Chapter 145: On The Road To Acre
The officer returned to his residence.
This residence was not his, just as Damascus did not belong to him.
Damascus belonged to Sultan Nur al-Din. Even the former governor Ilghazi only possessed the power granted to him by the Sultan, power that the Sultan could reclaim at any moment, perhaps even with his life.
And he was merely an officer under Ilghazi. Although he possessed talents and courage beyond ordinary men, he was not the best. Otherwise, he would be in Cairo, Egypt, instead of Damascus. When Ilghazi asked him to stay and manage Damascus, he knew he had been abandoned.
As for his future, whether he would be highly valued by the Sultan—which was unlikely—or more likely be suspected, exiled, or executed, it was all destined.
But how could he be content? He had followed Ilghazi from a very early stage, having witnessed firsthand this Kurd rise from an employed tribal cavalryman to a general and subject of the Sultan.
And when he prospered, he did not forget his kin and friends. He promoted them one by one, placing these chess pieces in important positions, including the officer, who was merely one of them—Ilghazi’s most valued was his nephew, Saladin. As soon as that young man arrived in Acre, he gained the favor of Sultan Nur al-Din, and he truly deserved it.
But acknowledging Saladin’s qualification was one thing; being jealous of him was another. The officer was of similar age to Saladin, in the prime of a man’s life. He had also heard that Ilghazi had become the Grand Vizier to Caliph Atid of the Fatimid Dynasty. Everyone knew that the Fatimid Dynasty was a giant beast clinging to existence in the dust of history, ready to fall at any moment, depending only on the will of Ilghazi and Saladin.
And after it fell, its rich, delicious flesh could sustain them for a long time. They would possess this vast nation and all it represented. The officer was full of unwillingness; he had even madly considered abandoning Damascus to go to Ilghazi’s side, believing he could at least truly become the master of a city.
But while Ilghazi might remember some old ties, his nephew Saladin would not. He had witnessed Saladin’s methods. Although this hypocritical fellow always appeared very humble, tolerant, and benevolent, if he were truly so, he could never have become Ilghazi’s chosen heir.
Saladin would surely kill him.
And if he wanted to stay here, he would have to find a way to eliminate the Sultan’s suspicion of him. But he was not like Kamal, whose ancestors had served the Sultan in the court of Acre for generations, and he had a fatal identity—a confidant of Ilghazi.
If the current Sultan were still the wise Nur al-Din, he might have tried to plead before him, begging for his forgiveness and exposing the crimes of Ilghazi and Saladin. Even if the Sultan might not believe he had abandoned his former master, he would at least give him an opportunity, and he believed he was no worse than Ilghazi.
But the greatest trouble arrived. No one expected that an expedition, which everyone considered well-prepared and full of momentum, would break its flag at the Sea of Galilee before even seeing the city walls of Ayyarasa Road. Not only did they suffer a great defeat, but Sultan Nur al-Din also died.
Sultan Nur al-Din’s three sons were all mediocre and not worth entrusting his life to. But this might not be a bad thing. Ilghazi had complained to him many times that the men around the three princes were all inherently greedy and short-sighted fools. As long as their massive appetites could be bribed and satisfied, many crises could be resolved.
The problem was he had no money. When he left Damascus, Ilghazi seemed to have foreseen his future and took everything he could, leaving him with only an empty city.
But if enough time passed, he could also accumulate great wealth like Ilghazi. But who could he blame for only staying here for such a short time? This time was not even enough for him to investigate the intricate and deeply entrenched overt and covert relationships within the city.
He did not know who was friends with whom, who was enemies with whom, and what unspeakable yet unshakeable political or economic ties existed between them—these were not things that could be known by simply watching and listening. People could remain silent or feign their dispositions.
He was like a person without a net, a boat, a hook, or a fishing rod, standing idly by the great river of gold flowing through Damascus, watching people unscrupulously and wantonly scoop up benefits from it, while he himself remained empty-handed.
Using the Isaacites as tools and puppets to do things he himself could not do had almost become a common tactic for monarchs and powerful figures in various countries.
He had seen Ilghazi do this. Even if the matter was exposed, the risk he had to bear was merely receiving a scolding from the Sultan and then pushing those scapegoats out to be beheaded.
If you were to say that given such high risks, would the Isaacites refuse, or pretend to obey but disobey? Not at all. The officer discovered that they were even more foolish than camels walking in the desert.
When camels endure extreme thirst in the desert and see a mirage, they will stretch their necks to smell the air for moisture to determine its reality, whether it is worth the effort to change direction, walk, and run. And the Isaacites? If a chest of gold is placed before them, they will do anything without hesitation, even if it means weaving the rope that will hang them.
Moreover, the merchants of Damascus were so prosperous; they were like strong bulls. All he had to do was cut open the artery in a bull’s thigh and take a cup of blood. It would not be a fatal blow, and perhaps in just two or three years, they could quickly recover. This money, however, would be enough to ensure his later life was carefree and even allow him to advance further.
It was just that Kamal’s gaze today made him feel a hint of worry.
He had heard of Kamal’s name; he was an outstanding “scholar.” People said he had eyes and ears that could discern lies and truth. At the same time, he was a loyal minister under Nur al-Din, obeying no one but the Sultan’s orders. He was not keen on accumulating wealth, nor did he favor beautiful women, making him the most difficult type of person to deal with.
