Chapter 149: The Sultan’s Funeral
Kamal only felt a wave of utter exhaustion.
He had successfully completed the important work entrusted to him by the Grand Vizier and the First Lady, transporting Sultan Nur al-Din’s holy remains from the distant Ayyarasa Road back to Acre.
Although the weather at this time was not yet extremely hot. The cities they passed through along the way also provided them with salt and ice cubes—but ensuring the Sultan’s body did not decay or swell was still no easy task, yet he still ensured the holy remains were not too badly damaged. Although inevitably, bluish-black spots had spread to the corpse’s neck, temples, and other places, when people opened the coffin, they still saw a dignified elder.
Then the Sultan’s three sons re-wiped their father’s and monarch’s face and body, changed his clothing, wrapped him in two layers of clean white cotton cloth, and sprinkled spices. This process was not very difficult. They did indeed have that Christian knight to thank—though Kamal guessed they probably had no such inclination, as the Eldest Prince and Second Prince quarreled several times over who should do what.
And those people standing behind them—each had their own agenda. The Grand Vizier had already sided with the Eldest Prince, while the Second Prince had several Emirs and the Second Vizier at his side.
Whenever night fell silent, Kamal would be disturbed. They sent all sorts of lobbyists, some tempting, some threatening, hoping he would stand with their master before the Sultan was buried.
If they got no answer, they would even angrily threaten: Once Nur al-Din was laid to rest underground, a scheming little man could only expect to be strangled by a bowstring before the New Sultan.
A scheming little man? Kamal had no intention of accepting such a label. Whatever his thoughts, he had no plan to kiss the robes of those three incompetents—including the youngest prince Salih.
His guardian was the First Lady, and his birth mother also had a father who was a Fatah. They too were a not insignificant force. But one look at the child told Kamal he was deliberately being raised as a puppet. He had no understanding of his own worth, seeing himself only as a nobleman’s son of high status. Far from craving power, he barely grasped what power even was.
And the lobbyists for the Eldest Prince and Second Prince were full of lies, but one thing they said was true: If Kamal chose the Third Prince, he would one day kneel at a woman’s skirts, obeying her every whim.
But were the Eldest Prince and Second Prince any sort of monarchs worth supporting? Leaving aside the rest, the Eldest Prince’s drunkenness was a fatal weakness. Though they might sip grape juice now and then to refresh or relax.
The Eldest Prince… he thought he hid it well. In fact, everyone at court knew that when he claimed he needed to meditate and pray, he was actually hiding in a small room guzzling wine until he was dead drunk, again and again. His slaves and servants would drag him out, then sober him with ice cubes and cold water.
His mother had once hoped he would gradually break this terrible vice, but the Eldest Prince disappointed her. Not only did he not, he grew worse with age. Just the day before the Sultan’s burial, Kamal’s informant reported that the Second Lady had stormed to the Eldest Prince’s palace in a fury and had a fierce quarrel with him.
Then the Eldest Prince slapped his mother, leaving her face swollen and teeth knocked out. No need to guess—he must have been drunk again that day. Other times could be glossed over. But if anyone saw the Eldest Prince stumbling drunk at his revered father and monarch Sultan Nur al-Din’s funeral, who would still acknowledge him, kneel to him?
Not to mention, this was no mere habit. The fact that the Eldest Prince got dead drunk the day before the Sultan’s burial and beat his own mother showed he had no self-control left. If he became Sultan, one could imagine the sort of monarch who caroused and indulged endlessly all day, and under his rule, what ruin Acre would fall to, what undercurrents of conspiracy and vortices of revolt would surge in the shadows…
Then you might say, what about the Second Prince? The Second Prince might be the one who most resembled Nur al-Din in appearance, and he always strove to appear tolerant and open-minded. He had even said that after Nur al-Din’s death, they should emulate their forebears（ this refers to Nur al-Din and his brother） and divide the land left by their father equally, avoiding fratricide and brotherly strife.
