Chapter 255: Disappointment
“No!” Heraclius cried out loudly.
He even felt a pang of regret; he shouldn’t have discussed this matter with Baldwin in the chapel.
As those people said, Baldwin was a young man. No matter whether he was afflicted with chronic illness, he could not possess the steadiness or caution that elders have. His thoughts were unusually erratic, and usually only Caesar could keep up.
To others, he was simply a young colt that didn’t know when it would kick up its heels.
Even though many people were tolerant of him because of the favor he received and that inescapable regret, even Heraclius couldn’t withstand it when he occasionally did this. The Patriarch’s heart felt as if it had been hammered, his chest tight, breathing labored.
“No,” he said again, “you cannot take the True Cross onto the battlefield.”
Even when Amalric I had gone on expedition to Egypt before, he had only taken a portion of the fragments, not the entire True Cross.
“I haven’t even said anything yet, teacher.” Baldwin asked somewhat puzzled. Looking at his innocent face, Heraclius felt even more dizzy. How could he not understand Baldwin?
Ever since he was a child, he had been a headstrong, stubborn little fellow. It was only after he contracted leprosy—after suffering such a great setback—that Baldwin became slightly more humble.
Heraclius had once hoped that the steady and reserved Caesar could change him or serve as the bridle to rein in this wild horse, but after the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, he no longer held that hope.
Caesar valued his monarch, his friend, and his brother more than anyone. He almost never contradicted Baldwin’s opinions and sometimes even egged him on, cheering him… Heraclius sadly discovered that he couldn’t even be angry at any of them.
“You can… take some fragments, and the reliquary box…” that is, the gilded jeweled large Cross, but not the True Cross. “I don’t want to curse you or speak ill omens, but what if you are defeated, or even if victorious, you lose the True Cross?”
“The True Cross will not be lost.” Baldwin said without thinking: “As long as I live, as long as Holy Cross Castle stands, as long as Ayyarasa Road and the Crusaders endure, it remains.”
Heraclius was stunned. Then his face turned from white to red, and from red to black. If Baldwin were still that nine-year-old prince, his backside would surely suffer today.
The Patriarch didn’t really want to say it, but he still had to complain that Caesar’s influence on Baldwin was too great, whether for good or bad. But Caesar could act with impunity—he was ultimately just a count, a lord whose territory originally belonged to the Byzantine Empire, whereas Baldwin was different.
In this campaign and the countless ones after, those knights coming from afar fought for God, not for him. Although in past expeditions, the King of Ayyarasa Road would also grant these distant knights gold, horses, and armor, more relied on the knights’ longing for heaven.
If it were merely a dispute over territory between Frankish lords and Saracens, they wouldn’t come from thousands of miles away. Even if they did, they would surely demand an exorbitant price. Neither Baldwin I in the past nor Baldwin IV now could bear such enormous expense.
Therefore, no matter what, the King of Ayyarasa Road must be the one most favored by God, and he should offer everything he has to God—from nation and army to himself. Such irreverent words should not come from a Guardian of the Holy Sepulchre.
Baldwin realized his oversight as soon as the words left his mouth: “I will pray through the night here, teacher.” He said quickly, “to seek God’s forgiveness for me.”
“You truly should do some asceticism.” The Patriarch said troubled—he wanted to rebuke Baldwin, who had undoubtedly committed the sin of arrogance, but seeing his face still bearing a trace of youthful innocence, he couldn’t say anything.
An eighteen-year-old youth already sat in the supreme position. Ayyarasa Road might not match Francia’s vastness and prosperity, but it was different in the hearts of all Christians. No king dared claim he would surely ascend to heaven, but the King of Ayyarasa Road certainly would. They guarded the Holy Sepulchre and pilgrims, God’s knights, saints in waiting.
If not for those conspirators doing such a vicious thing to a nine-year-old child. Baldwin should now be even more high-spirited and unrestrained. Not to mention that at fourteen, he had gone on expedition to Egypt with his father, and in the siege of Fustat, he was the first to scale the city wall, earning great merit. Then in the subsequent Battle of the Sea of Galilee, with only hundreds he pierced the Saracen camp of over ten thousand, even capturing Sultan Nur al-Din, the Crusaders’ greatest scourge.
When he heard this news, even Heraclius felt it was a miracle—if not for angels accompanying them, shooting arrows at those heathens, shielding the knights with shields, how could mere mortals achieve such resounding victory?
Not long ago, at the plea of Byzantine Emperor Manuel I, he fought against Seljuk Turk Sultan Arslan II.
This battle was true pitched combat, king against king, knight against warrior. They set the time, chose the battlefield, and fought openly. In such a battle, Baldwin still won an indisputable victory. Not to mention, afterward they had pulled Manuel I back from the abyss of death.
