Longinus's Windfall

The boy personally brought by Brother Thomas of the Gerard family had indeed left a deep impression on Longinus, but not one deep enough to affect his life. He still fretted over his future, enduring the priests' barking summons while constantly drifting through streets, alleys, and inns in search of a chance to prosper. It was not that he had overlooked Cesar. No matter how beautiful or clever Cesar was, he was still only a child. Longinus might be able to get a little money from him, but he could not pin his hopes on a little fellow who was nearly young enough to be his son.

Yet news concerning Cesar inevitably reached his ears. Cesar's appearance was simply too eye-catching; some pilgrims even thought they had seen an angel. And he was so diligent—when people saw him on the first day, while the sky was still dim and the morning star had not yet risen, they did not find it strange. He came again on the second day, and the third as well. By the fifth and sixth days, word had spread without wings that a handsome, devout young man had made a vow to clean the Church of the Holy Sepulchre all by himself. Pilgrims now gathered before the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, along with people who simply wanted to see the boy.

Unfortunately, Cesar had already finished his work on the stairs and in the square and moved into the great hall where the Holy Cross had once stood. Longinus therefore received even more commissions from within the church: leading noble pilgrims to watch Cesar at work. Most of them were noble ladies, and it was from them that Longinus learned the boy was not a member of the Gerard family, but an attendant of strange origins. When he heard that the person Cesar served was Baldwin, son of the King of Jerusalem, Longinus's heart gave a faint tremor before swiftly sinking still again.

As long as one was in Jerusalem, no one could fail to know that their prince was a leper.

Nor was Cesar the son of a count or duke. Before the king brought him back to the castle, he had merely been a slave.

At noon that day, Longinus was once again seeking opportunities in an inn run by a monastery. All sorts of people gathered there. Nobles and knights always occupied the best places, surrounded by their servants and retainers. Wanderers who had lost their surnames, like Longinus, could only hunch themselves into dark corners. But Longinus had never cared about such empty titles. As the seventh son in a large family, his standing had been no better than that of a bastard. Moreover, when he was born, his eldest brother's son was nearly old enough to become a squire. What he received, and the attention paid to him, had been pitifully scarce. He had long grown accustomed to being treated with cold indifference.

The pickled herring on the plate gave off its usual faint fishy stench, and that was only because they were not far from the sea. The beer in the leather cup was murky beyond belief, mixed with the smell of the tar used to seal it. Rather than savoring food with feeling, Longinus relied on reason to keep himself alive. He listened absentmindedly to the endless chatter and lofty talk around him, not holding much hope for any of it—he had tried before, only to be mocked for nothing or run into swindlers—until he heard the name "Cesar," along with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

He picked up his leather cup and walked over.

"I heard you," he said to a man dressed as a servant. "You were talking about the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, weren't you? What happened? Tell me."

The servant and several people clustered around the table exchanged glances so subtle they were barely noticeable. "We were talking about a wager. Don't you know?" he said with a smile. "Someone is betting on that child's vow, good sir. The stakes are not small. After all, many noble ladies are willing to place bets on that pretty little angel."

"I don't know," Longinus said. "What do they intend to do?"

"Someone swore—I'd say it was probably those noble ladies' knights—that the lad had merely made his vow on a whim, or was simply putting on a brave face. Such difficult work might be completed by a devout knight or a steadfast monk, but a child? He'll find it novel for a few days, then toss the work aside to sleep or play."

A man beside the servant clicked his tongue. "I don't think it's possible either. They say dozens of venerable monks work at it every day. I was lucky enough to accompany my lord to venerate the Holy Sepulchre and the holy relics once. Just walking through the place, good heavens, took an entire day."

At those words, several looks of envy appeared around them.

"Then he truly cannot finish it," another person said. "Looks like those poor noble ladies will lose a sum of money. How much did they stake?"

The servant swallowed. "You cannot imagine it—one hundred and fifty gold coins, perhaps more."

A dead silence fell over the place. Even Longinus felt something lodged in his throat. The gold coins the servant spoke of were the Roman gold coins used throughout Jerusalem. Scholars had calculated that in Arabia, or in Francia, the average income per person—not counting serfs—was only one gold coin. A fine suit of chain mail cost ten gold coins, a sturdy packhorse five, and rent for a small house was two gold coins a year. The gold coins here might not all have been literal coins, of course. At this time, people more often regarded gold coins as a fixed measure of wealth; the noble ladies' stakes were more likely jewels, holy relics, or silk. But their value remained the same.

"They're betting that he can... fulfill his vow?" After a long while, someone asked.

"Women are always impulsive and gullible," the servant said.

The crowd could not help falling into an even deeper silence. Longinus, too, began calculating what one hundred and fifty gold coins could buy. Bitterly, he realized that with merely one-tenth of it, he could dress himself anew and seek greater opportunities with an appearance befitting his station. As he was now, clad in stinking cowhide, torn boots and hat, with a longsword carefully maintained yet still scarred from battle, not to mention nobles—even merchants were unwilling to hire someone like him.

"But what does any of this have to do with us?" said a fellow who was perhaps a groom, before turning and walking away.

When only the servant and Longinus remained by the little table, the servant also tried to leave, but Longinus stopped him. "What do you want me to do?"

"What? Sir knight, we wouldn't dare order someone like you about." The servant waved his hand with a grin.

"Who does not know I am Longinus of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre?" Longinus said. "Speak. Why beat around the bush?"

"I'll say the same thing, sir knight. But don't you want to take a hand?"

"What?"

"Will you bet?" the servant asked.

When Longinus returned to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, there was already a contract tucked inside his leather armor. This had been inevitable. Unless he sold himself into slavery, all his possessions combined were not worth even one gold coin. The contract stated that he had borrowed three gold coins from an Isaac merchant, pledging his honor and status as a free man, and had entered the wager. If he won, then after repaying the merchant's three gold coins plus two gold coins in interest, he would still receive ten gold coins or goods of equal value.

