Chapter 49

He finished speaking and stepped out of the tent, suddenly moving from shadow into light; the Saracen men in black robes could not help but close their eyes, and only opened them again after a moment.

Only after opening his eyes did he realize that the blinding light came not only from the midday sun, but from the people.

“He shines like a poem.”

“What?”

His attendant followed him out of the tent and saw the reason—he could not help but gape, unable to believe his eyes.

A boy dressed in Byzantine attire was walking past them, and the crowd around them parted to make way—Cesar’s features had always been flawless, and over these past months he had grown taller, and as Baldwin had said, those blessed by divine favor experienced a certain enhancement in physical constitution.

And we all know that a healthy person is rarely ugly; their eyes are bright, their skin smooth, their steps light and swift, with no trace of sluggishness or distortion.

Today Cesar wore a loose, golden robe embroidered with emerald birds and flowers and diamond patterns, cinched with a gold belt, and over it a silver-threaded cloak fastened with a white opal brooch; these ornaments did not steal his radiance but, like leaves framing a flower, amplified his brilliance.

Compared to him, Baldwin, who held his arm, though also dressed in an orange-red robe with gold-thread embroidery and a gold belt, was as dim as a crescent moon beneath the midday sun—almost no one noticed him, which suited Baldwin’s wishes—he was still somewhat afraid.

As for Damara, the noblewomen of the castle had long since given up comparing themselves to Cesar—not because they could not match him, they said, but because he was a man and they were women; was it not natural that men should be more perfect than women?

As for literary refinement, the poor attendant could not possibly compare with his master; the master could instantly recite a line of Saracen poetry, while the attendant could only stammer, “Aba aba aba...”

When they had passed, he sighed and sincerely praised: “What a beautiful child! God must have put great care into crafting him. Too bad he’s a Christian,” he couldn’t help glancing back, as if he could summon them back: “He must be a prince raised with exquisite care—his father is likely an official in Manuel I’s court.”

He immediately guessed the official’s rank rather than any other, because although the title “official” originally came from ancient Rome, where it involved simple messaging and financial duties, since the Roman Empire’s split, the Eastern Roman Emperor had replaced the former captain of the Praetorian Guard with this official—perhaps because the latter was too close to the emperor.

The official was the emperor’s whip, capable of intimidating enemies and terrifying colleagues; without doubt, anyone who became an official stood above all other ministers—Amalric I was about to marry Manuel’s great-niece, whose arrival in Jaffa was due in a week, and the official would accompany her; thus it was no surprise that his son appeared in Arasal.

The man shook his head: “No,” he said, “he is not a Byzantine.”

The attendant was about to ask, but saw his master walking toward that direction—he could only hurry after him.

————————

Men a thousand years later might consider accompanying a lady shopping a chore, but men of this time certainly did not.

Though this place was called the most sacred and was indeed a thriving great city, the people of Arasal still lived in the daily monotony and boredom; those who did not struggle for their next meal passed their time only by playing music, dancing, watching the castle’s trained fools tumble, or listening to poets recite stories long since familiar.

Thus, among the young, especially energetic youths, anything was interesting as long as it wasn’t staring at walls, praying, or training.

One must also note that men of this era were as vain as women, even more flamboyant.

They grew their hair long, then covered it with silver or gold nets adorned with pearls; their armor was engraved with family names, biblical verses, or patterns; their saddles and shields were either gilded or silvered; they set golden spurs on their boots and jeweled brooches on their hats; they favored velvet, silk, and wool, choosing colors as vivid as possible.

A knight who defeated his opponent in a tournament, or who whipped his bare back bloody during a penitential procession, earned noble admiration; sometimes noblewomen would directly throw down their cloaks or mantles, and the knight would immediately pick them up, wear them, and parade them before all.

This trend had grown so extreme that the “Original Rules” of the Knights Templar had to solemnly declare: “The robe must bear no fine decoration,” and “If any brother desires finer or more splendid clothing (all equipment is issued by the Order), give him the worst.”

But this was unavoidable, for people of this time struggled to identify one’s status—let alone official identification, most were illiterate—let alone those like Longinus, who had sworn vows to Christ and would never reveal their origin or name until the vow was fulfilled.

The only proof of their identity lay in the garments upon their flesh: a monk must wear this, a servant that, a prince another—clear rules existed. Though Arasal lacked the intricate, rigid laws of Constantinople, once a man stepped before the crowd, people could estimate his status and profession almost entirely by his clothes.

If you dressed like a beggar or a fool, you could expect malicious people to provoke you.

Thus, for merchants, noblewomen were respectable customers, knights could be astonishingly generous buyers, and many noblewomen willingly paid the knights’ bills.

It sounds implausible, but once a knight swore an oath to a noblewoman, he became hers—he would serve his love as her vassal.

