Chapter 7: Chosen

Cesar’s guess was correct: Amalric I and Baldwin both unanimously praised his actions; Baldwin gave him a Damascus saber as consolation and compensation, while Amalric I bestowed two gifts.

One was permission for him to complete the “Oath Ceremony.”

The Oath Ceremony originally existed only between vassals and monarchs, but later kings extended it to every subject under their rule, requiring each to swear before an emissary their loyalty to the monarch and his heir; before the ceremony, Heraclius had performed Cesar’s baptism—of course, secretly, solely to confirm his Christian identity. After the baptism, Cesar kissed the cross, placed his hand on the Bible, and said:

“I hereby swear that from this day forward I shall remain loyal to my king, Amalric I, the most pious monarch, guardian of the Holy Sepulcher, son of King Fulk V and Queen Melisende of Jerusalem.

In my relationship with him, I shall act with pure intent, free of deceit or malice; for the honor of the kingdom, I shall fulfill, according to law, all that a man owes his king. May God aid me. May the Holy Land aid me.”

Originally, such an oath required only the king’s emissary as witness, but at Amalric I’s insistence, Bohemond, Prince of Antioch; Raymond, Count of Tripoli; Odo de Barre, Grand Master of the Hospitalers; and Philip de Milly, Grand Master of the Templars, all stood as witnesses—so grand a spectacle that many mistook it for the witnessing of a prince’s son; among them, Raymond, Count of Tripoli, wore the most sullen expression.

Immediately after the ceremony, he rushed after the king, as if to say something, but soon turned back in frustration. Seeing this, Bohemond burst into laughter and clasped his arm: “You know our friend can be stubborn,” he said, “sometimes you must yield to him—after all…” He tilted his head toward the left tower: “Rome has sent no good news.”

“That pack of swine!” Raymond cursed, then frowned impatiently: “What’s all that noise outside?!”

“A few servants who dared murder the prince’s attendants are to be hanged,” replied a squire, eagerly standing on tiptoe to peer out the window along the corridor.

Raymond gave a faint hum: “Useless trash!” He refused Bohemond’s invitation to watch the executions and walked off alone.

No sooner had he left than Bohemond’s smile vanished: “...You’re not much use either, Raymond.” He spoke softly; his attendant immediately lowered his head.

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This was the second gift Amalric I had bestowed upon Cesar.

To be honest, even though Cesar knew these men were either participants in or aware of the assassination attempt against him, he still had no appetite for watching others die; yet everyone around him—from the castle steward to the squire-officers, from the squire-officers to the knightly attendants, from the attendants to the lowest stable hands and laundresses—showed eager, impatient delight.

By noon, the square around the gallows was packed with people.

Cesar even had the privilege of watching with Prince Baldwin from the parapet of the defense tower, spared the heat, noise, and stench of the crowd; yet he felt no particular relief—this very tower was the one where Wit and others had set their trap. He wondered whether the steward had done this deliberately to distance himself from Wit, or merely to sneer at the weak.

The reversal of hunter and prey sparked wave after wave of laughter among the onlookers, especially when the victims were led out like cattle or sheep, nooses slipped over their necks, and hanged.

“If it had been you falling,” Baldwin suddenly said, “they’d laugh just as freely.”

“If I had died, would they have received the same punishment?”

“Probably not,” Baldwin said, gazing down at the crowd below. “Before you became my squire, you were merely a slave—or at best a commoner. These men, however, were chosen by my father from Jerusalem and surrounding lands after he confirmed I had leprosy.

They were either the unwanted youngest sons of nobles, or wandering knights who lost their lands, or bastards, or illegitimate heirs—I mean Wit.

His father had formally married an Issac woman, but this marriage was unrecognized under both canon law and customary law. Later, Wit’s father died on the battlefield; his mother remarried, and he survived under the care of his blood uncle. Even so, people still believed his word over that of a dead man.”

A noose was placed around one man’s neck; its end was tied to a squire’s saddle, who then cracked his whip sharply. The horse lunged forward, and the servant leapt high into the air before crashing down—his neck snapped instantly, his head lolling to one side. The crowd cheered.

“You did well, Cesar,” Baldwin said. “Don’t be too troubled—they deserved it.” When Cesar looked at him in surprise, Baldwin smiled faintly: “What’s so astonishing? Though we’ve known each other less than a week, some things are clear without deep acquaintance.”

He comforted him: “Your choice was right—neither hesitant nor reckless. Your decisiveness and acuity convinced my father to vouch for you, and only then could you truly become my squire.”

“Ah…” Baldwin suddenly said: “Look, there’s Wit.”

Wit was the last to be led to the gallows. Earlier, Cesar had thought him a cunning weasel or skunk; now he still looked like one—but not a living animal, rather its pelt. Overnight, he had shriveled into a huddled mass, yet that didn’t mean he had surrendered. Throughout the march, he screamed and shouted; even Cesar and Baldwin on the parapet could hear him.

He complained, begged, cursed, pleaded for clemency, claimed to be the count’s bastard, the duke’s bastard, the archbishop’s bastard… His cries were useless and drew mockery; the executioners grew impatient and annoyed. The noose was slipped over his neck faster than before; the squire lazily cracked his whip—the horse bolted—

Everyone assumed the farce was over. The two on the parapet had turned away—yet no cheers came. After a brief silence, the crowd erupted in even louder cries of shock.

