Chapter 115: Acre’s Nur Al-din
Nur al-Din was indeed waiting.
He was still in his capital Acre, in his palace, surrounded by his ministers, generals, and consorts. He sipped coffee, inhaling the sweet scent of frankincense amid the rising steam. He issued decrees, letters, and orders to his governors, brothers, and other Saracens, demanding they lead their soldiers to the battlefield he specified.
They were to launch a holy war against the Christians, for Allah, for the Prophet, and for their compatriots.
But how many would choose to watch from the sidelines or delay? Nur al-Din gazed at the hazy scene before him—the sunlight filtering through the open space above the courtyard into the pool, the water surface shimmering like it was sprinkled with gold. He had done so himself, casually tossing gold beads into the water and calling his wives and maidservants to jump in and retrieve them.
Back then he was young and vigorous; each toss meant an all-night revelry. But now… he had to admit he was old. He preferred quiet over clamor, indulging in young bodies for warmth rather than desire. Yet he did not plan to die in agony and ugliness on a sickbed like his father.
“A Christian king can perish on the battlefield, and a Saracen sultan certainly can too.” But how? Nur al-Din did not intend to attack Ilghazi and Saladin in Egypt. Though to some, rebels were far more detestable than heathens, if he thought that way, he would not be “Nur al-Din”—a title of glory, though in truth he did not much like being called that.
Likewise, attacking Ayyarasa Road—like how Amalric I never forgot Egypt, the Saracens would not forget Ayyarasa Road, their holy land too—but Nur al-Din was not sure he could succeed. He did not want to be like Amalric I, too impulsive and trusting, squandering a great victory ripe for the taking to Saladin.
Saladin—though people still called him Ilghazi’s nephew—Nur al-Din knew and understood the young man better than those mediocrities. He had kept Saladin by his side, making him his attendant like his own nephew. He wished he had a son like Saladin, but alas, neither his eldest son, second son, nor youngest… brought him anything but disappointment.
They were not bad, just—if made a Vichir of a great city or an emir, there would be no issue. But Nur al-Din’s ambitions exceeded Syria. And his enemies, his brother, his subordinates would not allow it—those three foolish children truly believed they could effortlessly divide Syria after his death.
His second son had even said more than once that Zengi had divided his territory among Nur al-Din and his brother. Hearing that, Nur al-Din could not help laughing. He had always coveted Mosul, and Saif al-Din, his brother, had always coveted Acre.
When his brother died not long ago, he had intended to seize Mosul. If not for Saif al-Din’s ministers firmly resisting his army, he would now be sultan of Mosul and Acre.
His sons completely failed to see how he and his brother “inherited” Acre, Mosul, and Damascus—today’s Syria, Egypt, and Seljuk, even Byzantium, was a hunting ground teeming with beasts. They held banquets of blood and flesh here; every sip of water, every bite of food came through slaughter. The weak not only got no prey but became prey themselves.
He had shown his sons Caliph Atid’s plea for help. This monarch of the Fatimid Dynasty—possibly the last—in a letter groveling obsequiously (no need to elaborate), even cut off his consort’s hair, enclosed it in the envelope, and wrote: My consorts and I earnestly await your rescue. Without your army, they will suffer ravage and plunder by the Franks.
His sons mocked the letter outrageously, even his eleven-year-old youngest. What disappointed Nur al-Din was they did not see themselves as the next Atid. Smug, ignorant, and arrogant, they thought a surname could smother all ambition.
Nur al-Din wearily closed his eyes. His ears suddenly caught a faint sound outside the door—he had ordered no one to disturb him, but after a moment’s pause, he slightly turned his head. The black eunuch beside him immediately understood the sultan’s intent and hurriedly withdrew silently.
A moment later, he returned to report that the First Lady wished an audience with the sultan.
In the sultan’s harem, consorts fell into three types. One was blood kin like the First Lady, his cousin sharing a common ancestor, thus the highest-ranking woman in this court—Nur al-Din’s mother was long dead, and he had no sisters.
His Second Lady and Third Lady were princesses from other tribes and khanates; their marriages to Nur al-Din could be called political contracts. Slightly below them were daughters and sisters of officials.
The third type were slaves—beautiful girls procured by slave merchants from the Caucasus, Greece, Iran, and the Apennines.
In later fantasies, every sultan’s consort and maidservant got a spacious, luxurious room. In fact, aside from the First Lady, Second Lady, Third Lady, and favored consorts, other women shared rooms of four or five, six at most, with poor heating and insulation.
Summers were bearable; when winter came, countless young women fell ill from cold, receiving scant treatment or care. Most died in their prime, casually wrapped like rotten fruit and tossed out by eunuchs and laborers.
The First Lady was Nur al-Din’s age, but aside from annoying fine lines and a few white strands, she remained a beauty of exceptional grace and poise. Passing the eunuchs’ line, she knelt three steps from the sultan, prostrating, affectionately pressing her cheek to his robe’s hem.
Nur al-Din gazed at her with equal warmth and affection—though he knew this wife was not as meek and kind as she seemed, having schemed against women behind his back for her status and his favor. Yet they shared an unbreakable bond.
