Chapter 15: Cesar

The boy personally brought by Father Dominic of Gerard, though impressive to Longinus, did not deeply affect his life—he still worried about his own future, enduring the priests’ constant commands as he wandered through streets and inns seeking fortune. It wasn’t that he ignored Cesar; rather, no matter how beautiful or clever the boy was, he was still just a child. Cesar might give him a few coins, but he could never place his hopes on a lad nearly young enough to be his son.

Yet news of Cesar inevitably reached his ears, for the boy’s appearance was too striking—even pilgrims believed they had seen an angel—and he was so diligent. On the first day, people saw him when the sky was still dark and Venus had not yet risen, and found it unremarkable. On the second day, he returned. On the third, the same. By the fifth and sixth days, word had spread: a beautiful, devout boy had vowed to clean the Holy Sepulchre alone. Not only pilgrims gathered before the Holy Sepulchre, but also those eager to see the child.

Unfortunately, by then Cesar had finished his work between the steps and the square and moved into the great hall where the Holy Cross had once stood. Thus, Longinus took on more tasks from within the church: escorting noble pilgrims to observe Cesar’s labor. Most of these patrons were noblewomen, and it was from them that Longinus learned the boy was not of the Gerard family, but an enigmatic servant. When he heard the man Cesar served was Baldwin, son of the King of Arasal, his heart gave a faint flutter—and quickly sank again.

In Arasal, no one was unaware that their prince was a leper.

Cesar was not the son of a count or duke. Before the king brought him to the castle, he had been a slave.

At midday that day, Longinus again sought opportunity in an inn run by a monastery. Here gathered all manner of people: nobles and knights occupied the best seats, their servants and retainers surrounding them. Men like Longinus, stripped of surnames and wandering, could only huddle in shadowed corners. But Longinus cared nothing for such empty titles. As the seventh son of a great family, his status was no better than that of a bastard. By the time he was born, his elder brother’s son was nearly old enough to serve as a squire; his share of inheritance and attention was negligible. He had long grown accustomed to indifference.

The pickled herring on his plate still emitted its faint fishy stench—this only because they were near the sea. The beer in his leather cup was murky, thick with the smell of pitch used to seal it. Longinus did not savor his food with emotion, but sustained his life with reason. He listened half-heartedly to the ceaseless chatter and grand pronouncements around him, harboring no great hope—he had tried before, only to be mocked or cheated—until he heard the name “Cesar” and “Holy Sepulchre.”

He picked up his leather cup and walked over.

“I heard,” he said to a man dressed as a servant: “You’re speaking of the Holy Sepulchre? What’s happened? Tell me.”

The servant and the few men gathered at the table exchanged an almost imperceptible glance: “We’re talking about the bets. Don’t you know?” he smiled. “Someone’s wagering on the boy’s vow. Good man, the stakes are high—many noblewomen are willing to bet on that beautiful angel.”

“I didn’t know,” Longinus said. “What are they betting on?”

“Someone swears—perhaps the knights of those noblewomen—that the boy is merely blustering, making empty vows. Such arduous labor might be accomplished by a devout knight or a zealous monk, but a child? He’ll grow bored in a few days and abandon his work to sleep or play.”

A man beside the servant clicked his tongue: “I think it’s impossible too. I’ve heard dozens of monks work daily on this task. I once accompanied my lord to venerate the Holy Sepulchre and its relics—just walking through it, good heavens, takes a full day.”

At this, those around him showed a touch of envy.

“So he truly can’t finish it,” another said. “Looks like those poor noblewomen will lose a fortune. How much did they wager?”

The servant swallowed hard: “You wouldn’t believe it—fifteen gold coins, maybe more.”

A deathly silence fell over the group. Even Longinus felt something lodge in his throat. The gold coins the servant mentioned were the Roman gold coins of Arasal. Scholars had calculated that the average income per person (excluding serfs) in Arabia or Francia was just one gold coin. A fine chainmail coat cost ten. A sturdy packhorse, five. Rent for a small house, two per year. These coins weren’t always literal—people now treated gold as fixed wealth. The noblewomen’s wagers were likely jewels, relics, or silk—but their value remained unchanged.

“They’re betting he’ll… complete his vow?” someone asked after a long pause.

“Women are always impulsive and gullible,” the servant said.

The group sank into deeper silence. Longinus too calculated what one hundred fifty gold coins could buy. He found it bitter: only one-tenth of that sum could transform him—dress him anew, present himself with dignity worthy of opportunity. Now, he wore stinking leather, tattered boots and hat, a longsword meticulously maintained but still scarred from battle. No noble, not even a merchant, would hire a man like him.

“But what does this have to do with us?” said a man who might have been a groom, then turned and walked away.

When only the servant and Longinus remained at the small table, the servant also rose to leave—but Longinus stopped him. “What do you want me to do?”

“What? Knight, we would never dare command someone like you,” the servant said with a grin, waving his hand.

“Who doesn’t know I’m Longinus of the Holy Sepulchre?” Longinus said. “Speak plainly. Why all the circling?”

“I’ll say it again—but knight, won’t you place a bet?”

“What?”

“Will you wager?” the servant said.

