Human Agency

Longinus was like the holy spear that shared his name: tall and thin, dark and sharp. He often narrowed his eyes and looked down on others from on high.

Longinus was not his original name. He had merely sworn that unless he made something of himself, he would not reclaim his family name. But now, that hope seemed ever more remote.

Wandering knights like him filled the entire Holy City. For one reason or another, they had been cast aside by their families, fallen out of favor with the lords they served, failed to fulfill or else made certain vows, or done things forbidden by customary law and canon law. Clinging to a faint shred of hope, they entered Jerusalem under the names of "pilgrimage" and "fighting the heathens."

There was nothing strange about such thinking. After all, the Knights Templar, the Knights Hospitaller, and the four Christian kings of the Arabian Peninsula had all arisen from the Crusaders. Unfortunately, the times had changed. The great powers of Jerusalem had long since taken shape; it was no longer an age when a lone knight could win admiration, gold, and a title through courage and martial skill alone.

At seventeen, Longinus had boarded a ship bound for Jaffa with a servant, three horses, a suit of armor, and weapons. Now, all he had left were himself, a leather cuirass, a longsword, and one horse. For ten years, he had sought opportunities everywhere, but great knightly orders such as the Knights Hospitaller and the Knights Templar would not even let him cross their threshold without a sponsor. Wealthy merchants and nobles who came on pilgrimage either had guards of their own or preferred to hire Knights Templar. He had turned instead to bribing Jerusalem's officials, but they were either swindlers or useless fools.

Ridiculously, it was a fool with a little compassion who finally gave him an opportunity: serving as an attendant to the clergy of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Clergy did not remain only in churches and monasteries. They often had to go out to perform sacraments for devout and wealthy believers, and once outside Jerusalem, they became one of the bandits' favorite fat targets. Perhaps one might ask: why was there no fierce competition for such work?

Well... naturally, because... the clergy were too stingy. Their wages could only keep Longinus from being naked and starving, along with an empty promise: a promise to recommend him to the King of Jerusalem. And Longinus was allowed, like a monk, to enter and leave the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Passion Square before it freely.

So Longinus used that privilege to make money.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was not open to anyone at any time, though by canon law it ought to have been. But the monks and clergy always had ways to turn away pilgrims who had not offered enough in donations. Unable to see, touch, or smell even the faintest trace of Jesus Christ's precious relics, great crowds of pilgrims could only linger before the steps leading to Passion Square, weeping as they prayed and knelt, hoping that some kind soul would take pity on them and bring them inside.

Longinus was not a good man, but he was unexpectedly skilled at spotting opportunities, and he was not greedy. He asked for only half the price charged by the clergy. Whenever he did not need to go out, at dusk and when the light was fading, he would pick a few pilgrims, claim they were his friends or companions, and bring them into the church. It could be called a win-win arrangement: the pilgrims fulfilled their long-cherished wishes, he supplemented his impoverished life, and the clergy had even more justification to order him about—though some of them grumbled bitterly about it.

Yet sometimes, the knight would gaze up at the sky and sink into deep thought. Was this all his life would ever be? He did not know when the clergy would finally lose patience and tell him to get out. Even if they tolerated him, how many more years could he maintain his present strength and sharpness? He had thought of saving some money, but armor needed repairing and polishing, horses needed feeding, blades needed maintaining, and he himself had to eat and drink...

Whenever he thought of how, five or ten years later, he might become like those aged or crippled knights he had seen—clutching a flat purse, head bowed, riding a gaunt old horse, carrying a lance that could snap at any moment, walking the path home in fear and despair, begging his nephew for charity and a job on his farm, perhaps as an overseer... perhaps with descendants, perhaps without, but even if he had descendants, they would be no more than commoners.

He had seen with his own eyes how his father and elder brother treated commoners.

Anyone with a heart would shudder at the thought.

"Longinus?"

A voice pulled Longinus back from that possible hell into the world of men. He saw Brother Thomas, and a boy at his side.

