The Rising of Venus (Part One)

Just as Cesar thought he had made another mistake, Longinus asked, "Do you have five gold coins?"

"Yes, but why?"

"Because with five gold coins, you can hire me." Longinus said, then turned with sword in hand to face the enemies who had emerged from the darkness at some unknown moment.

"You see," Cesar said serenely, "I too wanted to trust God's servants." They were not among the hills of the Judean Hills, nor in the filthy harbor of Jaffa, yet even in the Lord's dwelling place and resting place, assassins could still run rampant without restraint.

This time, Longinus truly laughed aloud. Fearlessly, he advanced on the startled mercenaries. They came from much the same background as Longinus: unsuccessful, with no road home, their pockets empty, able to rely only on their own martial skill. They had thought Longinus would compete with them for this reward. They had not expected him to choose another road.

"Move aside, Longinus," said the leader. He had heard Longinus's name and knew that he was a warrior exceptionally skilled in fighting and battle. He did not wish to create needless complications. "We can include a share for you, if only you move aside."

"Come," Longinus said.

"Very noble, and very foolish." As he spoke, the man charged forward. He was quite confident. There were five of them—three to deal with Longinus, two to seize the boy.

At least four of these five men were far too careless, Longinus judged. Perhaps they thought this business did not involve taking lives. Though they could not understand why Longinus had suddenly changed his mind, they believed he would not get serious over a slave. That gave Longinus his chance. His longsword pierced one man's lower belly first, then twisted. The unfortunate fellow howled and dropped to his knees, conveniently blocking his companions' path. Though they shoved him aside in rage and haste, they could not stop the dagger Longinus threw.

He fell, clutching his throat.

"I told you to watch out for him!" the leader shouted furiously.

Wandering knights who could not be taken in by a king or a brotherhood often gradually lost their courage and strength in the embrace of strong drink and women. Longinus had never been among them. His blades were always honed sharp enough upon bandits who tried to rob priests, and so was his will. Being outnumbered did not make him shrink back; instead, it kindled fiercer, more vigorous fighting spirit within him.

"Catch that boy!" the leader shouted again. His martial skill might not have been inferior to Longinus's, but the moment he saw the smile on that dark, gaunt face, he instinctively wanted to retreat. He knew such thoughts were deadly in a fight, but one could not expect much courage from a man willing to lay hands on a child. Still, when his eyes glanced past Longinus, his heart sank sharply.

The black-haired, green-eyed boy was not standing stiffly in place like the little noble brats they were used to seeing, waiting to be caught. When Longinus had turned away, he threw the small bucket and wooden pole to the ground, then nimbly climbed a pillar beside him. As a mercenary tried to leap up and grab him, he sprang sideways and threw himself into a flag of the Kingdom of Jerusalem—many such flags hung from the ribbed arches beneath the church dome, asking God to grant protection to those nations and groups.

The dyed-wool flag was rough and sturdy, fastened at its upper end to an iron ring. Bearing the weight of a nine-year-old boy posed no problem. It hung in midair, at a height and distance that were perfectly safe. But without the slightest hesitation, the hunters took the small crossbows hanging from their belts. Their bolts were extraordinarily thin, nearly useless against armored knights, but against a child... if the child fell, they could seize their reward.

Their leader kept Longinus occupied, but Cesar had already pulled out a whistle and blew it with all his strength.

Among the gifts the squires and servants had given Cesar were several whistles—bone, horn, and metal. He always carried a palm-length brass eagle whistle. Such whistles, used to call hawks and falcons, could produce a piercing sound; otherwise, they could not summon back a hunting falcon that might have flown thousands of feet away.

They were in the corridor linking the second and third halls. To prevent pilgrims from sneaking in to venerate the holy relics, the corridor could be regarded as one long room. Its windows were set high overhead, with niches on one side and concealed arches on the other. The sharp, lingering cry of the eagle whistle was like an arrow piercing Christ's throat, rapidly shuddering and echoing through His breast.

To avoid too much interference, Cesar had chosen the time when the halls held the fewest people. The pampered nobility naturally had no need to worry over the hour; diligent priests waited upon them at all times. Those who rose after morning prayers could already be considered industrious. Most did not arrive leisurely until the afternoon office, around two or three in the afternoon. Priests should have been on duty here. They had either been bribed or lured away. But no matter how far away they were, or how intently absorbed in scripture, as long as their ears worked, they would surely hear that sound.

