Chapter 4: Holy Cross Castle

Amalric I was always a man of swift action; having decided to make Cesar his son’s attendant, he would not delay, even as the sky had turned deep russet, and he immediately set off with Cesar and the others for the castle, the monks bringing torches of palm branches soaked in olive oil, the knights checking one another’s hooves and gear.

The one who hated to part with Cesar most was John; he was not a man prone to indulgence, especially in desires forbidden by God, and he liked Cesar for reasons much like Amalric I’s—he had disciples of his own, but none were as beautiful or clever as Cesar.

A priest also needs an heir, and in the Church, birth mattered little. Jesus Christ was but the son of a carpenter, His apostles mere fishermen, soldiers, and tax collectors; among the saints were courtesans and slaves.

He sniffled… yes, sometimes this abbot was just so sentimental; he prepared a leather pouch for Cesar, filled with two soft white loaves, thirty silver coins, a small knife for slicing meat, a linen tunic, a woolen cloak, and even led out his own mule to lend Cesar for riding—this was a truly remarkable gift.

“No,” Amalric I said: “I’m taking him.”

Cesar wasn’t sure if Amalric I meant that—he was brought by Heraclius to the king’s horse, a tall, splendid steed with almond-shaped eyes reflecting violet clouds; he wondered if it still remembered him. He reached out, and the horse turned its head to sniff him. “It seems to like you,” the king said, then lifted him onto the saddle, placing him seated before himself—this was almost an honor; Heraclius shook his head slightly behind them.

How heavy is the favor of the King of the Holy City? Golden mountains, mercury lakes, hurling you into the clouds like a hurricane—but falling means shattered bones.

Amalric I’s actions did startle Cesar, yet he did not, as Heraclius assumed, dwell in gloom—the worst moment had passed; the worst outcome was merely returning to slavery, and from Amalric I’s earlier words to him, this king was no miserly, vile man—he intended for Cesar to serve a leper, but had given him choice, and promised an extraordinary reward.

“We are on the Jaffa Road,” Amalric I said, as his attendants raised their torches, surprisingly still in the mood to explain: “Jaffa is a port on the Mediterranean, to the left of the Arasah Road. Pilgrims sail across the Mediterranean and disembark at Jaffa, then follow this road to the Jaffa Gate of the Holy City, and from there enter the Arasah Road.” He gestured for Cesar to look beside the path, where faint points of firelight were slowly gathering.

“Those are pilgrims, perhaps merchants too; they’ve seen us. If granted permission, they’ll follow our procession through the night to reach their destination sooner.”

Cesar was not foolish enough to ask how these people could stumble through dim, nearly nonexistent light just to gain a little time.

Though called a road, it was still strewn with thorns, broken stones, and depressions from rain, hooves, and wheels; having spent these past weeks at the Church of Saint John the Baptist, he now knew how poor these people could be—each hour these pilgrims reached the Holy City sooner meant less food consumed or bought, and less chance of being robbed; this might mean the difference between life and death.

Along both sides of the Jaffa Road rose rolling hills, their dark shapes undulating under the skylight and torches like restless waves; Cesar thought of that hill… though he knew it was not here, he still felt his nostrils filled with thick, cloying blood—this scent he would likely never forget, like the slave trader’s face.

When they reached the Jaffa Gate, the dark dome above had lost all trace of color. To Cesar’s surprise, the gate was not entirely swallowed by darkness and silence; bright bonfires burned outside, their flames reflected in the shimmering moat, soldiers running about under the command of a knight without a helmet, only chainmail and surcoat, slowly lowering the narrow drawbridge.

“Your Majesty, you should have stayed the night at the monastery…” Count Raymond of Tripoli hurried toward Amalric I, pausing when he saw Cesar seated before him; along the entire Arasah Road, only one person could occupy that position—Prince Baldwin. Who was this child? A lord’s son?

“I’ve found a new friend for Baldwin,” Amalric I said, then spurred his horse forward. Raymond glanced at Heraclius behind the king; Heraclius rubbed his temple: “Raymond,” he said, “it’s too late. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

“But Your Majesty…”

Amalric I left his friend and the noise behind, pausing only before the Jaffa Gate wall—the gate’s passage was not straight, but shaped like a capital L; the right side and front were both walls, each stone about half the size of a child, and at its center, a Latin inscription: “Wisdom, Righteousness, Justice, Integrity.”

To the left lay a dense cluster of low houses; as Amalric I and his knights passed, silence reigned. Cesar guessed these were the homes of the poor—places near the wall were always dangerous; during sieges, they bore the brunt of siege engines, and defenders often tore down nearby houses for rolling stones.

His gaze drew Amalric I’s attention, but the king misunderstood: “That’s the Tower of David.” Cesar then noticed the towering structure beside the Jaffa Gate, standing like a giant, nearly swallowed by darkness, with only a single torch burning at its peak—easily mistaken for a faint star near the horizon.

Then they passed another wall; the buildings beyond were far taller than the previous houses, especially those crowned with crosses—churches. After passing two or three such dark silhouettes, before a particularly grand cathedral, Amalric I made the sign of the cross: “The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus Christ was laid to rest, the holiest place in the Holy Land.” Cesar bowed slightly and followed with his own sign of the cross.

The shadow cast by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was heavier than that of the Jaffa Gate or the Tower of David; behind it, faint flickers of firelight could be seen. Cesar felt the broad chest behind him tremble violently: “We’ve arrived, child,” the king said: “That is the Holy Cross Castle. You will spend a long time here.”