The boy wore a dark green velvet coat, the sort Longinus had rarely seen even when he was still at home. A silver cross hung before his chest. "Longinus," Thomas said, "I have something to ask of you."

"What is it?"

"I know you are familiar with the church," Thomas said. "This young brother has made a vow to cleanse the Lord's dwelling with his own hands. I have my studies and cannot accompany him—though I would gladly do so. So, knight, could you watch over him in my stead? Only from the rising of Venus each day until morning prayer."

Longinus was naturally reluctant, but he knew that Brother Thomas's worldly surname was Gerard. In Jerusalem, no one ever dared underestimate the Gerard family. Could this child be of the Gerard family? If so, Thomas's manner was understandable. But when he saw the child's eyes, he became uncertain again. He had little learning and was not much good at singing or poetry, but this child certainly possessed something utterly different from the noble youths he had seen before.

"Very well." Like all mortals, Longinus had no idea what an important decision he had made, nor that his fate would turn here. More than fear of the clergyman's command or any other motive, he was simply weary of his repetitive, despairing life. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just do as you usually do," the boy answered humbly.

"I have led my friends and companions, as well as their relatives and friends, through this holy church more than once," Longinus said. "Come with me."

Since Golgotha was called a mountain, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre built upon it could not be as level and even as some vast building on flat ground. It was divided into three sections rising one above another. At the end of a narrow, steep flight of steps lay a square plaza. "Passion Square," Longinus said. "The part open to the public."

He called it that because Passion Square—true to its name—was where Jesus Christ had suffered. In the square was a round hole, said to be the mark left when the cross bearing Jesus had been driven into the earth. Jesus Christ had once cried out and prayed above it, begging for God's mercy. The Holy Mother, the disciples, and the faithful had also knelt and wept upon this ground. Thus, long ago, the clergy of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had built a rectangular structure in the name of protecting the holy relic, concealing and safeguarding it within. Apart from pilgrims with sufficient power and wealth, impoverished commoners could only stand on tiptoe outside the pinewood doors, hoping to catch an occasional glimpse of sacred traces through the gaps that appeared and vanished.

Some of them saw Longinus leading the boy and could not help showing disappointment. Longinus was cautious in his dealings. Though the clergy tacitly permitted what he did, he had never become carried away; each day, only two or three people could enter the church through him. With this child here, there would be one fewer place today.

"But look at that nobleman's clothes," they whispered. "He does not seem like someone unable to offer a donation."

It was also Cesar's first time seeing people beyond the castle. Those who could come on pilgrimage were certainly not truly destitute commoners or slaves with nothing at all. If they could not even fill their bellies, how could they produce the food and travel money needed for a pilgrimage? Even so, their appearance and bearing could not compare to the lowliest servant in the castle. If he had to liken them to something, they were like clusters of wild rabbits: their fur disheveled, their eyes clouded, full of wariness and difficult to approach.

Longinus had long grown accustomed to people's stares. He pushed open the heavy doors for Cesar, shutting out those jealous and hostile gazes.

The place felt familiar to Cesar: walls and ceiling built from long blocks of stone, faint light falling through narrow windows before being drowned out by bright candlelight, exquisite tapestries hanging all around, portraits of saints enshrined there, banners and draperies descending from the arched ribs. The only difference was that in the middle of the granite floor, smooth as a mirror, a patch of jagged rock lay exposed. There were no pilgrims at this hour, so Longinus led Cesar over to look. "Come, touch it," he said, kneeling to feel the round hole.

Cesar did the same. But unlike pilgrims and clergy with no distractions in their hearts, he could not help thinking of that young Isaacite. He had come to save the world, only to be betrayed and judged by his own people, then executed like a thief, merely because he had touched the interests of those Isaacite officials and elders. What had he been thinking as he hung upon the cross? Did what he believed in truly exist? If he were indeed still watching this human world, and saw the clergy using his holy relics to gather and squeeze wealth from believers, would he laugh or rage?

