Cesar's Name

Amalric I did not think of the child until some ten days later.

As the guardian of the Holy Sepulchre, a strong and devout ruler who defended every right belonging to Christians beneath the watchful eyes of the Saracens, he had countless matters to attend to every day.

He had to safeguard the Holy Land; balance the powers of the residents, pilgrims, and even heathens around the Holy Land; and ease the increasingly tense relationship between the two great orders stationed in Jerusalem—the Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller.

He had to meet, negotiate with, and threaten the greedy Venetians, Isaacites, and foreign merchants, so that those miserly devils would open their purses.

That money was needed to fight Mahmud of Zengi, Saladin of the Fatimids, and Kilij Arslan II of Asia Minor; to soften the hardline attitude of Manuel, Emperor of Byzantium—his wife had unfortunately died six years ago, and as king, Amalric I wished to forge a firmer alliance with Byzantium through marriage.

And then there was his son, Baldwin.

Ever since Baldwin had been confirmed as a leper, Amalric I had been in poor spirits whenever Sunday Mass or any other sacrament was held. Not for any other reason: though Baldwin remained his heir in law, the Church forbade lepers from taking part in any sacrament. This meant that while the king, his family—consisting of only one daughter, Sibylla—and his ministers and lords attended Mass in the little chapel of Holy Cross Castle, Baldwin could only remain in his own room.

Amalric I had long pondered how to solve this small problem. Some monks, he knew, would bring Communion to the sick and injured who could not move—carrying broken unleavened bread and wine in a cup to them. If that was so, he could grant holy office to the servants at Baldwin's side and have them do it. He told Heraclius of this idea, but Heraclius looked hesitant.

"How so?" Amalric I asked pleasantly. "Is there a problem? Surely I can still afford the cost of a holy office."

"It is not that," Heraclius said cautiously. "Recently, I have heard some rumors, though I do not know whether they are true..."

After Amalric I heard him out, he said nothing and turned to leave. Yet scarcely an hour or two later, he returned to the little chapel.

"I saw it, Heraclius," Amalric I said calmly. It was impossible to say whether he had already chosen graves for those audacious servants—when they had treated the king's son with such cruelty and contempt, they ought to have guessed they would meet such an end.

"As long as one is human, one may be negligent," Heraclius said, with little blame in his voice. It was not from fear or wariness; his friendship with Amalric I was not so fragile as that. Amalric I was a king before he was a father. He could not cling to his child like a woman, day and night—and besides, the greatest malice directed at Baldwin had already been stopped by the king beyond the walls of Holy Cross Castle.

Amalric I sighed softly. "That is not what worries me most." He stared at Heraclius. "Since... then, Baldwin has scarcely left his room. He speaks to no one, has contact with no one, except Sibylla, who visits him now and then. Even after suffering such humiliation, he was unwilling to tell me... Do you think Baldwin is too gentle?"

"He has a merciful heart," Heraclius said. "I firmly believe that he has inherited your fortitude and tenacity."

"I hope so. Compared to leprosy, weakness and cowardice are what I fear most." Amalric I fell silent for a while. "...What of that child?"

Curiously, though Amalric I put it that way, Heraclius immediately knew whom he meant. "I visited the refuge only yesterday," the priest said. "He has completely recovered and regained his health. He keeps busy at work every day."

"Would you like to see him?"

"Cesar!" a monk called loudly.

"I'm here!" the black-haired boy called back. Ropes stretched before and behind him, and snow-white linen sheets hung from them. This was the considerable result of his labor from Terce—nine in the morning—until now, Sext—noon. The damp cloth swayed gently in the September breeze, carrying the fresh scent of water vapor. As he walked toward the monk, he reflected with gratitude that the monastery had enough olive oil and wood ash to make soap.

"It is time to eat," the monk said. "We shall pray, then have our meal. There is duck today."

