Chapter 51: Worried Baldwin
Damara wanted to divine something, and even if Baldwin didn’t say it, the Countess could guess seven or eight parts of it.
Melisende was ultimately just an exception; most women of this era had no power in economy or politics. They could not don armor, mount horses, and go to battle; nor could they enter the Imperial Court to discuss state affairs. Even if they entered the Church, they could only be nuns, and the administrator of every convent for women was still the local Bishop. Women could not obtain holy orders, not even the lowest ones.
What most noble ladies expected was still a satisfactory marriage, to a young man who matched her family perfectly—young and strong, humble and courteous, both a valiant knight and a romantic poet, and preferably not too crude, especially after wine.
“What result did Damara get? Did she tell you? Or did she keep that secret?”
“The monk said her glory would continue until her life’s last moment.”
The Countess was a bit hesitant; this might be a good divination result. Even if a noble lady wore the crown, there might still be other twists.
Sometimes, for a dowry, or for territory, or for heirs, a man would unhesitatingly abandon his wife, even if they had lived together for many years, even if the children would become illegitimate sons due to the marriage’s invalidation—they wouldn’t care.
“What about Caesar then?”
Speaking of this made Baldwin want to laugh. “As I said earlier, you know, because the monk required the diviner to be alone with him in the tent, for my safety, Caesar suggested tying him up, leaving only his mouth and eyes…”
“Oh, I know,” the Countess blinked: “He wasn’t wrong.” Geomancy is a quite ancient form of divination—the diviner pokes a stick into the ground to make single or even numbers of small dots; as for how many and how to poke, it all depends on the saint’s blessing or the spirit of the earth. Of course, the monk would say it’s the former.
After poking, they interpret it; each group of different numbers and shapes of dots represents different words: “man,” “woman,” “small luck,” “big luck,” “loss”… and so on. Connecting them gives the answer the customer needs.
Heraclius’s lessons had mentioned it. Caesar saw the wooden stick again, and the monk had such bad luck. Most infuriatingly, after Baldwin left the tent, Damara immediately ran in, not even waiting to call the knights to untie the ropes for him!
“Caesar didn’t either?” The Countess was a bit surprised; Caesar wasn’t that kind of brutish child.
“He hadn’t even entered the tent,” Baldwin said, unable to hold back his laughter. “That monk was already shouting loudly, saying that even without a stick, he could divine that green-eyed little rascal’s future—he cursed Caesar that for the next year… eggs would rot, fine wine would sour, bedsheets would crawl with fleas, hair full of lice, horses would stumble when mounting, feet would twist when dancing, hands empty when returning from hunting…”
“That monk must have been quite angry.” The Countess couldn’t help but chuckle. Though people should give monks some respect, this monk was too amusing.
But Baldwin immediately said they still untied the monk and left him three silver coins as divination fee: “Though Caesar took one,” Baldwin said. “He said he could take it to St. John the Baptist’s church himself, no need to trouble the monk.”
If a monk charged a fee for something or accepted a gift, he would surely say it was to aid the poor or put into the church’s donation box—possibly, but more likely they exchanged it for beer, bread, and strips of dried meat…
“Caesar was taking revenge.” Having a bit of childlike nature was good; the Countess fell into thought, but this monk wasn’t ordinary either. He claimed to have sensed the saint Enoch—no matter, in that motley place, few would quibble with him. But he could spot Caesar’s weakness at a glance—Caesar was too fond of cleanliness.
It wasn’t that Baldwin and Damara were dirty; knights would dress neatly when attending a noblewoman. But Caesar, how to put it—he had requirements for cleanliness like a hundred strict laws engraved in his mind and body, often doing it subconsciously.
Even her husband Amalric I would wipe his mouth with his sleeve, pick his nose with his finger, spit anywhere, but as long as he remembered to change clothes, wash his fingers, not spit on others’ clothes, and wipe the spittle with his foot, people would still praise his elegant manners…
Most knights were even synonyms for slovenliness and greasiness.
People of this time didn’t value hygiene so much; they drank from the same cup, reached directly into bowls and plates to fish out meat, lifted robes to urinate anywhere, went long periods not bathing—not forbidden, just no means or no time.
Fleas in the bedding, lice in the hair—they were good friends that grew up with them, not really a curse.
And just two days ago she met Caesar for the first time, spent less than an afternoon with the two children, and she wiped her hands no less than ten times, her face three times—Caesar had even prepared many strips of linen soaked in water.
