Chapter 40: The Chosen One (Part One)

Cesar looked at the candlesticks on the altar; most candles still burned, though only stubs remained. A regular candle lasted four to five hours, but the ones used in this sacred rite were far thicker—nearly as long as an adult man’s arm, requiring both hands to hold—and could burn for at least a full day and night.

He immediately realized he had made a mistake. Before the ceremony, he had asked Heraclius about “Grace” and “Bestowal,” but as one of the few in this age bold enough in matters of faith, the monk struggled to explain clearly—truth was, it could not be described; any description might be wrong and mislead others.

Now he couldn’t help cursing: Heraclius should have told him that when they entered that state, their loss of consciousness would last far longer than he’d assumed!

Past experience misled Cesar: he believed time always moved faster than reality during spiritual activities, never imagining it was the opposite here. He never asked Heraclius about this, and Heraclius, trusting this new student, never volunteered the information.

But those who set this trap knew. They knew he and Baldwin would pray before the altar for a long time—and if they were chosen, that time would stretch even longer. They also knew that Heraclius, skilled in medicine, would surely prepare a special potion for the two boys under the king’s orders to increase their chances of selection.

How carefully, how cautiously Heraclius had prepared that potion—because even a little too much or too little could trigger the very tragedy they wished to avoid.

Their enemies exploited this: they placed opium paste in the lamp bowls, possibly covering it with a thin layer of olive oil. Before Cesar and Baldwin entered the sanctuary, the Templars had checked every corner—even sending nimble squires up to inspect the rafters—but who would notice the gleaming lamp bowls?

Even the heavy, sweet scent of opium paste was masked by other incenses. At first, the scent was faint; it took hours for the wick to burn through the olive oil and reach the paste, only then could the opium vapors disrupt the balance within their bodies.

Their earlier vomiting, convulsions, constricted pupils, and halted breathing were all clear signs of drug overdose.

Baldwin realized it too—he raised a hand to shove his fingers down his throat to induce vomiting—but Cesar stopped him. Ten or more hours had passed; even the fish bladder would have been digested, the drugs already in the bloodstream. Vomiting would only drain their strength and injure their throats—yet if they had plenty of water, drinking it might dilute the toxins in their system.

But here, there was only lamp oil.

Somehow, Baldwin found strength—he rose, gripping the altar, and pulled Cesar toward the exit.

The side corridors and nave held far fewer lanterns, and the opium scent was lighter—but Baldwin pressed on, reaching straight for the thick black silk rope. Cesar grabbed him: “What are you doing?!”

Pull that rope, and the bell outside will ring, the doors will open—and the “Selection Rite” will be declared a failure.

Baldwin turned, fixing Cesar with a steady gaze. If he had never met Cesar—if he were alone here—he would rather die than walk out that door bearing shame and disgrace.

But Cesar was a healthy boy, beautiful of face. Even if not chosen, he was already Heraclius’s student; Heraclius could easily secure him a holy office.

Among the popes, some had indeed been “chosen,” but most were ordinary men—just as one tames hounds or horses, they controlled clerics and monks blessed with “Grace” or “Bestowal.” Who knew if Cesar might one day be among them?

“You can’t die here,” Baldwin paused, then realized he’d spoken his true thoughts aloud. He quickly added: “We can’t die here!”

Cesar stared at him, silent, then leaned forward and embraced his friend’s shoulder. But after the brief warmth, he doused him with icy water—he extended his hand. Baldwin hadn’t even lowered his head before he smelled the thick stench of blood. He thought Cesar was wounded. “It’s seeping in from the door crack,” Cesar whispered.

Think: if you pull the rope, the door opens—will you face guards… or assassins?

“This is the sanctuary,” Baldwin murmured, dazed.

“And?” Are you going to reason with these utterly vile creatures? Cesar rose. “Come with me.”

He walked toward the side aisle, where the saints still stood in solemn silence. Cesar glanced, then pulled the axe from Saint Jude’s hand.

Ancient Roman sculptors had once skillfully “extracted” twisted muscles, smooth skin, curly hair, and intricate folds from marble—but those fine arts seemed to vanish with the collapse of that great monument.

Today’s stonecarvers were considered skilled if they didn’t carve men as women, children as old men, or saints as devils. As for familiar, finely crafted objects—axes, swords, garments—they were utterly incapable.

But incapacity had its own solution: hang cloth on the statues (later sold as holy relics), or simply place real swords, axes, skinning knives directly in the saints’ hands.

