Chapter 122: First Battle
“This is the breath of Allah, the word of Allah, the seal of Allah.”
When the Chief Eunuch by the Sultan’s side suddenly heard his master say this, he merely silently placed his hands on his chest, without echoing agreement or offering words of praise, because he knew his master, the great Nur al-Din, did not need it—he was a simple and pious man, always praying alone quietly at night, while constantly examining the wrongs he had committed during the day.
And such prayers had become even more frequent after leaving Acre. From the eunuch’s understanding of his master, he could roughly guess that this expedition might be the only thing Nur al-Din had ever done for himself in his life.
He thirsted to offer the last bit of his wisdom and strength to Allah, yet he also feared that he would become a sinner among the Saracens for this wish—although his ministers and generals all said that now was the best time to retake Ayyarasa Road.
“The son of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, once listened to Allah’s will here, summoned apostles, and performed miracles—that was the power Allah granted him, allowing him to walk on water, calm storms, and feed thousands with five loaves and two fish.” Nur al-Din pointed to the surface of the Sea of Galilee, saying this. Tonight the moonlight was bright, silver light shimmering on the lake, endless to the eye, just like the Sultan’s army.
“I have sought the Prophet’s revelation, hoping he would descend before me as he did forty years ago, to show the Saracens the path ahead, but He has not replied to me. My prayers are like stones, sinking into the water and vanishing—I cannot help but wonder if all the deeds I have done for Allah meet His expectations for me? Have I already gone astray, destined to enter Hell?”
“Sultan!” The Chief Eunuch had to speak. “Why would you think that? From Mosul to Acre, from Acre to Damascus, from Damascus to Alexander, from Alexander to Cairo, who does not know that your sense of justice is like sunlight, shining across the earth?
You have never enacted any laws contrary to doctrine, nor imposed any corvée that violates the Prophet’s teachings, nor collected even a single illegal tax. Your reverence for Allah and the Prophet is known to all, whether to your own children, your most trusted generals, or an Isaacite or Christian.
You are so noble and upright; every bite of food, every piece of clothing, every item of use, even your residence, horses, and weapons, all come from your spoils of war, just like any soldier in your army. If your wife complains, you would rather transfer your shop to her than let her take a single coin from the Kingdom’s treasury.
And your courage is unmatched—which campaign did you not personally charge at the front? Each time you do so, we kneel and pray for you. Without you, who would lead and protect the Saracens?”
“Allah, before me, after me, is with us now,” Nur al-Din said solemnly. “Shams, there is no god but Allah. Every person walking here, whether Caliph, Sultan, or Vichir, is merely one chosen by Him to act and speak on His behalf.”
“I spoke out of turn, Sultan.”
Nur al-Din made a gesture, signaling the prostrate Chief Eunuch to rise. He knew the Chief Eunuch spoke from the heart, but mortals must not overstep—he turned his gaze back to the lake. “We are all morning dew; only Allah is eternal and supreme.”
Embracing inexpressible emotions, master and servant walked silently along the edge of the Sea of Galilee, stepping over the rugged great stones, until the bright moon hung high. The Chief Eunuch looked up at the position of the stars: “You should rest.”
“I know,” Nur al-Din said. “It’s strange; I’m clearly exhausted, yet I have no desire to sleep—ah, Shams, I understand, I am old. I once saw my father unable to sleep through the night, and thought it odd then… But I should indeed return; how many eyes are watching us.”
Nur al-Din was not wrong; his great army included tribal leaders from the Arabian Peninsula and their soldiers, Bedouin, Kurds, Oghuz Turks such as mercenaries, and slave soldiers like Gulam and Mamluks—though they shared the same faith, their skin color, status, and treatment were entirely different, and their desires had different outlets.
Here, they were obedient only because of the authority Nur al-Din had accumulated in the first thirty years and the bait dangling before their eyes—Ayyarasa Road.
