Chapter 279: Farewell, Damascus
The aroma of cooking livestock quickly wafted into Damascus City, and the soldiers guarding the city and the people could hardly control themselves as they cast their gazes toward the grayish-white smoke clouds gathering over the camp.
Damascus had indeed prepared early, even harvesting wheat ahead of time for this purpose, but the devastation from the previous wars on this city was real. If not for Damascus always being the center of myriad goods in transit, they might not have held out until the Crusaders came.
Even so, supplies in the city had reached a precarious state. Though not yet at the worst, the daily rations could only sustain the soldiers still able to fight. Some elders and women, even children, had begun to actively or passively refuse food. Though the food intercepted from their mouths could barely meet the most basic needs of the garrison.
At this moment, a Saracen soldier suddenly caught the scent of broth—this aroma did not come from outside the city. He puzzledly turned back for a glance and discovered that similar mouthwatering smoke plumes were rising within the city as well.
His confusion was quickly resolved. One of his companions（ off duty） was walking back and forth on the street, searching for things that might have been “overlooked.” Many soldiers were doing this, and it could be said to be deliberately connived—even if they entered some locked mansions.
Regardless of whether those who left had been officials or merchants in Damascus, from the moment they left, Damascus had nothing to do with them.
What the soldier companion brought was indeed good news: “The Governor has ordered the slaughter of all cattle and sheep in the city—they will soon be boiled into broth, the women are baking bread… we’ll have a hearty feast soon!”
The soldier wanted to smile to comfort his simple-minded friend, but his smile was so forced that it immediately revealed the truth to the other.
His companion’s smile vanished. They knew, from smelling the meat aroma coming from outside the city, that the Crusaders besieging them were slaughtering cattle and sheep, even mules and horses. This meant they were about to launch a thorough and resolute attack—the final one, and the most frenzied.
Their meal suddenly changing from not-so-thick barley porridge to broth also meant they might soon be having the last hearty meal of their lives.
The problem was, they could not retreat. These soldiers were all recruited by Damascus’s new Governor Razis from local merchants, craftsmen, and farmers. Compared to the foreign armies, they had affection for Damascus, were more steadfast, and were willing to give their freedom and lives for it.
But when this day truly arrived, a trace of fear still stirred involuntarily in the young soldier’s heart.
“We die for the heaven on earth that Allah left us to guard,” the soldier said in a trembling voice. “Even in death, we will immediately ascend to paradise. There will be a paradise a hundred times more beautiful than Damascus awaiting us. We will reunite with our families and fully enjoy pleasures unknown in the human world.” As he spoke, he involuntarily clenched his fist, his fingernails scratching his palm. “We lie amid flowers, served by virgins as we enjoy food, playing music. We will dwell with the Prophet, listening to their teachings golden as gold, forever and ever.”
He murmured this, both to convince himself and to comfort his companion.
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“Lord, you should have some soup too.” Razis looked up at the silver bowl brought in, which was piled with meat chunks that looked coarse and greasy.
Horse meat had once been something Razis would not touch, but now it was a rare delicacy.
Damascus was not as dire as Bosra, with corpses everywhere. But after years of torment, it had long lost its former prosperity.
Though this time Razis had done everything to raise money in Damascus City from those officials and merchants—better called blackmail and extortion than raising.
These people were not very willing to give money. They had decided to leave Damascus; since they were leaving to develop elsewhere, all their resources were the foundation for their footing.
But Razis had never been one to care much about methods or reputation—if they were unwilling to give money or goods, he would not give them passes and letters of guarantee. This letter could be called a “pardon document” for covering shame and making excuses. In short, with this letter, those people were not fleeing but “on a mission,” “transferred,” or “delegated,” or some other pretext to justify leaving this place of trouble.
Some might still be thinking of seeking employment in Homs, Acre, or Mosul, hoping to gain the trust of the Sultan or Emir there, and thus willing to buy this letter.
Others cared no longer about their own honor or others’ doubts about their faith. They fled without hesitation, even though they often boasted, “Only those blessed by Allah can settle in Damascus.”
In response, some generals had asked Razis whether to intercept them.
But after much deliberation, Razis refused.
These people had their own soldiers and slaves. If conflict erupted, Damascus’s already shaky defenses would thin even further.
Moreover, he vaguely felt he might not hold Damascus this time. If they were willing to leave and take some people from the city, it might even be a good thing.
Razis had once placed hopes on Homs, Acre’s Emir, and the Sultan, but now their promises seemed like bubbles blown by fish in water, fleeting and unreliable.
Even Homs’s Governor had shamelessly claimed, when attacking Damascus, that he came by Allah’s command to protect and rule this city. But when truly facing tens of thousands of Crusaders, he didn’t even fart—though they all knew that if the Crusaders took Damascus, it would be a heavy blow to the entire Saracen world.
And Razis’s last hope, Saladin—after hearing the Sultan was assassinated, that hope turned to despair.
When Razis occasionally looked in the mirror, seeing his once plump cheeks become angular, his thick hair sparse and gray, he wondered when he had truly become a responsible good person.
