Chapter 53: Celebration (Part II)

——A Byzantine official mentioned this incident in his personal diary.

He said it was a typical Byzantine conspiracy targeting Princess Maria and her future barbarian husband.

Such conspiracies were commonplace in the Byzantine court, even crude, but sufficient to deceive these Frankish men—simple, brutish, and utterly devoid of cunning.

The conspirators bribed several key figures in the princess’s dowry entourage:

First, the official in charge of managing and guarding the animals.

They smuggled a mother bear that had lost her cubs into the rear of the procession and opened most of the cages.

“This bear was the largest I have ever seen,” the official wrote: “When on all fours, its eyes still met those of an ordinary man; when standing upright, it was twice his height. Its fur was thick and matted with pitch, resin, and tar, forming a heavy armor; ordinary weapons struck it to no effect—arrows either bent and fell or stuck uselessly in its hide.”

Second, the princess’s slaves or maidservants.

The severed head of the bear’s dead cub was placed inside the reliquary that had once held strands of the Virgin Mary’s hair—an act of profound sacrilege. Their souls were surely destined for the lake of fire to burn for ten thousand years, yet clearly, profit outweighed posthumous punishment.

When the princess’s maid discovered this horrific defilement inside the reliquary, whether intentionally or not, her first thought was to dispose of it.

At that moment, the disaster unfolded: dozens of beasts escaped their cages—including swift, powerful leopards, tigers whose roars could make men tremble, and a dozen cunning, ruthless wolves.

All were ravenously hungry and filled with hatred for humans.

“Logically,” the official continued, “these animals were meant to be displayed in the procession as examples of the beasts that would later appear in hunts or tournaments.

By custom, they should have been given herbs to induce drowsiness or paralysis, but the official in charge of the animals rejected this suggestion. He said, ‘If the Franks see our animals weak and listless, won’t they mock us as cowards?’

So, instead of calming agents, they administered stimulants—so that when the cages opened, the beasts surged into frenzy, immediately turning to slaughter.

“As I observed,” he cautiously added, “some beasts may have wished to flee, but the crowd pressed against one another, unaware they were blocking escape routes—and thus suffered brutal maulings as well.”

Third, the warriors in the princess’s dowry escort.

They were meant to be utterly loyal to the princess, obeying her every command—essentially Manuel I’s hidden dagger in the Holy City—but instead of forming a tight, effective defense, they left a gap through which the mother bear stormed unimpeded toward the princess’s palanquin.

“I was fortunate,” the official lamented: “I was merely an obscure scribe, kept outside the circle of nobles and dignitaries. When the bear carved a bloody path through the crowd, I was scrambling headlong into the throng of onlookers. Oh, friends, do not mock me—I know this seems cowardly, but I use the word only to convey the utter chaos of the moment.

Had I stood upright and walked or run like others, I would have been seen as an obstacle—or knocked down like those unfortunate souls.”

When I looked back, some of the warriors did not try to stop the bear; instead, they actively hindered those attempting to rescue her—whether their own comrades or knights of King Amalric I.

At that moment, the princess and her palanquin had already tumbled to the ground.

It was a large yet exquisitely crafted wooden structure; the impact shattered it into pieces—delicate railings snapped, the canopy collapsed, entangling itself with the curtains into a deadly cocoon.

One maid abandoned the princess to flee, but the bear seized her with a single claw, tearing off her entire face—a sight I can never forget, even decades later: that half-removed visage still haunts my nightmares.

Another maid met an even worse fate.

She bravely tried to shield the princess, but the bear’s paw struck her chest, caving it in. She did not die immediately; as she fell, the bear furiously tore open her abdomen.

She screamed as she was devoured—I know bears prefer live prey, but this one seemed driven by rage: shaking its head, it flung entrails aside without chewing.

“Our princess bore no shame for the Komnenos name,” the official remarked: “She neither cried nor fled. While the bear feasted on the maid, she retrieved from the wreckage a jeweled double-edged sword—perhaps intended as a gift for her groom.

But what good was it? Against such a furious, mighty beast, even a knight who had beheld a saint might not dare face it directly.”

“I heard someone shout to release the hunting dogs—but it was too late. Like the knights racing toward us, their first duty was to protect their king—understandable, yet I could not help feeling a pang of resentment.

Only two attendants arrived in time,”

here he switched to crimson ink, indicating this was a crucial passage: “because beneath their flowing cloaks and coats, they wore no chainmail.”

