Chapter 17: The Rising of Venus (Part 2)

Morning light spread over the sandy ground of Skull Mountain, as if illuminating a field of gold grains, when Cesar stepped out of the Holy Sepulchre Church.

At some point, the small square before the Holy Sepulchre Church, the long winding stairs, and the alleyways had filled with countless people; even those at the back who could not see Cesar were reminded by laughter and shouts to join in the cheering, everyone whispering the boy’s name, singing of his piety and virtue, and some swore with absolute certainty that just moments ago, an angel wrapped in glorious holy light had descended into the Holy Sepulchre Church, utterly disregarding that it was still the hour when the sun should rise.

Cesar’s arrival at the Holy Sepulchre Church was still fresh in Longinus’s memory—it had only been forty-five days ago—when only Gerard’s Thomas, out of family obligation, had brought him to the church and handed him over to a nameless wandering knight, after which he was never again cared for—even after Thomas profited from the mercenary attack on Cesar, he merely sent two more monks, and even that was only because he saw some possible value in the boy…

Now he stood on the small square, smiling, fingers tracing his rosary, monks behind him holding sacred relics in golden caskets, pages carrying censers filled with myrrh and sandalwood, their fragrance spreading across the entire square; clergy of other factions, though standing apart, could not help but smile, hoping to steal a glimmer of glory from this act of devotion; beyond these black robes and white vestments were the brilliantly dressed nobles, endless silks and velvets shimmering under the sun with dazzling, mesmerizing hues.

The moment their servants saw Cesar emerge, they surged forward, clutching their masters’ removed rings, necklaces, and belts, their cloaks and outer garments, dressing him in layer upon layer; Cesar had always been a strikingly handsome boy, and now, adorned thus, he shone so brilliantly no one could bear to look directly—people spontaneously cried out in unison: this was truly God’s grace, such beauty could only exist in this world!

“Hold tight to your bucket and… your mop,” Longinus whispered close to Cesar’s ear, struggling to keep the two monks and the castle’s knights from displacing him.

Cesar paused and understood his meaning: regardless of whether Heraclius and the Gerard family had stirred the situation, a nine-year-old boy completing in forty-five nights what a hundred adults needed forty-five white days to accomplish would inevitably be regarded as a miracle; even if in truth it was not as supernatural as the clergy proclaimed, and regardless of whether the Roman Church acknowledged it or the Patriarch of Arasal could accept it, the priests of the Holy Sepulchre Church would surely record this miracle in full and declare it with absolute certainty.

Thus, his bucket and mop would become two sacred relics; without exaggeration, in an age when a saint’s bones could be split into two, then three, then infinitely divided, these two objects alone could raise enough offerings to build one or even two churches; more likely still, devout believers would willingly donate vast fortunes to obtain even a tiny fragment—provided they believed angels had helped Cesar clean the sanctuary.

After speaking these words, Longinus was pulled to the rear; he took a deep breath, hoping the child would not grow overconfident, yet he had to admit: had he been this age himself, he could never have done it—so much praise, so much glory, so much gold!

Cesar felt only stiffness in his neck and shoulders; though Longinus had warned him not to put down the mop and bucket, he no longer felt the touch of the wooden pole or leather straps—his fingers were adorned with too many rings.

At that moment, the crowd parted, and Thomas the priest walked forward, head held high, holding a silver tray.

On the tray lay a pile of snow-white, gleaming fabric; Cesar instantly recognized it as a precious woolen cloak.

Perhaps some did not understand the process by which lay offerings became church relics. Simply put: a devout believer might donate his life’s savings—usually money, but sometimes physical goods—silk, wool, vessels, or timber, occasionally even a fine marble slab, a horse, or a mule. If any of the first three were valuable, the clergy would place them on the altar, drape them over the Virgin’s statue, and they would thereby become sacred relics by right; no matter who claimed them, the Church would never return them, unless one was willing to pay several times, even dozens of times, their value to buy back the relic.

“This is the woolen cloth once spread over the Holy Sepulchre,” Thomas declared proudly, then unfurled it and draped it over Cesar, speaking in a voice so intimate it made one shiver: “Cesar, my little brother, I come to celebrate you—you have accomplished such a great deed—how pious, how beautiful, child, you are truly a gift from angels to us.” He extended his arms warmly: “You must be tired, worn out—quickly give me your bucket and mop; I shall be your servant today, I shall serve you, for this is what you deserve.”

Though Longinus had warned him… Cesar smiled, loosened his fingers, and Thomas visibly exhaled in relief.

Longinus’s warning was well-intentioned, but he knew too little of the hidden truth: Cesar’s pact with Amalric I ensured he could not leave Baldwin until Baldwin no longer needed him; so what use were gold, reputation, love, and respect to him? Moreover, these were like castles built on sand—once his patron withdrew the foundation, all would vanish instantly.

Better to hand these two objects to Thomas—it would be a small repayment to John, the abbot who once cared for him.

Thomas received the bucket and mop, his face instantly glowing as if bathed in angelic golden light; he kept his promise, following closely behind Cesar, accompanying him all the way to the Holy Cross Castle; nearby monks and servants quickly raised their staffs to clear a path, for the crowd had grown even denser—without driving away these stinking poor, they could not move an inch.

