Chapter 62: The Little Fishes (Part II)

Cesar’s decision was naturally opposed by Baldwin, and Heraclius as well; even the Templars held a disapproving stance. But what surprised Cesar was that Amalric I himself showed hesitation, and did not immediately agree.

But to others, Amalric I would suffer no loss from this move—only gain.

First: even though Cesar’s current status could be said to equal that of any knight, he was still a child, meaning that if Amalric I sent him as an envoy, it would be an undeniable insult to the other side.

But did the Templars of Tortosa not commit a blatant act of contempt and mockery toward Amalric I by ambushing his ally, the envoy of the Eagle’s Nest?

The king would only regret not being able to witness their expressions in person.

Second: Cesar’s plan was very likely to succeed.

Never mind that Amalric I had already prepared for a siege—any lord or knight with even a shred of sense would refuse to attack a sturdy, well-prepared fortress.

Tortosa’s castle was not even built by the Templars; Baldwin I had constructed many castles using the dowry of his third wife, and Tortosa was one of them. After transferring it to the Templar Order, the knights had spent decades gradually repairing and reinforcing it.

Though Tortosa’s castle could not rival the Holy Cross Fortress, it was still an immovable rock mountain. Moreover, the Templars of Tortosa knew full well that before they set out to ambush the Saracens, they would inevitably face Amalric I’s condemnation and attack.

Beforehand, they must have stockpiled ample food, water, and other supplies.

Even the king could not be certain how long this siege would last—three days, ten days, a month, or even a year—such things had happened before.

He also knew he could not possibly hold out for more than three months. As Cesar walked through the camp, he saw only burning charcoal about to be consumed; Amalric I saw a bottomless abyss ready to swallow every single coin he possessed—even the conscripted peasants received pay, meager as it was, but consider the number of men…

The mercenaries were even worse. A prolonged siege would breed complacency; many would slip away quietly, or merely attend to their own affairs, and more likely ride out to plunder nearby merchants and pilgrims.

In a pagan city, such behavior might even be encouraged. But within the sphere of Arasal’s influence, merchants and pilgrims were equally protected by Amalric I. The king did not want to be forced into frantic damage control when they came weeping to him.

Third, hidden in Amalric I’s heart, unspoken, was this: he had begun to sense that, between Cesar and Baldwin, it was Cesar who held the dominant position—not his own son.

He feared that after his death, a towering, unshakable minister would rise in Arasal’s court.

Had Cesar not been unable to produce any proof of identity—no evidence he was the son of a count or a duke—even with his oath, the king would never have tolerated his presence in Arasal.

Now, he himself volunteered to negotiate with that savage, ravenous beast—was this not a perfect gift, precisely what Amalric I desired?

But Amalric I shared the same doubt as the Templars: what benefit did this bring him? His position was secure, he was beloved, his future stretched before him, flat and bright. He was no bishop, to gain the people’s kneeling devotion through sacrifice and incite rebellion.

And this was no act of penance or prayer—if he failed, he would be a fool; even if he succeeded, would those ignorant people understand his meaning? They might even believe their little saint had betrayed them, deliberately stealing their chance to earn coin.

Amalric I did not know that, roughly seven hundred years later, someone would say: when all evidence points to one answer, that answer, however implausible it seems, is the only correct one.

But he had already begun to believe that Cesar truly was a kind-hearted man, one of great compassion.

He naturally preferred to keep such a good man beside Baldwin, beside his possible second son, and even his second son’s descendants—so what if he became a minister? As long as he never entertained thoughts of usurpation, and died faithfully, the throne of Arasal would still bear Amalric I’s bloodline.

Yet the prospect of a prolonged siege made the king hesitate—this was not a war that would cripple Arasal, but it would peel off a layer of his flesh.

He planned to launch a second campaign against Egypt within three years. To prepare for it, he needed absolute readiness; he could not afford to repeat his first campaign—though victorious, he returned to Arasal empty-handed after being deceived, mocked by countless others.

In the end, he agreed to Cesar’s request.

But he assigned Cesar a herald, a messenger, and four attendants, all bearing Amalric I’s banner, walking behind him with worried expressions yet proud bearing—this was the proper complement for a king’s envoy.

Cesar was somewhat surprised; he had expected Amalric I to simply give him a guide and send him off alone into Tortosa Castle.

What he had not anticipated at all was that, shortly after leaving the camp and heading toward Tortosa Castle, on the edge of the rolling hills, he saw a familiar figure.

“Geoffroy!” he exclaimed in surprise. The Templar merely gave him a listless nod.

Behind the Templar followed a sergeant and two attendants, carrying the familiar black-and-white banner. He was dressed formally—helmeted, clad in chainmail, over his armor a surcoat, holding a lance, with sword and dagger at his side.

As he approached, Cesar realized there were four more men behind him—infantrymen with sword and shield—the heavy infantry of the Templar Order we mentioned earlier, trained as rigorously as the knights themselves, and capable of playing a decisive role in sieges.

