Chapter 4: Holy Cross Castle
Amalric I had always been a decisive man. Since he had decided to make Caesar his son’s attendant, he would not delay. Even though the sky had turned deep ochre, it did not stop him from immediately taking Caesar and the others back to the castle. The monks brought palm branch torches soaked in olive oil, and the knights checked each other’s horseshoes and equipment.
The one most reluctant to see Caesar go was of course John. He was not the type to easily indulge in desires, especially those forbidden by God. He liked Caesar for reasons similar to Amalric I’s. He was not without disciples, but none of them were as handsome and clever as Caesar.
Priests also needed an heir, and besides, in the Church, one’s background was not such a big issue. Jesus Christ was merely the son of a carpenter, his apostles were merely fishermen, soldiers, and tax collectors, and among the saints there were prostitutes and slaves.
He sniffled and sobbed… yes, the abbot could sometimes be this sentimental. He prepared a leather pouch for Caesar, which contained two soft white breads, thirty silver coins, a small dagger for cutting meat, a set of linen clothes, a wool cloak, and he even led out his own mule to lend to Caesar to ride. This was quite an extraordinary gift.
“No,” Amalric I said, “I will take him.”
Caesar was unsure if Amalric I meant what he thought—he was led by Heraclius to the king’s horse, a beautiful tall horse with almond-shaped eyes reflecting the purple clouds. He wondered if it still remembered him. He reached out his hand, and the horse tilted its head to sniff. “It seems to like you,” the king said, then lifted him onto the horse’s back in one motion, seating him in front of himself. This could almost be called an honor. Heraclius shook his head slightly behind them.
How many layers does the favor of the King of the Holy City have? Mountains of gold, lakes of mercury, hurling you into the clouds like a hurricane, but falling means shattering to pieces.
Amalric I’s action indeed startled Caesar, but he was not as preoccupied as Heraclius thought. The worst moment had passed, and the worst outcome was merely returning to being a slave. Besides, from Amalric I’s earlier conversation with him, this king was not the sort of stingy and vile petty man. He certainly wanted Caesar to serve a leper, but he also gave him a choice and promised exceptionally generous rewards.
“We are on Jaffa Road.” As the escorts raised their torches, Amalric I even had the interest to explain to Caesar, “Jaffa is a port on the Mediterranean coast, to the left of Ayyarasa Road. Pilgrims board ships, cross the Mediterranean, disembark at Jaffa, follow this road to the Jaffa Gate of the Holy City, and then enter Ayyarasa Road.” He gestured for Caesar to look at the roadside, where spots of firelight were slowly gathering.
“Those are pilgrims, perhaps also merchants. They have seen us. If permitted, they will follow our procession, walking through the night to arrive at their destination early.”
Caesar was not foolish enough to ask how these people could stumble along in the dim, almost nonexistent light just to gain a little time.
Though called a main road, it was still littered with thorns, gravel, depressions from rainwater, horseshoes, and wheels. After staying at the Church of Saint John the Baptist for these dozen or so days, he already knew how destitute people could be at this time. Arriving at the Holy City a little earlier for these pilgrims meant less consumption of the food they carried or bought, and a reduced chance of being plundered—which could be a lifesaver.
On both sides of Jaffa Road, rolling hills could be seen, undulating like deep black waves under the light of the sky and torches. Caesar thought of that hill… Though he knew it was not here, he still felt his nostrils filled with the thick stench of blood, a scent he probably would not forget for years, just like that slave merchant’s face.
When they arrived at the Jaffa Gate, the deep black dome no longer held any excess color. To Caesar’s surprise, the Jaffa Gate was not as completely immersed in darkness and silence as he had imagined. Bright bonfires burned outside the city gate, their flames reflecting in the rippling moat. Soldiers ran about, slowly lowering the narrow drawbridge under the command of a knight wearing only chainmail and a surcoat, without a helmet.
“Your Majesty, you should stay at the monastery for the night…” Count Raymond of Tripoli hurried toward Amalric I. Upon seeing Caesar in front of Amalric I, he paused. On all of Ayyarasa Road, perhaps only one person had the honor of that position: Prince Baldwin. Who was this child? A lord’s son?
“He is a new friend I found for Baldwin,” Amalric I said, then urged his horse forward. Raymond looked toward Heraclius behind the king. Heraclius touched his temple: “Raymond,” he said, “it’s too late. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
“But Your Majesty…”
Amalric I left his friend and the noisy voices behind, stopping only briefly in front of the Jaffa Gate wall. The gate passage was not straight but an uppercase L shape, with walls on the right side and front. Each brick and stone was about half the size of a child, and in the center one was inscribed a Latin proverb: “Wisdom, righteousness, justice, integrity.”
Turning left led to a cluster of low houses. As Amalric I and his knights passed, it was silent. Caesar guessed this must be where the poor lived—places near the city wall were always dangerous. During an enemy siege, they would be hit first by catapults, and guards would dismantle nearby houses for rolling stones in defense.
His gaze caught Amalric I’s attention, but he misunderstood: “That is the Tower of David,” he said. Only then did Caesar notice the tall tower standing like a giant beside the Jaffa Gate, almost completely lost in the darkness, with only a torch at the top, easily mistaken for a faint star near the horizon.
They then passed through another city wall. The buildings beyond were much taller than the previous houses, especially those topped with crosses—those were churches. After passing two or three such shadows, in front of an especially majestic cathedral, Amalric I made the sign of the cross on his chest: “Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the burial place of Jesus Christ, the holiest place in the Holy Land.” Caesar bowed his head slightly and made the sign of the cross as well.
