The Chosen (Part One)

Cesar looked at the candle stand on the altar. Most of the candles were still burning, though not much was left of them. An ordinary candle could burn for four or five hours, but for an important ritual like this, the candles used were far thicker than common ones, nearly as long as an adult man's arm and requiring both hands to hold—such candles could burn for at least a full day and night...

He immediately realized that he had made another mistake. Before the ritual, he had asked Heraclius about "grace" and "bestowal," but as one of the few people of this age truly bold in matters of faith, even the monk had found it difficult to explain clearly to him. The truth now proved that it truly could not be described; even if it were described, it might be wrong, leading others astray instead.

At this moment, though, he could not help wanting to curse. Heraclius should at least have told him that once they entered that state, they would lose consciousness for far longer than he had imagined!

Past experience had misled Cesar. He had thought that in all mental activities, time ought to pass faster than it did in reality. Who would have thought that here, it was exactly the opposite? He had not asked Heraclius about this, and Heraclius, trusting his new student, had not mentioned it either.

But the people who had laid this trap knew. They knew that he and Baldwin would pray before the altar for a long while, and—if they were chosen—that time would be extended still further. They also knew that, to raise the chance of being chosen, Heraclius, skilled in medicine, would certainly prepare a special draught for the two children at the king's command.

Heraclius had been so careful, so cautious when preparing the medicine, precisely because with such a draught, even a little more or a little less could bring about a tragedy none of them wished to see.

Their enemies had exploited that. They had put poppy paste into the lamp bowls, perhaps covering it with a thin layer of olive oil. Before Baldwin and Cesar entered the church, the Knights Templar had inspected every corner. They had even sent nimble squires up to inspect the beams. But who would pay attention to those gleaming lamp bowls?

Even the poppy paste's distinctive, heavy sweetness had been concealed beneath the scents of other incense. And at first, the scent of the paste had been extremely faint. Only after the wick had burned through the olive oil and reached the poppy paste, then continued burning for several hours, could the substances in the air shatter the balance within their bodies.

Their earlier vomiting, convulsions, constricted pupils, and halted breathing had all been obvious symptoms of drug overdose.

Baldwin understood as well. He raised a hand, intending to thrust his fingers down his throat and make himself vomit, but Cesar immediately stopped him. After more than ten hours, even that fish bladder had probably been completely digested. The drug had entered their bloodstreams already. Vomiting would accomplish nothing except drain their strength and injure their throats—though if they had a great deal of water, drinking it could at least dilute the concentration of the drug in their bodies.

But there was only lamp oil here.

Strength came to Baldwin from nowhere. He seized the altar and forced himself upright, then pulled Cesar toward the exit.

There were far fewer lamps in the corridor and nave, and the scent of poppy paste was fainter there. But Baldwin did not stop. He reached straight for that glaring black silk cord, and Cesar grabbed him. "What are you trying to do?!"

If he pulled that cord, the bells outside would ring and the main doors would be opened. Naturally, the "selection ritual" would be declared a failure.

Baldwin turned around and looked at Cesar with unwavering eyes. If he had never met Cesar, if he had been here alone, he would rather die than walk out through those doors carrying disgrace and condemnation upon his back.

But Cesar—Cesar was a healthy boy, beautiful in appearance. Even if he was not chosen, he was already Heraclius's student. Heraclius could easily secure a church office for him.

And in the Church, while some popes throughout history truly had been "chosen," far more were ordinary men. They commanded priests and monks with "grace" or "bestowal" as men commanded hounds and horses—who knew whether Cesar might one day become such a man?

"You cannot die here." Baldwin paused, only then realizing that he had spoken his heart aloud. He quickly stressed, "We cannot die here!"

Cesar stared at him without speaking. He only leaned forward and embraced his friend's shoulders. But after that brief warmth came a bucket of ice water poured straight over him—he held out his hand for Baldwin to see. Before Baldwin could lower his gaze, he caught the thick scent of blood. He thought Cesar had been injured. "It flowed in through the gap beneath the door," Cesar said quietly.

Guess what will be waiting for you after you pull the cord and the door opens—guards, or assassins?

"This is the church," Baldwin murmured, somewhat dazed.

"So what?" Were you still planning to reason with those utterly vile people? Cesar rose to his feet. "Come with me."

He walked toward the side aisle. In the little niches there, the saints remained solemn and silent. Cesar looked them over, then pulled the axe from Saint Jude's hand.

The sculptors of ancient Rome had once drawn lifelike knotted muscles, smooth skin, flowing curls, and dense, graceful folds from marble itself. Yet those exquisite skills seemed to have vanished quietly with the collapse of that colossal empire.

The stonemasons of today were considered skilled craftsmen so long as they did not carve men into women, children into old men, or saints into devils. As for things people knew well and which demanded fine workmanship—axes, longswords, garments—they were utterly incapable of making them.

But there was a solution for what they could not make. They could hang cloth over stone statues—then sell it later as relics—or simply place real swords, axes, and flaying knives into the saints' hands.