At first, I thought these two boys were brave but foolish—until I saw: one wore a deep purple cloak, the other’s coat was edged in purple.

I immediately recalled: in this entourage, only three people were permitted to wear silk dyed in deep purple—one, of course, was the princess’s future husband, King Amalric I; another, our princess herself.

And the third? Only one person remained: Prince Baldwin, the future heir to this holy kingdom, the princess’s stepson.

I expected the crowd to cry out “Prince Baldwin,” but instead they shouted: “The Little Saint.”

—Here, “The Little Saint” was written in capital letters.

I could not comprehend it—or rather, my mind was entirely consumed by the impending, horrific conclusion. I stared without blinking at the scene—I had already imagined how many heroic poems and magnificent paintings posterity would create from this moment.

In truth, Prince Baldwin was not like the brutish barbarians we knew—thoughtless, relying solely on strength. He restrained his horse, which had been ready to bolt or kneel, and deliberately drove it into the space between the bear and the princess.

The bear’s fatal swipe struck the horse’s belly; the animal screamed and collapsed in agony.

At once, Prince Baldwin leapt down, positioning himself before the princess, crying out the name of his patron saint, “Saint George,” as a spear materialized beside him.

I expected a mutual destruction: his spear might pierce the bear, but bears do not collapse from wounds like men.

They endure agony with terrifying resilience—anyone who has hunted bears knows: even with paws torn off or intestines spilling out, they can still kill a dozen hounds and their hunters in one final burst.

The spear might pierce the bear, but the bear’s paw would crush Baldwin or the princess—killing them instantly. Yet something even more unbelievable happened.

The young attendant who had followed Baldwin suddenly appeared before the bear; his body glowed with a soft, radiant white light, ripples of shimmering energy flashed, expanded, and solidified in the air.

Forgive me, friends—my narration may make this seem slow, but it all occurred in an instant.

By the time I understood what had happened, he was clad in gleaming white scales (each scale clearly visible), his left elbow bent and held before the bear’s face. The bear, without hesitation, bit down hard and struck his shoulder with a crushing blow.

Everyone around me screamed in terror.

But God preserved him—he stood firm, one foot forward, one back, his body taut like a drawn bow. He thrust his left arm into the bear’s jaws, enduring its crushing bite without flinching, while the bear’s thunderous blow merely made him sway slightly.

I did not know if he could withstand another strike—but at that moment, Prince Baldwin’s spear was already raised to his right shoulder. A flash of white light, like thunder, and the spear shot forth like a colossal arrow, piercing straight through the bear’s cheek and out its skull. Moments later—or perhaps I lost track of time—the bear’s massive body crashed to the ground.

By then, King Amalric I had arrived on horseback, and the battle around us had ended. Whether human or beast, traitors were captured—none escaped the furious, shamed pursuit of the knights.

The bribed officials had initially tried to flee—if the princess had been killed or gravely wounded, their plan might have succeeded. But as soon as she escaped danger, she seized Amalric’s reins and, though trembling, spoke clearly and sharply, naming every traitor who had betrayed her.

When brought before him, they still pleaded their innocence, refusing to look at the princess, begging only the King of Jerusalem to believe their lies—that she had been driven mad by terror and falsely accused innocent men.

As I hesitated whether to testify, I saw King Amalric ignore them entirely. He turned to the princess and asked: “What do you wish to do?”

The princess replied: “Kill them all.”

Even I could not help shedding a tear of pity for these lofty lords.

Had she remained in the Byzantine court, she could never have wielded such power—or ever would again.

But now, she was both the direct victim and the emperor’s betrayed daughter, the king’s wife. Amalric understood their plot clearly—and he handed the decision to her, perhaps expecting precisely this outcome.

And she did not disappoint him, delivering a response that satisfied everyone.

The traitors were nearly driven mad with fear. They had imagined the worst possible fate: imprisonment by Amalric, confinement in a dungeon, awaiting ransom from their families before returning to Byzantium to face Manuel I’s wrath.

But the king had already decided: “Spare the formalities,” he said, “Let us lay a red carpet for my bride.”

At his command, his knights moved instantly.

The princess also remembered her two saviors: Prince Baldwin and his attendant.

They stood leaning on each other, visibly exhausted, nearly spent. Even without witnessing any saint, I knew that for boys their age to confront such a beast exacted a terrible toll.