He had once been so indolent, unwilling even to take up his father’s mantle as a doctor, only wanting to seek pleasure in the rest of his life on the grace left by his ancestors—how had he gotten himself to this point?
Even when he became Damascus’s Governor under Saladin’s nominal “support” but actual “coercion”—he had no talent, no strength, yet led Damascus’s people in resistance to this day. It could be said he had done all he could.
He should have left, but for some reason he didn’t. And Bosra’s Shams al-Din seemed the same. When people angrily denounced Shams al-Din for handing Bosra over to the Crusaders, Razis was not surprised at all.
What was there to say?
How many people were left in Bosra now? He and Shams al-Din were not prophets; how could they hold an entire city alone?
“No, it’s not me who needs this now.” He said weakly, “Send these to the Umayyad Mosque.”
In AD 706, the Saracens expelled the Romans from Damascus. Umayyad Caliph Al-Walid I ibn Abd al-Malik vowed to build a temple more beautiful, larger, and holier than the Christians’ church.
The Umayyad Mosque was thus born. It was the grandest temple, unmatched even in Acre or Homs—gathering hundreds of scholars and their students. Fortunately, though many left Damascus, almost none from the temple did. It was thanks to them that Damascus held out until today.
“All the livestock in the city has been sent over.” The servant boldly advised, “You should have some too, or else…” He looked at his master with pity in his eyes. Though he too ate one meal a day now, what he ate was definitely more than his master. Whether due to increasingly coarse food or inner turmoil, Razis had been eating less and less lately.
Razis himself came from a family of doctors and naturally knew this was an ominous sign, but it was not something he could control.
He hesitated, lifted the spoon from the bowl to sip the soup, then instead of putting the spoon back in the silver bowl, placed it on the desk. “Alright, I’ve eaten.” His stomach was churning wildly from that one spoonful. “Take it to the soldiers guarding the city, pour it into their soup pot. I’m a useless person and shouldn’t enjoy such good treatment.”
Seeing the servant’s hesitant look, he smiled. “Don’t worry. I know my own condition. I can hold on, at least to see the end.”
And when the curtain fell, what he had done amounted to just that one thing: either hand this city to a trustworthy person or to their enemies.
The servant left the room.
Razis pulled open the desk drawer and took out a letter. This was the letter Kamal had written him after the Sultan was assassinated.
Kamal was his friend. Back then, Razis had followed Kamal’s words to test that Christian knight. He had been moved by the young knight’s loyalty and sincerity, aborting that cruel trial midway. But it seemed destiny was at work—now he had to write the final chapter for this unfinished poem, hoping it would remain as harmonious and moving as the beginning, not become a regrettable flaw.
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The scholars and students in the Umayyad Mosque finished their meal and began praying to Allah and the Prophet.
The scholars still here had long seen their future—Razis was not a harsh governor. As early as when the first Emir arrived at Damascus City, he allowed those who wished to leave to go—though they had to leave money and goods, at least they regained freedom and life.
He treated scholars the same, not giving them special treatment for having received the Prophet’s revelation. He did not, like those Emirs or Fatah, righteously demand they die for Damascus.
Some scholars did leave; those who stayed had sworn oaths to Allah.
The eldest scholar, called the “elder” by the people, raised his head and gazed long at the grayish-yellow stone pillars and soaring dome. The once magnificent colors and decorations, the solemn minbar, the stone slabs, copper plates, and silver plates inscribed with scripture, and the exquisite carpets had all vanished.
This was not looting amid the chaos, but fear that if Damascus truly fell to the Christians, they would destroy or defile these sacred items.
So they had been dismantled and entrusted to a trustworthy merchant to take away.
It could be said that the Umayyad Mosque had become an empty ruin. The most precious assets left were these scholars and their students, and this most precious asset might be exhausted today.
They stood and walked out, passing through the empty streets.
And Damascus’s people—even the dying sick were supported—knelt on both sides of the streets to see them off.
People continually prostrated at the scholars’ feet, begging their blessing. No scholar was stingy at this time. When the “elder” moved his hand from one’s head, his expression was grave.
Unlike little Bosra, Damascus’s resident population was around two hundred thousand. Even with many leaving, some were unwilling to abandon their homes—there might still be tens of thousands.
Staying here meant they might share the city’s fate. As ones who received the Prophet’s revelation, they would not betray their faith, but such a demand would not be imposed on ordinary people—would those Christians be willing to put down their swords?
Escorted by soldiers, they ascended the city wall and looked at the siege tower advancing toward the wall in the dawn light. Even the “elder” paled slightly.
That siege tower was larger than any he had seen before. Damascus’s city wall was not inferior to Fustat’s, and this siege tower was more shocking than those from Amalric I’s expedition to Egypt—it nearly blocked the rising sun.
Damascus’s most important city gate—Peace Gate—and the adjacent city wall were completely shrouded in its shadow.
This siege tower could not even be pushed by manpower. The “elder” only had to look down to see a pulley device—connected between the city wall and the Crusaders’ lines, requiring eight oxen to pull together to make this behemoth advance slowly.
