Chapter 44: Spear and Shield?

Upon hearing this, Heraclius took a deep breath. Though he had anticipated it and felt relief, the thought of what followed gave him a headache—and the matter could not be delayed.

“Didn’t they capture the Pope’s envoy?”

“That rat had a keen nose—he fled the moment he heard I was still alive,” Amalric I said. “He’s no patriarch; the patriarch might still dream of becoming lord of the Holy City.”

“Staying here offers him too much risk and too little gain. Even if their plot succeeds and Arasal becomes a theocracy, the patriarch still needs Rome’s support. Then he won’t dare punish the envoy—he’ll have to flatter him instead.”

“What of the handwritten letter?”

“It’s as flimsy as the envoy’s identity.”

“That fool!”

“Not quite that foolish,” Amalric I said, turning to Heraclius. “The temptation was simply too great, my friend.”

“I’d rather stay by your side.”

“But I have no one else to use,” Amalric I spread his hands. “I can’t wait for Rome to send another bishop.” The Pope’s envoy had fled, and the patriarch’s death at the hands of “infidels” couldn’t be hidden much longer. Rome had long sought Arasal—no, wait, that made the envoy’s swift decision less surprising. For the Roman Church, whether the patriarch or Amalric I died, they still won.

“I’ll begin arranging this immediately.” Once he understood the implications, Heraclius no longer refused—even though it meant managing his own promotion: from monk, to gatekeeper, to chantmaster, to exorcist, to assistant, to deacon, all the way to priest… He might skip one or two ranks, but the irony was thick.

“Baldwin IV should be pleased,” Amalric I suddenly said. “He’s always worried about Cesar.”

Heraclius immediately lifted his head in alertness—but all he saw was Amalric I’s tangled curls. The king lowered his gaze to his documents at just the right moment.

Before the “Selection Ceremony,” he publicly announced that Cesar was his student—just as Cesar had suspected, primarily to reassure the king and Prince Baldwin, to prevent any misfortune. Yet the situation hadn’t slid into the worst outcome—it had merely settled into an awkward middle ground.

“Prince Baldwin hasn’t woken yet,” Heraclius gently shifted the topic.

As expected, upon hearing Baldwin hadn’t awakened, Amalric I’s attention left his documents: “Didn’t he wake once yesterday?”

“He woke, drank some honeyed water, then fell asleep again.”

“I must go see him,” Amalric I murmured to himself.

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Is Amalric I a good father? Yes. Is he a good king? Yes. But this good king must always stand above the good father.

When he learned his only son, nine-year-old Baldwin IV, had contracted the dreaded leprosy, he was stunned, grief-stricken, and furious—he knew this was no accident, but a long-planned conspiracy.

When he brought Cesar before Baldwin and swore he would never abandon him, there was both paternal tenderness and cold calculation—after all, a king or lord without an heir invites wolves to circle. In Arasal, where a king must lead the Crusaders against infidels, succession has never been peaceful.

Female heirs must rule jointly with their husbands; infants have no chance of a safe ascension.

The king would not, as others expected, grow too timid or pious to cast out his only son. Until he fathered a second son, Baldwin would remain a nail driven into the Holy Land, a thorn in the side of ambitious men.

Yet the previous “Selection Ceremony” had been turbulent, fraught with upheaval—even a man as hard-hearted and resolute as Amalric I had been worn thin. When he lifted Baldwin from beside the well, he no longer hoped for divine blessing. Let it be so, he thought. As long as he kept enough loyal ministers and generals, even a leper without blessing could hold the Holy Land’s power.

He wasn’t greedy. Ten years would suffice. By the time his younger son came of age, Baldwin could retire to a monastery. More likely, Baldwin would already be near death, awaiting God’s call.

Thus, when Amalric I entered the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, he viewed the entire affair as a rehearsed play, paying it little mind—except for fearing that Baldwin’s condition might worsen from the stone’s chill. When the priest cried, “The Holy Sepulchre glows!” he failed to react in time and nearly got shoved out—until Heraclius shouted for the king to look at his son, and the crowd parted.

To this day, Amalric I could not help but be stirred, his blood surging at the sight he witnessed then.

He had once received the blessing of Saint George—the light had blazed like torches, lasting for hours, still visible in the morning sun as he left the church.

By contrast, his bloodless brother Raymond, and Bohemond—Raymond’s light may have been brighter, but it lasted barely a quarter the length of a candle. Bohemond’s lasted slightly longer, but was faint and flickering, almost making one mistake it for “Bestowal” rather than “Grace.”

When he stepped into the Holy Sepulchre, it was as if he entered a courtyard in broad daylight—every detail clear. He saw his son Baldwin curled beside the stone bench where the Savior had once lain, serene and breathing steadily. Upon his shoulder rested a long spear.

The spear’s blade and shaft shone with brilliant light. At that moment, Amalric I thought it was a sacred relic placed there by the priests. He reached to take it—and cried out in pain. He had been burned.

Only then did he realize the spear had no true physical form.

It was light.

Amalric I trembled, tears streaming. The worst outcome, like crows on a tomb, took flight. He was blessed to stand in the radiance God had granted his son. He knelt, tears falling upon Baldwin’s skin. The king dared not touch his son—until those outside could no longer bear it and begged to witness this miracle.

The narrow cave could not hold many. Amalric I carried Baldwin out. The spear still hovered beside him, unchanged—he was too blurred by emotion, too wholly focused on his son, to notice that the cave’s light had not dimmed after they left.

The priests of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre retrieved the long poles used to lift the canopy. The grand masters of the two great orders removed their cloaks. Several respected ladies tied them to the poles, fashioning a simple litter. They placed Baldwin upon it, covered with woolen cloth from the Holy Sepulchre.