————————

When Longinus returned to the Holy Sepulchre, a deed lay hidden inside his leather armor. It was inevitable—unless he sold himself into slavery, all his possessions together were worth less than one gold coin. The deed stated he had borrowed three gold coins from a merchant named Isaac, pledging his honor and freedom to join the wager. If he won, he would repay the merchant three gold coins plus two in interest, and receive ten gold coins—or their equivalent in goods.

The servant had assured him his master cared nothing for money—the winnings could be his entirely, the only goal being to teach the arrogant boy a lesson. As for the child, failing his vow was no great matter—just a few taunts or a light beating. But for Longinus, this could lift him from his desperate poverty and perhaps even win him the favor of a noble.

The choice seemed simple. Was he blaspheming God? No—spiritual cultivation inevitably brought trials. Would he kill an innocent? No—he need not harm the child at all. Merely take him away, hide him for a while. Would he incur the wrath of higher powers? No—even if Baldwin were still a healthy heir, a servant who broke his vow and disappointed them would not justify punishing a knight.

Longinus didn’t need to search. He passed three sacred halls daily. The boy was devout and meticulous, working with unwavering discipline. He could guess precisely where the boy’s fine deerskin boots now stepped.

——————

Cesar had finished cleaning the Chapel of the Holy Cross, wiped the cedar doors. The monk guarding the place cast him a gentle look. They had seen all manner of pilgrims—from the poorest to the richest. You could not say the poor lacked devotion, nor the rich lacked resolve. But Cesar was too young—still without self-awareness or will—and yet he had made such a vow. It was deeply worrying he could not fulfill it.

Yet he had done exactly as he promised. They could not help but feel fondness for him.

Cesar passed through the cedar door and sighed softly. Even with Baldwin’s indulgence, completing such labor alone was exhausting. But he had to—because not only did Heraclius demand it, he must also make up for a crucial deficiency.

He was not David, nor Abigail, nor Baldwin. In Arasal, he was a complete outsider, knowing nothing of this land. The children of Amalric I’s vassals, ministers, and knights knew the Holy Sepulchre as well as the castle. But for Cesar, it was merely a vast, unfamiliar building.

Elsewhere, he might have slowly learned over time. But the imminent “Selection Ceremony” would grant him little leeway. He must learn this place quickly. Of course, you might ask—what of Baldwin?

Baldwin was master; Cesar was servant. Only servants serve masters. Masters do not tend to servants.

As always, Cesar swiftly circled the chamber, carefully inspecting walls, niches, pillars, and curtains, finally the great altar and the stone before it, seemingly stained with blood. The red on the stone—even large patches—was not uncommon: fossilized red algae, iron, minerals could all form red in various shapes and sizes. Yet the red on the Holy Stone did resemble the mark of an adult man.

“This is the Second Sacred,” a voice suddenly said behind him.

“The Second Sacred?”

“Yes. The Holy Sepulchre is the First Sacred,” a monk said. “But you have already venerated it.”

“Who are you? I’ve never seen you.”

“Is it strange you haven’t seen me? There are hundreds of monks here,” the monk said kindly. “But I’ll give you a name—you’ll know me. Brother Dominic sent me, child. He wishes you to come to the Reliquary. He has something to say to you.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

“No. But he didn’t seem in a hurry,” the monk said. “Perhaps he wants you to help clean and polish some sacred vessels. They are holy relics indeed.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “Though it may sound vain, I must say: unless you see those glorious, radiant relics, you cannot comprehend the power and majesty of God.”

Longinus could not hear their words, but he saw the boy nodding repeatedly, as if deeply convinced. Soon, the boy picked up his bucket and mop and followed the monk toward the Reliquary. Longinus trailed behind quietly. Perhaps to distract the boy’s attention, the monk noticed nothing behind them—he chattered on about the Reliquary’s treasures: ivory-arm Jesus statues, ebony crosses inlaid with pearls, golden two-handled cups… and so on.

Then they turned into the corridor connecting to the Great Sepulchre Hall. Longinus saw the boy, always respectfully lagging one step behind, silently swing the wooden pole—now transformed from tool to weapon—with all his strength, striking the monk’s neck. One blow. The crisp crack made Longinus’s own neck ache.

The unsuspecting monk made no sound. He collapsed like a leather sack full of wine.

The boy looked up and saw Longinus.

“I thought you might need my help,” Longinus said. “It seems I was mistaken. You remain vigilant. Good.”

“I heard,” Cesar said. “About the wagers.”

“Two hundred and fifty gold coins?”

“Two hundred and fifty,” Cesar said. “That sum could make some men willingly descend into hell.”

“But he’s a monk,” Longinus said. “You’re so devout—do you not believe in God’s servant?” He hadn’t even shown his fangs yet.

“If I’m wrong,” Cesar said, “then God is using my hand to test him.”

Had it not been for this place, this moment, Longinus would have laughed aloud. But he held it back. “Then why don’t you ask why I’m here?” This was usually his moment to profit—there should be one or two penniless pilgrims nearby.

“There’s one thing I’ve never understood,” Cesar said. “How do adults find pleasure in frightening children?”

Longinus’s lips curled slightly. “Saying that, do you not feel guilty, sir? You just knocked down a strong, healthy monk—without reason.” He glanced at the fallen man. “Well, someone did bribe and incite me to stop you.”

“Your decision?”

Longinus drew his longsword.

(End of Chapter)