An Indulgence for Ten Thousand Years

Baldwin saw the sight in Cesar's eyes as well. He had thought he would be beside himself with joy. If contracting leprosy meant being cast into hell, then being "chosen" was undoubtedly a spider's thread hanging down from heaven. He did not dare entertain even a momentary hope of being cured, but at least now there was a sliver of hope.

But when it truly arrived, he searched himself again and again, yet could not find the slightest trace of excitement or joy.

Where had things gone wrong?

No matter what, Cesar ought to have been more qualified than he was.

Was it because he had smashed the holy icons? Or because he had left the original site of the ceremony—the Temple Church? Or perhaps because he had forged a miracle?

More likely, it was because he had insisted on remaining at his side, beside a leper cursed—or punished—by God?!

Compared to Baldwin's terror and anxiety, Cesar was much calmer. Before the ceremony, Heraclius had publicly acknowledged him as his student; at the very least, he would begin as a monk or cleric.

Now that he thought about it, Heraclius had certainly acted out of appreciation for him, but more than that, it had been to steady his state of mind. After all, only he and Baldwin would be present at the Selection Ceremony.

Everyone lost control sometimes. There were no exceptions.

Cesar was about to find a way to calm Baldwin, who looked utterly panicked, when he suddenly froze.

In Baldwin's sapphire-blue eyes, he saw the same light.

The poet cursed inwardly. This reckless fellow had completely broken his rhythm, but the other man was a hulking brute. When excited, his clenched fist seemed larger than his head. The poet had no desire to test how hard that thing was. He could only gasp for breath several times before barely managing to say, "Prince Baldwin has received a blessing."

The moment those words landed, the tavern fell silent. Most people showed disappointment, and the poet was even more displeased.

Since he had become a scholar, his father could not have been some dull-witted, lowborn farmer. If his family were traced by bloodline and surname, they could certainly claim kinship with some lord.

Even without the knight's instructions, he would never have deliberately mentioned some little attendant. Ha, what Little Saint? Only these lowly wretches would exalt an Isaacite slave like that!

But now he had no choice but to say it, so he hurriedly added, "The attendant at his side received a blessing as well."

Joy appeared on the man's face, but he immediately asked sharply, "Cesar? That green-eyed, black-haired boy?"

"Yes, yes."

The poet took a deep breath and shouted in his loudest voice, "They have both been chosen—Prince Baldwin and his attendant, Cesar!"

He waited for the crowd to cheer, but instead received a strange stillness, so quiet that the poet thought he had done something dreadful.

Had sprites clouded his eyes? Had he not arrived at a tavern in the human world, but instead fallen into a trap of hell? Were all those gathered around him devils, angered rather than delighted and comforted by this news?

Of course not.

When overwhelming joy descended upon people, they could be just as at a loss as when disaster struck. It was not until someone accidentally knocked over a wine cup on a table—until the wooden cup hit the floor with a bang, rolled away with a rumble, and was finally stopped by the threshold—that someone let out the first full-throated shout. Then came more screams and blessings.

People stamped their feet and clapped their hands, but before long, such simple gestures could no longer bear the abundance of their feelings. They leaped onto the tables and began dancing atop them with booming steps.

Under ordinary circumstances, the tavern owner would already have shouted at them; those crudely made tables could not withstand several people bouncing on them. But this time, he too leaped onto the counter and began waving his arms and dancing between the hanging cured meat and pots.

As worried and dejected as they had been at first, they were now equally happy and excited. Before long, people were already rushing out the door to spread the good news.

Only then did the poet let out a heavy breath and sit wearily back in his seat, clutching his lute.

As if waking from a dream, the tavern owner handed him a huge cup of rich wine. The poet drained it in one gulp, then rubbed his ears—the cheers made them ache. His task was complete. Next, he had to go to the next place.

There were hundreds of poets like him, scattered like seeds sown by the king into every corner of the holy city.

Amalric I and Heraclius intended to spread this story throughout all of Jerusalem—and even farther—within a single day.

While the poets spared no effort in proclaiming this new miracle, the archbishop rushed in panic toward the papal envoy's chambers. All their schemes had come to nothing. Next, the vengeful Amalric I would certainly not spare him. He needed his accomplice to produce a second plan at once.

Should he announce a period of penance? The kind in which he received no one?

Or should he maintain a hard-line stance? Tell the people that this was the last chance God had given Amalric and his son, and that they ought to be more devout, more meek, and more humble, rather than relying on the army and strength God had granted them to recklessly threaten His shepherds.

But before he could kick aside the servant lying by the door, the door opened. The archbishop's heart sank at once. He hurried into the room, only to find it completely empty. The envoy was not there. He rushed to the bed and touched it; it was cold. In other words, the envoy might have slipped away secretly several hours earlier.

Not only had he fled, he had taken every valuable item in the room with him—from gold and silver vessels to expensive furs, even the silk curtains... The archbishop nearly went mad with rage and viciously kicked the servant by the door several times.

