Chapter 64: This One Cares, That One Cares Too
“Templar Knights never gamble, no matter what is at stake,” Walter said.
Such words were not very believable. Perhaps after becoming Templar Knights, the knights would eliminate the vice of gambling, but no one was born a Templar Knight. Commoners would gamble with a handful of wheat or a bowl of beans, let alone knights who could at least afford a suit of armor and had surnames?
“This is not a gamble set by mortals for money or beauty,” Caesar said. “What we wager will be ourselves, and then we shall see God’s judgment.”
Walter’s face darkened: “You mean divine judgment? But child, with just the words you spoke earlier, I could convict you—you should not equate divine judgment with gambling.”
“God never said to forbid people from gambling. What He forbade was deception, greed, and vanity. What this law encompasses is far more than mere money—we seek to verify something far more sacred—Lord.”
Caesar said calmly.
Oh, a Knight Commander thought to himself, his voice was also very pleasant, neither muddled nor crude, every word clear.
“You have always said that Templar Knights follow only one Master, that is the Lord in Heaven, or His representative on earth. Now, we cannot invite that venerable servant of the Lord here to vouch for you, so we can only rely on one thing.
That is the one Master in Heaven, on earth, and over all creation.”
“I know of one way: two knights duel before God, defending their honor and contending for the right to speak with blood and life, but you are not a knight,” Walter said, frowning. “If Amalric I stood before me, I might be willing to try, but you do not have that qualification.”
“Outside the Golden Gate lies a cemetery where countless dead rest. The Isaacites say that when the end of the world comes, the Savior will enter through the Golden Gate, and at that time, every dead person in the Holy Land will rise and face judgment. Lord, you and I are both flesh and blood, mortal men. One day, we too will lie in stone coffins, awaiting that day’s arrival.
So, on that day, when we stand together before angels and saints awaiting the result, do you think They will say, this is a lord, this is a child, this is a knight, this is an escort?
No, before the glory of Heaven, all humans are equally insignificant and humble. They will pick us up and look not at the thickness of our bones or the number of our teeth, nor at whether our tombs contain gold or swords, but only at whether our souls are pure, steadfast, and resilient.”
“Moreover,” Caesar smiled brightly, “I do not believe I could compete with you, Lord. You are one who has truly fought for God, while I have not even smelled the bloodlust of the battlefield. What I rely on is merely your piety toward God and your mercy toward the weak.”
Geoffrey coughed once, and then from him to the other Knight Commanders, the room was suddenly filled with a chorus of coughs, even Walter’s escort not excepted.
Walter, however, listened very comfortably: “So what do you want to do?”
Everyone listened intently, only to see the young escort make another astonishing move. He unfastened his belt and removed that brilliant silver-plated chainmail. The chainmail piled on the ground like a curled-up pangolin—and his body still shimmered with a milky white glow like moonlight or sunlight.
People described it this way because this light was gentler than sunlight yet brighter than moonlight.
It looked so soft that only Walter, who had tried it himself, knew it was not some fragile thing.
“I am willing to vouch for my master King Amalric I with my life and faith,” Caesar said. “I have heard that your sharp sword is the gift of Saint Paul. It never breaks or rusts; even stone and steel are like cheese before it…”
“Do you want me to stab you with that sharp sword?”
“Exactly so. Please strike me with it, cleave me, fully three times. If I retreat a step, groan once, or shed a drop of blood, it means God and the saints stand with you, and you are in the right. If not…”
“You want me to surrender to Amalric I?”
“No, I only hope you will extend your mercy toward me to more people, those who should not become sacrifices in this conflict,” Caesar said sincerely. “No matter who wins or loses in the war between you and the King, they will thank you, praise you, and pray for you.”
Walter looked at him for a long while, then grinned: “You were just cursing me to certain failure, little bastard.” He stretched lazily. Those who knew him well knew he had been convinced. Geoffrey recalled that when they first met Caesar, Caesar had been most concerned with what this Templar Knight of Tortosa Castle liked most and cared about most—he had thought Caesar meant to bribe or threaten him.
“You want me to stab you with Saint Paul’s sword,” Walter said. “But I must remind you, you have already used your last opportunity. I will not hold back, though I know you are deeply favored by the saints. But as in a clash of two riders, no one knows the outcome until the final moment. When you lie wailing in a pool of blood, do not forget this was your own choice.”
