Killing Intent

"What kind of child do you think Cesar was? Foolish? Or brave?"

Faced with Amalric I's seemingly casual question, Heraclius could not help but feel a chill run through him. He knew that the earlier... spectacle had aroused the king's suspicions.

"I know you arranged for that woman holding the child. But afterward... did you warn him, or did he do it willingly?" Amalric I continued before Heraclius could answer.

Heraclius furrowed his brow, not knowing for a moment how to answer the king. Yes, to heighten the atmosphere and prove that Cesar's asceticism had indeed been rewarded by God, he had arranged for a woman. Such things were common. Whenever the living—or even the dead—were to have the word "saint" added to their name, priests would naturally keep creating all manner of miracles: icons bleeding or shedding tears, cripples standing again, the blind seeing the light once more—of course, there truly were priests favored by God who could heal infirmities, but most were false, fabricated.

But the tremendous momentum that followed had been entirely beyond Heraclius's expectations.

What astonished Longinus was the same thing: contrary to what we might assume, in this age, people of noble birth did not even regard themselves as the same creatures as commoners, much less lowly slaves. Priests—even ascetics from sects such as the Society of the Humble—did not lightly cast out their goodwill. Whether for money or faith, they were more miserly than the Isaacites they despised.

Some might have thought Cesar was merely an ignorant child, unaware of how much invisible wealth he possessed. Yet the poor, the crippled, and the disease-ridden were equally terrifying. Their hair was like thick felt, their skin like thin paper; yellow-white pus ran from raw, fish-flesh-red sores; scabs curled up like wood shavings, and every scrape sent them drifting down like snowflakes. What covered them was less cloth than a mixture of dust and grime. They stank like dead fish. They roared and whimpered like beasts, and there was scarcely a glimmer of light in their clouded eyes—when there were more than a hundred such people, even the bravest knight would retreat.

One look at them told you they had nothing left to lose. They did not cherish their own lives, nor anyone else's. Who would dare lend them a hand? No, they would only drag those who helped them down into hell with them!

At least, that was what Heraclius had believed before that day.

He should have found it laughable, but he could not laugh. He had thought a child's innocence would be crushed by the cruelty of the world, but it had not. Those who heard that a young saint was willing to bless anyone—the drifters too poor to buy indulgences, too poor even to cross a church's threshold—had surged in like a tide, yet their urgency and impatience had not harmed anyone.

According to the knights who had gone with him, there had been some crowding at first. But once they realized that every person would receive what they sought, those countless people—perhaps hundreds, perhaps a thousand—had suddenly fallen silent. By the time Cesar completed the final day of his task, even though their number had reached a frightening level—the knights could no longer count them—the order remained impeccable. There were even people directing and coordinating the queue, so when Cesar donated the ornaments and robes on his person, someone immediately stepped forward to take responsibility for them.

"Tell me, how many people in Jerusalem are chanting his name now?" Amalric I said thoughtfully. "And my child, the king's son, Prince Baldwin—how will people describe him? A... pitiful creature... who received charity from an attendant?"

Now Heraclius no longer merely felt chilled; his scalp prickled with terror.

Cesar was, after all, not of this age. He did not know that his actions, born solely from kindness and sincerity, had instead stirred Amalric I's wariness. Especially as an attendant, his "charity" toward Baldwin had almost placed himself in a position looking down from on high—God knew that an attendant could be stupid, slow-witted, vile, lustful, greedy, even cruel or cowardly... but he could never mistake his own station... and pity his master.

What arrogance!

Heraclius was now certain that Amalric I had formed the intent to kill. If no one changed his mind, Cesar's fate would not be much better than Witt's. All it would take was one casual gesture from the king, and the boy who had received such honor and praise today would silently return to our Lord on some quiet night. Those who knew would mock in secret; those who did not would praise him from their hearts, full of joy—after hesitating for a moment, he finally said, "Your Majesty," lowering his voice, "whatever you intend to do, should you not ask Baldwin first?"

