Spear and... Shield?

Heraclius drew a deep breath. Though he had expected this and felt pleased by it, the thought of what would follow gave him a headache. The trouble was, this matter could not be delayed.

"They did not catch that papal legate?"

"That rat had a sharp nose. The moment he heard that I was safe and sound, he decided to flee," Amalric I said. "He was not the Patriarch. The Patriarch could still dream of becoming lord of the Holy City.

"If he remained here, the risks were too great and the gains too few. Even if their conspiracy succeeded and Jerusalem became a theocracy, the Patriarch would still need Rome's support. At that point, not only would he be unable to hold the legate accountable, he would have to curry favor with him instead."

"What about that handwritten letter?"

"Just like the legate's identity, it could not withstand even the slightest scrutiny."

"That idiot!"

"Not entirely an idiot," Amalric I said, looking at Heraclius. "The temptation was simply too great, my friend."

"I would rather remain at Your Majesty's side."

"But I have no one else to use." Amalric I spread his hands. "We cannot very well wait for the Church of Rome to send another bishop." The papal legate had fled, and the Patriarch's death at the hands of "heathens" could not be concealed for long. The Pope had always wanted Jerusalem—no, wait. In that case, the legate's swift decision was not so strange after all. For the Church of Rome, whether the Patriarch or Amalric I died, they would still count it as a victory.

"Then I shall begin handling this matter at once." Having grasped the crux of it, Heraclius no longer demurred. Though it meant he would have to arrange his own promotion, advancing from monk, doorkeeper, reader, exorcist, acolyte, assistant, deacon, all the way to priest... Though he could skip one or two ranks along the way, the irony was still overwhelming.

"Baldwin should be happy," Amalric I suddenly said. "He has always been worried about Cesar."

Heraclius immediately raised his head warily, but all he could see was Amalric I's disheveled curls. The king lowered his head to look at the documents at precisely the right moment.

Before the Selection Ceremony, he had publicly announced that Cesar was already his student. Just as Cesar had thought, it had been more for the sake of the king and Prince Baldwin, to prevent some untoward turn of events. The problem was that things had not slid toward the worst outcome, yet they had stopped in an awkward position.

"Prince Baldwin has not woken yet," Heraclius said gently, turning the subject.

Sure enough, the moment he heard that Baldwin had yet to awaken, Amalric I's attention immediately left the documents. "Did he not wake once yesterday?"

"He did. He drank some honey water, then fell asleep again."

"I should go see him," Amalric I said, almost to himself.

Was Amalric I a good father? Yes. Then was he a good king? Yes. But the good king would undoubtedly take precedence over the good father.

When he learned that his only son, Baldwin, already nine years old, had contracted the leprosy that made everyone blanch with fear, he had been shocked, grieved, and enraged—he knew this was no accident, but a conspiracy long in the making.

When he brought Cesar before Baldwin and promised him that he would never abandon him, there had been both a father's tender love and a measure of cold calculation in it. A king or lord without an heir would inevitably draw a pack of wolves to his door—and in Jerusalem, where there had to be a king capable of leading the Crusaders in war against the heathens, succession to the throne had never been particularly peaceful.

A female heir had to rule jointly with her husband, while a child had no chance at all of ascending the throne safely.

The king would not cast out his only son, as those people hoped, out of excessive cowardice or piety. Until he had a second son, Baldwin would remain a nail driven into the Holy Land, a bone lodged in the throats of those ambitious men.

Yet the earlier Selection Ceremony had been a series of rise and fall, wave after wave. Even a man as hard-tempered and resolute as Amalric I could not help but be worn down in body and spirit. When he lifted Baldwin up beside the shaft, he no longer hoped that Baldwin might receive Grace. Let it be so, he thought. As long as he left behind enough loyal ministers and commanders, even a leper who had failed to receive Grace could still hold the power of the Holy Land in his hands.

He was not greedy. Ten years—ten years would be enough. Once his younger son came of age, Baldwin could abdicate and enter a monastery. More likely, by then Baldwin would already be at death's door, merely awaiting God's call.

Thus, when Amalric I entered the great hall of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre, he regarded it all as a rehearsed play and paid it little mind. His only concern was whether Baldwin's illness might worsen from the chill of the stone during this time. When a priest shouted, "The Holy Sepulchre is glowing!" he did not even react in time, and was nearly shoved outside by the others. Only when Heraclius cried out for the king to look at his son did the people make way.