Baldwin thought Cesar meant to take the weapons and fight those outside. Instead, Cesar headed toward the wooden partition wall along one side of the corridor. Behind it should be another narrow, elongated space. "You know the Saracen proverb—cleanliness is half of faith."

As the heir to the King of Jerusalem, Baldwin naturally knew those words. Their greatest prophet had spoken them, and thus every Saracen had to bathe before worship.

Cesar raised the axe and brought it down on the merciful face of the Virgin!

The plans Damara had given him, supplied by the Gerard family, were less plans of the church than of Al-Aqsa Mosque—or, more precisely, of this gray-domed mosque that the Knights Templar had remade into a church.

Saracen doctrine imposed no excessively stringent demands on the construction of mosques. They only had to face east, possess a pulpit and a prayer niche, and, most importantly, have a "water room."

From the outside, the gray-domed mosque was rectangular. Yet the Saracen prayer hall was square. What, then, was that extra little rectangle for?

Two water rooms, as well as a small courtyard and pool. When the Knights Templar arrived, they demolished the walls of the prayer hall, but sealed up the water rooms so that the interior would appear to form a "cross."

And by sealed, as mentioned above, it meant merely hidden behind cedarwood partitions. The Grand Master of the Knights Templar at the time had considered the matter for a long while, but in the end had not completely destroyed the water rooms. After all, Temple Mount—as the name implied—was a hill. All water had to be brought in from outside the city, through underground channels.

The Knights Templar's current water supply came from another source, but would it not be better to have an additional hidden water room?

As he chopped, Cesar struggled to recall a map of underground tunnels he had drawn after receiving the plans, combining them with descriptions from the holy books.

Before the year 700, Hezekiah, king of the Isaacites, had filled in the water sources outside the city to resist the Assyrian assault. But then how were the people of Jerusalem meant to drink? Before doing so, he had secretly ordered craftsmen to build a deep underground tunnel. This tunnel, sixteen hundred feet long, ran from Gihon Spring outside the city to the foot of Temple Mount, where it flowed into a square pool called Siloam.

When the Isaacites of ancient times worshipped at the First Temple, they washed their hands and faces in the Pool of Siloam. And after the Savior came into this world, he smeared spit and mud upon a blind man's eyes, then told him to wash in the Pool of Siloam—the blind man washed, and his sight was restored. Thus this place too became a site of holy miracles.

But in the Gospel written by Saint Luke, he had also clearly recorded that the Tower of Siloam fell and crushed eighteen people to death.

That meant the Pool of Siloam had already collapsed and vanished before the year 62. But Hezekiah's Tunnel and the shaft connected to it remained. The people of Jerusalem still drew water from them, as did Temple Mount. When the Saracens built their mosque here, they had dug a winding upward tunnel to provide the water rooms with an unceasing supply of clean water.

"Teacher said," Baldwin panted as he borrowed a saw from Saint Simon's hand and helped Cesar break open the wooden partition, "that the Saracens installed a Greek screw pump in the tunnel to bring the water up."

The partition had stood for decades. Even with maintenance, its interior had long since rotted away. Though they were only two weakened children, breaking it apart took surprisingly little effort.

He could already smell the cold, dank breath seeping through the crack. "But the screw pump used black iron and copper parts, so the Knights Templar dismantled it." Cesar borrowed a longsword as well. He thrust it into the crack, bent down, and pressed his weight against the hilt. Amid a wave of dizziness, a series of cracking sounds came from the gap, followed by an enormous CRACK!

The partition broke, and Cesar lost his balance with it, crashing down atop Baldwin. Baldwin cried out as his head struck a nearby pillar.

But the crack had become a vertical doorway.

"We can get in!" Baldwin shouted. Cesar gripped his arm with his backhand. "Wait!"

The tunnel might connect to the outside, allowing air to enter. But a room sealed for decades—just to be safe, Cesar removed several candles and placed one of them inside the room. After waiting a while, the flame did not go out. Instead, it grew from small to large. Only then did they crawl in one after the other.

The room was larger than they had imagined. The floor and walls were faced with smooth stone. By candlelight, Cesar saw the small black holes left behind where metal water spouts had been removed—apparently, the Knights Templar of that time had truly been short of money.

Holding a covered oil lamp in the Cesar style, Baldwin walked to a raised foundation, unable to tell what it was for. "The wheel of the screw pump..." Cesar said. There was no need to explain. It had been a large metal component, probably turned into the Knights Templar's spears and shields long ago...

They quickly found the tunnel entrance by following the wheel's foundation, but it was filled with stones.

"Let's check the other room," Baldwin said at once.

Tearing down the second room's partition exhausted them utterly. They even leaned against the wall and slept for a while before finding the strength to continue searching.

This tunnel entrance was piled full as well, but not with stones—with wood! Baldwin moved the oil lamp closer and saw delicate patterns, lines, and Saracen script. Cesar, standing farther away and seeing more of it at once, said, "It's a Saracen pulpit."