Behind the small chapel of Passion Square lay steps leading upward, broad and long. At their summit stood cedar doors, with two clergymen waiting at either side. Beyond them lay a crimson stone as large as a bed. Longinus did not need to explain for Cesar to guess that after Jesus Christ died, his disciples had taken him down from the cross and laid him upon this stone. The Savior's blood had soaked into it, turning it into a holy relic.

Only beyond the second chapel, farther up, was the true Holy Sepulchre. Ebony double doors led into a great hall beneath a circular dome. In the hall stood a magnificent golden shrine, and within it was Jesus Christ's tomb. It had originally belonged to a wealthy merchant, who had given it to the Savior. It was a stone cave so narrow one could scarcely believe it, its entrance capable of being sealed with a stone. Jesus's disciples had done exactly that. When Christ rose again and appeared eleven times on the third day, people opened the tomb and found only a burial shroud remaining within.

Now the burial shroud had been acquired by the Church of Rome. Here, there was only the rock cavity, made extraordinarily smooth by countless hands rubbing over it. Yet under the reflection of silk and gemstones, even ordinary bluish-gray stone seemed to become lofty and resplendent.

Longinus drew open the brocade curtain, allowing Cesar to behold the last dwelling of God's Son in the world of men.

Cesar knelt and prayed silently for a while, reached out to touch the smooth stone, then gently pressed his forehead against it.

"You have seen it as well." After leading the boy—who could have earned a place in either church or court by his looks alone—through the entire Church of the Holy Sepulchre, Longinus spoke earnestly. "My lord, I do not know why you made such a vow, but with your strength alone, cleaning the whole church will take much time and effort. Your fingers will ache, your skin will grow calluses, and your fatigue will affect your work. If you ask me, you would do better to give me a sum of money so I can hire some servants for you. Whenever anyone asks, I will spread your name abroad."

His words sounded perfectly reasonable, but Cesar knew very well that this gentleman was merely carrying out the duties of a broker. It was not that he would break his word, but once he received the money, he would use the chance to bring people in to worship the holy relics in exchange for free labor. Every coin Cesar paid would end up in this wandering knight's purse.

Cesar would not blame such a small man, but neither would he let himself be led around and abandon his original intention. "That will not do," he said with a smile. "I came precisely to suffer."

He and Longinus left the church together and came out onto the square. The sky was still dark, but the pilgrims who had lingered on the steps, unwilling to leave, had already awakened. They watched Cesar and Longinus curiously. Longinus watched as the boy took from a servant something like a wooden spear, except that many scraps of cloth were bound around its end, along with a water skin. The boy sprinkled a little water over the rags, then began slowly sweeping from the first step.

"What is that?" Longinus asked.

"A mop," Cesar answered. Before he had come to the castle, floors were still cleaned by maids kneeling on the ground and wiping with rags and sponges. He did not know why, when brooms already existed, there had never been any sign of mops. Clearly, for cleaning stone and wooden floors, a mop was far more efficient than wiping by hand. He had thought there might be some taboo, but when he had servants make mops, they had immediately copied and used them with great delight—though before that, they had very solemnly asked for his permission.

Longinus wanted to ask more, but at that moment a pilgrim approached. He was dressed like a Christian, but anyone who looked closely—especially someone as experienced as Longinus—could tell at a glance that he was an Isaacite. Jesus Christ had been born among the Isaacites. He ought to have become an Isaacite elder, even a king, but the Isaacites had lacked such wisdom and foresight. They had framed and killed the Savior. Though that was suffering the latter was destined to endure, Isaacites, as executioners and traitors, had always been hated and excluded by Christians.

Longinus did not possess such pure hatred. He despised Isaacites, but he did not despise their money.

"Ah, ah, isn't this old brother Sherlock?" He walked over to the Isaacite with a smiling face and linked his arm through that fat, fleshy one.