Chapter 63: Little Fishes
The master of Tortosa Castle finally set his eyes on Caesar, although he regarded his arrival as a shame, but upon seeing this child, he couldn’t help but sigh in admiration in his heart.
The existence of this castle was entirely for military purposes; even though the sun blazed outside, the fortress remained dim and stuffy, but he stood there like a glowing pearl.
Walter had also seen many beauties in the king’s court and the lord’s castle, but one outstanding to this degree truly made one sigh; it was either God doing his utmost, or the devil sparing no effort— in any case, no human could possibly give birth to such a flawless creation.
The other Knight Commanders beside him had also softened their expressions, as if they had been waiting for such an excuse; Walter even suspected that even if Geoffrey said—he had just picked up a stone outside the castle with an inscription that this man was favored by God—these people would believe it.
Even so, Walter only slightly turned his head, looking toward the escort behind him; Walter’s escort was also a clever and handsome young man who immediately understood and stepped forward to speak with this envoy who was young beyond imagination, “What message did Amalric I send you with?”
“If you are asking about Amalric I’s decree—the king wants you to surrender, lower the flag, lay down your weapons, remove your armor, and come to the gate holding the castle’s key, prostrating to beg his forgiveness.”
Walter let out a loud mocking laugh. He looked at the Knight Commanders seated on either side and, sure enough, found traces of anger on their faces.
He glanced at Geoffrey again, as if to say, “Look, look, this is the result you guaranteed.”
Geoffrey’s face was as firm as a city wall, utterly unconcerned by Walter’s gaze.
“We serve the monarch in heaven and will not submit to the king on earth. Amalric I, King of Ayyarasa Road—we owe him no duty, he has no power over us; we only obey God or the commands of God’s spokesman.”
The escort said this, then glanced at Walter again; Walter nodded, and he continued: “For the sake of our brother vouching for you, you may leave this castle—but only you. Consider yourself fortunate, child; we won’t cover you in bitumen and stick feathers on you—God’s creation should not be so abused.”
He paused: “We will give you food and water, an old horse; you will return to your prince, having suffered greatly but still with your life.”
Then, something incomprehensible happened. This envoy, still a child, suddenly stepped back; they thought he would kneel in gratitude for their tolerance, but instead he removed his white robe embroidered with the yellow Ayyarasa Road cross, revealing the chainmail beneath.
This chainmail was of course urgently summoned from a craftsman by Baldwin, tailored to his size（they were still growing, chainmail should wait until the body is fully formed）; not only was the material exquisite and the workmanship sturdy, it was also plated with silver, making his face glow even more dazzlingly, impossible to look at directly.
They only heard him say, “I have completed the task entrusted by the king and am no longer Amalric I’s envoy, but I will speak for some other people, act as their envoy.”
“Some other people,” one Knight Commander asked amusedly, “Who? Saracens?”
“Perhaps Saracens, Isaacites, Christians—anyone unarmed, with good intentions, who will pay a heavy price in this war without recompense.”
“Geoffrey, did you bring an ascetic?” another Knight Commander asked in a strange tone.
“Well, um,” Geoffrey extended his finger and poked at the air, “They all call him the Little Saint.”
“Isn’t this Amalric I building momentum for his son?” Walter said without hiding it.
“There is some truth to that.” Geoffrey looked to the sky, “But some parts are real; he is just that stubborn a fellow.”
Walter’s escort was at a loss; they might each have their own ideas, but on the surface, and perhaps in part in their hearts, they were indeed here for God, to protect those pilgrims persecuted and plundered by heathens.
Now, standing before them was someone speaking for these disregarded specks of dust, plants, livestock—and these people instead became as incredulous as Amalric I; several Knight Commanders even subconsciously glanced at the dim ceiling, wondering if a crack would suddenly appear, casting bright holy light and a few angels.
No, standing there was merely a mortal.
Walter, like Amalric I, began to scrutinize this child carefully, and at the same time, Caesar was observing him; he had learned about this man from Geoffrey before—actually, it was clear from his previous behavior that he was a stubborn, arrogant fellow.
He had accepted a treaty with the Saracens, yes, but he did not see it as compromise with heathens or betrayal of God. He merely ruled and enslaved the heathens in these territories like those lords and bishops, making them work for Christians.
Therefore, when Amalric I also achieved peace with the “Eagle’s Nest” and abandoned the treaty between the Templar Knights and the latter, he became as angry as a lord robbed of his subjects—especially since these “subjects” were heathen slaves in his view, not free Christian men.
He despised Amalric I for actually negotiating equal coexistence with a group of heathens; what he did was even worse than a minor knight.
“So now, as the envoy of those…” Walter seemed to try a tolerant smile but ultimately gave up: “Those pious Christians, what do you want to say to me?”
The child fell silent for a moment before asking: “Have you already decided to engage King Amalric I in a protracted siege warfare here in this castle?”
“Yes,” Walter replied, “Amalric I’s spear will shatter against this solid shield.”
“Then you should know that in this war, more Christian lives will be wasted in vain.”
“That is their duty and obligation, for God.”
“Are you sure? Their sacrifice is for God?”
A dangerous expression appeared on Walter’s face: “Are you trying to accuse me?”
Caesar did not answer his question, “I hear there are three villages and one town around this castle; what about the people inside? Are they all in this castle?”
Of course not; if Walter allowed so many people in the castle, not to mention whether they could fit, their mere consumption would let Amalric I win without fighting.
