Chapter 276: The Sultan’s Return
The Crusaders continued northward, while the Saracen army could only withdraw southward.
When they arrived, they were like a newborn vine, stretching its branches and leaves wantonly in the spring sun and rain, constantly growing stronger. Before the battle began, it was already lush and shading the sky, and everyone firmly believed they would achieve victory.
But when they left, this vine seemed to be suddenly assaulted by a biting cold wind. Overnight, its leaves fell, its branches curled or broke, leaving only a solitary, bare trunk.
Among those leaving the army, some could take livestock, cloth, fur, slaves, wheat and barley, as well as precious salt and sugar, while others left empty-handed, with nothing but sorrow and hatred.
The Emir of Fayoum watched from the side. When he saw the looks in their eyes, he couldn’t help but feel terrified.
Were they hating those Christians? Clearly not.
What they hated were those Emirs or Viziers who had deceived them into coming here, made them shed all their blood, yet gave them no favor at all. But what could he do? Although he was the Governor of Fayoum, for the Emirs of Egypt to maintain surface peace without attacking each other was already good—look at the chaos in Syria now.
He could not interfere with the decisions of those generals and officials, and he could understand their thinking. These tribes had always lived very harshly; after all, in the vast wilderness and sandy land, there were not many things they could rely on for survival. After suffering this disaster, whether their tribes could survive the next winter was still uncertain.
And when their tribes were destroyed, new tribes would emerge. By then, the treachery of these Viziers and Emirs would also disappear into the rolling sands, never to be mentioned again.
They didn’t even need to worry about immediate revenge from the other side.
These were small tribes that could not contend with those Emirs even in their prime; could they do so when they were in ruins?
“What are you looking at?” A Vizier passed by, taking his attendants to hunt in the surrounding mountainous area. The hunting falcon kept switching claws on the servant’s arm, the hunting dogs circled around their horses’ hooves barking incessantly, and their saddles were laden with blood-drenched prey—wild goats, waterfowl, and rabbits.
“You’re still hunting?”
“What’s the problem?”
“Your carriage and tent are piled high with food, but the tribespeople who have already left—their cloth bags are empty…”
The Vizier just sneered upon hearing this. Clearly, he didn’t want to hear such words. Deep down, they even hoped those tribespeople they had driven away would really starve to death on the way back.
This way, not only would there be no witnesses to their crimes, but future troubles would also be eliminated. Of course, he couldn’t say it so bluntly.
“What nonsense are you talking?” He showed no respect to the other. Fayoum was a big city, yes, but he was also the Vizier of ancient Memphis, not to mention that the Emir of Fayoum had already lost much prestige due to excessive compromise and timidity in previous negotiations with the Christians. Now in the army, almost no one respected him; some were even planning to rush to Sultan Saladin first to accuse him of incompetence, even slandering that he had been an insider for those Christians before the battle, leading to their irreparable great defeat in the previous combat.
Seeing this, the Emir of Fayoum said no more. He turned his horse back to his tent, and along the way, he saw many noisy hunting parties returning to the camp.
Originally, those tribespeople who left the army could still manage to hunt around to avoid starving on the way back.
But now… not to mention whether the hunting parties would exhaust all the prey here, their disturbance would certainly make the prey hide or move elsewhere.
But even more unfair things had already happened.
Bonfires were lit everywhere in the army camp, with broth boiling or meat roasting, fish skewered, on them. The rising thick aroma not only failed to whet the Emir of Fayoum’s appetite but instead made him repeatedly nauseous.
He returned to his tent, drank a cup of grape juice, and fell into a dazed sleep.
In tonight’s sleep, he still could not find peace. His soul seemed to have left his body, rising above the tent. He saw the vast camp covered in silver-like moonlight, the surrounding valley illuminated by the sky, and countless stars leaping in the river water.
In the endless dense forest flowed a dark wind—no, it wasn’t wind, but those expelled tribespeople. Almost all were covered in wounds, utterly exhausted, but what unsettled the Emir of Fayoum was that there was little frustration or despair on their faces; instead, there was an indescribable persistence…
What were they persisting in? The Emir of Fayoum did not know.
But these people were clearly gathering in one place. Indeed, few warriors remained with Fatah, whom those Viziers and Emirs deemed worthless, but every tribe always had ten or twenty survivors. They had passed through the battlefield, tempered by the blood of enemies and comrades, enriching their experience. They themselves were considerable wealth, but unfortunately, Shawwar’s poison still lingered in the ruined court; these “wealth” could not move those guys as much as a box of gold coins.