"Are you a pig? Are you a dog? They left just like that, and you noticed nothing at all!"

But the servant merely stared at him with wide eyes, as if he completely failed to understand. "He may have drunk quite a lot," a cleric beside them quietly reminded him. "Get rid of this useless thing!" the archbishop said hoarsely, swiftly forcing his emotions down from a boiling state to freezing cold.

His gaze at the servant seemed coated in frost. The cleric did not dare defy him and could only hurriedly order two guards to drag the unfortunate man away.

The archbishop made his decision immediately. He waved away those who wanted to follow him, calling only his two most trusted students, and began hurriedly packing his own luggage. The students hesitated somewhat; packing was no easy task. But the archbishop merely waved a hand and said, "Only gold, silver, holy relics, and jewels."

In other words, only the smallest, heaviest, most easily carried items. Everything else would be left behind. Though it felt as if his heart were bleeding, he knew that once Amalric I's miracle had spread through the entire city, he would become the second "urgent matter of importance." He did not have much time to waste.

Just then, a servant stumbled in and said, "My lord, someone wishes to see you, my lord."

"Who?!" The archbishop's voice was like a drawn bowstring, sharp and trembling.

"Someone here to buy an indulgence."

The archbishop's heart dropped from heaven to earth, then leaped back into his chest. "I am seeing no one right now."

Ordinarily, the servant should have obediently withdrawn at that point. Yet he still looked hesitant. "But he is here to buy an indulgence."

"Even if he has come to buy your life, tell him to get out."

"But he wishes to buy an indulgence for ten thousand years, at the count's price, my lord."

The archbishop's hand, which had been gathering documents, stopped.

Count Étienne had used an indulgence for five hundred years to redeem the sin of storming into a church and carrying off a bride. Baldwin and Cesar's destruction of holy icons was twice as severe; when Amalric I hinted that Heraclius should burn down the Temple Church, he had also promised Thomas an indulgence for one thousand years.

An indulgence for ten thousand years—what an astonishing number. Even the archbishop had never seen one before. Someone was actually able to produce such an enormous sum at once.

There was something rather interesting about this: indulgences had not originally been priced this way.

Though prices differed by region and bishop, take Troyes in Francia as an example: murder, eight gold coins; blasphemy, seven gold coins; sorcery, seven gold coins; forgery, six gold coins; adultery with another man's wife, five gold coins...

The lighter the crime, the lower the price. For the least serious offenses, even a few copper coins would do.

But take note: these were prices for commoners. When nobles, lords, and kings committed crimes, it depended on how many zeroes the bishops and pope decided to add.

But after people bought indulgences, they would hear clerics constantly condemn every kind of sin in their sermons, saying that adultery would mean five hundred years of roasting in the lake of fire, blasphemy eight hundred years, murder one thousand years... and so on and so forth.

So some waggish fellows said in private, wasn't that simply an indulgence for five hundred years, eight hundred years, or one thousand years?

And those who needed indulgences seemed to feel that, compared with stating how much an indulgence cost, describing it by the length of punishment it redeemed was more elegant and appropriate. Gradually, that form of address replaced the original price tags.

An indulgence for ten thousand years was equivalent to killing ten people, committing adultery twenty times, or—oh, right—marrying one's own sister thirty times.

Under normal circumstances, the archbishop might not have met someone wishing to buy an indulgence at such a critical moment. But the papal envoy had stripped him of a large sum of money, hiring Assassins had cost him another large sum, and most painful of all, if he took his current assets to Rome, they would shrink by more than half.

He touched the letter against his chest. In it, the pope had promised him that no matter how the matter he had undertaken turned out—whether Amalric I truly lost his son, or even died himself... or, at the very least, was so crushed that he could not recover—if the archbishop seized the chance to turn Jerusalem into a theocracy, the Church of Rome would fully support him in securing his position.

Perhaps the Church of Rome would send a new bishop in the future, but at least for his generation, he would be the master of the Holy Land, a king clad in clerical robes.

But if devils meddled and the plan failed, he still had a way out.

The papal envoy had brought a letter written by the pope himself. It granted him two dioceses and the office of bishop. Naturally, compared with the position of archbishop of Jerusalem, that bargaining chip was clearly far lighter. Yet it was precisely because it was so light that it reassured the archbishop—if the pope would not even give him those scraps from the table, what credibility could he possibly have?

It was only that once he arrived in the dioceses and took up his holy office, the money needed to grease palms above and below, the taxes to be paid, and the various fees for the Church would certainly not be small. At the thought that his money chests would stand empty for a long time, the archbishop's heart twisted in pain.

"Very well. Tell him to come in. But tell him that I have an extremely important matter to attend to and cannot spare him much time. Ask him to be as quick as possible."

Before this uninvited guest entered the archbishop's room, the archbishop called two guards to stand at his side as a precaution, then sat down behind his desk. There was no chair opposite him, making his contemptuous attitude plain.

