Chapter 281: Three Requests
The Saracens desperately lunged toward that light to stop him, but Baldwin’s Saint George’s Spear needed only one strike to clear Caesar’s rear—sometimes a shield can be used for more than just defense, and a spear not necessarily just for attack.
At this point their roles had swapped, but their coordination was still seamless and perfectly in sync. In the stalemate, such a huge gap suddenly appeared, and of course the Crusaders would not miss this opportunity. Finally, the knights following behind Baldwin and Caesar almost trampled over the corpses of the Saracens.
And this stairway led down into the city. Before they could even set foot on the ground, they already saw the crude fortifications standing at the other end of the street. Though crude, they were enough to hold them off for a while, not to mention the archers and crossbowmen there who were already poised and ready.
David just laughed heartily. Though they had expended some strength earlier pushing the siege tower, under the saint’s blessing, they could still continue fighting vigorously.
He even directly grabbed a still moaning Saracen and hurled him at those archers, immediately knocking the two archers head over heels.
The other knights followed suit. They might not necessarily be able to throw these people into the fortifications, but the screams from those wounded were even more filled with fear and anger among the Saracens. They had already nocked their arrows, but the arrows were equally ineffective against the protection these Christian knights possessed. Some were already praying in despair, thinking that the people of Damascus City had somehow offended Allah, and that was why He had sent these heathens to punish them.
The Crusaders’ morale soared here. They even shouted Baldwin and Caesar’s names, eager for them to lead a exhilarating attack.
But at that moment, a fast horse came galloping down the ruined street. Who would charge into the battlefield at this time? Baldwin saw the confused looks on the Saracens’ faces and knew they were equally clueless, but Caesar beside him had already said softly, “It is the Governor of Damascus City, Razis.”
Though Razis was already emaciated from hunger, he had indeed left quite a profound impression on Caesar. Caesar recognized him at a glance. He was dressed in a white robe, wrapped in a matching headscarf. Having left the sturdy castle to come here, what for?
“For peace!” Razis said loudly, though it was loud in name only; due to days of torment, his voice was very faint, almost negligible.
A Saracen scholar hesitated but still stepped forward to support him, and channeled healing power into his body, so he could speak loudly and fluently his final words. But if he had not misheard—the Governor had come to surrender?
Though they could still fight the Christians, everyone could see that the fall of Damascus City was destined. Unless Allah descended, no one could change this ending.
But how could these Christians be willing to stop so easily? Damascus City had not surrendered without a fight like Bosra, instead costing them many brave knights and respectable soldiers. They absolutely would not let it rest.
Moreover, Damascus City’s most important assets were not the people inside, but its position, fortress and city wall— with these, Damascus City remained Damascus City. The only difference was whether it was ruled by Christians or by Saracens.
For the merchants, would they refuse to reside, walk, and do business in this city because of that?
No, unless the Christian King issued a decree prohibiting people of different faiths from entering the city, or capturing and executing them. But that was impossible—the young King of Ayyarasa Road was renowned for his benevolence and kindness.
Razis slowly exhaled. He looked at the two Christian knights at the forefront of the ranks. The one in gilded armor was naturally King Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road, and the one beside him must be the Knight of Bethlehem, Count of Edessa, and Lord of Cyprus, Caesar.
When he had been envoy to Acre, he still carried some youthful innocence, but now he appeared completely a warrior. Razis had once wondered if this loyal knight would receive equal regard from his king, and now it seemed so.
Though their armor was one gilded and one silvered, in style and refinement, they were completely identical, and the lion heads on their breastplates were the same size as well. Only Baldwin’s faced straight ahead, while Caesar’s looked to the side.
Every craftsman’s style is different. One could tell at a glance that these two sets of armor came from the same hand.
“The battle is not yet over. You come seeking peace at a time that is not quite right.”
Baldwin said mildly, though his breathing carried a hint of rapidity. After all, in the previous fighting, they had almost faced a hundred with one. Even with God and the saint’s unstinting blessings, they would feel fatigued.
Baldwin did not particularly like this Saracen. He knew Razis; the other had been merely a debauched playboy before becoming Governor of Damascus City. Caesar had first met him over copying medical books, in the bedroom of the famous Qiyan Laila. He had been lying in a Qiyan’s embrace, humiliating Caesar to the extreme.
Though Caesar had not spoken of it, someone had always spread word of this conversation, and merchants had brought it to Baldwin’s ears. The king had even felt a pang of regret. If this man only knew to cower tremblingly or flee, he could have captured him, humiliated him at will, and chopped off his head. But now… he might still do so, but Caesar would surely stop him.
Baldwin raised his hand and pointed to the sky. They had launched the attack at dawn, and now the sun blazed high, even showing faint signs of tilting west. The cries of combat erupting from various places also indicated that victory for the Crusaders was within reach.
“If so, why should I negotiate with you, Governor of Damascus City?”
“For Damascus City.” Razis said, “You may still remember Shawwar.”
Baldwin’s expression changed instantly. In that shameful plot, he had lost his king and father, and Amalric I’s failure was everyone’s regret, especially the shame of the Flanders family.
But Razis continued as if oblivious: “What Shawwar once did, why can I not do? Damascus City even has more naphtha reserves than Fustat—and long before your arrival, I had already sent trusted men to bury earthenware pots filled with naphtha in various places throughout the city. Once ignited and exploded, even if you withdraw from Damascus City, it will become the brightest torch.
