Chapter 115: Nureddin

Nureddin was indeed waiting.

He remained in his capital, Aleppo, within his palace, surrounded by his ministers, generals, and concubines; he sipped coffee, inhaling the sweet scent of frankincense rising from the steam, issuing decrees, letters, and orders to his viceroy, his brother, and other Saracens, demanding they gather their soldiers at the battlefields he designated.

They were to wage a holy war against the Christians, for Allah, for the Prophet, and for their fellow countrymen.

But how many had chosen to watch or delay? Nureddin gazed at the hazy scene before him—sunlight streamed through an opening above the courtyard, glinting across the pool’s surface like scattered gold—he had once done just that, casually tossing golden beads into the water, ordering his wives and maids to dive in and retrieve them.

Back then he was young, full of vigor; each toss meant a night-long revelry. But now… he had to admit he was old; he preferred quiet over noise, sought warmth from young bodies rather than desire, yet he had no intention of dying as his father had—painfully, grotesquely, on a sickbed.

“The Christian king may die on the battlefield; so too may the Sultan of the Saracens.” But how? Nureddin had no plan to attack Shirkuh or Saladin in Egypt; though to some, rebellion was more hateful than infidelity, had he thought so, he would not be “Nureddin”—Nureddin was itself an honorific title, and in truth, he scarcely liked being called that.

Likewise, to attack Arasal—just as Amalric I never forgot Egypt, the Saracens would never forget Arasal, their holy land—but Nureddin could not be certain he could accomplish it; he did not wish to be like Amalric I—impulsive, gullible, squandering a victory already within grasp by handing it to Saladin.

Saladin—though people still called him Shirkuh’s nephew—Nureddin knew this young man better than most; he had once kept Saladin close, made him his attendant, as if treating him like a son or nephew—he wished he had a son like Saladin, yet his eldest, second, and youngest sons… all only disappointed him.

They were not bad men, certainly; perhaps they could manage as a viceroy of a great city or as an emir, but Nureddin’s ambitions stretched far beyond Syria—and his enemies, his brother, his subordinates would not permit it—those three foolish boys truly believed that after his death, they could easily divide Syria among themselves.

His second son had even said more than once that Zengi had once divided his lands between Nureddin and his elder brother; upon hearing this, Nureddin could not help laughing—he had long watched Mosul, and Saif ad-Din (his elder brother) had long watched Aleppo.

When his elder brother died not long ago, Nureddin intended to seize Mosul; had Saif ad-Din’s ministers not fiercely resisted his army, he would now be Sultan of both Mosul and Aleppo.

His sons saw nothing of how he and his brother had “inherited” Aleppo, Mosul, and Damascus; today’s Syria, Egypt, the Seljuks, even Byzantium, were a hunting ground teeming with beasts, where they feasted on flesh and blood—every mouthful, every morsel won through slaughter, and the weak—not only failed to claim prey, but became prey themselves.

He had once shown his sons the plea for aid from Caliph Atid, the Fatimid ruler—perhaps the last—who was roughly the same age as his youngest son; in the letter, Atid’s humility needed no elaboration—he had even cut off his wife’s hair, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote: “My queen and I fervently await your rescue; without your army, they will be ravaged and plundered by the Franks.”

Nureddin’s sons had laughed uproariously at the letter—even his eleven-year-old youngest son—and what disappointed Nureddin was that they did not see themselves as the next Atid; they were smug, foolish, arrogant, believing a mere surname could extinguish all ambition.

Nureddin wearily closed his eyes; suddenly, he caught a faint sound outside the door—he had clearly ordered no one to disturb him—but after a moment’s hesitation, he turned his head slightly; the black eunuch beside him instantly understood the Sultan’s intent and slipped away swiftly and silently.

After a while, he returned to report that the First Lady wished to see the Sultan.

In the Sultan’s harem, concubines could generally be divided into three types: the first, like the First Lady, were blood relatives—she was his cousin, sharing a common ancestor, making her the highest-ranking woman in the court—Nureddin’s mother had long died, and he had no sisters.

His Second and Third Ladies were princesses from other tribes and khanates; their marriages to Nureddin were political pacts; below them were the daughters and sisters of officials.

The third type were slaves—beautiful girls trafficked by slave merchants from the Caucasus, Greece, Iran, and the Italian peninsula.

In later generations’ fantasies, every Sultan’s concubine and maid received a spacious, lavish chamber. In truth, apart from the First Lady, the Second and Third Ladies, and a few favored concubines, most women shared rooms of four or five, five or six, with little to no heating or insulation.

Summer was bearable, but when winter came, countless young women fell ill from the cold, and they received little to no care or treatment; most died in the prime of youth, then hastily wrapped and tossed beyond the palace gates like rotting fruit by eunuchs and servants.

The First Lady’s age matched Nureddin’s, yet apart from a few bothersome wrinkles and strands of white hair, she remained a woman of extraordinary grace and dignity; she passed through the line of eunuchs, knelt three steps from the Sultan, prostrated herself, and pressed her cheek affectionately against his robe’s hem.

Nureddin looked at her with equal tenderness and fondness—he knew his wife was not as gentle and kind as she appeared; she had played many womanly schemes behind his back, but they were for her own status and his favor, and besides, they shared an unbreakable bond.

He extended his hand for her to kiss, then permitted her to sit beside him. “Why the sudden desire to see me?” Nureddin asked; generally, in the Sultan’s harem, women over thirty were removed from the list of night companions—they lost the chance to appear before the Sultan—but the First Lady always held Nureddin’s trust; he entrusted her with managing the harem, just as he did with officials, and she regularly came to report to him.

