Chapter 19: The Invisible Gap
Amidst the profusion of flowers, the gemstone sparkled brilliantly.
Every time he saw Princess Sibylla, Caesar would involuntarily recite in his heart this poem from a Saracen poet.
Princess Sibylla was always surrounded by handmaids and attendants; every one of these handmaids came from noble birth, their fathers being either the king’s ministers or vassals with fiefs, which meant they had been pampered since birth, living carefree lives with delicate skin and slender fingers—and we all know that a girl in the flower of her age, as long as she is well-nourished, is hardly ever ugly.
Moreover, there were indeed a few among them who were exceptionally beautiful and lovely children.
But no matter how beautiful or gentle they were, as long as Princess Sibylla was present, no one would cast superfluous glances at them.
As the poem says, flowers are certainly beautiful, but how can they compare to the brilliance of a gemstone? Princess Sibylla’s beauty transcended the ordinary; beneath her sharply vivid and intense exterior was a matching hardness within as support—Amalric I had also said that his daughter had a stubborn and tenacious temperament like a man—she made no secret of her thirst for knowledge and power, just like her aunts.
Ordinary men would feel fear and disgust toward such a woman, but some men would feel impulses of admiration and submission toward her, or conversely—impulses like hunting a fierce beast; among the former, Abigail led, and among the latter, David was the most conspicuous example.
These two kinds of chaotic and intense emotions would terrify many noble ladies, but as far as Caesar could see, Sibylla not only showed no panic but enjoyed it; she treated these two boys and the forces they represented with caution, and from time to time stirred the situation into even greater ambiguity.
Sibylla spotted Caesar earlier than Damara or the other handmaids; her tall stature ensured that even surrounded by them, her line of sight was not obscured. She cast a glance at the young black-haired attendant, a glance like the cold gleam reflected off a knife’s edge, possessing a beauty that could make one forget the danger.
Just a glance, and she lowered her head again; the handmaids also noticed Caesar’s arrival and, laughing, pushed Damara outside.
Damara and Caesar’s ages meant they were in a phase of rapid growth and change; Caesar changed almost daily, and Damara was very different from a few months ago—one could tell at a glance that she was prepared to shed her childhood and become a woman—her body was softer, her eyes brighter, her steps lighter, the only things unchanged were her round little face and the faint blush that appeared whenever she saw Caesar.
If Princess Sibylla was a fiery, scintillating gemstone, and the other handmaids were vibrant flowers, Damara was a little bird hopping about in the flowerbed.
Soft, plump; holding it in hand, one would feel its fluffy body tremble with one’s own heartbeat.
With Princess Sibylla’s permission, Damara could speak alone with Caesar not far away, but to avoid possible gossip, Caesar stayed within the handmaids’ line of sight and stopped with Damara in front of a few myrtle bushes still dense with branches and leaves.
As a knight candidate who should be attentive, Caesar spread his long cloak over the fallen leaves of the myrtle; Damara demurely extended her foot, waiting for Caesar to remove her tiny shoes before stepping onto the cloak. Once seated, she let out a deep sigh—serving the princess was certainly a coveted honor, but no one thought serving others was easy; her mistress Princess Sibylla was not the harsh and acerbic kind, yet she tolerated no excessive laxity from others, not to mention that the handmaids continually schemed against each other, just like their fathers and brothers, vying for the favor of their superiors.
“Play the flute for me,” Damara said; she could feel eyes watching them, from the handmaids to the princess.
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“Look, what a perfect pair,” a handmaid said, gazing at them from afar.
Because of this remark, the princess’s handmaids let out a low ripple of laughter, like a breeze stirring ripples on a lake surface, though some of it carried goodwill, some malice; another handmaid then said: “That child is pretty, but not brave enough.”
Sibylla glanced at her and recognized her as the daughter of a minor family vassal to Count Raymond of Tripoli; given this relationship and her undisguised admiration for the count’s eldest son David, it was no surprise she was cold to Caesar, who had once bested her beloved.
Someone immediately contradicted her, but the handmaid quickly quibbled that she was not speaking of the prince’s new attendant’s skill on horseback, but his prowess on the bed.
In this era when average life expectancy might be only forty years, children always matured too early; poor farmers, to fend off the cold, would huddle together with livestock on a low wooden bed in winter, parents not avoiding the children in their doings—and in the earliest castles, it was not uncommon for master, children, guests, and servants to sleep together in the great hall with its hearth bed; boys and girls had long learned various skills from their first teachers.
