Chapter 18: Killing Intent
“What do you think of Caesar as a child? Foolish? Or brave?”
Facing Amalric I’s seemingly casual question, Heraclius couldn’t help but feel a chill; he knew the previous… spectacle had aroused the king’s doubt.
“I know the woman holding the child was arranged by you, but afterward… did you remind him, or did he willingly do it?” Amalric I continued to ask without waiting for Heraclius’s answer.
Heraclius frowned tightly, momentarily unsure how to answer the king. Yes, to heighten the atmosphere and corroborate that Caesar’s asceticism had truly received God’s return, he had arranged a woman—such things were very common; for anyone alive or dead to add a “saint” to their name, priests would endlessly create all sorts of miracles, like holy images bleeding, weeping, or the lame standing again, the blind regaining sight—of course, there were indeed priests favored who could heal disabilities, but most were fake, fabricated.
But the massive momentum afterward was completely beyond Heraclius’s expectations.
Just as Longinus was surprised, contrary to what we thought, in this era, people of noble status didn’t even consider themselves the same beings as commoners or even more lowly slaves; priests, even humble ascetics of such sects, wouldn’t easily throw their goodwill, whether for money or for faith—they were more stingy than the Isaacites they despised.
Perhaps someone might think Caesar was just an ignorant child who didn’t know how much invisible wealth he held, but those poor, disabled, pain-ridden people would also inspire fear; their hair like thick felt, skin like thin paper, fish-flesh-like red sores oozing milky yellow and white pus, scarred skin curling like wood shavings, every friction making them fall like snowflakes, covered not so much in fabric as in a mixture of dust and mud; they stank like dead fish, their beast-like roars and whimpers, turbid eyes with almost no light—over a hundred such people, even the bravest knights would retreat.
As soon as you see them, you know these people have nothing left to lose; they don’t cherish their own lives or others’, who would dare extend a helping hand? No, they would only drag those who help them down to hell too!
At least that’s what Heraclius thought until that day.
He should have found it laughable, but he couldn’t laugh; he thought a child’s innocence would be crushed by the world’s cruelty, but no, those who heard a young saint was willing to bless anyone—those vagrants too poor to buy indulgences or cross the church threshold—flocked there, yet didn’t harm others out of urgency and anxiety.
According to the knights who followed, it was a bit crowded at first, but when they realized everyone could get what they wanted, that many people—perhaps hundreds, a thousand—suddenly fell silent, and when Caesar finished the last day’s work, even though the number had reached a terrifying amount（the knights could no longer count）, order remained intact, even with people guiding and coordinating the lines, so when Caesar donated his ornaments and robes, someone was immediately found to take charge.
“Tell me, on Ayyarasa Road now, how many are chanting his name?” Amalric I said thoughtfully: “And my son, the king’s son, Prince Baldwin, how would people describe him? A… pitiful creature… favored by an attendant?”
Now, Heraclius wasn’t just chilled but horrified.
Caesar was ultimately not of this era; he didn’t know that his actions, purely out of goodwill and sincerity, had instead aroused Amalric I’s wariness, especially as an attendant, his “charity” toward Baldwin almost placed him in a superior position—God forbid, an attendant could be stupid, dull, vile, lustful, greedy, even cruel, cowardly… but never forget his status… to pity his master.
What arrogance!
Heraclius was certain Amalric I had murderous intent; if no one changed his mind, Caesar’s fate wouldn’t be much better than Witt’s—as long as the king gave a casual signal, the boy basking in honor and praise today would silently return to our Lord in a quiet night; the informed would mock in secret, the uninformed would sincerely praise and rejoice—he hesitated a moment, finally saying: “Your Majesty,” he lowered his voice: “Whatever you intend to do, shouldn’t you ask Baldwin?”
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After leaving Amalric I’s sight, Baldwin’s first action was to take a deep breath.
Amalric I was his father and his king; he should be loyal, obedient, and follow his arrangements, but after so many events, he had changed a lot; at least he had seen how many ugly hearts hid beneath the flowers, Caesar was perhaps a bit… reckless, but his intentions were good, and Baldwin firmly believed his origins weren’t too lowly; he would become a knight in time, and accepting a knight’s gift wasn’t unacceptable for Baldwin now.
The prince even asked Amalric I not to let anyone warn Caesar; if the king’s wish hadn’t changed—he would rather have an imperfect friend than an obsequious, servile servant. “I will teach him,” he said.
In fact, Baldwin had little confidence; though their time together wasn’t long, he had noticed Caesar was stubborn in temperament—no, though he had a child’s body, he had an adult’s willpower, meaning it was hard to change his ideas or alter his behavior—like the previous asceticism; Heraclius had arranged a pitiful mother for him, but the good deeds afterward drawing hundreds and thousands of pilgrims were Caesar’s own doing.
“Baldwin.”
Baldwin turned to look; not unexpectedly, it was his sister Sibylla, the only woman in this towering castle who could directly call his given name.
Perhaps because there were no major events today, Sibylla and her handmaid wore light clothing, headscarves instead of hennins; she beckoned Baldwin with her finger, signaling him to follow.
They didn’t go far; on one side of the main tower stood an exquisite Saracen-style courtyard, boxwood, mulberry, and myrtle shading lush gooseberries and cherries; the four square flowerbeds held roses, irises, kale, and cloves respectively, beside the cross-shaped paths a bright canal murmured, but they weren’t the only things in this lovely realm worth the servants’ careful serving; nearby in the garden were miswak（a shrub for cleaning teeth）, soapwort（dyes）, alfalfa and garlic, fava beans and leeks.