But after only a few steps, Nur al-Din suddenly frowned. He smelled fresh blood, and then the Chief Eunuch saw it too: in the nearby reeds, a narrow fishing boat was capsized upward, and on its raised hull lay a naked boy, beside him a slightly older girl, but neither had grown up—and they never would.
These were fishermen near the Sea of Galilee. Even stripped of their outer clothes, it was impossible to tell if they were Christians or Saracens, but what did it matter? Though Nur al-Din was just, his justice applied only within doctrine and only in his territory. On an expedition in enemy land, anything could happen.
The Chief Eunuch immediately called soldiers following behind to bury them—not out of mercy, but because corpses rotting in the lake water could easily cause plague. They still had to cross this lake, half the size of Ayyarasa Road, requiring at least two more days, and before then, many soldiers would draw water, fish, and swim there.
After this incident, though he returned to his tent and lay on the soft low couch, Nur al-Din still could not fall into the deep sleep he desired—not out of guilt, but worry that it would become a bad omen. He knew such thoughts were harmful to the current situation, yet he could not stop them lingering in his mind.
The next day, when those Emirs, Fatah thousand-man unit leaders came to see him, they found a Sultan more imposing and fearsome than before. They greeted him with trepidation, praying Allah would bless this most respected elder. Only after a long while did they report events during the march and the movements of the Crusader main force they had closely watched.
“They are still heading north; the vanguard has reached Alexandretta and boarded ships. They may disembark at Tarsus in Armenia—”
Hearing this, everyone in the tent smiled.
“And Mulai? Has he kept his oath and sent his army? Sultan Toghrul II? His envoy told me he would deliver a fatal blow to those arrogant Christian knights? Has his army moved to a suitable position?”
“That Armenian Mulai is indeed ready,” Indeed, others could make excuses and evade, but not Mulai—he was now the mortal enemy of Christian countries. Betraying his second master would make it impossible for him to survive in the Saracen world; both sides would seize this defiler of their faith and tear him to pieces: “Sultan Toghrul II seems still to be waiting…”
Nur al-Din nodded without pleasure or anger. If it were him, he would do the same. If he could surround Ayyarasa Road before the Crusader main force reacted, Sultan Toghrul II would not mind taking advantage to bite at the Christians’ heels, but if he failed to achieve his goal, Sultan Toghrul II would happily watch them tear at each other—after all, the Zengid dynasty was built on the ruins of the Seljuk Dynasty.
Nur al-Din’s father Zengi had originally been merely a Turkish slave of the Seljuk Sultan, but through his wisdom, loyalty, strength, and Allah’s favor gained through piety, the Prophet’s revelation, he established his own dynasty. Even so, though people called Nur al-Din Sultan, he and his brother’s titles were still Atabeg, meaning Regent and Tutor.
The last Bedouin leader stepped forward and mentioned a minor matter: their light cavalry, scouting ahead, had discovered an Isaacite settlement in the wilderness of Kibbutz Kunlan—three villages, about two thousand people.
“I have heard of them,” Nur al-Din said. “They belong to the ‘hermit sect’ among the Isaacites, gentle and obedient, engaging only in farming and animal husbandry, never lending or trading.”
“And?”
“Kill them all.” Nur al-Din mildly pronounced the death sentence for these two thousand people. If they were in Acre or Damascus, he would let them live or even protect them, but not here—here was too close to Ayyarasa Road.
——————
“Run! Run! Run!”
The sage’s mad cries still echoed in his ears, while Haridi’s throat, eyes, and ears were filled with blood. He could not see the path ahead, could not hear the wails; his chest ached as if torn apart, unsure if the pain came from his lungs or heart.
The saint’s blessing allowed the sage to foresee crises and opportunities, but even hearing the horn’s long wail signaling death, how could he warn everyone? Moreover, it was deep night, without any omen.
Even fools said they had lived in the wilderness of Kibbutz Kunlan for centuries; aside from tax-collecting officials and soldiers, some merchants, no one had ever disturbed them. They had bought exemption from service with money; neither wolf packs of Saracens nor lion-like Crusaders had ever bared fangs at these docile lambs.
