Chapter 277: Farewell, Bosra
For Caesar, this was almost like a return to familiar ground.
During his mission to Acre, Damascus had left an impression on him no less profound than Acre; one could even say his fondness for Damascus far exceeded that for Acre.
In Acre, those Saracens had first tried to bribe them, then to enslave them, and finally to strangle them, yet he had managed to bring ninety knights back to Ayyarasa Road intact, and everyone said it was a miracle.
In Damascus, whether he was willing to admit it or not, he had received treatment like that of a prince.
Saladin had been exceedingly generous to him, guaranteeing his safety, granting him freedom, and summoning his own scholars to treat him.
Had it not been so, his recovery would not have been so swift. And during his convalescence, whenever he was awake and Saladin had time, they would often drink coffee, play chess, or discuss literature or politics.
He could tell that in Saladin’s presence, he was indeed like a child; many of his ideas and concepts would make Saladin laugh.
But that smile held no contempt; the elder gazed at him with delight, as if beholding a tree brimming with vitality or a chick spreading its wings in flight. Though they stood on utterly opposed sides and would inevitably become enemies, if possible, Caesar truly wished for such a friend.
When he heard that the only one who had responded to Governor Razis of Damascus’s call for aid was Sultan Saladin of Egypt, Caesar found it hard to discern his own emotions—he admired Saladin, felt gratitude, but was mostly wary.
Saladin was not merely a general; he did not fear clashing swords with enemies on the battlefield, but neither did he scruple to employ conspiracy and intrigue.
One could say Amalric I’s death bore his handiwork, and even exploiting Shawwar’s final mad acts, he had purged most local powers that might oppose him. For this, he had even abandoned Fustat; though he had long established his New Capital in Cairo, watching such a vast city turn to ashes in flames was not something just anyone could do.
But when Caesar heard from Baldwin that Saladin had been attacked by an Assassin assassin, gravely wounded and not long for this world, what rose in his heart was not just relief, but also some indignation and sympathy—he knew he ought to feel fortunate, for without Saladin, the Saracens could hardly pose a real threat to them, and thus the knights, escorts, and laborers of the Crusaders had a good chance of returning to Ayyarasa Road.
Yet similarly, in Saladin he saw Baldwin—Caesar was not so naive as to think that Saladin’s assassination in a heavily guarded camp truly meant the Assassins possessed heaven-piercing abilities.
His opponents were as numerous as Baldwin’s.
If a renowned general was in such straits, what of Baldwin, a prince dwelling at the heart of Ayyarasa Road, under the protection of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, within Holy Cross Castle, who had contracted leprosy—a disease seen almost only in the destitute—which was unbelievable in itself.
Not to mention that afterward, the Crusaders and the Church had repeatedly pressured the king to disinherit Baldwin; it was only because Amalric I had no second son that he continued to enjoy his father’s protection and love. But now he was grown, knighted, and had led armies to several flawless victories, yet the doubts about him had never truly subsided.
They were even willing to connive at Princess Sibylla and her husband’s insolence toward the king—solely because the king’s heir would still come from Sibylla’s womb.
Sometimes Caesar wondered: if he had not appeared, or if Baldwin had not been chosen—or had been chosen, but not as Chosen by Michael, but Chosen by Raphael—then he would have become a monk. In some obscure monastery, might Baldwin have received more goodwill and lived peacefully?
But he only thought this fleetingly; as a monk, Baldwin surely would not have been content to spend his life in prayer and work—he would inevitably reemerge before the world, like a meteor tearing through the firmament or a spark bursting in the night.
In any case, he would never settle for mediocrity.
————
They encountered little resistance in Bosra.
There Caesar met his first familiar face: Governor Shams al-Din of Razis, who surrendered to the Christians, begging them not to slaughter the city’s residents.
“Of course,” he said feigning humility, “even if you want to kill, you won’t meet much resistance.”
At first, Baldwin and Caesar could not grasp his meaning, but once inside the city, they understood.
The once small but prosperous Bosra was nearly a ghost town; vibrant murals had faded, streets bore filthy bloodstains in cracks between bricks and stones, crumbling walls lay everywhere, open shops and warehouses stood empty, and even Shams al-Din’s residence was dilapidated and smoke-stained from fire.
“What happened here?”
Baldwin asked. Shams al-Din waved a hand, and several cringing servants who dared not approach promptly retreated as if pardoned—these servants were neither sturdy nor healthy; they were old, ugly, and black, with no women among them, and the residents lingering amid the ruins were the same, or worse.
Even the women, by appearance and build, scarcely differed from the men—they had clearly endured prolonged starvation. Caesar thought a tall knight like Walter could grab three with one hand.
“Damascus lies behind us,” Shams al-Din said without concern, personally fetching a blood-soaked carpet from the room—clearly it had been scrubbed, but blood seemed destined to leave vivid marks on any surface: “Hope you don’t mind, but this is all we have; even those black-skinned Nubians wouldn’t touch it—King of the Christians,” Shams al-Din said languidly, “please sit. Or sit on the floor if you like, though it’s not so clean.”