This custom persisted to the present; noble ladies might retain some reserve under church law, but men from childhood onward had no taboos, especially in their teens when soul and body were tightly controlled by desire—it was impossible for them not to be reckless, impulsive, or crave combat and the bed. Everyone knew that whether noble ladies’ fiancés or the knights who admired them, even if they were all willing to defend her good name with blood and life, there would never lack women of all sorts by their sides.
They acted with impunity, indulging in pleasure; facing noble ladies, even if unable to go all the way, they would often hurt and injure them; some handmaids accepted it gladly as a compliment, but others deeply resented it.
The daughter of that minor family was precisely the former type; Caesar always kept a distance from Damara—when sitting together, he did not step on her feet, kiss her lips, hold her hand, or seek chances to lift her while dancing—these behaviors, to her, meant Caesar was ashamed of his origins and dared not pursue a noble lady.
“Be quiet,” Sibylla said calmly: “Caesar is the prince’s attendant and will become my father Amalric I’s knight in the future; there is no gulf between him and Damara as you imagine.”
The princess’s words were like a cold current sweeping over the lake surface; for a moment, both laughter and mockery froze.
“It could also be that he will become a monk in the future,” a noble lady quickly interjected to ease the tension. “After all, he is so merciful and pious.”
Some handmaids nodded in agreement, but others were noncommittal—as we mentioned before, there were indeed many in the Holy City moved by Caesar’s asceticism, though they knew this asceticism caused such a stir mostly due to promotion by King Amalric I and the monk Heraclius by his side, for the sake of Prince Baldwin—otherwise, if an unknown stranger went to request sweeping the Great Hall of the Holy Sepulchre, would you see those monks beat him out?
But if you think Caesar could truly become, as those naive believers supposed, a “saint” everywhere revered just because of this asceticism and good deeds, you would be greatly mistaken; the favor and gifts he received were more like a reward, slightly above those clowns tumbling on the long table.
The reality was that cruel; when those in authority realized their piety or lack thereof did not affect worldly safety and legacy, faith became a tool used to intimidate ministers, pacify the populace, and bind the Church—if they were truly that pious, Ayyarasa Road should now be the Holy City of the Patriarch or the Pope of Rome, not Amalric I’s Holy City.
“Being a monk is not a bad thing either,” a handmaid giggled: “Sometimes monks are more ‘convenient.'”
Sibylla felt annoyed; most around her were such shortsighted folk; perhaps one or two noble ladies had received more education under their fathers’ and brothers’ tolerance, but their thoughts extended no further than their own families and their future husbands’ families; they could not see the surging undercurrents or hear the howling gales.
Amalric I did it out of love for her brother Baldwin, Heraclius out of compassion, Baldwin was too weak to abandon this sliver of tender affection, but Sibylla saw clearly: because this black-haired, blue-eyed boy—
was the same kind of person as her.
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Damara drew a large handkerchief from her wide sleeves that nearly reached her knees and tied it around the black-haired boy’s wrist: “This is from my uncle to you.” Then she shut her mouth and said no more.
As with the relationship between Caesar and Damara, exchanging gifts was not overstepping; Caesar, carrying that silk handkerchief embroidered with gold and silver thread, walked through half the castle, and everyone who saw it could not help teasing him a few words. Damara was not the most alluring handmaid by the princess’s side, she was young and did not yet understand the mysteries of love, but her surname, property, and her fathers’ and brothers’ influence ensured she would be a prize worth knights’ striving.
As soon as Caesar returned to the room, the first thing Baldwin noticed was that large handkerchief; after all, Caesar rarely dressed so flamboyantly.
“From Damara?”
Caesar was not yet a knight, but he had already knelt and sworn; Damara could accept other knights’ attentions and fealty, but he could not kneel to a second noble lady; such were the unspoken rules then—of course knights and escorts could freely seek prostitutes or maidservants for pleasure, but the latter two could not produce a large handkerchief of this quality.
The large handkerchief’s base was fine bleached cotton, possibly from Egypt, edged with lace; the embroidery used dyed wool thread and gold and silver thread. Baldwin glanced at it—Damara was young and could not control the pressure of her fingers, so the embroidery was poorly done, but she had filled the handkerchief with flowers full of sincerity, to the point where unfolding it made one’s head spin…
“This is a sincere gift,” Baldwin said, apart from not looking at it too much: “Keep it well.”
