Chapter 146: Settlement
With Kamal reaching such a conclusion, the subsequent matters became much simpler.
Damascus Governor Ilghazi is now just one step away from rebels. Whether it is Sultan Nur al-Din or his sons, any decree they issue to Egypt can be said to sink into the sea without a trace. No response at all, and his agent left in this city already had an awkward status, not to mention that the one who killed him was an Assassin’s assassin, rather than someone with a grudge or conflicting interests against him—people would find it even harder to pinpoint the culprit, after all, what brought him to death was merely a “weapon”.
How few are the people he offended in this city? Those merchants who were robbed and slaughtered, those Isaacites who worked for him yet watched themselves about to be betrayed, or the Saracens who bore resentment toward him because of Ilghazi…
Thus, he was soon placed into a coffin, people hired his servants to perform purification and the subsequent series of work for him, and after a brief and simple funeral, the crowd gathered, pleading with Kamal to select a reliable agent for Damascus anew before leaving.
“Why would you think of choosing me?” Razis eyed Kamal with a gaze full of doubt. They were university classmates, indeed, and could be called close friends, but that did not prevent them from teasing each other: “I am not a smart person, nor diligent enough. I have no desire for power, only liking to comfortably spend the next few decades in the embrace of Qiyan.” Even his persistent collection and transcription of books over the past decade was to fulfill his ancestor’s long-cherished wish.
Although Razis had received a revelation from the Prophet, he never wished to enter the army or the court. He was very satisfied with his current life and did not want any changes.
“Nothing to worry about.” Kamal sat across from him, with exquisite pastries and candied fruit placed on the small table between them, as well as two hookahs. The smoke rose amid the brilliant light spots formed by colored glass, like the veils flying up as a singer twirls—but in this room, there were only the two of them, with no servants or slaves nearby, as this was their, especially Kamal’s, rare time of relaxation.
Razis was still unwilling to replace this batch of servants—so no one was left to attend them, lest they hear something they should not.
“Damascus originally did not need a master either.” Kamal saw the current situation very clearly.
The classes in Damascus can mainly be divided into three tiers. The uppermost are of course officials, scholars, and generals; the second tier are merchants and craftsmen, farmers—Damascus is not just a city, it also encompasses rugged mountains and vast wilderness around it; the third tier are Christians, Isaacites, and the extremely delicate—the guards in this city. They are not welcomed by the populace, even described as wolves driven by the first and second tiers. They even have a unique prefix word meaning malicious, which shows how notorious they are.
But these three tiers share a common thought—they unanimously despise the taxes and laws from the Sultan or the Caliph, always hoping to make Damascus an autonomous city, like Florence in the Apennines, or Langcheng in Francia.
But such a demand cannot be satisfied in the Saracen world—under the Sultan, there are only slaves. Even the Grand Vizier and Emir cannot escape this curse, let alone Damascus having only some merchants.
In fact, over a hundred years ago, the people of Damascus had already incited several riots that troubled the Caliph. He could not abandon this city, but the populace’s stubbornness always stuck in his throat.
The people of Damascus began to behave themselves only after being conquered by Nur al-Din, but evidently, this posture of obedience would not last long. Therefore, if Kamal placed someone like Ilghazi or Saladin here, the result would inevitably not be good—simply like pouring a cup of ice water into a pot of seemingly calm but actually boiling oil, instantly making it splash with flames. By then, Damascus might fall into strife even earlier than Apollonia.
Precisely for this reason, a mediocre and unambitious person would be accepted by the people of Damascus.
“Before the situation in Apole stabilizes, you need make no decisions at all, even regarding the bandits outside the city and the Isaacites inside—if they want to use their own soldiers to remove those thorns growing on the trade routes, fine, let them do it. Do not interfere, nor suppress. If they give you gifts, accept them, but do not meddle with taxes. Um, even if they deliberately delay and shortchange, it does not matter. After all, this money does not belong to you; it belongs to the Sultan.
If the future Sultan is a figure like Nur al-Din, the unlucky ones will only be this group in Damascus…”
“What if he is not?”
“Then you need not worry too much either. They will reject the Sultan’s decrees on your behalf. These fellows are not so foolish as to deliberately invite a stranger they cannot control.”
