Chapter 133: Disagreement and Counsel

Baldwin’s mood today was excellent—no, since Cesar’s identity was confirmed, his mood had remained excellent.

This good mood lasted until Archbishop Heraclius mentioned his desire to send Cesar on a mission to Aleppo.

“Are you mad?” he stared, barely believing his ears—“We all saw his birth certificate! He is the sole heir of Count Joscelin III of Edessa!”

He rose and paced the room, waving his arms, utterly unable to comprehend Heraclius’s reasoning: “He no longer needs to risk himself in such dangers!”

Heraclius could understand Baldwin—the child he had watched grow up—before Baldwin contracted leprosy, he had not been so humble; instead, he possessed every flaw of a noble heir: temperamental, cruel, autocratic, and fiercely loyal or hateful.

He did not care what Witte did, because such vile men were not worth his notice; but those like David, Abigail, William, and Guy—who had once been his friends and then betrayed him—had never earned his forgiveness.

In contrast, Cesar, who had stood by him in his darkest hours, never swayed even when favored by nobles, and even risked his life for him multiple times, deserved his reward without question—he was now crowned, firmly holding power.

Even without Amalric I’s dying gift and this belated surprise, Baldwin would surely have soon arranged a marriage for Cesar, marrying him to a female heir with title and land, elevating him instantly to count or even duke—such things had happened before.

The most recent example was Reynald of Châtillon, Bohemond’s stepfather, who had once been a penniless knight with no lands or title, merely hoping for fortune in the Holy Land; his luck was indeed good—he encountered Constance of Antioch.

After Cesar’s identity became public, Baldwin was overjoyed, nearly delirious—he could now freely reward and employ Cesar without restraint—only to find that at this moment, the Archbishop proposed sending Cesar to Aleppo, that place Suishikenengbianzuoyigexuerouxuanwodeguidifang ！

“Not a chance,” he declared firmly, “Cesar belongs in only three places: Alasir, or Bethlehem, or on the battlefield alongside me against the Saracens.”

He quarreled with his teacher, Archbishop Heraclius, and poor Cesar was caught between them, caught between laughter and tears.

Because of this, Baldwin refused to speak to him but would not allow him out of his sight—he knew Cesar could be stubborn… and feared he might abandon him for Aleppo to keep a promise.

“I don’t understand,” Baldwin snapped, “I am King of Alasir, you are my cousin—no matter what I choose to give you—” he uttered an extreme remark, “even my throne, they have no right to object!”

“Baldwin…” Cesar was grateful they had returned to Baldwin’s chamber, and because of what had happened when he first fell ill, Baldwin disliked being served by many—servants and attendants dared not appear before the king unless summoned.

He had barely spoken a name when Baldwin cut him off: “I know you’re going to say those depressing things again—yes, I know I was once… a useless man. I contracted leprosy; everyone avoided me as if I were a serpent or scorpion. I could not even leave my room, and you had to bring me communion. When crisis came, no matter how desperate I was, I could only stand by this window, staring into darkness, praying uselessly.”

I made mistakes. I nearly lost you. I cannot bear to imagine what I would have done if you had died or been crippled in that moment—how could I face you? How could I face my mother?

Cesar, you are so gentle—if someone owes you a debt, you freely forgive them if they truly cannot repay. But if you owe someone—even a single copper coin—you will find any way to repay it, even ten, a hundred, or a thousandfold.

I am not blaming you. I only want to say: I remember everything you did for me. Every single thing.

Now I am King of Alasir. I will give you power, a title, more lands—do not feel uneasy,” he scoffed, “think about it. That fool Abigail—he was chosen too, but has his father dared to let him out in the past two years?

Whether for battle, negotiation, or even just attending a wedding or funeral, his father dares not send him anywhere, only keeps him locked in the Holy Cross Castle, within sight and reach—yet this utterly useless man will one day become Duke of Antioch, and my vassal and minister. No matter what, he will have a seat in my court.

Why? Tell me, why? You are my closest friend, my brother—why must you risk your life to earn what others gain merely by lying still? If you wish to achieve glory, there will be opportunities—we will return to the battlefield again. I need your protection. I need your support.

You cannot be so selfish…”

Baldwin turned, fixing Cesar with a piercing stare. Whether due to the dim light or something else—the blue eyes were like whirlpools beneath a calm lake, dark and deep. His hands gripped Cesar’s shoulders tightly, almost causing pain.

For an instant, Cesar nearly agreed to Baldwin—he did not crave power—but as Heraclius had said, if he did not go to Aleppo now, only a miracle from God could save the Crusaders.

Heraclius had also noticed: compared to the era of Godfrey of Bouillon, the Crusaders now clearly lacked successors. Amalric I still had the courage to organize a second expedition against Egypt, but the lords of Antioch, Tripoli, and elsewhere relied mostly on truces, marriages, and deals to maintain the status quo.

Not to mention whether they still had the courage to strike first—they barely understood their enemies. Even seasoned men like Raymond and Bohemond had made the grave mistake of seeing Nur ad-Din as an ordinary old man, confidently claiming that even if the Crusader forces were entirely withdrawn, Alasir would face no external threat.

“Calm down, Baldwin,” Cesar reversed his grip on Baldwin’s hand: “I can tell you something.”

“What?”

“Do you remember when I suddenly left the banquet hall in Fustat?”

Banquets often lasted long, from morning until late night; occasional departures were not unusual—some answered nature’s call, others found the room stifling; with only torches and candles for light, some grew ill from too much wine or meat, or were annoyed by dwarves and jesters.