Everyone present grew tense, even Geoffrey not entirely certain—the knights could easily judge how much divine favor each other received: how long to pray, aloud or silently, the duration, the strength?
Their commander must also understand each knight’s condition and traits, lest poor command cause agile falcons to break their feathers in the storm or exhausted hunting dogs to face a raging she-bear.
Anyone who had seen Caesar praised his divine favor as profound and pure, with responses so swift it was as if the saints watched him at all times. But Walter had been a Templar Knight for nearly ten years, and before that, he had long held the title of “strongest knight” in the Tyre region of France. If not for his deep piety and interest only in combat, Louis VII’s court would have had a place for him long ago.
And his earlier words were no empty threat. Though Templar Knights were brutal beasts to heathens and heretics, Walter was the most unrestrained among them.
But on second thought, the method Caesar proposed was the most advantageous to him—aside from simply ignoring the matter. He would stand still, rendering Walter’s experience from countless duels and combats useless. What remained to measure them seemed to be only divine favor.
The problem was that divine favor accumulated and grew heavier over time, and moreover, he had not been to the battlefield. Even facing a she-bear, how could a sharp, heavy great sword compare to a beast’s fangs?
People all have instinct. Seeing a sword cleaving down, one instinctively wants to dodge. Some cowards are so frightened they cannot even think to dodge, only scream. If Caesar had merely said he was willing to endure three strikes from Walter, Walter might not have accepted so readily.
But since he said he would not retreat a step, nor cry out, nor shed a drop of blood, this showed his faith in God was absolute—enough to surpass countless others, to earn the admiration of Templar Knights, and to stand opposite Walter.
Since he had said so, Walter wasted no more words. Bare-handed, he knelt before the Cross, recited a very brief hymn of praise, then shouted Saint Paul’s name aloud. Light cast down from the darkness; he raised his hand and grasped a bright crucifix sword, flames surging around it, as if passed directly from an angel’s hand.
“One.” He said.
Light flashed, like pure white silk spilling through the air. He cleaved with one sword toward Caesar’s left arm. Alas, though this Templar Knight had spoken cruel words in anger, when it came to the act, he still held back some force.
Though it severed flesh and bone—only a monk by the Pope of Rome could reconnect them, and only while the blood still flowed fresh—if the child’s arm were severed, he could live only as a one-armed man, unable to become a knight, only enter a monastery, but at least he could live.
No one heard wailing, nor any sound of clash or strike. Two priests among the Knight Commanders stepped forward. Though Templar Knights, when receiving blessing, they received “Chosen by Raphael” rather than “Chosen by Michael,” meaning they were both Knight Commanders and priests in the Knights Templar, responsible for praying for and treating the knights.
But almost simultaneously, Walter had stepped back, lowering the sword tip to the ground. Thus all saw the child still standing in place—to confirm if he had moved, flour had been scattered at his feet. Even a twitch of his toes would be visible.
The two priests quickly approached to inspect, as if that had been their purpose: “I saw clearly,” one priest said. “He did not move.”
The other priest examined the spot struck by the crucifix sword. A large piece of cloth had fallen from Caesar’s left arm, but only cloth was lost. “He did not bleed,” this priest confirmed.
The other Knight Commanders also checked—to serve as witnesses when people asked about this trial.
“Then, two.” Walter waited for the witnesses to disperse before raising the crucifix sword again. Everyone watched his expression, wondering how his first strike felt: like steel, or firm wood? Or better than linen and wool? No one thought Walter would swing falsely—that would insult his own faith.
The sword whistled; people paled in horror. This time, the direction was toward the neck!
Could he still not dodge? Could he still not cry out? Even a hoarse breath from the throat? The fine flour lay at his feet; he need not even move—a mere tremble would leave a clear mark.
This time, they could even see the muscles on Walter’s cheeks and arms bulging high. The Templar Knight twisted his waist, issuing a muffled roar. His strong body and solid arms were like a taut spring suddenly released—this sword would sever even the giant slain by David at the neck!
But, ah, everyone saw clearly! This sword whipped like a whip across the young escort’s tender neck, as if the next moment they would see that pretty head fly into the air, blood flung like ribbons, the sweet metallic scent almost palpable.
