Chapter 124: First Battle (5)

This letter is from Muhammad, servant of Allah, in the name of his Lord, addressed to the Byzantine Emperor Heraclius. May the path of truth guide you to the light of peace. I sincerely invite you to enter the fold of this faith; should you embrace it, safety shall attend you, and Allah shall grant you double blessings. Should you refuse, you risk misleading your subjects and leading them astray from the true way.

After reciting this passage, Nureddin did not continue. He bowed his head in silence and slowly placed the wooden box upon his knees.

This ought to be the missionary letter sent by the Prophet Muhammad to the rulers of neighboring nations, also known as the “Letter to the Eight Kingdoms.” In it, he urged the rulers of Abyssinia, Egypt, Persia, Byzantium, Bahrain, Yamama, Damascus, and Oman to convert—regardless of outcome, this was indeed the most glorious achievement of the Saracens.

Yet only three of these eight letters now survive in Egypt and Syria; the rest have vanished. Nureddin gently traced the seal upon the letter—“Messenger of Allah, Muhammad”—its size, design, and even the faint imperfections matched exactly the one he knew well—the original Muhammad silver ring had indeed been lost, yet the imperial edicts preserved in the court still bore its imprint.

The tent was utterly silent; all eyes were fixed on the holy relic in his hands. Though they could not yet be certain, there was no doubt that the arrival of this miracle, just before their holy war, would greatly bolster the faith of both them and their soldiers—a propitious omen, unspoken yet glowing in every pair of eyes.

But unlike the generals’ thoughts, Nureddin felt little joy or excitement. No one could question his steadfastness, piety, or wisdom. Precisely because of these three qualities, he dared not believe such a coincidence could exist in this world.

For their Prophet Muhammad had taught that only Allah is the Greatest, and besides Him there is no other god; thus, his faith did not abound in strange and varied relics, as the Christians’ did.

At least as Nureddin knew, the Saracens recognized only three holy relics: the Stone of Abraham—according to Christian legend, the very stone upon which Abraham once prepared to sacrifice his only son. But for the Saracens, this stone was the proof that their Prophet Muhammad, guided by angels, had ridden his steed up to heaven.

The second was one of Muhammad’s seven swords, known as Zulfiqar. This blade had long vanished, visible only in records tied to Muhammad or in tapestries.

The third was a black meteorite located in Mukramah.

The Stone of Abraham symbolized reverence for Allah; Zulfiqar represented the Prophet Muhammad’s courage and purity; the black stone at Mukramah was the core of pilgrimage, symbolizing the threshold of heaven and loyalty to Allah.

If this letter were truly Muhammad’s authentic handwriting, then by Christian standards, it was an unquestionably priceless relic—priests might even cut apart each letter to enshrine it.

But for the Saracens, even if it were genuine, Nureddin could not decide whether to reveal it to the public. Yet as he looked around and saw the faces brimming with expectation, he found it impossible to voice his doubt.

He could guess what these men were thinking: even if this relic had been offered by an Isaac merchant, it had not appeared in the preceding centuries nor the following ones—but now, at the moment their faith’s light, led by Sultan Nureddin, turned toward Arasal, its arrival could only be Allah’s recognition and protection.

Nureddin gazed again at the yellowed parchment—so thin, so brittle, it could not even be held in the hand, only placed within a delicate wooden box—yet it felt so heavy. As he lifted it, tracing its sacred script with his eyes, someone instinctively extended both hands, palms upward, as if ready to catch it.

Nureddin paused. In his father’s secret treasury, he had indeed seen handwriting and seals identical to this letter. At last, he sighed deeply and raised the box high: “Look—this is truly the Prophet Muhammad’s own hand.”

A muffled chorus of cheers and praises erupted through the tent.

As the officers eagerly passed around the precious manuscript, Nureddin rose and stepped out of the tent. The chief eunuch followed closely behind him. When Nureddin inquired about the Isaac merchant who delivered the manuscript, the eunuch was unsurprised.

“I left the guest in my tent,” said the chief eunuch. “He shall be honored with lavish hospitality in the coming days.” He could see that the merchant’s arrival and his offering had not brought the Sultan joy, but rather unease.

Ordinarily, he would have quietly withdrawn and ordered the servant to hang the Isaac merchant. But: “The Isaac merchant said,” the chief eunuch lowered his voice, “he possesses even greater treasures, but came alone and could not carry them all.”

“What else? Gold? Gems?”

“Books,” replied the chief eunuch. “Texts, manuscripts, documents, records, poems, architectural sketches, legal decrees—all gathered over the past centuries since the Isaacs left Arasal. Most of all, scriptures and commentaries.”

“How could he have these?”

“He claims he was once a disciple of a sage, but quarreled with his people and was banished. Yet he never abandoned what rightfully belonged to him.”

“He secretly followed his teacher several times and discovered these. He was disappointed—he had hoped for gold or vessels, but found only documents. Still, they are precious collections. He offers them to us, hoping…”

“Hoping?”

“Yes, my Sultan. His wish is absurd—even ridiculous.”

“Speak. What does he want?”

“He wishes to become your minister, my Sultan. He desires to serve in your court—even if not as Viceroy or Vizier, at least as a scribe.”

“Is he an ordinary man, or one who has received the Prophet’s revelation?”

“He is the latter.”

