Chapter 37: Selection Ceremony (Part One)

On the morning of January 6th, the entire Holy Cross Fortress awoke.

For several days, Amalric I had struggled to sleep and needed Heraclius to bring him poppy milk to rest; today, he drank some Saracen black brew to keep his mind sharp and his reactions swift.

Heraclius, unusually, had also downed a large cup—he was in worse condition than the king, having spent seven consecutive days and nights preparing medicines, observing reactions, cleaning, and re-formulating them; now that both children were finally asleep, he still had to rush to Amalric I to report, all while enduring the king’s constant probing.

Amalric I did not doubt Heraclius; his current torment was that Cesar was too good—better than expected.

He had already decided: after his second son’s birth, he would appoint two regents for Baldwin—Heraclius was certain, and the other he would choose between Raymond and Bohemond; thus, even if Baldwin, weakened by illness, could not fight or govern, these two ministers would ensure the Holy City did not fall into the hands of infidels or the Church.

The problem was, Baldwin now had Cesar—a nine-year-old boy—while other noble boys were still learning etiquette and poetry under their mothers’ skirts, Amalric I had already seen in him the embryonic form of a powerful minister.

Though Heraclius repeatedly swore his loyalty to Baldwin, was loyalty always a good thing? Sometimes not, Amalric I thought; if Cesar truly saw Baldwin as a master or even a brother, his second son would become Cesar’s enemy—whether because Baldwin lacked the healthy body the boy was born with, or because he intended to make Baldwin a mere transition or stepping stone—this child was destined to be disliked by Cesar.

But he must do it—both as a father and as a king.

Amalric I closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath of cold air; as he did, torches, candles, and oil lamps flared to life, as if the darkness here had been sucked into his very body—a crowd gathered around the king, ascending to the highest point of the main tower: the Holy Cross Fortress’s chapel.

To the Roman clergy, this humble little chapel was utterly unworthy to house the True Cross; it was small, holding at most thirty people (standing), its dome built with basic quadripartite rib vaults rather than the more refined sexpartite, only six niches for saints instead of twelve, no piers, no carved reliefs or side columns, no archivolts, window tracery, pinnacles, or canopies; though its Romanesque round windows used blue and red glass, they did not depict saints in the latest fashionable mosaic style, only common geometric patterns.

The floor bore no thick, soft carpets or polished marble; only a single large lion pelt was laid meagerly before the altar.

The stone altar was coarse and heavy, covered with white linen, deep blue and crimson silk, displaying crystal, gold, and silver sacred vessels; on either side stood Byzantine-style altar screens, the saints upon them gazing at the faithful with the classic pose—body in profile, face frontal.

Upon the altar rested the True Cross.

It was said that whenever the Crusaders marched bearing the True Cross, they won every battle; whether true, no one could now verify. Yet later generations, from cinematic depictions, saw a wooden cross the size of an actual crucifix, inlaid with gold and jewels, and wrongly assumed the relic found by Saint Helena (Empress of Rome) was that large—yet it was not.

Saint Helena had not found the entire cross, but fragments of the True Cross, which had been gathered and stored in a reliquary; normally kept in a secret chamber, today it had been placed upon the altar; all who saw it could not suppress their emotion, even the usually grim and reserved Bohemond.

Heraclius first recited two scriptural passages—essentially fitting the Epiphany theme, which we need not repeat—then all joined in prayer, hoping to receive the same guidance as the Three Wise Men, walking toward the light of faith; the Three Wise Men, guided by God, found Jesus, and as Christians, they too could find Jesus—not the infant Jesus, but the Christ who would return in glorious second coming.

Then, led by Amalric I, followed by Princess Sibylla, and lastly Cesar acting as proxy for Prince Baldwin, each offered gold, myrrh, and frankincense to the altar; Heraclius recited the prayer of offering.

