Chapter 36: The Mithridatic Formula (Part 2)

Cesar hesitated, rarely so.

He had once been a doctor; in another world, people always assumed there was an insurmountable gap between Chinese and Western medicine, but that was not true—their curricula, practices, and theories had certain points of overlap, so Cesar knew well that some herbs used by people of this era could significantly affect internal organs, with effects that might last a lifetime and be irreversible.

Of course, he still did not understand the origin or scope of “Bestowal,” though perhaps the monks kept by the Pope or archbishops could truly cure liver and kidney damage—but this was different from his previous dangers—he had no confidence that these potions contained large quantities of… to name the most direct example—Aristolochia… colchicum…

The former’s aristolochic acid could directly harm the liver and kidneys; colchicum might cause gastrointestinal bleeding and neurological lesions.

And ironically, precisely because toxic plants produced immediate reactions in the human body, they were deemed effective and widely, long-term used…

“I will,” Baldwin said, propping himself up on his elbow and nudging Cesar to silence him: “Cesar will serve me.”

“A good reason,” Heraclius said, then turned to Cesar: “And you?”

His gaze was unusually gentle, his tone flat and calm, yet Cesar’s spine was slick with cold sweat—he was unsure whether to risk it again. He looked from Heraclius to Baldwin; only the three of them were in the room.

“My lord,” he whispered, so softly that only Heraclius, standing directly before them, could hear—though if anyone outside were eavesdropping, and had never been “Enlightened” or “Bestowed,” they could not hear it: “May I see the prescription?”

Heraclius’s expression turned dangerous; had a true nine-year-old been seated here, he would have trembled speechless—but the priest leaned forward: “Prescription? Do you understand these?”

The prescription was minor—the issue was that Cesar had never been “Selected,” nor had he received “Bestowal”—what right or opportunity did he have to access medical knowledge?

Oddly enough, when we open scriptures and rough records, we find the profession of “doctor” appeared very early; at the time of Saints Cosmas and Damian, preaching and healing were separate—these two martyr saints were born in 300 AD, meaning doctors existed then.

But at some point, as more priests and monks received “Bestowal,” the Church gradually monopolized the profession of “doctor,” even declaring that anyone not “Bestowed,” not a monk or priest, was bewitched by the devil—a sorcerer or possessed by hellspawn—and would be tried, then judged: if they could pay the fine, they confessed and attended Mass (paid); if not, they were excommunicated (usually men) or burned (mostly women).

After arriving at Baldwin’s side, Cesar did not yet fully grasp the countless taboos of this era and once casually suggested finding better doctors for Baldwin’s illness—Baldwin immediately turned pale and solemnly warned him never to mention such a thing again; Cesar had lost his memory, was a man without past or support, and if any malicious person heard him and reported to the monks, it would be a major trouble.

Since arriving at Baldwin’s side, Baldwin had always treated him with great care—this was the first time he had spoken so sharply, so Cesar understood the weight of this issue—but he had to ask, for himself and for Baldwin.

“If I wished, I could have you thrown into prison over this alone,” Heraclius said darkly. “No, I will not tell you, boy. Do you think a prescription is something ordinary? If I chose to sell it, bishops and kings would pay a pound of gold per word for it—unless…” He watched the two boys straighten their spines, then could not help smiling: “Unless you are my student…”

“I wish to be your student!” Cesar said at once, though he hesitated slightly: “But if my Blessing is ‘Enlightenment,’ or if I am not Selected…”

Heraclius paused, then said: “Even monks have had knights as students. If you are not Selected, there will be problems—but I doubt the Church is full of fools. If that time comes,” he said bluntly, “you may offer this prescription as a gift; on its account, the Church’s examiners will show leniency.” This assumed Cesar wanted to be a doctor; if he did not, it would be even simpler—not every monk receives “Bestowal.”

There were those Selected but still weak—Wit was one such case. Heraclius had already decided to kill him on the night of Our Lord’s Birth, lest someone use him to undermine Baldwin’s failure in the “Selection Ceremony.”

