Chapter 43: A Ten-Thousand-Year Indulgence

Baldwin also saw what Cesar saw in his eyes; he expected to be overjoyed—if leprosy meant being cast into hell, then “the Chosen One” was surely a spider’s thread descending from heaven. He dared not harbor even a moment’s fantasy of cure, but at least there was now a glimmer of hope.

Yet when it truly arrived, he searched again and again—and found not a trace of excitement or joy.

Where had he gone wrong?

Regardless, Cesar should have been more worthy than he was.

Was it because he smashed the icons? Or because he left the original site of the ritual—the Temple? Or because he forged a miracle?

More likely, it was because he insisted on staying by his side, by the side of a cursed, punished leper?!

In contrast to Baldwin’s fear and agitation, Cesar remained far calmer; before the ritual, Heraclius had publicly acknowledged him as his student, his lowest starting point a monk or cleric.

Now he recalled it: Heraclius’s act was partly admiration, but mostly to steady his mind, for only Cesar and Baldwin were present during the selection.

Everyone loses control sometimes—without exception.

Cesar was about to soothe Baldwin, who now seemed utterly panicked, when he suddenly froze.

He saw the same light reflected in Baldwin’s sapphire eyes.

——————

The poet cursed inwardly—this reckless fool had shattered his rhythm—but the man was a burly brute, and when agitated, his clenched fist seemed larger than his head. He had no desire to test its hardness, so he took several ragged breaths before reluctantly saying, “Prince Baldwin has been blessed.”

As soon as the words landed, the tavern fell silent; most faces turned disappointed, and the poet felt even more aggrieved.

Since he had become a scholar, his father could not have been a foolish, lowly peasant; tracing lineage and surname, his family could easily have claimed kinship with a master.

Even without the knight’s instruction, he would never have mentioned a mere page—hey, what holy child? Only these base creatures would elevate a slave of the Isaians!

But now he had no choice, so he hastily added, “His attendant has also been blessed.”

The man’s face lit up, then sharply confirmed, “Cesar? The one with green eyes and black hair?”

“Yes, yes.”

The poet drew a deep breath and shouted at the top of his lungs, “They have both been chosen—Prince Baldwin and his attendant, Cesar!”

He waited for cheers—but received only an eerie silence, so quiet he feared he had done something terrible.

Had his eyes been deceived by spirits? Had he not entered a tavern on earth, but fallen into a trap of hell? Were the people surrounding him devils, who, upon hearing this news, felt not joy or relief, but anger?

Of course not.

When overwhelming joy arrives, people often stand paralyzed—until someone accidentally knocks over a wine cup; the wooden vessel clattered to the floor, rolled far away, and finally stopped at the threshold, whereupon someone let out the first loud, unrestrained cry—then came more screams and blessings.

People stamped their feet and clapped their hands, but soon even these simple motions could not contain their overflowing emotion; they leapt onto the tables and began dancing vigorously upon them.

Normally, the tavern owner would have shouted them down—these crude tables couldn’t withstand several men jumping on them—but now he too leapt onto the counter, dancing wildly among the hanging dried meats and pots.

As deeply as they had worried and despaired before, so intensely now did they rejoice and thrill; soon, some rushed out the door to spread the news to others.

Only then did the poet exhale heavily and slump wearily back into his seat, clutching his pipa.

The tavern owner, as if waking from a dream, brought him a large cup of rich wine; the poet drained it in one gulp, pinched his ears—people’s cheers pierced them painfully. His task was done; next, he must go to another place.

There were hundreds of poets like him, scattered like seeds sown by the king across every corner of Shengcheng.

Amalric I and Heraclius intended to spread this story throughout all of Arasalu—or even farther—in a single day.

————————

While these poets tirelessly proclaimed the new miracle, the Patriarch rushed frantically to the Papal Legate’s chamber—his scheme had utterly failed. Next, vengeful Amalric I would never let him go; he needed his accomplice to produce a second plan at once.

Should he declare a retreat into solitary asceticism?

Or should he maintain a hardline stance—tell the people this was God’s final chance for Amalric and his son, that they must become more devout, more submissive, more humble, rather than threatening His shepherds with the army and power God had granted them?

But before he could kick aside the servant lying at the door, it opened; the Patriarch’s heart sank—he rushed inside and found only emptiness; the Legate was gone. He dashed to the bed, touched it—cold. That meant the Legate had slipped away hours ago.

