Chapter 139: On The Road To Acre
The governor of Damascus should have been the Kurd Ilghazi, but out of wariness and regard for him and his nephew Saladin, Sultan Nur al-Din placed them here to guard the southern gate for him.
But now we all know that he betrayed the Sultan’s trust and has become the Grand Vizier of Caliph Atid of the Fatimid Dynasty in Cairo City far away, so obviously, he may never return here for the rest of his life, and if he reappears at the city gate of Damascus, his status will absolutely not be as the Sultan’s subject, but as another Sultan.
The person who came to greet them was just an agent hastily appointed by Ilghazi when he left Damascus—a officer under Ilghazi, a somewhat short but sturdy middle-aged man with graying whiskers, his eyes bursting with ambition no less than a young man’s. As soon as he saw Sultan Nur al-Din’s coffin, he immediately jumped off his horse, prostrated himself in the sand, wailed loudly, tore off his headscarf and threw it to the ground, then cut his face with a dagger, letting blood flow over his cheeks and neck.
He acted so painfully, as if a lion had torn open his chest alive, but whether Saracens or Christians, they just watched his performance lazily—if he were truly that loyal, he shouldn’t have allowed the bandits outside Damascus City to run rampant like this.
“I’m afraid he amassed quite a bit of wealth using this opportunity.” Geoffrey said in a low voice. Indeed, if trade routes were open and towns peaceful, he could get almost nothing besides the established taxes（poll tax, land tax, customs duties）. But if the city inside and out was full of crises, he could collect money from merchants in the city on the pretext of recruiting soldiers and equipping weapons and horses.
Kamal also noticed that what peeked out from that seemingly plain cotton robe was fabric shimmering faintly with light, meaning this Kurd was wearing silk clothes for pleasure like a woman, which immediately filled him with an unbearable irritation, and the whip in his hand nearly lashed the agent’s cheek, but he held back. “Take us into the city,” he said. “We need more salt and ice.” To ensure Sultan Nur al-Din’s remains wouldn’t start to rot in the coming days.
The officer scrambled up from the ground in a hurry. He didn’t dare offend Kamal and even wanted to curry favor with him; his previous hoarse performance was to leave a good impression on Kamal, so that when Kamal returned to Acre, he could speak to the New Sultan and make him the true master of Damascus.
For the same reason, when passing the Christians’ group, he acted quite arrogant and rude—not speaking or saluting. He probably thought this was a good time to show steadfastness and piety.
Geoffrey couldn’t help but chuckle. Compared to the seemingly obsequious and servile administrator of Bosra, Shams al-Din, this guy was truly stupid, incompetent, and shameless. He didn’t believe the news of Christian knights continuously wiping out several bandit groups outside the city hadn’t reached Damascus—though if these bandits were originally deliberately fostered by this mongrel, perhaps they had indeed done something to anger him.
Kamal was also observing these Christians. Caesar’s face was hidden in the shadow of his nasal helmet, but it was visibly as calm as ever. Most of the knights, like Geoffrey, didn’t care at all—even laughing out loud.
What embarrassed and angered the officer was that Kamal didn’t accept his flattery, but instead rode his horse close to that Christian young knight, not even side by side—he stayed behind Caesar. “This is the Knight of Bethlehem, son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa, brother of King Baldwin IV of Ayyarasa Road. In Ayyarasa, he performed ‘purification’ on the Sultan’s sons for the Sultan. You should show him respect.”
This was something the officer had never expected. He opened his mouth as if not knowing what to say. But Kamal didn’t need his answer. The Sultan’s coffin went ahead, they followed closely, passing through the gate, the dark tunnel, and under the bright white light, Kamal slightly narrowed his eyes.
He didn’t know yet that something even more surprising awaited him.
Passing through the tunnel, they came to an open area. This open area was neither a square nor a place for important ceremonies. It was where soldiers and people assembled large apparatus during sieges— it should have been spacious and quiet, but now it was extremely noisy, with a group of people dragging wood prepared in the warehouse out and quickly erecting wooden frames one by one.
They had seen this kind of wooden frame not long ago on the road connecting Damascus and Bosra. It was like an empty doorframe, with both legs deeply inserted into the mud, about one and a half men tall. Several already formed wooden frames had ropes with hanging loops draped on them.
At the same time, they heard wailing cries coming from all directions. There were men and women, elderly and children, some far, some near. People were being herded, humiliated, and hurt.
Gradually, people surged out from streets and alleys, all looking disheveled and pale-faced. Most shameful was that, except for women and children who still had a barely covering long shirt, the men had almost only a pair of shorts on.
It must be noted that in this period, whether Christians or Saracens, they rarely wore close-fitting clothing, mostly just a long shirt— it was sleepwear at bedtime, underwear when rising. Only Isaacites wore pants reaching the knee, so they were also used as one of the markers to identify Isaacites’ status, and thus called Isaacite trousers.
“Is this also part of the welcome ceremony?” Geoffrey exclaimed in surprise. Kamal’s mouth straightened— at that moment, the officer had run up panting from the back of the group. “That’s right,” he explained. “I’ve heard about what happened in Bosra, both shocked and angry. Thinking there were so many Isaacites in Damascus too, I couldn’t help but worry. So I had some of them arrested and interrogated. Alas!”
