Chapter 259: Saladin’s Day
Although unable to summon that young man, whom even their father praised highly, to serve as their teacher, Saladin’s children could still receive an education no less than that of any Caliph or Sultan’s son.
After finishing their meal, they cleaned themselves under the eunuch’s care, then went to the large adjacent room for lessons.
The teacher giving the lesson was one of the scholars whom Saladin had specially gone north to escort back from Damascus. They were fortunate; even Saladin had not expected that the foundation established by Nur al-Din would collapse in such a short time, and that his three sons would be so foolish.
At this point, it could be said that if not for someone as shrewd and adaptable as Kamal, who had early on included the Crusaders’ envoy team in his plans, few of these ministers would have survived.
Even so, they suffered greatly in prison, and some endured irreparable harm as a result.
For instance, this teacher; he would likely never stand again in his lifetime. Therefore, Saladin specially granted permission for him to be carried in a sedan chair to any place he wished to go, including his palace and castle.
Yet this minister did not become arrogant because of this permission. Before each lesson, he would specially come for an audience with the Sultan to report on the three boys’ learning progress and the upcoming lesson content.
Saladin trusted this scholar greatly, but out of a father’s sense of responsibility and respect for a teacher, he still earnestly listened to the other’s plans and selected one or two points he hoped could be corrected. The teacher, upon hearing his words, showed a rare troubled expression.
“Your approach reminds me of our Light of Faith, Sultan Nur al-Din. He too once believed as you do, that even enemies should receive due respect and preferential treatment. But the problem is, you have not yet achieved accomplishments as illustrious as his—your opponents, though some have emerged, many more still lurk in your Imperial Court, army, and countryside.
I think those still wavering might prefer to see an heir more radical in temperament and bolder in actions—they are still children, so they can afford to act recklessly.”
Saladin pondered for a moment but ultimately shook his head. “I know my children well. Unfortunately, they lack the ability to match such ambition and boldness.”
Surprise appeared on the teacher’s face. He had already learned of how the three children’s performance during Assassin leader Sinan’s visit had disappointed Saladin. That was why he planned to add as much content as possible in the new lessons to cultivate their robust physiques and martial spirits, but now it seemed Saladin thought this was not a good idea.
“For a man walking the road, being cautious and deliberate is no bad thing.
If he is not riding a steed, not wearing iron boots, not carrying a torch or sword, it is normal for him to fear thorns, the blazing sun, jackals, and even the long journey. Though disappointed, I will not demand they do work they cannot handle. Though I now have only these three grown children, if Allah calls me to heaven early, their current timidity would instead be reassuring proof.
If you stir their competitiveness, even ambition, it would be like fitting a mountain goat with a horse’s iron hooves. He might gallop like the wind. But neither mind nor methods would match. Then, either the nation dragged by him would splinter, or he himself would break bones and snap tendons in a fall.
What you need to do now is proceed gradually, cultivating them into virtuous men, pious believers, humble warriors. I may not need him to have great courage or any particular strength.”
He thought of his eldest son—Saracens and Christians alike, boys enter the temple from nine to twelve years old, seeking the Prophet’s attention through meditation to receive their revelations. The prophet Saladin encountered was Ayyub, a saint made so by benevolence, not David or Solomon—so people have always questioned his ability as a monarch.
He held little hope for his children, as they showed nothing special. And for Egypt or future territories, a mediocre maintainer was actually a good thing.
“If you worry about the Crusaders and those brothers who betrayed us, I can only say I will do my utmost in my lifetime to complete Nur al-Din’s unfinished cause. You need not worry on this point.”
This was said a bit heavily. The teacher hurriedly knelt to the ground with the eunuch’s support, praying to Saladin for forgiveness. But Saladin’s words were purely from the heart. He was not only answering this teacher but also himself; admitting one’s children were ordinary was a difficult choice even for Saladin.
But so what? He was only forty-one now. As long as he avoided Amalric I’s misfortune, he had at least twenty or thirty years to gallop on the battlefield, and he believed his enemies few—except the Crusaders’ Commander, King Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road, who was unfortunate; that young monarch’s life was destined for a stark dividing line.
Though he might live to thirty, in fact… Saladin had also read books on lepers. This young king could last at most ten years.
In the five or six years before entering the grave, he would inevitably languish on his sickbed, unable to rise, raise a flag, or swing a sword against Saracens. Moreover, his castle was not so peaceful; his sister had married Bohemond’s son Abigail, Duke of Antioch, years ago, but aside from one stillborn, no news emerged.
And Baldwin—as a leper, seemed not to plan marriage or children, and might not manage it. Strangely, the first good news came from Caesar, who married half a year ago. If Caesar’s Venetian wife bore a boy, bloody turmoil would surely erupt in Holy Cross Castle again.
Saladin always scorned the poets’ love stories. How could a fearless warrior be swayed by a woman under heavy restrictions? Unless she was a devil, impossible. He did the same himself. He respected his lawful wife but had many concubines; to him, these consorts were mere vessels for producing children.
