Chapter 2: Cesar

Amalric I did not remember the child until more than ten days later.

As the guardian of the Holy Sepulcher, a fierce and devout ruler defending every Christian right under the watchful eyes of the Saracens, he had countless tasks every day.

He had to secure the safety of the Holy Land; balance the power among residents, pilgrims, and even infidels near the Holy Land; and ease the increasingly tense relations between the two major knightly orders stationed at Arazal— the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller.

He had to meet, speak with, and threaten the greedy Venetians, Isaacites, and Sephardic merchants to make these stingy devils open their purses.

These funds were to be used to fight Mahmud of Zengi, Saladin of the Fatimids, and Kerres II of Asia Minor, and to soften the hardline stance of the Byzantine Emperor Manuel—his wife had died six years prior, and as king, he wished to forge a more stable alliance with Byzantium through marriage.

And then there was his son Baldwin.

Ever since Baldwin was confirmed as a leper, Amalric I grew moody on Sundays during Mass or other sacraments—not because of anything else, but because, though Baldwin remained his legal heir, the Church forbade lepers from participating in any sacrament; this meant that while the king, his family—only one daughter, Sibylla—and his ministers and lords attended Mass in the small chapel of the Holy Cross Castle, Baldwin had to remain alone in his room.

Amalric I had long pondered how to resolve this small problem; he thought of monks who administered communion to the bedridden by bringing them broken unleavened bread and wine in a cup—perhaps he could grant a clerical office to Baldwin’s servants so they might do the same. He shared this idea with Heraclius, who showed hesitation.

“What’s wrong?” Amalric I asked gently. “I can surely afford the cost of a clerical office.”

“It’s not about the cost,” Heraclius said cautiously. “I’ve recently heard some rumors—whether true or not…”

After hearing him out, Amalric I said nothing and turned to leave—but within one or two hours, he returned to the small chapel.

“I saw it, Heraclius,” Amalric I said calmly, wondering whether he had already chosen burial grounds for those bold servants—who, in their cruel and disrespectful treatment of the king’s son, should have foreseen this fate.

“Everyone makes mistakes sometimes,” Heraclius said, his tone holding little blame—not from fear or caution, for his friendship with Amalric I was not so fragile; after all, Amalric I was first a king, then a father—he could not, like a woman, remain inseparable from his child, especially since the greatest malice toward Baldwin had already been barred beyond the walls of the Holy Cross Castle.

Amalric I sighed softly: “That’s not what worries me most,” he fixed his gaze on Heraclius. “Since… that time, Baldwin has scarcely left his room. He speaks to no one, avoids all contact—except for occasional visits from Sibylla. Even after such humiliation, he won’t speak to me… Do you think Baldwin is too gentle?”

“He has a merciful heart,” Heraclius said. “I firmly believe he inherited your resilience and strength.”

“I hope so,” Amalric I said. “Compared to leprosy, weakness and cowardice are what I fear most.” He fell silent for a moment. “...What of the child?”

Oddly enough, though Amalric I spoke these words, Heraclius immediately knew whom he meant: “I visited the asylum yesterday,” the priest said. “He is fully recovered, restored to health, and busy with tasks every day.”

“Will you go see him?”

————————

“Cesar!” a monk called out loudly.

“I’m here!” the black-haired boy shouted back. Before and behind him stretched ropes hung with snow-white linen sheets—the substantial result of his labor from Prime (nine a.m.) until now, Sext (noon). The damp fabric swayed slightly in the September wind, releasing the scent of water. As he walked toward the monk, he marveled that the monastery had enough olive oil and wood ash to make soap.

“It’s time for meals,” the monk said. “Let’s pray, then eat. Today we have duck.”

According to canon law, most Christians must fast over a hundred days a year, during which they may not eat any animal flesh, including eggs or dairy. During longer fasts, such as the forty-day Lent, strict observance would leave believers and monks emaciated, skin stretched over bone.

Thus, many things were expanded into the “non-meat” category: shellfish, waterfowl, beavers… because they swam, they were counted as fish… so in Arazal, duck was “a feathered fish.”

“Brother Marthas cooked the duck with sour wine, blueberries, and carrots until it was tender… Many of us lost focus during prayer because of the duck’s aroma… and were punished, beaten—but they weren’t angry…”

The monk walked on, speaking intermittently. “Brother Marthas saved you the duck neck—but are you really going to eat that? You could have a piece of meat; you’ve only just recovered.”

“I’m fully healed,” the boy said patiently—he had never suffered serious injuries; the worst had been a dislocated arm, and his fainting and fever were entirely due to hunger and stress.

This body had been well cared for before; once free from danger, given rest and several hearty meals, he would be a “little Samson” again.

But he could not plainly tell these kind monks: “You work hard every day and often come into contact with the sick—you need more fatty, flavorful food.”

Fatigue and malnutrition caused many problems and lowered immunity, making people more susceptible to infectious diseases. He could only urge the monks to ensure sufficient rest, adequate food, and clean water.

You might not believe it, but in this age many call the Dark Ages, the “asylum” established by monks to serve Crusaders and pilgrims had a scale, scope, and function far exceeding many noble residences.

This asylum belonged to the Church and Monastery of Saint John the Baptist, with forty-five rooms; epileptics and pregnant women had separate quarters, a large kitchen and storeroom, a water tower, a mill, washing areas, and Roman-style public latrines, and a spacious courtyard for drying clothes and sheets.