If it were anyone else, the Countess would suspect deliberate mockery of Baldwin, but Baldwin and Caesar’s familiarity, with gestures needing no thought—Baldwin extends his hand, Caesar wipes it, even between fingers; after, Caesar hands him a clean linen cloth, wipes his own face, even behind the ears.
The Countess was even a bit embarrassed; she sometimes forgot there herself.
And when she held Baldwin in her arms, though his fingers were still numb to the touch, there was no leper’s feathery smell on him, no rotten spots, and even a faint herbal fragrance.
As a mother, she was of course delighted her son was cared for so well, but she also wondered: it was said Caesar was an Isaacite slave; Amalric I said he had lost his memory, but his origins should be high. What kind of origins would let him use linen so naturally and lavishly?
But the Countess wasn’t Amalric I after all; perhaps because of a woman’s delicate mind, she could see Caesar’s care for Baldwin wasn’t superficial, with no ulterior motives. The occasional attitudes he showed—like an elder to a child—weren’t jarring either.
Amalric I viewed Baldwin from his own position as future King, so of course he’d feel Caesar overstepped. The Countess still saw Baldwin as a child; she only guessed Caesar might have had a brother or sister before, just acting from past experience.
“By the way, where’s Caesar?” the Countess asked. The two children were usually inseparable shadows.
“Caesar went to work.” Baldwin said listlessly.
The Byzantine Princess had arrived at Jaffa and would enter the city tomorrow. The King and all the dignitaries would go to greet her. Heraclius had just donned the Patriarch’s robe and plunged into the vortex of tasks with the castle steward. Even Baldwin’s lessons were suspended, as everyone usable was mobilized.
Now Amalric I was so busy he’d borrow a cat’s paws; Baldwin was given a huge stack of account books—not the attendant’s duty, but who let his lessons include mathematics? “I’ll help you.” The Countess said. As castle mistress, managing accounts was required; Baldwin beamed and hauled over a huge pile of sheepskin ledgers.
“Caesar was originally looking at the account books with me.” Baldwin said while dragging over the heavy abacus table: “He’s fast and good at it, but the Knights Templar kept calling for manpower.” He gnashed his teeth: “Anyway, that Geoffrey, ever since Caesar went out with him once, keeps finding ways to call him out. Hey, I know what he’s up to—he wants Caesar to be his attendant.”
“Geoffrey Fulk?” the Countess deliberately said: “That’s not bad.”
“Mama!”
“So is Caesar willing?”
“Of course not. He swore to me, and I to him—we’re brothers without blood. The Knights Templar keep chastity; for someone with Caesar’s looks and character, what a pity to have no heir. I…” He suddenly lowered his voice: “If you hear of any good matches, remember to tell me.”
The Countess held back a smile. Though, for Baldwin’s age, worrying about an attendant’s marriage wasn’t odd—nobles often sought matches even in swaddling clothes. Caesar was about Baldwin’s age; Baldwin set his birthday as February 2, same as his own. After February, they’d be ten.
Men could marry at fourteen, women at twelve; not much time to find suitable matches, with back-and-forth and negotiations taking years. So though still children, time flew like a white horse passing a gap. Men could be a bit older, but who let Caesar have no roots or support?
“What kind do you want?” The Countess leaned in, asking in a tiny voice, while placing a red-dyed stone on the abacus—this abacus could be seen as a flat Chinese-style one; stones placed not strung, cross and vertical rods just lines drawn on the stone slab, but computation similar.
“Pretty!” Baldwin said immediately, but then smacked his lips regretfully: “No no, decent looks are fine. I want their children to be my children’s attendants, but best a wealthy female heir, with territory even better; younger is fine.” He trusted Caesar; a foothold would do. “Temper gentle; Caesar is actually quite stubborn…”
He sighed: “If they quarreled, I’d side with Caesar—so gentle, humble, not too focused on birth and surname.”
Such a female heir would have counts and dukes chasing her, the Countess thought, but she didn’t shatter the child’s fantasy—especially when Baldwin said he wanted Caesar’s children as his own children’s attendants; she nearly teared up.
——————
Caesar had no idea Prince Baldwin was already seeking suitable marriage alliance objects for him, even if his mental age far exceeded his physical.
But even in his original world, he was just past marriage age; parents open-minded, never urging, and the world so vibrant, his life rich—work, study, training, each needing tons of time?
Though he promised to be Damara’s knight, having fancies for a kitten-like child would make one a pervert or beast.