Once Baldwin had left Amalric I's sight, his first action was to draw a deep breath.

Amalric I was his father, and also his king. He ought to have been loyal to him, bowed and obeyed every arrangement he made. But after so many things, he too had changed greatly. At the very least, he had seen how many ugly hearts lay hidden beneath flowers and brocade. Cesar might have been somewhat... reckless, but his intentions were good. Baldwin also believed that his origins could not be too shameful. He would become a knight in the future, and accepting a knight's gift was not unacceptable to Baldwin now.

The prince had even asked Amalric I not to let anyone warn Cesar. If the king's wishes had not changed—he would rather have a less-than-perfect friend than a docile, cringing servant. "I will teach him," he had said.

In truth, Baldwin was not very certain himself. Though they had not spent that much time together, he had realized that Cesar was stubborn by nature. No—rather, though he had the body of a child, he possessed an adult's willpower. That meant it would be difficult to change his mind or turn aside his actions—just as with the earlier ascetic practice. Heraclius had arranged for him a pitiful mother, but the benevolent deeds that later drew hundreds upon thousands of pilgrims had been Cesar's own doing.

"Baldwin."

Baldwin turned his head. Not entirely unexpectedly, it was his sister, Sibylla—the only woman in this towering castle who could directly call him by his baptismal name.

Perhaps because there was no grand occasion today, Sibylla and her maid wore lighter garments and headscarves rather than hennins. She beckoned to Baldwin with her fingers, signaling for him to follow.

They did not walk far before reaching one side of the main tower, where an exquisite Saracen-style courtyard stood. Gooseberries and cherries flourished beneath boxwoods, mulberries, and myrtles. The four square flowerbeds held roses, irises, cabbages, and lilacs respectively, while a clear open channel ran beside the cross-shaped paths. Yet these were not the only things in this lovely little world worthy of the servants' devoted care. In a garden plot nearby grew miswak, henna, alfalfa, garlic, broad beans, and leeks.

Beneath an especially tall myrtle tree stood a stone bench, with lush green grass below it. Sibylla had her maid remain behind, then walked over and sat down. Her skirt spilled onto the ground like a great clot of congealed blood.

"Brother," she said gently as she looked at Baldwin. "It seems you have already changed our father's mind."

"King Arthur had twelve knights," Baldwin said. "In purity, none surpassed Galahad; in courage, none could compare to Gareth; in beauty, Gawain had no equal. But could you say that King Arthur's brilliance was dimmed by even the slightest measure because of that?"

"You are right," Sibylla said with a nod. "But that person beside you, Cesar..." She narrowed her eyes slightly and snapped off a sprig of rosemary at its fullest bloom. Dark green slender leaves clustered around pale purple flowers, each one whole and tender, a delight to behold. "How old was he?" Without waiting for Baldwin to answer, she continued, "Nine years old. Baldwin, you are nine as well. Yet while you were still in swaddling clothes, you were destined to become king of the Holy Land. While you were still taking your first unsteady steps, ministers had to bow to you and generals had to kneel. Every friend and companion at your side was of distinguished birth. Every one of your teachers was either a lord or a bishop."

The princess extended both hands and slowly gathered the rosemary into her palms. "But what about him? Leaving aside whether he truly lost his memories, every word he spoke, every act he performed, every choice he made... do you think David and Abigail could have reached such a level? Baldwin, perhaps you could do it, but who are you? A child of unknown birth and unknown origin, yet in only a few months he has nearly stood shoulder to shoulder with you? Do you not find that... frightening?"

"Frightening, perhaps," Baldwin answered steadily. "But as a king, as a commander, must I fear that a blade is too sharp?"

"Are you certain you can control him, rather than the reverse? Brother, you should have noticed it as well. He lacks respect for those above him."

"I do not need respect. Loyalty is enough."

"Without respect, where will loyalty come from?"

