Chapter 29: Twists And Turns In The Rescue
To onlookers, Caesar’s several decisions since arriving here—not Holy Cross Castle, Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or this Pine Forest, but the moment he opened his eyes and found himself on a dry sand slope—seemed very reckless.
But only he himself knew that no matter which decision, he had carefully considered it when making it, not acting on impulse.
At the Isaacites merchant’s place, he felt no goodwill; no, not even a qualified merchant’s cherishing of “commodity.” He seemed to have already decided he would die and had to abandon this valuable “commodity”—whether out of his own heart or others’ instructions—so even if Caesar was willing to endure this suffering and humiliation, he couldn’t live!
And his request to Heraclius to “cleanse” the Church of the Holy Sepulchre alone as his asceticism and good deeds was also after deep consideration.
There were many forms of asceticism in this era, like fasting, night-and-day prostration and prayer, self-flagellation, even years of not bathing…
But the first few ways would directly harm his body, and with the current level of medicine… wait, according to Baldwin, now there were only monks Chosen by Raphael, no doctors.
Injuries from asceticism would be refused treatment by the monks, even enraging them—in their view, this not only deceived everyone but also deceived God, utterly unforgivable.
As for the last one, not to mention if there was enough time for him to waste, Baldwin and Amalric I wouldn’t tolerate a foul-smelling person following the prince; it would be naked mockery—everyone knew lepers, excluded from society, rarely bathed or changed clothes, evoking images of ragged, filth-covered figures.
Thus, cleaning the entire massive Church of the Holy Sepulchre, though laborious, was quite safe（except for those few assassins, but Caesar wasn’t unprepared）. Plus, Caesar could familiarize himself with this utterly unfamiliar place most likely to be selected by Amalric I for the Selection Ceremony—he had to prepare, so whatever happened here, he’d have ways and opportunities to respond.
Now, telling these people he was willing to be lowered on a rope to find Count Etienne wasn’t him suddenly going mad.
Holy Cross Castle and Amalric I were a large ship sailing in this turbulent world; he was lucky to board it, but he wasn’t an important mast, sail, sturdy cabin, or rudder controlling direction—not even cargo. Once the ship was caught in a storm, he could no longer control his destiny.
Moreover, no one in this world would know he had previously attempted “rope descent” multiple times, just in that place he could never return to.
Though descending into this fissure had no headlamp, no safety rope, no receiving professionals, no descender, not even a cow tail hook, he had tried twenty-meter, thirty-meter, and forty-five-meter “rope descents,” accumulated experience, and prepared for possible dangers—far better than those attendants ignorant and only fearful of the Devil’s Maw.
After descending about seven or eight feet, estimating those above couldn’t see him, Caesar stuffed the fire steel and fire striker into his money bag, pressed his hands against the rock wall, and turned himself around.
In previous “rope descents,” he had tried hanging fully suspended, letting professionals lower him bit by bit to the ground, but those were organized and cleared passages with various safety measures, sturdy ropes, complete gear—here, he wouldn’t entrust his safety entirely to others.
His movements caused unease among the crowd above; faintly, he heard shouts asking his condition. He vigorously shook the bell; its piercing ring cut through the darkness. After three breaths, he felt his body jolt, and the rope continued lowering.
Facing the rock wall instead of empty void made Caesar feel much better. Luckily, before descending, he had agreed with the knights to lower only about a fathom at a time, allowing a steady rhythm, smoothly and uniformly climbing down the wall rather than forced jumps and falls.
His hands still wore the leather gloves given by the young attendant. He had gloves, but the tear-streaked attendant insisted on giving him this pair and even served to lace them—gloves sufficient even for a knight—considering points for knight combat and sieges, now invaluable for “rope descent.”
Wearing them, Caesar felt warm and dry; they fit snugly to his palms and knuckles, soft yet tough enough to grip freely without fear of stings or punctures from darkness’s denizens—he was sure he’d grabbed a scorpion, a nest of ground beetles, and a pile of slimy maggots.
They, plus crumbling mud and sand, fine gravel pouring like a torrent onto Caesar’s head—even with his sheepskin cloak’s hood up, he shuddered, hoping no poisonous insects crawled into his clothes.