The shadow cast by the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was denser than that of the Jaffa Gate or Tower of David. Beyond it, faint firelights flickered. Caesar felt the broad chest behind him tremble violently: “We have arrived, child,” the king said. “That is Holy Cross Castle. You will spend a long time here.”
After that, the king dismissed everyone with a weary wave that was more tired than cold, even Count Raymond of Tripoli who quickly caught up and the Duke of Antioch who hurried over.
Even though this was a king’s castle, its structure and layout were no different from other castles. Double city walls, twelve defense towers, an open square encircled by the walls, surrounding it the kitchen, water room, stables, forge workshop, leather workshop, and other essential facilities, two or three wells, guards’ barracks, and the three central towers.
From above, the three towers resembled a lion’s head, the central king’s tower like the lion’s gaping maw, the side towers like fangs or ears.
The king’s tower was a cylindrical building. From bottom to top: dungeon, provisions storeroom and kitchen, royal great hall, guest chambers, master’s chamber—the only difference was the chapel and armory. Normally the chapel would be between the master’s chamber and armory, but here the chapel was above the armory because it housed the “True Cross”—the cross on which Jesus Christ was crucified.
Mortal weapons cannot surpass the Savior’s sacred relic.
The right tower originally belonged to the king and his family, the left tower to his knights and vassals. After Baldwin was confirmed to have leprosy, he moved from his room to the left tower. The left tower’s vassals shifted to the right tower. The knights were still complaining about having to share rooms, while the left tower fell into emptiness. It had only one master: Prince Baldwin.
And a large group of servants.
They swarmed out of the tower. Even though the king appeared very cold, they did not—or rather, they did not notice the king’s annoyance at all. More likely, even if they did, their fervent desire to flatter and rise in status outweighed any unease.
Amalric I stopped. His attendants silently stepped forward, swinging clubs to drive away those disgusting greasy faces. Raymond opened the door for the king, his gaze full of doubt sweeping over Caesar, but he was not so foolish as to ask questions at this moment.
The king waved his hand, signaling everyone else to stay outside. Then he turned and called: “Is there someone to hold a candle for me?” His gaze remained on the servants who had run out of the tower, but they were silent. After a while, one was shoved out of the darkness. He showed a smile more like crying, bowed to Amalric I, and a knight placed a candle in his hand. The light immediately flickered urgently.
A snort burst from the crowd, then vanished. The servant holding the candle took a difficult step, then suddenly stumbled. The firelight flashed, and the candle fell from his hand.
The people around inevitably shouted. Before the shout faded, it turned to cheers—the silent boy who had been standing by the king leaned forward at the moment the candle fell and caught it. The flame flickered but did not go out. This reaction and courage were praiseworthy.
“Very well,” Amalric I said. “Then come with me, child. I will take you to see Baldwin.”
Raymond finally spoke: “Your Majesty, please do not take this dangerous action.”
“I am just going to see my son,” Amalric I said. “Or do you think the favor I received from God is insufficient to pass His trial of me?”
The Duke of Antioch Bohemond gripped Raymond’s arm. When Raymond looked at him, he imperceptibly shook his head. By this delay, the king and the boy he brought had already ascended the wooden stairs to the tower unhindered.
The tower’s first defense was an entrance about a man’s height above the ground, with no stone steps, only a retractable wooden ladder. The king gently pushed Caesar’s back, having him go first. The boy’s feet landed softly on the sturdy wooden boards, making almost no sound, while Amalric I, a tall knight in chainmail behind him, made the entire ladder shake.
Caesar raised the candle, unable to deny his curiosity about this place. In his imagination, the tower should be narrow and hollow like the lighthouses he had visited, but it was not. The spiral stairs occupied only a small space in the tower, pressed against one side. Taking up most of the space was a large hall serving multiple purposes, faintly visible with a round table, chairs, and wooden boxes. The faint light from the fireplace made the gold and silver threads in the tapestries shimmer.
The round table still held some food and wine bottles, but before Caesar could examine them closely, Amalric I was already urging him on. Like all fathers, he was single-mindedly focused on letting his child see the gift as soon as possible, completely forgetting that Baldwin might already be asleep.
Baldwin was still drying his hair—this was normally a servant’s job, but ever since the first one pushed forward began muttering curses under his breath while working…
He probably thought Baldwin, as a Christian, could not understand Bedouin, unaware that as the heir to the King of the Holy City, his progress in Greek, Latin, and Saracen was equal. Saracen derived from Bedouin; even if he did not understand it all, he grasped at least eighty or ninety percent.
He had considered punishing the insolent servant but ultimately rejected it. First, he might soon go to the monastery to become a monk, and getting used to a humble life now was not bad; second…
Baldwin smiled. He was, after all, Amalric I’s only son.
“Baldwin.” Baldwin heard his father’s voice and thought it was an illusion—these months had been like that—but soon the door opened, and a massive dark silhouette was outlined by the candlelight.
For a moment, Baldwin almost wanted to stand, jump into Amalric I’s arms. No matter how clever or strong, he was still a nine-year-old child. But he held back. He stood: “Your Majesty.” His voice inevitably trembled: “Stay there, just stay there, come no closer.”
He greedily yet painfully sniffed, listened, and watched. This would be the only comfort in his austere and long monastic life.
“I will stay here.” Amalric I knew not to press too hard. “See what I brought you?”
Without him saying, Caesar stepped forward, raised the candle to the candelabra by Baldwin’s side, and lit the candles one by one. The previously dim room brightened immediately. Baldwin, whose attention had been fully on his father, instinctively turned to look.
He saw a boy about his own age, incomparably beautiful. Even without gold or silk adornments, he shone brilliantly in the candlelight, dazzling to behold.