Just as knights polished their armor and fed their horses, noblewomen cared for their knights by purchasing armor, horses, mink fur, or silk garments for them and recommending them to their fathers or husbands.

Conversely, a knight could never defy any command from the noblewoman to whom he had sworn—even if she ordered him to whip himself, fight beasts, or die, he must obey.

Even if she said nothing, he must defend her honor everywhere, at all times; many knights, upon arriving at an inn or lodging, hung a sign declaring that such-and-such lady’s beauty and virtue were peerless.

If another knight objected, he would ride up, lance in hand, and strike the sign, challenging the knight to duel.

Such duels usually ended with one dead.

“That is Elenora and her knight,” Damara whispered.

Standing at the entrance of a shop was a noblewoman wearing a Xinan hat and veil; her knight knelt before her, letting her step onto his knee to mount; once seated, the noblewoman lifted her veil and smiled sweetly as reward—she removed her ring, and the knight immediately took it and slipped it onto his little finger.

“Isn’t that Gérard de Le Defu?” Baldwin frowned. “He’s applying to join the Knights Templar—if he’s sworn to a noblewoman, how will he fulfill his vow?”

“Elenora isn’t cruel,” Damara said. “She can release him from his vow if he’s sincere enough. Besides, if people spread the tale that this knight joined the Templars out of heartbreak, vowing chastity for her sake, it would be a noble legend.”

“But… can that be done?” Cesar asked hesitantly.

“Why not?” Damara said. “Several of my friends wish for a knight to die for them—or become a monk, vowing lifelong chastity.”

“What about you?” Baldwin asked immediately.

“Me?” Damara looked at Cesar. “I don’t want my knight to die. I’d rather he stay with me forever.”

“Do you want to marry Cesar?” The Gerard family would never agree.

“Why not? Cesar is so beautiful.”

“Cesar’s marriage I will consider carefully,” Baldwin said. Damara was not a good match for Cesar; his foundation was too weak—he needed a wealthy heiress or one with land.

Cesar did not hear their later words; he was beginning to understand why “knightly love” was so revered.

In an age where only men could inherit property (mostly), serve in the military, govern, or even trade, women sought honor most swiftly and effectively by having their beloved knight proclaim it far and wide.

Whether the knight died or defeated his rival, the lady’s status was elevated; people would say, “Only if she were truly pious, kind, and wise could someone sacrifice his most precious life for her.”

For the knight, this too had advantages: poets sang his name in castles and courts, extolling his bravery and strength; moreover, when a knight defeated another, he claimed the loser’s armor and horse—many knights accumulated wealth this way.

At that moment, Gérard de Le Defu approached to bow to the prince, but carefully avoided disturbing others; if possible, he wished to serve as the prince’s temporary guard, but he must escort his lady back to the castle.

“Do you wish to continue?” Longinus asked.

Baldwin hesitated. Today was not market day, but the king’s wedding had brought a flood of merchants and customers—Byzantines celebrating, envoys from all nations, knights seeking tournament glory—crowding every corner of the Holy Land.

Merchants, whether carrying baskets, pitching tents, or renting stalls, displayed goods that were crude but dazzlingly varied.

He desperately wanted to find a gift for his mother—a treasure unique in the world—but its value must lie not in price.

“I’ll look further.”

They passed several shops, tents, and even examined goods piled on the ground—but found nothing suitable.

Damara was already tired; she turned her head, scanning left and right for a place to rest. “Ah,” she said, “they’ve begun practicing.”

She meant the actors—performers at a wedding were essential, and the king’s wedding required especially many; from the moment the bride entered Arasal, all the way from the gate to the Holy Cross Castle, men on elevated wooden stages must perform plays, all centered on marriage.

Besides these, there were acrobats, magicians, dwarves, and dancers—some came on their own upon hearing the news, others hired by the castle steward—but none waited idly; with crowds surging outside, they seized the chance to earn a few coins for wine.

Damara seemed drawn to a place rehearsing “Solomon and Sheba”; Baldwin and Cesar followed and discovered she was watching a “slaughterhouse”—Cesar didn’t know what to call this game, if it could even be called a game.

The game was simple: a cleared space, some chickens and ducks; the host buried them in the earth, leaving only their heads exposed. Those who wished to play paid money, took a stick, and took turns striking the birds’ heads; whoever knocked off a head outright won that chicken or duck.

The birds’ necks were extremely flexible and quick to react, but if one missed, there was always a second, a third… and many trained servants and retainers were here.

These youths joyfully paid, beating the ground into chaos; chickens and ducks stretched their necks, squawking desperately, while spectators sighed, praised, and mocked; feathers flew, blood splattered.

After only a few glances, Cesar turned away first; Baldwin lowered his eyes; Damara raised her hand, demurely shielding her eyes—slightly afraid, but mostly fascinated.