“They are the people you swore to protect.” Caesar continued: “And you have decided to sacrifice them—not for God. If you raised your sword for God, you would not stay in the castle but raise the flag, ride out, and clash face-to-face with the Saracens or even Amalric I.”
At this moment, a detestable smile appeared on the black-haired child’s lips: “But you did not do so; perhaps you understand that if you did, you, your knights, your army would be utterly destroyed by your enemies in a single clash.”
Geoffrey heard someone gasp.
Walter was stunned, seemingly not expecting someone to mock him so brazenly in his presence.
When he grasped the meaning of the words, he flew into a rage; he rose from his chair and strode menacingly to Caesar—Templar Knights all had tall, sturdy builds, and Walter was no exception, even outstanding among knights, not inferior to William Marshal.
As for his face, you could say it was carved from stone or cast from black iron; if he grew a beard, he might not look so ferocious, but without the beard’s cover, the jagged, hammer-head-like jaw and cheekbones, without a single smooth or flat place, could not be concealed.
Accompanying this was a smell; of course, in this era, smells were hardest to avoid, especially for knights—when dressed airtight（only the area below the abdomen and above the thighs allows some air）, after riding hard or swinging a sword continuously, that smell could pickle stone.
And Walter had another kind, like the smell of blood congealed in steel for a long time—it might not make one vomit, but it would chill you to the bone.
Walter looked down at that face, without any adornment or cover; he knew some knights even imitated women by applying makeup…
“You should thank God for his favor on you, child. However,” he said gravely: “This is the second time; you’d better shut your mouth now and stay silent. Whether you represent Amalric I or those pilgrims—this is your last chance.”
Caesar met his gaze without a trace of fear.
“Have you already seen your ending? Whether fighting out of the castle in knightly glory, or cowering in the castle using countless innocent lives as your surety to gamble on Amalric I’s possible retreat—you are doomed to fail, so you are afraid, you are trembling…”
“Enough!”
Walter shouted sharply; he extended his huge palm and gripped Caesar’s neck: “Fool, I don’t know what good people you’ve met, but I am not one constrained by others’ words or pleas!
Let me tell you, to me, food and drink, women and wine are dispensable; I only believe in my God and my sword.
When do I feel joy? It is when I stand with my brothers—those not cowardly brothers—horsehead to horsehead, shoulder to shoulder, shouting together ‘Jehovah, Jehovah, let not glory be to us, not to us, but to your name for your lovingkindness and truth’—and then charge at those detestable heathens and heretics!
No matter if they are old men, children, women, or men, we kill every one we see like farmers cutting wheat or children destroying sandcastles! Until the blood from the corpses floods my knees!
You will not be the first child I kill, nor the last!”
In an instant, many in the hall shouted; some cried “Oh!” others yelled “Beg for mercy quick!” Not just Geoffrey, even the Knight Commanders rose, pleading for Caesar one after another.
They dared not touch Walter in his fury but urged Caesar, lest this youth like tender fruit on the branch truly fall here; but before their words landed, Walter sensed something wrong—indeed, as he said, he had killed children and women before, throttled many necks; he was familiar with the feel and the subsequent struggle—but none of that.
When Walter reached out, Caesar had already slightly lowered his head, raised his shoulders, tensed his body; Walter thought he had lifted him, but actually Caesar used his force to leap high, wrapping his hands around his fist, his feet kicking like lightning at the Templar Knight’s face.
If Caesar were an ordinary child, this kick would hurt only Walter’s pride, but a few breaths earlier he had begun to pray; now light flickered continuously on him, and when he confirmed the hit, he twisted and flipped—between Walter’s palm and him there was always an invisible but hard layer of scale armor; no matter how the Templar Knight gripped, it was like wearing iron gloves trying to catch a slippery big fish—in an instant, he had landed back on the ground.
Several escorts thought he would flee and rushed to the door, but saw him stand motionless in place, unable to help but admire his courage.
When people thought Walter would rage further, he merely wiped the blood from his mouth and nose: “Which saint did you invoke?”
“Saint Jerome.”
“Damn Saint Jerome,” Walter said.
“And you? Which saint did you invoke?”
“I don’t believe Geoffrey didn’t tell you; I invoked Saint Paul.” Walter raised his head proudly.
Saint Paul was possibly second only to Saint George, the saint knights most hoped to invoke.
This saint was born a Roman citizen; in his youth he was extremely cruel, persecuting Christians several times, but one day Jesus Christ and an angel appeared before him, making him realize Christ’s noble status and the mysteries of his body; he repented on the spot, not only converted but became Christ’s great apostle.
Besides this saint once being a valiant warrior, the knights’ worship of him was also due to the Church—before the eleventh century, anyone who could arm themselves was a knight; they were of low character, crude in behavior, not much better than thugs—the churches and monasteries, due to their wealth, became the most frequently plundered places…
Poor priests could only constantly impose spiritual sanctions on these “knights”; knights who robbed churches, attacked priests, plundered merchants would be excommunicated, but this method was not as effective as centuries later; knights remained fearless, so the Church could only find them a model from the Bible: Saint Paul, who sinned but repented early enough and achieved great deeds for Christ.
When priests read the Bible parts about Saint Paul, knights would stand to show respect to this saint.
Few knights could invoke Saint Paul, but Walter was one, and the favor he received was quite abundant—his arrogance was not without foundation.
“I did hear about you from Geoffrey,” Caesar said calmly, standing only five or six steps from Walter: “I also know you have always prided yourself on the strength granted by Saint Paul, so…”
“What?”
“Since you always say Templar Knights only obey God’s will, are you willing to make a bet with me?”
