Chapter 16: The Rising Of Venus
While Caesar thought he had made a mistake, Longinus asked: “Do you have five gold coins?”
“Yes, but why?”
“Because with five gold coins you can hire me.” Longinus said, then held his sword and turned around, facing the enemy that had emerged from the darkness at some point.
“You see,” Caesar said serenely: “I also want to trust God’s servant.” They were neither among the hills of the Judean Mountains nor in the filthy Jaffa port, but in the Lord’s residence and place of rest, yet the assassin could still roam freely.
This time Longinus truly burst into laughter. He fearlessly advanced toward those mercenaries with astonished looks on their faces. They shared a similar background with Longinus: down on their luck, no way home, empty pockets, able to rely only on their own martial arts. They thought Longinus would compete with them for this reward, but he had chosen another path.
“Get lost, Longinus.” The leader said. He had heard of Longinus’s name and knew he was a warrior extremely skilled in fighting and combat, unwilling to cause unnecessary trouble. “We can give you a share, as long as you walk away.”
“Come on.” Longinus said.
“Very noble, and very foolish.” The man said as he rushed forward. He was very confident; they had five people—three to deal with Longinus, two to grab that child.
At least four of these five men were too careless, Longinus judged. They might think this business did not involve human life. Though they would not understand why Longinus had suddenly changed his mind, they believed he would not take a slave seriously. This gave Longinus an opportunity. His long sword first stabbed into a man’s lower abdomen and then twisted. The unfortunate fellow howled as he knelt forward, perfectly blocking his accomplice’s steps. Though his accomplice urgently and angrily pushed him aside, he could not stop the dagger Longinus threw.
He clutched his throat and fell down.
“I told you to watch out for him!” The leader shouted furiously.
Wandering knights not accepted by the king or the brotherhood often gradually lost their courage and strength in the embrace of liquor and women, but Longinus was never among them. His sword was always honed sharp enough on bandits attempting to rob priests, and his will was too. Numerical disadvantage not only did not make him retreat, but instead ignited even more intense and vigorous fighting spirit in him.
“Grab that child!” The leader called again. His martial arts might not be inferior to Longinus’s, but as soon as he saw the smile on that dark, thin face, he instinctively wanted to dodge. He knew such thoughts were extremely deadly in combat, but you could not expect much courage from someone willing to harm a child. But as his eyes glanced only toward behind Longinus, his heart sank sharply.
The black-haired, green-eyed boy did not stand there stiffly like those noble brats they were used to seeing, waiting for them to grab him. When Longinus turned around, he threw the bucket and wooden pole to the ground, then agilely climbed up a pillar on one side. When a mercenary tried to jump up and grab him, he leaped again, throwing himself into a flag of the Kingdom of Christ on Ayyarasa Road—the ribs of the church dome had many such flags hanging, used to request protection from God for these nations and groups.
The dyed wool flag was rough and sturdy. Tied at the top to an iron ring, it posed no problem bearing a nine-year-old boy. The flag hung in mid-air, at a height and distance that were perfectly safe, but the hunters unhesitatingly unhooked the small crossbows from their belts. These crossbow bolts were exceptionally slender, almost useless against knights in armor, but for a child… As long as the child fell down, they could claim this reward.
Their leader kept Longinus occupied, but at this moment, Caesar had pulled out a whistle and blown it with all his strength.
Among the gifts attendants and servants had given Caesar, there were several whistles—of bone, horn, metal. He always carried a palm-length copper eagle whistle, the kind used to summon falcons, which could produce a very penetrating sound, otherwise unable to recall a hunting falcon that might have flown thousands of feet away.
The place they were in was precisely the corridor connecting the second and third halls. To prevent pilgrims from sneaking in to venerate relics, this corridor could be seen as a long room, with windows very high up, one side having alcoves, the other side having concealed arches. The eagle whistle’s shrill and prolonged sound was like a sharp arrow piercing Christ’s throat, rapidly reverberating in its chest.
To avoid too much interference, Caesar had chosen a time when the hall had the fewest people. Pampered nobles of course did not need to worry about early or late; diligent priests were always waiting. Those who rose after morning prayer were already considered hardworking; most only arrived belatedly after the afternoon scripture, around two or three in the afternoon—there should have been priests on guard here, either bribed or called away, but no matter how far or how focused on scripture, as long as their ears worked, they would surely hear this sound.