The servant had also assured him that his master did not care about money. He would not mind giving Longinus all the winnings; he merely wanted to teach that arrogant boy a lesson. As for the child, failing to fulfill his vow would not be much of a problem—at most, he would endure some ridicule or a light beating. But for Longinus, this could not only free him from his current hand-to-mouth embarrassment, it might also allow him to attach himself to a powerful patron.

The choice he should make did not seem difficult. Was he blaspheming God? No. All devotion was inevitably accompanied by hardships and trials. Was he going to kill an innocent person? No. He did not even need to hurt the child. He merely had to take him away and hide him for a while. Would this bring down the wrath and hatred of those above him? No. Even if Baldwin were still a healthy heir, an attendant who had made a vow and then failed to fulfill it, disappointing them all, was not worth punishing a knight over.

Longinus did not need to search for him. He passed through the three sacred halls every day, and the child was devout and trustworthy enough, meticulous in all he did. Longinus could practically guess which stone tile those exquisite deerskin boots were stepping on at that very moment.

Cesar had already finished cleaning the Chapel of the Holy Cross and wiped down its cedarwood doors. The monks guarding the place cast gentle looks his way. They had seen pilgrims of every kind, from the poorest to the richest. One could not say the poor were not devout, nor that the wealthy were not steadfast. But Cesar was too young, still at an age when he had scarcely formed thoughts and will of his own. He had also made such a vow. It truly worried them that he might not be able to fulfill it.

But he had indeed done what he had promised, and they could not help growing fond of him.

Cesar crossed the cedarwood doors and sighed softly. Even with Baldwin's indulgence, completing such work alone was easily exhausting. The problem was that he had to do it. Aside from Heraclius's request, he needed to make up for a crucial deficiency.

He was not David, nor Abigail, much less Baldwin. In Jerusalem, he was an outsider through and through, knowing nothing of this place. The children of Amalric I's vassals, ministers, and knights knew the Church of the Holy Sepulchre better than any place but the castle. But to Cesar, it was merely a vast and unfamiliar building.

In any other place, Cesar could gradually acquaint himself with it over time. But the impending "selection ceremony" probably would not leave him much room to spare. He had to familiarize himself with this place as quickly as possible. Of course, one might ask: what about Baldwin?

Baldwin was the master, while Cesar was the attendant. Attendants served their masters; masters did not look after their attendants.

As always, Cesar made a swift circuit, carefully observing the walls, niches, square pillars, and draperies. Finally, he looked at the great altar and the holy stone before it, which seemed stained with blood. Red within stone, even broad swathes of red, was nothing unusual—red algae in fossils, iron, and minerals could all create patches of red in different shapes and sizes. Though the red on the holy stone did indeed resemble the imprint left by a grown man.

"This is the second most sacred place," a voice suddenly spoke behind him.

"The second most sacred?"

"Yes. The Holy Sepulchre is the most sacred," a monk said. "But you have already venerated it."

"Who are you? I haven't seen you before."

"Is it so strange that you haven't seen me? There are hundreds of monks here," the monk said kindly. "But say one name, and you'll understand. Brother Thomas sent me, child. He asked me to take you to the relic chamber. He has something to discuss with you."

"Did he say what it was?"

"No, but he did not seem to be in a hurry," the monk said. "Perhaps he hopes you can help him wipe and clean some holy vessels. They are all exceedingly sacred objects." He puffed out his chest proudly. "Though it may sound vain, I must say this: if you do not see those radiant and glorious sacred vessels, you cannot comprehend God's strength and authority."

Longinus could not hear what they were saying, but he could see the child nodding repeatedly, as though he agreed completely. Before long, he was carrying a small bucket and holding a mop as he headed toward the relic chamber with the monk. Longinus followed quietly behind. Perhaps to hold his quarry's attention, the monk paid no heed at all to someone trailing them, endlessly counting off the treasures within the relic chamber—an ivory-arm Jesus statue, an ebony cross inlaid with pearls, a golden two-handled cup... and so on and so forth.

Then they turned the corner and entered the corridor connecting to the great hall of the Holy Sepulchre. Longinus saw the boy, who had always humbly lagged one step behind, silently swing the wooden handle that had abruptly changed from a tool into a weapon. With all his strength, he struck the monk's neck—just once. The crisp smack made even Longinus feel a stabbing pain in his own neck.

The utterly unprepared monk did not even manage a groan before collapsing to the ground like a wineskin filled with wine.

The boy raised his head and saw Longinus.

"I thought you might need my help," Longinus said. "It seems I was overthinking it. You maintained sufficient vigilance. That is good."

"I heard," Cesar said, "about the wagers."

"One hundred and fifty gold coins?"

"Two hundred and fifty now," Cesar said. "That sum is enough to make some people willingly descend into hell."

"But this is a monk," Longinus said. "You are so devout, yet you do not trust a servant of God?" The fellow had not even bared his fangs yet.

"If I was wrong," Cesar said, "then God must have been using my hand to test him."

Had it not been for this place and this moment, Longinus would almost have burst out laughing. But he restrained himself. "Then you will not ask why I am here?" This was normally the time when he made his money. He ought to have had one or two pilgrims with empty purses at his side.

"There is something I have never understood," Cesar said. "How do adults find pleasure in threatening children?"

The corner of Longinus's mouth curved. "Don't you feel guilty saying that, sir? You just struck down a strong, sturdy monk for 'no reason at all.'" He glanced at the fool. "Very well. Someone did indeed try to buy and incite me into stopping you."

"Your decision?"

Longinus drew his longsword.