Chapter 43: Ten Thousand Years Of Indulgences
Baldwin also saw the scene in Caesar’s eyes. He thought he would be overjoyed. If contracting leprosy was being cast into hell, then being “selected” was undoubtedly a strand of spider silk dangling from heaven. He dared not harbor even a moment’s extravagant hope of recovery, but at least there was now a glimmer of hope.
But when it truly arrived, he searched again and again, yet could find not the slightest trace of excitement or joy.
Where had it gone wrong?
In any case, Caesar should be more qualified than himself.
Was it because of smashing the holy image? Or leaving the original site of the ceremony—the Temple? Or forging a holy relic?
More likely, because he insisted on staying by his side, staying by the side of a leper cursed or punished?!
Compared to Baldwin’s panic and anxiety, Caesar was far calmer. Before the ceremony, Heraclius had publicly acknowledged him as his student, his lowest starting point being a monk or priest.
Thinking back now, Heraclius’s action certainly included admiration for him, but more so to steady his mindset, after all, only he and Baldwin were present at the Choosing ceremony.
Everyone has moments of losing control, no exceptions.
Caesar was about to try soothing Baldwin, who looked completely panicked, but suddenly froze.
In Baldwin’s pair of sapphires, he saw the same light.
——————
The poet cursed inwardly. This reckless brute had completely disrupted his rhythm. But the other was a burly, rough man; when excited, his clenched fist seemed bigger than his head. He didn’t want to test how hard that thing was, so he took several deep breaths in succession before barely managing to say, “Prince Baldwin has received a blessing.”
The moment these words landed, the tavern fell instantly silent. Most people showed disappointment, and the poet felt even more displeased.
Since he could become a scholar, his father would not be some dull, lowly farmer. If tracing by bloodline and surname, their family could fully claim kinship with a master.
Even without the knight’s instructions, he wouldn’t specially mention a mere attendant. Hey, what Little Saint—only these lowly folk would hype up an Isaacite slave like that!
But now he had to say it, so he hurriedly added, “His attendant has also received a blessing.”
The man showed joy, then keenly confirmed, “Caesar? That green-eyed, black-haired child?”
“Yes, yes.”
The poet took a deep breath and shouted in his loudest voice, “They have both been selected—Prince Baldwin and his attendant, Caesar!”
He awaited the crowd’s cheers, but received only a wondrous silence, so quiet that the poet thought he had done something terrible.
Had his eyes been deceived by sprites, landing not in a human-world tavern but in hell’s trap? Were those surrounding him all devils, so upon hearing this news, instead of joy or relief, they grew angry?
Of course not.
When immense joy arrived, people too would appear at a loss, until someone accidentally knocked over a wine cup on the table. The wooden cup clattered to the ground with a bang, rolled far away gurgling, and was stopped by the threshold. Only then did the first hearty shout erupt, followed by more screams and blessings.
People stomped their feet and clapped their hands, but soon such simple actions could no longer contain their abundant emotions. They jumped onto the tables, thumping and dancing atop them.
On any other day, the tavern owner would have scolded them—these poorly made tables couldn’t withstand several people bouncing on them—but this time he too jumped onto the counter, dancing wildly amid the hanging dried meats and pots.
They were now as joyful and excited as they had been anxious and dejected at the start. Soon, some rushed out the door to spread the good news to others.
Only then did the poet heave a heavy sigh, hugging his pipa as he wearily sat back in his seat.
The tavern owner, as if waking from a dream, handed over a large cup of rich wine. The poet drained it in one gulp, pinched his ears—the crowd’s cheers had pierced them painfully. His task was done; next, he had to go to the next place.
There were over a hundred poets like him, scattered like seeds sown by the King into every corner of the Holy City.
Amalric I and Heraclius wanted this story spread across all of Ayyarasa Road—or even farther—within a single day.
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While these poets spared no effort proclaiming this new holy relic, the Patriarch hurriedly ran to the Envoy’s room. Their plot had utterly failed. Next, vengeful Amalric I would absolutely not spare him; he needed his accomplice to quickly produce a second plan.
Should he announce asceticism? The kind where he sees no one?
Or continue a hardline stance? Tell people this was God’s final opportunity for Amalric and his son—they should be more pious, more meek, more humble, rather than using the army and strength God granted them to wantonly threaten His shepherd.