“Wait,” Cesar said, then turned toward the undulating sea of heads, the matted, filthy hair, the faces obscured by grime, the skeletal hands outstretched, the cracked lips murmuring incoherently, and the only eyes that still gleamed.

The people saw the young saint take a deep breath, then turn to the noble senior cleric beside him and say something; the cleric looked troubled, but finally nodded in agreement.

Cesar faced the crowd: “My friends,” he said slowly, speaking clearly and loudly so none would miss his words: “What do you need?”

He lowered his head to meet their gaze: “Do you seek absolution? Or a blessing? Are you hungry and need food? Thirsty and need clean water? Have you fulfilled your wish and only long to return home? Or do you hope to remain forever in this holy land?”

The crowd erupted—yes, yes, yes, this was exactly what they had hoped for; parents brought their sick children, the elderly dragged their frail bodies, some had emptied their purses through misplaced trust or excessive piety and now had no means to survive; tens of thousands of pilgrims, like beggars, remained stranded in the Holy City, dying daily.

“The Holy Sepulchre Church will hold a grand Mass,” Cesar said, “for all believers in this city; during the Mass, the devout may enter the three great halls to behold and touch the sacred relics.”

Someone cried out in shock, as if a stone had been thrown into a still lake; the news spread like ripples across the crowd. Cesar waited a moment, ensuring the message had traveled far enough, then continued: “My only request of you is to obey all instructions from the clergy, and remember others feel the same urgency and pain as you—before God and His Son, do not commit evil or base acts.”

“We have heard,” said the few kneeling at the front; they were strong men, their clothing less ragged than the others’. Cesar had been out of the castle for over a month—he knew these men were men of standing in their villages, possibly even related by blood to lords or officials; their ancestors had been men like Longinus, and for this reason, they were sharper and more worldly than the impoverished peasant serfs trapped in mud hovels.

Thus, when villages needed a celebration, a sacrifice, or any similar grand event, they were chosen as leaders—briefly, they became the heads of these farmers and craftsmen.

Pilgrimage was unquestionably the most important and most difficult of these undertakings; these men bore extraordinary pressure and responsibility, but the reward was great: once they returned home, this experience would make them honored guests of lords and bishops, securing them high status for the rest of their lives, and their children would inherit its benefits.

“And for those who are hungry, thirsty, wish to return home, or hope to remain here forever,” Cesar said, “I entrust them to you.”

“We will do our utmost,” they promised.

Cesar shook his head: “I trust you—but who but Jesus Christ can endlessly draw bread and fish from a basket?” He removed a ring—it was gold, set with an opal the size of a fingertip, scattering countless colors and lights under the sun: “This was given to me by pious benefactors, solely because I did a small service for our Lord. Now I give it to you, so you may do greater work—exchange it for bread, water, and passage fees. I ask no repayment; only that each person helped pray for these generous souls.”

Everyone present looked astonished.

Cesar said no more, nor did he need to—others would naturally spread his words and deeds. How many in the Holy City of Arasal needed water, bread, and hope?

The crowd stirred, slowly parting before him; the black-haired, blue-eyed boy took a few steps, then removed a piece of jewelry and handed it to whoever was willing to serve him; when all ornaments were gone, he shed the luxurious fabrics, one by one; by the time he reached the drawbridge, the priceless gift—valuable enough to move a count—had been entirely distributed to the poor.

Those following him had gone from murmuring whispers and occasional debates to complete silence; the powerful, the wealthy, the nobles and clergy, along with their servants, unusually mingled with the poor; women wept openly, men nodded sincerely, every hand either making the sign of the cross or clutching a rosary.

The drawbridge had already been lowered, but beyond Cesar, all others halted; a slender white figure stood outside the black gate. Though not everyone had seen Prince Baldwin, all knew at once—this was the heir of Arasal, stricken with leprosy, his hands and face fully covered by gloves and veil.

Cesar turned, took the silver tray holding the woolen white cloak from a page, and, under thousands of watching eyes, strode swiftly toward the prince, said to be punished by God.

Baldwin watched the black-haired new attendant approach with light steps, set down the tray, lifted the snow-white relic, and without hesitation draped it over himself.

For a moment, Baldwin did not comprehend what had happened—the soft, smooth fabric poured over his head like sunlight, enveloping his entire body; since the relic had once draped the tall statue of a saint, the boy’s frame was too small to hold it fully, so it wrapped him like a towering giant embracing him.

He froze, then spoke after a long pause.

“It’s so warm, Cesar…”

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“It’s wool,” Cesar said, “and it’s been baked by the sun for so long—it’s bound to be warm.”

Baldwin let out a hearty laugh: “Cesar, my friend,” he said sincerely, “when you become a knight, don’t be so clueless about matters of the heart.” He took off the cloak and placed it in an ivory-inlaid chest—inside lay all his most precious things: the rosary from his sister Sibylla, the Bible, the sword and dagger gifted by his father Amalric I.

Cesar of course understood what Baldwin meant; but honestly, his education had destined him to lack faith—for an unbeliever, a sacred relic was merely a woolen cloak; yet its meaning for the suffering Baldwin was vastly different—why should he quarrel over something useless to himself, especially when it greatly eased the hostility toward a child?

He did not even want Baldwin to feel too much gratitude or guilt over the cloak.

(End of Chapter)