Chapter 17: The Rising Of Venus
Morning light bathed the sandy land of Skull Mountain, as if shining on a field of gold particles, when Caesar emerged from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
No one knew when it happened, but the small square in front of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the long and winding stairs, and the streets had gathered countless people. Even those at the back who could not see Caesar were reminded by the laughter and shouts, joining in the cheers together. Everyone was chanting that boy’s name, proclaiming his piety and virtue. Some even swore that just moments ago, an angel wrapped in brilliant holy light had descended into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, utterly disregarding that it was now the time for the sun to rise.
Caesar’s arrival at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was still fresh in Longinus’s memory, after all, it was only forty-five days ago. At that time, only Thomas from the Gerard family had brought him to the church out of family ties, handed him over to a wandering knight without a surname, and then ignored him afterward—even though he had profited from the mercenaries attacking Caesar, he merely sent two more monks, and that was also because he saw that the boy might still have some value…
Now he had come, standing in the small square with a beaming smile, fingering his rosary. The monks behind him held relics, a golden box; the attendants carried the incense boat. The scent of myrrh and agarwood permeated the entire square. Priests from other sects, though standing apart, could not help but smile, hoping to glean some glory from this cultivation. Beyond these black-clad and white-robed figures were the gorgeously dressed noble persons, countless silks and velvets flowing with dazzling radiance in the sunlight.
Their attendants, upon seeing Caesar emerge, rushed forward holding their masters’ rings, necklaces, and belts, the removed cloaks and outer garments, swarming to dress him layer upon layer. Caesar was already a strikingly handsome youth; thus adorned, he shone brilliantly, too dazzling to behold—people could not help but praise in unison that this was truly God’s grace, a beauty unmatched in the world!
“Hold tight to your little bucket and… mop.” Longinus strained not to let those two monks and the knights in the castle take his place, leaning close to Caesar’s ear and whispering.
Caesar paused and understood his meaning. Regardless of whether today’s situation had been fueled by Heraclius and the Gerard family, a nine-year-old child completing in forty-five nights the work that a hundred adults needed forty-five days to finish—this feat would inevitably be seen as a miracle, even if in truth it was not as superhuman as the priests proclaimed. Whether the Roman Church acknowledged it or the patriarch of Ayyarasa Road accepted it, the priests of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre would certainly record this miracle in full and proclaim it emphatically.
Then his little bucket and mop would inevitably become two relics. Not exaggerating, in an age when a saint’s bones could be divided endlessly, these alone could raise funds to build one or two churches. More likely, pious believers would offer a large sum of property for a small piece—as long as they believed an angel had helped Caesar clean the Temple.
After saying this, Longinus was pulled back. He took a deep breath, hoping the child would not get too carried away. But he had to admit, at that age, he probably could not have done it: so much praise, so much glory, so much gold!
Caesar only felt a ache in his neck and shoulders. Though Longinus had reminded him not to set down the mop and bucket, he could no longer feel the wooden pole or leather strap—his fingers bore too many rings.
At this moment, the crowd parted, and Priest Thomas approached with his head held high, holding a silver plate.
Stacked on the silver plate was a bundle of snow-white, gleaming fabric. Caesar could tell at a glance it was a precious wool cloak.
Perhaps some do not understand the process from a commoner’s offering to the Church’s relics. Simply put, a devout believer donates their life’s savings—usually money, but sometimes goods like silk, velvet, vessels, or wood; occasionally a fine piece of marble, a horse, a mule, and so on. If among the first three there are precious items, the priests place them on the altar, drape them over the image of the Virgin Mary, and they naturally become relics. No matter who comes to claim them, the Church will not return them, unless one offers several or dozens of times the price to buy back the relic.
“This is the wool cloth that once covered the Holy Sepulchre,” Thomas said proudly. Then he shook it out and draped it over Caesar, saying in a voice so affectionate it sent shivers through the body: “Caesar, my little brother, I come to celebrate you. What a great deed you have accomplished—how pious, how beautiful. Child, you are simply an angel sent to us.” He extended his hands fervently: “Are you tired? Are you weary? Quickly hand me your little bucket and mop. I will be your servant for the day, I will serve you. This is what you deserve.”
Though Longinus had given a reminder… Caesar smiled and relaxed his fingers. Thomas visibly sighed in relief.
Longinus’s reminder was indeed well-intentioned, but he knew too little of the inside story. Caesar’s transaction with Amalric I ensured that he could not leave Baldwin until Baldwin no longer needed him. So what use were gold, reputation, people’s love and respect to him? Besides, they were like castles piled on sand; once his protector withdrew the foundation, everything would instantly turn to illusion.
Better to hand these two items to Thomas, as a small return to Abbot John who had once cared for him.
Priest Thomas took the little bucket and mop, his face instantly radiant, as if an angel’s golden light truly shone upon him. He kept his promise, following behind Caesar all the way to Holy Cross Castle. The monks and attendants nearby hurriedly raised their clubs to clear a path for them, for the throng pressing forward was even greater now. Without driving away these foul-smelling poor people, they could not move an inch.