“It is this, my beloved master,” the First Lady said softly, “a new group of girls have reached fifteen. If you wish, I shall bring them to you tonight, so you may choose a few to keep you company through this lonely night.”

Nureddin gave his wife a indulgent glance; his feelings for his cousin held little romantic element—their bond of respect and trust rested entirely on their shared bloodline. Moreover, the First Lady still had no child of her own; Nureddin’s three sons were born to his concubines, which lessened her threat in his eyes.

And as she aged, the First Lady’s temperament grew ever more calm and tolerant; jealousy… at her age, she could be the grandmother of these girls; thus, when selecting companions for Nureddin, she felt neither shame nor conflict—if these girls could lighten his burden, even just brushing away a speck of dust, she would be deeply pleased.

Nureddin did not wish to disappoint his wife over such small matters; he nodded. “Arrange it.”

After eating some simple bread crumbs, cheese, and chickpeas, Nureddin and the First Lady reclined on a wide, low couch, surrounded by soft down pillows; eunuchs led the girls into the room—six in total, with golden, brown, and black hair; one held a pipa, another a nay—a wind instrument.

When purchased, they were likely no older than nine, at most fourteen; even then, their beauty was evident—but before the Sultan’s favor, they were the lowest-ranked in the palace, burdened daily with endless chores; when they grew older, they underwent multiple rounds of screening and inspection.

Some girls were stunning as children but grew plain or coarse; others emitted unpleasant odors; some voices changed—becoming low and hoarse, or sharp and piercing; the former might retain a certain charm, the latter unbearable.

Those who failed became palace trash, toiling endlessly in kitchens, water rooms, or courtyards, their fading beauty swiftly stripped away by labor, leaving not a trace.

But if chosen as the Sultan’s concubine, they instantly became masters rather than slaves; they gained at least one room—private, comfortable—with charcoal fires in winter, ice in summer, and the luxury of spending entire days in steam baths, indulging in oils, milk, and rouge.

Thus, rivalry and intrigue among the girls were common, though they were usually careful—if discovered, both victim and perpetrator were punished; and when the ladies selected girls for the Sultan, they never chose those who stirred unrest.

The girls chosen by the First Lady were naturally the finest, each at the peak of female beauty—like young beasts, agile and lively, fur gleaming, eyes clear, lips curved in sweet smiles.

They had bathed, their hair and skin coated in fragrant oils, adorned with gold, silk, and jewels; the musicians sat on the carpet laid by eunuchs and began to play, while their companions danced.

“How lovely.”

The First Lady sighed; having passed the age of jealousy, she could now enjoy these young, vibrant lives as her husband and master did; each girl had merit, but one stood out—calm, beautiful; she pointed her out to Nureddin. “What do you think of that girl? The one with black hair?”

Nureddin looked over, and after a moment, nodded.

The First Lady immediately raised her hand; the girls froze—those playing and those dancing alike. Seeing it was not themselves but the black-haired girl chosen, they immediately revealed uncontrollable envy; yet the girl’s face showed no trace of joy.

This displeased the First Lady; she turned to Nureddin, saw no anger or annoyance, and said: “Come forward.”

The black-haired girl stepped forward slowly, still cradling the delicate pipa; Nureddin studied her carefully—but his gaze was not that of a man looking at a woman, nor a master at a slave; it was almost gentle.

“I see something familiar on your face—it reminds me of an old acquaintance, perhaps your father or mother,” he turned to the First Lady. “Is her origin recorded in the register?”

Slave merchants kept detailed records—origin directly affected price. “Her father was a Christian knight; her mother, an Armenian noblewoman.”

The First Lady had long memorized every detail of these girls; in this era, Christian knights marrying Armenian noblewomen was not uncommon. The Armenians, though Eastern, had converted to Christianity as early as 301 AD; most intriguingly, though they bordered Byzantium, their relations with Byzantium were poor, and they favored the Crusaders who came from afar.

The Crusaders, in turn, were astonished to find many similarities with these Armenian Christians—whether in the direction of making the sign of the cross, or using unleavened bread for communion.

They lived in fortresses and castles, loved falconry, hunting, and feasts; at banquets, they employed jesters and courtesans for entertainment; when Crusader knights were invited to Armenian feasts, it felt like returning home.

During the Crusades, the Armenians gave the Crusaders immense aid—not only as guides and supply lines, but as reliable allies—in 1122, Count Joscelin of Edessa and his nephew were captured by the Turks and imprisoned in Harput Castle.

Baldwin II led a rescue mission, failed, and was captured as well.

Later, a dozen Armenians spontaneously organized a rescue, disguised as monks, infiltrated the castle, killed the guards, and freed the count and king…

Count Joscelin, whose lands bordered Armenia, married Armenian princesses in three consecutive generations.

The black-haired girl slightly parted her lips, as if wanting to speak, yet tears slipped uncontrollably down her cheeks.

“Thank you for your mercy, my master, but… I no longer remember. Great Sultan, I was still a toddling infant when I was forced from my father and mother; I do not recall their names or faces.”

“Are they dead?”

“Perhaps,” the girl said. “We were raised by servants, but when I was nine, they entrusted us to someone they believed trustworthy.”

Then she offered a sorrowful smile.

Everyone present understood that smile—if that person had truly been trustworthy, she would not be here.

“You said ‘we.’ Who else?”

“My brother,” the girl whispered. “But he may be dead too.”

(End of Chapter)