Chapter 45: Marriage
Caesar woke from the intense pain, and at the same moment he let out a scream, Longinus leaped up from his half-kneeling position. He quickly pulled closed the bed curtain that had been intentionally opened, leaped to the window, and swiftly shut it—Caesar’s room had no glass windows, only wooden shutters. Once closed, the entire room was plunged into darkness, of course, and people outside could no longer see the light shining from the window.
The window had just been shut when Caesar had only cried out once, Longinus turned and rushed back to the bedside, lifted the bed curtain, and pressed down on half of the child’s face. “Don’t make a sound!” he whispered lowly: “The King has just left!”
Fortunately, to prevent Caesar from crying out loudly upon waking, he had discussed with Heraclius and reduced the frequency of water feedings over the past two days. That previous hoarse cry had not alerted anyone else.
Once Caesar’s eyes fluttered slightly closed, he took a glass vial from his bosom and poured the potion inside into Caesar’s mouth.
By the faint light, Longinus closely observed Caesar’s expression until he could confirm that he was still in pain but his mind was clear, then he leaned down and whispered in his ear: “The saint you sensed was Saint Jerome, remember, the scholar Jerome. Heraclius said he once removed a thorn from the paw of an injured lion.”
Longinus performed the entire set of actions smoothly, as he had simulated it countless times in his mind and practiced it many times alone, just without making any sound.
Once Caesar nodded while enduring the pain, he returned to the door, using his excellent hearing to check the situation outside—many people were hurrying up the stairs, the last set of footsteps particularly light and quick. The person did not knock but only paused briefly before leaving—only then did Longinus, drenched in sweat, slump against the door in relief. This was truly a deadly task!
——————
Caesar awoke quickly. When the room suddenly darkened, he saw Longinus.
The familiar room, the people—they had left the Holy Sepulchre. He also remembered the light he saw in Baldwin’s eyes—he too had been chosen—the joy was followed by pain, but he could still recall Heraclius’s warning.
After being “chosen,” the intensity and duration of the light on the chosen one were closely related to the amount of blessing.
Like that Witt, the light he received lasted only a brief moment, barely keeping him from being hanged, but it vanished immediately after. As expected, although he received the “Chosen by Raphael,” his ability could only heal minor issues that would heal on their own without treatment.
This kind of “being chosen” was almost useless and would only invite mockery, but if it was the kind that lasted long and shone brightly, that was a matter worthy of universal praise, but one must be careful—like how Count Etienne would become weak after praying for a saint’s protection. After the first manifestation of divine grace, the chosen one would also experience varying but generally severe adverse symptoms, such as pain, fatigue, weakness… or more than one.
There had even been cases before where children too young, though granted blessings, failed to endure the subsequent trial and tragically died young—that was why people later set the “Choosing ceremony” between ages nine and fourteen, to avoid such tragedies.
If it were a harsh and foolish monk, he would strictly follow church law and prepare no pain-relieving potion for the child, but Heraclius had dared to cheat for them during the “Choosing ceremony,” and now he was even more unrestrained. His potion was indeed effective; the pain subsided somewhat, but what followed was an indescribable numbness and soreness.
Caesar wryly amused himself by thinking that if he were now a patient on an operating table, the anesthesiologist would surely leap from his stool in shock and readjust the dosage. Yes, he meant one of the most terrifying situations in surgery—”anesthesia awareness,” also known as “intraoperative awareness.”
As the name implies, it is when a patient under general anesthesia suddenly regains consciousness during surgery and can recall most details afterward.
Lucky patients can move, call out, and attract the attention of the anesthesiologist, surgeon, or nurses, suffering only brief pain and fright with no other symptoms. But some patients, though conscious, remain unable to move or speak, and can only lie there as the doctors cut open their bodies. This experience often comes with intense suffocation and helplessness—they linger with the patient for a long time; even after physical recovery, the mind may collapse.
That was exactly what Caesar was experiencing now.
To distract himself, he could only shift his thoughts elsewhere, such as what Longinus had hastily whispered in his ear earlier: what did “sensed Saint Jerome” mean? And he had specifically mentioned Heraclius—was it Heraclius who told him to say that?
Caesar did not believe Heraclius or Longinus would intentionally harm him; the former had no need, the latter still needed him. Besides, human emotions are hard to conceal—Heraclius’s fondness for him might not exceed that for Baldwin, but between Caesar and others, he would surely choose Caesar.
Longinus was even simpler: he had once been scorned as “the slave’s slave”—everyone knew he was Caesar’s servant, earning him respect from some and disdain from others. But if he betrayed Caesar, both kinds would spit on him.
Not to mention in the Holy Land—even if he returned to Brittany, his lord would strip him of his knighthood upon hearing of it. He could forget returning to his brother’s territory as a steward or overseer; being a farmer or craftsman, not homeless and destitute, would already be fortunate.
