Chapter 286: Broken Wings
“Beast!”
“Devil!”
“No! No, you cannot treat me like this!”
“Please, please, Sultan!”
“Enemy of Allah!”
“Vile scoundrel!”
“Traitor!”
As more and more people were bound and thrown into the sandy land in front of the large tent, all sorts of angry curses, condemnations, and appeals grew increasingly loud and chaotic. These were prominent figures who had once been illustrious in the court of the Fatimid Dynasty—even though under their rule, Egypt weakened day by day, grew impoverished, and even repeatedly fell into internal strife, they still considered themselves virtuous people.
Their backs were as soft as willow branches when facing Caliph Atid or Grand Vizier Shawwar, but as hard as steel bars when facing tribal leaders and commoners, unwilling to even slightly bend down to listen to their cries.
Even toward the uncle and nephew Ilghazi who had come from afar to help them fight the Christians, they were the same, or even more despicable. To them, this pair of Kurds was merely servants slightly better than slaves.
In their eyes, such a system, such an Imperial Court, and such power would continue forever.
To achieve this end, they had always resorted to any means necessary—if Nur al-Din were still alive, they might have been somewhat wary, but now that Nur al-Din was dead, Saladin was nothing more than a homeless dog. Even though he had become the Sultan of Egypt by virtue of the army in his hands, in their eyes, he was still just an opportunist taking advantage of the chaos.
They were very confident. So what of Saladin? He could execute one, two, or ten rebels, but could he kill all the Emirs and Viziers?
But today, this scoundrel suddenly revealed his ferocious true face, like a beast hidden in the darkness finally baring its fangs.
The attack occurred after the army had already moved far away from the Christians’ forces. Before that, they had come before Saladin dejectedly, begging for his forgiveness, and the Sultan had indeed pardoned them without pursuing, not even immediately demanding the return of the supplies they had divided among themselves.
When they exchanged views privately, they said the Sultan only trusted his two thousand Mamluks; he was even unwilling to use the original Kurds and Turkmen. He still needed them as his last resort—but even the speaker knew how feeble and powerless such an excuse was. Some smart people had already decided not to return to Egypt and to find an opportunity midway to lead their own soldiers away.
As for whether to continue to Acre or to defect to the Seljuk Turks or even the Christians, that was something to consider later.
But Saladin did not give them this opportunity. They had been watching the movements of those Mamluks closely but forgot to guard against the people around them.
The riots came without warning. Several Emirs had their throats slit by their personal guards while sleeping in their tents, and some ran out half-naked only to see blazing fires and crisscrossing scimitars and short swords. Arrows whipped down from the pitch-black night sky like the whip of Allah, with people constantly falling beside them. They realized they had no choice but to kneel and pray for mercy from enemies who had appeared from nowhere.
Perhaps two or three groups escaped, but they were soon pursued and intercepted. The ones blocking them were the tribal leaders near Damascus City, those Fatah who had been driven away by them with almost nothing gained—they had returned with their soldiers, demanding compensation and the enormous interest accrued, that debt they would have to repay with their lives.
Kamal walked past the panicked and despairing crowd without changing expression, examining each of their faces one by one, then tallying them against the heads neatly arranged in the sandy land—his memory was excellent, confirming there were no escapees this time.
The minister entered the tent. No candles or torches were lit in the large tent—the fighting had gone on for a day and a night, the sun had already slanted westward, and the light entering the tent, filtered through the leather, was a thick, mottled, and turbid red. This layer of red enveloped Saladin in his black robe, casting him like a weapon billet just taken from the forge.
He sat there, seemingly oblivious to the disgusting curses outside.
“Are they all there?”
“They are all there,” Kamal replied respectfully.
“Then kill them all.”
“Kill them all?”
“I thought you would want to say a few words to them.”
“I never waste effort on useless things, as you know, and I did give them a chance.” After receiving Razis’s plea for help, Saladin had genuinely wanted to rescue Damascus, but on the condition that his own rule would not be shaken by this rescue.