The mercenaries’ leader cursed irritably, “Damn beast headed for hell!” Not caring at all that he himself was the one infiltrating the Lord’s residence on earth to do evil. Longinus guessed he must have plenty of indulgences.
By the time the priests arrived, the surviving mercenaries had fled, leaving only one dead man and one about to die. A priest hurried to the man stabbed through the abdomen, held his hand, and anointed his forehead with oil（ taken directly from a nearby lamp stand）, while shouting, “Confess!” The dead man nearby was treated the same, lest this holy place be defiled by a sinful soul.
Longinus silently reached out his hand, shielding Caesar behind him, and the two retreated together into the shadows. The arriving priests either intentionally or unintentionally ignored them, until Thomas stormed in angrily with several monks. But he only glanced briefly at Caesar before focusing on accountability and getting to the bottom of it—the priests and monks divided into clearly distinct groups, or more, but it was evident that Thomas was in a standoff with another senior priest.
Someone had deliberately let in the mercenaries who wanted to disrupt this asceticism. Of course, by either canon law or customary law, they should be punished, but who would suffer loss and who would gain benefit was something even outsiders like Caesar and Longinus could see at a glance—Amalric I and Prince Baldwin were Caesar’s worldly masters, the Gerard family his guarantors before Christ. If Caesar could complete this difficult work, it would be a great thing not only for himself but for his supporters.
About a quarter of an hour later, Thomas… at least achieved a temporary victory. His opponent left sullenly with a group of priests and the dead man, and only then did he have time to care about the Gerard family’s latest investment. Upon learning that Caesar was not afraid of today’s events and did not retreat because of rumors, he clapped happily, praised God and the saints heartily, and assured Caesar that he would not be disturbed again. He would assign two sturdy brothers（ term of address between priests） to serve Caesar and ensure his vow was fulfilled smoothly.
“You go let a priest check the wounds on you too.” Back in the now silent corridor, Caesar said, while unfastening his money bag and hanging it on Longinus’s belt: “I’ll go back after I finish this.”
“Can I escort you back?” Longinus asked tentatively.
Caesar smiled: “I’m not even an escort yet,” he said. “Things outside the castle are bad, and inside it’s even worse. I don’t want to lie to you, sir. Baldwin and I haven’t grown up yet; we have no extra strength to protect others.”
Longinus weighed the money bag. “That statement isn’t entirely correct,” he curled his lips mockingly: “Human life outside isn’t as valuable as you think. The power of gold is much greater than you imagine.”
“Then haven’t you suffered a heavy loss?”
“I’m not that narrow-minded fool,” Longinus said. “Though I’m not very smart either, I know that anything involving court, church, nobles won’t be as simple as it appears.” He looked down at Caesar, squeezing the gold coins in the money bag with a crunch: “Before, I would choose to stay away from trouble, but this time probably not. As for why I’m on your side—because I don’t trust them. If those people can disregard the divine, unafraid of law and morality, how can I believe they would keep their word to a knight without a surname?”
“Unfortunately, there are far too few clear-headed people like you.” Caesar said calmly. “So, if you’re willing to wait a bit, can you help me with something?”
“Please speak.”
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This matter did not cause much of a stir.
Whether Longinus or Caesar, both remained calm and composed, without any indignation. What was most precious about them might be their self-awareness: a wandering knight, a leper’s attendant… Though Amalric I constantly reaffirmed his attitude toward Baldwin would not change, almost everyone was watching and waiting—for the upcoming Choosing ceremony.
If Baldwin was selected, all obstacles（ at least most） could be resolved effortlessly. If not, his best prospect would be to become an unnamed ascetic.
Amalric I entrusted the investigation to Heraclius, but unfortunately the final result could only fall on that ridiculous bet. Besides those two mercenaries, there was no one to pursue: first, no evidence; second, they could flatly deny committing a serious crime against the prince’s attendant—could even say they just wanted to play a joke on Caesar. In the end, this man-made accident truly caused no irreparable consequences.