Who were they going to see? The Emir of Fayoum vaguely guessed in his heart but still involuntarily followed them until they reached a flat valley.
This was between two small tributaries of the Jordan River, with abundant water and flat terrain. In the center stood a huge grayish-white tent, ample enough to hold a thousand people.
In front of the tent stood Saladin’s eagle banner. The Emir of Fayoum stared intently at the scene—they were here to see Saladin—and he was not surprised, even when he saw Saladin emerge from the tent, as tall and thin as ever, spirited and upright, showing no sign of his previous heavy injury and near-death state.
Upon seeing him, the tribespeople burst into tears. They knelt dozens of feet away from Saladin, prostrating to him and kissing the hem of his robe.
They were saying something. Though the Emir of Fayoum could not hear, he could guess the gist from their expressions and lip shapes—they were saying they regretted it, confessing to Saladin and begging his forgiveness.
Saladin said something to them, and their emotions grew even more agitated. Then a team of Saladin’s Mamluks came out. They led these Fatah and their warriors to the other end of the camp, where there was steaming soup, wheat cakes, even meat. These people, already exhausted, ate and drank heartily, then lay down on the ground.
And such groups kept arriving.
When the Emir of Fayoum woke again, he felt numbness in his fingers and toes. This sensation was clearly wrong; even if he was too tired or too sad, it shouldn’t be like this. He wanted to shout loudly but found he could only make murmuring sounds. He reached for the scimitar by his pillow but grasped nothing.
His struggling made some noise. His servant—the one from the tribe of Babi—saw the intimidating light in his master’s eyes but was not panicked. Instead, he stepped forward, held his hand: “No need to panic, Lord. You will not be harmed or humiliated.”
The Emir of Fayoum found he could speak softly and calmed down considerably. “What have you done to me?”
“Made you sleep?” the servant said. “It’s become very dangerous outside. We could only keep you in the tent this way. This is also what that one…”
“No need to mention that one. Is this necessary?” the Emir of Fayoum said stiffly. “It’s Sultan Saladin, right?”
“Yes, Sultan Saladin.” The servant simply sat cross-legged beside him, lifted his hand, placed it back under the blanket, and fed him some water. At this time, the Emir of Fayoum finally heard faint shouts, clashes of swords, and firelight flickering on the tent. “What time is it?”
“It’s been three days since you returned to the tent, Lord. Please don’t be angry. If we let you stay awake, if you could stand, wield a scimitar, mount a horse, could you stand by? Could you watch your former colleagues and friends die? You couldn’t, even if you know they brought it on themselves and deserve it; you still couldn’t convince yourself.
That’s the downside of being a good person.” The servant said as if talking to himself.
“My colleagues and friends?”
“Some of them. And some like you, either obeying Sultan Saladin’s orders or, like you, Saladin doesn’t want you facing such a difficult choice.”
“He’s killing Saracens, killing those who believe in Allah like him. Allah won’t forgive him; he will surely face divine punishment and fall into hell…”
“Please don’t say that,” the servant interrupted immediately, clearly displeased with his curse.
“A giant tree towers high with lush branches and leaves, yet a venomous snake nests in its heart, its poison dripping down, corroding its body, making it wither and weaken. At this time, a wise person should dig out the snake and the corroded parts together, throw them into the fire to burn, rather than hesitate because those rotten parts belong to the tree. Every day—no, Lord, every hour—the harm caused by those sinful and greedy people to Allah’s foundation grows heavier.
Moreover, Saladin gave them opportunities. If they could defeat the Christians, or even if not, stalemate or hold out for a while—Saladin wouldn’t make such a decision.”
“Nonsense!”
The Emir of Fayoum said angrily. He realized this servant was a nail planted by Saladin beside him, but this nail had indeed played the role Saladin hoped.
He was controlled by his former servant, unable to move, and could only silently wait for the final outcome.
Fortunately, this agonizing time was not long. Before dusk, he finally regained some strength, his vision cleared, and he heard more. As the tent flap was lifted, a familiar smell surged in—the scent of burning wood, leather, and human bodies.
But then a slightly cold mountain wind blew in, quickly dispersing them, as if they had never been.
“Have some coffee, or I’ll add some grape juice for you.” The servant said.
