Chapter 19: The Invisible Crack

Amidst the blooming flowers, gems glittered brilliantly.

Every time he saw Princess Sibylla, Cesar could not help but silently recite this verse from a Saracen poet.

Princess Sibylla was always surrounded by maids and pages, all of whom were born into nobility— their fathers were either ministers of the king or vassals with fiefs— meaning they lived from birth in ease and comfort, their skin smooth, their fingers slender; and we all know that a girl of tender years, given adequate nourishment, could hardly be ugly.

Moreover, a few among them were indeed exceptionally lovely.

But no matter how beautiful or gentle they were, as long as Princess Sibylla was present, no one would spare them a second glance.

As the verse says, though flowers are beautiful, how could they rival the radiance of gems? Princess Sibylla’s beauty transcended the ordinary; beneath her vivid, intense exterior lay a hardened inner core befitting it— Amalric I had also said his daughter was as stubborn and fierce as a man— and she made no effort to conceal her thirst for knowledge and power, just like her aunts.

Ordinary men would feel fear and revulsion toward such a woman, yet some men would be drawn to admire and submit to her, or conversely— stirred by a hunter’s impulse toward a wild beast; among the former, Abigail led, while David stood out most clearly among the latter.

These chaotic, intense emotions frightened many ladies, but from what Cesar observed, Sibylla did not panic— she reveled in it, carefully handling the two boys and the factions they represented, and often deliberately made the situation even more convoluted.

Sibylla spotted Cesar before Damara or the other maids did; her tall stature ensured she was never obscured by their circle, and she cast a glance at the dark-haired young page— a glance like the glint of a cold blade, possessing a beauty so arresting it made one forget danger.

In an instant, she lowered her head again; the maids noticed Cesar’s arrival and giggled, shoving Damara out.

Damara and Cesar’s ages meant they were in a phase of rapid growth and change; Cesar altered almost daily, and Damara had changed greatly since just a few months ago— clearly prepared to transform from a child into a woman— her body had grown softer, her eyes brighter, her steps lighter; the only things unchanged were her round little face and the faint dimple that appeared whenever she saw Cesar.

If Princess Sibylla was a gem blazing with firelight, and the other maids were blooming flowers, Damara was a little bird flitting among them.

Soft, plump, it felt as if its fluffy body trembled in sync with one’s heartbeat when held.

With Princess Sibylla’s permission, Damara could speak alone with Cesar nearby, but to avoid possible gossip, Cesar still stayed within sight of the maids, halting before a thicket of still-thick myrtle bushes.

As a knight-in-waiting expected to be attentive, Cesar spread his long cloak over the myrtle leaves; Damara, demurely, extended her foot, waiting for Cesar to remove her tiny shoes before stepping onto the cloak— once seated, she sighed deeply— serving the princess was a dream come true, yet no one imagined it to be easy; her mistress, Princess Sibylla, though not a harsh or bitter mistress, tolerated no slackness, let alone the constant scheming among the maids, just like their fathers and brothers, vying for the favor of their superiors.

“Play your flute for me,” Damara said; she could feel eyes upon them—from the maids to the princess.

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“Look, what a perfect pair,” one maid remarked, gazing at them from afar.

At these words, the princess’s maids burst into low laughter, like a breeze stirring ripples on a lake— though some laughter held kindness, others carried malice; another maid added, “That boy may be handsome, but he lacks courage.”

Sibylla glanced at her, recognizing her as the daughter of a minor family loyal to Count Raymond of Tripoli; given this connection and her open admiration for the count’s eldest son, David, it was no surprise she held no goodwill toward Cesar, who had bested her beloved.

Someone immediately rebutted her, but the maid swiftly retorted that she was not speaking of the boy’s skill on horseback, but of his prowess in bed.

In an age where average life expectancy might be only forty, children matured too early; poor farmers, to ward off the cold, would huddle with their livestock on low wooden beds in winter, and parents did not avoid their children during intimate acts— and in the earliest castles, lords, children, guests, and servants often slept together in the great hall with its heated bed; boys and girls had long learned all manner of skills from their first teachers.