But before he could kick aside the servant lying at the door, the door opened. The Patriarch’s heart sank. He rushed into the room and, sure enough, saw only emptiness. The Envoy was not there. He dashed to the bed and felt it—cold. Meaning the Envoy had likely slipped away hours ago.
Not only had he slipped away, he had taken everything valuable in the room—from gold and silver vessels to rich furs, to silk curtains… The Patriarch went mad with rage, viciously kicking the servant at the door several times.
“Are you a pig? Are you a dog? They left just like that, and you noticed nothing!”
But the servant only stared at him, as if utterly uncomprehending. He had likely drunk quite a bit—the nearby priest whispered a reminder. “Deal with this useless wretch!” the Patriarch rasped, swiftly adjusting his emotions from boiling to icy.
His gaze on the servant seemed to congeal with frost. The priest dared not disobey, hastily directing two guards to drag the unlucky fellow away.
The Patriarch decided immediately. He waved off those wanting to follow, calling only his two most trusted students, and began hurriedly packing his own luggage. The students hesitated—packing was no easy task—but the Patriarch just waved it off: “Only gold and silver, relics, and jewels.”
In other words, the smallest, heaviest, easiest-to-carry items. Leave the rest. Though it made his heart bleed, he knew once Amalric I’s fabricated holy relic spread through the entire city, he would be the second “urgent matter.” He had little time to waste.
Just then, a servant stumbled in: “Lord, someone wants to see you, Lord.”
“Who!?” The Patriarch’s voice was like a taut bowstring, sharp and trembling.
“Someone buying indulgences.”
The Patriarch’s heart plummeted from heaven to earth, then bounced back into his chest. “I’m seeing no one now.”
Normally, the servant should have obediently withdrawn, but he lingered hesitantly: “But he’s here to buy indulgences.”
“Even if he’s buying your life, tell him to get out.”
“But he wants a ten-thousand-year indulgence, at a Count’s price, Lord.”
The Patriarch’s hand paused while sorting documents.
Count Etienne had once used a five-hundred-year indulgence to absolve his sin of charging into the church and abducting the bride; Baldwin and Caesar’s destruction of the holy image was double that; when Amalric I hinted at Heraclius burning the Temple Church, he also promised Thomas a thousand-year indulgence.
A ten-thousand-year indulgence—what an astonishing number. Even the Patriarch had never seen one—a man able to produce such a vast sum at once.
An interesting point: indulgences weren’t originally priced this way.
Though prices varied by region and Bishop, take Francia’s Troyes region: murder: 8 gold coins, blasphemy: 7 gold coins, witchcraft: 7 gold coins, forging documents: 6 gold coins, adultery with another’s wife: 5 gold coins…
Lighter sins cost less; even a few coppers for the lowest wasn’t impossible.
Note, though, these were commoner prices. For nobles, lords, and kings, Bishops and the Pope would decide how many zeros to add.
But after buying indulgences, then hearing priests in sermons endlessly decry worldly sins—adultery roasted five hundred years on the lake of fire, blasphemy eight hundred years, murder a thousand… and so on.
Sly folk whispered that this made them five-hundred-year, eight-hundred-year, thousand-year indulgences, didn’t it?
And those needing indulgences seemed to agree: better to denote by punishment time than raw coin—more elegant and fitting. Thus, this naming gradually replaced the original price tags.
A ten-thousand-year indulgence equated to killing ten men, committing adultery twenty times—oh, and marrying one’s own sister thirty times.
Normally, the Patriarch might not see someone buying indulgences at such a critical moment, but the Pope’s Envoy had absconded with a fortune, hiring the Assassin’s assassin had cost another sum, and worst, taking his current assets to Rome would halve them.
He touched the letters at his chest. In this letter, the Pope promised support: whatever the outcome—if Amalric I truly lost his son, or died himself… at minimum, crippled, he could seize Ayyarasa Road as a theocracy, and the Roman Church would back him to solidify the position.
Perhaps later the Roman Church would send a new Bishop, but for this generation, he would rule the Holy Land—a King in vestments.
But if the devil interfered and it failed, he had a fallback.
The Pope’s Envoy brought a personal letter from the Pope, offering two dioceses and a Bishop’s position. Light compared to Ayyarasa Road’s Patriarchate, but precisely because it was light, it reassured him—if even these scraps were withheld, what credibility did the Pope have?
Once in the diocese, claiming the holy office, paying bribes up and down, taxes, Church fees—none would be few. Thinking of his money box empty for a long stretch, the Patriarch’s heart twisted in pain.
