The Three Choices Offered by the King

Amalric I's question made everyone in the room—except the one being questioned—tense.

The king's suspicions were not without cause. At this time, people's concept of labor was at a curious turning point. In the beginning, the Church had interpreted labor as a punishment for humanity. Adam and Eve had once lived carefree in Eden, but because they defied God's will, they were cast out. From then on, men were to endure the hardship of toil, and women the suffering of childbirth.

But after the monastic reforms, such thinking underwent no small change. Labor began to be encouraged. Monks relied on farming, brewing, weaving, and copying texts to provide for themselves and their monasteries, seeing it as a form of spiritual practice. Apostle Paul's maxim—"If anyone is unwilling to work, neither shall he eat"—was mentioned by more and more people.

But to nobles and knights, labor was still unacceptable. Many young monks—originally second or third sons of noble families, raised in comfort—found that their first complaint upon entering a monastery was that they had to "plow like serfs, spin like women, and hammer iron like craftsmen."

Just as the monks' first way of judging Cesar's identity had been to inspect his hands and feet, for some people labor remained humiliating, painful, and fruitless.

Cesar had no choice but to treat this question with caution. Abbot John of the Monastery of Saint John the Baptist was undoubtedly a reformer, but what kind of man was Jerusalem's king? What answer did he want to hear?

"No one forced me, Your Majesty," Cesar said steadily. "When I could not even move, many people came to care for me. Once I recovered, of course I wished to repay them." He paused briefly. "And was it not God who first labored for six days and created heaven, earth, and all things? His work is magnificent, while ours is small. But smallness is no reason for laziness or indifference."

"Are you not afraid that people will look down on you for it, and regard you as a servant?" Amalric I asked softly.

"How can a person's future be defined by the opinions of others?" Cesar answered just as quietly, then gave a short smile. "When you and your knights passed by that hill, what did you see? The cargo of thirty-one Isaac slave traders, correct?"

"I did not count so clearly at the time," Amalric I said, unoffended by his boldness. "But you are right. Even a fated destiny may not be impossible to reverse." He made a gesture. "Heraclius, John, I wish to speak with this child alone."

When only the two of them remained in the room, Amalric I said, "I will give you three choices."

"The first choice is to become the page of John, abbot of the Monastery of Saint John the Baptist. He likes you very much. In the future, you will become a monk and take holy orders. Then... perhaps you may obtain a position at my court, or return to Francia or the Apennines. The second choice is to leave the monastery. You may choose as you please—become a craftsman, farmer, or hunter, and earn your bread by your own skill and God's grace."

"And the third?"

"The third... child," Amalric I said, "perhaps you already know that I have a son—only one—and he is close to your age. But not long before I encountered you, it was confirmed that he had contracted leprosy." He lifted his eyes and stared intently at Cesar. "You know what leprosy is, do you not?"

"I do," Cesar said. "It is an infectious disease."

"It brings many terrible consequences, though it does not kill." Amalric I said, "For that reason, I had to dismiss Baldwin's attendants. Their fathers or guardians are either my vassals, my knights, or ministers and monks surrounding me. Whether as a king or as a friend, I could not allow their heirs to bear such an enormous risk."

He turned his gaze toward the window. "Though not every one of them is a coward... I cannot.

"The problem is that Baldwin needs friends, companions to read, hunt with hawks, and train in arms with him. Cesar, we all know that you are of uncommon birth, but unfortunately you have lost your former surname and cannot reclaim it. So, are you willing to go to Baldwin's side and become his attendant?"

The king's gaze returned.

Amalric I had gray-blue eyes, as frightening as the gloom before rain. "I cannot promise that you will not become infected. I can only promise that if you agree to go to my son's side, whether you remain healthy or whole, you will be treated as the son of a duke. No one may question your origins or insult your parents. When Baldwin becomes a knight, you will be his squire. When he becomes king, you will be his knight."

Cesar's eyes widened slightly. Of course, living day and night beside a leper was extremely dangerous, but the reward Amalric I offered was equally lavish—so lavish as to be unbelievable, especially for someone who had been a slave without even a surname not long ago...

"Me?"

