Chapter 270: Spreading Wings
“When the crowd heard the news that the Sultan had been assassinated, they all rushed to his tent, surrounding him and prostrating themselves on the ground with hands outstretched. But they were not praying for him. On the contrary, they shamelessly demanded gold, silk, slaves, and power from the Sultan, like a pack of ravenous hyenas. Even with their enemies still outside, they could not wait to dance on the lion’s corpse, sharing his flesh and blood as if holding a grand banquet.” —Excerpted from Kamal al-Din Ibn al-Shahrazuri’s《 Biography of Saladin》
The news of the Sultan’s assassination spread like wildfire, swift as a winged bird to every corner. Apart from his Mamluks, there were few who truly mourned him. Even his brother Turan Shah was more worried about himself—if Saladin really died, losing his brother’s protection, what position should he place himself in? Should he rely on the New Sultan?
The New Sultan could not possibly be his nephew, his brother’s son—they were too young. By the time the New Sultan appeared, their ending would be no different from that of Caliph Atid once: first courteous treatment, then imprisonment, and finally a mysterious illness leading to death.
But after counting through the possible candidates, he found himself unable to decide.
Saladin had many opponents, but neither in the Imperial Court nor in the army was there anyone with Saladin’s authority, capable of cowing every scheming conspirator.
My brother. He sighed inwardly: how did you let yourself fall into such a situation? He had once advised Saladin not to make an enemy of the Assassins, at least not openly. Even if he reached an agreement with the Assassins, what of it? Once Saladin fully controlled Syria, Alamut would be nothing but an isolated island, and there would always be ways to make them submit or utterly destroy them.
The people around Saladin now were far too complex: Nur al-Din’s old retainers, Atid’s remnants, ambitious Governors, and unruly tribal leaders… Oh, and those mercenaries—the Assassins would have no trouble finding those who echoed their sentiments.
And indeed, some people came immediately to his tent after the Sultan was stabbed.
“We know you informed on Saladin,” the man said with a beaming smile, completely ignoring Turan Shah’s panicked expression. “But we don’t blame you. Because we knew from the start what kind of person you are. No matter, you are still our friend, and the agreement we spoke of remains in effect.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Saladin’s tent is now nearly inaccessible to anyone, with those two thousand Mamluks guarding at his side.” As the man spoke of this, he could not help revealing an expression of both jealousy and wariness. They had long known Saladin did not trust them, and he even maintained caution toward the army left by his uncle. The Sultan used these young men as his final barrier, and the Mamluks had indeed fulfilled that role. When their master was assassinated and fell unconscious, they guarded him like silent city walls.
Even more unexpectedly, Saladin’s sister, Emina, who had originally insisted on returning to Homs to her husband and children—for which she had a fierce quarrel with Sultan Saladin.
According to insiders, the siblings had reached the brink of breaking off relations; everyone could see that after Saladin sent her back to Homs, their relationship would come to an end.
Saladin had indeed said before that he would assign five hundred Mamluks to escort Emina back to Homs—people thought that with Saladin down, Emina would leave immediately, but she did not. Even though her relationship with Saladin had become extremely strained, at this absolute moment of crisis for him, she resolutely stepped forward.
Compared to Turan Shah cowering in his tent, her actions were more decisive and swift. She used the five hundred Mamluks Saladin had given her—the five hundred soldiers originally meant to escort her back—to seize control of the army’s supplies, then persuaded the other Mamluks to follow her arrangements.
Of course, her decisions were all beneficial to Saladin—otherwise, these Mamluks would not have obeyed her so meekly.
As a woman, Emina did not know how to command troops, march, or fight battles, but holding a position, she could do.
She guarded Saladin for three days and nights, until dawn on the fourth day, when Saladin slowly awoke amid the scholars’ eager anticipation. Their Allah had bestowed favor and healing upon him, but like the treatments performed by Christian priests, the scholars could not fully mend his wounds. The new organs, muscles, and skin were fragile, and the lost blood could not replenish his body in a short time.
Saladin was still very weak, but he could already think and speak.
Upon learning of the situation over these days, he first thanked his sister, then summoned his brother Turan Shah. As soon as Turan Shah entered the tent, he immediately prostrated himself at the Sultan’s feet.
He feared the Sultan would suspect him of colluding with those who plotted against him. Although he had already revealed their conspiracy fully to the Sultan, he knew that after enduring the torment of life and death, people always underwent some changes.
Fortunately, Saladin was never the suspicious type; he understood his brother and sister. He told Turan Shah to stay in the adjacent tent and not go anywhere without his summons.
Then, he sent envoys to call the army’s generals.
When these generals entered the Sultan’s tent, even though it was large enough to hold over a hundred people, it now felt cramped and tense—perhaps because an invisible battle had already erupted here before the Sultan issued his decree.
Saladin, pale-faced, leaned on pillows and cushions, scanning each familiar or unfamiliar face: some hesitant, some probing, some smug, some contemptuous… These people could not fully hide their thoughts.
And it was clear that while Saladin was unconscious, they had already gone through negotiations and compromises. Former bitter enemies now stood shoulder to shoulder, while those once as close as brothers suddenly kept their distance. Some clustered in groups of three or five, others stood alone. Their ability to remain quietly and meekly in this tent was solely because Saladin had not died.