He hadn’t just fled—he took everything valuable: gold and silver vessels, thick furs, silk curtains… The Patriarch flew into a rage, kicking the servant at the door repeatedly.

“Are you a pig? A dog? They left like this—and you noticed nothing?!”

But the servant only stared blankly, as if utterly confused. He’d likely drunk too much—the nearby priest whispered, “Deal with this useless fool!” The Patriarch rasped, adjusting his emotions from boiling to ice-cold.

His gaze at the servant had already frozen into frost; the priest dared not disobey, swiftly ordering two guards to drag the wretch away.

The Patriarch made his decision at once. He dismissed those who wished to follow, summoning only his two most trusted students to hastily pack his belongings. The students hesitated—packing was no simple task—but the Patriarch merely waved his hand: “Only gold, silver, sacred relics, and jewels.”

The smallest, heaviest, most portable items—everything else abandoned. Though it felt like his heart bled, he knew that once Amalric I’s miracle spread through the city, he would become the second “urgent matter”—and he had little time to waste.

Just then, a servant stumbled in: “My lord, someone wishes to see you, my lord.”

“Who?!” The Patriarch’s voice cracked like a taut bowstring.

“Someone buying indulgences.”

The Patriarch’s heart plummeted from heaven to earth, then leapt back into his chest. “I see no one now.”

Logically, the servant should have retreated—but he still looked hesitant. “But he’s here to buy indulgences.”

“Even if he’s buying your life, tell him to leave.”

“But he wants to buy a ten-thousand-year indulgence—at the Count’s price, my lord.”

The Patriarch’s hand froze as he gathered his papers.

Count Etienne had once redeemed his sin of storming a church and kidnapping a bride with a five-hundred-year indulgence; Baldwin and Cesar’s destruction of icons was twice that; when Amalric I hinted to Thomas that Heraclius burn the Temple, he promised a thousand-year indulgence.

A ten-thousand-year indulgence—what an astonishing sum! Even the Patriarch had never seen one—no one could possibly possess such a vast fortune.

Interestingly, indulgences were not originally priced this way.

Though prices varied by region and bishop, in the Frankish region of Troyes, for example: murder: eight gold coins, blasphemy: seven, sorcery: seven, forgery: six, adultery: five…

The lesser the sin, the lower the price—even a few copper coins sufficed.

But note: these were prices for commoners. Nobles, lords, and kings who sinned faced additional zeros, at the bishop’s and Pope’s discretion.

Yet when people bought indulgences and heard priests preach, condemning sins—adultery punished by five hundred years in the lake of fire, blasphemy by eight hundred, murder by a thousand—so on and so forth—

Some mischievous souls whispered: Isn’t that just a five-hundred-year, eight-hundred-year, thousand-year indulgence?

And those needing indulgences, too, found it more elegant to express redemption in years of punishment rather than coinage; this phrasing gradually replaced the original price tags.

A ten-thousand-year indulgence meant one could kill ten people, commit adultery twenty times, and—oh yes—marry one’s sister thirty times.

Normally, the Patriarch would not meet someone seeking indulgences at such a critical moment—but the Papal Legate had stolen a fortune from him, hiring the Assassins cost him dearly, and worst of all, his remaining assets would shrink by half if taken to Rome.

He touched the letter in his chest—within it, the Pope promised that no matter the outcome—whether Amalric I lost his son, or the Patriarch himself died… even if he merely collapsed—he could seize the chance to make Arasalu a theocracy, and Rome would fully back his claim to the position.

Perhaps in the future, Rome would send a new bishop—but for now, he was the sovereign of the Holy Land, a king in vestments.

But if demons thwarted this plan, he still had an escape route.

The Papal Legate had brought a letter from the Pope granting him two dioceses and a bishopric. Compared to the Patriarchate of Arasalu, these were trivial—but precisely because they were trivial, they reassured him: if Rome refused even these scraps, what credibility would it retain?

Yet once he arrived at his new diocese, collected his office, paid bribes, taxes, and church fees, the costs would be immense. The thought of his coffers lying empty for years sent a sharp pang through the Patriarch’s heart.

“Very well. Bring him in—but tell him I have urgent business and can spare little time. Tell him to be quick.”

Before the unexpected guest entered, the Patriarch, just in case, summoned two guards to stand beside him, then sat at his desk—yet placed no chair opposite him; his disdain was clear.