The mercenary leader cursed in irritation. "Hell-bound beast!" He did not care in the least that he himself was the one who had slipped into the Lord's dwelling on earth to commit evil. Longinus guessed he must have quite a few indulgences.

By the time the priests arrived, the surviving mercenaries had already fled, leaving behind only one dead man and one man about to die. A priest hurried to the man whose lower belly had been pierced, clasped his hand, and anointed his forehead with oil taken directly from a nearby lampstand, crying, "Repent!" The dead man beside him received the same treatment, lest this holy place be defiled by sinful souls.

Without a word, Longinus stretched out an arm and shielded Cesar behind him. Together, they retreated into the shadows. The arriving priests, intentionally or otherwise, ignored them until Thomas stormed in with several monks. Yet he only gave Cesar a brief glance before turning his attention to assigning blame and getting to the bottom of the matter. The priests and monks divided into three clearly distinct factions, perhaps even more, but it was clear that Thomas stood evenly matched with another high-ranking priest.

Someone had deliberately allowed mercenaries seeking to sabotage this act of devotion inside. Naturally, whether by canon law or customary law, they ought to be punished. But as to who would suffer losses and who would profit, even outsiders like Cesar and Longinus could see it at a glance—Amalric I and Prince Baldwin were Cesar's secular masters, while the Gerard family were Cesar's guarantors before Christ. If Cesar could complete this arduous work, it would be a great benefit not only to himself, but to those who supported him as well.

About a quarter of an hour later, Thomas... at least won a temporary victory. His opponent left resentfully with a group of priests and the dead men. Only then did he have time to concern himself with the Gerard family's latest investment. When he learned that Cesar was neither frightened by what had happened today nor deterred by rumors, he clapped his hands in delight, lavishly praised God and the saints, and assured Cesar that he would suffer no further disturbances. He would assign two strong brothers—what priests called one another—to attend Cesar and ensure that his vow could be fulfilled without hindrance.

"You should let a priest look at your wounds too," Cesar said as they returned to the silent corridor, hanging the money pouch from Longinus's belt. "Once I finish this, I'll go back."

"May I escort you back?" Longinus asked tentatively.

Cesar smiled. "I am not even a squire yet," he said. "As bad as things are outside the castle, inside it is even worse. I do not want to lie to you, sir. Baldwin and I have not grown up yet. We do not have spare strength to shelter others."

Longinus weighed the money pouch in his hand. "That is not entirely true," he said, curling his lips mockingly. "Lives outside are not as precious as you think, and gold has far greater power than you imagine."

"Then have you not suffered a grievous loss?"

"I am not some shallow fool," Longinus said. "Though I am not very clever either, I know that anything involving the court, the Church, or the nobility is never as simple as it appears to be." He lowered his eyes to Cesar and squeezed the gold in the pouch until it crackled. "In the past, I would have chosen to stay far from trouble. But this time, I probably cannot. As for why I stand on your side—because I do not trust them. If those people can disregard God and fear neither law nor morality, how can I trust them to keep their word to a knight without a surname?"

"Sadly, there are far too few clear-sighted people like you," Cesar said calmly. "Then, if you are willing to wait for some time, could you help me with something?"

"Please tell me."

This matter did not create much of a stir.

Neither Longinus nor Cesar was indignant in the least. Perhaps the most precious thing about them was their awareness of their own place: a wandering knight, a leper's attendant... Though Amalric I constantly reiterated that his attitude toward Baldwin would not change, almost everyone was watching and waiting—for the coming selection ceremony.

If Baldwin was chosen, every obstacle—or at least most of them—would melt away like ice before the sun. If he was not, his best possible future would be to become an unnamed ascetic monk.

Amalric I handed the investigation to Heraclius. Unfortunately, the final result could only fall upon that ridiculous wager. Other than the two mercenaries, there was no one to hold accountable. First, there was no evidence. Second, they could flatly deny committing any serious crime against the prince's attendant—they could even claim that they had merely wanted to play a joke on Cesar. In the end, this man-made accident had indeed caused no irreparable consequences.

As consolation, Cesar received many rewards, rich enough that if he could leave Jerusalem, he would have enough to acquire a small fief in some barren place. Of course, he could not.