So what did Heraclius mean by having him say he sensed Saint Jerome?
Saint Jerome was not even in the initial shortlist. And moreover, wait—who did he sense? He only remembered chasing a towering figure with many human shapes made of white light. He still recalled his urgent mood at the time, with others urging him on insistently. He had almost caught up to Him…
He asked for His holy name but received no answer.
This was clearly the final step of the Choosing ceremony. Heraclius had once said that during his own “Choosing ceremony,” he did not know where he was or where to go until a monk saw him and called him over to become his student.
They lived in the mountains and forests, keeping company with beasts, making candles from beeswax, spinning thread from wool. Life was very hard, but his teacher was knowledgeable, erudite, and deeply pious. Heraclius only felt joy, not hardship.
When did he realize he was in a trial? Perhaps when the Governor’s soldiers captured them, and he and his teacher endured flogging, hooks, and starvation. Just before execution, coughing uncontrollably, his teacher placed a hand on his throat, recited scripture, and he was healed.
He immediately knelt, sobbing uncontrollably, barely able to speak, finally asking the most important question haltingly.
The saint seemed to have been waiting for this moment. He said: “I am Saint Blaise of Armenia.”
……
If those indistinct followers were not lying or exaggerating, then the saint they—and Caesar—sensed far surpassed Blaise, who could only tame beasts and heal throat ailments. Though saying so was a bit impious, Caesar now understood Heraclius’s protective affection for him.
Heraclius did not yet know whom Caesar had sensed, but evidently, his protector outshone Prince Baldwin. This was not good.
In the chaos, he heard a knock. Longinus answered; it was the King’s attendant, come to observe and inquire about Caesar’s condition. Though nominally for Prince Baldwin, who could not know the true intent?
Longinus’s response satisfied him or those behind him. After he left, Longinus fed Caesar potion every four hours. By the fifth time, Heraclius finally arrived. Seeing Caesar propped on a pillow, gazing at the morning light outside the window, he showed a relieved expression.
“How is Baldwin?” Caesar asked.
“He woke almost at the same time as you. The King saw the light bursting from the window and immediately turned back,” he glanced at Longinus, who nodded—that was the footsteps he had heard, of the King and his attendants. “Prince Baldwin received a profound and lasting blessing, but it was too sharp,” he sighed. “He suffered more than you.”
“His illness…”
“The King had priests examine him… they can only delay the progression, not cure it.”
Those priests were taken away and executed by the King’s knights. Ironically, the Patriarch had used them to threaten the King, but they were useless fools—of course, Heraclius, as the new Patriarch, signed several indulgences for it, paid with the former Patriarch’s property.
The King had even complained that if only Caesar were “Chosen by Michael” instead of “Chosen by Raphael,” since the saint wanted him to be Baldwin’s shield, why make him a knight too—Heraclius would have agreed before.
But now, Heraclius felt Caesar’s misfortunes should not be reason to sacrifice him. If before the “Choosing ceremony” he had favored Prince Baldwin, afterward, Caesar’s performance in the ceremony added several heavy weights to the other side of the scales.
Courageous, good at planning, patient, decisive, knowing how to protect himself but hesitating not at all to sacrifice when needed—such qualities, and… his origins. Heraclius had seen Caesar as a slave: such a strong, perfect boy could not be a farmer’s or craftsman’s son.
He had even sent people to find that Isaac slave merchant, hoping to investigate Caesar’s background through him, but that Isaac merchant had suddenly vanished like a drop of water into the sea, impossible to find.
But even if Caesar forgot his past, he now had status. As Amalric I said, for a monk, a student is like his own son. This child too had things to inherit—if Heraclius were an ascetic who embraced poverty and despised power, he would not be at Amalric I’s side. Now he had indeed climbed to the highest position a cleric could reach.
“Everyone favors their own child,” the monk murmured.
He asked Caesar about sensing the saint, and Caesar told the truth. Heraclius did not doubt it but pondered briefly before letting it go. “Anything can happen in this world. No matter—it’s even better this way. Just say your sensed saint is Saint Jerome.”
He reached out and touched Caesar’s head: “One thing to ask you—Brother John wants to see you. Do you want to see him?”
Caesar looked surprised. “Why not?” He smiled readily: “I miss him too.” But since arriving at Holy Cross Castle, events had been tumultuous, and once he could go out alone, he began preparing for the impending “Choosing ceremony.”
If it were someone else, they might feel a bit resentful—after all, Abbot John had said he wanted Caesar as his student, and no one, not even the King, could make him yield.
Afterward, when Caesar wanted to enter the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for asceticism and requested a map of the Temple Church, the Gerard family accommodated everything. Heraclius only learned later. The Gerard family’s Damara was the noble lady to whom Caesar had promised loyalty after becoming a knight.
