Chapter 2: The Name Caesar
Amalric I only remembered this child after about ten days.
As the guardian of the Holy Sepulchre, defending every Christian’s rights under the watchful eyes of the Saracens, the powerful and pious ruler had countless things to do every day.
He had to maintain the safety of the Holy Land; balance the power among residents near the Holy Land, pilgrims, and even heathens; ease the increasingly tense relationship between the two major Knights orders stationed on Ayyarasa Road—the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller.
He had to meet, talk, and threaten the greedy Venetians, Isaacites, and merchants to make these stingy devils open their money bags.
This money was to be used to fight Mahmud of Zangi, Saladin of the Fatimids, and Kilij Arslan II of Asia Minor, and to soften the hardline attitude of Emperor Manuel of Byzantium—his wife had unfortunately passed away six years ago, and as king, he wanted to achieve a more solid alliance with Byzantium through marriage alliance.
And his son Baldwin.
Ever since Baldwin was confirmed as a leper, Amalric I would be in a bad mood every Sunday Mass or other sacraments, not for anything else; although legally Baldwin was still his heir, in the Church, lepers could not participate in any sacraments, which meant that when the king and his family—only one daughter Sibylla—along with ministers and lords attended Mass together in the small chapel of Holy Cross Castle, Baldwin could only stay in his own room.
Amalric I had been pondering how to solve this small problem. He thought of how some monks would receive the Eucharist on behalf of immobile wounded patients, that is, bringing them broken unleavened bread and wine in a cup. If so, he could also give a holy office to a servant by Baldwin’s side and have them do this. He told this idea to Heraclius, but Heraclius showed hesitation.
“What?” Amalric I asked amiably. “Is there a problem? I should still be able to afford the money for a holy office.”
“It’s not like that,” Heraclius said cautiously. “I’ve recently heard some rumors of unknown truth…”
Amalric I listened to him and said nothing, then turned and left, but within one or two hours, he returned to the small chapel.
“I’ve seen it, Heraclius.” Amalric I said calmly, not knowing if he had already chosen graves for those bold servants—when they maltreated and disrespected the king’s son so viciously and insolently, they should have guessed this would be their end.
“Everyone has moments of negligence.” Heraclius said, without much reproach in his tone, not out of fear or apprehension; his friendship with Amalric I was not that fragile—Amalric I was ultimately a king first, then a father; he could not be inseparable from his child like a woman, especially since the greatest malice against Baldwin had been blocked by the king outside Holy Cross Castle.
Amalric I sighed lightly. “That’s not what worries me most.” He stared at Heraclius. “Since… then, Baldwin has hardly left his room. He doesn’t speak to anyone or contact them, except for Sibylla who occasionally visits him—even after such humiliation, he doesn’t want to tell me… Do you think Baldwin is too mild?”
“He has a benevolent heart,” Heraclius said. “I firmly believe he has inherited your toughness and stubbornness.”
“I hope so. Compared to leprosy, weakness and cowardice are what I fear most.” Amalric I was silent for a while. “…And that child?”
Wonderfully, although Amalric I said this, Heraclius immediately guessed who he meant. “I was at the refuge yesterday,” the priest said. “He is completely well now, restored to health, busy with work every day.”
“Do you want to go see him?”
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“Caesar!” a monk called out loudly.
“I’m here!” the black-haired boy shouted back. Ropes were stretched in front of and behind him, with snow-white linen bedsheets hanging on them—this was his impressive achievement from dawn through morning nine o’clock busy until now—noon the considerable results, wet cloth swaying lightly in the September wind, emitting the fragrance of water vapor. As he walked toward the monk, he sighed in relief that the monastery had enough olive oil and wood ash to make soap.
“It’s time to eat,” the monk said. “Let’s do prayer, then eat. There’s duck today.”
According to canon law, most Christians had to observe fasts for over a hundred days a year; during fasts, you could not eat meat from any animals, including eggs and dairy. During longer fasts like the forty-day Lent, if strictly observed, believers and monks would inevitably be starved yellow-faced, skinny, and skin-and-bones.
Thus—many things were extended into the “non-meat” category, like shellfish, waterfowl, beavers… since they swim in water, they should count as fish… so on Ayyarasa Road, duck is “fish with feathers.”
“Brother Martha, as you said, cooked the duck with sour wine, blueberries, and carrots, stewed until tender… During recitation, many were distracted by the duck’s aroma… got punished, beaten, but they weren’t angry at all…”
The monk spoke intermittently as he walked. “Brother Martha saved you the duck neck, but do you really want that? You can eat a piece of meat; after all, you haven’t been healed long.”
“I’m already well,” the boy said patiently—he hadn’t been too badly injured before; the most troublesome was a dislocated arm, and fainting and fever were all due to hunger and tension.
This body had been well nurtured before; as long as away from danger, with good rest and a few full meals, he would be a “little Samson” again.
But he couldn’t bluntly tell these kind monks: “You labor hard every day and often need to contact patients, so you need to eat more oily, flavorful things.”
Fatigue and malnutrition cause many problems, lower immunity, and make one more susceptible to infectious diseases. He could only try to persuade the monks to ensure enough rest, sufficient food, and clean water.
You might not believe it, but in this era called the Dark Ages by countless people, the “refuge” built by monks to serve Crusaders and pilgrims had scale, scope, and functions far surpassing many official residences.
