Chapter 143: On The Road To Acre
When people read history, they always have an illusion, wishfully thinking that the people of that time acted, lived, and entertained themselves like puppets, strictly following the laws set by the Church and the King.
Of course, the truth is not so; they were just like us, flesh-and-blood people with emotions and desires. And when a person wants to achieve their goals, they always find all sorts of excuses or exploit the inevitable loopholes.
In Saracen doctrine, monarchs and scholars have always maintained a cautious and conservative attitude toward the degree of exposure of women. This exposure does not only refer to the body; their minds and thoughts are also strictly controlled.
Even though Saracens allow girls to read and write, they praise women with exceptional talent and profound learning. But they do not hope these girls will become warriors or scholars in the future; rather, they hope they will become better daughters, wives, and mothers. Their talents are no different from the gemstones they wear or the silk wrapped around their graceful figures; they are merely used to enhance their own value.
Like Christian or Isaac women, they are not allowed to enter the temple, let alone become the chosen ones. Most women remain confined to the home or the harem for life, and even if they are allowed to hold banquets, the attendees are noble ladies of equal status.
When they go out—if there is such a need—they must wear a veil and a loose robe, accompanied by male relatives or a eunuch for “protection,” and cannot casually contact a man with no blood relation—otherwise, what awaits them is extremely harsh punishment or even death.
No matter how much Saracens claim to respect women, these few harsh laws alone doom their respect to remain superficial. Or rather, even this shallow respect is limited to Saracen women of the middle and upper classes; for lower-class Saracen women, their lives still lack much that could be called sweet.
Moreover, no matter how rigorous Saracen doctrine is, its power cannot extend to heathens and slaves. And Saracen Qiyan occupy both identities at once; most are captured heathen women who often have a master, who may be rich or poor—yes, even the master of a farm might own five or six female slaves.
These female slaves serve him just as the concubines of the harem serve the Sultan. They always say there is love between these female slaves and Saracen tribesmen—but we all know that when a sword is at your throat, it’s best to bow your head.
In a great city like Damascus, keeping female slaves has even become a quite profitable trade.
These women, that is, the “Qiyan” we mentioned earlier, are all selected by discerning Saracen merchants from the slave market—the most promising good seeds. After buying them at a suitable price, perhaps only two or three years of upbringing and training are needed for her to become a popular singer or poetry slave.
As the name implies, a singer refers to those female slaves with melodious voices or graceful dance moves. A poetry slave is a step higher; she not only must sing and dance well but also possess a certain literary accomplishment, able to comment when guests recite poetry, and even compose poems herself.
Of course, their poetry often lacks depth, basically revolving around love and desire; it is more a means to arouse guests’ interest than a literary work.
After all, Saracens love poetry very much; it is a habit possessed by all tribe members—after all, before they had their own script, all history and culture needed to be expressed and passed down through poetry. Even now that they have a large number of translated and original ancient texts, they remain quite enthusiastic about making poems.
A general composes poetry, a minister composes poetry, a craftsman or a farmer also composes poetry. They use poetry to show their heroic spirit, offer their piety, strengthen their will, or mock enemies—poetry is as indispensable to Saracens as flatbread and Karak tea.
At this time, the most famous poetry slave in Damascus is the Qiyan Laila, who is madly infatuated by Razis.
Of course, Laila is not her real name; this name appears more in Saracen legends—a love story where the young girl Laila falls in love with a youth she knew from childhood, but Laila’s father believes their love violates doctrine. Although they are of equal status and truly in love, he still insists on betrothing Laila to another man.
The youth is thus grief-stricken and from then on either practices asceticism in the desert or recites his own poetry until his death. Although this story may be a nightmare for Laila, people unanimously believe that to win a man’s unchanging love for decades, Laila must be an incomparably beautiful woman.
Therefore, many Qiyan in Damascus use the name Laila, but none has won the admiration and pursuit of scholars more than this Laila. She once made a poem—for a former guest who died on the battlefield.
“I swear, since his death,
I no longer weep for heroes fallen in battle,
If a youth lived without reproach,
Then death is no disgrace to him,
All that is new and young will perish,
Everyone will one day return to truth.”
Although this poem still cannot escape the rut of love, the emotion and meaning it contains are enough to touch men’s hearts. They vie to send her gifts, from gold to silk, hoping to meet her, but Laila does not agree to everyone’s request, even if they just want to have tea with her, meet, hear her play the oud, or recite a poem.
In her words, meeting another man once is equivalent to betraying her master once; even for her master, her heart still aches uncontrollably as if scorched on fire.
This is, of course, a common rhetoric among Qiyan to raise their own price and stimulate men’s competitive spirit, but it is indeed effective. When Caesar and Geoffrey arrived at Laila’s house wanting to see her, they were politely refused by the gatekeeper.
They said that today Laila had agreed to scholar Razis’s request: to enjoy the moonlight together, taste honeyed water, and appreciate poetry. And from the house indeed faintly came the ensemble of oud, nai, and daff drum; torchlight flickered, shadows moved—the banquet had already begun. At such a time, uninvited guests disturbing would surely disappoint those present.