But was that truly the case? In fact, he had been buying and bribing those Emirs and Fatah, and with his mother—the Third Lady’s—support, assembling his own guard. If he had the ability to match such ambition, it might not be a bad thing. After all, just as the Christians’ kings— the Saracens too needed a Sultan who could lead them on expeditions in all directions.
What could only make Kamal smile bitterly was the latest intelligence: Jocelin III was dead.
Jocelin III had once been kept as a special guest in Apole Castle for a long time. Nur al-Din had said he would treat him like his own son and nephew. But this period was very brief, perhaps only a few years. In 59, Joscelin II died in the Turks’ prison. Nur al-Din took all of Edessa, and Jocelin III became useless. His status and treatment swiftly declined.
In 64 he was moved out of Apole Castle, but not immediately thrown in prison. Nur al-Din handed him to his second son. Jocelin III and his wife were imprisoned in a castle that belonged to his mother’s dowry.
What happened on Ayyarasa Road—that Christian knight, out of great love and benevolence, performed the “purification” on Sultan Nur al-Din—had long been reported by Kamal in a letter to everyone at Apole Castle, and the reply had already promised due reward for this man—”everyone” of course including the Second Prince.
In Kamal’s view, since they had already promised to return Jocelin III intact to his son, as thanks for what he had done for their father, they should have prepared early—at least moved Jocelin III and his wife to their own palace for proper care.
And just today, when he asked about it, the Second Prince calmly replied that Jocelin III was dead, along with his wife, killed by poison.
Leaving aside Kamal’s shock, the Second Prince seemed utterly unconcerned—who killed them? Christians, Isaacites, or Arabs? Why? Humiliation, betrayal, or revenge? A string of questions only earned the Second Prince’s impatient look.
He knew nothing about it and didn’t care. To them, Jocelin III had long been worthless. To show their love and reverence for their father and monarch, they wouldn’t mind releasing a slave or two—but of course, things turning out this way was their oversight. Still, they could thank that Christian in other ways.
“Who doesn’t love women and gold?” the Second Prince said lightly. “We can give him those. Let those Christians take the Count of Edessa’s corpse back. They were our enemies to begin with. I won’t make a fuss over these two Christians.” He made his stance clear, not wanting to pursue the matter, lest it harm his confidants and personal guard.
But was this a matter of pursuing or not?
Someone killed your ward in your castle. Do you think the next dose of poison won’t end up in your wine jug?
Kamal only felt a stab in his chest, unable to say a word. The Second Prince was still pressing about those ninety Christian knights, as he had heard they were hired by Shams al-Din, the Governor of Bosra.
“If so, would they take my employ?”
Kamal had already forgotten how he replied at the time, even how he staggered out of Apole Castle and back to his own mansion. For the first time he looked hopefully at the desk, wishing for a letter with a seal, but found nothing. When he lay down, Acre’s night felt unprecedentedly cold.
He forced himself to sleep. The next morning was the Sultan’s burial ceremony. Sultan Nur al-Din had long specified he would rest eternally in Womaya Temple, Acre’s largest temple, built in the eighth century.
The Sultan’s coffin would be escorted by his male kin, officials, and personal guard, circling all of Acre once, letting him take one last look at this land he had once loved and defended. Thousands of scholars would follow on foot, praying for him. Emirs, Viziers, and more officials great and small could only walk behind the coffin, including Kamal—he hadn’t even become one of the pallbearers.
This was the princes’ and their supporters’ revenge on him. He had never given an answer, or rather, he had decided, just not told them. He could have fled the day before the burial, but he stayed in the end, even if it might cost him his head and leave him a wretched end. But if he didn’t, his later years would know no peace.