Although Caesar had explained to Heraclius that it was a method of rescuing the injured, particularly effective for those without obvious external wounds but collapsed from drowning, suffocation, or extreme joy or anger.
But when Heraclius pressed him on where he had acquired such knowledge, he struggled to answer. After all, it would be centuries before people could research the underlying principle.
Even pretending it came from medical skills he saw in Damascus and Aleppo wouldn’t work. Saracen research on human internal organs had only reached blood vessels and the heart for now.
“This may be another grace from Saint Jerome,” Heraclius had told him: “Just like the ointment you once made to delay Baldwin’s condition. But as before, treat it as a secret to be kept unless death is absolutely certain.”
To Caesar, Heraclius was of course like his own son, but he had equal affection for Baldwin whom he had watched grow up. Whichever saint was lavishing inestimable favor on Caesar—could he not say Baldwin was equally favored by God? Otherwise, why had Caesar come to Baldwin’s side instead of others?
Thinking of this, Heraclius could not bear to continue rebuking. He left the chapel, leaving Baldwin alone. But soon, the door to the small chapel was pushed open, and Caesar entered. Baldwin saw a bearskin blanket draped over each of his arms—the same ones they used as attendants. It was clear Caesar intended to keep vigil in prayer with him tonight.
“Did the teacher tell you? You really don’t need to accompany me. It’s because I harbored arrogance in my heart that I must punish myself and pray for God’s forgiveness.”
“God will surely forgive you,” Caesar replied naturally: “But as one of the expedition members, I also need to pray regularly.”
Then he laid the two bearskin blankets before the altar. This was the small chapel of Holy Cross Castle, not a monastery chapel. They were not punished monks—one was the King of Ayyarasa Road, the other his most valued subject. Of course, no one would come to monitor them.
Baldwin and Caesar did not believe God was the sort to arbitrarily punish people over trivialities.
In private conversations, they even marveled at those so-called methods of identifying witches, devils, and heretics—like having a mole, whether bread was leavened or unleavened, whether crossing from left shoulder to right or right to left…
Did God really care about such things?
Of course not, at least in Caesar’s words—he had read Christians’ scripture, Isaacites’ scripture, and Saracens’ scripture.
In fact, if you stripped away the excessive embellishments and self-serving interpretations, you would find that saints, prophets, or Messiah all said one thing—live well.
Isaacites sought their Messiah for salvation to end their wandering life; Christianity rose in the Roman Empire because polytheism oppressed commoners and slaves too harshly; Saracens gained their Prophet to unite tribes scattered like sand.
These strange, harsh precepts were merely to better distinguish friend from enemy.
“Sugar?”
Although they had already had dinner, hearing Baldwin would pray through the night, Caesar still brought a small bag of rock sugar.
Baldwin’s condition had always been under his and Heraclius’s supervision, but previously due to Sibylla’s matter, Baldwin’s condition had worsened—Heraclius and Caesar had spent much effort and time to barely control it.
However, all-night prayer was not very arduous work for nobles. They could not kneel through the night like sinners or ascetics, prostrating fully before the altar. They could sit in chairs or lean against pillars.
Moreover, at matins, they could end this punishment and return to their rooms to rest.
Baldwin didn’t even see it as punishment. With Caesar by his side, he could happily chat with his close friend about things he found interesting or confide his troubles.
Caesar had been in Cyprus before. Though he knew a lord with territory couldn’t stay long at Holy Cross Castle, he did feel lonely—when the priests came to open the door and enter for prayer, Baldwin was still not satisfied.
Whether from the rock sugar or God truly pitying this unfortunate youth, after this night, Baldwin was still spirited, even more excited and lively than last night.
“You should still go sleep.” Caesar advised, “You’re clear-headed now only because the most exhausting time has passed… And you have to meet some knights today.”
“And I need rest too.” With that, Baldwin could only reluctantly let him go. He had long arranged Caesar’s room just below his own.
If Caesar weren’t the heir to the County of Edessa, the ministers would surely gossip. But since he also had blood ties to the king—besides David and Abigail, among the young knights, he was indeed the closest to Baldwin.
He had the qualification.
Baldwin returned to his room. Without Caesar’s company, he finally felt a trace of fatigue.
But before sleeping, he rallied his spirits—remembering Heraclius and Caesar’s request. With the servant’s help, he washed his body, face, even hair—and changed into clean clothes.
But just as he lay down comfortably, someone came to visit.
Baldwin tried hard not to show obvious annoyance, but his attendant was already chuckling inwardly. It wasn’t that they dared scorn a guest visiting the king at this hour, but this person really made it hard to feel respect.
This person, everyone could probably guess without saying—besides Abigail, who else?
Baldwin sighed deeply: “Let him in.”