Fustat burned for three days and nights. How long could Damascus City burn? Perhaps even longer.
Everything you desire will turn to charred ashes: gold, silk, castle, courtyard, temple… Even if you occupy and rebuild here, how much money, slaves, and army would it take?
No Saracen would watch idly as you drive another nail here.
Oh, you doubt me, thinking I lack such courage. But why not? Shawwar had no prior reputation—no, he had none; he was notorious. Apart from Caliph Atid, almost no one was willing to trust him. He was despised and spat upon, and he knew it well. But after he took your king Amalric I with a great fire, people thought he had ascended to heaven alongside the Prophet.
So, do you think I would fear such an outcome? Though my prior reputation may not have been much better…”
They all thought he had squandered the medical books and knowledge left by his ancestors, but having become Governor of Damascus City, he must do what a governor should. “I know you may not believe, or perhaps you do, but your generals will not…”
Razis suddenly revealed a strange smile. “Please listen.”
Then people heard a faint rumble from the direction of Caesar’s Gate. They looked that way and indeed saw soaring flames and smoke. “Who is in charge there? The Knights Templar, or the Duke of Antioch, or perhaps the Count of Tripoli? Or maybe some subject you favor. No matter, they have seen it now and will know I speak the truth.
You can now send a herald to tell them: they can have a complete Damascus City or a handful of black ash. Let them choose.”
The entire battlefield subtly stalled, but from inertia, some places still echoed with pained groans, the clash of swords, or the crackling of flames burning wood and stone blocks. Saracens and Christians glared at each other full of hatred, yet had to obey the Governor’s or King’s command. They gripped their swords tightly, slowly retreating until maintaining a distance that could be kept or changed at any moment.
Some bold soldiers took the chance to drag away companions still calling and groaning, or already silent corpses. Crusaders and Saracens alike did so.
Unlike with Emirs, Sultans, and Caliphs, in the Christian armies there was never one sole authority. Even the King of Ayyarasa Road had to heed the opinions of vassals, generals, and allies.
But whether Count Raymond of Tripoli, Grand Duke Bohemond of Antioch, or the Grand Masters of the Knights Templar and Knights Hospitaller, Patriarch Heraclius—he had arrived in the third week after the siege warfare—none raised objections.
They had come here for Damascus City, and of course could not watch it turn to charred rubble. Though forced to accept the Saracens’ blackmail left them deeply displeased, in any case, it was better than a second Fustat. Truth be told, though they often cursed Shawwar as a devil skilled in conspiracies who deserved hell, his ploy had indeed given many Crusader generals nightmares.
When night fell, Razis was brought to the Crusaders’ tent. The Crusader generals and ministers eyed him curiously, their gazes full of contempt and disdain—Razis had originally been just an idle playboy. He carried not a trace of a warrior’s or ruler’s bearing, not even comparable to Shams al-Din of Bosra.
People looked at him, emitting low chuckles and whispers. He came directly before the King of Ayyarasa Road, showing no fear or flattery, which actually earned him a measure of respect.
“You may now state your requests.”
Razis did not rush to speak. By the flickering firelight, he clearly saw the faces of those knights and lords in the tent. Compared to the obscure Razis, everyone present was renowned. He also saw Caesar, sitting right beside Baldwin. Their seats were very close, almost able to whisper without turning. Razis’s heart raced, his face showing no expression.
“I have three,” he hesitated, then said humbly as they demanded, “three requests.”
“Speak them.”
“Damascus City can be handed over to you intact.
But my first request is that you guarantee the safety of the 65,000 residents in Damascus City. They can offer their money, livestock, fields, and residences, and pay fees to redeem themselves.
But I hope your soldiers will not humiliate or slaughter them.”
“Will they leave? Or stay in Damascus City?”
“Most will stay in Damascus City, Your Majesty. They are almost all merchants, craftsmen, and farmers. They will continue to run the city for you and pay you taxes as before.”
“Will they convert?”
This question made Baldwin instinctively look to Heraclius seated at his left hand. The Patriarch in white robe and tall mitre merely wagged a finger, indicating it was not his intention to prompt the query—their teacher, though Patriarch of Ayyarasa Road, was in fact like Amalric I before him: a worldly man greedy for profit and power, not a monk.
Though converting heathens was indeed glorious, he was already Patriarch of Ayyarasa Road. What use would more be to him? Would the Pope in Rome be so moved as to yield his seat? Of course not. Thus, he would not bother with such futility.
But that priest was indeed of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, possibly connected to the Gerard family. The Gerard family was another issue, Baldwin thought inwardly without showing it. “If they wish to convert, let them. If not, they must still pay us three times the poll tax.”
If it were fifty years ago, when the Crusaders had just set foot on this unfamiliar land, killing all heathens and forcing survivors to convert was indeed their common practice.
But now—not to mention the heathens in Ayyarasa Road, every Crusader nation and city was filled with people of various faiths. Their prior cruelty had been to establish a foothold here, but now they had their own territories and no need to be so harsh toward heathens, lest it spark riots.
“We are willing to pay taxes.”
“Then I can also promise you: your temples may be demolished, your priests executed, imprisoned, or exiled. Those willing to follow them may leave after paying redemption fees, but those who stay must obey my laws.”
“All as you wish.”