According to Church law, most Christians had to fast for more than a hundred days each year. During a fast, one could not eat the flesh of any animal, including eggs and dairy products. During some longer fasts, such as the forty days of Lent, if the rules were observed strictly, believers and monks alike could not avoid being starved yellow-faced and skin-and-bone.

And so—many things had been extended into the realm of "non-meat": shellfish, waterfowl, beavers... Since they swam in water, they ought to count as fish... Thus in Jerusalem, ducks were "fish with feathers."

"Brother Marda cooked the duck as you said, with sour wine, blueberries, and carrots, until it fell apart tender... During the chanting, quite a few people lost themselves in the scent of the duck... They were punished, beaten, but they were not angry in the least..."

As they walked, the monk spoke in fits and starts. "Brother Marda saved you a duck neck. But do you truly want to eat that? You may have some meat. After all, it has not been long since you recovered."

"I am well now," the boy said patiently. His injuries had not been severe to begin with. The most troublesome had only been his dislocated arm; the fainting and fever had all come from hunger and strain.

This body had originally been raised well. So long as it escaped danger, rested properly, and ate several full meals, he was once more a "little Samson."

He simply could not tell these kind monks outright: "You labor so hard every day and often come into contact with the sick. You are the ones who need to eat more rich, flavorful food."

Fatigue and malnutrition could cause many problems. They also lowered the body's immunity, making contagious diseases easier to catch. He could only do his best to persuade the monks to ensure they had adequate rest, sufficient food, and clean water.

You might not believe it, but in this age called the Dark Ages by countless people, the "refuges" founded by monks to serve crusaders and pilgrims far surpassed many official residences in scale, range, and function.

This refuge belonged to the Church and Monastery of Saint John the Baptist. It had forty-five rooms; epileptics and pregnant women each had separate quarters. There was a large kitchen and storeroom, a water tower, mill, washroom, and Roman-style public latrines, as well as a broad courtyard for drying clothes and bed sheets.

Here, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, highborn and lowborn alike could receive the monks' care and treatment. In the language of the time, saving the body while saving the soul was a precious form of spiritual practice.

From what Cesar had seen, most monks performed this work with hearts full of fervor. Though their medical methods leaned more toward soothing and comfort, many patients who had entered merely from malnutrition or mental affliction truly did recover.

To those patients, these monks were beings like angels and saints.

"Wait," a voice suddenly called. "That is Cesar, is it not? Cesar, come here. An honored lord wishes to see you!" A child wearing only a tunic and wooden clogs hurried over. He was the abbot's page. At the sight of him, the monk quickly gave Cesar a push. "Go on. Do not keep the lords waiting."

"Cesar?" Amalric I looked at Heraclius. "Was that the name you gave him?"

"No," Heraclius said. "When he awoke, he had no memories of his past at all." He looked again at Abbot John, who nodded. "It may have been caused by the fever. Overheated blood can injure the brain; this is an illness that even the most devout prayers cannot cure. It was August then, so we gave him that name." He hesitated uneasily. "If Your Majesty finds it unsuitable..."

"There is nothing unsuitable about it." Cesar was a Frankish name, though its meaning in Latin was even more widely known—Caesar, emperor of Rome. The first Caesar had named August after himself. "That title no longer carries any political meaning."

Amalric I said gently, "A blacksmith may be called Alexander, a farmer may become Henry, and there is nothing strange about an attendant choosing Cesar for a name." He paused slightly. "Or do you think that child might dishonor the name?"

"Absolutely not!" John said with iron certainty. His choice of words and tone made Heraclius glance at him curiously. John was no monk ignorant of worldly affairs beyond ascetic practice. He came from the Gerard family; Barnes of the Gerard family had founded the Knights Hospitaller. Though the current Grand Master of the Knights Hospitaller was Auger de Balben, the Gerard family still held a position in Jerusalem that could not be ignored.

