Chapter 39: The Selection Rite (Part 2)

The vast church was now empty except for two children.

The Temple Church had originally been a Saracen temple, built in the ancient basilica style—that is, a massive rectangular structure.

Surrounding the building was a colonnade for pilgrims to rest; inside stood a vast, open hall, divided into several elongated spaces by longitudinal pillars—from the entrance, a nave, the central aisle, side aisles (the central aisle much taller, allowing high windows), the choir, north and south transepts, the apse and altar, ending in a semicircular apse.

Walking from the north door to the semicircular apse was roughly three hundred French feet, while its width was half its length, equal to its height.

Such a grand hall was never destroyed after the Crusaders reclaimed the Holy City; it first served as King Arasal’s temporary palace in the Holy City, and after the Castle of the Holy Cross was completed, the Knights Templar needed a base—King Baldwin II of Arasal granted them this place, and thus the order received its name.

In 1119, the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon were truly poor; the Templars had little money, or rather, all their funds had been spent on weapons, armor, horses, and other military gear to fight the infidels. After moving in, they hastily converted it into a Latin-cross church—simply put, they kept everything they could, and saved everything they could.

Seven large chandeliers hanging at the highest point, capable of holding candles or burning oil, were left intact, as were twenty-eight smaller chandeliers and forty-nine torch holders fixed to the pillars.

All were now lit, especially the large chandeliers, whose oil bowls filled with clear olive oil infused with incense—myrrh sharp, frankincense sweetly sour, sandalwood rich and deep.

Seventeen small marble “niche” recesses were kept, housing statues of saints—because seventeen was a pagan number (Footnote 1), one more was added, making eighteen.

The saints either bore compassionate faces or solemn expressions; as was customary, each held the instrument of his martyrdom—Saint Peter leaned the inverted cross against his shoulder; Saint James held a long sword; Saint James the Less (same name) held a club; Saint Bartholomew held his own skin in one hand and a skinning knife in the other; Saint Simon raised a saw; Saint Jude (not Judas) faced him, holding an axe…

The mihrab, nearly a hallmark of the Saracen temple (located in the semicircular apse), was preserved because it was made of gold, silver, and gems; only the Saracen inscriptions were ground away, replaced by a cross bearing the image of Christ crucified, above which the letters JNRI were inscribed.

When the Savior was nailed to the cross, Pontius Pilate, governor of the Roman province of Judea, placed this inscription atop the cross—Jesus Nazarenus Rex Iudeorum—meaning “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

It was said every Templar knight, before joining the order, had to kiss this cross.

To convert a rectangular building into a hall with at least a cruciform interior space, additional partitions were required; the Templars, lacking stone or brick (too expensive!), used abundant regional cedar planks.

The pale cedar plank walls stood in the temple for a long time until the Templars’ funds slightly improved, when they hired painters to adorn them with vivid tempera murals—common themes like “Christ in Majesty,” “The Dormition of the Virgin,” “The Special Graces of the Sacred Heart”… and so on.

This thoughtless approach meant these old wooden partitions could never be replaced before rotting completely, for no one dared bear the responsibility of destroying sacred images.

At this time, most painters still used the “frontal-profile law” inherited from ancient Egypt, as seen in the screens of the Holy Cross Castle chapel—figures faced the viewer while their bodies were turned sideways, whether the Virgin Mary in blue robes, saints in red, Jesus Christ wrapped in white linen… even angels in flight or demons trampled in mud.

Those who walked among these paintings felt as if countless eyes stared unblinkingly at them, unnerving beyond words.

Of course, only Cesar felt this way; from infancy until his leprosy was discovered, Baldwin had spent nine full years under these eyes. To him, these saints were more like relatives and friends hung on the wall—he had once thought he’d never see them again outside his room, and now seeing them, he felt only joy, no fear.

He composed his face, steadied his heart, took Cesar’s arm, and placed him opposite himself—between them stood an altar piled with candlesticks and sacred vessels; beneath their knees lay a coarse hemp cushion stuffed with unwashed wool.

In the earliest Selection Rites, children wore only simple linen robes, barefoot, kneeling directly on the stone floor—whether held on the hot feast day of Saint Eusebius (August 2) or, like Baldwin’s, on Epiphany (January 6), it was always so.

But after some time, women came weeping and begging, fearing their children, if not chosen by the saints, would return to God’s feet too soon; the clergy reluctantly conceded, allowing a cushion for the child during the ceremony, but forbidding extravagant materials.

The cushion beneath Cesar and Baldwin’s knees could be provided by any humble shepherd, yet it was packed full of wool, slightly larger than the king’s own—small enough for a short boy to curl up and sleep upon.

“Has anyone actually done that?” Cesar asked curiously. If someone fell asleep during Mass, they’d have to buy an indulgence—or be beaten and pinned to a bench.

“I don’t know,” Baldwin said. “But if you ask them, whether chosen or not, they’ll all tell you they endured a grueling day and night—tormented by countless demons, tested by countless saints, surviving only by a strong, devout, and pure heart until the doors opened.”

Cesar thought about it. He could only say that.

“I’ll tell you only this…” Baldwin whispered. “I haven’t told my teacher or my father, but after taking the teacher’s potion, I truly saw a demon.”

“What kind of demon?”

“…One exactly like me… a leper, his body rotting, limbs mangled.”

Cesar reached to hold Baldwin’s hand; Baldwin extended his, but the altar was too wide—they could only touch fingertips. “When I saw it, I wasn’t afraid. It threatened me: ‘This is your future—doomed to die miserably in pain and despair, alone, with no one beside you.’ But I replied at once: ‘I have you. You’ll be with me.’”

