Chapter 128: Gift

The Saracen envoy stood on the street, gazing in silence at the distant Holy Cross Fortress.

This fortress, renowned even among the Saracens, took fifty years to complete—from the moment its site was chosen until now. To pay the remaining costs, Baldwin I even had to violate their doctrine by marrying a second wife and using her dowry.

The persistence of each King of Arasal was not without reward: this Holy Cross Fortress was more magnificent than any military stronghold he had ever seen, rivaling even the Caliph’s palace. Its walls and towers were built entirely of solid limestone bricks, featuring double ramparts, outer and inner baileys, and countless arrow towers. Even if all other positions fell, the three-towered keep, shaped like a lion’s head, could hold its defenders for a long time.

Before they entered Arasal, a contingent of knights met them, led by Balian of Ibelin.

The envoy had never heard much of this Crusader knight, but the title—once held by Hugh of Ibelin, the husband of Baldwin I’s biological mother—now belonged to Hugh’s younger brother. Seeing this man meant the King of Arasal had no intention of insulting them.

Whether Christian or Saracen, whether by law or tradition, being an envoy was an exceedingly dangerous profession. While most rational monarchs and lords would not casually execute envoys, exceptions existed: sometimes because the envoy brought terrible news, sometimes because both sides had reached a point of irreconcilable enmity, or simply because the ruler or minister was inherently cruel.

Otherwise, an envoy would at least retain his life—but the range between walking away unharmed and merely surviving was vast.

Minor abuses included forcing the envoy to drink himself into stupor at banquets and dumping him in the latrine to dance with dwarves; more severe ones involved stripping him naked, coating him in pitch, and sticking feathers to his skin (a practice that could be fatal), “entertaining” duels, or forcing him to fight wild beasts—something Byzantine emperors often did.

Saracen chronicles recorded an instance where a Sultan died suddenly while his envoy was still carrying out his orders elsewhere; the opposing Sultan or Emir immediately turned hostile, seizing the envoy and enslaving him.

In short, stories that would seem utterly unbelievable to modern people were then commonplace.

As the envoy had hoped, Balian of Ibelin’s demeanor, though not warm, was gentle. They rode together through the streets, waiting for the slow lowering of the drawbridge, then walked side by side through the dark, endless passageway after crossing it.

As the envoy walked through the passageway, though he knew he shouldn’t, he couldn’t help looking up. Most such passages had deep fissures above, so profound their bottoms could not be seen. These were not natural—they were deliberately constructed. During the wall’s building, recesses had been left to house heavy iron portcullises, their undersides lined with rows of spear-like spikes.

Normally, they were raised high, barely revealing even the tips. But when under attack, soldiers merely cut the ropes, and the iron gate would crash down with a loud clang.

Apele’s walls had similar defenses; the envoy had personally touched and felt them. If forged from solid black iron, even a fully armored knight and his armored steed would be pierced in an instant.

His breathing grew slightly faster as he imagined the scene—not as calmly as now, but during their assault on the Holy Cross Fortress… blood and fire, screams and wails, swords clashing in darkness, sparks flying.

But in the next moment, his fantasy shattered—they had left the passageway and stepped back into sunlight.

It was a clear, fine day. But to his surprise, Balian did not lead them directly to the keep. Instead, he paused before it, waiting until a handsome young man emerged from the tower. At the sight of his black hair and green eyes, the envoy immediately knew this was the King of Arasal’s most trusted minister.

He spoke a few words to Balian. Balian, a noble lord with greater seniority in Arasal’s court than the youth, treated him with remarkable humility—not servile, but at least as an equal.

The young man accepted this calmly. He even thanked Balian on the King’s behalf, then approached them, fixing his gaze on the envoy. To the envoy’s greater surprise, the youth spoke to them in Saracen.

“May peace be with you, guests of the King.”

“May peace be with you,” the envoy replied, still puzzled—perhaps the young King, feeling it inappropriate to treat former enemies so gently, had ordered his minister to intercept them outside the keep. He expected some humiliation. But he soon realized he was wrong.

“Before negotiations begin,” Cesar said, “His Majesty has asked me to inquire: would you first like to see your Sultan Nur ad-Din?”

The envoy’s eyes widened. He certainly would!

In his mind, even if Arasal’s new King was as merciful as rumors claimed and would not desecrate the enemy’s corpse, they would not see Nur ad-Din until after negotiations. He had already prepared to beg the Christian King, regardless of whether talks concluded, to allow him to perform the “Return to Truth” ceremony for his master.

Saracens also held funeral rites, though their final rites were simple: close relatives washed the body, then wrapped it from head to toe in clean white linen or cotton, finally reciting prayers for the dead.

The envoy followed Cesar to a quiet courtyard, descended an open staircase, and entered the underground chamber—once used to store wine or grain, dry and cold, small but large enough to hold the aged, sacred body of Sultan Nur ad-Din.