Yet Heraclius did not think that way. Though his name came from a great Byzantine Emperor, his origins were not high. He was Amalric I’s monk, and Amalric I had originally been only the second son of Fulk V and Queen Melisende. Without Baldwin III’s lack of heirs, he would now be merely a subject or general.
Precisely because of such origins, he felt pity and admiration for Caesar and did not mind his having other patrons. In the unpredictable Holy City, even one slender, fragile vine to grasp was good.
Moreover, the Gerard family was not a vine but a towering tree—In 1099, Gerard, a noble from the Duchy of Burgundy, and several companions founded the “Knights Hospitaller of Ayyarasa Road” in a hospital near St. John the Baptist Monastery, protecting countless pilgrims. For this merit, he ascended to heaven, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the saints, and his family became a “holy family.” As long as the Holy Land did not fall, they had a place in the halls of power.
And compared to the Knights Templar, the Knights Hospitaller were milder and more benevolent—as pilgrims often joked, the Knights Templar take “donations to kill,” while the Knights Hospitaller take “donations to save.”
With Caesar’s personality, even without the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre as Prince Baldwin’s attendants, he probably had little choice. Heraclius would not suggest the Knights Templar.
Chubby Abbot John arrived the next day on a mule.
Abbot John’s current weight was evident from the gifts he brought for Caesar.
A large jar of clear-braised lamb with rosemary, a large jar of oil-fried marinated quail with olives, a large jar of donkey meat stewed with onions and carrots. “These are all very beneficial to the body—Gerard family secret recipes. Countless knights have eaten them with miraculous effects.” He winked proudly at Caesar, then said disdainfully: “I guess there’s not much good stuff here.”
He was right on that. Though monks fasted around 200 days a year—ordinary people about 160, but monks had special occasions, like when they or others sinned—the monastery cooks’ skills were undoubtedly inferior to the castle cooks!
Moreover, the monk cooks at St. John the Baptist Monastery were quite willing to discuss cooking with Caesar.
Then a box of honey mulberries, a box of honey dates, a box of honey figs. “Hide them away,” Abbot John added a small locked box: “Don’t be too generous, sharing with everyone. Keep the key on your belt.”
Longinus nearby coughed: “I am his servant.” Shouldn’t such things be kept by the servant?
Abbot John slanted him a glance: “You can ask your master for some.”
Then Abbot John produced three small boxes: one of frankincense, one of peppercorns, one of saffron. Now even Longinus dared not joke—this could be exchanged directly for gold or equivalent valuables.
“Take them with peace of mind,” Abbot John said when Caesar looked inquiringly. “To celebrate Prince Baldwin being ‘chosen,’ the Gerard family sent out a hundred times this much.”
“But I am just an attendant.”
“Do you know,” Abbot John replied irrelevantly: “The Gerard family has made many choices. The most famous, best-known one was my great-grandfather begging Caliph Ali Zahir of the Fatimid Dynasty to build a hospital on the Pilgrimage Road to aid all pilgrims.”
He lowered his eyes: “We’ve kept making choices since, including giving up the Grand Master position of the Knights Hospitaller. You are just one choice, Caesar. The Gerard family and Knights Hospitaller may not be as wealthy as the Knights Templar, but believe me, we are far more generous, and…”
He patted his belly: “Our ancestor was a merchant, so his children nearly all inherited one virtue: not minding temporary gains or losses.”
After entry items came upper-body ones: “You and Prince Baldwin have both been chosen, meaning you will soon be promoted to escorts. Ordinarily, escorts go to other lords’ castles, but the Prince’s status is special; he probably won’t leave Ayyarasa Road and will need to stay by his side—you need several decent sets of clothes.”
His thinking matched Count Etienne’s: “Once an escort, you can’t rely on the Prince for everything, though that’s not impossible…”
“Wait,” Longinus’s eyes widened: “What is that, a purple ribbon? With gold trim?”
“To tie on your arm or neck…” Abbot John said to Caesar.
“No, I mean,” Longinus said: “Though this is Ayyarasa Road, I know the Emperor of Byzantium has laws on purple silk and gold-trimmed fabrics—transgressors are executed for treason.”
“You can,” Abbot John sighed: “Our King, Amalric I, has arranged a marriage with Byzantine Emperor Manuel I. Next month the Princess arrives at Ayyarasa Road; they will wed before June. Many Byzantine merchants have come with much silk—it’s said Princess Maria sent three purple robes for her future husband and one purple cloak for her future stepson Prince Baldwin.”
He gazed at Caesar: “When she arrives at Ayyarasa Road, the King and Prince will surely wear purple robes and cloaks to greet her. If you accompany them, you’d best have something Byzantine on you too.”