“What was that?” Cesar asked. Unconsciously, he leaned closer to the parapet. He saw Wit’s body suddenly flare with a faint white light—the small man kicked his feet hard against the ground, his hands jammed between his neck and the noose, and with this awkward, unfavorable posture, he resisted the horse’s violent pull—the rope strained, snapped, and Wit flew forward, then fell, the light vanishing from his body.

Beside him, Baldwin showed a rare look of astonishment: “How could it choose such a man?” he exclaimed involuntarily.

——————

“How could it choose such a man?” Amalric I said.

“Who can judge on behalf of the Holy Spirit?” Heraclius shook his head. “Even those chosen in the past were not all saints, Your Majesty. It is merely a matter of divine office—insignificant.”

“I fear someone will exploit this,” Amalric I said. “He tried to kill Cesar.”

“Then we must send him to a monastery at once. All whom Raphael has chosen become monks. I will have John watch over him.”

“That is not enough,” Amalric I said. “I wish to hold Baldwin’s ‘Selection’ ceremony early.”

“But Baldwin has no one beside him now…” Heraclius was genuinely startled: “You mean to make that child Baldwin’s brother?”

“I said I would treat him as a prince of the blood,” Amalric I explained. “He remembers nothing of his past—not even his age or birthdate. But I had the monks examine his teeth and bones. He is either nine or ten—perfectly matched to enter the Holy Sepulcher with Baldwin.”

He took a deep breath. Originally, Baldwin was meant to enter the Holy Sepulcher surrounded by sons of nobles, under God’s gaze, where the chosen would become brothers of different blood, loving and honoring one another as monks in the same monastery. Now, that was impossible.

No lord’s or minister’s son would willingly become brother to a leper.

“It is September,” Heraclius waited a moment. He ought to refuse—but today they had received the reply from the Patriarch of the Holy Land: just as in Rome, the religious leader of Jerusalem refused to perform the “Absolution Ceremony” for Prince Baldwin unless Amalric I conceded, allowing the Patriarch’s influence to further penetrate Jerusalem.

“Little Baldwin’s name day is on the Feast of the Presentation (February 2). Usually, children complete the ‘Selection Ceremony’ between ten and fourteen… but advancing it by one or two months should be feasible. How would you arrange it?”

“The location will still be the Holy Sepulcher,” Amalric I accepted his friend and subordinate’s goodwill. “Though some suggested the Temple, you know—it was once a Saracen temple. I still find it inappropriate.” He rubbed his ring. “Heraclius, whom do you think will choose him?”

“It should be Michael, Your Majesty,” Heraclius said. “He will become a strong and wise knight, a perfect ruler, like you.”

“I would prefer Raphael,” Amalric I said slowly, as if already seeing it: “If he becomes a priest, he may heal himself.”

Heraclius fell silent, not reminding Amalric I that even if chosen, even if becoming a priest who could sense the Holy Spirit, one needed far greater divine favor to cure leprosy—such priests were as rare as gold in sand, and nearly all had been claimed by the Church. Otherwise, how could the Patriarch of the Holy Land and the Pope in Rome be so arrogant?

“As long as he is chosen,” he said, “the disease’s progress can be slowed. We will have more time to seek a cure for little Baldwin. Your Majesty, you are the lord of Jerusalem, guardian of the Holy Sepulcher. God will not be so cruel to you.”

“God once tested Abraham,” Amalric I murmured. “But I am no saint. I am doomed to fail this trial.” He could not do it—he could not lightly abandon his only son. Rarely, the king allowed himself to sink for a moment, then forced himself to rise again: “When you fix the date, come tell me.”

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“He was chosen,” Baldwin said upon returning to his room. “Didn’t anyone tell you in the monastery?”

“Perhaps they assumed I should know,” Cesar said. “But I truly didn’t.” He remembered: when he could not move, several familiar monks often came to see him, holding his hand, stroking his forehead. He sometimes saw light—but how could he have imagined this was something beyond worldly reason?

“Let me put it this way,” Baldwin said: “Some are chosen, Cesar.”

There are two kinds of the chosen. One is deemed chosen by Michael—the Archangel, guardian of Eden, co-ruler of Heaven, Lord of Light. Like me, they are the finest and strongest challengers, God’s appointed guardians, leaders of the Holy Light Spirit. They typically possess wisdom and strength beyond others, piety and purity, passion and trustworthiness, noble virtue, fearless courage…

“Of course, that’s just talk,” Baldwin said, making Cesar laugh. “The chosen usually become knights, and almost all are sons of knights. Perhaps a hunter’s or craftsman’s son, but rarely.” Baldwin continued: “The other kind is deemed chosen by Raphael. Do you know Raphael?”

“I know. The most merciful of the Seven Archangels. He performs all healing miracles.”

“Lord of the Second Day, Prince of the Powers, guardian of the Tree of Life in Eden,” Baldwin said. “All whom he chooses become monks. They may heal all diseases and wounds, unless God forbids it.”

Cesar immediately caught a subtle difference: “All become monks?”

“Yes,” Baldwin said. “If a man denies being chosen by Raphael, he is surely a servant of the Devil.”

“But you just said those chosen by Michael need not all become knights.”

“The Church has absorbed some of them,” Baldwin said. “Among the priests of the Templars and Hospitalers, some are chosen by Michael. They do not heal the wounded—they fight.” Here, Baldwin’s gaze darkened slightly, but he did not elaborate further.

“So Wit is one chosen by Raphael?” Cesar did not notice the faint sarcasm and doubt in his tone.

Baldwin raised a finger to his lips, ending the conversation.

(End of Chapter)