Chapter 38: Choosing Ceremony
The Patriarch had not yet finished speaking when the priest who had previously warned or reported the secret could not wait any longer and stepped forward. Even though everyone glared at him angrily, he showed no fear publicly—not because he had superhuman courage, but because the Patriarch stood behind him, and those he faced were just a group of sinners. Did they dare to lay hands on him?
Someone wanted to stop him but did not receive the king’s signal in time. The knight hesitated slightly, and the priest strode into the gap in the crowd, grabbing the blue-eyed boy’s arm—hey! He knew that in the Holy Land, whether residents or pilgrims, they all called him “Little Saint,” but these tricks, these foolish lowly people could not grasp them. How could priests like them not understand?
He had no fear of Caesar, nor any respect for him. He had simply discerned the superior’s intentions and wanted to seize this opportunity to embarrass Amalric I, using it as a stepping stone for advancement.
In an instant, a thousand thoughts flashed through Caesar’s mind.
He could indeed argue, explain, question—but what use would that be?! Leaving aside whether the believers would be more inclined to believe him, in the face of the Patriarch’s fury, even Amalric I could only endure the shameless insults with a face ashen with anger.
Precisely because a bishop clad in white robes and wearing a tall crown was inevitably God’s appointed representative, everything he did could be justified in God’s name. Even if he committed evil acts, secular courts could not judge him—that was God’s power.
And that priest’s malicious pointing had placed him in a dangerous situation. As long as he was dragged out—the priest was an adult, and at this time the priest had also trained alongside the knights, while no matter how clever he was, he was just a nine-year-old child—once he stood beside the Patriarch, whether willingly or not, Baldwin’s charge would be confirmed!
He also did not want to think about why Amalric I was silent at this moment; he had little time to think—Baldwin had already anxiously turned his body, wanting to push away the priest. He had even seen the priest’s mocking expression, his open mouth—perhaps in the next moment, he would shout “Sinner!”…
Caesar looked at the priest and reached one hand backward. He remembered that a Knight of the Holy Sepulchre stood behind him, but he did not know that Geoffrey had already infiltrated to within less than three feet of him. Before the Knight of the Holy Sepulchre could react, he drew a Hungarian short sword he carried and directly handed it to Caesar.
The priest only felt some resistance from his hand; he did not take it to heart. If the other did not struggle or howl, he would feel something was missing—this despicable fellow lowered his head to meet those ice-cold green eyes, licked his lips like a lizard, and the most venomous words were already at his lips—then he saw a line of white light.
He wondered who had raised a mirror, or if it was the gold foil on a holy image reflecting the sunlight… and involuntarily stumbled backward. His hands flailed wildly, but only one hand brushed past a knight’s belt.
The priest fell to the ground and then realized something. He raised his right hand and found it unusually light. Then he discovered…
His hand, his hand, was gone! His hand was gone!
The priest screamed hysterically. More than pain, it was fear. When he watched lords or kings chop off the hands and feet of thieves or tax evaders, he felt no mercy but instead commented with relish on the condemned’s wretched posture, only regretting there was not more spectacle for him to enjoy.
But when it was his turn, he cared for nothing else—crying, shouting, clutching his arm and rolling on the ground…
Amalric I hummed in satisfaction.
Baldwin’s eyes widened as he looked at Caesar, hardly daring to believe his little companion was so bold. Geoffrey pushed aside the obstructive Knight of the Holy Sepulchre, pressed Caesar’s shoulder, and said in the smallest voice, “Well done!” while casually taking back the gleaming Hungarian short sword and sheathing it.
It was true that the Knights Templar had conflicts with the king, but in preventing Ayyarasa Road from becoming a theocratic nation, their goals aligned—the Knights Templar had good relations with the Roman Church because of the distance, but if a Patriarch suddenly appeared above them, they did not believe he would remain indifferent to the Knights’ vast property.
The Patriarch was also stunned.
If even a priest could treat Caesar so lightly, as God’s sole spokesman in the Holy Land, the Patriarch had never taken this little figure to heart. Whatever this little slave did was not worth his attention.
Even with that grand act of almsgiving, yes, he had done good deeds, but so what? It was merely to amuse the nobles. Would the king or a lord buy him a holy office afterward?
Before, now, and in the future, he would still be a little attendant by a prince’s side.