Only after a good while did they realize it was all their imagination. The young escort stood steadily in place, unmoved, no blood, no severed neck. Walter stood just three or four steps away, expression inscrutable.
“Come look.” When Walter spoke, the crowd awoke as from a dream and surged forward to confirm Caesar was unharmed.
“Three.” Walter said. People thought this time he would roar in fury, feint, or viciously thrust at the young escort’s eyes—after all, making him move or cry out meant victory. Even Caesar thought so—he saw the feral gleam bursting from Walter’s eyes, colder and madder than a she-bear bereft of her cubs.
The crucifix sword was raised high, its light like the blazing sun. Even Caesar involuntarily squinted. But the expected fierce strike did not come. He heard the crowd’s soft sighs of relief, filled with joy and admiration. Opening his eyes, he saw the crucifix sword had not hacked viciously but rested gently on his shoulder.
“I think God has seen your faith.” Walter said. He lowered his hand; the crucifix sword faded from Caesar’s shoulder.
——————
In Amalric I’s tent, Baldwin was not the only one feeling intense anxiety—Heraclius felt it too. But neither could say: do not sympathize with those commoners like weeds, do not offend the Templar Knights, do not display your strength and Talent before the crowd.
If Caesar had obeyed such instructions, he would now be just a dispensable laborer in Holy Cross Castle—or not even able to enter it. When Baldwin contracted leprosy and was mocked by the servants newly chosen for him by Amalric I, the King had been furious and insisted on finding Baldwin a flawless companion.
Whether by luck or misfortune, he had found one.
When an attendant happily entered the tent and loudly announced that the King’s envoy party had returned safe and sound, bringing Tortosa’s envoy, even Amalric I could not help showing joy.
The irascible Walter de le Mesnil could even disregard the King’s authority. If he saw Amalric I’s envoys as an insult, it was possible. Worst case, he would execute them and catapult the bodies from the castle. Best case, strip their clothes and armor, seize their flag, and send the group slinking back to camp on foot.
Baldwin had emptied his box; his greatest hope was merely that Geoffrey would manage to save Caesar’s life.
But the result clearly exceeded expectations, even if they had held a faint hope—and when Caesar truly succeeded, they all felt as if drunk on a large cup of sweet wine.
Amalric I maintained a king’s composure, confirming the battle’s location, time, and approximate numbers with the Templar Knights of Tortosa, gave them rewards, then showed a pleased smile.
And Baldwin, as soon as outsiders left, immediately jumped onto Caesar, hugging his neck tightly. His face flushed with excitement; for a moment, he did not know what to say—or rather, he wanted Caesar to recount what happened in Tortosa Castle.
Of course, Caesar first had to answer the King’s questions. He recounted everything in detail. When he said Walter de le Mesnil’s third sword had merely rested lightly on his shoulder, Amalric I showed a subtle smile.
If it had been him, he would have done the same. Walter was nearly forty, Caesar only ten. Even winning would not be glorious. Losing went without saying. With the two prior probes, an experienced knight could judge if he could win this trial—skipping the final strike could create a fine tale. People speaking of it would only sigh at his benevolence and generosity…
To be cutting, this favor might even be useful twenty or thirty years later.
“You saved me much time, manpower, and money,” Amalric I said. “If you were a knight, I would give you a horse, armor, and attendants. But you are still an escort, so I grant you one wish. You may claim it now or save it—I will fulfill it whenever.”
Heraclius straightened his back; Baldwin held his breath. They both guessed what Caesar would request.
“I have only one request,” Caesar said calmly. “Your Majesty, please spare the commoners in Tortosa Castle.”
The King fell silent, staring at Caesar with an almost stern gaze. The tent was very quiet.
Had Amalric I sworn to execute everyone in Tortosa Castle because they humiliated and betrayed him? Of course not. It was only because of the Knights Templar’s obstruction and threats, and the entire Crusaders’ cause, that he had to abandon the plan to behead the ringleaders and cleanse the shame with their blood.
But a king’s wrath needed an outlet.
Because of this, the Knights Templar had already acquiesced that, aside from a few in the castle, the others would be executed by Amalric I to vent his rage. But now, a young escort boldly requested, to his face, that he spare everyone.