“Demons are the greatest liars,” Cesar said. “You’ll become a knight, you’ll become king, and I’ll always be beside you.”

“Even if you drive me away, don’t go.”

“Even if you drive me away, I won’t go.”

Baldwin laughed joyfully, then solemnly took out two small fish bladders, tied with hair and sealed with wax.

During the Selection Rite, the chosen could not wear weapons, jewels, or fine clothes—only a simple linen robe, reaching the knees, with no belt.

For caution, Heraclius had not stored the potion in glass bottles, but in the bladder of a deep-sea fish; after processing, such bladders could hold liquid, and the user could swallow them whole, leaving no trace.

Cesar hesitated only slightly; Baldwin saw his thoughts. “If it were another matter, I could indulge you…” But not this time.

Baldwin watched as Cesar took the bladder. “Baldwin, my friend,” Cesar said, “if something happens…”

“You’re worried about hidden enemies?” Baldwin interrupted. “They may still have tricks, but we are in the Temple.”

The Knights of the Temple, the Holy Sepulchre, and the Hospitallers are all here, along with my father, King Arasal, and under the gaze of Jesus Christ and the saints—what can they do?”

But if you, to protect me, refuse to swallow the potion, and if you are chosen, fine—but if you are not chosen, my regret will be endless. Even before God, my first tear will be for this.”

Cesar swallowed the potion.

Before the potion took effect, Baldwin still urged him: “Pray, pray. If you truly cannot believe in any saint, then love him as your teacher. Remember, before the saints, you are as clear as crystal—they see you completely. So better not believe than lie… never, never try to deceive the saints!”

Baldwin’s voice faded. Heraclius was indeed a monk skilled in medicine; though even now Cesar did not know what effect the potion would have, the side effects had visibly lessened—remember, no instruments or reagents were available.

Baldwin saw a demon disguised as himself in his vision; Cesar saw none of his familiar past or people. Was it the world forbidding it—or his subconscious obeying his silent command: eliminate all possibility of exposure?

But this time, Cesar clearly felt something coming toward him.

——————

Cesar lost consciousness. He still sensed his body, but it had long severed from his soul; he tried to find the right path through a tangle of lines, but they clustered and scattered, never forming objects he recognized; countless voices surged into his body like a tide, swelling him with noise, then vanishing in an instant, leaving only a soft, hollow void…

He seemed to see—was that one of the saints Heraclius had spoken of? The figure seemed made of light and mist, without features or outline, yet without reason, he felt an overwhelming urge—to chase it, to speak to it, to…

Lights multiplied, moving ahead of him, slow yet flying or flickering—he could not catch them, could not even touch them…

Wait for me!

He cried out. A voice—perhaps one could call it that, for it appeared directly in his mind—said: Hurry, hurry, we must catch Him!

Catch whom?

The Lord of All Nations!

Who?

He makes rivers burst from deserts, He makes flowers grow from steel, He turns mud into roads, He turns cities to sand, He lets lions dwell with sheep, He carries thunder, He holds light—none is purer than He, none more just, none stronger—hurry, come with me, let us follow Him, let us find peace in His Kingdom!

Tell me His name!

His holy name is…

————————

Cesar felt the ground vanish beneath him, as if falling from a thousand feet—he landed on stone, hard and cold, yet his whole body ached as if shattered; his memory flickered, uncertain whether he had been “chosen” or not—he gasped, fingers clawing at his throat. No, no! This was not normal!

Unless Heraclius had given the wrong potion—but even the first time, his reaction had not been this violent. Cesar rolled over, nauseated; they had fasted the night before, leaving only a faint, glistening trace on the floor.

He turned his head, wiped his face on his shoulder, felt his heart pounding wildly, as if ready to burst from chest or throat. He stopped wasting energy, crawling on his belly toward the other side of the altar. Baldwin lay silent—perhaps worse off. After a few breaths, he saw Baldwin lying on his back, head tilted, unconscious.

Cesar tore off Baldwin’s veil, pried open his eyelids. Seeing pupils shrunk to needle-points, unresponsive even to sudden light, he shut his eyes.

He placed Baldwin on his knees, leaning against the altar, groping for the candlestick on the altar—he could barely hold it. Luckily, before it ignited his robe, he blew out the candle, then bit off the wax to expose the sharp prongs beneath—used to fix candles, worn sharp and gleaming by frequent use.

He stabbed his own finger until it bled; when the fog in his mind thinned, he stabbed Baldwin’s finger.

Baldwin woke slowly. He knew he had erred again, and dragged Cesar down with him—but now was not the time to apologize. “Was it… was it… what?”

“I…” Cesar began—he didn’t know—but suddenly, a strange scent awakened memories long forced into dormancy.

Every young physician had seen, smelled, touched those substances that, in tiny amounts, turned men into beasts or demons—because of their profession, they handled potent analgesics, easily targeted by malicious souls, even former friends. In past cases, doctors had been careless, their friends stealing blank prescriptions and codes, leading to imprisonment.

“It’s…” he gasped. “I smell… opium… the scent…” He looked up, toward the lights—not brilliant, but painfully bright—the large chandeliers, the small ones…

In the castle, he had seen servants lowering the chandeliers to clean them; each held a bowl-shaped lamp, filled with olive oil, wick twisted in, burning long.

If someone had replaced the olive oil with ointment made from those evil fruits…

(End of Chapter)