A pulpit had a distinctive, conspicuous shape. Even if the writing upon it had been scraped off, it could not be placed in a Christian room. The Knights Templar had therefore reused it as scrap, but in doing so, had given them an opportunity.

Cesar could not help crying out, "God bless us." He had made preparations, yes, but the events of these past days had taught him that preparations could never be as thorough as accidents or conspiracies. This way, he could abandon those more dangerous backup plans.

Next, they pried and chopped, finally exposing the tunnel entrance. At first Baldwin blamed the Knights Templar of that time for being too rough and careless, but upon seeing the entrance, he understood the reason—the tunnel's diameter was only one and a half feet, perhaps even less.

A nine-year-old child could draw himself up and crawl through it. An adult man, especially a knight who trained every day and ate meat except on fast days, would be lucky not to get stuck inside!

Do not believe those tales. The idea that a small child could crawl in or out through a hole, open a gate, and let in enemies was simply impossible. In a real battle, those infiltrating had to be a true band of warriors before they could threaten a city or castle.

"I'll go down first," Cesar said. As a leper, Baldwin had been struggling to hold on, and Cesar could see that Baldwin did not refuse. They borrowed more cloth from the saints, cut it into strips, braided it into rope, and tied it around Cesar's waist.

"If we get out of this, we'll probably have to buy a thousand years' worth of indulgences," Baldwin said softly.

Cesar laughed, then slowly lowered himself into the tunnel. This felt even worse than when he had rescued Count Étienne. It was nothing less than a hard esophagus. Fortunately, beneath the esophagus lay an expanded stomach—here too, there was a space, small but large enough for him to turn around.

Cesar lit a candle. He saw a square pool, as well as marks clearly left by long friction. That was right. A screw pump was not long enough to connect Hezekiah's Shaft directly to the gray-domed mosque. The Saracens must have made some alterations—he waved the candle upward, and Baldwin followed him down.

"We still have about three hundred feet to go," Cesar said.

"Mm," Baldwin said.

The stretch that followed was one Cesar and Baldwin would likely never forget for as long as they lived. Darkness was a familiar visitor to people of this age. Cramped spaces were not so rare, and oppression was commonplace. But combined, they became unbearable—especially when they were not walking, but slowly climbing downward, never knowing where each step would land.

Baldwin's reaction was especially intense. Several times, he thought he was already dead, already buried in a grave. He was bound in a lead coffin, perhaps with a stone sarcophagus outside it. Everything in the mortal world had drifted away from him, never again to have the slightest connection to him...

Then he woke to find Cesar, beneath weak candlelight, listlessly slapping his face. As he slapped him, he muttered something in a very low voice.

Baldwin tried hard to listen, only to discover that he could not understand a word. It was not Greek, Latin, Saracen, or any language he had ever encountered. He could only barely make out a few familiar syllables.

"...You're awake." Cesar did not change expression. He asked gently, "Do you feel better? Hold on a little longer. We're almost there."

Baldwin wanted Cesar to leave him here, but even if Cesar were not a good person, he could not possibly do that—unless he wished to face a lion's wrath. Amalric I would certainly see him as the murderer of his prince.

The slope of the final stretch of tunnel eased noticeably. "There's wind," Cesar said hoarsely. But Baldwin could no longer move. A burning fever had seized him, so Cesar tied the rope beneath Baldwin's elbows, fastened the other end around his own waist, and dragged him onward as he crawled out.

Cesar crawled for perhaps a hundred years—or so it seemed to him. Then he suddenly plunged downward again—he almost thought he had entered another illusion, but no. He sank straight into water!

Water—cold, but clean, sweet water!

Without hesitation, Cesar swallowed several great mouthfuls, then surfaced and found the tunnel mouth. He dragged Baldwin over, splashed him with water, and woke him. This time Baldwin needed no instruction. He immediately bent down and drank desperately from the surface.

"We... cough." The icy water lowered the heat inside and outside his body. Only then did Baldwin regain a little awareness and begin slowly gathering his scattered gaze. "...This is... the shaft?"

"Yes." Cesar let Baldwin sit leaning against the tunnel. The water was freezing. Baldwin tried to pull him over, only to discover that he could not even raise his hand. He could only do his best to look upward through the shaft, and then he saw a new moon, pure and bright beyond compare.

Baldwin smiled. But the next instant, the smile froze.

The crescent moon was blocked out. He saw a face above him, smiling too.

Much later.

Baldwin: Do you remember when we were nine, when we were trapped in the church and had to escape through the Saracen tunnel?

Cesar: Of course.

Baldwin: Then do you remember saying something—&%￥￥ Amalric I, &%... Heraclius, &%%&% Baldwin? I repeated it from memory—I've always remembered it, but I could never find anyone who could translate it. What did it mean? Was it a blessing?

Cesar, once again without changing expression: Yes. It was a blessing, only rather broad in scope. Something like blessing many generations, along with many relatives.

Baldwin, sincerely: Then I bless you as well—&%￥￥, &%...&%%&%.

Cesar: ...Thank you.