If Saladin had died, he had no doubt they would immediately draw swords against each other, even if their infighting caused chaos in the camp and led to defeat by the Christians—they wouldn’t care.
Just like with Sultan Nur al-Din once, when he fell from his horse and was captured by the Sea of Galilee, his Fatah and Emir were utterly scattered by a few hundred Christian knights, with no one even trying to retrieve the Sultan’s body to spare him enemy humiliation.
But once they returned to their own territories, they transformed, proclaiming themselves the sole heir to Sultan Nur al-Din—no one knew how they had the face to do so.
Now their coveted target had shifted from Nur al-Din to Saladin.
They came to Saladin’s tent more to see if this fearsome dictator had truly reached his last gasp. Of course, the result disappointed them: Saladin was wounded, but far from death.
He still had trustworthy kin and his Mamluks at his side. No matter what they thought, letting this newly born New Sultan fall was now impossible. But they were not disheartened.
If they still had to serve this Sultan now, the Sultan should grant them the power and rewards they deserved—especially at this time, when Saladin clearly could no longer lead this army.
“We will still fight for you, Sultan, obeying all your decrees, but we also need something in return for our loyalty—something insignificant to you, Sultan, like a grain of sand or a leaf.” A bold Fatah spoke first.
Fatah—tribal leaders, no different from mercenaries, the most focused on returns, for every tribe was so impoverished it could not withstand any loss.
“What do you want?”
“Gold.”
“Very well, I will give you gold.”
“Then, Sultan,” another Fatah hurriedly said: “We want slaves, and captives.”
“Very well, the slaves and captives you gain in the war are all yours.”
“…Damascus…”
“Very well.”
“Then…” An Emir suddenly looked up: “Sultan, I think what we need most is your whip. Without your whip, how can we drive your soldiers?”
All eyes fell on the “whip” leaning against the Sultan’s pillow—not an ordinary instrument of punishment, but a symbolic weapon for commanding the army.
“The whip can only be given to one person. Discuss among yourselves and tell me.” Saladin nodded. “Anyone else?”
“I, esteemed Sultan.” A voice came from the corner.
“What do you want?”
“I want death, Sultan. I hope you will withdraw your mercy. In this war, no Christians should be left alive, just as they killed all the Saracens on the Ayyarasa Road.”
Hearing this, even Kamal could not help lifting his head. Was this just aimed at the Christians?
Far from it.
When the Fatimid Dynasty’s Caliph warred with the Christians, they did not demand killing all Christian knights—this was merely another veiled way to accuse and mock Saladin. These people used their own cruelty to highlight Saladin’s cowardice—at least, that was how they saw it.
They sought to undermine his authority and glory in the army and among the people, to take his place.
Saladin coughed lightly twice. It was said the assassin’s dagger had pierced his lung; his frailty sparked hope in some eyes.
“Very well,” Saladin said. “I promise you all, everything.” His face, shrouded in the curtain, appeared gloomy and indistinct. But these ambitious men no longer cared. “Warriors of Allah, if you achieve victory in this campaign, the money is yours, the slaves are yours, Damascus is yours too.”
Saladin’s response made them feel as if they had already won a great victory. What they did not know was that after they left the tent, Kamal let out a sigh. “Are you really going to do this, Sultan? That is an army of fifteen thousand.
”What is there to regret about those not in my service? When a sword turns against its master, its sharpness becomes his sin.” Saladin pressed his chest and sat up. In the dimly lit tent, the deliberate frailty and pain seemed to vanish from him; he was still the calm, wise, indomitable Sultan.
“If they truly achieve victory…”
“There is still me and my Mamluks.”
“Some might accuse you of fratricide.”
“Is that not what they have been doing? They have been trying to divide and bribe my men—not to mention those Turkmen; even some of the Kurds my uncle brought have been corrupted by them.
We shall see tomorrow.”
Saladin said calmly. “To get what I promised, they will have to stake everything.”
If at that point there were still Turkmen or Kurds willing to follow them, Saladin could cleanly and clearly exclude them.
He needed an army entirely his own.
——————
The Assassins’ members rejoiced, but only Laila noticed something off in Sinan’s expression. As the master of the Eagle’s Nest, the elder they revered, he arranged where the assassins went, what they did, whom they killed, without needing to report to anyone. Thus, upon hearing Saladin was stabbed, their first reaction was that the assassin Sinan dispatched had fulfilled his mission.
But Laila knew her teacher well.
She was a woman, with white hair as if cursed by the devil. Though a valued assassin of the elder, she could never enter the true circle of power.
Still, Sinan occasionally shared future plans with her—perhaps precisely because Laila could never become elder, Sinan trusted her so.
Sinan had once said that although Saladin and the Christian King both refused him, he only wanted both sides in this war to realize the Assassins’ importance—they could tip the scales of victory toward one side.
But as Sinan said, they were all Saracens after all. He wanted to use Christian lives to intimidate these two rulers—Saladin’s side, he might act on later, but not now.
Sinan had not told the others this fact; he secretly sent only Laila to investigate the truth of the news.
“If Saladin is not dead, should I act?”
“No!” Sinan said immediately. “You must never strike at Saladin.”
“Is it Saladin I must not strike, or me?” Laila pressed aggressively.
“You.” Sinan said ruthlessly. “No matter what Saladin is, he is a Sultan. Allah’s warrior should not die at a woman’s hand.”