This refuge belonged to the Church of Saint John the Baptist and the monastery, with forty-five rooms; epileptics and pregnant women had separate quarters; large kitchen and storeroom, water tower, mill, washing area, and Roman style public toilet; a spacious courtyard for drying clothing and bedsheets.
Here, regardless of men, women, old, young, poor, rich, noble or lowly, all could receive care and treatment from the monks—according to the saying then, saving the body while saving the soul, a valuable cultivation.
From what Caesar saw, most monks did this work with full enthusiasm; though their medical means leaned more toward comfort and consolation, many patients here who entered due to malnutrition or psychological issues did heal.
To those patients, these monks were like angels and saints.
“Wait,” a voice suddenly called. “Is that Caesar? Caesar, come here; a noble lord wants to see you!” A child wearing only a tunic and wooden shoes ran over hurriedly; he was the abbot’s attendant. The monk quickly pushed Caesar: “Go on, don’t keep the lords waiting.”
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“Caesar?” Amalric I looked at Heraclius. “He told you?”
“No,” Heraclius said. “He has no memory of the past after waking.” He looked at Abbot John, who nodded. “Possibly caused by fever; overheated blood damages the brain, a disease even the most pious prayer can’t heal—it’s August now, so we gave him this name.” He hesitated. “If you think it’s inappropriate…”
“Nothing inappropriate,” Caesar is a Frankish name, more widely known in Latin as Caesar, Emperor of Rome; the first Caesar named August after himself. “This title holds no political meaning now.”
Amalric I said mildly. “A blacksmith can be called Alexander, a farmer Henry, an attendant choosing Caesar not strange.” He paused slightly. “Or do you think that child would dishonor this name?”
“Absolutely not!” John said firmly. This wording and tone made Heraclius look at him curiously. John was not a monk ignorant of the world except for asceticism; he came from the Gerard family, whose Barns founded the Knights Hospitaller. Though the Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller is now Oger de Balbes, the Gerard family’s influence on Ayyarasa Road still holds a non-negligible place.
“I’ll show you his work.” John said, hurrying to the desk, pulling open a drawer to take out a stack of parchment. “He can count, do arithmetic, speak and write Latin, Aramaic, and Greek, and compose simple poetry.” He tilted his head. “Also play lute, paintings, and Horse Riding.”
“Exactly the education a baron’s… no, count’s son should receive,” Heraclius said. “Didn’t you say he forgot his past?”
“Perhaps this education is deeply imprinted in his blood,” Amalric I’s finger traced the indented ink traces on the parchment—ink then was mostly quite thick. “Or possibly, he has unspoken troubles.”
Granted, there are Frankish or Apennines children plundered by Saracen pirates to Ayyarasa Road, or pilgrims victimized midway, but a child so obviously finely and completely educated, nurtured, and healthy suddenly appearing at an Isaac slave merchant is highly unlikely. To raise a child to this level, the gold and silver spent would nearly equal his weight, let alone the heartblood and effort.
Amalric I had seen much worldly conspiracy and deceit, deception for gain; for inheritance rights, a son could imprison his mother, an uncle murder his nephew; a youngest son overly favored by his father, even if unable to take ancestral heritage, might under father’s support divide his brother’s interests—a brother unwilling to kill kin might directly take the younger brother out to abandon or sell.
Then they heard a gentle knock, two times, then the person behind the door respectfully waited a while, about three minutes, before another two.
At the king’s signal, John, deliberately delaying, then called: “Is that Caesar? Come in.”
Caesar first saw Abbot John standing in the room’s center, a fat man who looked very content and happy, then the man at the desk—Amalric I, King of Ayyarasa Road, protector of the Holy Sepulchre. He was not tall, but extraordinarily burly, his body width three times that of a monk attending behind him.
Or perhaps because that monk was somewhat too thin.
As the boy bowed and greeted the three noble persons, Amalric I also carefully examined this child he had saved from the Isaacites’ castration knife.
Now, to say standing before them is a slave, among a hundred people, a hundred and two would disagree, as there are stubborn ones who would shake their heads three times.
The dislocated arm was long set; wounds from hooves, dogs, and whip left only faint red marks, making his skin appear whiter—not pale, sallow, or ashen, but healthy, moist, white like boiled cream; his fingers and toes slender and tender, no thick calluses, no ugly scars; his hair black as ebony, emerald eyes bright and clear, broad smooth forehead, long limbs, upright stature.
Most rare, he lacked the impetuous rashness common in boys his age, and the cowering gloom typical of slaves; his gaze clearer and steadier than any peer.
“What were you doing earlier, Caesar?” John asked, not hiding his fondness for the child. “I see you came from the courtyard.”
“I went to help wash bedsheets.” Caesar said.
“Oh,” John glanced at Heraclius and the king. “That’s very heavy and laborious work.”
“But I did what I could.” After waking, he found this body seemed slender yet contained endless strength; even extremely tiring work like washing bedsheets—requiring constant rinsing, wringing, and hanging—he did more easily than others, and felt no fatigue after, but rather post-exercise pleasure.
“What else did you do?” John pressed, Heraclius knowing this question was for them—John was overly eager; if for that purpose, the resident priest guessed he might be disappointed.
Caesar was a bit surprised, his expression showing he didn’t think he’d done anything worth mentioning before the king: “Tending the vegetable garden, caring for patients, kneading dough in the kitchen, scraping sheepskin, mixing ink… small things.”
“Small things…” Amalric I murmured. “Perhaps someone told you you’re not of humble birth, more likely a lord’s son… You needn’t do such menial work—is someone forcing you?”