This was perhaps Allah telling him to give those detestable people another chance—after all, they worshipped the same Allah and Prophet. If they truly regarded him as a Sultan… no! Even if they merely regarded him as an enemy they had to cooperate with for the greater good, Saladin would not have let them end up like this.
But to his disappointment, their thirst for power and money seemed to have surpassed their faith. Not only did they intend to incite rebellion on the way to the expedition, but they also colluded with tribal leaders around Damascus, as well as Seljuk Turks and Armenians, to encircle Saladin.
If Saladin had not pretended to be gravely wounded by an Assassin assassin and used Damascus as bait, he might now be a corpse in the wilderness.
“As they treated me, so I treat them,” Saladin said simply.
Kamal bowed and accepted the order. Soon after he exited the tent, the shouting outside ceased. Blood soaked the sand, heads rolled everywhere. Saladin, stepping out of the tent, casually picked up one and examined it closely, searching in those now clouded eyes for some truth he himself could not fathom.
“How is the situation in Damascus?” he asked.
“Everything is just as you anticipated,” Kamal said. “Razis thoroughly carried out your orders. Those Christians have indeed reached the end of their rope, both in supplies and morale. Although they knew this bait might be poisoned, they still eagerly swallowed it.
But there’s one thing I don’t understand: why did you insist that Razis demand that Christian knight become the Governor of Damascus City?”
Although everyone knew Saladin greatly admired this young man, they were still enemies no matter what. Even toward his own son, Saladin might not be so generous as to give away a city like Damascus.
“For Damascus, for the Saracens, and for myself,” Saladin set down the head with eyes still wide in death. “The pleas for rescue sent from Damascus under the threat of the Crusaders were not just to me. I believe many places received his letters. So why could they stand idly by and watch Damascus fall?”
“They are selfish.”
“Also for self-preservation. Rescuing Damascus means not only repelling those numerous, high-morale Crusaders, but also holding Damascus afterward—from the clutches of their own covetous kin.
Do you think anyone among those people—Homs, Acre, Hakama… could do it?
If the remnants of the Fatimid Dynasty could unite with me, I could do it.” Saladin sighed deeply. “Unfortunately, they would rather kill me than any Christian—how laughable. They show infinite courage against me but are as stupid as pigs and cowardly as sheep against Christians.
And anyone daring to respond to Razis’s call thinks the same. What we fear is not just the Christians.
The fall of Damascus is inevitable.”
He walked forward. Kamal silently followed behind. “But anyone who gets it cannot hold it for long.
Compared to Saracens killing each other, I would rather they have a more worthy enemy to face.”
“But aren’t you afraid Damascus will become another Ayyarasa Road?”
“That’s why the timing of Razis’s surrender must be precisely controlled. He cannot surrender when the Christians first begin the siege. At that time, the Christians would only see all Saracens as cowards and naturally, without hesitation, reject any request from Razis.
Even if the Saracens in Damascus are not slaughtered wholesale, they will be driven out. Once that happens, Christians will become the main residents of the city, making it hard to reclaim later.
Nor can he try to negotiate when the Crusaders have suffered heavy losses; he cannot afford their anger and greed—they will surely take revenge.
And every pure and steadfast Saracen is a wealth that takes twenty or even thirty years to rebuild.”
“But I also heard that the Count of Edessa, after becoming the Lord of Cyprus, governed Cyprus quite well.”
Saladin laughed at this. “Are you worried that Caesar will completely conquer Damascus? Indeed, for the common people, faith is not the most important thing; what matters most is interest—simply put, the bread in their mouths and the clothes on their backs.
Caesar also ‘mourned’ for seven days and nights for the wife in his first marriage—but Cyprus is so stable and obedient today partly because people fear his blade, but more because he canceled taxes. Even if only for a year, even if only some miscellaneous taxes, it is enough for these poor people to catch their breath for a while.
The demands of the populace are so low. I think the people in Damascus City, whether Christians, Isaacites, or Saracens, should be no exception.”
“Then…”
“But some people—will be even less willing to see such a scene than we are. Allah is quite fair; he never places fools and villains in the same spot. We have them here, so of course the Christians do too.