He could touch the wall’s protrusions, pushing them aside as much as possible; he toed what he was about to touch to avoid protruding stone blocks; sometimes he grabbed winding roots for slight force—but only slight, as these roots or underground tubers were master deceivers, snapping just when you thought you could rely on them.
Caesar kept time in his mind, vigorously shaking the bell about every ten fathoms.
——————
Compared to Caesar’s steadiness and patience, those at the fissure edge grew ever more anxious and worried—especially after the count’s group’s ropes were fully used and Templar Knights’ ropes connected, “How can it be so deep?” an attendant couldn’t help saying; the monk glared fiercely at him.
Geoffrey had also been calculating rope length. While galloping across this vast earth, they’d encountered fissures or caves linking to hell, but he’d never seen such a narrow, deep crevice. As the rope lowered bit by bit, he grew increasingly despondent.
When his patron saint revealed Count Etienne’s location, how thrilled and joyful he had been—this meant bounties from two kings, promotion from the Knights Templar Grand Master; if he didn’t continue fighting Saracens, back in France, this favor could secure a position in Sancerre…
But from the lowered rope, the distance from ground to fissure exceeded ten king’s feet—almost a small chapel’s bell tower height. Even a cherub（seraph） falling from there might die; Count Etienne, a flesh-and-blood mortal, couldn’t summon his patron saint twice so quickly.
He felt chilled—not just because he’d given his sheepskin cloak to that child.
“Can you still hear the bell?” He asked the sergeant, whose hearing was exceptionally sharp. The sergeant leaned intently over the fissure edge and nodded at the Templar Knight’s question. Geoffrey then went to the rope-lowering spot; the knot was tied, and two knights, at the monk’s signal, moved the stones anchoring the rope.
Torchlight flashed; instantly, the Templar Knight’s gaze froze in horror. “Don’t lower!” he hoarse-shouted, but too late.
The rope leaped like a striking venomous snake, snapping from slack to taut, then jumping again—in shouts and struggles, a rope end rebounded from darkness to ground, lightly twitching like a lash on their hearts.
The two attendants tying ropes instinctively stepped back; one even collapsed limp.
“God, God, Jesus Christ!” the monk wailed miserably, kneeling, tremblingly pulling the rope—but what use now? He flung himself down to look, futile.
Geoffrey fiercely approached that attendant; this was no time for mercy and tolerance. Since Caesar had shown the way, they’d just continue along it!
The child was surely dead, but there were still others here?
——————
Caesar had prepared for possible fall; when weightlessness hit, his heart raced, but he reacted correctly—not clutching the rope foolishly, but lunging toward the wall.
He knew such fissures had indentations or protrusions, plus mentioned roots and vermin holes for buffering; he’d felt increasingly dense dampness, likely near the bottom.
He grabbed and kicked down, sliding, tumbling, crashing onto hard things several times—stones or roots, he didn’t know. Luckily Geoffrey gave him the thick sheepskin cloak, or he’d have at least broken ribs.
Pain surged, head dazed; amid chaos, Caesar strained to discern—he saw light, very faint, but real light!
Drivers know: in darkness, glowing spots mean water. Water couldn’t float mid-air; he curled, angled toward fall, arms shielding head and neck. He crashed into mud; water and muck greatly cushioned impact, but he lay immobile awhile.
Awakening, Caesar knew he’d won again—breathing easy, limbs intact. From his belt pouch, he took dried borage and chewed it（given by the monk）. As pain eased, he groped for the fallen torch from his belt—one broken, one intact. With fire steel and striker, he sparked unsoaked wool, then lit the torch.
His drop spot was where they estimated the count and guide rolled fighting. Caesar pondered forward or back, then listened intently—sounds from ahead. Following, after about three hundred steps, he saw the guide.
Dead guide, impaled on a sharp stone, face-up, gray-white eyes blankly staring up, body severely bent, feet nearly touching head. Though unlikely to jump, Caesar drew his short sword—this unscientific world—who knew if he’d be another Witt.