The officer was also considering preparing more fallback options for himself. If one of Sultan Nur al-Din’s eldest son or the other two sons, whichever it might be, became the New Sultan, and Kamal was still retained, he would immediately find a way to escape, to Egypt or elsewhere.
As a general in his prime and with extensive experience, he believed that many Sultans or Emirs would welcome him.
Of course, the best scenario would be for the unrest in Acre to lead to Kamal’s downfall or death. Then he would no longer have to worry and could proceed with his previous plan.
It was rare for this soldier, more accustomed to the battlefield, to ponder for a long time. From the clouds filling the sky to the bright moon hanging high, he sprang from the couch, only to realize he was drenched in sweat—that sticky, suffocating feeling was unbearable.
He immediately called out loudly for servants to prepare the bath. He wanted to bathe.
In this palace, which had once belonged to Caliphs, Sultans, and Governors, there were indeed several exquisite bathrooms, complete with soaring domes, marble walls, multi-foil arches, gilded capitals and bases, cold pools, hot pools, steam rooms, and massage rooms.
Equally diligent slaves worked day and night in the boiler room, ensuring that the master could enjoy a pleasant bath at any time.
Although Saracens did not advocate excessive indulgence, bathing was certainly an exception. For them, it was a religious ritual to maintain cleanliness of body and soul. No matter how many times they bathed or how they bathed, it was in accordance with their doctrine and would not draw criticism.
The officer first simply washed himself with cold water and soap, then entered the warm pool. After the boiling water turned his skin red, he plunged back into the cold pool. The pores, which had opened from the steam, contracted sharply under the stimulus, causing a slight yet pleasant tremor.
After enduring for a few breaths, he emerged from the cold pool and returned to the warm pool. This time, the soothing effect of the soft, hot water was more profound and thorough. He felt as if he were floating in ecstasy. He stayed in the pool for quite some time until a servant by his side gently reminded him, and he lazily stepped out of the pool and headed towards the steam room.
The steam room was already filled with vapor. He lay naked on the smooth marble slab, which had been repeatedly cleaned and heated to ensure it no longer possessed the coldness of stone. It was like a solid piece of sunlight—heat radiated from within, making every inch of skin that touched it feel incredibly warm and close.
At this point, a servant should come forward to scrape away dead skin and grime, and then give him a full body massage.
He had a female slave who was very skilled at this, a strong Nubian woman. Although she did not have a beautiful face, she was voluptuous with large hands and feet, and her strength was like that of a man, perfectly fitting the officer’s requirements for a massage slave.
The officer tilted his head and glanced at the Nubian woman approaching him through the thick steam. She seemed the same as before, yet possessed a certain indescribable charm—she was only wearing a linen cloth around her waist, her upper body bare. This reminded the officer of the plump berries he had stolen and eaten in the vineyard in the misty night—round, supple, elastic, with small wrinkles, tempting his teeth and tongue.
The officer’s heart stirred, and he was wondering if he should do something first before relaxing, but her hands had already gently rested on his shoulders. Her fingers, strong and nimble, gripped the deltoid muscle connecting his neck and shoulder blade. A sharp ache spread, dispelling the officer’s initial thought. He let out a groan, relaxed his limbs, and awaited a thorough stimulation—although not the stimulation people were familiar with, what his Nubian slave provided would be no less inferior.
Her technique had improved. The pressure, placement, and repetitions were all just right, making the officer drowsy. He could feel one hand pushing up along his spine. The scent of high-quality olive oil and Damascus roses bloomed together on her rough skin. She smoothly pushed all the way to the nape of his neck, gently massaging his back of the head.
Then the second hand also reached that dangerous spot—over ten years of battlefield experience finally set off a piercing alarm in the officer’s mind. He wanted to scream and try to jump up, but this was merely his dying delusion. Before he could react, the Nubian woman, or rather Laila disguised as a Nubian woman, who was leaning over him, had cleanly broken his neck.
With sufficient strength and knowledge of the human body, accomplishing this task, even for a woman, required little effort. And in the bathroom, the victim was naked, already drowsy and limp from the heat, making the job even simpler.
Laila did not leave immediately but completed the entire massage process. Her movements were so discreet and swift that even though the officer’s servants and slaves were standing in the corner of the steam room, they detected nothing amiss.
She also covered the deceased with a large linen cloth and told the nearby slaves that their master wanted to rest for a while. No one suspected, and the high temperature of the massage room ensured that the corpse would not stiffen too quickly.
By the time the officer’s attendants discovered their master was already dead, Laila had returned to her residence. In her own bathroom, she washed off the dark oil and dye that had begun to flake from her hair. With the help of her maidservant, she dressed and put on her previous clothes.
When Razis woke up, feeling dizzy, he found himself still nestled in Laila’s arms. “What time is it?” he asked.
“Not too late. My dear, we still have more than half a night to enjoy,” Laila replied softly.
What happened afterward needs no further elaboration. They indulged in revelry, unaffected by the turmoil outside.
Though it sounded somewhat absurd, Kamal, who happened to be passing by, suddenly became the pillar of Damascus. The people of Damascus didn’t care much for this agent left by the Kurd, nor did they like him, but they were too lazy to do anything to this fool. They had once resisted the Sultan; what reason would they have to look down on a mere officer?
But the sudden murder of an agent, especially during such a turbulent time, was indeed troublesome. Fortunately, they did not have to search for the killer. For the killer had left behind a dagger belonging to the “Eagle’s Fortress.”
“It’s an Assassin’s dagger.”
Kamal said.