The vast, multitudinous procession emerged from Apole Castle’s South Gate, onto the streets. Alleys were crammed with countless crowds, all wide-eyed watching Acre’s Grand Scholar, clad in a black robe wrapped with a snow-white headscarf, standing on a high platform, gravely reciting scripture aloud. Then came the massive coffin borne by sixteen pallbearers, draped in black and red cloth. Leading them were Acre’s two most familiar princes. Only Sultan Nur al-Din could have two princes lifting his coffin.
Nur al-Din was dead—this fact was only now truly laid before them. No one knew who let out the first wail of grief, but then cries spread like plague, surging like tides between Acre’s layered walls and mansions.
Kamal was weeping too, grieving deeply for his monarch. He had built such a glorious legacy, yet left no trustworthy heir.
Dust flew, air scorched. He heard complaints, frowned, and looked toward the source—a official following behind in the procession, muttering curses because overzealous crowds bumped him into the line, affecting Kamal too.
He apologized to Kamal, but Kamal’s mind was elsewhere. He took a deep breath and realized at some point the funeral procession had stretched thin, with emotional crowds on both sides, inching forward like a worm.
“Call for help!” Kamal grabbed a man and whispered urgently. “Go to the front and tell the Eldest Prince and Second Prince! Have them send more guards at once!”
But the man just stared, whether unable to hear, understand, or unwilling to disturb the princes at such a time—no matter who became New Sultan, if it earned their displeasure, he stood to lose not just power and status, but perhaps his life.
Kamal was frantic, no longer minding the princes’ dislike. He rushed forward. But a Fatah blocked him—he was the Second Prince’s follower and had heard Kamal refused him. He shoved Kamal back into the crowd. Kamal fell into the dust, disheveled, hearing a few snickers, unsure from whom.
He cried out in despair, but the chaos had begun.
The fall seemed a signal. Suddenly a man rushed out, clutching Nur al-Din’s coffin tightly, shouting ecstatically, “I touched it! I touched his coffin, I’ve received the blessing!” His cry was like a horn signaling battle. Everyone surged forward frantically, desperately reaching to touch Nur al-Din’s coffin.
Even as the guarding cavalry drew swords and raised bows and crossbows, they could not stop the reckless charge.
One pallbearer was knocked down—he was Nur al-Din’s Grand Vizier, who had sensed trouble. He looked to the princes at once, but those noble princes made no timely response—they only scrambled from under the heavy coffin, straining to reach out so slaves could pull them free and flee.
More people swarmed, trampling the pallbearers’ bodies, forgetting these were great nobles they wouldn’t normally dare glance at. They first tore off the cloth draping the coffin, then pried open the coffin lid. Nur al-Din’s remains were exposed to broad daylight, thousands of hands reaching to touch them.
The Sultan’s personal guard wanted to kill these who dared desecrate the remains, but they covered the entire coffin. If they struck, these lowly ones’ blood would pollute Nur al-Din’s holy remains—they hesitated a moment and were swallowed by the mob.
People started just touching, but was that enough? In an instant, the two layers of shroud covering Nur al-Din were torn off, shredded mid-air into countless scraps, even fibers, clutched tightly by Acre’s people to take home as relics for worship.
Kamal was nearly mad, watching Nur al-Din’s remains in peril. He knelt arduously, praying for protection from Allah and the Prophet. Light emanated from him, and several scholars reacted.
Some scholars lifted the coffin, others raised invisible shields and walls, while more roared like thunder. Acre’s most esteemed and powerful Grand Scholar raised his hands, unleashing thunderbolts that pierced the reckless ones’ bodies, felling them group after group.
In a flash, the chaos ceased. Silence returned to the streets, bringing people back to reason. They stared at each other, baffled how they had acted so madly.
The Grand Scholar’s face was grim, but he had nothing to say. Acre’s people had acted out of excessive love for Nur al-Din—not malice to desecrate this great monarch’s remains, though the result was much the same.
He could only order the scholars to quickly gather Nur al-Din’s coffin and remains. “Back to Apole Castle first,” he said wearily. “Hold the burial ceremony again tomorrow.”