Next, all received communion and recited the thanksgiving; but this time, unlike before, Heraclius did not immediately reclaim the golden chalice holding the Holy Blood (wine); instead, he filled it with clear spring water, withdrew a fragment from the reliquary—Cesar felt the rapid breathing around him—and the monk immersed the True Cross fragment three times in the water, then withdrew it and distributed it for all to drink.

Cesar returned to Baldwin with two cups; previously, Baldwin always drank his portion outright, but this time he poured half of the water infused with the True Cross fragment into Cesar’s cup.

“Tastes like nothing.” Cesar drank it all and commented.

Baldwin shook his head, saying nothing.

The procession was now ready; they would walk the entire Holy City, then ascend the stairs to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at dawn prayer (around five a.m.), escorting Baldwin and Cesar into the main hall—the very place of the Holy Sepulchre—after which all doors would be sealed, leaving only them inside to await the arrival of angels and saints.

The procession numbered over a hundred, and as it progressed, more would join; all participants were male, walking on foot; at the front marched Amalric I and his ministers, along with the Grand Masters of the major knightly orders; behind them came monks bearing icons and crosses; behind the monks should have stood the Patriarch of Jerusalem, but he had suddenly “fallen ill,” so Heraclius replaced him.

This monk, deeply trusted by the king, kept his brow furrowed, visibly anxious; following closely behind were the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre; then came the Knights of the Hospital and the Knights Templar; few of the knights wore worried expressions; they kept their eyes tightly shut, stepping precisely in line with the monks, occasionally lifting their heads to glance at the crowds gathered along the path—residents and pilgrims alike were only permitted to follow after the procession had moved a distance ahead, or else they would be beaten.

These devout people remained silent, but as dawn broke and they neared the steps to Golgotha, memories stirred; some began discussing the two boys to be chosen today in the Selection Ceremony; Cesar’s name was constantly mentioned; no one debated whether he would be chosen—they had more faith in him than he did himself: “If the saints don’t choose this boy, who else could they choose?” they all said.

Others mentioned Baldwin; some claimed the prince’s having such a virtuous companion proved his leprosy was merely God’s test, sent to place this good man beside him to guard him from premature death; but others immediately countered: “Do you not know that even sinners have guards? Perhaps it is precisely because he is steeped in sin that a saint has come to him—to sternly instruct him and keep him from straying.”

Geoffrey, walking in the procession, felt a pang of relief for the prince’s young attendant; Amalric I was nearly at the Place of the Passion, out of earshot of such talk—if he heard it, he would fly into a rage, and the speaker deserved hanging; Cesar’s life would become unbearable—pray there were few gossips here, he thought.

As he thought this, he failed to notice the man ahead; the two collided—he blamed the man for suddenly halting, not continuing forward: “What’s wrong?” Geoffrey asked; then, as a veteran Templar, he immediately shoved the man aside and ran forward—only to see, directly before Amalric I, a line of black-robed clergy and gray-robed monks, all holding icons and crosses.

These clergy and monks surrounded one man like stars circling the moon—he wore a bishop’s mitre with front and back peaks, a white robe, and a red chasuble; this was wrong—for Epiphany, he should have worn a white chasuble.

Of course, this was the Patriarch of Jerusalem; he had been swayed by the Roman Church’s envoy—or perhaps he had long intended this; who would not wish to rule the Holy City? Especially after refusing to treat Amalric I’s only son, he had already offended the king; so why continue hiding, pretending? Better to end it outright!

Amalric I glared furiously at the Grand Master of the Hospital—since the Selection Ceremony was to be held in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, its security was paramount; months ago, Cesar’s penance and good deeds had saved them much trouble, as the Gerard monks had gained the upper hand in internal church struggles.

But as the king’s gaze swept over the clergy and monks, he saw neither Thomas nor any of the familiar faces—this meant Oger de Barben, whom he had entrusted to ensure the Church of the Holy Sepulchre’s safety, had failed him; this perfect plan had a flaw from the start, and their enemies had not missed the opportunity—they seized it precisely.