The Emir of Fayoum raised his head, looking at the second person entering his tent: Fatah, who had bid him farewell not long ago. Back then, the Emir of Fayoum thought he was the tolerant one; now it seemed Fatah and his master Saladin were the tolerant ones.
Even with coffee and grape juice, the Emir of Fayoum panted for a while before he could finally stand.
“Is Saladin already here?” he asked.
The other nodded, then turned to the servant. “Are you still my servant? If not, no matter—consider it asking a friend for help. Please bring some clean water, help me change clothes, and rewrap my headscarf.”
“You’re going to see him?”
“He’s waiting for me… us.”
The Emir of Fayoum said. He had completely calmed down. Only after everything was prepared did he walk forward with difficulty. The servant wanted to support him but was refused.
He thus walked step by step, slowly but steadily, toward the place with the fluttering eagle banner.
Just as he saw in that dream—whether it was a dream or not—on one side of the camp, there was a row of corpses covered with white linen. People nearby were purifying and wrapping them according to Saracen tradition.
Scholars were reciting scriptures for them.
For some reason, looking at them, the Emir of Fayoum thought of the prey he had seen not long ago on their saddles and camel backs: those once vibrant-furred birds and beasts with sharp claws also lay lifeless on the ground, blood seeping through their fur and feathers into the loose sand.
He walked step by step; the camp was full of young Mamluks, the most trusted young men around Saladin, who had once mocked Saladin for this—because no Saracens were willing to follow him.
Though these young men were only Saladin’s slaves, the light in their eyes was no less than that of the Christian knights. They held their heads high, gazes cold, tolerating almost nothing but their master Saladin.
That black, slender figure stood at the end of the lower road. Further ahead were familiar faces, most of whom had heeded his advice, while a small half turned their heads away in shame when he looked over.
They were Saladin’s insiders, or spies. The Emir of Fayoum had kindly warned them, but they never told him the truth.
“Are you alright?” Saladin asked.
“I’m fine, Sultan. Thank you for your continued care.” The Emir of Fayoum replied.
This sounded harsh; he was unsurprised to see the Mamluks give him hostile looks.
“I spared you because you’re not rotten to the core.” Saladin said clearly, not intending to cover for the Emir of Fayoum—though in Shawwar’s court, truly upright and virtuous people couldn’t survive.
The Emir of Fayoum could only say that while satisfying his private desires, he also tried to ensure the city’s stability and the army’s safety. But beyond that, he had committed many wrongs.
“By doing this, you’re handing Damascus to the Christians, Sultan.”
“I see you’re still unwilling, but no matter. I can tell you, I won’t take Damascus at this time. She’s a beauty, yes, but coveted by countless people. Whoever gets her faces endless challenges.
And I, if I really occupied Damascus, besides the Crusaders’ siege, I might face betrayal from Saracens. At best, they would refuse my call for aid, just as they now refuse Razis.
You bet I’d stop the Christians for my faith and honor, but that’s too unfair to me, isn’t it?”
The Emir of Fayoum opened his mouth but ultimately said nothing.
The First Crusade achieved such great results largely due to Saracens’ mutual infighting. If Saladin were besieged by the Crusaders in that city, more would pile on, not fewer. Even without the war’s end, the remnants of the Fatimid Dynasty in Cairo would incite riots, turning Egypt into another Syria.
“I spared you because you still have that character the Prophet desired. Though you went with the flow and did wrong, for a Fatimid Dynasty official, it was inevitable. So here, I give you another chance. Will you pledge loyalty to me?”
The Emir of Fayoum stood there; he thought a long time passed, but to others, it was just a brief moment.
Countless thoughts flashed through his mind, finally settling on those two faces: the King of Ayyarasa Road and his most favored minister, Count Caesar of Edessa—such young faces.
He finally hesitated no more, knelt to the ground, crawled to Saladin’s feet, lifted his robe, and placed it to his lips.
This was the last man he needed.
Saladin’s brows remained furrowed. He didn’t look at the respectful official but toward Damascus.
This time, Damascus might fall into Christian hands. Yes, regrettable, but not without hope of salvation.
The Christians were not of one mind. On the contrary, their court couldn’t compare to the former Fatimid or Zengid dynasty, and such omens had appeared early; otherwise, Zengi couldn’t have retaken Edessa so easily. And in the future—perhaps not far off—he too could reconquer Damascus.
But before that, he still had to give his little friend a gift.