Clearly, Witt-like lucky ones were rare. Advancing a step, he immediately saw Count Etienne, this ill-fated lord—God’s trial or Satan’s jest—half-sitting, half-lying not far from the guide, wide eyes fixed on Caesar and his torch, tears streaming but refusing to look away, muttering something.
Approaching, Caesar heard the count praying haltingly: “…Virgin Mary, Virgin Mary… God and Virgin Mary, pray for us sinners now and at our hour of death… Ah, forgive, forgive, Lord, have mercy on us!”
“Lord?”
The count’s prayer stopped. When Caesar slightly moved the torch, he urgently stopped him: “No, no, no—whatever sent you, angel or devil, don’t leave me, don’t take the torch.” Pausing, he raised eyes to scrutinize Caesar: “I remember you…”
Next, the count’s action startled Caesar—he jumped up, clutching Caesar tightly: “I remember you!” he joyfully shouted. “I remember you—you’re Prince Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road’s attendant. You looked down from the bridgehead together, saw me, and I saw you!”
Compared to veil-faced Prince Baldwin, his black-haired, green-eyed attendant was far more memorable to Count Etienne.
Though fleeting, during Jaffa time, he’d overheard: “how an angel helped a nine-year-old child cleanse the entire Church of the Holy Sepulchre,” “how the child under God’s glory gave alms to a city’s poor,” “how he convinced stingy priests to open the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for three days”…
His monk even said to wholesale holy buckets and holy mops from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre monks to sell to pious good people back in France.
Only now could he confirm it wasn’t hallucination but real; hysterically shouting joy, he looked behind Caesar: “The others?”
Caesar paused, understanding Count Etienne thought he’d fallen into a shallower fissure or they’d found another entry.
He shook his head. “No, Lord,” he said: “This fissure is very deep and narrow; they can’t come down, only lowered me on rope to find you. By the way,” he unhooked the bell from his waist, shook it hard, waited, shook again, then a third time.
Not mentioning the above crowd’s ecstatic joy at the bell—nearly dancing—Caesar first led the count to his descent spot. “Oh, wait—do you have monk-given herbs?” Count Etienne asked, lifting his cloak. Caesar looked down, startled: the count’s entire right leg was twisted; nearing the torch, he saw deep black traces were all blood.
Count Etienne had jumped earlier—these knights’ physiques and pain tolerance were impressive.
Caesar gave him borage; chewing, he affirmed: “This is Annoncia’s handiwork.” He had many questions—like how Prince Baldwin’s attendant reached here with Templar Knights—but priority was returning above, not lingering in this hell-like place.
Borage dulled some pain; the count tried moving his leg. “No good—I can endure pain, but it’s useless.” Looking at Caesar: “Far to your drop spot?”
Caesar thought: “Sit here first; I’ll check.” He took borage, bit some, gave the pouch to the count, lit the broken torch, stuck it in nearby mud.
Back at drop, he saw a rope swaying. Waving his torch—not sure if visible above—he shook the bell three times. The rope jerked violently; gripping it, testing tension, response came from another direction.
Caesar sighed relief, paced nearby, found the broken rope, tied it to the new one, tugged while looking up. Above might not understand until three more bell shakes; they pulled it up, then lowered—now two ropes, one as safety rope.
Count Etienne leaned, watching distant torchlight shrink then grow; he sighed deeply. Honestly, falling here with the guide, he thought himself dead. “Luckily anointed with holy oil” first thought, then survival priority.
He hurled the guide beneath; they hit something, rolled down—two or three more impacts, maybe more. The guy passed out (or died（) on first, helpless; Count Etienne curled, holding him shield-like, but broke his thigh on final impact.
Before seeing Caesar (causing illusion), he hadn’t hoped much from ground attendants or Templar Knights. Attendants aside, Templars might not be as virtuous and fearless as claimed. He’d seen Devil’s Maw—fallers couldn’t survive; even if not instant death, rescue hard. He was a lord, sure, but many lords died in accidents or war.
Unlike Caesar’s calm, during dark gasps, he was fear-filled, even suicidal—not wanting starvation or live gnawing by bugs and rats…
“Lord?”
He looked up, saw those green eyes.