But for that emotionally rich young man, a wife might be different. He held a seven-day funeral for his first wife, Princess Anna of Byzantium, shaking half the island in grief.
Then, for his second wife, he implemented new tax laws, appointing Venetians as tax collectors. Saladin disliked Isaacites too, but knew enacting changes touching many interests in unfamiliar lands was no easy task.
Such changes often brought blood and lives. Before last Caliph Atid’s death, he had already demanded temple monks change Orthodox ceremonies to Traditionalist ones, and replaced many Fatimid Dynasty Imperial Court officials with those he deemed loyal and trustworthy, like those he brought from Damascus.
It was amusing; people then advised against plunging into the vortex amid chaos after Nur al-Din’s death, all harm no gain. But after Kamal’s letter, Saladin unhesitatingly led three thousand knights day and night to the rendezvous.
But look now; the returns these people gave him were unimaginable to others. They brought no money or army, but like Kamal, born to great families—Raqqa, Idlib, Acre, Hama, Homs… all had kin, friends, students. Each like a spider, webs crisscrossing; a slight pull unleashed vast power.
Since moving the capital to Cairo, they constantly wrote letters, even went personally to persuade virtuous, talented men who received prophetic revelations to serve Saladin, instantly propping up the Ayyubid dynasty’s Imperial Court.
Leaving him without worries, instantly ousting sycophants and deceivers without causing national chaos.
In a side hall, he discussed expedition funding with several ministers. Of course, problems troubling Ayyarasa Road’s king plagued Egypt’s Sultan too.
Moreover, in prior years, though Egypt was wealthy enough, rebellions erupted in several places, cutting tax revenue. Saladin was no lover of luxury, but his Saladin castle was no small expenditure.
He also intended military reforms— at the prior review, the Sultan displayed his 147 cohorts to the world’s awe and envy. But only Saladin knew he did not fully control them; much remained Fatimid-era Saracen troops and Armenian mercenaries.
The former, due to faith, did not willingly obey; the latter needed more money to buy. Would Saladin? Of course not. Why feed these insatiable hyenas when he could use the money on those loyal to him?
His army inherited from his uncle, Kurd cavalry, some Turkmen tribal soldiers from Shiraz al-Din. Also the well-known Gulam—this army name from Persian Ghulam, meaning trained slaves; among Saracens, called Mamluks.
Mamluks mostly Turks, but also Greeks, Egyptians, Caucasians, Slavs; mostly plunder captives of varied faiths, selected through merchants, markets, buyers into quality “raw materials.”
Strong, agile, clever—Saladin’s major expenditure was buying slaves. Former Mamluks included some freemen or mercenaries, but Saladin trusted them not, preferring to promote from his own slaves—of course, like all slaves, everything theirs belonged to Saladin, who gave them all they wanted.
Loyal to Saladin, brave warriors—they trained from nine, at sixteen deciding futures: ordinary slave to farm or workshop, or warrior.
Generally, this distinction showed by year five.
Year five picks got first weapon—a hammer; year six, armor and silk robe; at sixteen, enter army, own horse.
Seeing them always filled Saladin with joy. Unfortunately, for this expedition, he could take only about two thousand Mamluks—only these could he fully command; these children were the first batch at his side.
“Shall we hire more Kurds and Turkmen then?”
“Seems we must now.” Saladin said, “But no big issue.” He drank some water. Just then, a monk reminded him it was time for the noon prayer. Noon prayer around twelve-thirty; all rose, cleansed, knelt on carpet, silently read four scriptures.
After reciting scripture, other ministers came to lunch with Saladin.
For ministers, this was honor and torment; Saladin held meetings while eating, discussing governance and military. They ate anxiously awaiting the Sultan’s questions, food tasteless, stomachs churning—even one minister once nearly vomited under Saladin’s interrogation.
Thus, in such lunch meetings, those knowing Saladin’s temper ate sparingly, perfunctorily. Only Saladin ate heartily, unperturbed.
He loved milk with rice, stewed lamb, fried cutlets, sometimes meat-filled flatbread. He ate cheese, fruit—this season for figs, melons, peaches. Of course, jam and candied fruit; with unlimited Cyprus supply, castle cooks made jam effortlessly, even distracted ministers praised repeatedly.
In afternoons, other Sultans or Caliphs chose music, poets or scholars reciting poems, telling stories to relax.
But Saladin, who used even mealtimes productively, would not waste thus. Mornings long talks with subjects; afternoons faced generals. In his army, every general was most familiar, trusted; he knew all their past and future, swiftly detecting ill omens.
Like former Nur al-Din, none dared rebellion before him. They knelt terrified; battlefield heroes defeating ten hated Christian knights became children, lambs before Saladin—facing blade or bowstring, not daring extra sound.