“You speaking like this truly makes one feel disheartened,” Razis said discontentedly. “At university, my grades were not much worse than yours. I too received a revelation from the Prophet in the temple. If needed, I would mount a horse too. Wielding a scimitar, fighting those Christians solely to defend the glory of Allah.”
“But you have no ambition,” Kamal pointed out mercilessly. “You may be pious, diligent, wise, but you lack the desire to rise. You are not that kind of person, so you cannot understand their thoughts. Once caught in the vortex, you will surely shatter to pieces.”
In fact, Nur al-Din had also mentioned Razis’s name once, wanting him to come to the court in Apollonia to work for him, but Kamal had managed to refuse on his behalf.
“I told him that if you were by his side, you might become a good doctor, a warrior, or an official, but never a competent subject—do not think that as long as you do your work diligently, nothing will happen. As soon as you block someone else’s path—they will not hesitate to sabotage your work, slander you, and try to throw you into prison or execute you.
By then, everything would be over. The matters, and you.
But now, Damascus is indeed a good place for you to idle away your days. If the new Sultan sends his governor, you need not worry either—just hand over the power in your hands steadily, and leave the rest to the people of Damascus.”
“What if they elect me to fight the new governor?”
“Then come to Apollonia.”
“You sure?”
Kamal fell silent. “…If you really are unwilling…”
“Forget it,” Razis said. He placed a honeyed apricot dry in his mouth, chewing it slowly, feeling only bitterness filling his mouth. He also knew why Kamal recommended him—because he truly could not select anyone else.
The agent left by Ilghazi had already proven how disastrous it is to let a man of low character govern a city. If Kamal refused to point out someone to them—after he left, the people in this city would surely fight endlessly over this position, causing the whole city to fracture.
“So what about you? Are you still returning to Apollonia?”
“If I could stay in Damascus, then I would be the one doing this agent business.” Kamal said, “But I definitely must go back. It is my duty, my obligation, and also my power. Without seeing Sultan Nur al-Din forever slumber in his resting place, my heart will never find peace in this lifetime.”
Speaking of Sultan Nur al-Din, Razis raised his head: “That Christian knight you had me test… he did come to find me. How did you know he would definitely come to me?”
“I have heard some things about him—in the Christians’ castle, I also saw with my own eyes how much their king cherished and trusted him.” Kamal could understand this—although Sultans like Nur al-Din, or rather Atid such as Ali, when they were still princes, would not have the sons of Grand Viziers or Emirs by their side（their fathers would not allow）.
But from childhood, they would have slaves of similar age by their side. These young slaves, like those women in the Sultan’s Harem, were also purchased from slave merchants or the market. They were like a dog or a bird, accompanying the prince. Though their lives and deaths were in others’ hands, after the prince became Sultan or Caliph, they too could wield power—even if they could never truly own a piece of land, nor be allowed to possess their own assets, even their lives and honor belonging to their master—they were often second to one, above tens of thousands.
The loyalty of these people to the Sultan or Caliph is of course beyond doubt. After all, besides the master they accompanied from childhood, no second person would grant them the same trust and regard. If someone else ascended to power, what awaited them would only be death or an even more miserable fate.
But in the Christian court, such a situation hardly exists. After all, their foundation is not here; their foundation is in a distant other place. Even if the current Count of Edessa has lost his territory, as long as he has his surname and coat of arms, even if he leaves the King of Ayyarasa Road, he can still become a guest at other monarchs’ tables, with hundreds of nobles willing to associate with him—not to mention he is so young and handsome, and “the chosen one.” Where could he not make a career?
Kamal, who spent almost every moment in the Sultan’s court amid scheming and infighting, found it hard to believe that there truly existed such a pure and benevolent person in this world. His mercy was not only toward his king, brothers, and Christians, but also to his enemies.
And in Bosra, he had heard that this young knight had brought his attendant to visit the library there and managed to borrow several books on leprosy to read and transcribe.