——————
After sending up the bell, ground folk rejoiced then argued—key: Caesar tore his shirt, drew linen cloth, charred twig-scrawled “Count, Vulner（Count, injured）,” tied to original rope. Monk saw, knew count badly hurt, maybe immobile.
Templar Knights insisted lowering another: “That child is too small.” Count Etienne, a knight, too heavy for a nine-year-old; count’s attendants worried delay—wounded, monk could treat but not blood loss; too much, he’d meet God.
Finally attendants yielded, but helplessly, suspended attendants either wailed or fainted—even Count Etienne’s nephew—fear overriding kin, duty, money.
As Templars laughed angrily, attendants blushed shamed, bell rang again.
——————
Three hundred steps not far, but reaching with Count Etienne and Caesar, both sighed relief.
Caesar wouldn’t stupidly carry the count; count wouldn’t entrust to a child. Caesar’s strength supported as extra leg; they shuffled forward long time—comfort: no incidents like venomous snakes, falling stones, collapses.
“Can you stay alone below?” Count Etienne asked. “Two ropes here.”
“Other is safety rope.” Caesar pulled rope through count’s belt loops—for weapons, money bags, chainmail long socks—sturdy. Count knew how to use this “safety rope.”
Ready, Caesar shook bell hard, signaling pull up the count.
Waiting in fissure was tough, but Caesar felt no loneliness.
Count Etienne “hey-yo hey-yo”-ed—no rope descent experience, unaware self-protection, another leg broken—only knees and elbows against wall to avoid bloody battering.
Plus faint ground calls—debating pull force and angle…
Count Etienne surfaced, immediately dragged up; he urged untying, pull “good child.” Soon Caesar up—descended neat, ascended ragged.
Geoffrey stepped, embraced him as he explained: back at Holy Cross Castle, he’d have tailor make new sheepskin cloak for Templar Knights.
This sheepskin cloak unwearable—descent muddied it; rope snap, fall tore dozens rents absorbing blows; later mud marsh, blood at dead guide spot…
“You shouldn’t forget the Knights Templar’s true name like worldly folk.” Spoken, Geoffrey realized this child wasn’t Templar attendant—future Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, serving Baldwin. Regret: Knights needed such smart, brave new blood.
“Poor Knights of Christ and Solomon’s Temple.” Count’s monk approached smiling, continuing; he’d stanched blood—further beyond his healing; they’d linger on Ayyarasa Road.
Count urged checking the little brother’s wounds. Templar lifted sheepskin cloak; second layer, monk “uh”-ed softly but said nothing. Checked bones and flesh—no breaks, maybe cracks; bruises, cuts, swells scary but treatable.
Despite dangers, Caesar found trip worthwhile—saw “Chosen by Michael,” felt “Chosen by Raphael.” At Saint John’s Monastery, monks visited/treated during coma, unaware; with Baldwin, only dislocated sparring with David—not requiring saint-prayed healing.
Monk recited scripture, hands on gruesome wounds: first icy cool—not wind—then burning, odd more than painful, arching Caesar’s back. Geoffrey good-naturedly mocked: Knights Templar priest healing, he’d leap up running/jumping—earning monk glares.
Then Geoffrey explained sheepskin cloak: Knights Templar—”Poor Knights of Christ and Solomon’s Temple”—served poorest faithful. At “Council of Troyes,” papal legate（here crossing chest）, two archbishops, eleven bishops, seven abbots affirmed legality, set rules.
“That’s the ‘original rule’,” Geoffrey said. “Worldly knights love luxury/ostentation; we monks honor simplicity/equality. Each brother discards private desires/property before joining; all needs supplied by Knights. Reporting to quartermaster, he’ll reclaim this brave/loyal garb, issue new sheepskin cloak.”
Though knowing era’s emphasis on sacred/evil meanings, hearing this left Caesar… at loss.
He stood—Geoffrey disdained count’s monk, but treatment effective: not instant cure, but walking/mounting fine.
Count Etienne deemed himself honest, but truthfully romantic. Pre-departure, insisted viewing fall spot; pale dawn lit faces, fissure visible more. Peering down, marveling: “Now certain—an angel guarded me last night!”