He extended his hand for her to kiss, then allowed her to sit beside him. “What made you suddenly want to see me?” Nur al-Din asked. Generally, in the sultan’s harem, women over thirty were removed from the bedding roster—consorts losing chances to see the sultan. But the First Lady always had Nur al-Din’s trust; he entrusted the harem to her management, and like an official, she reported to the sultan periodically.
“It is this, my dear master,” the First Lady said gently. “Another batch of girls in the court has reached fifteen. If you wish, I will bring them to you tonight for you to see and select a few to spend this lonely night with you.”
Nur al-Din indul gently eyed his wife. His bond with his cousin had little romance; respect and trust were built on shared blood. Moreover, the First Lady had no children yet; Nur al-Din’s three sons were from his consorts, reducing her threat in his eyes.
And with age, the First Lady grew ever more serene and tolerant. Jealousy? At her age, she could be these girls’ grandmother. Arranging bedding for Nur al-Din caused her no embarrassment or conflict—if they lightened her husband and master’s mood even slightly, brushing off heavy dust, she would rejoice.
Nur al-Din did not want to disappoint his wife over such trifles. He nodded. “Arrange it.”
After some simple breadcrumbs, cheese, and chickpeas, Nur al-Din and the First Lady reclined on a wide divan piled with soft goose-down pillows. Eunuchs led in the girls—six in all, with golden, brown, and black hair. One held a pipa, another a nai—a wind instrument.
Bought young, perhaps nine, at most fourteen, already budding beauties—but before the sultan’s favor, they ranked lowest in this palace, endless chores daily. Grown, they faced rounds of selection and inspection.
Some girls were beautiful young but grew plain or coarse; some emitted repulsive odors; some voices changed—some low and hoarse, others sharp and grating. The former might have commendable allure; the latter were unbearable.
These rejects became court dregs, toiling endlessly in kitchens, water rooms, or courtyards, labor swiftly stripping remaining color.
But becoming the sultan’s consort turned slaves to masters instantly—at least a private, comfortable room. Charcoal in winter, ice cubes in summer, days in steam baths with scented oil, milk, and rouge.
Thus, intrigue and strife among girls were common, but done cautiously—discovery meant punishment for victim or perpetrator alike. Ladies selecting for the sultan never chose the restless ones.
Girls chosen by the First Lady were naturally the finest, each at a woman’s most exquisite age—agile and lively like young beasts, glossy fur, clear eyes, sweet smiles on lips.
Bathed, scented oils on hair and skin, gold, silk, and jewels adorning them. Those with instruments sat on the carpet laid by eunuchs and began playing; companions danced gracefully.
“How adorable.”
The First Lady sighed. Past jealousy, she could appreciate these young, vibrant lives as her husband and master did. All had praiseworthy traits, but one stood out—poised, beautiful. She pointed her out to Nur al-Din. “What do you think of that girl? The black-haired one.”
Nur al-Din looked. Moments later, he nodded.
The First Lady raised her hand; the girls stopped—players and dancers alike. Seeing the black-haired girl chosen, not themselves, they showed irrepressible jealousy. But the girl showed little joy.
This irked the First Lady slightly. She glanced at Nur al-Din; seeing no anger or annoyance, she said, “Come forward.”
The black-haired girl stepped forward slowly, still holding the exquisite pipa. Nur al-Din studied her closely, but his gaze was not a man’s for a woman, nor a master’s for a slave—rather, mildly kind.
“I see something familiar in your face, reminding me of an old acquaintance—perhaps your father or mother.” He turned to the First Lady. “Do the rosters record her origin?”
Slave merchants kept detailed records; a slave’s origin affected price. “Her father was a Christian knight, her mother an Armenian noblewoman.”
The First Lady had of course read these girls’ details. In this era, Crusader knights marrying Armenian noblewomen was common. Armenians were Eastern but converted to Christ as early as 301 AD. Most intriguingly, neighboring Byzantium but poor relations—closer to far-off Crusaders.
Crusaders were surprised to find these Armenian Christians similar in many ways—crossing themselves the same direction, using unleavened flatbread for the Eucharist.
They lived in fortresses and castles, fond of falconry, hunting, and banquets with clowns and prostitutes for entertainment. Invited to Armenian castles for banquets, Crusader knights felt like home.
During the Crusades, Armenians aided Crusaders immensely—as guides, logistics, reliable allies. In 1122, Count of Edessa Joseph and his nephew were captured by Turks, imprisoned in Harput Castle.
Baldwin II led a rescue, failed, and was captured too.
Later, some ten Armenians organized a rescue, disguised as monks to infiltrate the castle, killed the guards, freed the count and king…
The Count of Edessa, territories bordering Armenia, married Armenian princesses for three generations running.
The black-haired girl parted her lips slightly, as if to speak, then tears flowed involuntarily.
“Thank you for your benevolence, my master, but… but I no longer remember. Great sultan, when I was a toddling infant, I was forced from my father and mother. I remember neither their names nor faces.”
“Are they both dead?”
“Perhaps,” the girl said. “We were raised by servants, but at nine, they entrusted us to someone they deemed trustworthy.”
Then she gave a wistful smile.
Everyone present understood the smile—if truly trustworthy, she would not be here.
“You said ‘we’—who else?”
“My brother,” the girl whispered. “But he may be dead too.”
