was both human covenant and God’s law. But the problem was: Joscelin II was a hot-tempered ruler; after ascending, he clashed bitterly with Raymond of Antioch, the ruler closest to Edessa.

Their discord manifested in every way: each declared himself protector of the other, demanded loyalty, then sabotaged each other in foreign affairs—when one attacked an emir, the other would make peace with him, and vice versa.

Such self-serving behavior inevitably led to disaster.

In the autumn of 1144, Joscelin, as usual, left Edessa for Turbessel (a city west of Edessa), when a messenger urgently found him: Sultan Zengi’s army had surrounded Edessa. Joscelin II, terrified, begged Antioch for aid—but Raymond refused.

Raymond plainly stated he owed no duty to a vassal who refused to acknowledge him. Joscelin II then appealed to Tripoli and Arasalu. Tripoli’s count was embroiled in a war of succession with his bastard son. As for Arasalu, King Fulk I and Queen Melisende had agreed—but it took them long to muster troops; before they could even march, news arrived of Edessa’s fall.

Joscelin II was in Turbessel during the siege, so he escaped capture by Zengi. But everyone in Edessa—either killed or enslaved by the Sultan—among them his wife, his son, and the Archbishop of Edessa.

The five-year-old boy was Joscelin III. In 1159, Joscelin II died in a Seljuk prison; though all he inherited was an empty crown.

(End of Chapter)