Chapter 38: Selection Ceremony (Part Two)

The Patriarch had not yet finished speaking when the priest who had previously warned—or rather, betrayed—him rushed forward eagerly. Though everyone glared at him in fury, he showed no fear; it was not that he possessed superhuman courage, but because he stood behind the Patriarch, facing only a crowd of sinners—how dare they lay hands on him?

Someone tried to stop him, but before the King could signal, the knight hesitated a moment, and the priest strode boldly through the gap in the crowd, seizing the boy with green eyes by the arm—Hey! He knew that in the Holy Land, whether resident or pilgrim, everyone called him “Little Saint”; but these secrets, these foolish, lowly people could not grasp them—could a priest like him not understand?

He felt neither fear nor respect for Cesar; he merely sensed the superior’s intent and sought this opportunity to humiliate Amalric I, using it as a stepping stone to advancement.

In an instant, a thousand thoughts flashed through Cesar’s mind.

He could argue, explain, question—but what good would it do?! Even if the faithful might prefer to believe him, faced with the Patriarch’s rage, even Amalric I could only turn pale and endure the shameless curses.

Precisely because a bishop clad in white robes and wearing a tall mitre was unquestionably the divinely appointed representative of God, everything he did could be justified in God’s name—even if he committed evil deeds, secular courts could not judge him; this was God’s authority.

And the priest’s malicious accusation placed him in grave danger: if he was dragged out— the priest was an adult, and at this time, priests trained alongside knights, while Cesar, no matter how nimble, was only a nine-year-old child—once placed beside the Patriarch, whether willingly or not, Baldwin’s guilt would be sealed!

He did not wish to ponder why Amalric I remained silent at this moment; time was running short—Baldwin had already turned urgently, trying to push the priest away; he had even seen the priest’s mocking expression, his open mouth—perhaps in the next moment, he would shout, “Sinner!”…

Cesar looked at the priest, reached one hand behind him—he remembered a Holy Sepulchre Knight stood there—but he did not know that Geoffroy had already slipped to within three feet of him; before the knight could react, Cesar drew his Hungarian shortsword from his belt and shoved it directly into Cesar’s hand.

The priest felt only slight resistance in his grip; he paid it no mind—if the boy did not struggle or scream, he would feel something was missing—this vile creature lowered his head to meet those cold green eyes, licked his lips like a lizard, the most vicious words already on his tongue—then he saw a flash of white light.

He thought, who raised a mirror, or perhaps gold leaf from a saint’s icon reflected the sun… when he involuntarily stumbled backward, flailing his arms, but only one hand brushed against a knight’s belt.

The priest fell to the ground and only then realized—he raised his right hand and found it unnaturally light, then he saw…

His hand, his hand—was gone! His hand was gone!

The priest shrieked hysterically; more than pain, it was terror—he had watched lords and kings sever the hands or feet of thieves or tax evaders without pity, even delighting in commenting on their pitiful postures, wishing for more spectacles to enjoy.

But now it was his turn—he forgot everything, weeping and screaming, rolling on the ground clutching his arm…

Amalric I let out a satisfied grunt.

Baldwin stared wide-eyed at Cesar, barely believing his companion had dared such a thing; Geoffroy shoved aside the obstructing Holy Sepulchre Knight, gripped Cesar’s shoulder, and whispered the faintest praise: “Well done!” Then he casually took the gleaming Hungarian shortsword and slipped it back into its sheath.

The Knights Templar and the King had their disagreements, yes—but on preventing Arasal from becoming a theocracy, their goals aligned—the Templars maintained good relations with the Roman Church only because of distance; but if a Patriarch suddenly appeared right above them, they did not believe he would remain indifferent to the Order’s vast wealth.

The Patriarch was stunned.

A mere priest could treat Cesar with such contempt; as the sole earthly voice of God in the Holy Land, the Patriarch had never once regarded this little nobody as worthy of his notice—no matter what this slave did, it was not worth a thought.

Even if he had once staged that grand alms-giving—yes, he had done good—but so what? It merely earned a laugh from the nobles; had the King or any lord ever bought him a clerical office since?