At the sight of that familiar face, the envoy nearly lost control of his emotions. Anyone sent here, entrusted with such a vital mission, was among Nur ad-Din’s most trusted. His loyalty was unmatched. The old man, also past fifty, felt a wave of dizziness and sorrow; tears streamed down his wrinkled cheeks, soaking his collar.

He expected to see a body riddled with wounds, caked in blood, perhaps crawling with maggots, reeking of decay, covered in blackish scars.

But upon closer inspection, he realized the Sultan’s face and body had been carefully tended—no longer like a corpse left on a distant battlefield, but as if he had passed peacefully in his palace in Apele, surrounded by kin and ministers. His skin was pale, clean, his hair and beard neatly trimmed. His eyes were closed, his expression not grotesque, but serene.

Though stiff and cold, the faint odor of decay was barely present, replaced by a light, sweet scent of roses. His hands were clasped over his chest, his legs together, wrapped in clean white linen—clearly done by someone unfamiliar with Saracen rites, making minor errors in procedure, yet performed with deep piety and earnestness.

“You permitted… our clerics to perform the Saracen rites for him?” the envoy whispered.

“Forgive me,” Cesar said, “we sought a Saracen cleric to complete the final rites, but we captured none of your scholars.”

This was unavoidable. The Battle of Galilee had been a surprise attack; the Crusaders were few, merely bluffing. Though the bluff succeeded brilliantly, the knights were not so arrogant as to believe they could fight a hundred or a thousand. Even in pursuit, they did not chase the true commanders—Fatah and Emirs.

Unlike Christians, whose armies always carried large numbers of clerics, Saracen camps had only a handful of “scholars,” serving as scribes beside the Sultan.

In the chaos of night, no “scholars” were captured—only two dead. This left them in a bind. Though they held other Saracen prisoners, they could not be certain whether any would consent to, or even know how to, perform the rites.

“I did it,” Cesar said. “Do not regard this as a sacred religious ritual. It is merely one human’s compassion for another. Whether king or beggar, no one should leave this world filthy and grotesque. If you feel I overstepped, I apologize.”

“One human’s compassion for another?” the envoy murmured. “That is a phrase worthy of poetry or proverb. Had Sultan Nur ad-Din still lived, he might have spared your life for it.”

“Though he is dead, I believe my master would not harbor hatred toward one who showed him kindness. You owe me no apology. On the contrary, I owe you my deepest reverence and gratitude.” Without hesitation, he bowed deeply to Cesar. “I never imagined this—I believe all Saracens would wish to see our ruler as dignified and pure as he was in life.”

“Tell me—did he suffer at the moment of death?”

Cesar paused, then said: “Sultan Nur ad-Din fought until his final moment. He fell from his horse not from lack of will, but from the weakness of his mortal body. He passed quietly on his first night in Arasal, peacefully, as if he knew he had fulfilled all his earthly duties and was ready to ascend to Paradise.”

The envoy smiled, bitter yet comforted. “Your description is so beautiful. I will tell these words faithfully to Sultan Nur ad-Din’s wife and children, so their hearts may not drown in endless grief.”

“And you—wherever you walk, roses will bloom, springs will rise.”

He said this because, in Saracen belief, direct praise invites the evil eye—jealousy’s curse. One must either liken a man to a verse, as Saladin did, or describe the world around him.

“Knight of Bethlehem, Cesar, I will remember your name—for what you did for Sultan Nur ad-Din. If one day you meet us on the battlefield and are Buxing captured, whether by Sultan or Emir, he will give you a horse, food, water, and let you go wherever you wish. That is the Saracen promise.”

Cesar listened, said nothing, only smiled faintly.

The envoy saw clearly: the youth did not believe he would ever become a prisoner bound at the feet of his enemies. He shook his head inwardly—perhaps this was youthful arrogance. Yet such arrogance was precious, radiant.

It reminded him of Saladin in Egypt. Saladin had been introduced to Sultan Nur ad-Din by his uncle Shirkuh. Nur ad-Din had taken an instant liking to the young man. For a long time, Saladin served as his personal attendant, always at his side, taught as if he were his own son.

The Kurd did not disappoint. He became not only a brave and wise general, but also a rival Nur ad-Din could not ignore. Now, Nur ad-Din’s prediction seemed fulfilled—in the near future, after Saladin deposed or sidelined Caliph al-Adid, he would surely march north to invade Syria.

In contrast, Nur ad-Din’s three sons were like three hyenas born from a lion. Before he even departed, they had begun tearing at each other. Behind them, the First, Second, and Third Consorts had already unleashed their schemes, plunging Apele into unrest. Not to mention the cousin in Mosul, watching with hungry eyes.

Syria’s surface remained calm, but no one doubted that as soon as Nur ad-Din’s succession was settled, this vast land would erupt into chaos. And then—where would he go?

————

Before negotiations began, the Saracen envoy presented gifts to the Christian King of Arasal.

Spices, silk, gold and silver vessels, and… female slaves.

(End of Chapter)