This custom persisted; noblewomen might still retain some modesty under religious instruction, but men, from childhood onward, were utterly unrestrained, especially in their teens, when soul and body were tightly bound by desire— it was impossible to expect them not to be reckless, impulsive, or to crave battle and beds. Everyone knew that whether a noblewoman’s betrothed or her knightly admirers, even if each was willing to shed blood and life to defend her name, none lacked a variety of women around them.

They acted without restraint, indulged freely; before noblewomen, even if they could not go all the way, they often hurt and bruised them; some maids accepted this willingly, seeing it as flattery, while others deeply despised it.

This girl from the minor family belonged to the former; Cesar always kept a distance from Damara— he never stepped on her feet, kissed her lips, held her hand, or seized chances in dances to lift her— to her, these behaviors proved Cesar felt ashamed of his low birth and dared not pursue a noblewoman.

“Be quiet,” Sibylla said calmly. “Cesar is the prince’s page; he will one day be a knight of my father, Amalric I. Between him and Damara, there is no chasm as you imagine.”

The princess’s words were like a cold current sweeping across the lake— instantly, laughter and mockery froze.

“Perhaps because he will become a monk,” a noblewoman quickly interjected to ease the tension. “After all, he is so kind and pious.”

Some maids nodded in agreement, while others remained silent— as we said earlier, in the Holy City, indeed, many had been moved by Cesar’s asceticism, though they also knew this spectacle had drawn such attention largely because King Amalric I and the monk Heraclius had promoted it for the sake of Prince Baldwin— otherwise, would the monks have tolerated a stranger with no lineage petitioning to clean the Holy Sepulchre? They would have driven him out.

But if you think Cesar could truly become a “saint,” revered by all, merely because of this asceticism and good deeds, you are utterly mistaken; the favor and gifts he received were more like a reward, slightly above that given to jesters who somersaulted at the long table.

The truth was cruel: when those in power realized their piety had no bearing on their earthly safety or legacy, faith became a tool— used to intimidate ministers, pacify the populace, bind the Church— if they were truly devout, the Holy Land should be the seat of the Patriarch or the Pope, not Amalric I’s Holy City.

“Being a monk isn’t bad,” one maid giggled. “Sometimes monks are more… convenient.”

Sibylla grew weary; most around her were such short-sighted fools. Perhaps one or two noblewomen, under their fathers’ or brothers’ tolerance, had received more education, but their thoughts stretched no further than their own families and their future husbands’ households— they saw no hidden currents, heard no howling winds.

Amalric I acted out of love for his son Baldwin, Heraclius out of compassion and admiration for talent, Baldwin out of weakness, unable to abandon this fragile warmth— but Sibylla saw clearly, because of this dark-haired, blue-eyed boy—

He was the same as her.

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Damara pulled a large handkerchief from her nearly knee-length sleeves and tied it around the dark-haired boy’s wrist: “This is from my uncle.” Then she fell silent.

As between Cesar and Damara, exchanging gifts was not improper; Cesar carried the silk handkerchief embroidered with gold and silver thread through half the castle, and everyone he met teased him. Damara was not the most beautiful maid beside the princess, nor was she old enough to understand the subtleties of love, but her surname, wealth, and her father’s and brothers’ influence ensured she would be a prize worth fighting for among knights.

When Cesar returned to his room, Baldwin’s first sight was the large handkerchief— for Cesar rarely dressed so elaborately.

“Did Damara give you this?”

Cesar was not yet a knight, but he had already sworn his oath; Damara could accept the attentions and loyalty of other knights, but he could not kneel before another noblewoman— such was the unwritten rule. Of course, knights and pages could freely seek pleasure with courtesans or maids, but neither could offer a handkerchief of this quality.

The base fabric was bleached fine cotton, possibly from Egypt, edged with lace, embroidered with dyed wool and gold-silver threads; Baldwin glanced at it— Damara was young, her fingers lacked control, and her embroidery was clumsy, yet she had poured her sincerity into stitching the entire handkerchief with flowers, so densely that unfolding it made one dizzy…

“It is a sincere gift,” Baldwin said, avoiding prolonged gaze. “Keep it safe.”