He had been, he was, and he would remain a mere page beside a prince.

Yet this page had just cut off the hand of the Patriarch’s priest!

Now it was the Patriarch’s face that turned ashen, then crimson with rage, then black as ink—he raised a trembling finger and cried in a voice equally shaken: “Sinner! Sinner! A sinner doomed to burn in the fiery lake for ten thousand years!”

Amalric I finally smiled: “What did he do?”

“He killed a priest!” the Patriarch roared. The wounded priest had crawled to his feet begging for help; the Patriarch kicked him away. He then begged other priests, babbling that they had received greater divine grace than others and could surely restore his hand.

But since the Patriarch declared “he is dead,” the priests and monks merely crossed themselves repeatedly, praying for God’s mercy, yet stood motionless.

The Patriarch’s outcry reached the crowd behind the procession—or rather, while the priest still writhed, the Patriarch’s own priests had already begun echoing the same stern accusation.

Geoffroy expected Cesar to panic when Amalric I did not immediately step forward to protect him, to begin pleading his case—but surprisingly, the green-eyed boy stood perfectly still, motionless, silent.

At first, the crowd did erupt in brief fury—this was the Holy Land! Killing a priest could never be atoned for, even with a thousand years of indulgences; such a sin ought never be forgiven!

They shouted, demanding the murderer’s whereabouts, vowing to seize him, tear him apart, wash his sin away with the blood of sinners!

But when the Patriarch’s priest pointed out the murderer, they fell silent—not the uproar the Patriarch expected, where the crowd would rise as one. Men and women exchanged glances, seemingly unable to comprehend the priest’s words, even as his finger stubbornly pointed at Cesar.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said a half-naked woman in a voice like charcoal burned raw: “A child so small could never kill a priest.”

That sentence was like a stone dropped into a still lake—people immediately began murmuring: “He really is just a child,” “He did so much good, we all saw it,” “The Patriarch himself called him a pious good boy,” “Perhaps this priest committed some sin, or was possessed by a demon, and the Little Saint struck him with a stick to drive the demon out?”

Such things had happened before—accidentally killing someone while exorcising a demon…

Now, whether or not they had seen Cesar sever the priest’s hand, everyone in the procession burst into loud laughter. The Patriarch was livid—he wanted to rage, to roar—but when he looked up, he saw Prince Baldwin standing beside Cesar, their hands tightly clasped, and remembered the most urgent matter.

He spat at the moaning priest: “Don’t think your devilish tricks will scare us into letting you in,” the Patriarch straightened his spine, which had unconsciously slumped: “One man’s blood has already been spilled here—another’s, a third’s, a fourth’s, may follow. Try to threaten me with your sword—see if I will yield!”

Amalric I truly wished to test that—but a priest and a Patriarch were not of equal weight.

“We cannot stay here,” Heraclius whispered, gazing gravely at the distant thin line of white light: “By tradition, the candidate must enter the church during Matins (between five and six in the morning).” Though some had chosen Terce (nine in the morning), Baldwin’s status was unique, and the Patriarch’s obstruction and accusations had made matters worse—his “Selection Ceremony” must leave no room for criticism.

“Besides the Holy Sepulchre Church…” Amalric I hesitated; Heraclius had previously discussed with him what alternative church to choose if the Holy Sepulchre suffered an accident (though Amalric I did not believe it would).

Churches and chapels dotted the Holy Land like stars across the sky, but few could rival the Holy Sepulchre Church.

The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem (where Jesus was born) lay three leagues from Arasal—impossible to reach in such a short time; besides, they could not ride horses, and the post-Mass procession was part of the ritual—without it, the ceremony would lack legitimacy.

What of the Church of St. James, or the Church of St. Anne? Regrettably, neither was built for God or His Son—the former for one of Jesus’ apostles, the latter for the parents of the Virgin Mary. You might mention the Church of Weeping, built where Jesus wept—but it was still a small chapel, utterly unfit for a ceremony.

Amalric I raised his eyes to the Patriarch: “We go to the Temple Church!”

