Chapter 45: Marriage Matters (Part One)

Cesar jolted awake from searing pain, and at the very moment he screamed, Longinus sprang up from his half-kneeling posture, yanked the bed curtains shut, leapt to the window, and slammed it closed—Cesar’s room had no glass, only wooden shutters; once shut, the chamber plunged into dimness, and no one outside could see the light streaming from within.

No sooner had the window closed than Cesar’s cry ended; Longinus whirled back to the bed, pulled back the curtains, and clamped a hand over half the child’s face. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “The king just left!”

Fortunately, to prevent Cesar from screaming upon waking, he and Heraclius had reduced his water intake over the past two days; that earlier dry cry had not alerted anyone.

When Cesar faintly closed his eyes, Longinus pulled a small glass vial from his robe and poured its contents into Cesar’s mouth.

By the dim light, Longinus closely observed Cesar’s expression until he was certain the boy still suffered—but was fully conscious—then leaned close to his ear and murmured: “The saint you saw was Saint Jerome. Remember: Jerome the scholar. Heraclius said he once plucked thorns from a wounded lion’s paw.”

Longinus executed the entire sequence with flawless fluidity—he had rehearsed it countless times in his mind, and practiced it repeatedly in solitude, though never aloud.

When Cesar nodded through gritted pain, Longinus returned to the door and used his keen hearing to scout the corridor—many footsteps hurried up the stairs; the last one was especially light, and the person did not knock, only paused briefly before leaving—Longinus collapsed against the door, drenched in sweat, exhaling in relief. What a deadly task this was!

——————

Cesar awoke quickly; when the room suddenly darkened, he saw Longinus.

The familiar room, the familiar man—they had left the Holy Sepulchre. He remembered the light in Baldwin’s eyes—he too had been chosen. Joy gave way to pain, but he still recalled Heraclius’s warning.

After being chosen, the intensity and duration of the chosen one’s radiance, and the extent of the blessing, were tightly linked.

Like that Wit, his light lasted only an instant—barely sparing him from hanging—then vanished immediately. As expected, though granted the “bestowal,” his gift could heal only minor ailments that would have healed on their own anyway.

Such “being chosen” was nearly useless, inviting only mockery—but what if the light endured long and burned bright? That was a cause for public praise, yet one must be cautious—just as Count Etienne grew weak after praying for the saint’s gaze, the chosen one would suffer intense, varied, and universal side effects after first manifesting divine favor: pain, fatigue, weakness… or more than one.

There had even been cases where children too young to endure the ordeal, though blessed, perished afterward—henceforth, the “Selection Ceremony” was moved to ages nine to fourteen, to prevent such tragedies.

A harsh, foolish monk would have strictly followed doctrine and denied the child any pain-reducing draught—but Heraclius had already cheated during the “Selection Ceremony,” and now he had no restraint; his brew was indeed effective—the pain lessened, but was replaced by an indescribable numbness and ache.

Cesar, finding dark humor in his suffering, thought: if he were a patient on an operating table, the anesthesiologist would have leapt off his stool in horror, readjusting the dosage—yes, he meant one of the most terrifying scenarios in surgery: “anesthesia awareness,” or “intraoperative recall.”

As the name implies, the patient suddenly regains consciousness during general anesthesia and later recalls most details of the procedure.

Lucky patients can move or cry out, drawing the anesthesiologist’s or surgeon’s attention; aside from brief pain and shock, they suffer no lasting harm. But some remain conscious yet paralyzed, unable to speak, forced to endure their body being cut open—often accompanied by overwhelming suffocation and helplessness—these sensations haunt them long after physical recovery, shattering their minds.

Cesar was experiencing this now.

To distract himself, he turned his thoughts elsewhere—like the phrase Longinus had hastily whispered: “You saw Saint Jerome”? What did that mean? And why specifically mention Heraclius? Had Heraclius told him to say that?

Cesar did not believe Heraclius or Longinus intended to betray him. The former had no motive; the latter still needed him. Besides, human emotion is hard to conceal—Heraclius’s fondness for him might not surpass Baldwin’s, but between Cesar and others, he would always choose Cesar.

Longinus was even simpler. He had once been scornfully called “slave of a slave”—everyone knew he was Cesar’s servant, earning some respect and some hatred. But if he betrayed Cesar, both groups would spit on him.

Even outside the Holy Land, if his lord in Brittany heard of it, he’d strip Longinus of his knighthood; he’d never return to his brother’s lands as steward or overseer. To become a peasant or craftsman, avoiding homelessness and loneliness, would already be fortune.