After Abigail paid his respects, he waved his hand casually, “Make it short. I just prayed to God all night for our victory yesterday and now need rest. This afternoon I may have knights to receive, and also discuss important matters with your father and the Count of Tripoli, so no beating around the bush, no metaphors, or… shyness. State your purpose directly.
After all, you are my sister’s husband.”
Humiliation appeared on Abigail’s face, but he had to speak—he had kept it from many, including his father Grand Duke of Antioch Bohemond, and Princess Sibylla—his wife. But he knew he must come. Some might mock his cowardice, but no one knew better than him.
If a man lost his life, all he gained was like castles in the air or mirages in water, counting for nothing. Hadn’t they seen Amalric I, Sultan Nur al-Din, and that unlucky Caliph Atid?
How glorious they were in life, with palaces, castles, countless soldiers and servants. But what use?
With their deaths, it all went to another.
Sibylla hoped he would earn merit and glory on the battlefield, and his father too. But why didn’t they think? Even if he achieved that, but lost his life, what good was it to him?
Even if he killed all the Saracens, it wouldn’t change that he was dead. People might mourn him, the Church might canonize him. But who could make a pile of bones crawl from the tomb to drink fine wine, eat heartily, enjoy warm and alluring bodies?
No one. He didn’t consider himself Jesus or anyone favored by Jesus Christ. He didn’t want to take the risk. The reason was that simple.
So when he heard some nobles, upon learning of the Assassins, wanted to retreat to the reserves or logistics, he had the same thought. Even Eagle’s Nest assassins wouldn’t target those held in low regard.
In fact, if he could repent, he’d rather stay in Ayyarasa Road.
Baldwin froze, staring at Abigail in disbelief. Abigail was about the same age as David, even a bit younger.
Though as children, Abigail had shown some unflattering dark traits, regardless, his education was the same as Baldwin’s and David’s. Not to mention his father had nearly rebuilt Antioch’s cathedral to ensure his selection. He was indeed selected, and the favor he received, though not deep, was far better than an ordinary person’s.
His fear of assassins and the battlefield was incomprehensible to Baldwin. Baldwin was so angry he nearly laughed. He spread his five fingers into his hair, then asked in incredulous tone, “Do you know what you’re saying, Abigail? I know you’ve been proclaiming to everyone that you will be the father of Ayyarasa Road’s new king, a regent minister, even a regent. And now you tell me you’re afraid of death, you dare not face the enemy whether Assassins or other Saracens. Don’t you understand?
Once you and Sibylla have a child—a son, and I confirm him as my heir—before he grows up to mount a horse and lead knights charging on the battlefield, there can only be one Commander of the Crusaders: you.
You must lead them in battle, lead them to victory.
Otherwise, do you think you’ll continue to have the lords’ support? Your father might, but Raymond? Berion? Those lords great and small and their knights?
By then I should be dead. To whom will you plead? Your enemies?
Even I—before glimpsing Saint George and earning merit solely mine on the battlefield—had many subjects and generals advising my father to send me to a monastery, though I was his only son then.
He might have a son with his later wife, or not. Then he should entrust Ayyarasa Road to a trusted knight, or his son-in-law, or his cousin.
This is Ayyarasa Road, not Francia.
Knights need a general, not a king.”
To say Baldwin hadn’t considered making Sibylla and Abigail’s child his heir was impossible. After all, he wasn’t sure he could live past thirty.
When Boccia was pregnant, though overjoyed, he hadn’t completely abandoned Sibylla. He even thought of bringing Sibylla’s child to Holy Cross Castle for personal upbringing.
If that child inherited their parents’—oh, wait, grandparents’ virtues, not flaws, he might not fully favor Caesar’s child. After all, this was a nation, the Holy Land, the spiritual capital of the Crusaders and all Christians.
Letting someone unable to bear this burden rule Ayyarasa Road wasn’t grace—it was murder.
Now he even began doubting himself: should he keep Sibylla and Abigail’s child on the shortlist?
Even if Sibylla and Abigail produced a child immediately, he had only a dozen years left. If later, undoubtedly five or six, even ten years would need his parents to manage all of Ayyarasa Road and the Crusaders for him.
He trusted Caesar of course, but some of Caesar’s practices clashed with Crusader laws and rules. He wasn’t sure if Caesar’s ideas would face setbacks in Ayyarasa Road, even cause disputes.
Sibylla and Abigail’s mediocrity might even be a good thing. At least with Bohemond backing them, now he was completely unsure. Bohemond was the same age as his father. As a ruler, he might last another decade or so, but as a knight, he could die on the battlefield anytime.
If Bohemond unluckily died before Abigail and Sibylla, given their current abilities and mindset, the City of Ayyarasa Road would face not disputes, but war.