He was uncertain whether this was a show for others or truly from the heart, and how firm and steadfast this sincerity could be—he sent a servant to tell Razis that if such a Christian knight came to borrow those precious medical ancient texts, he should humiliate, belittle, and question him as much as possible, to see if he would get angry, ashamed, or embarrassed…
Razis continued to recount last night’s events to him in full detail, sparing no details.
“It was truly too strange,” Razis said. “Do you know? I thought that even if only one-tenth of what I said, for a child his age, he would have turned and left without hesitation—and even the older attendant behind him showed indignation. Yet he acted as if he had not heard those words…” He gestured in astonishment. “He just sat down in front of me, then offered to buy my books with one gold coin.
Of course, when I first heard that, I thought he was mockingly retaliating against me, but then he kept raising the bid, up to one million gold coins—one million, enough to buy Damascus. My anger dissipated in that moment. I suddenly understood.” He looked at Kamal. “He was not showing off how much money he had, but how firm his faith was. To achieve his goal, he could convert everything into tangible assets. My books, my dignity, my life all have a price—and likewise his, so he did not care about my ravings.
I admit that I felt fear then. I completely did not understand—mere books, he could not even be sure if they would truly help him, yet he staked all his chips at once like a reckless gambler.” He took a deep breath. “I dared not bet against him—so he won. Was he always such a person before?”
“I was not too clear before, but I know his brother, the King of Ayyarasa Road, is indeed a bold gambler. Yes, you probably do not yet know the details of the Battle of the Sea of Galilee.” Kamal slowly took a draw from the hookah. “They defeated the Sultan’s army, ten times their number, with over a hundred knights, hundreds of escorts and armed attendants in small forces. The one who decided to do so was their young king, and perhaps this knight we see now.”
“He is indeed arrogant,” Razis nodded. “However, such a person should not be one who treats good deeds as part of a conspiracy. Though good people can do bad things, using a great ruler’s funeral as a bargaining chip has undoubtedly crossed the line—whether Saracen or Christian.”
Kamal nodded. “He did tell me that performing purification for the Sultan was not to seek any return—we had not even spoken of repaying his favor. He merely acted out of one human’s mercy for another.”
“A Christian knight with great love?” Razis laughed, seemingly finding the notion quite amusing. “Then why did you have me do this? Kamal, I am not deliberately prying into your secrets. If you cannot answer, then do not—just my curiosity.”
That child is a Christian. If he were a young Saracen, even a Kurd, or a Nubian? He would think his close friend intended to draw him into the Sultan’s court. But he is a Christian, an enemy of the Saracens. Though it is not unheard of for Christian knights to be employed by Sultans or Caliphs—but he is also the Envoy and close subject of the King of Ayyarasa Road, and heir to the Count of Edessa—the chance of him betraying his faith and monarch to switch sides is too low.
“I also received a commission from someone.” Kamal said. He did not mention that person’s name, and Razis tactfully did not press. But Kamal’s thoughts had involuntarily flown back to when he was still in Ayyarasa Road, receiving a secret letter from Cairo in Egypt—at that time, he was worrying about his future path, unsure where to go.
He had once served under Sultan Nur al-Din, the Light of Faith of the Saracens, and was deeply impressed by him.
After Nur al-Din’s death, he looked around and surprisingly found no one who could match him—not even half. The Sultan’s three sons were not even comparable to the new king of Ayyarasa Road.
He could not go to Ayyarasa Road, surely.
Compared to the Saracen courts, Christian countries would only be harsher and more dangerous. Their emphasis on bloodlines and surnames doomed even an ordinary farmer’s or craftsman’s son to hardly gain a foothold in their power circles, let alone a Saracen—he would most likely just add fuel to their stake.
And just days later, he actually received a letter from Saladin. He had not interacted much with Saladin, dealing more with his uncle Ilghazi. And Ilghazi was nothing more than a crude warrior; he might have some petty schemes, but in Kamal’s eyes, they were mere child’s play.
Their ability to head south and become masters of Egypt was only because Nur al-Din was old, unable to continue controlling these two unruly hunting falcons. Once released, it would be hard for him to summon them back.
In Kamal’s heart, they were outright rebels.