Satisfied with the answer, Heraclius swiftly produced the prescription. Cesar looked down and indeed saw Aristolochia—thankfully no colchicum. Other ingredients, though bizarre—like venomous snake meat—would not cause major harm. He examined each herb by name, occasionally asking Heraclius, as the prescription was written in ancient Greek verse by current custom: “Bitumen… Saint John’s wort, lavender, rose petals, saffron, mint… black pepper and cinnamon, cardamom… myrrh, frankincense, turpentine… castoreum, styrax… arabic gum… grind the ointment, gum, and herbs with wine until fine and smooth, then add several ounces of honey.”

“Is Aristolochia necessary?”

“You truly understand?” Heraclius was surprised. “It can be replaced with mandrake or opium poppy latex.”

Neither was good—the latter was especially reviled in later eras. “If replaced with mandrake, must the dosage increase?”

“Depends on what you use—halve the seeds, no need for leaves or flowers; increase the roots.”

“Can we use leaves and flowers?” Cesar asked. “Will there be enough time?”

Heraclius glanced at him. “By the time you think of that, it’s already past midnight.” He pulled out two other vials with satisfaction.

“Did you guess I would ask about the prescription?”

“No. These are prepared to prevent violent reactions.” Heraclius lifted the box beneath the table; when opened, rows of glittering glass vials dazzled them.

“Some break out in rashes upon contact with mandrake; others vomit uncontrollably with Aristolochia; some cannot tolerate any opium poppy latex—breathing falters, heart races. And I altered other main ingredients in a few vials—some people’s taboos are peculiar…”

“Your foresight is admirable,” Baldwin said, genuinely impressed—and even happier that Heraclius agreed to take Cesar as a student, meaning that even if Cesar was not Selected, Baldwin’s status would still allow him to remain by his side.

Heraclius clicked his tongue. Both boys’ conduct pleased him. He pulled a drawer from the box, took two tiny cups no larger than a thumb, placed them on the table, opened bottles wrapped in cloth (covered in tiny herb names), poured a few drops into each, and told the boys to drink.

“Wait—we drink together?”

“I can manage two,” Heraclius said.

So the earlier choice of who went first had been the monk’s prank. Cesar sighed helplessly—he was beginning to think adults were increasingly fond of teasing them.

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“You’re back?”

Heraclius startled, then recognized the familiar voice and silhouette—the man waiting in his room was his master, Amalric I.

“Why not light the lamps, Your Majesty?”

“Darkness sometimes aids thought,” Amalric I turned to Heraclius. “How are they?”

“Slightly feverish, vomited for a while, had hallucinations—but before I left, they were asleep.”

“Did you see the knights?”

“They will guard the tower all night. No one enters or leaves without your command.” A week without contact—officially “fasting”—but the castle was full of eyes and ears, and those behind them surely knew the first trial of the “Selection Ceremony” had begun. Baldwin was weak, sluggish, defenseless—any schemer would strike now.

“How is Baldwin?”

“He is well. He is strong.” And full of confidence and compassion, his thinking now more thorough than before—he realized his father did not wish him to become true friends with Cesar. Though Amalric I claimed to treat Cesar as a duke’s son, he still wanted Cesar to be a slave—the more Baldwin valued Cesar as an equal, the stronger Amalric I’s murderous intent grew.

“And Cesar?”

“He is tending to Baldwin.”

“He did not vomit? No fever?”

“What’s strange about that?” Only Heraclius could lie calmly before this suspicious old lion: “Cesar is the prince’s servant—should I or Baldwin tend to him?” In truth, Heraclius tended to both, and when they felt slightly better, they tended to each other.

“I hope he remains loyal forever,” Amalric I pressed his temple. “I’ll return now.”

“Wait, Your Majesty,” the monk said: “There is something you must confirm—about your marriage…”

————————

"Amalric I's marriage? Could Manuel I really agree? If he had expelled Prince Baldwin from the start, Manuel might not have hesitated—but he clearly intends to keep this heir. Even if Manuel has several daughters, he will want each marriage to yield a powerful advantage... this marriage will never happen."