He showed a heartbroken expression: “Lord, they are a flock of vultures feeding on rotten flesh, a pack of hyenas dragging bloated guts. They colluded with bandits outside the city, causing unknown deaths, bringing disaster to countless families, and tarnishing the pearl of Damascus. So I gave the order: today, all Isaacites are to be expelled from Damascus, not allowed to take anything— money, clothes, food or water. Their assets will be confiscated to compensate for the harm they brought to this city and its residents.”
He spoke righteously, but not to mention Kamal, even Geoffrey was somewhat dumbfounded— did he take them all for fools?
Even though Ilghazi had left Damascus, since he left this officer here to manage the city on his behalf, this man couldn’t possibly be mediocre.
Since he wasn’t mediocre or foolish, how could he have been deceived by these unarmed Isaacites for so long?
It could only be said that either he was in cahoots with the Isaacites, or he was simply the manipulator behind them. If there weren’t Kamal or other envoys with so many knights favored by saints around, and the profits from bandits continued unabated, he would probably keep “sleeping,” ignoring changes right under his nose, deaf and blind, until he scraped up everything he could.
Now that things looked bad, he immediately pushed out the Isaacites as puppets and confiscated their assets, like slaughtering a pig already fattened plump and white. For him, this did no harm either; the wealth accumulated by Isaacites in this city could still ensure his status wouldn’t be shaken—no matter who the New Sultan was.
He could even wait until the dust settled, then use that money to bribe the New Sultan’s ministers. To truly become the master of Damascus.
Kamal showed a half-smile, and those who knew him would know at once that the Sultan’s trusted minister had the intent to kill—he didn’t care about the Isaacites. But he cared about Bosra and Damascus.
Damascus is a holy city, the birthplace of Abraham, visited by Moses, Jesus, Lot, and Job（they are saints of Christians and prophets of Saracens）.
After conquering it in 1154, Nur al-Din rebuilt the fortress and city walls here, built new schools and hospitals. He deeply loved this city, calling it Heaven’s garden left in the human world, the most beautiful and lovely city, even considering moving the capital of Syria from Acre to Damascus.
And now that he had just passed away, his subject dared to ravage and humiliate this city so wantonly—if Kamal weren’t still tasked with delivering Sultan Nur al-Din’s remains back to Acre, his knife might already have pierced this Kurd officer’s chest.
Caesar remained silent. As a Christian, he had no right to speak in the enmity and conflict between Isaacites and Saracens. Moreover, since these Isaacites had willingly been this agent’s knife at the beginning, they should have known a knife always has a moment of breaking— by others or by the master. Their fate couldn’t be called entirely innocent.
Even those women and children—if they were innocent, what about the merchants harmed by bandits and their families?
At that moment, from among those men wearing only Isaacite trousers, a neatly dressed man suddenly leaped out. “Grab him! He’s an Isaacite too!” someone shouted loudly. Surprisingly, he wasn’t a Saracen or Christian; the informer was also an Isaacite, his eyes bulging, gnashing his teeth, hating his own kin even more than the Saracens who wanted to kill him and his loved ones.
Immediately, four or five soldiers closed in, but though this man was tall and thin, he was unexpectedly agile and nimble. Like a gazelle surrounded by a wolf pack, seemingly in danger yet calm and composed, he swung his elbow to knock down a charging soldier, then sidestepped through the gap between two spears. Next, he eyed a squad leader— who was on horseback.
In Damascus and other cities, Isaacites weren’t allowed to ride horses; they could only ride donkeys and mules. Horses belonged to warriors—but this Isaacite was clearly very familiar with horses’ habits. He leaped from the horse’s rear, landing behind the squad leader. The squad leader hadn’t reacted before his neck was seized; he grabbed the Isaacite’s arm hard, but fainted in less than a breath.
He was thrown under the horse, which neighed uneasily, stamping in place a few steps, trying to shake off the stranger. But the other just covered its eyes with a hand, issuing a stern rebuke. Before more people could react, he clamped the horse’s belly, viciously slapping its hindquarters. The horse reared up, leaped forward, instantly jumping over several charging soldiers, and in a few strides approached the city gate.
The officer snorted lightly—he was greedy and vicious, but since Ilghazi left him to manage Damascus, he couldn’t be utterly useless. He casually took a javelin from a subordinate, twisted around, and hurled it fiercely, striking the Isaacite in the back. He flew off the horse and crashed heavily to the ground; nearby soldiers rushed over, raising their spears.
“Wait!” Caesar suddenly called.
Those Saracen soldiers wouldn’t heed his command, but when their swords and spears touched the still-struggling Isaacite, they bounced off as if hitting a large rock, and one soldier even fell from overexertion.
The officer whirled around sharply, staring at Caesar, his eyes murky and fierce with wariness.
“I know this man,” Caesar said. He dismounted and walked among the Saracen soldiers, looking at the pale-faced Isaacite on the ground: “How are you here? Haridi?”