At the King’s command, the massive procession turned with difficulty on the narrow stairs and headed toward Temple Mount, leaving behind the Patriarch, whose expression shifted wildly before the Place of Suffering. His priests and monks cheered, believing they had won—only a few suspected their master had suddenly fallen ill.

—If Prince Baldwin were “chosen” in the Temple Church, would not the Patriarch’s actions today make him a thorn in Amalric I’s side?

And if the sinner he condemned received God’s blessing, would that not mean he himself had erred? Such matters could be trivial or grave—remember, many coveted the Patriarch’s seat in Arasal.

——————

“How could you dare?” Baldwin whispered on the way to Temple Mount.

“Someone was about to stab me—was I supposed to reason with him slowly?” Cesar whispered back.

“Master Heraclius always says you’re calm—you never take risks when playing chess with me.”

“That’s different…” Cesar was about to say more when Heraclius ahead coughed deliberately; the two children instantly fell silent, saying nothing more.

The Temple Church was not far from the Holy Sepulchre; when they arrived, dawn had just begun to break. Amalric I and Heraclius exhaled in relief.

The Grand Master and the Dean of the Knights Templar pushed open the heavy doors; candles and oil lamps were already lit, but from the entrance of the long corridor, the interior still looked dark and deep.

Baldwin closed his eyes slightly, breathed deeply several times, then turned to Cesar: “Let’s go in.”

“Let’s go in,” Cesar said, slightly nervous—but he was never one to waste energy on useless speculation or inner turmoil. Just as he always thought before acting, he had prepared himself for not being “chosen,” or being “chosen” but not “blessed,” but rather “bestowed”—or rather, the greatest crisis of this “Selection Ceremony” might still be yet to come…

People watched the children enter the nave; the doors closed. Then the procession circled the Temple Church once more—all present would serve as witnesses to this sacred rite; priests and monks would pray through the night, and knights would silently recite scriptures, praying that God would choose for the Holy Land a new, worthy ruler—strong, not cowardly; just, not cruel; chaste, not lustful; devout and wise, capable of overcoming all evil, defending and saving every one of God’s lambs.

Someone advised Amalric I not to wait here; they understood a father’s anxiety for his child.

But past experience showed that if the child knew his kin waited outside the door, he would rely on their presence, unable to fully devote himself to gratitude and divine calling—leading to ritual failure…

Even though the square before the Temple Church was vast—so wide that even the finest Turkish archer could not shoot an arrow from one end to the other—Amalric I should not remain here.

Amalric I accepted the advice, but he did not return to the Holy Cross Fortress; instead, he took lodging in a newly built structure on the west side of the Temple, owned by the Templars. The building was tall, its windows offering a direct view of the Temple’s main gate—so that as soon as his child emerged, he would know at once.

——————

Knight Geoffroy saw Longinus in the eastern stables of the Temple, the pawn Cesar had left behind: “What did your young master say to you?”

The sudden question made Longinus nearly jump off the pile of crates; only when he saw it was Geoffroy did his tense expression ease: “Ah, it’s you.”

This stable dated back to Solomon’s time; the Templars had not altered its foundation, merely adding new walls and roof. No one knew whether the original builders had intended this—or whether terrain had forced it—but the layout was irregular, twisted, full of hidden corners.

Longinus had chosen one such corner; he climbed the crates, from which he could clearly see the side of the Temple Church, while remaining unseen.

“I’m asking you.”

“Something that had better not happen,” Longinus said.

“Is there anyone else in this holy city your master trusts?” Geoffroy sighed.

“That’s a fortune,” Longinus gestured: “If gold could float on water, this sum would let me walk from Arasal all the way back to my hometown of Brest.” He added: “Brest is a tiny peninsula town at the far northwest corner of Brittany—if Brittany is a hand extended outward, Brest is the tip of its fingernail.”

Geoffroy bent to sketch a rough map on the ground, then looked up: “Do you think that thing will happen?”

“I hope not.”

“Fine. Stay here.”

“And you?”

“I must take a most urgent mission,” Geoffroy had already turned away, waving his hand casually: “The kind that requires leaving the holy city immediately.”

(End of Chapter)