The only consolation was that Cesar's devout observance became known to more people through this wicked act. When people spoke of him now, they no longer called him "that fortunate slave," but "that devout attendant." Just as Heraclius had hoped, when people saw someone sumptuously dressed and dignified in appearance, they would say, "What a noble person!" Because Cesar had made such a vow and carried out such heavy work, some came to believe that Prince Baldwin, who had an attendant like this, should not be a sinner punished by God.

On the final day of Cesar's labor, the steps, roads, and lanes around the Church of the Holy Sepulchre were filled with people who had come to see him. There were certainly people of high status among them, but far more were ragged, hollow-faced poor folk. To make their pilgrimage, they might have exhausted their life savings and their last scraps of strength, only to be shut outside the holy gates because they had underestimated the priests' greed.

Their only hope was to meet a merciful lord or lady, or, as now, to meet someone respectable and virtuous. They worshiped him as a saint, hoping through him to open the gates to Heaven.

Seeing this, the knight accompanying Cesar clicked his tongue. "Shall I call some servants to drive them away?"

"Will they tear me apart and eat me?"

Cesar was not joking, though the knight took it as one. He laughed for a while. "No," he said. "But they are filthy, and they may steal your lace and ribbons."

"If that is all I stand to lose, I can afford it," Cesar said.

By the time Venus rose, Cesar had already met those pitiful people barred from entering. But those lingering outside the holy gates could not even be counted as the poorest. Amid the ragged clothes crowded in the shadows, only longing eyes still glimmered. The hands they stretched out were like dead branches in the Judean Hills. They made almost no sound, perhaps because they lacked the strength, perhaps because they feared being rebuked. Nor did they dare approach boldly, until one brave mother raised her swaddled son in both hands and crawled on her knees to Cesar's side.

"My lord, sir," she pleaded in a dialect that was almost impossible to understand, "touch him, touch him, make him well..."

A stench struck them faster than her voice.

In an age when only powerful people suffering grave illnesses might bathe every day, the poor, whether because their pockets were empty or because the Church demanded it, could bathe only once in their lives—at baptism. Not to mention that their wooden basins and clothes were precious inheritances meant to be passed down to their children and grandchildren, never to be worn away in vain. Thus, reeking from head to toe was unavoidable.

Cesar looked down. Whether from malnourishment or illness, the infant, though only a few months old, was as ugly as a monkey. He reached out and touched the child's forehead.

The mother said a few more words that Cesar could not quite understand. "Wait," he said, gesturing for her to take a date from him. "For your child."

He did not know whether the child was ill, but he knew that much of the discomfort suffered by the poor at such times came from malnutrition. The honeyed dates Baldwin had given him were an expensive food, containing a great deal of sugar, and sugar meant energy. These common people, struggling to survive with the tenacity of wild wheatgrass, might live on with only this small comfort.

Cesar could feel the knight beside him grow somewhat tense. To men like him, these people were beasts of burden and wild animals, less than servants—beasts of burden when docile, wild animals when violent. The knight might even have been silently blaming him: why stir up trouble? But Cesar knew very well that his touch could do nothing for illness or hunger. Even a king gave a sick person an additional gold coin during the royal touch, so they could eat, drink, or seek treatment, let alone a mere attendant.

One date would only make the child sweet for a while, but it might save him.

The mother clutched the date tightly in her hand. "You will be blessed, saint," she said firmly. "God will reward you. If I can, if my child can, we will repay you too."

Cesar heard the knight behind him give a snort of laughter. "That is enough, madam," he said, and continued onward. The disturbance the knight had feared did not occur. People continually stretched out hands toward Cesar, but as long as Cesar touched their fingertips, they were satisfied. No one pulled at him, no one shouted, and no one tried to steal his money pouch, cross, or other small ornaments.

Longinus followed behind Cesar. He knew some people mocked him as a slave's slave, but he did not care in the least. His eyes remained fixed on the black-haired boy and on the hands extended toward those pilgrims so poor that even thieves could not be bothered to glance at them. Those hands swayed like grass stirred by the wind. If even one or two people acted on impulse or harbored malicious intent, Cesar would fall into the crowd, sink into those foul, rotting bodies and tattered rags. He might be hurt, crippled, or infected with plague.

Yet until they entered the small hill where the Holy Cross had once stood, and until the priests pushed shut the holy gates to bar the pilgrims outside the church, those hands never withdrew.