Chapter 144: On The Road To Acre
Laila’s unstinting praise drew the attention of everyone present. No matter how deep the hatred these Saracens here held for Christians, before this treasure crafted by Allah’s own hand, their expressions still softened involuntarily.
No, wait, perhaps not everyone, because in this room, there was still one person lying drunkenly and drowsily in the arms of a Qiyan, seemingly utterly indifferent to everything happening here.
Not to mention Caesar, even Geoffrey immediately began to frown. Things had become tricky. This man was precisely the purpose of their trip—Razis.
Geoffrey and Caesar had seen plenty of Saracens, whether on the battlefield or in court, but the Saracen before them completely defied their deep-seated previous impressions—Saracen men always seemed solemn in expression, resolute in temperament, stern and unsmiling, with iron-wire-like curly beards, headscarves wrapped tightly without showing a strand of hair, clad in plain black robes, belted with palm-wide cowhide belts, bearing nothing on them but a silver ring.
And Razis… just look at him now. His headscarf had long vanished, his hair disheveled, his face flushed. Like all Saracen men, he wore a beard, but it was kept very short, almost clinging to the skin, more like a bluish-black shadow. He stretched his arms loosely, propping one leg on a velvet hillock piled with several pillows, his chest open, even his innermost long undergarment askew and disheveled.
This posture was not merely lax; it could even be called wild and decadent. To say that as an important figure in Damascus, he was ignorant of Caesar and Geoffrey’s backgrounds would be absurd, yet here he was, still adopting such a pose—seemingly making clear that their trip would not go smoothly.
Razis laughed first, his voice hoarse yet unusually resonant. Among men over forty, he could be called young and handsome, with a pair of honey-like eyes. Though it was said he was pursuing Laila, her eventual willingness to accept his affections and invite him into her house showed he had truly earned this Qiyan’s favor—when he opened his eyes to look over, there was little displeasure at the disturbance, but rather a fatally clear sobriety.
“I’ve heard of you. They say you’re the chosen of the Christians, attendant to the King of Ayyarasa Road, whom he trusts and values greatly. People say you might become the youngest Grand Vizier,” he stretched lazily. “Perhaps there truly is friendship as pure as spring water in this world, or maybe you each have your purposes, merely using one another. Or worse, one of you is a fool—either he dupes you, or you dupe him.
He uses you to gain the Christians’ recognition, making people believe his leprosy is not Allah’s punishment but a rare trial. If he endures this difficult test, he might become a great king, even a saint.
As for you, not long ago you were merely an Isaacite slave. Your origins have always been criticized by those Christians. Their court is utterly different from ours. If no knight’s or noble’s blood flows in your veins, even if you seize Damascus or Acre for them, you’ll never earn their respect.”
He smiled. “We’re different. As long as virtue, wisdom, and courage, along with piety, gain Allah’s approval, even if he becomes Sultan or Caliph, it won’t seem strange, nor will anyone object.”
He tapped the cup tipped over beside him, and the nearby Qiyan immediately righted it and filled it with deep red grape juice. He drained it in one gulp and let out a long sigh. “I don’t know if your legends are true or false, but it does sound like a splendid tale. It’s just that you have a brother and friend who is a king to vouch for you, so they acknowledge you, letting you walk the world as the son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa.”
He gave Caesar a sidelong glance. “You do have a countenance equal to the worth of that tale. But so what? Whether the King of Ayyarasa Road or Count Joscelin III of Edessa, they’re Christians, enemies of the Saracens. I’ll lament and grieve for them when their heads are placed on the banquet table; I’ll even compose poetry for them,” he raised his cup to Caesar. “Of course, for you too—beauty, youth, and life are all so fleeting.
But while he lives, sorry, I won’t give him anything. Even as Kamal’s guest, you should know—my relationship with Kamal isn’t good. As a subject, he’s too naive, dull, indecisive; he even shows mercy to an enemy.
But Christian knights,” he said in an unquestionable tone, “I know you borrowed those medical ancient texts on leprosy from me for your close friend and monarch. What Allah granted him isn’t a favor—it’s punishment. Yes, he may be innocent himself, but as King of Ayyarasa Road, Commander of the Crusaders, he’s destined for Hell’s torments. This is merely advancing that suffering by a decade or so.
I won’t give you those books to save him. I won’t let him live healthily, long, until he can wield his spear charging on the battlefield, for those he’ll kill are Saracen soldiers, my friends and brothers.
Of course, you could say you purified our Sultan Nur al-Din. I don’t know if it was intentional or not—yes, even the Sultan’s son or wife would thank you for sparing him posthumous humiliation by enemies. But using that favor to demand returns, to blackmail and coerce—don’t you find that shameful?”
