Chapter 137: On the Road to Aleppo (2)

“To hire Christian soldiers, that little food won’t be enough—you must be prepared. They are greedy by nature, never satisfied.”

The speaker was the head of the delegation sent from Aleppo to Arasal, and when he stood in the hall of the Holy Cross Fortress, the threefold convert smiled gently, elegant and refined, entirely the image of a scholar.

Now? You can’t say he’s changed his appearance, but in impression, he was utterly transformed—cold, dangerous, cruel; this was the true face of a minister who could earn a place under Sultan Nur ad-Din.

“I certainly know it’s impossible,” said Shams al-Din, governor of Bosra. Others might feel fear, but he did not—they had been friends for years. He rose from his couch and poured the delegation head, Kamal, a glass of chilled grape juice, then poured one for himself.

This wine… this drink was best served in a glass nearly transparent, and he drank deeply, turning the glass in his hand, admiring the deep red liquid glowing in the candlelight.

“I’ve already prepared a large sum of money. Their master—or rather, their current master, I’ve heard the people of Arasal call him ‘the Little Saint.’ Does that mean he might not be so hard to appease?”

Kamal sneered. “The first Godfrey was also called a saint by the Christians, yet he killed as many Saracens as the pebbles I’ve trodden.”

“So he’s just a fraud.”

“A fraud? No, how could you think that? He is exactly what his name implies—at least, from what I’ve seen, we should all thank him. He did not let Sultan Nur ad-Din’s body lie in the mud, rotting among maggots and stench. He cleansed it, wrapped it in white cotton, groomed his beard and sideburns—and at that time, he did not even know his father was inside Nur ad-Din’s fortress—”

The selection of female slaves from the Sultan’s harem to be given to the Saracens was handled entirely by the First Lady. The ladies of the harem were cut off from the outside world; if anyone knew the true identity of that slave, they could not possibly influence the outcome of the battle by the Sea of Galilee or the Sultan’s fate.

“But he is not the kind of man swayed by praise or approval,” Kamal saw through his classmate’s thoughts at a glance: “He never regarded these knights as his possessions, but rather as a gift to be returned intact—do you know what he has been doing during our stay here?”

“What?”

“Cooking for those Christian boys,” Kamal said. “Every day he spends as much as the price of a nag, given there are several hundred young lads here.”

Can you imagine? He walks among the camp, ensuring he attends to every single person—not just the knights, but even the squires, armed attendants, and servants. Anyone in the party who suffers injustice can come to him with complaints. After hearing all testimonies and examining all evidence, he has never rendered an unjust verdict.

You know the three Christian knightly orders have never been harmonious. When they departed from Arasal, they often quarreled—verbally or physically—but by the time they reached Nazareth, those sounds vanished.

He is like a diligent shepherd dog, guarding the ninety lambs entrusted to him by Baldwin IV. If all goes well, I believe he intends to return every single one of them to Arasal. His king cherishes him, and he repays that with equal loyalty—what can you offer to make him change his mind?

Don’t even mention gold. Don’t forget—he is a Christian. If any of us had reached this level, we would not lightly abandon our hard-won gains for mere worldly goods.”

“But I do need a strong force to eradicate the bandits between Damascus and Bosra,” Shams al-Din sighed. “You know, when Sultan Nur ad-Din passed through here, I petitioned him to send a detachment to secure the trade routes and protect Bosra.”

But he refused. At that time, he was single-mindedly focused on capturing Arasal,” Shams al-Din sat up—though Nur ad-Din had denied him, he still showed due respect to this monarch worthy of reverence.

After Nur ad-Din’s defeat, I also sought aid from Aleppo and Mosul. But everyone waited for Nur ad-Din’s funeral to end before declaring themselves his rightful heir.

They have long been armed and ready, sharpening their weapons—but not to drive out the Christians, nor to crush bandits, but to seize the power and lands Nur ad-Din left behind. They will not waste energy or troops on such trivial matters. But for the people of Bosra, it is a catastrophe—the bandits have grown bolder; not long ago, they even infiltrated the city and abducted women and goods.

“You useless piece of trash!”

Kamal scolded him without mercy.

“I am indeed a fool, inferior to you,” Shams al-Din shot back. “But I think my situation isn’t the worst—I have Bosra. Though Bosra, compared to Damascus and Aleppo, is like brass to gold, glass to gemstone.”

It is prosperous, but not prosperous enough to be constantly coveted. But you… he studied his friend up and down, “Are you truly planning to return to Aleppo? As one of Nur ad-Din’s most trusted ministers before his death, they will surely vie fiercely for you.” He made a grimace. “I only hope you don’t end up like the infant in Solomon’s case, torn apart by three mothers who love you.”

“Stop talking! May God hear your words and cast you into the fires of hell—would you curse your friend like that?”

Kamal cut him off, yet even he felt hopeless when thinking of Nur ad-Din’s three sons.

He rolled his eyes at Shams al-Din but offered him a solution: “You cannot sway Cesar in Bethlehem, but you can sway the knights. If they believe they can easily crush those bandits, they will accept the task.”

If they insist,” he thought, “Cesar probably won’t refuse their request.”

“Is that really possible?” Shams al-Din asked skeptically. “Won’t he think the knights are challenging him, or be angered that his authority is being ignored? Are you taking revenge on me? They might whip me.”

“Think what you like,” Kamal said. “But I must remind you—we only stay one night in Bosra, then we head to Damascus.”

(End of chapter)