But Caesar and Geoffrey had little time; they were to set off tomorrow. If they could not find Razis tonight and request to borrow those medical ancient texts on leprosy and copy them, they would have to wait until the return journey.
And on the return journey, Damascus might no longer welcome and tolerate them so. Now they were, after all, Kamal’s guests—Geoffrey hissed beside him; he was an old hand in the world of romance. Before joining the Knights Templar, he had frequented brothels large and small in the city, and he knew the temperament and preferences of Qiyan very well.
Although they did have to consider that if they disturbed Laila and Razis’s rendezvous, it would backfire—Razis is also a scholar, and his great-grandfather was the most famous physician among Saracens, Ibn Sina. This man single-handedly laid the foundation of medicine in the Saracen world; his Canon of Medicine, Treatise on Treatment, and Treatise on Knowledge are even preserved in the Christian Church, though not known to most.
As a descendant of this famous scholar, Razis did not inherit his ancestor’s medical talent, but he still earns people’s respect through Ibn Sina’s legacy and his love and protection of medical ancient texts. For Kamal’s sake, he might not mind their rudeness, but do not expect a displeased man to open his treasury for them to pick.
Geoffrey, however, was confident. Of course, he knew that for a Qiyan, gold, gemstones, and silk are the keys to the door, but there is one thing that can equally arouse their interest, turn their anger to joy, and even tolerate granting all sorts of conveniences.
He slightly turned his body and pushed Caesar, who was standing in the shadows, forward, exposing him to the torchlight. The gatekeeper’s pupils dilated instantly, just like everyone who sees Caesar for the first time; he was even shocked speechless.
“We do not ask you to let us in immediately,” Geoffrey said politely. “But if your mistress knows you refused such a guest, a sharp little thorn might grow in her heart, pricking you who knows when.
I say, why not report this to her and let her decide what to do.”
These words were indeed reasonable. After recovering from the shock, the gatekeeper pondered carefully, said something to another companion, and turned back into the house to report to his mistress.
Soon, perhaps only a quarter of a candle’s burn time later, the gatekeeper hurried out of the house and invited them in.
As the most famous Qiyan in the city, Laila’s house was, of course, extremely luxurious, opulent, and decadent—from the square courtyard that faced them like most buildings, but in the center of the courtyard was a glistening fountain, above which grew a cherry tree, with plump-feathered small birds perched on the tree and poolside.
As they approached, they realized this cherry tree was not real; it used black iron for branches, with bright red glass cherries hanging, each with green silk leaves and gilded stems.
Those small birds were made of clay inside but covered with real bird feathers outside. These feathers, after leaving a living body, had dulled somewhat, but under moonlight and candlelight, they still showed brilliant colors and unique sheen.
The courtyard floor was not ordinary mud and bricks but marble and exquisite mosaics, patterns like octopus tentacles or vine tendrils, radiating from the fountain to every corner.
The corridor surrounding the courtyard was like a gorgeous ribbon; multi-lobed arches revealed hanging brass chandeliers, lit with pure olive oil or filled with fragrant spices.
Light, shadow, and smoke turned this place into a brilliant labyrinth, making one feel as if they had come to another world—so beautiful that everyone would linger and be reluctant to leave.
Guided by a slave, they came to a large room that could hold a hundred people, covered with intricate, vividly colored carpets, layered thick and soft; walking on them, one could hardly feel the hardness and cold of the stone below. The walls also had geometric decorative patterns in different colors, as well as carved wooden pictures and text.
This was similar to the temple, except there the text was solemn scripture or proverbs; here it was naked, fiery love poems and related stories.
There was, of course, not just Laila as the only Qiyan here; her maidservants or other invited Qiyan lay on soft fluffy velvet pillows, either chatting and laughing with male guests beside them, playing the oud, beating small drums, or lazily sharing a hookah with their guests—there were about a dozen male guests, making it hard to identify who was Razis at first glance, but who was Laila was obvious.
She stood in the center of the room, taller than average women. Her brows and eyes were sharp—indeed sharp, an adjective hard to apply to other women; her nose was high-bridged, lips full and moist. Like all Qiyan, she wore no veil, no robe hiding her curves, no headscarf—her white hair shone with pearl-like luster, her eyes a frightening blood-red.
She was an albino.
Laila might not be the most beautiful among these Qiyan, but that special color and demeanor made one know at first sight that the rumors were true; she was completely worth a scholar’s mad infatuation.
Laila was also quite surprised to see Caesar; she had already glimpsed this young man from the terrace earlier, thinking him like a miniature portrait painted with precious pigments, still vibrant even after long years.
But we all know that in dim light and at a distance, flaws can be hidden and blurred. Now the distance between them was such that they could touch with outstretched hands, yet Laila still found no defect in him.
She was silent for a long time, then sighed softly, turned with a charming smile to a man reclining in a female slave’s embrace, and said, “I once heard that in Ancient Rome there was a famous prostitute Flora who escaped punishment because of her beauty, but at that time I did not believe how a mortal’s beauty could offset the sin of blaspheming the gods; now I believe it.”
