Escape from Hell

This was hell.

The air scorched, sand and dust whirled, and the rank stench of blood, excrement, and urine flooded the nostrils. Thirty boys—white-skinned, brown-skinned, and black-skinned—were brought to a flat-topped hill on the right side of the Judean Hills. Here, they would be castrated. If they were lucky enough to survive, they would be sold to the courts of Byzantium, Egypt, or Syria.

He was the thirty-first.

He gasped painfully, and the breath he exhaled was hotter than the sand beneath him. Two sturdy black slaves brought him before the slave merchant. Hesitation flickered in the merchant's eyes. The merchandise was sick and weak, and their method of castration was brutally crude—after being stripped of their right to manhood like pigs and horses, the howling half-finished products were stuffed directly into pits dug beforehand, with only their upper bodies left exposed. Heat and sand were the only means of staunching the bleeding.

The castrated slaves would remain there for an entire night. Before Venus rose, the merchant would come inspect them. Usually, three out of ten survived.

But he certainly would not be one of those three.

After a moment's hesitation, the slave merchant shook his head regretfully.

His thoughts were still muddled by the fever. He could only struggle to remember this suspicious detail: the merchant was clearly unwilling.

Out of pity, a slave gave him a little wine full of sediment but extraordinarily sweet. The alcohol and sugar were like sparks setting charcoal alight, and the ability to think and act returned to him—he was now beneath a tent with nothing but the sky above, but only three feet beyond the shadow at his feet lay blinding white light. Once his eyes adjusted, he could see yellow-brown dunes, a winding path between them, and then the sky and great lake distorted by rising heat.

Perhaps because he was nearly dead already, they had not wasted shackles or rope on him. After all, even stronger children did nothing but howl and beg. But to say that he could escape on that account...

He touched his arm and confirmed that this was not his original body. This body belonged to a boy of no more than seven or eight, unarmed and completely naked. Besides the few slaves who obeyed him in everything, the slave merchant had four or five guards wandering outside the tent. Their gazes hardly ever fell on the children; apparently, they were there only to guard against outside attacks. But if anyone tried to flee, they would hardly stand by with folded arms.

He was taken outside the tent. The merchant examined him, gripping a curved castration knife that, however brightly polished, still carried an inerasable stench of blood.

Just then, they heard hoofbeats coming from not far away. There were quite a few riders. The merchant and guards immediately became alert. Though the Judean Hills lay only a few dozen li from the holy city of Jerusalem, bandits still ran rampant there. They wanted everything—money, slaves, or people who could pay ransom.

As though in the blink of an eye, two nimble ponies appeared in their sight. Their riders were two retainers dressed in high-collared robes with vertical lines of quilting, leather sword-belts crossing their chests, and one-handed swords hanging from their waists. The moment they saw the people on the hill, they raised the horns hanging from their saddles and blew several notes. A succession of bright, brief, crisp, piercing sounds shot into the sky.

Before the horn calls had faded from the air, several knights in chainmail caught up. Their mounts were all tall warhorses. The moment the slave merchant and his guards saw the red Jerusalem Cross embroidered over the breasts of the newcomers' white sleeveless surcoats, they hurriedly dropped to their knees and buried their heads deeply in their hands.

Peering through his fingers, the slave merchant saw more retainers and knights appearing under banners. Some led packhorses whose backs were piled high with game; others held leather-hooded falcons aloft. Dogs wound around their horses' hooves, barking without pause. Others carried several crossbows, javelins, and spears—clearly squires responsible for supplying their masters with weapons.

Among and behind them were ministers and lords dressed more splendidly still. Their chainmail was covered in richly colored velvet and silk, their horses draped in dazzling caparisons, and the shields hanging from their saddles bore exquisite heraldry. Surrounded by them, a middle-aged man wearing a crown frowned at the unexpected smell of blood—he was Amalric I, King of Jerusalem.

"Who are those people on the hill?" Amalric I asked.

Raymond, Count of Tripoli—his friend, vassal, and brother before God—merely raised his head for a glance, and disgust crossed his face. "An Isaac castrator."

Amalric I heard Bohemond, Duke of Antioch, spit behind him. His already less-than-cheerful mood grew heavier. He said nothing, merely patted his horse's neck lightly. The mount immediately and intelligently quickened its pace.

The horse was so responsive, and those attending the king were even sharper. Raymond, Count of Tripoli, raised his hand and swung it forcefully forward. The knights answered with thunderous cries. Hoofbeats drummed from slow to swift, dust rolled, heads surged, and in less time than it took to drink a cup of tea, they would leave the blood-stinking hill behind them.