Falling fifteen king’s feet, only thigh broken—besides flesh shield（guide）, spot had protrusions: stones, tangled vines, even half-skeletonized bear corpse—unknown how lodged—buffering several times, sparing his life.
Count Etienne long lingered at Caesar’s drop spot; monk hadn’t hidden attendants’ bad knot nearly killing the child.
From elsewhere, visible struggle marks ~three-man height from bottom, near one-and-half king’s feet. Count inhaled softly, swallowing “truly young Saint George”—he’d heard of Caesar, knew ex-Isaacite slave.
“Let’s go.” Dizzy still, hoped quick return to Ayyarasa Road—monks there heal thigh.
But before galloping through Pine Forest, met Seljuk group.
Clearly prepared, all armored—even horses. Leaders wore chainmail to mid-calf, with gauntlets, chainmail trousers, long socks—unlike rear soldiers’ leather strip/riveted armor.
Faces covered in nasal helms—not Crusader iron helmets, but full iron masks, chainmail draping necks for vitals.
One extravagantly dressed: crimson velvet jerkin over bear-skin-lined long-sleeved robe, black silk face gold/silver-thread embroidered edging, chest rampant crowned lion.
If guide alive, he’d dance excitedly; Templars rage—this was none other than Armenian Prince Mulai, once at Ayyarasa Road, swearing before crucifix/relics, becoming Knights Templar member.
Imposing, eloquent—all thought hero, but hid filthy core. In battle, retreated—Knights Templar: no surrender, only death. Grand Master/others demanded accountability; hearing, he fled to Turkic Seljuk lands.
There, Toghrul II’s hound, thief profiting by robbing/extorting pilgrims. Knights Templar swore: sight him, challenge, fight devil back to hell unrelenting.
Geoffrey swore too, but facing Mulai tricky—behind: Ayyarasa Road king’s guests, Louis VII’s Envoy to the Holy Land—involving buried scandal.
Mulai’s gaze swept him; Geoffrey’s sheepskin cloak lent to Caesar, ruined in rescue, stowed. His two sergeants/attendants wore black/brown robes, one-side red cross—less conspicuous than white.
“May Allah’s blessing be upon you.” Mulai said, voice distorted by iron mask like devil whispering.
“Jesus Christ protect!” Count’s monk spurred forward, replying loudly.
“Know not whence you come, whither go?” Mulai asked. “For Allah’s sake, may I invite you to my castle for days?”
Though “days,” all knew euphemism for kidnap/extortion—Geoffrey never imagined circling days, entire Ayyarasa Road restless from Envoy, his ups/downs, fate’s toying—ending same… captured by Mulai.
Templars briefly considered fighting, but eyed odds: Count Etienne side seven-eight, plus wounded wretch; his: hungry all-night knight, two sergeants, attendant, nine-year-old.
Foes thirty-plus, rested well yesterday, likely fed today, fully equipped…
Geoffrey worried: Count Etienne captured—imprisoned, ransom; paid, Mulai lenient—thieves need credit, or next victims distrust release post-payment.
But Templars different—hadn’t Mulai heard vows? Captured, identity known, Mulai’d tie behind horse, drag alive.
Count Etienne sigh-weary, prepared spurring—saw bay Percheron step ahead.
Mulai stared astonished at child—maybe ten, younger?—riding rare good horse for him, black mink cloak dangling palm-sized ruby gold cross.
“Who are you,” Mulai milder, “child? Never seen you—pretty, like a prince.”
“If so, not wrong,” Caesar calmly: “I’m Bohemond Grand Duke of Antioch’s only son Abigail.”
Behind, Geoffrey breathed heavily; Count Etienne eyes widened—they knew Caesar’s identity; count just saw him shed cloak, reverse-wear—realizing king/prince-only black mink.
Likely Prince Baldwin’s gift—but to avoid covetous/jealous eyes, worn inside-out: appeared fine velvet robe.
Caesar felt heavy neck—this gold cross no mere ornament, relic: allegedly Aragon King Alfonso I looted from monastery, authentic. Baldwin insisted he carry; he kept in money bag—never dreaming this use.
New Year first day, 10k+ chapter—wishing readers happy families, all well, wishes granted, careers smooth, wealth rolling, constant smiles!