Baldwin thought Cesar meant to fight the outsiders with these weapons—but Cesar instead walked toward the wooden paneling along the corridor. Behind it lay a narrow space. “You know the Saracen proverb, don’t you—cleanliness is half of faith.”

As heir to the King of Arassal, Baldwin knew it well—it was spoken by their greatest prophet, and every Saracen bathed before prayer.

Cesar raised the axe and struck the compassionate face of the Virgin!

The blueprint he received from Damara, provided by the Gerard family, was less a plan of the Temple and more of Al-Aqsa—or more precisely, of the gray-roofed temple the Templars had converted into a church.

Saracen doctrine imposed no rigid requirements for temple construction: only that it face east, have a pulpit and a prayer niche, and include a “water room.”

Externally, the gray-roofed temple was rectangular, but the Saracen prayer hall was square—so what was the extra rectangular space for?

Two water rooms, a small courtyard, and a pool. When the Templars arrived, they tore down the prayer hall’s walls but sealed off the water rooms, making the interior appear as a “cross.”

“Sealed” meant, as above, merely covered with cedar paneling. The Grand Master of the Templars had pondered long, yet ultimately chose not to destroy the water rooms entirely—for the Temple Mount, as its name suggests, was a hill, and all water had to be drawn from outside, from underground.

The Templars now sourced water elsewhere—but wouldn’t an additional hidden water room be better?

As Cesar chopped, he strained to recall the underground tunnel diagram he’d sketched after studying the blueprint and scriptural descriptions.

Before 700 AD, King Hezekiah of Israel, to resist the Assyrians, blocked the city’s external water sources—so how did the people of Arassal drink? He secretly ordered craftsmen to build a deep underground tunnel, sixteen hundred feet long, stretching from the Gihon Spring outside the city to the foot of the Temple Mount, emptying into a pool called “Siloam.”

In ancient times, Israelites washed their hands and faces in the Pool of Siloam before worshiping the First Temple. After the Savior came into the world, he spat on a blind man’s eyes, mixed in clay, and told him to wash in Siloam—the man washed and regained sight, making the place a holy site.

But in the Gospel of Luke, it was clearly written: the Tower of Siloam collapsed and killed eighteen people.

That meant the Pool of Siloam had already collapsed before 62 AD and no longer existed. But Hezekiah’s tunnel and its connected shafts remained; the people of Arassal still drew water from them, as did the Temple Mount. When the Saracens built their temple here, to ensure a constant supply of pure water for the water room, they carved a winding upward tunnel.

“Master said,” Baldwin, also “borrowing” a saw from Saint Simon, panted as he helped Cesar pry open the paneling—the wood, decades old, even with maintenance, was utterly rotten. Though they were weak children, destruction required little effort.

He smelled the cold air seeping from the crack: “In the tunnel, the Saracens installed Greek screw pumps to draw water up.”

“But the Templars removed the screw pump’s iron and copper parts,” Cesar said, then “borrowed” a longsword. He jammed it into the crack, pressed his body onto the hilt, and as his vision swam, the crack emitted a series of sharp “cracks,” then a loud “snap!”

The panel broke. Cesar lost balance and crashed onto Baldwin, who cried out—his head struck a pillar.

But the crack had become a vertical opening.

“We can go in!” Baldwin shouted. Cesar grabbed his arm: “Wait!”

The tunnel might connect to the outside, allowing air in—but a room sealed for decades? For safety, Cesar took several candles, placed one inside, waited—flame didn’t die, instead grew brighter—and only then did they crawl in one by one.

The room was larger than expected; floor and walls were paved with smooth stone. By candlelight, Cesar saw black holes where metal spouts had been removed—apparently, the Templars were desperately short on funds.

Baldwin held a Seljuk-style covered oil lamp, walked to a raised base, unsure of its purpose. “The screw pump’s wheel…” Cesar said. No need to explain—it was a large metal component, now likely melted into Templar spears and shields.

They soon found the tunnel entrance along the wheel’s base—but it was blocked by stones.

“Let’s check the other room,” Baldwin said immediately.

Removing the second panel exhausted them. They leaned against it, slept awhile, then regained strength to continue exploring.

This tunnel entrance was also blocked—but not with stones, with wood! Baldwin moved the lamp closer and saw intricate patterns, lines, and Saracen script. Cesar, standing farther back, saw more clearly: “It’s the Saracen pulpit.”