"Before you, there were others," Amalric I said. "Unfortunately, they all disappointed me." He raised a hand and placed it on Cesar's shoulder. "You will be the only one. Now, tell me your decision."

What was leprosy? Others might not know very much, but Cesar knew all too well.

It was indeed a malignant infectious disease that made people recoil at the sight of it and flee for fear of being touched by it. But the reason it caused such panic was not its lethality or infectiousness. On the contrary, it caused skin lesions, deformities, and disability, but did not easily take a patient's life. With treatment and care, patients could survive for a long time, and it was not easily transmitted to others—not because it was not contagious, but because ninety-five percent of people possessed natural immunity to it.

Then who was susceptible to leprosy? Those whose immunity had been weakened by malnutrition. Thus, this infectious disease was especially common among the poor.

But to say that the son of the King of Jerusalem lacked sufficient resistance because he did not have enough food would be an utter joke. He was not even a squire and had scarcely ever left Holy Cross Castle or the shelter of his father's wings. How had he contracted leprosy?

So if he chose to go to Baldwin, Amalric I's only son, what he would face might be not only leprosy, but also countless schemes and traps.

But he could make only one decision.

"I am willing to serve your son," he said.

"Raymond will surely fly into a rage," Heraclius said. "Think of his father, Raymond IV."

Raymond IV had been a remarkable man. Brave and skilled in battle, devout and steadfast, he had arrived beneath the walls of sacred Jerusalem alongside Godfrey of Bouillon and Bohemond of the Apennines during the First Crusade. It could be said that his military achievements had been illustrious.

Yet strangely, the first state founded by the Crusaders had been the County of Edessa, followed by the Principality of Antioch, and finally Jerusalem. Throughout this process, Raymond had failed for one reason or another to gain a territory where he could establish himself. In the end, he had to exhaust every effort to conquer the Saracens' last territory along the Mediterranean coast—Tripoli—before he finally joined the ranks of the Crusader kingdoms.

Heraclius spoke this way because the Count of Tripoli had been a firm supporter of bloodline legitimacy. After Jerusalem was retaken, there had been a dispute over who should become King of Jerusalem. In the end, the choice had come down to Raymond and Godfrey of Bouillon, yet Raymond had insisted on yielding the throne to Godfrey, solely because Godfrey's blood tie to King Louis II of Francia was closer to the direct line than his own.

And the Raymond beside Amalric I had clearly inherited his father's bravery and stubbornness in full. He had already been deeply dissatisfied when the king cast aside the sons of noble families and selected new attendants for the prince from among the children of exiled knights and low-ranking officials. He simply could not openly voice his opposition while everyone else remained silent. And now Amalric I wanted a former slave to become Baldwin's attendant... Raymond would surely be driven mad with fury.

"Yes," Amalric I said with a smile. "He always says that the son of a king should be served by the sons of dukes or counts." He pulled his cloak closer around himself. It was early September. In Jardin, Francia, it might have been very cold, but in the cities and kingdoms along the Mediterranean coast, the sea and its winds brought warm currents. His chill came from within.

He recalled the expressions and faces around him when little Baldwin had been sentenced—when it had been announced that he had contracted leprosy, a disease regarded as "God's punishment." Apart from Raymond and his son David, everyone had been afraid, disgusted, calculating, or secretly delighted by another's misfortune.

Those children who had once been inseparable from Baldwin had vanished in an instant. One had suddenly twisted an ankle, another dislocated an arm, while others had abruptly developed fevers. In any case, none of them could continue fulfilling their duties as attendants.

As a king, he ought to be tolerant, and he had been. But as a father, he still could not help but feel resentment and unwillingness. Baldwin was his only son, only nine years old, and his life had already become like an overturned hourglass. With every passing day, little Baldwin moved one step closer to the grave.

The poor child had already suffered enough misfortune, yet there were still people kicking him when he was down. They petitioned the king, saying that, as in Francia, he ought to enact and observe laws concerning lepers, strip Baldwin of his inheritance, and send him to live in a monastery beyond the city walls.

That was right. If Baldwin remained Jerusalem's heir, then their actions would be betrayal against both the present and future king. But if Baldwin ceased to be heir, then morally and legally, they could remain innocent, blameless good people.