They could leave, of course, but what of the furniture, the houses? Beasts would soon occupy and ruin everything, along with their grapes, wheat, olive trees…
And even if they went to other settlements, the Isaacites there might accept them, but with nothing but the clothes on their backs, how would they rent houses, furnish them, buy food? Would they violate their doctrine and live by deceit like other Isaacites?
Arguing with these fools was pointless, especially for Haridi, who had survived Fustat’s catastrophe and knew disaster struck like thunder, sudden and bone-deep. Any hesitation now would lead to the most tragic ending. He did not hesitate, immediately taking his wife, daughter, and others willing to follow, fleeing the village.
But how could human feet compare to the four hooves of horses?
Moreover, pursuing them were the swiftest and most agile light cavalry in the Saracen army. They wore wide cloaks and long robes, headscarves secured with black bands, faces veiled in black gauze, revealing only gleaming eyes and blades. Those crescent scimitars, like new moons, flashed as they charged, like death’s invitations hurled, none missing their mark.
More terrifying than these Bedouin were the Nubian soldiers in sleeveless tight light tunics and wide trousers, their black skin; also called Berbers, with long hair braided upright on their heads. In the night, they were like headless devils, emitting hair-raising cries, each riding one horse and leading two or three spares.
They even switched horses without dismounting, leaping directly from one to the next.
Pursuing Haridi were these detestable hyenas. Haridi’s reaction was the fastest; he and the sage mounted one camel, tied his wife and daughter to another, gave other mounts to neighbors—in the face of the storm-like slaughterers, flight was their only resistance—they had no warriors among them.
They had even once prided themselves on this…
Haridi crouched on the camel’s back, using his body as the sage’s shield. Strange “whooshing” sounds passed his ears; chilling vibrations came from his body, the saddle, even the camel—he did not know if he was wounded, only that from some moment, one side of his body lost strength. Fortunately, the sage gripped him tightly, preventing him from falling.
How long they fled through the desert, he did not know, until the sun rose, gilding the earth. The camel beneath him wailed and collapsed; he and the sage crashed heavily into the sand.
For a long time, they lay still. Haridi awoke from darkness, blinded by sunlight to tears. He struggled up to check the sage, now a white-haired elder, barely breathing after the night’s torment, so faint as to be almost undetectable.
Haridi turned and saw a hideous wound on his thigh, not like a long knife but as if struck by a javelin, then torn further by jolting— he too had received a blessing, allowing him to persist; otherwise, blood loss would have killed him.
He also saw the camel, now cold and stiff. He remembered tying the other camel’s rope to its saddle, but that one with his wife and daughter was gone; the rope had snapped at some point.
Haridi set aside worry for his wife and daughter, returning to the sage, who propped himself against the camel, face ashen, eyes full of regret and hatred: “It was the Saracen army,” he said. “Alas, child, how foolish I am.
Like an ant tumbling in the grit, seeing two giant beasts fight, I thought it none of our concern—not knowing that for us lowly ones, even the slightest change is a deluge of destruction.”
“I am bound for hell, child,” he grasped Haridi’s hand. “But you live—this may be the best thing. Take this ill news there. I know you are unwilling, fear their prejudice, but no matter—take the treasures I once showed you, give them to them, and they will forgive you…”
His breathing quickened: “Haridi, this is not just for you, but for those most precious things. Keep them… don’t let them perish in the flames of war… don’t let them fall to heathens… Haridi!”
He called Haridi’s name one last time, straightened, and died.
Haridi prayed for him, pushed the camel’s corpse over him as a simple grave. Exhausted, he rested a while, then took the waterskin and food bag from the camel, staggering forward. Not far, he saw another camel behind a sand dune.
Before joy and hope could rise, he saw his wife sprawled over their daughter, two javelins in her back. He turned her over, lifted the daughter—unharmed, but cold and stiff. Perhaps dead from cold, or fright.
In any case, she too was dead.