The pulpit’s design was distinctive and conspicuous; even if the script were scraped off, it couldn’t be placed in a Christian room. The Templars repurposed it as waste—but gave them an opportunity.

Cesar couldn’t help whispering, “God be praised.” He had prepared—but these past days taught him that preparation never matched the fullness of accident or conspiracy. Now, he could abandon his more dangerous backup plans.

Next, they pried, chopped, and finally exposed the tunnel entrance. Baldwin first scolded the Templars for their carelessness—until he saw the tunnel’s diameter: only one and a half feet, perhaps smaller.

A nine-year-old boy could squeeze through. An adult man—especially a knight who trained daily and ate meat except on fasting days—would get stuck for sure.

Don’t believe those tales: a child crawling in or out to open a gate and let in enemies? Impossible. In real battles, only a squad of true warriors could threaten a city or castle.

“I’ll go first,” Cesar said. As a leper, Baldwin had endured painfully—he could see Baldwin hadn’t refused. They “borrowed” more cloth from the saints, cut and braided it into a rope, tied around Cesar’s waist.

“If we get out, we’ll need a thousand years’ worth of indulgences,” Baldwin whispered.

Cesar laughed softly and lowered himself into the tunnel. The feeling was worse than when he rescued Count Etienne—this was a hard, swallowing throat. Fortunately, below was a widened stomach—here too, a small but sufficient space for him to turn.

Cesar lit a candle. He saw a square pool, and traces of long-term friction. That made sense—the screw pump’s length couldn’t reach directly from Hezekiah’s shaft to the gray-roofed temple. The Saracens must have made improvements—he waved the candle upward. Baldwin followed him down.

“We still have about three hundred feet to go,” Cesar said.

“Mm,” Baldwin replied.

The next stretch of path would haunt them for life. Darkness was common in this age; confinement not rare; oppression, ordinary. But together, they became unbearable—especially since they weren’t walking, but slowly climbing downward, each step uncertain where it would land.

Baldwin reacted most strongly. Several times, he thought he was dead, buried in a tomb, bound in a lead coffin, perhaps covered by stone—everything of the world had vanished, no longer connected to him in the slightest…

Then he woke to see Cesar, in faint candlelight, weakly slapping his face—slapping, while muttering softly.

He strained to listen—but couldn’t understand. Not Greek, not Latin, not Saracen, nor any language he knew. Only a few familiar syllables could be barely recognized.

“...You’re awake,” Cesar said, expression unchanged, gently: “Feeling better? Hold on—we’re almost there.”

Baldwin wished Cesar would leave him here—but even if Cesar weren’t a good man, he wouldn’t do this—unless he wanted to face Amalric I’s wrath, who would surely see him as the prince’s murderer.

The final stretch of tunnel leveled off. “There’s wind,” Cesar rasped. But Baldwin couldn’t move—he had a high fever. Cesar tied the rope under Baldwin’s elbows, then secured the other end around his own waist, dragging him out.

Cesar crawled for what felt like a hundred years—then suddenly plunged downward—he thought he’d entered another vision again, but no—he plunged straight into water!

Water—cold, but clean, sweet water!

Cesar drank deeply, then surfaced, found the tunnel mouth, pulled Baldwin over, splashed water on him to wake him. This time, without instruction, Baldwin immediately bent down and drank greedily from the surface.

“We… cough…,” the cold water lowered his internal and external temperature; Baldwin slowly regained clarity, gathering his blurred vision: “...Where… is this? A shaft?”

“Yes,” Cesar let Baldwin lean against the tunnel wall. The water was freezing; Baldwin tried to pull him, but couldn’t lift his hand. He strained to look upward—and saw the brightest new moon.

Baldwin smiled—but in the next instant, the smile froze.

The new moon was obscured. He saw a face—smiling back at him.

————————

ps:

Let me tell a little joke.

Much later.

Baldwin: Do you remember when we were nine, trapped in the Temple, forced to escape through the Saracen tunnel?

Cesar: Of course.

Baldwin: Do you remember saying a few things then—&*%￥￥ Amalric I, &*%... Heraclius, &%*%*&% Baldwin (Baldwin repeated them with his exceptional memory)—I’ve kept them in my heart all these years, but never found anyone to translate them. What do they mean? A blessing?

Cesar (expression unchanged again): Yes. The blessing was just… broader. Something like blessing many generations and many kin.

Baldwin (sincerely): Then I bless you too, &*%￥￥, &*%... &%*%*&%.

Cesar: …Thank you.

(End of Chapter)