He did not notice Cesar’s momentary hesitation.

Gentlemen, sometimes we wonder how a grand, glorious building can collapse overnight— yet who notices at first the tiny hole gnawed by termites? Such is the nature of all things.

Only from the end of fate’s thread, looking backward, can one see that the root of all disaster may lie in a single extra or missing speck of dust— but by then, it is far too late; one can only regret and lament.

Amalric I had once been displeased with this slave he personally chose for his only son, even harboring murderous intent over the white wool cloak; Heraclius, moved by sympathy for Prince Baldwin and pity for Cesar, intervened; Baldwin, cherishing this rare, genuine friendship with a peer, vouched for Cesar and pleaded his case… yet none of them ever warned Cesar.

Why Amalric I and Heraclius acted as they did needs no explanation; Baldwin’s reason was purer— he simply did not want his only friend to revert to a groveling slave— no, he had never seen Cesar as a slave; he regarded him as a knight’s son of equal rank, and mutual aid had always been the knight’s duty.

After Baldwin fell asleep, Cesar stepped alone from his room, sat on the cold stone steps, and in the faint light from a small window, unbound the handkerchief— beneath layers of wool thread lay a floor plan of the Temple Church.

The Temple of Solomon had once been the highest place of worship for the Israelites, built by King Solomon in 967 B.C., destroyed twice: first in 586 B.C. by King Nebuchadnezzar II of Babylon; second in A.D. 70 by the Roman general Titus.

When the Saracens occupied the land, they built two mosques upon its foundations: the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque. After the Knights Templar were founded, the King of Jerusalem gave Al-Aqsa to the order, which converted part of it into a church and used the rest as a weapons depot and stables.

But regardless, it was never a purely sacred place. Thus, when Amalric I chose a church for Baldwin’s selection ceremony, the Temple was never among his options.

Yet Cesar had to consider: if the Holy Sepulchre failed them, the Temple Church seemed the only remaining option.

Though there were other churches around the Crusader Fortress— the Church of the Primacy, the Church of the Baptism, the Church of the Cock’s Crow— all were built by saints; Baldwin would be King of Jerusalem, and every previous king had been chosen in the Holy Sepulchre— it was powerful proof, most convincing. If he were chosen elsewhere, he would face endless doubt— the Temple Church was, after all, the earthly dwelling Solomon built for God, and he was a great king; if Baldwin felt the presence of Solomon, even though Solomon was not officially canonized, it would be no less significant than the presence of Saint George that Amalric I had felt.

When he asked Damara— in truth, her family, the Gerardis— he had not expected much, for he was still an unknown outsider; yet the Gerardis responded so swiftly— though when one considered their Order of the Hospitallers had long clashed with the Templars, and often lost, such action was not surprising.

More likely, they had seen Baldwin’s trust in him.

Just now, as Baldwin spoke to him, Cesar had nearly been overcome by impulse to reveal everything— but as the saying goes, distance should not interfere with kinship; making such preparations was tantamount to insulting Amalric I and his Knights of the Holy Sepulchre— yet he could only believe what he saw: how had Baldwin contracted leprosy? How had his servants mocked and abused him? To this day, he could not enter any holy site— who was blocking him?

For a silver coin, commoners would brawl and murder; what of Jerusalem? It was a golden holy city; every devout pilgrim came to add a ray of glory with all their wealth. For these… and perhaps for faith, Baldwin’s enemies were everywhere, at all times, using every means.

From the perspective of posterity, Cesar saw at once the intent of the red-robed devils— whether the Patriarch of Jerusalem or the Pope in Rome, none wished for Amalric I to have an impeccable heir; Baldwin should die, or if not, stripped of his right of succession and banished from Jerusalem.

Even though the Holy Sepulchre was now controlled by the Gerardis’ clergy, who could say none among the hundreds of other sects were not bold or fanatical? And the plots they would enact could not be prevented merely by ordering knights to patrol day and night or by brutal torture.

(End of Chapter)