“Didn’t you say the Templars wouldn’t interfere in this matter?” Cesar asked.

“Well… actually,” Geoffroy scratched his chin, “have you seen my horse?”

“I have.” Percheron, deep brown, strong and beautiful—small ears, long neck, slender yet powerful hooves—a horse worth at least fifty gold coins.

“It was given to me by Amalric I.”

Seeing Cesar’s puzzled expression, Geoffroy said without shame: “And the prince sent me a chest—inside, a Damascus sword inlaid with gems, two gold cups, a set of ivory chess pieces, and a gold-and-gem necklace…”

Geoffroy counted them off one by one.

Did Cesar not know what these were? Baldwin had shown him each item, one by one—these were among the prince’s most cherished possessions, collected since childhood.

They had come with Amalric I to the city’s outskirts; as a squire, one could not carry excessive baggage, but a small chest was permitted. So Baldwin had packed his favorite items—along with clothes and weapons.

According to Geoffroy’s count and description, Baldwin had likely given him everything he owned.

“I didn’t want to accept,” Geoffroy said, estimating the value at over a thousand gold coins—glancing sidelong at Cesar—this child’s worth was rising fast.

Cesar felt a lump in his throat, speechless. He had to admit: at first, he had intended to use Baldwin, and never truly wished to remain beside him. His thoughts and ideals were independent, mature, even arrogant.

He knew well he was not a nine-year-old child—at least, not in soul. Seeing a true nine-year-old present his purity and nobility before him filled him with shame.

After a long pause, he said, “Please… sir, if you can, keep these things safe—do not sell them or give them away. Thank you deeply. I will redeem them at triple the price.”

“What are you talking about?” Geoffroy glanced at him sideways. “Templars own no private property. The prince’s gifts will be turned over to the Order, and the Order will use them to aid poor pilgrims…”

“A hundred years ago, I might have believed that. But now…” Cesar said bluntly—Geoffroy was no particularly pious man—“then aid me. I am a slave of the Ishmaelites, a lowly squire. Even now as a squire, I have no savings…”

“A weak, pitiful, helpless, yet… yet devout Christian like me—when you see me, won’t you give alms?”

“I ask for little—just give me what Baldwin gave you.”

He spoke quickly, but each word was crystal clear to Geoffroy. The Templar let out an extremely long, meaningless sigh—like some dwarf or jester’s special act, where they could expel long, foul, noxious gas.

But regardless, with Geoffroy beside him, Cesar could now set aside all his prepared speeches and tools.

After several days of travel, when they entered Tortosa Castle’s territory, they encountered several scouts patrolling the area—hoping they weren’t here to set fires. They first saw the Templar banner, then Amalric I’s banner. Though wary, they were also troubled.

After all, the Arasal Templars had claimed absolute neutrality. Seeing both banners, the Tortosa Templars feared their Grand Master had changed his mind and would now join the king in attacking them.

They swiftly brought Geoffroy’s party back. Though Cesar, the ten-year-old, was Amalric I’s envoy, they assumed this was some twisted form of insult.

Thanks to Geoffroy, they were granted a surprisingly simple audience with the Tortosa Castle’s Grand Master—Walter de Lemesny, whom Geoffroy had described as arrogant, rude, and volatile—and several other Commanders. A Commander was a rank within the Templar Order, typically overseeing ten Templar knights.

Walter did not even look at Cesar. He ordered a chair brought for Geoffroy. Geoffroy reminded him that there was still an envoy of Amalric I present. The man flew into a rage.

“I treat you as a brother, yet you bring others to humiliate me! Whether you’ve been blinded by gold or seduced by empty promises, I will strip you of your surcoat, expel you from this castle, and shove this contemptible dwarf into a trebuchet basket—then hurl him straight into Amalric I’s camp!”

Geoffroy and Cesar had both anticipated this. Geoffroy showed no alarm, only calm. “I treat you as a brother, Walter—and I expect the same. But out of our old bond, let me finish speaking—”

“The Arasal Templar headquarters has decided not to interfere in your dispute with Amalric I. I came here today without any order from the Order—purely on my own will.”

“Do not underestimate this envoy. A gem, though small, shines brighter than a mountain of stone.”

Even if you are far away in Tortosa, you must have heard the name of the Little Saint. Moreover, he has sworn an oath before God with Prince Baldwin to be each other’s guarantor—just as we swore before God to be true brothers in love. There is no falsehood in it.”

“He has not yet become a knight only because of his age—not due to any flaw in strength or virtue. I can vouch for him, Walter. He has the right to speak with you face to face.”

Walter hesitated. He had heard of the Little Saint—but he had not known that Amalric I’s son had sworn an oath with this child. What did that mean? It meant he could, like Rodrigo of Castile, compel Baldwin to swear—or even swear on his behalf—and demand he uphold it.

This could include a permanent fief, a war, interference in succession, or even the Holy Land’s ownership—the Church’s deepest dream.

(End of Chapter)