Many might have thought such words in their hearts, after all, they are mortal enemies. No matter how vile or base one imagines the other, it can’t be called excessive.
But Razis was the first to say them plainly. If Caesar were truly a naive young man in the age most valuing dignity and others’ opinions… even Geoffrey behind him felt a churn in his gut, unable to settle.
The other’s meaning was clear: accusing them of scheming with a long-plotted favor to bleed them dry, and not just once or twice.
“You’ve sold that favor back and forth several times. Never mind the gifts,” Razis said listlessly. “You gained an unprecedented great victory; the young king solidified his power’s foundation, Crusader honor was restored, and Count of Edessa—your father… You’ve forgotten: Sultan Nur al-Din died by your swords. A band of murderers, yet because they granted the dead a final dignity, they rejoice, boast, proclaim their supreme benevolence everywhere—isn’t that laughable?
When you reach Acre, besides your father, you’ll get gifts from the ladies and princes, enough to raise an army solely yours. Isn’t that enough? Insatiable thing!” Razis said coldly. “You remind me of fruit perfect on the outside but rotten within. When people don’t know you, they treasure you, but in fact… your heart is as black and foul as those Christians…
Enough, go. For Kamal’s sake, I won’t harm his guest, but you truly annoy me.
This dismissal was utterly tactless; even Geoffrey felt like retreating. It was just a few medical books. If they couldn’t get them in Damascus, couldn’t they seek in Acre? Its great library surely wouldn’t refuse them, or from merchants—as long as they offered ample return. Weren’t Razis’s books copyable?
Even Laila’s gaze toward Caesar gained a trace of pity; some Qiyan even stirred to comfort this pitiable beautiful youth—they all thought Razis’s dialogue with this Christian was over. His attitude was clear: no matter the effort or promises, he wouldn’t grant the request. And they had little time; tomorrow they departed for Acre.
But contrary to all expectations, this youth who, by looks alone, could stir countless to pity didn’t storm out of the room in humiliated fury from the sarcasm. He even appeared utterly composed, as if the words he’d heard were praise, not degradation.
Indeed, if Caesar were truly just a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old child, he couldn’t endure such humiliation no matter what.
But he had already reached adulthood before coming to this world. During hospital rotations, he’d seen countless births, deaths, partings, human affairs. In this world, what could be more important than life? Nothing—he had long realized that.
Moreover, he’d been here fully six or seven years and could see Razis was deliberately showing this attitude, speaking these words.
Perhaps Kamal had already informed Razis. He knew if Caesar persisted, he might truly have to lend those precious books for copying. But as a Saracen, he was utterly unwilling. He admitted he wasn’t broad-minded; he could never pity or respect his enemies.
He hoped his cold words would drive the youth away—but the youth approached, sat cross-legged before him. He could only turn his head away, then saw the youth draw a money bag from his side, untie its rope, pull out a gold coin, and place it before him. “Will one gold coin buy the copying rights to those medical books of yours?”
Razis was first stunned, then nearly laughed in anger, thinking it a crude revenge to mock his cherished things as worth just one gold coin. “I see you’re unwilling,” Caesar said, adding another gold coin. “How about two?”
Razis’s hand was already on his tiger-fang dagger. If the other sought to humiliate him, he wouldn’t mind dealing with him the true Saracen-Christian way.
At this point, Caesar placed the tenth gold coin on the carpet. “Then how about ten gold coins?”
Razis had sat up; the Qiyan beside him had deftly dodged away. The room was deathly silent, only their dialogue. Some faces showed worry, others shifted to subtler positions; Geoffrey’s hand was on his sword hilt.
He knew Razis was chosen, having received the Prophet’s revelation. Among Saracens, scholars bring knowledge—and death. For their first and most exalted Prophet founded rule with sword in hand.
Caesar stopped. They hadn’t planned to buy anything this trip; if buying, only via contract and documents, not real gold and silver. His money bag held just dozens of gold coins. “A hundred?” Caesar calmly continued to the stern-faced middle-aged man. “A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? Even a million? If a million, would you feel humiliated?”
Though people call books the crystallization of wisdom and say wisdom is priceless, that’s mere talk. Scholars teaching and translating ancient texts for the Caliph receive rich rewards. If Razis’s collection could fetch a million gold coins, no one would call him a Saracen traitor or fool, only that Allah granted him fortune.
A million—what did that mean? Nearly enough to rebuild a nation. Razis stood there, but his expression gradually calmed.
Of course, not for that illusory million gold coins. He realized what the other meant.
Everything has a price; it’s just that the price may not be in gold, nor something visible or tangible—like what Razis would forfeit for those gold coins if he agreed. Far more than a few books: his honor and dignity.