"There is also love—the love of friends and brothers."

"Though I do not wish to say it, Baldwin, you are a leper. You are healthy now, but as time passes and the days and months turn, you will grow weak, confused, and sluggish. You will suffer the torment of illness. You will change, and so will he. And then, no matter how high your position or great your power, you will not match his health and quickness of mind—he will be your knight, your close attendant, your minister, perhaps even your general. He knows you inside and out, and he... can do as he pleases..."

"I still have time, Sister. I will watch him. If he is as you say, I will not hesitate either."

"People praise your mercy, and I should sing in chorus with them. But, Your Highness, I do not have Father's courage. I cannot leave such a dangerous person at your side without any shackles."

"Shackles?"

"A flaw that cannot be cast off or concealed."

Baldwin lowered his eyes. The princess's hands were slender yet long—unlike the lovely little hands admired by the Franks, Sibylla's hands, though fair, lacked plumpness. Their joints stood out clearly, more like a man's hands. They were slowly crushing the entire sprig of rosemary. Petals trembled as they fell, and the broken leaves burst with rich fragrance.

"Lend him to me for a while," he heard his sister say slowly. "He will meet with an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"The kind that returns fate to its proper course."

Baldwin understood Sibylla's intent in an instant. The disgust and weariness he had suppressed before Amalric I finally surged into his heart.

In Francia, England, or the Apennines, the vile custom from Mesopotamia had failed to enter the courts because the population had never been especially robust. But on the Arabian Peninsula, surrounded by places such as Byzantium, Armenia, Egypt, and Syria, where eunuchs were esteemed for use in the inner chambers, how could Baldwin have known nothing of it?

But in the Christian world—especially in Jerusalem—a man useless in bed would also be seen as worthless at court and on the battlefield. Everyone would be ashamed to work alongside him; even his enemies would disdain to contend with him—much less kneel before him or submit to his command. By then, even if he possessed Gawain's beauty, Galahad's piety and purity, Gareth's valor, or even King Arthur's nobility as well, he could only become a shadow hidden behind curtains.

Too terrible. Baldwin did not say it aloud, burying the thought deep in his heart. Whatever the case, Sibylla was his sister, and her original intention had been for his sake... She might have been somewhat cruel, and this method could not be called the wisest, but... she was, after all, only a noblewoman, not a knight or a priest. He should not be so harsh with her.

"Forget that thought," Baldwin said, gently yet firmly. "I have not become cowardly to that extent."

"What is it?" Cesar asked curiously. "Is there sauce on my face?" As he spoke, he curled his fingers and wiped at the corner of his lips.

Such a crude gesture looked graceful and composed as a dance when he did it. Baldwin smiled. "Nothing. You know, I just spoke with Sibylla. Cesar, do you remember Damara? For the sake of your ascetic practice, you have neglected her for quite some time. That is truly unworthy of a future knight. My sister told me to punish you, so you would go before Damara and beg forgiveness."

"I will go." Cesar keenly sensed that Baldwin's words were not entirely true, but he did not press him. "Perhaps tomorrow."

Tomorrow was the only possibility. Heraclius had just confirmed the time of the selection ceremony with Cesar: Epiphany at the New Year, the sixth of January. The timing was indeed delicate, because the celebrations surrounding the Nativity Feast began on December twenty-fifth and reached their peak on January sixth—since December twenty-fifth had originally been Egypt's festival of the sun god, many priests and believers still thought little of it, believing Epiphany on January sixth more worthy of celebration... And that day was also close to Baldwin's true birthday. Perhaps it could sometimes be used to blur Amalric I's intention in holding his son's selection ceremony early.

Epiphany was not far away. From then on, not only did they have to continue fasting, they would also become even busier. Neither Baldwin nor Cesar wished to consider what would happen if they were not chosen—before then, Cesar truly ought to see Damara. Otherwise, they might not meet again until Lent, and the long blank interval between could draw the notice of those with ulterior motives.