But this little attendant had chopped off his priest’s hand!
Now it was the Patriarch’s turn to change color—first incredulous pallor, then furious crimson, finally dark as stagnant water. He raised his trembling finger and shouted in a similarly quivering voice: “Sinner! Sinner! A sinner to be cast into the lake of fire and burned for ten thousand years!”
Amalric I could finally laugh: “What has he done?”
“He killed a priest!” the Patriarch roared. At that moment, the priest crawled to his feet begging him to save his hand, but he kicked him away. The priest then begged other priests, babbling incoherently that the grace they received from God was greater than others’, and they could surely restore him.
But since the Patriarch said “he is dead,” these priests and monks only repeatedly made the sign of the cross over their chests, praying for God’s mercy, yet remained motionless.
The Patriarch’s shouts were heard by the people at the back of the procession—or rather, even while that priest was still struggling, the priests around the Patriarch had also issued the same stern accusations.
Geoffrey thought Caesar would panic when Amalric I did not immediately stand up to protect him and start defending himself, but unexpectedly, the blue-eyed boy simply stood calmly in place, motionless, neither acting nor speaking.
At first, the people did fall into brief anger— this was the Holy Land! Killing a priest, even buying a thousand years’ indulgences could not redeem the sin, and such a sin should not be forgiven in the first place!
They shouted, asking where the murderer was; they wanted to seize him, tear him apart, and cleanse his sins with the sinner’s blood!
But when the Patriarch’s priest pointed out the murderer, they instead fell silent, not producing the outburst of public fury the Patriarch had expected at his call. Men and women looked at each other, seemingly unable to comprehend the priest’s words, even though the priest’s finger stubbornly pointed at Caesar.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” a ragged woman said in a voice like scorched charcoal: “How could such a small child kill a priest.”
This remark was like a stone thrown into a calm lake; people immediately chattered noisily, saying things like “He is indeed a child,” or “He has done so many good deeds, we all saw it,” or “The Patriarch himself said he is a pious good person,” and some said, “Did this priest commit some sin, or was he possessed by the devil, and the Little Saint beat him with a wooden stick to drive out the devil?”
Such things had happened before; accidentally killing someone while exorcising demons…
Now, whether they had personally seen Caesar chop off the priest’s hand or not, everyone in the procession laughed heartily. The Patriarch was furious to death; he wanted to rage and roar, but as he looked up, he saw Prince Baldwin standing by Caesar’s side, still tightly holding his hand, and immediately recalled that most crucial matter.
He spat at the still moaning priest: “Don’t think that with your devilish tricks to intimidate us, we will let you in.” The Patriarch straightened his previously unknowingly hunched back: “Blood has already been shed here; it can shed a second, third, fourth person’s blood. Threaten me with your sword, and see if I will yield!”
Amalric I really wanted to test it, but unfortunately, the weight of a priest and a Patriarch were entirely different.
“We cannot stay here.” Heraclius said softly, gazing gravely at the thin line of white light in the distance: “By tradition, the one undergoing the trial should enter the church during morning prayer（dawn five to six）.” Though some had chosen the hour of terce（nine in the morning）, Baldwin’s status was special, and the Patriarch’s obstruction and accusation only made things worse; his “Selection Ceremony” must be beyond reproach.
“Besides the Church of the Holy Sepulchre…” Amalric I hesitated. Heraclius had previously discussed with him that if something unexpected happened at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre（Amalric I did not think）—which church should they designate as the alternative.
Churches and small chapels dotted the entire Holy Land like stars in the firmament, but few could compare to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
The Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem（where Jesus was born） was three miles from Ayyarasa Road; they definitely could not make it in such a short time, let alone that they could not ride horses, and the post-Mass parade was also part of the ceremony’s procedure—without it, the ceremony would hardly be recognized.
What about St. James’ Church or St. Anne’s Church? Regrettably, they were not built for God and the Holy Child; the former was for Jesus’ disciple, the latter for the Virgin Mary’s parents. Perhaps you would say there is also the “Church of the Holy Tears” built where Jesus wept, but at this time it was still just a small chapel, utterly unable to hold the ceremony.
Amalric I raised his eyes to glance at the Patriarch: “We go to the Temple Church!”