The guest strode in with his head held high, carrying a large chest. He wore gleaming leather armor, a silver belt, and a hooded cloak. He bowed respectfully and was about to step forward to kiss the archbishop's ring when the archbishop waved him away. "You are still a sinner, sir."

"Then I shall stand here," the guest replied mildly, putting the archbishop's heart somewhat more at ease. "I heard that you need an indulgence for ten thousand years."

"Yes, I need it very badly, and urgently."

"What sin have you committed?"

"A sin of incomparable gravity, but one I must commit."

"For a woman?"

"No."

"For an inheritance?"

"No."

"For a title?"

"No."

"For a grudge?"

"No."

"Then that is truly strange. What are you spending so much money for? Surely you do not wish to kill someone for no reason at all."

"It cannot exactly be called no reason."

The guest set the heavy chest on the floor, then opened its lid. The dazzling golden light inside made the archbishop dizzy. He almost wished he could stretch hands out of his eyes and seize it all into his arms.

"If you do not tell me what sin you intend to commit, how am I to state your crime on the indulgence?" the archbishop said, his tone much gentler now.

Indulgences were not, as some people imagined, mass-produced slips like banknotes or scraps of paper.

Like all passes and licenses, an indulgence was a sheet of parchment one foot long and half a foot wide, with exquisite hand-painted patterns and images of saints around its edges.

At the beginning and middle of the document, the bishop or pope who issued the indulgence personally wrote the bearer's crime. After that came an explanation of how, according to the demands of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, they forgave this person and required him to make penance. Finally came how he was to atone, how long he must atone, and what he must do to cleanse himself of the sin.

Then came the signature in the lower left corner and the seal on the right. Only then did the indulgence have legal effect. It was not a matter that could be dismissed by casually writing, "I forgive this sinner."

"Then write this," the guest said. "I am going to kill a petty man who has usurped a high position."

The archbishop's eyes lit up. "Very high?"

"Very high."

As if afraid someone might overhear, the archbishop whispered, "A count? A duke? Or perhaps a prince?" He guessed higher and higher. When he reached the last word, he bit his lip and nearly laughed aloud.

He studied the man closely. He was tall and powerfully built. Even with his hood lowered and his face hidden in shadow, he still appeared graceful and extraordinary. Such a man could easily approach Amalric I and kill him.

It suited the archbishop's wishes perfectly. But for him to give up even a portion of his own interests was harder than making a dog release the fat meat in its mouth.

He merely wrote down the man's crime on the indulgence at once, and in the names of God, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, forgave him. But the man would have to build a small chapel to redeem his sin and undergo ten years of penance.

When he finished, he flourished his pen and signed his name, then turned the ring on his hand around, dipped it in ink, and pressed his seal upon the document.

He put away the quill, scattered sand over the parchment, blew on it, shook off the sand, and held it by one corner as he handed it to a guard. The guard passed it to the man who had come seeking the indulgence.

The man took it from the knight and read it carefully from beginning to end. Only after confirming there were no errors did he roll up the parchment, place it inside a small copper tube, and carefully tuck it into the purse at his side.

The archbishop saw that the purse was hung from the man's belt by a sturdy iron chain and covered by a mesh of iron rings like chainmail. He was even more pleased.

He watched the man bow deeply to him once more. He thought the man was bidding him farewell—and that was not wrong. He was indeed bidding the archbishop farewell, only it was a final farewell.

Using the motion of the bow, the guest drew the short sword at his side and charged straight at him. The archbishop's guards immediately moved to meet him, but how should one put it? The newcomer was stronger than they were, quicker to react, and braver than these men who worked only for money. He feared neither injury nor death.

As everyone knew, a man who feared no death was not so easily killed.

The two guards died quickly. After exchanging several blows, they tried to flee over each other, exposing their backs to the guest. He stabbed one down, then the second.

At the sight, the archbishop was terrified beyond measure. He screamed and scrambled on all fours, trying to escape the blood-soaked room. He almost succeeded.

But the guest merely kicked the open money chest. The glittering, round coins spilled out with a clatter, scattering directly across the archbishop's path. He stepped on those little things he had once loved so dearly and immediately fell flat on his face.

The guest walked forward unhurriedly, planted a foot on his back, and drove his sword into his heart from behind. Then he seized the archbishop's sparse short hair and hauled him up, exposing his throat. He buried the short sword in the folds of fat and, with one stroke, cut open his windpipe and blood vessels.

Under the archbishop's eyes, filled with hatred and pleading, and amid the harsh rush of spilling blood, the guest straightened up and satisfactorily patted the purse hanging at his waist. Inside it was an indulgence that could absolve him of this grave sin.

Then he stepped over the archbishop's fat body and calmly walked out the door. Not a single person dared come out to stop him.

"So, you will become the archbishop," Amalric I said.