Even now, Amalric I could not help but feel his heart surge and his blood boil whenever he recalled the sight he had witnessed then.

He had received Saint George's Grace. Its radiance had been like a torch, lasting several full hours, and even when he walked out of the church, it had remained visible in the morning light.

By comparison, his brothers without blood ties—Raymond and Bohemond—had fared differently. Raymond's light might have been even brighter than his, but it had lasted only briefly, extinguishing after scarcely a quarter of a candle's time. Bohemond's lasted a little longer, but its glow was faint and flickering, almost enough to make people think he had received Bestowal rather than Grace.

But when he stepped into the Holy Sepulchre, it was as though he had stepped into a courtyard at noon, every tiny detail clearly visible. He saw his son Baldwin curled beside the stone bench where the Savior had once lain, his expression peaceful and his breathing steady. Resting diagonally against his shoulder was a spear.

Both the spearhead and shaft shone with brilliant light. At first, Amalric I thought it was a holy relic the priests had placed there. He reached out to take it, only to cry out—he had been burned.

Only then did he realize that the spear possessed no true physical form.

It was light.

Amalric I's shoulders trembled, his eyes brimming with hot tears. The worst outcome flew away from him like ravens taking wing from a tomb. He had the fortune to bathe in the radiance God had bestowed upon his son. He fell to his knees, tears dropping onto Baldwin's body. The king scarcely dared touch his son until the people outside could no longer help pleading—they too wished to behold such a miracle!

The narrow cavern truly could not hold too many people. Amalric I carried Baldwin outside, and the spear still floated at Baldwin's side, without vanishing. His vision was blurred, and he had been looking at his son with all his heart, so he did not notice that after he took Baldwin away, the light inside the cavern did not dim by much.

The priests of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre brought out the long poles used to raise canopies. The grand masters of the two great knightly orders removed their cloaks, and several respected ladies tied them to the poles, making a crude litter. They laid Baldwin upon it and covered him with the woolen cloth from the Holy Sepulchre.

The pilgrims and residents gathered outside Passion Square all saw it—the spear that remained dazzling even beneath the sun, fine lightning winding around it. Its tip resembled a flower bud or a flame, and it was far longer than an ordinary spear, perhaps as long as three men joined end to end.

"This is the lance Saint George used to slay the dragon," someone said reverently. He made the sign of the cross and slowly fell to his knees. Behind him, more people shed tears in awe, praising merciful God as they dropped to their knees one after another. They were almost dizzy with wonder, unable to believe that they could be so fortunate.

Amalric I feared that the spear might vanish at any moment, which was why he had adopted such an abrupt method of publicizing it. Yet when they returned to the castle, three days and three nights passed, and the spear still stood firmly beside Baldwin, never dispersing.

"When do you think it will vanish?"

"I do not know," Heraclius said honestly. "I have indeed heard of a child whose holy light lingered for several days after he was 'chosen.' The Church sent people to investigate, only to discover that someone had smeared phosphorus powder on him..."

Amalric I laughed once. "The Church of Rome will surely think the same." He reached out and touched Baldwin's cheek, only to find that the red patches remained unchanged. His earlier smile immediately turned into pity and regret that he could not suppress. "They still could not cure him—he will be a powerful warrior, a wise king, but if this talent had been bestowed as Bestowal, perhaps he could have healed himself."

"Perhaps God intended it this way," Heraclius said. "Only great people are tested."

"My Baldwin is so, and so is your Cesar."

"Mine? Your Majesty, Cesar is not my son."

"For a monk sworn to chastity, his student is his son." Amalric I turned around. "How is Cesar? Has the light upon him weakened or vanished?"

"No," Heraclius said cautiously. "I rather feel that he and Baldwin seem to be... you know, those chosen in the same Selection Ceremony are brothers without blood ties, and the auras between them seem to be responding to each other."

"What about its shape? Has it changed?"

"It is still a shield."

"Baldwin perceived Saint George," the king said. "What about him? Did he tell you whom he perceived?"

"Saint Jerome."

Amalric I stopped. "Saint Jerome."

"Yes."