The princess extended her hand; Prince Baldwin pulled his attendant forward. She was surprised, but embraced them both, one on each side.

The once-proud nobles, now dragged up, were terrified, trembling, barely able to stand. Some struggled wildly—but only earned more blows.

Everyone around me stared wide-eyed (perhaps I did too)—for them, this was a rare spectacle.

So many lords, clad in silk, adorned with gold and silver, bloated from feasting, now dragged like plucked roosters, forced to kneel along the path the princess would walk, one after another, beheaded.

Their blood spurted far, pooling and staining the ground—truly forming a crimson carpet.

An attendant of King Amalric brought a horse—the same one once owned by Amalric’s first wife, the Countess of Jaffa. The princess nodded in gratitude, then, with the king’s help, mounted.

Side by side, they rode toward the Castle of the Holy Cross, their horses’ hooves crushing the still-wet blood, leaving behind a trail of crimson roseprints on the stone.

I too was noticed and imprisoned with the other Byzantines—but only briefly. The banquet welcoming the Byzantine princess was about to begin; her entourage had already shrunk by a third. It would be unthinkable to leave the remaining two-thirds locked in prison through the entire wedding—such humiliation would fall on the princess, not us.

So we—those deemed non-threatening by the king—were released first, scattered along two long tables.

I expected to eat with no appetite—but I was ravenous; even a roasted mother bear would have tasted delicious.

Before the wedding feast began, the princess, seated beside King Amalric I on the dais, suddenly rose.

She raised her cup, first blessing her husband: may he be victorious in every battle, never defeated by treachery or misfortune (I sensed her meaning).

Then she toasted us all: may we all be healthy and prosperous. When we all stood, she raised her cup a third time, handing her golden goblet to Prince Baldwin beside her.

She said she wished to thank her stepson Baldwin—perhaps the most beautiful gift she had ever received.

We all knew Baldwin suffered from leprosy, likely to die before thirty—but after a brief hesitation, the princess still wished him strength, long life, and that he might become a wise and valiant king like his father. Her words eased the tense atmosphere between us and the Crusader knights.

I knew some among them had even proposed canceling the wedding. No matter how these officials were bribed or by whom, such an event was an ill omen—any future misfortune would inevitably be blamed on this marriage.

I marveled at their loyalty to Baldwin—or their devotion to King Amalric I—that they could ignore such an obvious flaw.

Though I had heard before how Amalric I doted on his only son, even defying both the Roman and Jerusalem churches for him.

He must have appealed to our emperor as well, but within the Orthodox Church, some insisted that since Baldwin had contracted leprosy, this marriage was evil—that the Byzantine emperor’s daughter should not wed the son of a sinner.

The Patriarch of Jerusalem condemned Amalric I, accusing him of betraying his faith and God for his son—that he too was a sinner, doomed to hell.

Some in the Orthodox Church agreed.

Ultimately, the marriage proceeded, perhaps because all knew Baldwin, even if crowned, could not rule long: he had been blessed, but his leprosy remained incurable.

The throne would likely pass to either his sister Sibylla’s child—or the child the princess bore Amalric I. The former would likely gain majority support.

The latter? They would always fear us—for debtors fear their creditors.

Here, the official added a marginal note in smaller script: though the Crusades began when the Byzantine emperor appealed to Rome for help from Frankish Christians to drive out the Saracens, the Crusaders had plundered many cities along the way—mostly Byzantine ones—sparking deep resentment.

“By giving her golden cup to Prince Baldwin, the princess publicly declared that she would henceforth regard him as her own son, transferring to him part of her own influence and power.” This gesture delighted everyone—especially King Amalric I, for these assets would ultimately return to him.

At this point, the diary contained a blank space, as if the writer paused to think; afterward, he absentmindedly sketched two small figures holding hands.

“I remained in Jerusalem for some time afterward.

I often saw Prince Baldwin and his companion entering and leaving together—they were inseparable, except when sleeping. I also knew that when the princess thanked them, Baldwin openly pulled his attendant beside him and declared: ‘This is my brother.’

Upon hearing this, the princess changed their gifts: instead of one gold platter with matching gold knife, fork, and spoon, plus one silver platter, she gave each boy an identical set—fairly and evenly.

I heard some grumble: ‘The prince’s attendant was once merely a slave.’

Hah!”

——

“That monk’s prophecy was surprisingly accurate,” Baldwin said.

(End of Chapter)