"Let me show you his lessons," John said. He hurried to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a stack of parchment. "He can count and calculate. He can speak and write Latin, Isaacite, and Greek. He can even compose simple poetry." Tilting his head, he thought for a moment. "He also plays the lute, paints, and rides."

"He has received precisely the education a baron's... no, an earl's son ought to receive," Heraclius said. "Did you not say that he had forgotten his past?"

"Perhaps that education has been branded deep into his bones and blood," Amalric I said, his fingers brushing over the raised and sunken handwriting on the parchment—the ink of this era was generally quite thick. "Or perhaps he has hardships he cannot speak of."

Certainly, children from Frankish lands or the Apennine Peninsula might be carried off to Jerusalem by Saracen pirates, or pilgrims might come to harm along their journey. But for a child who had plainly received such refined and complete instruction and upbringing, and who was healthy besides, to suddenly appear in the hands of an Isaacite slave trader was truly unlikely. To educate a child to such a degree would cost almost his weight in gold and silver, not to mention the care and effort involved.

Amalric I had seen too many schemes and plots in this world, too much mutual deception and intrigue. For an inheritance, a son might imprison his mother; an uncle might murder his nephew. A youngest son overly favored by his father, even if unable to take his ancestors' inheritance, might still divide his elder brother's interests with his father's support. If the elder brother was unwilling to murder kin, he might simply take his younger brother away and abandon or sell him.

Then they heard a light knock at the door: two knocks. The person outside waited respectfully for a while, perhaps three minutes, before knocking twice again.

At the king's signal, John, who had deliberately delayed, finally called, "Is that Cesar? Come in."

The first person Cesar saw was Abbot John standing in the middle of the room, a fat man who looked contented and cheerful. Only afterward did he see the man seated by the desk—Amalric I, king of Jerusalem and protector of the Holy Sepulchre. He was not tall, but he was extraordinarily broad and powerfully built, three times the width of one monk attending behind him.

Though perhaps that was because the monk was rather too thin.

As the boy bowed and greeted the three noblemen, Amalric I carefully examined the child he had saved from the Isaacites' castration knife.

If anyone claimed that the person before them was a slave now, one hundred and two people out of a hundred would disagree—because there would certainly be a stubborn fellow who shook his head three times.

His dislocated arm had long since been set. The wounds once left by hooves, dogs, and whips had faded into pale red marks, which only made his skin appear whiter—not pallid, blue-white, or gray-white, but healthy and lustrous, white like scalded cream. His fingers and toes were slender and soft, without thick calluses or ugly scars. His hair was black as ebony; his green eyes were bright and clear. He had a broad, smooth forehead, long limbs, and a straight, tall figure.

Most rare of all, he possessed neither the impulsive recklessness common to boys his age nor the shrinking gloom often seen in slaves. His gaze was more upright and steady than that of any of his peers.

"What were you doing just now, Cesar?" John asked. He made no effort to conceal his fondness for the child. "I saw you coming from the courtyard."

"I was helping wash the bed sheets," Cesar said.

"Oh my," John said, glancing at Heraclius and the king. "That is very heavy and exhausting work."

"I merely did what I could." After waking, he had discovered that this body, though slender in appearance, seemed to contain inexhaustible strength. Even such grueling labor as washing bed sheets—requiring constant rinsing, wringing, and hanging—came more easily to him than to others. When he finished, he did not feel tired; instead, he felt the pleasant ease that came after exercise.

"What else did you do?" John pressed. Heraclius knew that question was for their benefit—John was being a little too eager. If he had raised the topic for that purpose, the resident priest guessed he might be disappointed.

Cesar was a little surprised. His expression showed that he did not think he had done anything worth mentioning before the king. "Tending the vegetable patch, caring for patients, kneading dough in the kitchen, scraping parchment, mixing ink... Small things."

"Small things..." Amalric I murmured. "Perhaps someone has told you that you are not of humble birth, that you may even be the son of a lord... You have no need to do such lowly work. Is someone forcing you?"