"It is said that this learned, self-disciplined, and courteous sage once pulled a thorn from the paw of a lion in unbearable pain," Amalric I said. "I hope he will do the same."

He entered Cesar's room. It was directly below Baldwin's bedchamber. Amalric I did not care what sort of room, clothes, or jewels the prince wished to give his attendant—but...

Longinus rose from beside the bed and knelt to the king. "I recall that you are a knight," Amalric I said, his hawk-like gaze sweeping over Longinus's back. "There is no need to behave like a servant. How is he?"

"Still asleep."

"He has not awakened?"

"No." Longinus said, "He has remained unconscious."

"What are you afraid of? Are you afraid I will harm your master?"

"I... did not mean that, Your Majesty."

"Then get out of my sight!" Amalric I said. Longinus had no choice but to retreat. The king came to the bed. The prince's young attendant was still unconscious, his face paler than it had ever been, even on that day in the Judean Hills.

Amalric I recalled that Heraclius had roughly analyzed the events of that day with him. There had been some parts that displeased him—for instance, Cesar's preparations. What made the king's face tighten most was that not a single one of those preparations had gone unused.

He had to admit how many calamities his own arrogance had brought about. He also had to admit that without Cesar, his son could only have waited for death.

Amalric I lowered his head. The light covering Cesar seemed somewhat paler than the light upon Baldwin, but in terms of form...

"A shield..." he murmured. "But not Bestowal—it is Grace."

He turned and left, with Heraclius close behind him. Only after the door closed did Longinus let out a breath and let his shoulders slump.

Amalric I was not a particularly meticulous man. He did not notice the little tricks Heraclius and Longinus had played. In Prince Baldwin's room, the windows had all been half-covered, making the entire chamber much darker. Though such lighting was better suited to a sick person's recuperation, it also made the spear seem brighter.

As for Cesar's room, its windows were all open, candles burned in the corners, and there were several mirrors besides. Having descended from the dim spiral staircase, one would find it difficult to notice them at first. Yet by comparison, Cesar's light would seem dimmer than Baldwin's.

In truth, the opposite was the case.

After Amalric I carried Baldwin out of the Holy Sepulchre, almost everyone present followed close behind, their gazes never shifting away for even an instant. Heraclius could only give Longinus a brief nod.

Longinus immediately dragged his cloak behind him and crawled into the Holy Sepulchre, wrapping it around his master in one swift motion. His whole body was shaking with the wild pounding of his heart. His mouth was dry and bitter, his hands and feet numb.

Thank God!

Everyone, including Heraclius and Longinus only moments before, held an obstinate belief: an attendant could never surpass a prince, in any regard.

Thus, when Amalric I wept bitterly, roared, and praised God within the Holy Sepulchre, no one imagined that God would grant greater gifts to such a minor person.

Especially after seeing that spear—they all agreed that Saint George had descended into the mortal world once again.

The claim Amalric I and Heraclius had constantly defended—that Prince Baldwin's leprosy was not a curse or punishment, but a trial set before a great man—had finally become fact.

But if even one of those people had turned back, he would have discovered that after Prince Baldwin left, the light in the Holy Sepulchre had not only failed to disappear, but remained as it had been before. That meant... if Prince Baldwin's light was like a bright moon, then the present light was like dawn. However luminous the moon, it could not compare to dawn's splendor.

Only three people knew this: Longinus, Heraclius, who had returned after leaving, and Thomas.

Had there not been those two others, Longinus could never have removed his young master from the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre without a sound.

Kneeling beside the bed, he looked at his young master's peaceful face and thought that it was fortunate Amalric I was a king. He would not reach out and pull away an attendant's blanket. If he did... he would discover that what Heraclius called a shield was, more precisely, layer upon layer of gleaming scales covering Cesar's body—from neck to chest, chest to shoulders, shoulders to arms, abdomen to legs. Light flowed through every scale, moving from one to another, then bursting from time to time into sharp flashes, like the sparks flung up when lightning struck the sea or rocks...

Heraclius said it was scale armor, but Longinus had seen the scale armor worn by Byzantine soldiers, and he always felt this did not look quite the same. These scales did not hang upon the body; rather, they seemed to grow directly from within it... The thought made him shudder all over. It was far too inauspicious. In the Christian world, dragons were not sacred creatures.

Saint George's lance had once pierced through a dragon.