"They are wrong. An attendant's honor and status come from his master, not the other way around," Amalric I said coldly. "Without their service, Baldwin remains my only son, Jerusalem's future master, and guardian of the Holy Sepulchre. And whoever serves Baldwin is the son of a count—or the son of a duke."

Hearing this, Heraclius could not help sighing. Under ordinary circumstances, he would certainly have continued trying to persuade him, but only yesterday, Rome had formally rejected Amalric I's request. The Church's reason was that mortals could not interfere with God's will. Heraclius wondered whether this had something to do with Amalric I's attitude toward the Church—Jerusalem was a nation founded upon divine authority, but Amalric I was plainly not the sort of zealot willing to bow and scrape before ecclesiastical power.

The Church had coveted the holy city of Jerusalem for a long time. As early as when Godfrey, Jerusalem's first king, died, clerics had asked whether he was willing to offer Jerusalem to the Church. If Godfrey's personal attendant had not been present and willing to testify, Jerusalem would already have been in the Church's pocket.

The only son of Jerusalem's king had leprosy. To the Church, this was a rare opportunity. How could those red-robed leeches possibly loosen their grip so easily?

But Amalric I would not bow his head and place Jerusalem into the hands of that swarm of useless maggots. For that very reason, he felt incomparably deep guilt toward Baldwin. When confronted with those ill-intentioned people, that guilt transformed into blazing fury. Now, he was merely using a slave to slap their faces. That was already remarkably restrained.

At this moment, Baldwin—the king's son, future King of Jerusalem, and guardian of the Holy Sepulchre—knew nothing at all. He was soon to meet the most important friend of his life.

He was sorting through some of his belongings. Contrary to Amalric I's worries, this precocious child had remained in his room as much as possible not because the sudden immense blow had made him depressed, timid, and endlessly self-pitying... He had accepted the truth more quickly than anyone imagined. After repeatedly questioning the monks and confirming that, unless God took pity on him, his illness would likely have little chance of being cured, Baldwin began considering his future life.

Baldwin's grammar teacher was none other than Father Heraclius, the resident priest. Heraclius had always been a learned historian and theologian, which meant that when teaching Baldwin, he often cited examples from history. Of course Baldwin had long heard of leprosy, a disease traceable to more than a thousand years before Christ, and was familiar with the various laws related to it. If, as the Church said, this was a sin—or a harsh trial... he was willing to atone and willing to endure the test.

He also wondered what his father would do. He would certainly lose his inheritance. How could a leper become king? His father might remarry, perhaps taking a princess of Byzantium as his wife and producing a new heir with her. Or he might choose a suitable husband for his sister Sibylla and hand the holy city and crown to that man or to their children.

If he was still alive by then, he would pray for the new king in a monastery.

He took out his favorite Damascus dagger, then put into the chest a Bible on calfskin parchment that his sister Sibylla had given him before. Baldwin rose and stretched his limbs. Almost unconsciously, he touched his arm again. That strange dullness was like touching a branch through thick cowhide gloves, and it drew a bitter smile from him.

It had been while playing the "endurance game"—a common game among the children of knights, in which they scratched one another to see who would be unable to bear the pain and cry out first—that he had kept winning. Only then had his swordsmanship instructor noticed something wrong. The early stage of leprosy was numbness in the limbs, a lack of sensation.

"How brave, Your Highness," he murmured, repeating what the swordsmanship instructor had said. "But did you not feel any pain?"

Baldwin shook his head. A rapid knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Your Highness!" a rough, muffled voice shouted outside. "Time for your bath!"

This was an herbal bath arranged by Heraclius, once every day to slow the illness's progression. But rather than having much medicinal effect, it was more like a comfort. Baldwin accepted the good intention. He walked out, only to find the small hall outside his bedchamber completely empty—the new servants were terrified of him, and unless ordered to do so, would never appear before him.

Baldwin lowered himself into the water. It was somewhat cold. He sighed at these people's neglect of duty. Even the scent of St. John's wort came and went—it was certain that after filling the bath, they had casually scattered in a handful, rather than adding no less than a pound of dried herbs to the boiling water as Heraclius had instructed.