The Archbishop of Jerusalem paced the room, muttering uncontrollably.

“Why not?” the visitor countered. He wore black, like a humble monk, but the golden cross hanging beneath his robe revealed he was no pauper. “Manuel I has long sought to invade Egypt. If he desires a powerful ally, marriage is the best means—”

“But Prince Baldwin…”

“He will live only thirty years. Precisely because of this, Manuel will agree—Amalric I’s intentions are clear: he has just married a new wife and is still in his prime—he can easily father another son. Until that child comes of age, Baldwin will secure his throne. And the finest part? When his younger son matures, Baldwin will be dead.”

The current Archbishop of Jerusalem turned to the Pope’s envoy—the man had arrived silently, leaving no trace. When two monks brought him before the archbishop, he did not kneel or kiss his feet, but stood proudly, presenting the Pope’s seal and credentials—shocking the archbishop.

Christians knew best the Eastern and Western Churches—Constantinople and Rome—but no one could deny Jerusalem’s uniqueness surpassed both: it was the holiest land, the martyrdom site of Jesus Christ and countless saints; every stone bore sacred traces. People bent to pick up a stone, carried it home, and it became a relic, enshrined in a church or monastery.

Why had Jesus Christ been handed over to the Jewish priests, his own kin, upon the cross? Was it not for power and profit?

Urban II, faithfully advancing Gregory VII’s “Papal Supremacy” Cluniac reforms, when he approached kings and nobles, passionately delivered speeches, using bloody threats and honeyed promises to stir hearts, calling them to fight for God—surely he thought of the Lord and saints, but also of gold and land.

The First and Second Crusades were driven entirely by the Roman Church. Indeed, they gained benefits: first, the Crusades severely struck heretics and infidels, strengthening the Church’s weakening power; second, the East-West trade once monopolized by the two was now in the hands of European merchants and guilds; third, Crusader knights brought back vast wealth and resources, much of which ended up in Church hands.

But would the Church be satisfied?

No. They wanted everything. But the Crusade leaders—the King of Jerusalem, the Count of Tripoli, the Prince of Antioch—had no intention of surrendering their spoils. Especially the King of Jerusalem: when Baldwin I needed coronation, even when the bishop hid in a cave, he sent soldiers to drag him out and force him to anoint the king (a required step).

In response to Church demands, he preferred to fight for a month—south to Egypt, east to Petra—rather than concede, crushing the Pope and cardinals’ dream of turning Jerusalem into a theocracy.

Afterward, every new King of Jerusalem faced the Church in a tug-of-war: the king remained firm, the Church resorted to any means—bribing or bewitching the priest who administered last rites, forcing the dying king to pledge Jerusalem to the Church… such things had happened.

Baldwin’s leprosy had no secret culprit; Amalric I’s near-unreasonable reaction was clearly a declaration of war against the Church.

The archbishop was nearly convinced. “But if I do this, I will utterly alienate Amalric I.”

“Do you think refusing to treat Baldwin’s son is not alienating him?” the Pope’s envoy said. “When Baldwin dies, we can accuse him of defiling the Holy Land with a leper, drawing divine punishment. To atone, he will spend these years demonstrating piety and loyalty—and then… it will be our chance.”

He laughed sharply: “Don’t worry—even if he marries a Byzantine princess immediately, his child cannot mature in a day.”

“Amalric I is not the kind to give up easily.”

“True. But we are thousands of miles away. You,” the envoy clicked his tongue, “have few choices. Will you kneel before Amalric I and Prince Baldwin, begging their forgiveness? Even if your priests treat Baldwin, whether they can cure him is uncertain—do you truly believe he doesn’t know who orchestrated his illness?”

He raised a finger: “Besides, if he recovers, he becomes another Baldwin I. That was precisely why we acted.”

(End of Chapter)