Saladin dissatisfied with two generals’ answers—he sent them to handle Assassin outpost near Mayum; they went but returned empty-handed, claiming no assassins found: “Perhaps they fled under your majesty’s awe?”
For such evasion, the Sultan instantly beheaded them, sending new men to command their armies. He knew the Assassin threat caused real panic.
These officers perhaps not traitors, but certainly did not take it to heart; likely slowed deliberately, conniving Assassin assassins’ escape, then boldly return claiming no enemies seen, masking cowardice.
“Has anyone become a murderer’s sacrifice yet?” Saladin asked.
“I have not heard such rumors,” the questioned general shook his head, “None. Cairo inside and out is calm. They may have truly fled—Sultan, to those sneaky wretches, your words and actions are like sun scorching the sky; they hide in time, how dare they act wildly?”
“I wish I could take your good words.” Saladin said sarcastically: “Unfortunately, an Assassin is a fierce beast that can bite even if just a tail-stepped rat. Their fearsome name not won by tongues. Do not slack; comb Cairo’s nearby cities, villages, even fields, woods like a fine comb—search thoroughly every possible hideout they might use. They will not give up easily.”
Saladin paused: “Expedition nears; I must consider you and other officials’ safety too.”
Shame appeared on that general’s face.
“You don’t think,” Saladin said, “I have you chase Assassins now to quell my own fear? Look what they did on Ayyarasa Road.
When unable to harm the monarch, they turn spears on his trusted confidants. Indeed, they know to an able ruler, subjects are like limbs; sever them, and I feel excruciating pain, action difficult.”
He looked at all again; all knelt, expressing gratitude and shame to the Sultan.
Saladin warned and instructed his generals, then discussed expedition routes until afternoon prayer; afternoon prayer also silently reading four scriptures. This time he prayed with his generals.
Finished, Saladin returned to harem. After breakfast and lunch meetings, his ministers finally escaped torment—Saladin with wife at sunset vocally read two scriptures, silently one more.
Then they dined with consorts, sons. Saladin’s dinners simple: thick flatbread, herb-flavored yogurt, Berber steamed coarse couscous. Dinner table had rock sugar, other pastries, but Saladin usually refused. Though liking sweets, he was cautious with desires, never indulgent.
His sons, under father’s gaze, took one or two pieces then stopped; only women could indulge freely.
Saladin’s wife loved lime jam; limes Saracens’ favorite fruit, not all could bear the sourness, but with Cyprus rock sugar, lime jam became common dish.
“Try this, sister.” She personally offered a small silver platter to Saladin’s sister, who merely touched with fingertip, accepting the gesture but not touching it.
Saladin’s wife felt awkward, involuntarily glancing at her husband; she knew it was not her fault. These days, Saladin’s sister Emina had been cold to him.
Surprisingly, her frequent quarrels with her brother stemmed from wanting to return to her husband.
By doctrine, her conduct was blameless.
Problem was her husband—Governor Holmes of Homs. Where was Homs? An ancient great city, under Acre, above Damascus.
When Saladin heard of Nur al-Din’s death, he foresaw Acre’s chaos, so preemptively fetched his sister out.
Knowing his brother-in-law, Homs Governor, no upright man but ruthless hawk.
Letting sister stay meant, unless Saladin severed family ties, facing blackmail.
Saladin knew his current territory in Egypt benefited from Syrian chaos; he need only wait patiently for ambitious ones to slaughter each other to bloody exhaustion before acting.
But Homs Governor was cunning; Saladin’s men took his wife amid chaos—then unknown, but later he wrote many letters claiming foreknowledge, allowing for Emina’s safety, but now stable, she should return home.
His sweet words swayed her; Emina insisted on returning to Homs, especially hearing Saladin eyed Damascus—though Saladin limited her outside contact, she knew: after Damascus, would he stop? No, next Homs.
Would he conquer Homs next?
Were all sisters so exasperating?
Even Saladin inwardly grumbled, but he was not young, still fanciful about family like Ayyarasa Road’s king.
“Very well,” he calmly set down his cup, “If you insist on Homs, you shall go. You will travel north with my army, and before battle, I will send a detachment to escort you further north, then…” He drained the last water. His wife worriedly watched Emina, hearing Saladin’s unspoken words—the last thing I do for you.
But her worry did not reach Emina, who remained as calm as her brother.
“I know my request excessive, Sultan. I know going makes me from your sister your enemy. But he is my husband; our marriage vowed under Allah’s gaze. I must obey him, submit, accept all his arrangements, even death.
Here, cast aside blood and emotion; this is my choice. Whatever result, I will not complain to you.
I even thank you for granting my request.”
“Emina…” Saladin’s wife tried to dissuade, but she just waved hand, rose from seat, went to Saladin, knelt, prostrated, kissed his robe hem.
Then she took Saladin’s hand, placed on her forehead as if seeking blessing, released it without hesitation, walked forward into darkness.