Caesar recalled his first time in Bosra, when Kamal had advised Shams al-Din to hire the Christian delegation to eliminate bandits outside the city—they had indeed taken the job.
Back then, Shams al-Din could offer gold, silk, and spice; the chess pieces he placed in Caesar’s room were ebony carved with gold-inlaid bases.
Now he looked like a nearly spent charcoal briquette, ready to crumble into gray-white ash with a rub, devoid even of warmth.
“They always come—I mean those coveting Damascus—and for them, Bosra is the best foothold. At first, we could offer gold, slaves, wheat, or beans, but people from Acre came, from Homs, from Raqqa, from Hama, Idlib… After Sultan Nur al-Din’s death, everyone saw Damascus as a juicy morsel to bite, and before taking Damascus, tiny Bosra could slake their thirst.
They peeled Bosra layer by layer like an onion.
Your Majesty, in truth, whoever comes—you or anyone—I can only open the gates to welcome you and beg you not to kill the few residents left in the city.
Those who could flee have fled; the rest are pitiful wretches like me, too old to move. Do with them as you will—put them to corvée or drive them out.
Or, if Your Majesty would show mercy and let them meet Allah early, that would not be a bad end.”
“A good end?” Baldwin asked. “And what of you?”
Though Shams al-Din claimed he was too old to walk, it was pure exaggeration; he was not that old, perhaps only about fifty.
It had been merely three short years since Caesar’s mission to Acre—not thirty.
A strange, indescribable expression crossed Shams al-Din’s face. He seemed to want to laugh and cry; his lips twisted horribly, then clenched tight. Though he had surrendered Bosra to the Christians—an act that virtually doomed him to Hell and scorn from all Saracens—he still bore that innate pride.
“I have heard,” Baldwin said after much deliberation, “of a king of a small realm whose land was invaded by enemies. He had few knights and soldiers, and his people were so feeble they could not resist.
In the end, only a poor farmer remained at his side, and all he had was a humble thatched hut. Even so, he swore to defend it, even at the cost of his life and honor.”
Shams al-Din could have left, even earlier—after the first army attacked and occupied Bosra.
Even if he could never again be a Vichir or an emir, he could have lived comfortably as a wealthy man in Acre, Alexandria, or even Constantinople, rather than now, nearly alone, holding an empty city, enduring enemy humiliation for fewer than a thousand Saracen residents, facing imminent death.
“I have some selfish hopes, or call it luck,” Shams al-Din said unexpectedly candidly. “Who doesn’t want to keep living, though the world is never ideal? If it were the Knights Templar or the Duke of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, I would not have decided so quickly—they are not you…” He looked at Caesar.
“Christians call you the Little Saint, and among Saracens, you deserve our reverence too.
You are a heathen, but you once showed sufficient respect and care to a former enemy, a Saracen who could offer no return, and sent him home to rest in peace.
Afterward, you brought back my friend Kamal from Acre—and others.
Even as a Christian, for what you have done, no Saracen praising you in prayer would face Allah’s rebuke.
And we believe the hunter followed by an eagle cannot be a monstrous devil.” Shams al-Din glanced at Baldwin. “Hope this does not displease you; before you arrived, someone had already vouched for you with their credibility.”
“I take no displeasure.” Baldwin shook his head, regarding Shams al-Din with genuine admiration: “Then,” he stood, “Caesar, take the scimitar from his belt.”
Caesar stepped forward and took the scimitar from Shams al-Din’s belt.
The scimitar was not even Damascus steel, bore no ornate patterns, and its scabbard was dirty and tattered, unfit for a governor; Shams al-Din’s former scimitar “Tiger Fang” had likely been used as bribe or to buy grain.
Caesar presented the scimitar to Baldwin—this was the required procedure. “You are my captive now,” Baldwin declared. “I guarantee your safety—and your wife and child?”
“I sent them away and told them never to return.
They may be in Acre or Nabk now; I’m not sure—I told them, once gone from here, never contact me again, as if I were dead.” He looked at Baldwin, implying no ransom would come from him, but Baldwin only smiled faintly and buckled the scimitar to his own waist.
“You will receive treatment like a duke here.” He summoned an attendant to take Shams al-Din away. “What of those commoners, Caesar?”
Those people could not work; they might collapse dead on the road.
“Send them to Damascus as part of the letters,” Caesar said.
Though Damascus would soon become a hell of blood and fire, expelling them now from Bosra meant only howling cold winds, vast wilderness, and beasts as the last things in their lives—even without beasts, thirst and hunger awaited.
Bandits would not rob them; slave merchants would not take such scrawny, worthless “commodities.”
But in this era and place, this was the utmost tolerance and generosity.
They had not even paid their own ransom money; if Caesar suggested giving them livestock and grain, some would think him possessed by the devil.
“Then so be it.” They could not release Shams al-Din, and since Baldwin said to treat him like a duke, he would at least have food and shelter in prison. “Right, first have him write a letter to Governor Razis of Damascus.”
This too was standard before a siege—the attackers would state all their claims to the city, whether granted by God or Allah.
Of course, such claims were usually ignored, and the assault inevitable.
