Chapter 138: On the Road to Aleppo (3)

What are you doing standing here?

The sudden question startled the three young knights standing in the corridor; they turned in unison and saw the one person they least wanted to meet—Knight Geoffroy of the Temple.

Among the Crusaders, Geoffroy was a respected old knight, widely believed destined for heaven; if any mistake had sent him to hell, it was surely due to his foul tongue—he could mock and ridicule with greater venom than even the most eloquent minstrels or learned scholars.

Geoffroy approached them, tapping his fingers on the surcoats of each: the white robe with red cross of the Knights Templar, the white robe with yellow cross of the Holy Sepulchre, the red robe with white cross of the Hospitalers—three young knights from the orders… likely representatives. He raised his head, studied their faces closely, and recognized them as the very same stubborn, prideful brats who had once been the most disobedient.

“You’re looking for Cesar? Why not go in? Though the people of Jerusalem call him a little saint, nowhere does it say you must bring gold, frankincense, and myrrh to visit him.” Here Geoffroy made a joke far from pious—when Jesus was born, three learned men brought these three precious gifts to worship him.

The young Templar knight was nudged by his temporary companion and reluctantly stepped forward, but before he could speak, the door beside him burst open—Cesar stood behind it, staring in confusion at the crowd gathered in the corridor.

“Come inside,” he said, “don’t stand out here.”

The young Templar knight kept glancing at Geoffroy—his meaning was clear: he hoped the old knight would politely withdraw during the coming conversation. Unfortunately, Geoffroy had never been one to read others’ cues; he didn’t leave—he settled comfortably into the chair before the fireplace and ordered servants to bring him a cup of warm wine, clearly intending to see this little drama through to the end.

The three young knights made no excessive request of Cesar—and this matter had long been anticipated by both Cesar and Geoffroy—the administrator of Bosra, Shams al-Din, wished to hire them to clear out several bands of bandits between Bosra and Damascus.

It was no surprise Shams al-Din had set his sights on them: here were ninety knights blessed by the Saint, many of their squires also granted “Grace,” several clerics who had witnessed the Saint’s power, plus their armed retainers and servants—a force of over a thousand, enough to storm a small castle, let alone clear bandits roaming the desert and wastelands.

“This matter will be handled by me…” Cesar glanced at Geoffroy, idly fiddling with chess pieces, “I will handle it together with Geoffroy.” Meaning, he would approach the administrator of Bosra as head of the delegation and Knight of Bethlehem.

The young knights’ expressions relaxed immediately; they bowed to Cesar and departed one by one, asking no further questions or making additional demands.

Cesar returned to his desk—he had been attempting to play chess against himself, for he had little interest in current entertainments: acrobatics, music, or pleasures with women—yet Shams al-Din had specially prepared a chessboard in his room, the same Shatranj board he had played with the Prince; since becoming the Prince’s squire, they had had almost no time to play. Now seeing the board and pieces, he felt nostalgic—but after only a few moves, he heard Geoffroy’s voice and others’ murmurs outside the door.

“You know why they came,” Geoffroy said. Others would have been puzzled, utterly confused by his words—but Cesar merely smiled: “I know. And I know why you’re here.”

“I came intending to do something—but now there’s no need.” Seeing those three knights, he realized his fears had not come to pass—if those knights had been hired by the Saracens and come to speak with Cesar, or worse, concealed their true purpose, the matter would have been grave; he would have even considered summoning other trustworthy knights—this meant they still clung to their old stubbornness and pride; taking such a group to perilous Aleppo would inevitably lead to disaster!

Fortunately, though he didn’t know how Cesar had done it—he only knew that during this time, Cesar had been extremely busy; his work certainly wasn’t limited to feeding these hungry boys—he had done other things too, but all of it occurred where Geoffroy hadn’t seen. Geoffroy had no intention of digging deeper.

“It’s a joy to have a child who doesn’t cause one worry,” Geoffroy thought to himself, sipping wine as he turned the ebony chess piece inlaid with a gold base. He had loved chess in his castle. But since arriving in Jerusalem and joining the Templars, the pastime had been forbidden. The Templars felt no regret—but now, he truly wished to play a game.

Then he saw Cesar seated across from him. “I believe,” Cesar said, “that any pursuit, so long as it’s not indulged to excess, is not a vice.”

Geoffroy grinned, and with a sharp click, slammed the chess piece down onto the hard olive-wood board.

——————

Kamal had ultimately misjudged one thing: though he cherished these knights, for Cesar it was also an excellent opportunity—an opportunity to observe Saracen villages and tribes up close, for the ones he sheltered were not lambs, but fierce wolves.

You might ask: if these are all Saracens, how could they attack caravans traveling between Damascus and Bosra? True, there were Christians and Ishmaelites among the victims—but mostly, it was Saracens themselves. Yet as Saladin once lamented, without a strong caliph or sultan to unite them, the Saracens could never consolidate their strength; they only fought among themselves, plundered each other, filled with envy and hatred for their own kin.