As consolation, Caesar received many rewards, generous enough that if he could leave Ayyarasa Road, he could secure a small fief in some barren place. Of course, he could not.
The only consolation was that Caesar’s pious asceticism became known to more people through this evil deed. When people spoke of him now, it was no longer “that lucky slave,” but “that pious attendant.” As Heraclius had hoped, people seeing a person dressed gorgeously with dignified appearance would say “What a noble person!” Because Caesar had made such a vow and completed the heavy work, some thought that Prince Baldwin, having such an attendant, should not be a sinner punished by God.
On Caesar’s last day of work, the stairs, roads, and streets around the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were filled with people coming to visit him. There were certainly noble persons among them, but more were the ragged, gaunt poor people. For pilgrimage, they might have exhausted their life’s savings and last bit of energy, only to be refused at the holy gates for underestimating the priests’ greed.
Their only hope was to encounter a merciful lord or madam, or like now, a respectable and virtuous person, to venerate him as a saint and use him to open the gates to heaven.
The knight accompanying Caesar saw this and clicked his tongue: “Shall I call some servants to drive them away?”
“Will they tear me apart and eat me?”
Caesar was not joking, but the knight thought he was. He laughed for a while: “No,” he said: “But they are filthy and will steal your lace and ribbons.”
“If it’s just that much loss, I can bear it.” Caesar said.
When the morning star rose, Caesar had already seen those pitiful people denied entry, but those lingering outside the holy gates were not even the poorest. Crowded in the shadows, their tattered clothing showed only eyes still gleaming with longing; outstretched hands like withered branches in the Judean Mountains. They made almost no sound, perhaps lacking strength or fearing rebuke. They did not dare approach boldly until a brave mother held her son still in swaddling clothes high in both hands and crawled to Caesar’s side.
“Lord, master,” she pleaded in barely intelligible dialect: “Touch him, touch him, make him better…”
Faster than the sound was a stench assaulting them.
In this era where only nobles with severe illness might bathe daily, the poor—whether from empty pockets or church requirements—might bathe only once in their lives: at their baptism. Not to mention, their wooden basins and clothes were precious heirlooms to pass to descendants, not to be damaged in vain. So, stinking all over was inevitable.
Caesar looked down. Due to malnutrition or illness, even a baby of just a few months looked as ugly as a monkey. He reached out and touched its forehead.
The mother said a few more words, which Caesar could not quite understand. “Wait,” he said, gesturing for the mother to take a date from him. “For your child.”
He did not know if the child was sick, but he knew that at this time many poor people’s ailments came from lack of nutrition. The honeyed dates Baldwin gave him were expensive food, containing lots of sugar, and sugar meant energy. These commoners, surviving tenaciously like wild wheat straw, might live on just this bit of comfort.
Caesar could feel the knight beside him tensing up. To them, these people were worse than servants: cattle and horses when docile, beasts when raging. They might secretly blame him in their hearts for causing trouble, but Caesar knew well his touch did nothing for disease or hunger—the king in the touching ceremony still additionally gave the sick a gold coin to eat or seek treatment, let alone a mere attendant.
One date would only sweeten his mouth for a moment, but it might save this child.
The mother clutched the date tightly in her hand. “You will be blessed, saint,” she said firmly: “God will reward you. If I can, my child can, we will repay you too.”
Caesar heard the knight behind him scoff: “That’s enough. Madam.” He said. He continued forward. The disturbance the knight feared did not happen. People kept reaching out to Caesar, but as long as he touched their fingertips, they were satisfied. No one pulled, no one shouted, no one tried to steal his money bag, cross, or other small ornaments.
Longinus followed behind Caesar. He knew some mocked him as the slave’s slave, but he did not care at all. He kept a close eye on the black-haired boy and those hands reaching out to pilgrims so poor even thieves would not bother looking. Those hands swayed like grass touched by wind. If one or two acted impulsively or with ill intent, he would plunge into the crowd, trapped in that filthy, rotting flesh and rags. He might get injured, crippled, or catch the plague.
But until they stepped onto the small hill where the Holy Cross once stood, and the priests pushed open the holy gates, barring the pilgrims outside the hall, those hands did not withdraw.