If Nur al-Din had not been defeated and died in the Battle of the Sea of Galilee, he might very well have conquered Ayyarasa Road and then mounted an expedition to Egypt. Kamal had even imagined that by then, he might be in the Sultan’s army, watching the Sultan’s eunuchs strangle those two traitors with a bowstring.
Now one of the rebels had written to him, and the content was very straightforward and frank. He tried to recruit Kamal—and upon seeing those lines, Kamal even laughed aloud. It was too ridiculous.
How could Saladin think that a member of the most prominent and arrogant branch of a heavy minister family residing for generations in Apollonia would be willing to submit to a Kurd?
But such letters were not just one; every night thereafter, a letter would appear on his desk, with varying contents.
Sometimes Saladin would describe the scenery along the Nile River, the lives of the populace, and his newly forming army; sometimes he would introduce Egypt’s new capital Cairo, where he was building a massive castle as the first line of defense against the Christians. He also spoke of Apollonia, Nur al-Din’s three sons, and his nephew in Mosul. He even mentioned the Prince of Armenia and the Emperor of Byzantium—some of the analyses surprisingly aligned with Kamal’s.
And the parts that did not align with his views only impulsively made Kamal want to unroll parchment, take up the quill pen, write his opinions, and send them back to Saladin. But would that not admit he was willing to be Saladin’s subject? He barely suppressed the urge.
And while they were still in Bosra, at the end of the secret letter he received, Saladin made a small request: to go see that black-haired, green-eyed child.
Saladin had also heard that his background had been revealed—he was surprisingly the only son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa. Suddenly, from an unknown slave, he became one of the heirs to the four holy kingdoms（according to the Christians’ saying）, truly astonishing.
However, contrary to what Kamal thought, Saladin did not believe this was deliberate by the King of Ayyarasa Road Baldwin IV. Even without this identity, the child’s future would inevitably be bright and prominent.
But Saladin wrote that he had spoken with the child and seen some noble qualities others could not possess. Yet under such abrupt changes, even a seasoned person would uncontrollably show some flaws. Could this young man truly withstand such a trial?
Razis jested that Kamal’s attention to this Christian knight—did he intend to recruit him to the court in Apollonia? Kamal of course had no such plan, but he always felt Saladin’s attention to this young man was indeed excessive. This Kurd who might become Sultan in the future might truly harbor some ulterior motives—perhaps anyone who could become a monarch is a bit like a dragon, wanting to pull treasures to himself upon seeing them—just like Nur al-Din back then.
Of course, if the other’s performance disappointed him, he would surely discard him mercilessly like worn shoes.
“If he were a Saracen, I would be delighted and comforted, but he is a Christian.” Razis said as if talking to himself. “Have you never thought of letting him perish during this mission?
Though the King of Ayyarasa Road would surely rage greatly. Given this young man’s temperament, we might even face a brutal war. But so what? Christians and Saracens are destined to slaughter until the end of the world.”
“…In the end, he is just a person,” Kamal said after pondering for a moment. “And our journey has not yet reached its end. When we arrive in Apole, we shall see.”
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“In three days and two nights, the Christian delegation will arrive in Apole.” The First Lady said calmly, while her eunuch stood silently with hands down.
Sultan Nur al-Din’s youngest son Salih curled up in his birth mother’s arms, opening a pair of big eyes to look at the First Lady—in the Sultan’s Harem, there was a rather peculiar rule.
In the harem, aside from the First Lady, Second Lady, and Third Lady, all the court’s consorts and female slaves could be called the Sultan’s forbidden possessions, but their true master was only one person—the First Lady. She decided who would serve the Sultan, unless the Sultan truly favored someone（such cases were rare）. Otherwise, how many times they served, when, or even whether they could bear children, all depended on the First Lady’s will.
If a consort served without the First Lady’s permission, the First Lady could execute her on the charge of adultery—such cases were also rare, but if it happened—the Sultan would not pursue it overly.
And Salih was a child born under the First Lady’s watch, while he and his birth mother were the First Lady’s natural allies.
Salih’s birth mother held Salih tightly. Salih might not fully understand, but she knew that just the previous night, Count Joscelin III of Edessa and his wife had been transferred from the remote fortress where they were imprisoned to Apole Castle, and then that night, the First Lady’s eunuch had brought poison to end them.