Razis fell silent. If someone truly offered such rich reward, he would agree—like this youth before him. Let them say what they would: whether his past good deeds were hypocritical posturing, or insatiable greed leveraging a slight favor for repeated returns, or doubts on his character—not just toward Saracens, but Christians too—loyalty to his friends, brothers, and monarch. He took none as offense, wouldn’t change his thoughts or ways.
He came here only to achieve one result, even if he didn’t know if those books truly helped the King of Ayyarasa Road’s leprosy. For this slim hope, he’d give his all.
Razis had to admit, for a moment, he wavered. Such sincere emotion, like beauty, could shock and subdue, especially imagining himself in the youth’s place. He wasn’t sure he’d endure such humiliation and misunderstanding for a Sultan. Sometimes, living humbly is far harder than dying nobly.
“But you don’t have a million gold coins.” he said. This wasn’t about the coins, but questioning whether he had the power to fulfill his promise.
“Of course I don’t now, but how do you know I won’t in the future?” Caesar smiled, retorting. Compared to Razis’s tension, hesitation, ferocity, he remained utterly relaxed, hands lightly on his knees, fingers dangling downward. No fear, no hesitation showed on him. Even when Razis stood, forcing him to look up, his reply stayed steady and clear.
“As you said, among Saracens, one with true talent can become a general, an official, an Emir, Grand Vizier, even Sultan or Caliph.
So how do you know I can’t repay this debt I owe you?”
“You’re truly an arrogant one,” Razis said. “You have no territory, no army, just an attendant to a king as young as you, whose life flickers like a candle in the wind, liable to snuff out anytime. Beneath your feet lies not solid rock, but loose sand… yet you still…”
He suddenly stopped. “Look what I’ve done tonight… Christian, I still think I’ll regret today’s decision—I’ll lend you those books I have; you can copy them, but not take them from my house. But if you truly heal your brother and monarch with them, remember you owe me a debt.”
“I will.” Caesar said, then pondered a moment, drawing a gold chain from his robe. On the chain hung a cross inlaid with a large ruby. This gold necklace had once been worn by Baldwin. When Count Etienne vanished, he had no choice but to send Caesar to gather news, gifting him a black mink fur coat and this gold cross, hoping in need they’d save him from death or capture.
Gifts given weren’t reclaimed. Caesar had carefully kept these two items. Though reluctant, on this mission he traveled disguised as a Saracen; besides this gold cross, from clothing to ornaments, all were Saracen.
“I’ll leave this as collateral,” he said. “Please don’t sell it casually or gift it to others. If in future you deem I can fulfill my oath now sworn, come find me with this token.”
“Will you grant all my requests?”
“That I can’t guarantee,” Caesar said candidly. “But I promise I’ll give my all.”
This time Razis was silent a long while; most thought he’d renege. But he reached out and took the cross.
If Caesar had said he’d fulfill any wish, he’d truly have reneged.
“I’ll have my servant take you to my house,” Razis said. “He’ll show you those books you need; you can copy them, but I hope you leave before dawn, and don’t proclaim it everywhere—that would shame me.”
He spoke bluntly; Caesar of course agreed fully. Once they left the room, Razis finally showed a troubled expression. “Allah truly shouldn’t let such a child be born in a Christian castle,” he said.
“If Allah truly placed him in Acre or Damascus, what good would it do?” Laila waved, signaling the Qiyan to resume singing, playing music, dancing. She gracefully approached Razis, taking the former Qiyan’s place, gently cradling his head in her arms.
“Do you think any of Sultan Nur al-Din’s three sons worthy of his aid?”
Razis was speechless; indeed, though he loathed Christians, he had to admit the young King of Ayyarasa Road already showed extraordinary brilliance. In recent negotiations, his mercy and tolerance surpassed previous kings.
Nur al-Din’s three sons… sorry, if such a pearl fell to them, it’d be dust in days. “I just don’t believe Allah would so mistreat the Saracens.” he muttered. Laila’s slender, strong hands—more so than other women’s—stroked him. Under this gentle soothing, he soon closed his eyes.
Razis didn’t know that after he fully fell asleep, Laila left the room. She went to another bedchamber, sat at the vanity wiping cosmetics from her face, then applied dark ointment to her body and face—ensuring every spot—used a special potion to temporarily dye her hair brown, braided it, and tied it together.
Then she shed the gleaming silk, donned a rough black cloth short robe, wrapped a cloak, pulled up the hood. When she left the house barefoot, she had become a thorough Nubian woman—without those distinctive features, in stark contrast to her former appearance, so even meeting someone face-to-face, no one would guess she was Damascus’s most famous Qiyan Laila.
