Chapter 274: Flapping Wings
When the chief envoy of the Saracens, the Emir of Fayoum, stepped into the tent, what he saw was an empty throne standing quietly in the center of the tent, and the Count of Edessa standing to the right of the throne.
He immediately felt humiliated.
“We have come to negotiate, not to beg for peace. Christians, you have not defeated us, and we are far from failure. I have come for those precious lives, whether your knights or our warriors, and you seem not to care—if you insist on this, then I can only conclude that you have no sincerity in negotiation, and merely wish to humiliate us.
I will accept this humiliation, and return it to you in the battles to come, a hundredfold, a thousandfold, ten thousandfold.”
“Calm yourself, Lord.” Caesar said calmly: “As the saying goes, king to king, minister to minister. Only your Sultan Saladin can sit across the negotiation table from the King of Ayyarasa Road.
Where is Saladin?
If he comes here, our king will surely welcome him warmly as an elder brother, entertain him, and speak to him face-to-face. But you are merely an emir; you do not have this qualification—and you must have heard my name. My standing here is already the greatest sincerity the King of Ayyarasa Road can offer.”
Otherwise, you would face Abigail.
Of course, Caesar did not say the latter half aloud. He stood there, neither angry nor smiling, and the purple silk robe on him stung the emir’s eyes even more.
Among the Saracens, a purple robe held no special significance, nor was it particularly dreaded by the Crusaders. But this robe was extraordinarily splendid—deep purple silk inlaid with golden braids and white pearls.
Today, Caesar had rarely donned his Count of Edessa crown.
This crown had been reforged for him by Baldwin; the original was long lost. Likewise, he wore a golden belt, with a gemstone-inlaid dagger and long sword hanging from it, and beneath the gold, gemstones, and silk was silver-plated chainmail. He stood there, every inch a young monarch.
Yet the Emir of Fayoum only felt exceptionally humiliated. The Christians had dressed their negotiation envoy so solemnly and gorgeously, certainly not just to show off—the Crusaders, who had long dealt with the Saracens, had of course heard of a law prevalent among the Saracens.
Their Prophet had once decreed that their men should not wear silk. Thus, among the Saracens, aside from some vain individuals wearing silk undergarments beneath great robes or inlaying one or two unobtrusive silk trims, no one dared violate this law.
But this law had an exception, explicitly written in their scripture—when a caliph, sultan, or emir meets a defeated enemy, he may wear a silk robe, even dressing extravagantly to display the posture befitting a victor.
Now, though the scene before the emir was a rare spectacle of beauty, every glance felt like a poison needle piercing his heart. But could he truly, as he claimed, refuse this negotiation and turn back to his camp?
Of course not; those around him would not allow it.
When Saladin fell, they had been jubilant and exhilarated, after all, their numbers were nearly twice those of the Crusaders, and they held absolute advantage in terrain. With Amalric I’s two great defeats on the Crusader side, they thought victory would come easily, and with Saladin’s promise beforehand, they charged blindly into the battlefield like wild bears chasing honey—the result goes without saying.
They lost, though not yet utterly defeated. But in every meeting, they blamed each other, shirked responsibility, and vied for more interests for their tribes and cities. Though Damascus was gone, do not forget—there were still supplies, fodder, and slaves.
These were all amassed by Saladin with the full might of the Nile River Delta, and for them, they amounted to a fortune.
But if they continued fighting the Christians, their warriors would die, and these precious cloth and grain would be rapidly consumed—some tribes had already proposed dividing supplies among them so they could leave, refusing to participate in this inconclusive war. After all, if they could not take Damascus, all promises were mere castles in the air.
“We can clear the road to Damascus for you, but we must receive a return.”
“Receive a return?” Caesar nearly laughed: “That’s not quite right, Lord. Shouldn’t you be giving us gold to redeem yourselves?”
“Our warriors are still as numerous as birds in the mountains and forests.”
“Unfortunately, their nests are equally dense—birds will only fight falcons for their own nests and fledglings. They know nothing of faith; it cannot moisten a parched throat, ward off the winter night’s cold, or fill an empty belly.”
The face of the Emir of Fayoum visibly paled, tinged with a flush of anger, but he soon composed himself. “But have you not come for Damascus? If you continue entangling with us, you will gain no benefit, and you will face a huge debt.
I know that for every expedition, you must borrow a large sum from the Isaacites, and impose taxes on your commoners, often taking years to recover.
Now we are essentially giving you Damascus; what you pay is but a drop in the bucket compared to the rich gains after obtaining Damascus…”
“You say ‘giving’…?” Caesar asked hesitantly.
The Emir of Fayoum flushed red: “Not ours, then yours? Christians!”
“Soon to be.” Caesar replied.
This answer enraged the emir; his face swelled red, fists clenched, and he leaped up, glaring down at this insolent young man. The other was so young—his youngest grandson was no smaller.
Yet at this moment, he represented the King of Ayyarasa Road, sitting as an equal in negotiation—or rather, he even faintly lorded over the Saracens.
And he indeed had the qualification.
“If only we still had Saladin!” the emir roared in despair, but then he saw the Christian knight raise one eyebrow in surprise. He felt as if slapped—even if it were mockery or disdain, it would not leave him so… despairing.
“Yes, if you still had Saladin—where is your Saladin?” This was Caesar’s second time asking this question.
The emir was instantly speechless. He was not a participant or plotter in the conspiracy, but he had indeed stood aside. They despised this Kurd; he had received favors from Zengi（here they omitted that when Zengi faced life-and-death peril, the Ayyub family had taken him in and saved him）, yet he brazenly betrayed Nur al-Din after the Sultan granted him great power and an army.
Not only that, he usurped the nest, killed their Caliph Atid, and seized the sultanate—though he never called himself sultan, what did it matter?
The victor titles Saladin used in documents and self-reference felt like mockery to them.
He would console himself that if Saladin could not escape such a conspiracy, it proved he was not the monarch favored by Allah.
He had even fantasized about becoming sultan himself… But facts had proven they were mere useless trash. Without Saladin, they were crabs dragging each other down; no one had Saladin’s perseverance and talent to remold them into a sharp scimitar.
Caesar never shifted his gaze.
He stared fixedly at the Saracen envoy, watching anger suddenly turn to dejection.
Caesar had met Saladin and spent time with him; in every way, he found him the most trustworthy and admirable king he had ever known.
Baldwin was still somewhat immature; as for Amalric I… Caesar could not be ignorant of what he had done to him, but for Baldwin and Amalric I’s initial favor in saving him, he ignored it all—though he did remember.
Yet Saladin, facing a fearsome enemy, had repeatedly shown tolerance out of regard for his talent.
Even in the brief time shared with Saladin in Damascus, Caesar heard much about him—beyond his benevolence, wisdom, and valor, there were discordant voices. He believed these were not unique to Christians; like enemies of Caesar or Baldwin, Saladin’s enemies would maliciously twist his mercy into cowardice.
Now it seemed Saladin faced difficulties no fewer than theirs, and they had unwittingly aided Saladin. He smiled, without much resentment—even toward these shortsighted Saracens.
It was precisely because of these people that he and Baldwin had a slight chance to breathe.
Saladin would be their most fearsome future enemy, and perhaps not the only one.