Moreover, there’s something you might not know yet. Of course, few people know, not even Nur al-Din’s First Lady may know.”
Kamal was stunned for a moment.
“About Edessa,” Saladin said with a smile. “The fall of the County was not as simple as it appeared on the surface. Right, just as you’re thinking.” Seeing Kamal’s expression change, he knew he had guessed why Saladin so readily yielded Damascus. Those people would not allow Caesar to get Damascus, whether as Governor or lord.
Cyprus, Bethlehem, Damascus—if completely controlled by one person, the wealth, power, and army from these three places could even surpass Ayyarasa Road. What would that mean? It would mean the Count of Edessa could seek revenge with almost no constraints or hesitation, not to mention that King Baldwin of Ayyarasa Road is his blood relative and close friend. There would be no question which side His Majesty would take then.
“Does that person already know?”
“When his sister Nathia left the Sultan’s Harem and stood before the crowd at Holy Cross Castle, loudly declaring that he was the son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa and the heir of the Count of Edessa, the other side must have known.
He probably just didn’t expect Caesar to receive two such enormous gifts so quickly…”
As he said this, Kamal couldn’t help but raise his eyes and glance at him, as if confirming that his liege was truly speaking these words. “A bit shameless, indeed,” Saladin laughed. “Though the original intent was not so pleasant, you have to admit it’s a weighty expectation.”
“Weighty enough to crush him.”
“That depends on the will of Allah.
If Allah truly wants such a young man to be his envoy in this corrupt world, he will grant him protection and guidance. Otherwise, the world has countless young men with outstanding talent and exceptional ability; they flash by like meteors in people’s sight, and now there’s just one more—not worth being too surprised about.”
“You are a harsh man—they won’t let Caesar get Damascus; they will take action.”
“This is another kind of war. Of course I hope that child can achieve victory as he has every time before, but this victory will not come easily.
Of course, in this time, we can rebuild our army and Imperial Court, and my son will grow into a qualified Regent.
By then, I will lead the army back here.”
Saladin looked toward Damascus not without regret. He didn’t even need much; even if he had ten thousand Mamluks now, or five thousand, he would dare to risk it, but unfortunately, time is the same for everyone. It won’t give the Saracens too much time, nor the Christians.
“In any case, I’ve finally settled one nagging matter,” he said without concealment. “We can return to Egypt tomorrow.”
If not to thoroughly eradicate these disloyal thoughts and voices, they wouldn’t have needed to linger so long in the Jordan Valley—and when Saladin returned to the tent and saw an unexpected person, his brother Turan Shah—he thought the scene outside his tent would be enough to terrify his brother into stopping short.
Unexpectedly, he appeared quite composed.
“Because I know what kind of person I am and what kind of person you are,” Turan Shah said. “But what I want to know is, can you leave Emina?”
“I couldn’t keep her,” Saladin said calmly. “What she follows is the will of Allah and the demands of the Prophet. A wife should indeed return to her husband; neither a Sultan nor a Caliph can defy that.”
“Then… then later… Homs…”
“She said she is no longer Saladin’s sister, but the wife of Governor Holmes of Homs.” As Saladin said this, his expression was somewhat dim. “They should have reached… the position of Rumana Mountain by now…”
Rumana Mountain was closer to the Seljuk Turks’ territory: “But Emina has letters written by my own hand; they should not be harassed. And I told them to disguise as a caravan.”
With a pass and identity proof personally written by Sultan Saladin, whether Emirs or the Caliph would let them pass. Even if they encountered bandits, those one hundred Mamluks would be enough to repel their attack.
Saladin gazed at the map. This map was redrawn by him based on the one searched from Caesar’s servant; without the scriptures and patterns, it no longer looked as exquisite, splendid, and pious, but far more practical.
Saladin’s fingertip traced along the Jordan Valley northward. It could be seen that they had made a big detour past Damascus, reaching a point parallel to Homs before heading west.
Even if the Christians sent out troops, they probably would not encounter them.