After returning to Alasir, some maliciously brought up Cesar’s sudden departure from the banquet, but no one cared—even Raymond, who had always disliked Cesar, since Cesar had broken through palace guards and rushed into the fire to find them.

“A eunuch asked me to meet someone. That person was… Saladin.”

“Saladin?”

“Saladin wishes to recruit me into his service—he had an agreement with Shawar, and knew Shawar might destroy himself and us, so before Shawar acted, he arranged to have me removed from the banquet hall.”

“But you came back.”

“I came back because I swore to you, and I have never forgotten Amalric I’s kindness to me. I could never abandon you.”

“I believe you.”

“Then you should hear one more thing. Do you know Saladin was not meeting me for the first time?”

Do you remember? We once disguised ourselves as young Byzantine nobles and went to the market. I met a Saracen there—you may not have noticed him, but while you entered the tent to hear the fortune-teller’s verdict, I had a brief conversation with him.

He was not a cruel or evil man; he possessed a kind heart and broad-mindedness. But he certainly was not the type to waste time and energy. So why did he disguise himself and come to Alasir? Surely not for me.

Cesar squeezed Baldwin’s hand: “I think he came to observe Alasir—and the man who ruled it.

Then he saw. Perhaps this visit confirmed Shawar’s plot could succeed. In the Far East, there is a saying: to know your enemy is to win.

Saladin has done exactly that. Now it is our turn. We cannot remain ignorant of our future enemy—the earlier and more thoroughly we understand him, the more we can do.

Baldwin, I know you are not a man who merely stays within Alasir’s walls, passively accepting Saracen invasions and humiliations,” he smiled.

“I know how people view us, but I have never cared for their glances or gossip. Why? Because I know we will one day leave here—and those hateful stares will one day be left behind, forever out of reach.”

“I admit I have such ambition,” Baldwin pressed his forehead against Cesar’s shoulder, his voice muffled. “But why you? Always you? I never want another event like Count Étienne’s. That feeling of helplessness, of waiting—was unbearable.”

“Perhaps you are right. I am selfish,” Cesar said. “I wish to do what others cannot—for you, for myself, and for God.”

When he cared for Nur ad-Din in his final days, he had not thought so far ahead—but if this mission could grant him passage across half of Syria to Damascus, Bosra, Homs, Hama, and Aleppo—the Eye of Syria—and perhaps a chance to meet the man who might one day become Sultan…

“You know how precious this opportunity is. And I do not think it will be especially dangerous—unless they no longer recognize Sultan Nur ad-Din as their light of faith, I can at least return unharmed.”

Baldwin fell silent for a long while. Cesar nearly believed he had convinced him—but Baldwin stubbornly turned his head away.

“No. Let me think. Let me think again.”

But they had little time for thought or hesitation. Even though the weather was not yet hot, and they had delayed the corpse’s decay with salt and ice, the envoy’s party still needed nearly a week to reach Aleppo.

At this moment, the Archbishop summoned someone Cesar had not expected.

Queen Mother Maria.

Amalric I’s marriage to the Countess of Jaffa ended when Baldwin was three. Thus, for a long time in Baldwin’s memory, the Holy Cross Castle had no mistress. He loved his mother deeply, but he also had to admit that Maria, the Byzantine princess and Amalric I’s new wife, was a worthy lady.

Though plain of face, Maria possessed a man’s decisiveness and skill in managing internal and external affairs. During the years Amalric I prepared for his second expedition, she endured the crushing pressure of barrenness while managing castle affairs flawlessly.

She knew everything: how the king—her husband—was faring; how his children from his first wife were faring; how guests, vassals, and knights were faring—and handled it all well. Everyone said she was a good wife, a good mother, a good mistress.

But did the Byzantine princess exhaust herself to control the entire castle merely for these praises? Of course not. When Amalric I died suddenly during the expedition, those who came to persuade her to side with Raymond or Bohemond were countless.

She was not foolish enough to oppose Baldwin. She knew Raymond—he despised women and loathed outsiders (especially Byzantines). A Byzantine princess seeking alliance with him was nearly impossible. As for Bohemond, even more so—his son was married to Princess Sibylla, and their child would be Baldwin IV’s heir.

Unfortunately, she also had a daughter. Children grow fast. Twelve years from now, her daughter could marry and bear children—and thus claim Alasir—unless she remarried Bohemond, granting him guardianship over Isabella, which might change his stance.

But that was pure fantasy. Bohemond’s marriage to his first wife—also a Byzantine princess—remained valid. They still had Abigail. Unless Bohemond had gone mad, he would never abandon this grown child (regardless of how foolish he was) to marry Maria and fight his stepdaughter’s husband for power.

But if she wholeheartedly supported the new King of Alasir, Baldwin—if he lived long enough to see Isabella marry and bear children—who could say whose head the crown would eventually rest upon?

At least for the next decade or so, she would be a trustworthy ally.

After the Archbishop spoke to her about this matter, she invited Baldwin and Cesar to her chambers that very night.

When they arrived, the first thing Queen Mother Maria did was serve an extraordinarily lavish meal, cooked precisely to Cesar’s and Baldwin’s tastes.

After these two growing boys devoured the feast with great satisfaction, their minds growing sluggish, the Queen Mother smiled and handed the chattering little Princess Isabella to Cesar, telling him to take her to the next room to play.

Cesar gave Baldwin a pitying glance—he too thought Baldwin had become overly arrogant lately.

For the first time, he ignored Baldwin’s pleading eyes, scooped up little Princess Isabella, and followed the giggling maidservant out.

(End of Chapter)