Here, regardless of gender, age, wealth, or status, all could receive care and healing from the monks—in the language of the time, this meant redeeming the body while redeeming the soul, a noble form of spiritual practice.

From Cesar’s observation, most monks undertook this work with genuine zeal; though their medical methods leaned toward comfort and solace, many patients who entered merely due to malnutrition or psychological distress were indeed cured.

To those patients, these monks were like angels and saints.

“Wait!” a voice suddenly called. “That’s Cesar, isn’t it? Cesar, come here—a noble lord wishes to see you!” A child in only a tunic and wooden sandals rushed over—he was the abbot’s page. The monk immediately nudged Cesar. “Go quickly—don’t keep the lords waiting.”

——————

“Cesar?” Amalric I turned to Heraclius. “Did he tell you?”

“No,” Heraclius said. “When he woke, he had no memory of his past.” He looked to the abbot John, who nodded. “It may have been caused by fever—overheated blood damages the brain. Even the most devout prayer cannot cure this disease—and it is August now, so we gave him this name.” He hesitated. “If you find it inappropriate…”

“Nothing inappropriate,” Amalric I said. Cesar was a Frankish name, but its Latin meaning was far better known—Caesar, the Roman emperor; the first Caesar had named August after himself. “This title now carries no political significance.”

Amalric I said gently: “A blacksmith can be called Alexander, a farmer can become Henry, and a servant choosing Cesar as his name is not strange.” He paused slightly. “Or do you think the child might dishonor this name?”

“Absolutely not!” John declared firmly. The force of his words made Heraclius glance at him curiously—John was no monk ignorant of the world beyond asceticism; he was born into the Gerard family, whose Barnes founded the Knights Hospitaller. Though the current Grand Master was Oger de Bailleul, the Gerard family still held undeniable influence in Arazal.

“Let me show you his lessons,” John said, hurrying to the desk and pulling open a drawer to retrieve a stack of parchment. “He can count, calculate, speak and write Latin, Isaacite, and Greek, and compose simple poetry.” He tilted his head. “And he plays the lyre, paints, and rides horses.”

“He has received an education befitting a baron—or even a count’s son,” Heraclius said. “You said he forgot his past?”

“Perhaps this education is deeply etched into his blood and bone,” Amalric I said, his fingers tracing the raised ink strokes on the parchment—ink of this era was typically thick. “Or perhaps he has private reasons he cannot speak of.”

While Frankish or Italian children might be captured by Saracen pirates and brought to Arazal, or pilgrims might fall victim en route, it was implausible that a child so clearly raised with refined, complete education and in good health would suddenly appear in the hands of an Isaacite slave trader. To educate a child to this level required gold and silver nearly equal to his weight, not to mention the immense time and effort.

Amalric I had seen too many conspiracies and deceptions: sons imprisoning mothers for inheritance, uncles murdering nephews; a favored younger son, unable to claim his father’s legacy, might still have his father’s support to carve away his elder brother’s share—if the brother refused to kill, he might simply abandon or sell the younger.

At that moment, a soft knock came at the door—two knocks, then the person waited respectfully for a moment, roughly three minutes, before knocking twice again.

At the king’s signal, John, having deliberately delayed, finally called: “Cesar? Come in.”

Cesar first saw Abbot John standing in the center of the room—a fat man who looked content and cheerful—then the man seated by the desk: Amalric I, King of Arazal, Guardian of the Holy Sepulcher. He was not tall, but immensely broad; his torso was three times the width of the monk standing behind him.

Or perhaps it was merely because that monk was unusually thin.

As the boy bowed and greeted the three nobles, Amalric I carefully studied the child he had rescued from the Isaacite castrator’s blade.

If anyone now claimed this boy was a slave, one hundred out of a hundred and two would disagree—some stubborn souls would shake their heads three times.

His dislocated arm had long been set; wounds from hooves, dogs, and whips had faded to faint red marks, making his skin appear even whiter—not pale, bluish, or grayish, but healthy, lustrous, like churned cream. His fingers and toes were slender and delicate, free of thick calluses or ugly scars. His hair was black as ebony, his eyes a clear green, his forehead broad and smooth, his limbs long and his posture upright.

Most remarkable was that he lacked the typical recklessness of boys his age, and none of the cowering, shadowed demeanor common among slaves. His gaze was clearer and steadier than any peer’s.

“What were you doing just now, Cesar?” John asked, his fondness for the boy unhidden. “I saw you coming from the courtyard.”

“I helped wash the sheets,” Cesar said.

“Oh dear,” John glanced at Heraclius and the king. “That’s heavy, exhausting work.”

“I merely did what I could,” Cesar replied. Since waking, he had realized his body, though slender, seemed to hold boundless strength—even such grueling labor as washing sheets (requiring constant rinsing, wringing, and drying) felt easier for him than for others, and after finishing, he felt no fatigue, only the pleasant sensation of exercise.

"What else have you done?" John pressed. Heraclius knew this question was aimed at them—John was too eager; if he brought up this topic for that reason, the stationed priest suspected he might be disappointed.

Cesar looked surprised; his expression showed he did not believe he had done anything worthy of mention before the king: “Tending the vegetable garden, caring for the sick, kneading dough in the kitchen, scraping sheepskins (for parchment), mixing ink… small things.”

“Small things…” Amalric I mused. “Perhaps someone told you you were not of humble birth—that you might be the son of a lord… You need not do such lowly work—were you forced?”

(End of Chapter)