Nureddin fell silent. He disliked this sudden intruder who disrupted his plans, yet he had always valued education. In his decades ruling Syria, he had built schools and libraries with state and personal funds, hiring teachers for children.

Had the Isaac merchant brought only relics, gold, or silk, he might not have been moved. But if he truly possessed many precious texts—no matter what, Nureddin would not kill him before securing those books.

“It seems his appetite is not small,” Nureddin said, as if joking. The chief eunuch immediately bowed deeply.

Whether in Christian palaces or the Sultan’s court, those blessed or enlightened were always trusted and favored more than ordinary men—they had proven their piety and uniqueness. Otherwise, how could they be called “the chosen”? Even minor blessings, like Wit’s, were not enough to rise easily.

Nureddin recalled the Isaac merchant he had met in the tent—how he had insisted on seeing the Sultan before offering his treasures, threatening to destroy them otherwise.

He did not resemble an Isaac at all. He bore none of the typical merchant’s greed. His face was pale, his hair and eyes black, his appearance immaculate and refined—more like a scholar.

Nureddin never doubted his intent. Since the Isaacs were expelled from Canaan, Rome, and Egypt, they had become rootless, wandering rats—without land or foundation, destined to be excluded from society, despised in both Christian and Saracen cities, and thus hardened into deceitful, fickle natures.

Some even said they would betray their own savior—what else could they not betray?

Though harsh, this was true. If an astute Isaac merchant sensed their determination to seize Arasal and sought to secure his own foothold first, it was no surprise.

“They once had Kings David and Solomon… alas…” Nureddin shook his head. Yet he was moved by the rumor of an entire underground cavern filled with ancient scrolls. After all, it was only a matter of months—or after the war began, he could send men to retrieve the texts.

“If what he says is true, I shall appoint him as a librarian. Let us hope he is satisfied,” Nureddin said, a sly smile crossing his face.

Hearing this, the chief eunuch finally relaxed. He restrained himself from touching the small money pouch at his waist—inside lay a large ruby, the bribe the Isaac merchant had given him. He asked for nothing, only said perhaps they might one day serve together as ministers…

The chief eunuch knew better than anyone the Sultan’s failing health. Nureddin had not hidden it from him—he had confided that should he fall, he would entrust his eleven-year-old son Salih to the eunuch, making him guardian and regent. The eunuch was deeply grateful, yet he knew the viziers and Fatih he had allied with could not match the two elder princes.

Thus, any potential ally now was crucial. Especially since this Isaac merchant claimed he had once lived within Arasal—if the Sultan could not return to Aleppo, the eunuch could swiftly bring his young master here. With Arasal under his control, he could still contend with the older princes.

And at such a moment, having someone deeply familiar with Arasal would be ideal.

——————

The chief eunuch’s tent was small, yet held ten or so people. Its furnishings were simple but comfortable. Yet within it, two men—Haridi disguised as the merchant and his servant—sat on edge. The servant was one of the Grand Master of the Templars’ attendants. Even prepared for death, he felt as if seated on needles.

Philip did not trust Haridi. Though Haridi had not drawn Saracen attention, his demand that a Christian accompany him had been manageable before Cesar became famous. Now, everyone knew Baldwin IV’s court had a black-haired, green-eyed attendant—his appearance too striking to conceal—so Philip had sent his own servant instead.

Haridi indeed needed a servant. The letter written by Muhammad was real—and precisely because it was real, it had become so fragile upon removal that a slight touch might turn it to dust. It was sealed within a thin, wide wooden box, carefully preserved.

To prove his words, he had also brought documents written between the sixth and seventh centuries. Someone like Nureddin, who loved reading and learning, would need only a quick comparison to confirm Haridi’s truth—that a whole underground cavern of scrolls awaited discovery.

Precisely because of this, their identities had not been exposed.

But not being exposed did not mean they were safe. Who knew what Nureddin truly thought? Perhaps he still deemed the Isaacs untrustworthy, or even considered Muhammad’s relics in their hands a desecration. Yet now they were deep within the Saracen camp—even with divine blessing, they could not cross ten thousand swords and arrows.

One thought from the Sultan, and they would die.

This waiting was grueling. They may have waited hours until someone entered—not with drawn swords or taut bows, but with food and water.

Haridi and the attendant both exhaled in relief. At least this meant Nureddin would not kill them now.

He had also seen the Sultan during his audience. Haridi knew at once—just as they suspected—that Sultan Nureddin’s days were numbered. In that instant, Haridi even considered assassinating him on the spot—but he restrained himself.

Not because success was uncertain, but because he preferred to see this aging beast suffer the agony of realizing his lifelong dream would never be fulfilled.

They were still strictly guarded and would accompany the army. But the attendant had been blessed by a saint, and his gift was peculiar—he could summon small animals and command them temporarily.

He crushed a hard biscuit, and soon several plump sand rats appeared.

The attendant stained their foreheads red with dye—their agreed signal. He released the furry creatures, urging them to cross the Saracen camp and reach the hills beyond, where knights would capture them and reveal the message.

He released several. The Saracen camp was vast; after a distance, he could not be sure the rats would obey. They might return to their burrows or hide. Fortunately, even if seen, no one would notice a sand rat’s red forehead.

After completing this, the attendant and Haridi exchanged a brief glance—they would wait again.

(End of Chapter)