“Sinners have no right to perform any sacred rite!” proclaimed the Patriarch in a bell-like voice; all preachers possessed this skill—whether indoors or out, their voice carried far: “I pity you, King of Jerusalem, and I pity your child, but God sees all; King, your sins outweigh your child’s a hundredfold, a thousandfold, ten thousandfold!

One day, Jesus went outside the city and met a leper; the leper fell before Him and said, ‘If you will, you can make me clean.’ And the Savior placed His hand upon his head and said, ‘You are clean.’ And he was clean—he entered the city and offered sacrifice upon the altar.

Pay attention, all of you!

Jesus was mighty and full of mercy, but did He say leprosy was not sin? He cleansed the man, then allowed him to enter the city and perform sacred rites—did He, out of compassion, permit this sinner to pollute and poison the innocent?

No!

King, your child suffers because of your sin (Note 1); you must atone for this sin! Ah, you say you have duties—to fight for God, you cannot wander the wilderness in sackcloth, barefoot, repenting—this argument sounds noble, reasonable, but is it repentance? Is it amendment? No!

He cried, “This is the devil tempting you—luring you to cling to worldly power and fleshly ties, ignoring the salvation of your soul! That is why I say…”

The Patriarch gasped sharply: “You lie again! You sin again! Even the Savior dared not let an unclean man perform sacred rites—you dare bring a leper here!”

He pointed sharply behind him: “Had I not known, had I not come, where would this sinner go? To the place where Jesus was nailed? To the place where He was taken down, where the Virgin and all saints wept around Him? To the place where Jesus slept and rose again? To make his rotting feet tread every spot kissed by pious Christians?”

His words stirred a faint commotion.

A fleeting, sly smile crossed the Patriarch’s face; he stepped forward, standing before Amalric I; his once dignified face flushed red, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. He saw the king’s hand resting on his belt—where hung a decorative short sword; even decorative, it could kill; yet he felt no fear—he laughed aloud: “Come then!”

He spread his arms wide: “Come, come! On the very ground where the Savior suffered—stab my chest with your sword! I should have my face covered, lest I be unworthy of this glory!”

Heraclius rushed forward, grabbing the king, whispering urgently: “He’s right—he’s wearing the red chasuble!” (Note 2); seeing the red chasuble, all knew he intended martyrdom today; if Amalric I truly struck him before the crowd, Jerusalem would truly fall into the Church’s hands.

In fact, Heraclius had earlier suggested securing the Patriarch before January 6th or reinforcing the Church of the Holy Sepulchre’s garrison; but Amalric I, possessing a lion’s body and courage, also had a lion’s stubbornness; he said the Patriarch had sent a letter on Christmas Day.

In the letter, the Patriarch humbly, yet with sorrow, admitted the affliction upon Prince Baldwin was merely God’s test, not punishment; he had been misled by others into unrealistic fantasies; now he recognized his unforgivable sin, and was willing to accept punishment—he would become a monk in a vineyard, if only the king would forgive him, and he would send his clergy to treat Baldwin.

Heraclius believed not a word of it; but the king thought it was because the Selection Ceremony loomed—he believed his son would surely be chosen, and then the Church’s claims would collapse on their own; the Patriarch’s letter was merely precautionary—seeing no hope, these clergy were cowards; preemptive groveling was not surprising.

He rejected Heraclius’s proposal.

Now, the Patriarch stood before him, every word he spoke mocking Amalric I’s folly.

The Patriarch panted, eyes gleaming with triumph and madness; suddenly, a clergyman leaned close and whispered something; the Patriarch’s face twisted into a mocking smile: “Oh,” he said. “I see—a sinful child, and a pious child. You place the latter beside the sinner—to blind the eyes of men and saints?”

He waved his hand, signaling the clergy forward: “Quick! Rescue that child—do not let him remain with the sinner!”

Note 1: At the time, people believed sexual intercourse on the Lord’s Day (Sunday) was a sin; children conceived on that day would be born with leprosy.

Note 2:

White chasuble—purity, joy.

Red chasuble—passion, martyrdom—the Patriarch’s was clearly the latter.

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(End of Chapter)