But before the king's Percheron could break into a gallop, a small riot erupted fewer than a hundred feet away—the hunting dogs barked madly, the hawks and falcons beat their wings, and the horses leapt and twisted continuously beneath their riders' control. Their enormous hooves left deep hollows in the sand, scattering broken stones everywhere.

Amalric I was a knight-king. His eyes were keen indeed, and with a single glance he saw what had caused the disturbance.

A slave had escaped from the Isaac man's tent. While the merchant and guards were all prostrate on the ground, he leapt over their low backs and heads with unimaginable speed and courage, rolled down from the hill, and like a nail struck savagely by a giant hammer, slammed into their ranks with a bang.

Reaching this place did not mean his life was safe. Every warhorse had been trained to trample whatever fell beneath its hooves—especially strangers. Even the strongest knight, clad head to toe in armor, could sometimes scarcely avoid being trampled into bloodied mud wrapped in iron if he fell from his horse on the battlefield.

The pack of dogs regarded him as prey, like some small beast. Every one of them roared viciously. A child without any protection at all could only rely on his slender body and swift reactions to fight a path to survival through hooves, iron boots, and dogs' claws and teeth.

What was more, retainers had already raised crossbows and drawn blades.

Had a priest not suddenly spurred his horse and leapt between him and the others, he would certainly have died. Everyone knew this priest. He was Heraclius, the king's friend, the king's religious minister, and the resident priest of Holy Cross Castle.

"Stop!" the priest shouted. "The king wishes to see him."

The people made way, and the king rode forward. The powerful Percheron stood no less than six feet at the shoulder. Amalric I, equally tall, looked down coldly from above at the escaped slave.

The slave was covered in dust, but it was still clear that his skin was fair. His short black hair was in utter disarray. One hand hung limply at his side, perhaps sprained or broken. He panted with difficulty and tried to rise. Someone shouted, "Kneel!" and so he knelt, but stubbornly lowered only one knee. That posture was more strenuous than putting both knees to the ground, especially when the person holding it was already at the end of his strength.

As the king watched him, he slowly raised his head as well. What beautiful eyes, Amalric I thought—two emeralds without the slightest impurity. What would he do? How would he beg me to save him? If he truly was a Christian, coming to plead with a Christian king?

The slave was thinking too. He possessed nothing but this unfamiliar body. No one could testify for him or defend him, and Amalric I would not grant him much patience or time.

He raised his arm and, beneath the wary gazes of the crowd, sucked at the blood seeping from his wound. That tiny amount of liquid moistened his throat enough to let him speak smoothly.

"I will sing unto Yahweh..." Then he raised his head, gazed at the unfamiliar crowd, and slowly, slowly said, "For he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he cast into the sea..."

This was a language that Amalric I and the people around him could never overlook—Vulgar Latin. Though hoarse and slow, though some words were mispronounced, it was indeed a language familiar to Christians, and a song familiar to Christians, syllables and words branded into their souls.

The crowd could not help singing along loudly, nearly drowning out the little slave's voice. "...Yahweh is my strength and song, and he is become my salvation... This is my God, and I will praise him; my father's God, and I will exalt him..."

The king lowered his eyes and placed one hand over his chest. "...Yahweh is a man of war; Yahweh is his name... Thy right hand, O Yahweh, is become glorious in power; thy right hand, O Yahweh, hath dashed in pieces the enemy."

He recited softly, "Yahweh brought His people out from the place where they were slaves with a mighty hand, saying: For they are My servants, whom I brought forth out of the land of Egypt; they shall not be sold as slaves—therefore, child, you are a Christian. You have come to ask me to save you, as the Isaac people ask Yahweh for salvation."

"Yes."

"Then I ought to save you," the king said. "Take him with us, Heraclius. Perhaps this is the greatest prize I shall gain from this hunt."

The priest named Heraclius bent down in obedience. He dismounted and wrapped the naked boy in his own cloak. The instant he touched the boy's skin, he started. "He is burning with fever!"

"Is it plague?" Amalric I asked.

"I will take him first to the Church of St. John the Baptist," Heraclius said.

A retainer took a purse containing several dozen silver coins from Raymond, Count of Tripoli—a Isaac slave merchant did not even have the standing to speak face-to-face with a knight. He casually tossed the purse before the merchant, then wheeled his horse around and hurried after the party. Thus, he did not see the merchant's excessively ugly expression, far worse than one would expect from merely losing a valuable piece of merchandise.