So why had Heraclius told him to say he saw Saint Jerome?

Saint Jerome was not among the original candidates. And wait—he had seen whom? He remembered chasing a towering figure among many luminous human shapes. He recalled his desperate urgency, others urging him on, he was nearly catching Him…

He asked for His holy name—but received no answer.

This was the final step of the Selection Ceremony. Heraclius had once said that during his own ceremony, he had no idea where he was or where to go—until a monk saw him, called him over, and made him his student.

They lived among forests and beasts, made candles from beeswax, spun wool into thread. Life was harsh, but his teacher was learned, devout, and wise; Heraclius felt only joy, never hardship.

When had he realized he was undergoing trial? Perhaps when the viceroy’s soldiers captured him and he and his teacher were whipped, hooked, starved, and sentenced to execution—he coughed uncontrollably, and his teacher placed a hand on his throat, recited scripture, and he was healed.

He fell to his knees, weeping uncontrollably, barely able to speak, until at last he choked out the most vital question.

The saint seemed to have waited for this moment: “I am Saint Barsanuphius of Armenia.”

…

If those faceless followers spoke truth—not exaggeration—then the saint Cesar saw surpassed Barsanuphius, who could only tame beasts and heal throat ailments. Though it sounded impious, Cesar now understood Heraclius’s protection.

Heraclius did not yet know whom Cesar had seen, but clearly, his patron surpassed Prince Baldwin. That was not good.

In his haze, Cesar heard knocking. Longinus answered. It was the king’s attendant, come to observe and question Cesar’s condition. Officially, he asked on Prince Baldwin’s behalf—but who didn’t know the real intent?

Longinus’s reply satisfied him—or those behind him. After he left, Longinus administered the draught every four hours. At the fifth dose, Heraclius finally arrived. He saw Cesar propped on pillows, gazing at morning light, and his face softened with relief.

“How is Baldwin?” Cesar asked.

“He woke nearly at the same time. The king saw the light burst from the window and turned back immediately.” He glanced at Longinus, who nodded—the footsteps he’d heard were the king and his retinue. “Prince Baldwin received a heavy, enduring blessing—but too sharp. He suffered more than you.”

“His illness…”

“The king summoned clerics. They can only slow its progress—not cure it.”

Those clerics were taken away and executed by the king’s knights. Funny, the patriarch had once threatened the king with them—turns out they were nothing but drunken fools. Of course, as the new patriarch, Heraclius signed several indulgences; the king paid with the former patriarch’s wealth.

The king even complained: if Cesar had been “bestowed” instead of “chosen,” it would’ve been better. If the saint meant him to be Baldwin’s shield, why make him a knight? In the past, Heraclius would have agreed.

But today, Heraclius felt Cesar’s misfortune should not justify his sacrifice. Before the “Selection Ceremony,” he may have favored Prince Baldwin—but afterward, Cesar’s performance tipped the scales with heavy weights.

Courageous, strategic, patient, decisive, skilled at self-preservation, yet unhesitating when sacrifice was needed—such qualities, and… his origins. Heraclius had seen Cesar as a slave: such a strong, perfect boy could not be the son of a peasant or craftsman.

He even sent men to find the slave merchant Isaac, hoping to trace Cesar’s past—but Isaac vanished like a drop swallowed by the sea.

Yet even if Cesar forgot his past, he now had status. As Amalric I said: for a monk, a student is like a son. This child had something to inherit. Had Heraclius been a poor, power-hating ascetic, he’d never have stood beside Amalric I. Now he had climbed to the highest position a churchman could reach.

“Everyone favors their own child,” the monk murmured.

He asked Cesar about the saint he saw. Cesar told the truth. Heraclius did not doubt him—only thought a moment, then let it go. “Anything can happen in this world. It doesn’t matter. Better still: just say you saw Saint Jerome.”

He reached out and stroked Cesar’s head. “There’s something to ask you: Brother John wishes to visit. Would you see him?”

Cesar looked surprised. “Why not?” He smiled easily. “I miss him too.” But since arriving at the Holy Cross Fortress, turmoil followed turmoil; by the time he could go out alone, he’d begun preparing for the “Selection Ceremony.”

Others might harbor resentment—after all, John had said he wanted Cesar as his student, not because the king demanded it, but because he refused anyone else.

Later, when Cesar sought to practice in the Holy Sepulchre, or requested the map of the Temple Church, the Gerard family granted every request (though Heraclius learned of this later). Lady Damara of the Gerard family was the noblewoman Cesar had promised to swear loyalty to once he became a knight.