But this wasn’t their fault. Once, this land had flowed with milk and honey—lush pastures, thick vegetation—until centuries later, the climate abruptly changed; clouds and rainfall grew scarce, and a scorching wind, blowing from some unknown place, swept sand across the fertile earth.

Oases vanished one after another—but the tribes remained. To ensure their people survived, their swords could not point only at the Christians, who held only the coastal regions.

After several raids and pursuits, even seasoned Geoffroy was astonished: in these barren lands, there were tribesmen who had received prophetic revelations—their numbers rivaled those of the Saracen regular army. One knightly contingent nearly lost their mounts; had it not been for Cesar, they might have suffered a crushing defeat here.

Geoffroy felt renewed frustration—since leaving Baldwin, Cesar had finally revealed his own edge; the radiance covering him and his companions now also shone upon his horse and weapons—he could charge fearlessly toward gleaming swords and arrows without hesitation.

No one could break the protection granted by the Saint; instead, they struck like a steel wall—either flying backward or collapsing with broken bones and limbs. His assaults reminded Geoffroy of heavy siege crossbows—those towering weapons, nearly as tall as a man, when fired from massive engines, carved straight, bloody paths through dense crowds—Cesar did the same.

The young knights quickly changed tactics. No longer did they charge alone; they followed closely behind Cesar. Wherever he went, enemies either fell from their mounts or scattered in panic—no matter how high their morale, it vanished instantly—even those among them who had received prophetic revelations remained as frail as ordinary mortals before Cesar.

“I’m a fool, truly—I should have tricked him into the Order long ago,” he muttered. Before the Selection, Cesar had been overlooked. Had he stolen him into the Order then, persuaded him to swear his vows, perhaps the Templars would now have a “Paladin” among them.

But did this fellow perceive Saint Jerome?

There were Templars beside him who had perceived Saint Jerome—but no, nothing like it…

He couldn’t continue his thoughts, for the knights were already approaching him, bringing honor and captives.

——————

Shams al-Din stared at the captives brought before him by the Christian knights—Saracens, and damned Ishmaelites alike—he could hardly believe his eyes: these Ishmaelites were precisely the merchants he had permitted to live and trade in Bosra.

No wonder the bandits knew the caravans’ schedules, routes, and numbers. Their spies were inside the city, right beside him—and the kind no one would ever suspect.

Imagine this: today you bought silk and spices from an Ishmaelite, loaded them onto your camels, preparing to transport them to Cairo, Alexandria, or anywhere else.

The Ishmaelite merchant seemed delighted with the deal, unusually warm—he invited you to dinner, saw you off. When his gaze fell upon your caravan, could you guess he was counting your guards and your camels?

Of course, this was a method of draining the pond to catch the fish—but the Ishmaelites didn’t care. They had no land, no nation, no king. Even if the Viceroy of Bosra or Damascus permitted them to reside and trade, to them it was merely a rented inn and warehouse—who would cherish something that wasn’t theirs?

Without Kamal’s reminder, Shams al-Din could guess what these bastards were thinking: yes, Sultan Nur ad-Din was dead, and none of his heirs commanded universal respect; the shadow of war now loomed over them.

Compared to Saracens living in the city, the Ishmaelites trusted neither Shams al-Din nor cared what happened to the city—they only sought to profit from the chaos. Whether trade routes collapsed or the city decayed? Heaven, what did that matter to them? They could simply take their wealth and flee, continuing their business elsewhere.

Years later, when order returned, they could come back—no one would know what they’d done. As long as they bowed their heads and paid taxes, they could live better than most Christians and Saracens.

Shams al-Din flew into a rage. He immediately ordered craftsmen to build wooden frames and erect them along the road from Bosra to Damascus.

These Ishmaelites, clad in silk, feasting on wine and meat, now stood naked, their pale flesh exposed to the scorching sun. Shams al-Din showed no mercy with a swift death; instead, he employed a method imported from elsewhere.

“This is common in Francia,” Geoffroy said. “They should have done this long ago.” He shook his head in disgust. “These miserable wretches—they don’t know what Ishmaelites truly are. Trusting them is like trusting maggots on rotting meat—at least maggots have some value.”

They rode past a wooden frame, where an obese Ishmaelite hung upside down, head downward, hands bound behind his back. After only a few hours, his face was crimson, breath shallow; beside him, two dogs hung similarly.

—In Christian lands, people believed newborn puppies were blind in their first days, like the sightless; thus they used dogs to symbolize the Ishmaelites’ blindness, mocking how even when the Savior came before them, they failed to see or recognize his grace. So when an Ishmaelite committed a crime and refused to convert, they hanged him upside down and placed two dogs beside him—to mock and warn.

This Ishmaelite was lucky. Others, perhaps due to the executioner’s deliberate cruelty, had their dogs hung closer—when the inverted dogs struggled, their claws scraped and teeth bit, leaving the victims bleeding and horrifically mangled.

Amid this silence and wailing, they saw the men emerging from Damascus to meet them.

(End of Chapter)