Chapter 16: The Rising of Venus (Part One)

As Cesar thought he had made another mistake, Longinus asked, “Do you have five gold coins?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Because with five gold coins, you can hire me,” Longinus said, then turned, sword in hand, to face enemies who had emerged from the darkness without warning.

“Look,” Cesar said calmly, “I too wish to trust the servants of God.” They were not among the hills of Judea, nor in the filthy port of Jaffa—but within the Lord’s dwelling and place of rest, assassins still roamed unchecked.

This time Longinus truly laughed, stepping boldly toward the mercenaries whose faces showed shock—they shared his origins: down-on-their-luck, without home or fortune, their only asset their skill with weapons. They expected him to compete for the bounty, but he chose another path.

“Leave, Longinus,” the leader said. He had heard Longinus’s name, knew him a fierce warrior, and wished to avoid trouble. “We’ll count you in—if you walk away.”

“Come,” Longinus said.

“Noble. And foolish,” the man said as he charged. He was confident: five of them, three against Longinus, two to seize the child.

At least four of these five had underestimated him, Longinus judged. Perhaps they thought this job involved no lives. Though they could not fathom why he had changed his mind, they assumed he would not risk himself for a slave—and that gave Longinus his opening. His longsword struck first into a man’s belly, then twisted. The unfortunate fellow screamed and knelt forward, blocking his comrades’ steps. Though they shoved him aside in fury, they could not stop the dagger Longinus hurled.

He collapsed, clutching his throat.

“I told you to watch him!” the leader roared.

Wandering knights rejected by kings or brotherhoods often lost courage and strength in wine and women. Longinus was never among them. His blade was always kept sharp on thieves who preyed on clerics, his will as keen. His numerical disadvantage did not weaken him—it stoked fiercer, hotter resolve.

“Grab the child!” the leader shouted again. His skill might rival Longinus’s, but the moment he saw the grin on that black, gaunt face, he wanted to recoil. He knew such fear in battle was fatal—but you cannot expect courage from a man willing to harm a child. Yet when his eyes flickered behind Longinus, his heart sank.

The black-haired, blue-eyed boy did not stand still like some noble brat waiting to be seized. As Longinus turned, the boy dropped his bucket and pole to the ground, then scaled a pillar with agility. When a mercenary leapt to grab him, the boy leapt again—vanishing into a banner of the Kingdom of Arles: many such banners hung from the church’s ribbed vaults, offered to God for protection of nations and orders.

The dyed wool banners were coarse yet sturdy, tied at the top to iron rings—easily strong enough to bear a nine-year-old boy. The banner hung midair, perfectly positioned: safe in height and distance. Yet the hunters hesitated not a moment. They drew small crossbows from their belts. These bolts were slender, useless against armored knights—but against a child… if he fell, the reward was theirs.

The mercenaries’ leader was locked with Longinus, but at that moment, Cesar had already drawn a whistle and blew with all his strength.

Among the gifts given to Cesar by servants and attendants were several whistles—bone, horn, metal. He always carried a copper hawk whistle, palm-length, designed to summon falcons, its piercing tone necessary to recall hawks that might fly thousands of feet away.

They stood in the corridor linking the Second and Third Halls. To prevent pilgrims from sneaking in to venerate relics, this corridor was essentially a long room: windows high, niches on one side, concealed arches on the other. The whistle’s shrill, sustained cry pierced Christ’s throat like an arrow, echoing violently within His chest.

To avoid interference, Cesar chose the hour when the halls were emptiest. The pampered nobility cared little for time; eager clerics stood ready at all hours. Those who rose after morning prayer were considered diligent; most arrived only after the afternoon office—around two or three. There should have been clerics on duty here—not bribed, then, or moved away. But no matter how distant or absorbed in scripture, anyone with functioning ears would hear this sound.

The mercenaries’ leader cursed, “Damn you to hell, beast!” He showed no shame for being the one who had broken into the Lord’s earthly dwelling to commit evil. Longinus guessed he owned many indulgences.

By the time the clerics arrived, the surviving mercenaries had fled, leaving only one dead and one dying. One cleric rushed to the man pierced through the belly, took his hand, anointed his forehead with oil (plucked directly from a nearby lampstand), and cried, “Repent!” He did the same for the corpse, lest this holy ground be defiled by a sinful soul.

Longinus remained silent, placing himself between Cesar and danger, retreating into shadow. The arriving clerics either deliberately or carelessly ignored them—until Thomas stormed in with several monks. He glanced at Cesar only briefly, then turned his full attention to interrogation and investigation. The clerics and monks split into three, perhaps more, clearly distinct factions—but it was plain Thomas stood evenly matched with another high-ranking cleric.

Someone had deliberately let the mercenaries who sought to disrupt this spiritual endeavor enter. Of course, under canon law or customary law, they deserved punishment. But who would lose, who would gain? Even outsiders like Cesar and Longinus could see it plainly: Amalric I and Prince Baldwin were Cesar’s secular masters; the Gerard family were his spiritual guarantors. If Cesar completed this difficult task, it would benefit not only himself but all his supporters.

About a quarter-hour later, Thomas—at least—gained a temporary victory. His rival departed with a group of clerics and the dead, sullen and defeated. Only then did he turn to attend to the Gerard family’s latest investment. Learning that Cesar was unshaken by today’s events and undeterred by rumors, he clapped his hands in delight, lavished praise upon God and the saints, and assured Cesar he would suffer no further disturbances. He would assign two strong brothers (clerics’ term for one another) to serve Cesar, guaranteeing his vows would be fulfilled.

“Go have the clerics see your wounds,” Cesar said as they returned to the silent corridor, slipping the money pouch onto Longinus’s belt: “I’m going back now.”