With the king’s order, the vast procession laboriously turned around on the narrow stairs and headed toward the Temple Mount, leaving behind the Patriarch at the front of the Place of Suffering, his expression shifting uncertainly. The priests and monks behind him rejoiced, thinking they had won, while only a few wondered if their master had suddenly fallen ill.
—If Prince Baldwin were “chosen” in the Temple Church, would the Patriarch’s actions today not make him a thorn in Amalric I’s side?
Moreover, if the sinner he judged received God’s blessing, would that not mean he was wrong? Such a matter could be major or minor; many coveted the position of Patriarch of Ayyarasa Road, after all.
——————
“How dare you?” On the way to the Temple Mount, Baldwin asked softly.
“Someone was about to stab me with a knife; should I slowly reason with him?” Caesar also replied softly.
“Teacher Heraclius always says you are steady, and when playing chess with me, you never take risks.”
“That’s different…” Caesar wanted to say more when he heard Teacher Heraclius’s deliberate cough from ahead. The two children immediately shut their mouths, not daring to say anything.
The Temple Church was not far from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; when they arrived, the sky was just slightly brightening. Amalric I and Heraclius breathed a sigh of relief.
The Grand Master of the Knights Templar and the Provost pushed open the heavy doors of the nave. The candles and oil lamps inside had all been lit, but from the entrance at the front of the corridor, it still looked pitch black.
Baldwin slightly closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He turned his head to look at Caesar: “We go in.”
“We go in.” Caesar was also a bit nervous, but he was never one for pointless speculation or self-torment. Just as he always thought carefully before acting, he had prepared for not being “chosen,” or being “chosen” but as “Chosen by Raphael” rather than “Chosen by Michael”—or rather, the greatest crisis of this “Choosing ceremony” might yet to come…
People watched the children enter the nave; the doors closed, and then the procession circled the Temple Church once more—everyone here would bear witness to this sacred ceremony. Priests and monks would pray through the night, and knights would silently recite scripture in their hearts, hoping God would choose a new, good ruler for the Holy Land: not cowardly, not brutal, not lustful, pious and wise, able to triumph over all the world’s evil, defending and saving every one of God’s lambs.
Some advised Amalric I not to wait here; they could understand a father’s worry for his child.
But based on past experience, during the “Selection Ceremony,” if the child knew their relatives were right outside the door, they would develop a sense of reliance and fail to fully immerse themselves in gratitude and response to the saint, leading to the ceremony’s failure…
Even though the square in front of the Temple Church was very wide— even the most skilled Turkish archer would struggle to shoot an arrow from one end to the other—Amalric I had best not stay here.
Amalric I accepted the advice, but he did not return to Holy Cross Castle. Instead, he stayed in a new building constructed by the Templar Knights on the west side of the Temple, which was very tall; from the window, he could directly see the Temple’s gate. Thus, as soon as his child came out, he would know immediately.
——————
Knight Geoffrey saw Longinus in the stables on the east side of the Temple—this chess piece that could be said to have been left here by Caesar: “What did your little master say to you?”
The sudden question startled Longinus so much he nearly jumped off the pile of crates. Seeing it was Geoffrey, he relaxed his tense expression: “It’s you.”
This stable dated back to Solomon’s time. The Templar Knights had not altered the foundation but built new walls and roof on top. No one knew if the original designer had intended it or if terrain limited it, but the stable’s layout was irregular, twisting and turning with many hidden corners not easily discovered.
Longinus had chosen one such spot. He climbed the pile of crates; from here, he could perfectly see the side of the Temple Church, while others could hardly spot him.
“I’m asking you.”
“Some things best not to happen.” Longinus said.
“Are there still people in this Holy City whom your master trusts?” Geoffrey sighed.
“That’s a large sum of money.” Longinus gestured: “If gold could float on water, this sum would let me walk all the way from Ayyarasa Road back to my hometown Brester stepping on it.” He added: “Brester is a peninsula town at the northwesternmost tip of Brittany; if Brittany is seen as an outstretched finger, it is at the tip of that finger’s fingernail.”
Geoffrey lowered his head to sketch a map, then looked up: “Do you think that thing will happen?”
“I hope not.”
“Alright, you stay here.”
“And you?”
“I have to take on the most urgent mission,” Geoffrey had already turned away, casually waving a hand: “The kind where I leave the Holy City immediately.”