“Very well, bring him in, but tell him I have a very important matter and can’t give much time—ask him to be quick.”
Before this uninvited guest entered the Patriarch’s room, the Patriarch, just in case, summoned two guards to stand by him, then sat at the desk. But no chair faced him—his disdain evident.
The guest strode in confidently, carrying a large box, clad in gleaming leather armor, silver belt, and hooded robe. He bowed respectfully, even moving to kiss the Patriarch’s ring, but was waved off: “You are still a sinner, Sir.”
“Then I’ll stand here.” The guest replied mildly, easing the Patriarch’s heart a bit. “I hear you need a ten-thousand-year indulgence.”
“Yes, I need it very much, and urgently.”
“What sin have you committed?”
“An immeasurably grave sin, but one I must commit.”
“For a woman?”
“No.”
“For property?”
“No.”
“For a title?”
“No.”
“For a grudge?”
“No.”
“How very strange. Spending so much coin—what for? Surely not to kill someone for no reason at all.”
“Not entirely without reason.”
The guest set the heavy box on the ground, opened the lid, and dazzling golden light made the Patriarch dizzy. He nearly reached out from his eyes to grab them into his bosom.
“How can I specify your crime on the indulgence if you won’t say what it is?” the Patriarch said, his tone much milder.
Indulgences aren’t, as some think, mass-produced like banknotes or slips of paper.
Like all permits or licenses, it’s a sheepskin parchment one French foot long, half a foot wide, hand-ornamented with fine patterns and saints’ images around the edges.
At the top and middle, the issuing Bishop or Pope handwrites the person’s crimes, then the exoneration—how, per God, Holy Child, and Holy Spirit, they forgive him, bid him atone; finally, how he atones, for how long, what acts clear the sin.
Bottom left: signature. Right side: seal. Only then is the indulgence valid—not dismissed by casually writing “I forgive this sinner.”
“Write this, then,” the guest said. “I go to kill a petty usurper of high office.”
The Patriarch’s eyes lit up. “Very high?”
“Very.”
The Patriarch whispered, as if fearing eavesdroppers: “A Count? A Duke? Or a Prince?” He guessed upward, biting his lip at the last word, nearly laughing.
He scrutinized the man: tall, even with hood down hiding his face in shadow, elegant and imposing. Such a one could easily reach Amalric I and kill him.
This suited the Patriarch perfectly. But ask him to sacrifice his own interests? Harder than making a dog drop fat meat from its jaws.
He promptly wrote the crime on the indulgence, forgiving it in the name of God, Holy Child, Holy Spirit—but the man must build a small chapel to atone, and practice asceticism for ten years.
Finishing with a flourish, he signed his name, twisted his ring in ink, and sealed it.
He slotted the quill, sprinkled sand on the parchment, blew it off, shook it, lifted a corner, and handed it to a guard, who passed it to the indulgence-seeker.
The man took it from the knight, read it carefully, confirmed no errors, then rolled the parchment, slipped it into a copper tube, and stowed it securely in his side money bag.
The Patriarch noted the money bag hung from the belt by sturdy iron chain, covered in chainmail-like iron rings. All the more satisfying.
He saw the man bow deeply again. He thought it a farewell—and rightly so, though it was a permanent goodbye.
Using the pose, the guest drew his side short sword and charged straight. The Patriarch’s guards met him, but what to say—the attacker was stronger, faster-reacting, braver than these mere hirelings. He feared neither injury nor death.
We all know a fearless man isn’t so easily killed.
The two guards died quickly. After a few passes, they scrambled to flee, backs turned. He stabbed one, then the second.
The Patriarch, terrified, screamed and scrambled, crawling to escape the blood-soaked room. He nearly succeeded.
But the guest kicked the open money box. Glittering round coins cascaded with a clatter, right across the Patriarch’s path. His foot hit the once-beloved little things, and he fell flat on his face.
The guest advanced calmly, pinned his back with a foot, thrust a sword into his back—then seized the Patriarch’s sparse short hair, lifted him, exposing the throat. He buried the short sword in layered fat, slicing throat and blood vessels in one stroke.
Amid the Patriarch’s hate-filled, pleading eyes and gurgling blood, the guest straightened, patted his side money bag contentedly. Inside was an indulgence absolving this grave sin.
Then he stepped over the Patriarch’s corpulent corpse, sauntered out the door. No one dared rush out to stop him.
———
“So, you be the Patriarch.” Amalric I said.