He did not notice Caesar’s momentary hesitation.
Gentlemen, sometimes we wonder how a towering, glorious edifice could collapse overnight—but at the beginning, who would notice a tiny hole bored by termites? Things in the world are no different.
Only by standing at the end of the thread of fate and tracing back can one discover that the root of all disasters might be a superfluous or missing speck of stone dust, but by then it is inevitably too late; one can only regret and lament.
Amalric I had once been displeased with this slave he had personally selected for his only son over the white wool cloak incident, even harboring murderous intent; Heraclius, out of sympathy for Prince Baldwin and pity for Caesar, had interceded; Baldwin had excessively cherished this rare genuine friendship with a peer and vouched for Caesar, pleading mercy… but none of these three had ever advised Caesar on it.
Why Amalric I and Heraclius acted thus needs no explanation; Baldwin’s reason was purer—he simply did not want his only friend to revert to a cringing slave—no, he had never seen Caesar as a slave; he saw him as a knight’s son of the same class, and mutual aid was always the knightly way.
After Baldwin went to sleep, Caesar left the room alone; he sat on the cold stone stairs, using the faint daylight from a small window to untie the large handkerchief; beneath layers of wool thread was a floor plan of the Temple Church.
Solomon’s Temple had once been the Isaacites’ highest place of sacrifice, built by King Solomon in 967 BC, destroyed twice: first in 586 BC by Babylon’s King Nebuchadnezzar II; second in AD 70 by the Roman Empire’s General Titus.
When the Saxons occupied it, they built two temples on the Temple’s foundation: the Dome of the Rock and the Al-Aqsa Mosque; after the Knights Templar were established, the then King of Ayyarasa Road granted the Al-Aqsa Mosque to the Knights, who converted part of it into a church, the rest into a knights’ armory, stables, and other facilities.
But no matter what, it was not a purely immaculate holy place. So when Amalric I selected the church for Baldwin’s Choosing ceremony, the Temple was not even in his shortlist.
Yet Caesar had to consider that if something happened to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Temple Church seemed all that was left to them.
Although there were several churches around Holy Cross Castle—St. Mary’s, the Baptistery, the Church of the Cockcrow…—these were built by saints—Baldwin would be King of Ayyarasa Road; every King of Ayyarasa Road had been chosen in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; it was powerful proof, most convincing; if he were chosen in some minor chapel, he would face endless questioning—the Temple Church was ultimately the dwelling King Solomon built on earth for God, and he too was a great king; if Baldwin invoked King Solomon, even though Solomon was not officially canonized a saint by the Church, it would not pale beside Saint George, whom Amalric I invoked.
When he made the request to Damara—in fact, to the Gerard family behind her—he frankly had not held much hope; he was still an outsider of unknown origin. Unexpectedly, the Gerard family’s response was so straightforward; but considering the Knights Hospitaller founded by the Gerard family had been in constant conflict with the Knights Templar in recent years, and had repeatedly come out on the losing end—they would make such a move was not surprising.
More likely, it was because they saw Baldwin’s trust in him.
Just now, when Baldwin was speaking to him, Caesar had nearly impulsively confessed everything; but as the saying goes, do not estrange close kin—making such preparations was tantamount to humiliating Amalric I and his Knights of the Holy Sepulchre; but he could only trust what he had seen—how had Baldwin contracted leprosy? How had the servants around him despised and humiliated him? To this day, he still could not enter any holy place—what force was obstructing?
For a silver coin, commoners would brawl and murder; what of Ayyarasa Road? It was the golden Holy City; every pious person who came here must exhaust all their property to add a ray of glory to it. For these… and perhaps faith, Baldwin’s enemies were everywhere, at all times, using every extreme means.
From a modern perspective, Caesar could see through the intentions of those devils in red robes at a glance; neither the Patriarch of Ayyarasa Road nor the Pope of Rome wanted Amalric I to have an impeccable heir—best if Baldwin died; if not, he must be stripped of inheritance rights and exiled from Ayyarasa Road.
Even though the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was now controlled by priests of the Gerard family, no one could say that among those hundreds of priests of other sects, there were not one or two audacious madmen or fanatics, and the conspiracy they were about to enact could not be averted by ordering knights to patrol day and night or by excessive torture.