“Wait.” Caesar said, then turned to that sea of restless heads, the matted clumps of hair twisted together, the grimy faces unrecognizable, the outstretched twig-like hands, the cracked lips murmuring indistinctly, and the eyes alone that gleamed with light.
People saw this young saint take a deep breath, then turn and speak to the esteemed senior priest beside him. The priest looked troubled but finally nodded in agreement.
Caesar turned to those people: “Everyone,” he said slowly, as clearly and loudly as possible so no one would miss it: “What do you need?”
He lowered his head to meet their gaze: “Forgiveness? Or hope for a blessing? Are you hungry and need food? Or thirsty and need clean water? Have you fulfilled your vows and only wish to return home? Or do you hope to remain forever in this holy land?”
The crowd grew noisy: yes, yes, yes—this was exactly what they hoped for. There were parents with their sick children, elders dragging frail bodies, some beggared by trusting scoundrels or excessive piety with empty money bags and no livelihood. Countless pilgrims lingered in the Holy City like beggars, dying daily.
“The Church of the Holy Sepulchre will hold a grand Mass,” Caesar said, “for all believers in this city. During the Mass, pious people, you may enter the three halls to venerate and touch the relics.”
Gasps erupted, like a stone thrown into a calm lake; the news rippled outward rapidly. Caesar waited a moment to ensure it spread far enough, then continued: “My only request of you is to follow all the priests’ arrangements and remember that others share your urgency and pain. Before God and His beloved Son, do no evil or vile deeds.”
“We have noted it; countless eyes will watch them closely,” said those kneeling at the forefront. They were sturdy men, their clothing less ragged than others. Caesar had been out of the castle for over a month and knew these must be respected figures from villages, possibly with traceable blood ties to lords or officials. Their ancestors were men like Longinus, which made them shrewder and more worldly than the commoner serfs mired in mud huts.
Thus, when villagers needed a celebration, a sacrifice, or similar grand event, these men would be chosen to lead, becoming leaders of the farmers or craftsmen for that time.
Pilgrimage was undoubtedly the most important and arduous of these events. These men bore extraordinary pressure and responsibility, but the benefit was that upon returning home, the experience would make them guests of lords and bishops, securing high status in later years, with their children enjoying the graces.
“And those who are hungry, thirsty, wish to return home, or stay here forever,” Caesar said: “I entrust them to you.”
“We will do our utmost,” the other promised.
Caesar shook his head: “I believe you, but besides Jesus Christ, who can take endless bread and fish from a basket?” He removed a ring—it was gold, set with an opal the size of a finger—casting countless colors and lights in the sun: “This was given to me by pious generous donors, only because I did a small work for our Lord. Now I pass it to you, to do more work. Exchange it for bread, water, and passage fees. I seek no reward; only ask that each helped pray for these generous good people.”
Everyone present showed astonishment.
Caesar said no more, but words were unnecessary; others would spread his words and deeds. How many in the Holy City of Ayyarasa needed water, bread, and hope?
The crowd shifted, slowly clearing a path before him. The black-haired, green-eyed boy walked a few steps, then removed an ornament from himself and handed it to someone willing to act for him. When the ornaments were gone, he shed the luxurious fabrics piece by piece. By the drawbridge, the gifts costly enough to move a count had all been given to the poor.
His followers had gone from constant whispers and occasional debates to utter silence. Powerful people, the wealthy, nobles and priests, and their attendants mingled rarely with the poor. Women wept freely; men nodded sincerely. Every hand either traced a cross on the chest or clutched a rosary.
The drawbridge was down, but all halted except Caesar. A gaunt white figure stood at the black gate. Though not everyone had seen Prince Baldwin, the gloves and veil told all: this was Ayyarasa’s heir, afflicted with leprosy.
Caesar turned, took the silver plate holding the white wool cloak from a nearby attendant, and under a thousand eyes, strode toward the lord said to be punished by God.
Baldwin watched his new black-haired attendant approach lightly, set down the plate, lift the snow-white relic, and drape it over him without hesitation.
For an instant, Baldwin did not realize what happened. The soft, smooth fabric cascaded over his head like sunlight, enveloping him entirely—having draped a tall holy image, it was too large for the boy’s frame, embracing him like a mighty giant.
He was stunned, and only after a long moment did he speak.
“So warm, Caesar…”
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“It’s wool, and sun-baked so long,” Caesar said: “Of course it’s warm.”
Baldwin burst out laughing: “Caesar, my friend,” he said sincerely: “After becoming a knight, don’t be so oblivious to romance.” He removed the cloak and placed it in the chest adorned with an ivory statuette, which held his most precious items—the rosary from his sister Sibylla, the Bible, the sword from his father Amalric I.
Caesar of course knew what Baldwin meant, but from the heart, his education destined him to have no faith. To an unbeliever, so-called relics were just a wool cloak. But its meaning was vastly different for Baldwin in his dire straits. Why quibble over something useless to himself, especially when it could greatly alleviate people’s malice toward a child?
He even did not want Baldwin to feel too much gratitude or guilt over this cloak.