The guest strode in, carrying a large chest, clad in gleaming leather armor, a silver belt, and a hooded cloak. He bowed respectfully, then moved to kiss the Patriarch’s ring—only to be waved off: “You are still a sinner, sir.”

“Then I shall stand here,” the guest replied calmly, easing the Patriarch’s tension slightly. “I hear you need a ten-thousand-year indulgence.”

“Yes. I need it urgently.”

“What sin have you committed?”

“A grave sin—but one I must complete.”

“For a woman?”

“No.”

“For property?”

“No.”

“For a title?”

“No.”

“For revenge?”

“No.”

“Then it’s strange. Why spend so much money? Surely not just to kill someone without cause.”

“It’s not without cause.”

The guest set the heavy chest on the floor, opened it—and dazzling gold light blinded the Patriarch; he nearly reached out with his eyes to snatch it into his arms.

“If you won’t say what sin you committed, how can I write it on the indulgence?” the Patriarch asked, his tone now gentler.

Indulgences were not, as some believed, mass-produced like banknotes or slips of paper.

Like all permits and charters, they were one-foot-long, half-foot-wide parchment, hand-decorated with intricate patterns and images of saints.

At the beginning and center, the bishop or Pope himself had written the sinner’s crimes, followed by an explanation of how, in the name of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, he was forgiven—and how the sinner must atone, for how long, and what acts would cleanse his guilt.

Then, in the lower left, his signature; on the right, the seal—only then was the indulgence valid; it could not be dismissed with a casual “I forgive this sinner.”

“Then write this,” the guest said: “I intend to kill a petty man who has usurped a high position.”

The Patriarch’s eyes gleamed. “High?”

“Very high.”

The Patriarch whispered, as if afraid of being overheard: “A count? A duke? Or… a Prince of the Blood?” He guessed upward, and when he reached the final word, he bit his lip, nearly laughing.

He studied the man: tall, even with his hood lowered and face shadowed, he radiated grace and nobility. Such a man could easily reach Amalric I and kill him.

This suited the Patriarch perfectly. But to sacrifice even a fraction of his own gain? Harder than making a dog relinquish its meat.

He swiftly wrote the sin on the indulgence, absolved him in the name of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—but demanded he build a small chapel and undergo ten years of ascetic penance.

He signed with a flourish, then reversed his ring, dipped it in ink, and stamped it.

He set down his quill, sprinkled sand over the parchment, blew it off, and lifted one corner to hand it to a guard, who passed it to the petitioner.

The man took it, read it carefully, confirmed no errors, then rolled it into a small copper tube and placed it solemnly into his side money pouch.

The Patriarch noticed the pouch hung from his belt by sturdy iron chains, covered in a mesh of iron rings like chainmail—and felt even more satisfied.

He saw the man bow deeply to him again. He thought it was a farewell—and he wasn’t wrong; he truly was bidding farewell to the Pontiff, only this time, it was forever.

Taking advantage of the bow, the guest drew his short sword from his side and charged forward. The Pontiff’s guards immediately rushed to meet him, but how to put it? The man was stronger, faster, and braver than these mercenaries who only fought for pay. He feared neither injury nor death.

We all know that a man who fears neither death is not easily killed.

The two guards died quickly. After a few exchanges, they tried desperately to flee, leaving their backs exposed to the guest. He stabbed one down, then the second.

Seeing this, the Pontiff was filled with terror. He screamed and scrambled, crawling to escape the blood-soaked room—he was almost successful.

But the guest merely kicked the open money chest. Golden, round coins clattered out in a flood, spilling directly onto the Pontiff’s only escape path. He stepped on those tiny things he had once loved so dearly—and immediately fell face-first into the dirt.

The guest walked forward calmly, stepped on the Pontiff’s back, and drove his short sword into the base of his skull. Then, grabbing the Pontiff’s thinning hair, he lifted him up, exposing his throat. He jammed the blade into the folds of fat and sliced through the windpipe and carotid in one stroke.

Amid the Pontiff’s gaze—filled with hatred and pleading—and the gurgling rush of blood, the guest stood upright, satisfied, and patted the money pouch hanging at his side. Inside was a pardon, a certificate of absolution for his grave sin.

Then he stepped over the Pontiff’s bulky body and strolled out the door. Not a single soul dared emerge to stop him.

———

“So, you shall be the Pontiff,” said Amalric I.

(End of Chapter)