After that, regardless of who approached—whether the swiftly arriving Count Raymond of Tripoli or the hurriedly summoned Duke of Antioch—the king dismissed them with nothing more than a weary, almost indifferent wave.

Even though this was a king’s castle, its layout differed little from any other: double walls, twelve defensive towers, an open courtyard enclosed by the walls, and around it the indispensable kitchens, water rooms, stables, blacksmiths, tanneries, a few wells, barracks for guards, and three central towers.

Viewed from above, the three towers resembled a lion’s head: the central royal tower as its gaping maw, the two flanking towers as fangs or ears.

The royal tower was cylindrical, its levels from bottom to top: the dungeon, storage and kitchen, the royal hall, guest chambers, and the lord’s chambers—the only difference being the chapel and armory; elsewhere, the chapel was placed between the lord’s chambers and the armory, but here the chapel sat above the armory, for it housed the “True Cross”—the very cross upon which Jesus Christ was crucified.

No mortal weapon may surpass the Savior’s holy relic.

The right flank tower originally belonged to the king and his family; the left flank tower to his knights and vassals. After Baldwin was confirmed to have leprosy, he moved out of his room and into the left tower; his vassals shifted to the right tower, and the knights grumbled about having to share rooms—while the left tower fell into silence, now housing only one master: Prince Baldwin.

And a great host of servants.

They poured out of the tower; even though the king showed utter indifference, they did not—no, rather, they seemed not to notice his annoyance at all; more likely, even if they had, their feverish desire to flatter and climb the ladder outweighed all unease.

Amalric I halted; his attendants immediately fell silent and stepped forward, swinging clubs to drive away the greasy, repulsive faces. Raymond opened the door for the king, his skeptical gaze sweeping over Cesar—but he was no fool, and would not speak now.

The king waved, signaling all others to remain outside. Then he turned and called: “Does anyone have a candle for me?” His eyes remained fixed on the servants spilling from the tower; they fell silent. After a long pause, one was shoved forward from the darkness, his face twisted into a smile that looked more like a sob; he bowed to Amalric I. A knight placed a candle in his hand, and the flame immediately flickered wildly.

A scoff erupted from the crowd, then vanished. The candle-bearer took a step, stumbled suddenly—and the candle slipped from his grasp.

Those around cried out—but before the cry faded, it turned to cheers: the boy who had stood silently beside the king had leaned forward at once, snatching the falling candle in one swift motion; the flame flickered, yet did not go out. His reflexes and courage were worthy of praise.

“Very well,” Amalric I said: “Then come with me, child. I’ll take you to Baldwin.”

Raymond finally moved: “Your Majesty, do not take this dangerous step.”

“I am only going to see my son,” Amalric I said. “Or do you believe the favor I’ve received from God is insufficient to pass His test?”

Bohemond, Duke of Antioch, grasped Raymond’s arm; when Raymond looked at him, he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. In that moment’s delay, the king and the boy he had brought had already ascended the wooden stairs to the tower without hindrance.

The tower’s first defense was an entrance raised about a man’s height above ground—no stone steps, only a retractable wooden ladder. The king gently pushed Cesar’s back, urging him forward; the boy’s feet landed softly on the sturdy planks, making almost no sound, while behind him, Amalric I, a tall knight clad in chainmail, made the entire ladder tremble.

Cesar raised the candle; he had to admit, he was curious. In his mind, the tower should have been narrow and hollow, like the lighthouses he’d visited—but it was not. The spiral staircase occupied only a small space, not at the center but pressed against one side; the vast majority of the tower’s interior was a multi-purpose hall, where round tables, chairs, and wooden chests were faintly visible, and the dim glow from the hearth made the gold and silver threads in the tapestries shimmer.

Food and wine bottles still sat on the table, but before Cesar could examine them, Amalric I urged him on—like any father, he was wholly intent on getting his child to see his gift at once, forgetting that Baldwin was likely already asleep.

Baldwin was still drying his hair—normally a servant’s task, but after the first servant forced upon him began whispering curses as he worked…

He had assumed Baldwin, as a Christian, would not understand Bedouin; he did not know that as heir to the King of the Holy City, Baldwin’s progress in Greek, Latin, and Saracen tongues had been equal—Saracen speech derived from Bedouin, and though he could not grasp every word, he understood at least nine out of ten.

He had considered punishing the insolent servant, but ultimately dismissed the thought: first, he might soon enter a monastery and become a monk; learning humility now would not hurt; second…

Baldwin smiled. After all, he was Amalric I’s only son.

“Baldwin.” Baldwin heard his father’s voice—he thought it a hallucination; it had happened often these past months. But then the door opened, and a broad shadow, outlined by candlelight, appeared.

For an instant, Baldwin nearly rose to leap into Amalric I’s arms; no matter how clever or strong, he was still a nine-year-old boy—but he held back. He stood. “Your Majesty,” his voice trembled slightly: “Stay there. Stay there. Don’t come closer.”

He inhaled greedily, listened intently, stared—these were the only comforts left in his long, austere spiritual journey.

“I’m right here,” Amalric I knew not to press too hard. “Look what I’ve brought you.”

Without waiting, Cesar stepped forward, raised the candle, and lit the candles on the stand beside Baldwin one by one; the dim room instantly brightened. Baldwin, whose attention had been fixed entirely on his father, turned instinctively.

He saw a boy his own age, exquisitely beautiful; even without gold or silk, he glowed in the candlelight, too radiant to look upon directly.

(End of Chapter)