“What’s that?” Baldwin turned his gaze away; Cesar followed it—a small tent, barely large enough for three or four people, yet with a long queue outside. Longinus hurried over, inquired, then returned: “It’s a monk’s tent. He claims he is devoted to the saint Enoch; those who have tried say his prophecies are accurate—”

He hesitated, then added: “He says, if a mother wishes to divine for her son, or a son for his mother, in reverence of Gabriel’s prophecy to the Virgin of the Incarnation, he charges no fee.”

Baldwin did not care about a few silver or gold coins; what moved him was “a son divining for his mother.” He wished the Countess of Jaffa would enjoy smooth fortune and live to a hundred, but life was changeable, fate capricious—and her fief was Jaffa, a vital chokepoint certain to be contested in war—this monk’s appearance felt like an omen…

“I want to try,” he whispered to Cesar.

Knights went ahead to clear the crowd and search the tent; the diviner was indeed a monk, and no one else was inside—but he insisted only one person could enter at a time, for he used earth divination, and a third person who learned the result would be cursed.

The knights naturally objected, but Baldwin insisted. Cesar thought a moment. “Bind him,” he said. “Leave only his mouth and eyes free.”

“But how will he mark the ground with his stick?”

“Hold it in his teeth.”

The monk glared at Cesar.

After resolving this small matter, Cesar stepped aside to rest. Damara, curious about the monk, forgot her fatigue, circling the tent. Longinus and the knights could only stare at her, fearing she might suddenly slip inside.

“Sir,” Cesar said, “why have you been following us?”

The man gave a soft laugh.

He was a Saracen, at least by attire: dressed in a black robe, with a wide leather belt the breadth of a palm, bearing nothing but a curved blade.

The blade had no decoration; its scabbard was black, the hilt wrapped in brown leather. Over the robe he wore a long, open cloak with vertical tea-white stripes, both garments made of thin wool.

He wrapped his head in a dark, heavy turban, without a pin, made of ordinary linen—but worn by him, it looked like a crown.

“I just saw you watching that… game,” the man said, ignoring Cesar’s question, speaking gently. “You don’t like such games?”

“No,” Cesar said. “And you? Do you like them?”

“No,” the man replied. “Then may I ask why you dislike them?”

A knight approached them; Cesar waved him off, signaling no trouble. The knight halted but kept one eye on them. Cesar looked at the man—he seemed utterly unconcerned by the knight, though his dress resembled a common Saracen merchant.

Cesar thought a moment, then answered: “Let me put it this way: in the education I received, there was a saying—‘Whoever wishes to be merciful must avoid the kitchen.’”

The man repeated it: “That can’t be literal.”

“Indeed not,” Cesar affirmed. “It comes from a dialogue between a sage and a king. Once, the king saw a man leading a cow past him and asked, ‘Where are you taking it?’ The man replied, ‘To sacrifice to the gods.’ The king saw the cow weeping and said, ‘I’ll ransom it with a sheep.’”

When this became known, people mocked the king, calling him hypocritical—for pitying the cow but not the sheep.

The man listened intently, unconsciously stroking a wide silver ring—the only ornament he wore. “What did the sage say?”

“He said, ‘To have even that much mercy is already admirable,’” Cesar said. “At the time of this king, many neighboring kingdoms waged war daily. To fund these wars, their people paid heavy taxes, barely surviving.”

“The sage said, ‘You pity the cow because you saw it, but not the sheep because you didn’t see it. Doesn’t that prove your mercy was already within you?’

‘Compared to you, those who see such suffering yet remain unmoved—aren’t they the ones truly deserving blame?’”

“…Ah,” the man said after a long pause. “That was truly a sage—he saw not only the body, but the soul hidden within.”

He gazed at Cesar: “So you refuse to watch such sights—you are a Christian, yet your sage reminds me of our Prophet.”

“He taught us to slaughter animals with the sharpest blade, severing three tendons swiftly, so they feel no pain. We eat them for survival, not for amusement.”

“Yes,” Cesar said. “I eat meat. I can slaughter animals myself—I even have skill in cooking—but I would never torture them.”

“It seems every place holds similar truths.”

“Because the human heart always leans toward goodness.”

“Is that so?” the man smiled. “You are so beautiful, like a new sprout after rain. May God protect you—when we meet again, may you still hold this rare purity.”

——————

When Baldwin stepped out of the tent, he saw Cesar standing there, expression grave, as if lost in thought.

He stepped forward and called out Cesar’s name, and saw that his hand was clutching something.

“What is that?”

Cesar showed it to him: a crudely made silver ring lay in his palm.

“Who gave you this?” Baldwin raised the ring. “The Eagle?”

(End of Chapter)