Heraclius thought differently. Though his name came from a great Byzantine emperor, his birth was humble. He was Amalric I’s monk, and Amalric I himself had once been only the second son of Fulk V and Queen Melisende. Had Baldwin III left heirs, Heraclius would have remained merely a vassal or general.

Precisely because of this origin, he felt compassion and admiration for Cesar, and did not mind if Cesar had other patrons. In the treacherous, shifting Holy City, even a slender, fragile vine in hand was better than none.

Besides, the Gerard family was no vine—it was a towering tree. In 1099, the Burgundian noble Gerard and several companions founded the “Order of Saint John of Arazel” in a hospital near the Church of Saint John the Baptist, sheltering countless pilgrims. For this merit, he ascended to heaven, seated beside the saints; his family became the “Sacred Family.” As long as the Holy Land stood, they held power.

And unlike the Templars, the Hospitallers were gentler, kinder. Pilgrims joked: the Templars were “pay to kill,” the Hospitallers were “pay to save.”

Cesar’s nature—even without the Holy Sepulchre Knights (as Baldwin’s squire, he had little choice)—Heraclius would never have advised him to join the Templars.

The rotund Abbot John arrived the next day on a mule.

Abbot John’s current weight was evident from the gifts he brought Cesar.

A large jar of lamb stewed with rosemary, a large jar of fried quail pickled in olive oil, a large jar of donkey meat stewed with onions and carrots. “All excellent for the body—Gerard family secrets. Countless knights have eaten them with miraculous results.” He winked at Cesar, then sneered: “I bet you’ve had nothing good here.”

He was right. Though monks fasted about two hundred days a year—ordinary folk fasted about one hundred sixty—monks had special occasions: when they sinned, or when others did. But as for cooking skill? Without question, the castle chefs were better.

Moreover, the monks of Saint John the Baptist’s monastery were eager to discuss cuisine with Cesar.

Also, a box of honeyed mulberries, a box of honeyed dates, a box of honeyed dried figs. “Hide them,” Abbot John added a small locked chest: “Don’t be too generous—don’t give a taste to everyone. Keep the key on your belt.”

Beside him, Longinus coughed. “I am his servant.” Shouldn’t such things be kept by the servant?

Abbot John glanced at him. “You may ask your master.”

Then Abbot John produced three small boxes: one of frankincense, one of Sichuan pepper, one of saffron. Longinus dared not joke again—these could be exchanged directly for gold or its equivalent.

“Take them,” Abbot John said as Cesar looked questioningly at him. “The Gerard family sent a hundred times this much to celebrate Prince Baldwin’s being chosen.”

“But I’m only a squire.”

“Do you know,” Abbot John answered evasively, “the Gerard family has made many choices. The most famous, most known, was when my great-grandfather petitioned the Fatimid Caliph Ali al-Zahir to build a hospital along the pilgrimage route to aid all pilgrims.”

He lowered his eyes. “Since then, we’ve kept making choices—including relinquishing the Grand Master’s seat of the Hospitaller Order. You are just another choice, Cesar. The Gerard family and the Hospitallers may not be as rich as the Templars, but believe me, we are far more generous. And…”

He patted his belly. “Our ancestors were merchants. Their children inherited one virtue: they don’t care about temporary gains or losses.”

Next came upper garments: “You and Prince Baldwin have both been chosen—that means you’ll soon be promoted to squires. Normally, squires serve in other lords’ castles. But Baldwin’s status is unique—he won’t leave Arazel, and must remain by his side—you need several fine outfits.”

His thinking matched Count Etienne’s: “Once you’re a squire, you can’t rely on the prince to supply everything—even if you could…”

“Wait,” Longinus’s eyes widened. “Is that… purple ribbon? Or gold-edged?”

“To tie around your arm or neck…” Abbot John told Cesar.

“No, I mean,” Longinus said, “this is Arazel, but I know Byzantine emperors have laws forbidding purple silk and gold-edged fabrics. Violators are executed for treason.”

“You may,” Abbot John sighed. “Our king, Amalric I, has arranged a marriage with the Byzantine Emperor Manuel I. Next month, the princess will arrive in Arazel, and they will be married before June. Many Byzantine merchants have come, bringing silk—so it is said, Princess Maria sent three purple robes for her future husband and one purple cloak for her future stepson, Prince Baldwin.”

He fixed his gaze on Cesar. “When she arrives, the king and prince will wear purple robes and cloaks to greet her. If you accompany them, you should wear something Byzantine too.”

(End of Chapter)