But then he couldn’t refuse; the suggestion came from Damara’s guardian and mistress Princess Sibylla, Baldwin’s sister, daughter of King Amalric I—and both had favors to Caesar.
Damara would be mocked too—not even fancying a slave-born attendant; she’d have few decent suitors after, marriage affected.
Even without Abbot John, he couldn’t harden his heart to treat a soft little girl that way.
“Come here, Caesar!” Geoffrey shouted.
Geoffrey didn’t drag him from the castle for no reason; his work was inspecting the wooden platforms, those high stages along the streets where actors would perform marriage-related shows when the Byzantine Princess entered.
Like Adam and Eve, Solomon and Sheba, Aquila and Priscilla, a pious couple in the Bible, Isaac and Rebekah, etc.
No flowers now; high stages decorated only with pigment and ribbon, fronts with banners of linen or cotton, inscribed with Bible exhortations for couples to live harmoniously: “The couple is one.”
“He who gains a worthy wife gains true interest, and also the grace of heaven.”
“As a wife, submit to your husband; as a husband, love your wife deeply, as your own body. To love your wife is to love yourself.”
……
Some banners with goodwill, some a bit malicious—at least the bride would feel uncomfortable seeing them.
Like “Women should keep silent in the assembly.”
This from a saint’s admonition—the next part: because they are not allowed to speak, they must be submissive, as the law says. If they want to learn anything, ask their husbands at home. For it is shameful for a woman to speak in the assembly.
The original meaning was the Corinthian church always had noisy women; the saint meant no malice, just hoped they’d quiet down.
Even Caesar, not very understanding this era’s faith, found it jarring.
This plainly reminded that Byzantine Princess not to hope influencing Ayyarasa Road’s politics via pillow talk.
Caesar thought Geoffrey would make the platform owner remove the banner; instead, the Templar Knight just chuckled, stroked his stubble grown overnight, and casually turned to Caesar: “Go up and jump.”
These high stages were wooden; if they fell to the ground, fine, but on narrow streets, they jutted from walls and windows. If support insufficient, falling would be laughable, not to mention hurting people.
Geoffrey lifted a hand and put Caesar up there.
Caesar had to climb up and jump on the platform, kicking up dust, stones rolling. Geoffrey no longer made him gray-faced and choking like the first time; he stood far, shouting: “Jump again! Harder!”
Caesar jumped woodenly again.
He felt Geoffrey was toying with him, but this adult-teasing-child way, with justification, left him no retort.
Finally the Templar Knight was satisfied; onlookers laughed till their bellies hurt. Clearly they found this “Little Saint” cuter; some shouted: “One more!”
But Geoffrey wouldn’t oblige; he came under the platform, arm outstretched to Caesar. Caesar momentarily had a mischievous urge, like jumping again, but his mental age won; he vaulted the railing, Geoffrey grabbed his foot, casually set him down.
“This is the last one.” Geoffrey said. “That’s Jaffa Gate.”
Caesar saw the Tower of David too.
“The Eastern Emperor’s daughter will enter Ayyarasa Road through this gate.” The Templar Knight said disdainfully. Caesar recalled Baldwin saying Amalric I desperately wanted in-laws with Manuel I, but due to faith and claim issues, plus Antioch’s precedent, the Knights Templar didn’t think this chestnut-from-fire method suited current Ayyarasa Road.
They couldn’t oppose, but wouldn’t have good attitudes.
“I’ll tell you something funny. A secret.” Though Geoffrey said so, his face didn’t look it; Caesar figured many already knew this “secret.” “The Byzantines originally wanted to enter from the Golden Gate.” He nodded chinward; from the east Golden Gate meant passing Temple Mount. “Their excuse: Golden Gate’s ancient name is Beautiful Gate, perfect for their princess—I spit!”
He spat on the ground, then under Caesar’s disapproving gaze, wiped it with his boot.
“Of course, the King didn’t agree.” He gazed there: “We all know, hey, the Isaacites’ sage prophesied that at world’s end, the Savior would enter from the Golden Gate to save Ayyarasa Road. Still many believe it—if their princess entered there and had a son, they could claim the child was the Savior.”
He looked down at Caesar: “You don’t want that happening to your prince, right?”
Caesar nodded slowly. If Baldwin had no child, his brother could be Crown Prince; he’d assist fully. But if Baldwin lived as King of Ayyarasa Road, the Byzantines wanting the throne…
“Right,” Geoffrey suddenly asked: “When Amalric I brought you back then, it wasn’t through the Golden Gate, right?