The pilgrims and townsfolk gathered outside the Square of Suffering saw it—the spear, dazzling even in daylight, wreathed in fine lightning, its tip like a bud or flame. It far exceeded the length of ordinary spears—perhaps as long as three men laid end to end.

“That is Saint George’s lance, used to slay the dragon,” one man said reverently, making the sign of the cross and slowly kneeling. Behind him, more wept in awe, praising the merciful God, one after another dropping to their knees. They were almost dizzy with disbelief at their own fortune.

Amalric I feared the spear might vanish at any moment, hence his abrupt public display. But when they returned to the castle, after three days and three nights, the spear still stood firm beside Baldwin, unbroken.

“When do you think it will vanish?”

“I don’t know,” Heraclius answered honestly. “I’ve heard of a child whose holy light lasted days after being ‘Chosen’—but the Church investigated and found someone had rubbed phosphorus on him…”

Amalric I laughed. “Rome will think the same.” He touched Baldwin’s cheek—still marked with the same red patches. His earlier smile turned to helpless pity and sorrow: “They still couldn’t heal him—he’ll be a mighty warrior, a wise king. But if this gift had been bestowed upon ‘Bestowal,’ perhaps he could have healed himself.”

“Perhaps God intended it so,” Heraclius said. “Only the great are tested.”

“My Baldwin is, and so is your Cesar.”

“Mine? Your Majesty, Cesar is not my son.”

“For a monk who has sworn chastity, a student is his son,” Amalric I turned. “How is Cesar? Has his light weakened or vanished?”

“No,” Heraclius said cautiously. “I feel… as if he and Baldwin… you know, chosen in the same ceremony, they are bloodless brothers. Their auras seem to echo each other.”

“What of its shape? Has it changed?”

“Still a shield.”

“Baldwin saw Saint George,” the king said. “What of him? Has he told you who he saw?”

“Saint Jerome.”

Amalric I stopped walking. “Saint Jerome.”

“Yes.”

“They say this learned, disciplined sage once pulled a thorn from a lion’s paw,” Amalric I said. “I hope he is the same.”

He entered Cesar’s room, located directly beneath Baldwin’s chamber. Amalric I cared little what quarters, clothes, or jewels the prince gave his servant—but…

Longinus rose from beside the bed and knelt. “I remember you’re a knight,” Amalric I’s hawk-like gaze swept over his back. “No need to act like a servant. How is he?”

“Still unconscious.”

“Not awakened at all?”

“No,” Longinus said. “He has not stirred.”

“Are you afraid I’ll harm your master?”

“I… didn’t mean that, Your Majesty.”

“Then get out of my sight!” Amalric I said. Longinus stepped back. The king approached the bed. The prince’s young servant still lay unconscious, his face paler than ever—even paler than on that day in Judaea.

Amalric I recalled Heraclius’s rough analysis of that day—though some parts displeased him: Cesar’s preparations. What tightened the king’s face most was that none of those preparations had failed.

He had to admit his arrogance had brought disaster—and that without Cesar, his son would have died.

Amalric I bent low. The light covering Cesar seemed slightly dimmer than Baldwin’s—but in form…

“Shield…” he murmured. “But not ‘Bestowal’—it’s ‘Grace.’”

He turned and left. Heraclius followed. Once the door closed, Longinus exhaled, shoulders sagging.

Amalric I was not a man of fine perception. He did not notice the small tricks Heraclius and Longinus had played. In Baldwin’s chamber, windows were half-shuttered, dimming the room. Though this suited the patient’s rest, it made the spear appear brighter.

In Cesar’s room, windows were wide open. Candles burned in the corners. Several mirrors stood hidden—hard to see from the dark spiral stairs below—but compared to Baldwin’s chamber, Cesar’s light appeared dimmer.

In truth, the opposite was true.

After Amalric I carried Baldwin from the Holy Sepulchre, everyone present followed closely, eyes never leaving him. Heraclius could only nod briefly to Longinus.

Longinus immediately dragged his cloak into the Holy Sepulchre, wrapped his master in it, trembling violently with each heartbeat, mouth dry, limbs numb.

Fortune!

Everyone—including Heraclius and Longinus just moments before—held a stubborn belief: a servant could never surpass a prince, in any way.

So when Amalric I wept, roared, and praised God in the Holy Sepulchre, no one imagined God would grant a lesser man greater gifts.

Especially after seeing the spear—they all agreed it was Saint George returned to earth.

Amalric I and Heraclius’s persistent argument—that Baldwin’s leprosy was not a curse or punishment, but a test of greatness—had become fact.

But if even one person had turned back, they would have seen: after Baldwin left, the light in the Holy Sepulchre had not faded—it remained as before. That meant… if Baldwin’s light was the moon, this light was dawn. No matter how bright the moon, it could not rival the brilliance of dawn.

Only three knew: Longinus, Heraclius who returned, and Thomas.

Without these two, Longinus could never have silently carried his young master out of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

He knelt beside the bed, gazing at his master’s serene face. Thank fortune Amalric I was a king—he would never pull back a servant’s blanket. If he had… he would have seen: Heraclius called it a shield, but more precisely, what covered Cesar was a layer of shimmering scales—from neck to chest, chest to shoulder, shoulder to arm, abdomen to legs. Each scale pulsed with light, flowing from one to another, occasionally bursting into sharp flashes—like lightning striking sea or rock.

Heraclius called it scale armor. But Longinus had seen Byzantine soldiers’ scale armor—he felt it was unlike. These scales weren’t suspended outside—they seemed grown directly from the body… The thought made him shudder. It was ill-omened. In the Christian world, dragons were not sacred.

Saint George’s lance had once pierced a dragon.

(End of Chapter)