“May I escort you back?” Longinus ventured.

Cesar smiled. “I’m not even a squire yet,” he said. “Conditions outside the castle are terrible. Inside, they’re worse. I won’t lie to you, sir—we, Baldwin and I, are still children. We have no strength left to protect others.”

Longinus weighed the pouch. “That’s not entirely true,” he sneered. “Outside, lives aren’t as valuable as you think. Gold holds far more power than you imagine.”

“Then aren’t you suffering great loss?”

“I’m no fool of shallow vision,” Longinus said. “I’m not clever, but I know: anything involving court, church, or nobility is never as simple as it appears.” He glanced down at Cesar, squeezing the gold coins inside the pouch until they clinked sharply. “I used to avoid such affairs. But not this time. As for why I stand with you—I don’t trust them. If those men can ignore God and fear neither law nor morality, how can I believe they’ll keep their word to a knight without a surname?”

“It’s a pity there are so few like you,” Cesar said calmly. “If you’re willing to wait a while, could you help me with something?”

“Speak.”

————————

The incident caused little stir.

Both Longinus and Cesar remained calm, showing no outrage. Their most precious quality was self-awareness: a wandering knight, a leper’s attendant… Though Amalric I repeatedly declared his stance toward Baldwin unchanged, nearly everyone watched and waited—for the coming selection ceremony.

If Baldwin was chosen, all obstacles (at least most) would vanish. If not, his best fate would be to become an anonymous hermit.

Amalric I entrusted the matter to Heraclius for investigation. But the final outcome could only land on that ridiculous wager. Aside from the two mercenaries, no one else could be pursued—no evidence existed, and they could easily deny committing grave crimes against the prince’s attendant. They could even claim it was merely a jest aimed at Cesar. In the end, this human accident caused no irreversible consequences.

As consolation, Cesar received many gifts—so generous that, had he been allowed to leave Arles, he could have secured a small fief in some barren land. Of course, he could not.

The only comfort was that Cesar’s devout devotion, through this evil act, became widely known. People no longer called him “that lucky slave,” but “that pious attendant.” As Heraclius hoped, when people saw a man dressed in fine robes and bearing a noble countenance, they said, “What a nobleman!” Because Cesar had made such a vow and completed such heavy labor, some now believed Prince Baldwin, with such an attendant, could not be a sinner punished by God.

On Cesar’s final day of labor, crowds filled the steps, roads, and alleys around the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Among them were the noble, but mostly the ragged, emaciated poor. They had spent their entire savings and last ounce of strength to pilgrimage, only to be barred from the Holy Gate by the greed of the clerics.

Their only hope was to meet a merciful lord or lady—or, as now, a respectable and virtuous man, whom they revered as a saint, through whom they might open the gates of heaven.

The knight accompanying Cesar winced. “Shall I call servants to drive them off?”

“Will they tear me apart and eat me?”

Cesar was not joking, but the knight thought he was. He laughed loudly. “No,” he said, “but they’re filthy. They’ll steal your lace and trim.”

“If that’s all I lose, I can afford it,” Cesar said.

When Venus rose, Cesar had already met those denied entry. Yet those lingering outside the Holy Gate were not the poorest. Among the ragged shadows, only their eyes still glowed with longing; their outstretched hands resembled dead branches from the hills of Judea. They made almost no sound—perhaps from weakness, perhaps from fear of rebuke. They dared not approach closely—until a brave mother crawled on her knees to Cesar’s side, holding her infant swaddled in her arms.

“My lord, master,” she pleaded in a barely intelligible dialect, “touch him, touch him, make him well…”

Before her voice reached them came a stench.

In an age when only the gravely ill nobility bathed daily, the poor—whether from poverty or church doctrine—bathed only once in their lives: at baptism. Their wooden basins and clothes were precious heirlooms, never to be wasted. Stench was inevitable.

Cesar looked down. For lack of nourishment or illness, even a few-month-old infant looked as ugly as a monkey. He reached out and touched the child’s forehead.

The mother spoke more, but Cesar barely understood. “Wait,” he said, gesturing for her to take a date from him. “Give it to your child.”

He did not know if the child was ill, but he knew many of the poor suffered from malnutrition. Baldwin had given him candied dates—a costly food, rich in sugar, and sugar meant energy. These common folk, clinging to life like wild grass, might survive on just this small comfort.

Cesar felt the knight beside him tense. To them, these people were less than servants—beasts or cattle. Gentle, they were cattle; violent, they were beasts. The knight likely scolded himself inwardly: Why invite trouble? But Cesar knew his touch did nothing for disease or hunger. Even kings, in their laying-on-of-hands ceremony, gave the sick a gold coin to buy food or medicine—what could a mere attendant do?

One date might sweeten his mouth for a moment—but it might save the child’s life.

The mother clutched the date tightly. “You will be blessed, saint,” she declared firmly. “God will repay you. If I can, if my child can, we will repay you.”

Behind him, the knight snorted. “That’s enough,” he said. He walked on. The feared riot did not come. People kept reaching for Cesar—but if he merely brushed their fingertips, they were content. No one pulled, shouted, or tried to steal his purse, cross, or trinkets.

Longinus followed Cesar. He knew some mocked him as “the slave’s slave,” but he did not care. He kept his eyes fixed on the black-haired boy—and those hands reaching out to the poor, so destitute even thieves ignored them. Those hands swayed like grass stirred by wind. If even one person, driven by impulse or malice, lunged forward, the boy would be swallowed by the crowd, lost among rotting flesh and rags. He might be injured, maimed, or catch plague.

Yet until they reached the hill where the Holy Cross once stood, and the clerics pushed open the Holy Gate to shut out the pilgrims, those hands never withdrew.

(End of Chapter)