The moment Heraclius saw the child, he guessed that there was a strong chance he would be saved. That had to do with his astonishing courage and decisiveness, as well as his complexion and faith, but the most important point was that Amalric I's only son, little Baldwin, was exactly this age.

In the past, that resemblance would not have been enough to stir Amalric I's pity. But only days earlier, little Baldwin had been confirmed to have contracted leprosy.

Leprosy was a virulent infectious disease. Those who contracted it would lose their hair, become covered in red rashes and blotches, suffer swollen lymph nodes, numbness, atrophy, and deformity in their limbs, until their faces and bodies became as terrifying as demons.

In Byzantium, Francia, and Britain, lepers were isolated from normal society—this was even written into law. They were not permitted to live in cities, enter churches, or receive the sacraments. Nor could they appear in places where people gathered in large numbers, such as markets. They could neither inherit nor be inherited from, and they could neither bring complaints nor defend others.

The Church held two views of them. One regarded such people as unclean, believing that they must have committed unknown sins before God cursed and punished them. The other considered it a trial—also given by God, though at least in name... it offered lepers greater comfort.

Little Baldwin's leprosy, whether viewed as punishment for sin or as a trial, meant that Jerusalem's existing order would undergo earth-shaking change. The most fortunate thing was that Amalric I, and the kings of Jerusalem before him, had not yet had time to enact laws concerning lepers. He could keep Baldwin in Jerusalem and at his Holy Cross Castle, and continue fighting for all manner of political and legal rights for his only son.

Questions, condemnations, and pressure had surged in like waves. Amalric I had not smiled for many days, which was why there had been today's hunt. His friends and ministers had all urged him to go out for a while—though even hundreds of slain beasts had failed to brighten the king's spirits, until this small accident occurred.

Perhaps, to Amalric I, redeeming a Christian life from a demonic Isaac slave merchant was like placing a precious counterweight upon the scales that held his only son's fate. Perhaps this one weight might keep poor little Baldwin from plunging into purgatory too swiftly.

Thus, Heraclius did not treat the task lightly simply because the child in his arms had once been a slave. He spurred his horse into a gallop and reached the refuge established by the Church of St. John the Baptist in less than half an hour. The refuge was the prototype of a hospital. It had originally been established for knights and pilgrims wounded or sick during the First Crusade, but it now served all of Jerusalem and even the surrounding Christian states and territories.

The moment he heard there was a feverish patient, Abbot John of the monastery immediately hurried over with several priests. They needed to determine whether the patient carried plague. After an examination, they confirmed that he had only fainted and become feverish from hunger, weakness, and terror, and only then were they relieved.

"Ah," John said in surprise after hearing Heraclius's account, "he does not look like the son of a serf or craftsman."

"Yes," Heraclius said. "He may have been well-born and received a proper education."

They did not say this without reason. Aside from the child's ability to recite complete and correct scripture, once they had cleaned his body with water and watered wine, they could not find a single old scar on him. Every wound was fresh—wounds he had used to barter for the freedom he had lost.

Such a thing was rarely seen in ordinary poor children.

They slept in straw heaps alongside livestock, where bedbugs and fleas held their revels upon their bodies. They were beaten with sticks by parents or masters, whipped by overseers and guards, burned with torches, scalded with boiling water, bitten by dogs, and kicked by horses.

From infancy to youth, their only nourishment came from dried peas, acorns, and wheat porridge. As a result, they were generally thin, short, and hunched-backed. Grueling labor made their joints swell, their fingertips roughen, and their nails thicken as quickly as those of their families. They were often insufficiently clothed, barefoot or wrapped carelessly in a few scraps of rag, leaving the soles of their feet covered in thick, filthy calluses. Their teeth grew loose and brittle from chewing rough, hard food for years; sometimes their permanent teeth began falling out as soon as they emerged.

But none of these conditions appeared on this unfamiliar patient. One priest joked, "The soles of his feet are softer than my palms."

"The more that is so," Heraclius said, "the more it proves how unfortunate he is." Had they not happened to pass by, the best fate awaiting the child would have been to become a eunuch in the harem of the Byzantine emperor or the Fatimid caliph.

The priests could not help showing shame and pity at this. The priest who had made the joke even traced several crosses over his chest in repentance.

"Take good care of him," Heraclius said. "The king may come to see him again."