Under an especially tall myrtle tree were stone benches, lush green grass beneath; Sibylla left her handmaid behind and walked to sit, her skirt spreading on the ground like a large congealed bloodstain.
“Brother,” she looked at Baldwin gently: “It seems you’ve already changed our father’s mind.”
“King Arthur had twelve knights,” Baldwin said: “For purity, none surpass Galahad; for bravery, none match Gareth; for handsomeness, Gawain is unmatched—can you say King Arthur’s glory dimmed even a fraction because of them?”
“You’re right,” Sibylla nodded: “But the one by your side, Caesar…” She narrowed her eyes slightly, plucked the fullest-blooming rosemary—dark green fine leaves clustering pale purple flowers, each complete and fresh, delightful to see: “How old is he?” Without waiting for Baldwin’s answer: “Nine, Baldwin, you’re also nine, but even in swaddling clothes you were destined to be king of the Holy Land; when you were toddling, ministers bowed to you, generals knelt; your friends and companions are all of noble birth, your teachers, every one, lords or bishops.”
The princess extended her hands, slowly gathering the rosemary in her palm: “But him? Not saying whether he truly lost his memory, every word he says, every deed, every choice… do you think David and Abigail could reach this level? Baldwin, you might, but who are you? A child of unknown origin and background nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you in mere months? Don’t you feel… fear?”
“Fear, perhaps,” Baldwin answered steadily: “But as a king, as a commander, should one fear a blade that’s too sharp?”
“Are you sure you can control him, not the other way around? Brother, you should have noticed too—he lacks respect for superiors.”
“I don’t need respect, just loyalty.”
“Without respect, where does loyalty come from?”
“And love, the love of friends and brothers.”
“Though I don’t want to say it, Baldwin, you are a leper; you’re healthy now, but as time passes, days and months turning, you’ll grow weak, confused, dull; you’ll suffer torment, you’ll change, and so will he—and then, even with high position and power, you won’t match his health and sharpness—he’ll be your knight, your attendant, your minister, perhaps even your general; he’ll know you inside out and… do as he pleases…”
“I have time, sister; I’ll watch him—if he’s as you say, I won’t hesitate.”
“People praise your benevolence, and I must echo it, but Your Highness, I lack father’s courage; I can’t leave such a dangerous person by your side without any restraints.”
“Restraints?”
“An inescapable and concealable flaw.”
Baldwin lowered his eyes; the princess’s slender but long hands—unlike the cute small hands Franks admired, Sibylla’s were pale but not plump, knuckles distinct, more like a man’s—were slowly crushing the whole rosemary, petals trembling down, broken leaves bursting with rich aroma.
“Lend him to me for a while.” He heard his sister say slowly: “He’ll have an accident.”
“What kind of accident?”
“The kind that puts destiny back on track.”
Baldwin instantly understood Sibylla’s intent; the aversion and weariness he’d suppressed before Amalric I finally surged.
In Francia or England, or the Apennines, the vile custom from Mesopotamia hadn’t entered courts due to persistently unpromising population, but on the Arabian Peninsula, surrounded by places like Byzantium, Armenia, Egypt, and Syria that prized eunuchs in inner chambers, how could Baldwin be ignorant?
But in the Christian world, especially Ayyarasa Road, a man useless in bed would be seen as waste in court and battlefield; all would be ashamed to work with him, even his enemies disdaining to fight him—let alone kneel and serve; then, even with Gawain’s handsomeness, Galahad’s piety and purity, Gareth’s valor, or King Arthur’s nobility all at once, he could only be a shadow hidden behind curtains.
Too terrible; Baldwin didn’t voice it, burying the thought deep; after all, Sibylla was his sister, her intent for his sake… she was perhaps a bit cruel, this not the smartest way, but… she was ultimately just a noble lady, not a knight or priest; he shouldn’t judge her so harshly.
“Forget that idea,” Baldwin said gently but firmly: “I’m not that cowardly yet.”
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“What’s wrong?” Caesar asked strangely: “Sauce on my face?” As he spoke, he crooked his finger to wipe his lips.
Such a crude action was elegant and graceful like a dance in his hands; Baldwin smiled: “Nothing; you know I just spoke with Sibylla; Caesar, remember Damara? For your asceticism, you’ve neglected her quite a bit—not very fitting for a future knight; sister sent me to punish you, make you go beg her forgiveness.”
“I’ll go.” Caesar keenly sensed Baldwin’s words weren’t entirely true but didn’t press: “Perhaps tomorrow.”
Only tomorrow, too; Heraclius had just confirmed with Caesar the date for the Choosing ceremony: Epiphany at New Year, January sixth—a truly subtle time, as celebrations around the Lord’s birth festival ran from December twenty-fifth to peak on January sixth—since December twenty-fifth was originally Egypt’s sun god festival, many priests and believers still dismissed it, deeming Epiphany more worthy… and the date neared Baldwin’s true birthday, perhaps blurring Amalric I’s intent to hold the Choosing ceremony early for his son.
Epiphany was not far; next they not only had to continue fasting but be even busier; neither Baldwin nor Caesar wanted to think of not being selected—before that, Caesar should indeed see Damara, or they might not meet until Lent, and such a long blank might be noticed by those with intent.
