Chapter 139: On the Road to Aleppo (4)

The Viceroy of Damascus should have been the Kurd Shirkuh. Out of wariness and regard for him and his nephew Saladin, Sultan Nur ad-Din had stationed them here to guard the southern gateway for him.

But now we all know that he had betrayed the Sultan's trust and had already become the Grand Vizier to the Fatimid Caliph al-Adid in Cairo, thousands of miles away. Clearly, perhaps he would never return here in his lifetime, and if he were to reappear before the gates of Damascus, his status would definitely not be that of the Sultan's subject, but another Sultan.

The person who came to welcome them was merely an agent hastily appointed by Shirkuh when he left Damascus—an officer under Shirkuh's command, a somewhat short but sturdy middle-aged man with graying whiskers, but whose eyes shot out ambition no less than a young man's. As soon as he saw Sultan Nur ad-Din's coffin, he immediately jumped off his horse, knelt in the dust, wailed loudly, tore off his turban, threw it on the ground, and used a dagger to cut his own face, letting blood flow over his cheeks and neck.

He acted so painfully, as if his chest had been torn open alive by a lion, but both Saracens and Christians just watched his performance lazily—if he were truly such a loyal person, he should not have allowed the bandits outside Damascus to run so rampant.

"I'm afraid he has amassed quite a bit of wealth using this opportunity," Geoffroi whispered. Indeed, if the trade routes were smooth and the towns peaceful, then apart from the established taxes (poll tax, land tax, customs duties), he would get almost nothing. But if the city and its surroundings were full of crises, he could collect money from the merchants in the city under the pretext of recruiting soldiers and equipping weapons and horses.

Kamal also noticed the shimmering fabric revealed from under that seemingly simple cotton robe—that is to say, this Kurd wore silk like a woman for the sake of pleasure. He suddenly felt an unbearable annoyance, and the whip in his hand almost lashed the agent's cheek, but he restrained himself. "Take us into the city," he said. "We need more salt and ice." To ensure Sultan Nur ad-Din's body would not begin to rot in the coming days.

The officer scrambled up from the ground hastily. He did not dare to offend Kamal and even wanted to curry favor with him. The previous desperate performance was just to leave a good impression on Kamal, waiting for Kamal to return to Aleppo and speak to the new Sultan, letting him become the true master of Damascus.

Also for the same reason, he was quite arrogant and rude when passing the Christian troop—neither speaking nor saluting. He perhaps thought this was a good time to show steadfastness and piety.

Geoffroi couldn't help but laugh out loud. Compared to the Bosra administrator Shams ad-Din, who was servile and submissive on the surface, this guy was truly stupid, incompetent, and shameless. He didn't believe that the news of the Christian knights wiping out several bandit groups outside the city hadn't reached Damascus—though if these bandits were originally raised by this bastard intentionally, perhaps they had indeed done something that angered him.

Kamal was also observing these Christians. Cesar's face was hidden in the shadow of his nasal helmet, but he looked as calm as ever. Most of the knights, like Geoffroi, were indifferent—some even laughed out loud.

And what made the officer feel embarrassed and angry was that Kamal did not accept his flattery but rode closer to the young Christian knight, not even riding side-by-side—he fell behind Cesar. "This is a Knight of Bethlehem, son of Joscelin III, Count of Edessa, and brother of Baldwin IV, King of Lazarus. When in Lazarus, he performed the 'cleansing of the body' for the Sultan on behalf of the Sultan's sons. You should show him respect."

This was something the officer had never expected. He opened his mouth as if he didn't know what to say. And Kamal did not need his answer. With the Sultan's coffin in front, they followed closely, passed through the gate, and walked through the dark tunnel. In the bright light, Kamal narrowed his eyes slightly.

He didn't know yet that the surprise waiting for him was still to come.

Passing through the tunnel, they arrived at an open space. This space was neither a square nor a place for any important ceremony. It was where soldiers and civilians used to assemble large equipment when defending the city—it should have been empty and quiet, but at this moment, it was noisy as hell. A group of people were dragging out timber prepared in the warehouse and quickly setting up wooden frames one after another.

They had seen this kind of wooden frame not long ago on the road connecting Damascus and Bosra. It looked like an empty door frame, with its two feet deeply inserted into the mud, about one and a half times the height of a person. Several of the already formed wooden frames had already been hung with ropes with nooses.

At the same time, they also heard wailing coming from all directions. There were men and women, old people and children, some far away, some close, and people were being driven, insulted, and harmed.

Gradually, some people emerged from the streets and alleys, all looking disheveled and haggard. The most shameful thing was that, except for the women and children who still had a long shirt to barely cover themselves, the men had almost only a pair of shorts on.

It is worth mentioning that during this period, whether Christians or Saracens, they rarely wore close-fitting undergarments; most wore a long shirt. When sleeping, it was pajamas; when rising, it was underwear. Only the Isaac-people wore these knee-length pants, so it was also used as one of the signs to identify the Isaac-people, and thus it was called Isaac-pants.

"Is this also part of the welcome ceremony?" Geoffroi exclaimed. Kamal's mouth straightened—at this moment, the officer had run over from the back of the troop, panting. "It is like this," he explained. "I have already heard about the incident in Bosra, and I was both shocked and angry. Thinking that there were so many Isaac-people in Damascus, I couldn't help but worry. So I arrested some of them and interrogated them. Alas!"

He showed a heartbroken expression: "My lord, they are just a group of vultures eating rotten meat, a group of hyenas dragging their intestines. They colluded with the bandits outside the city, I don't know how many lives they harmed, how many families they brought disaster to, and they also tarnished Damascus, this pearl. So, I gave the order to expel all the Isaac-people from Damascus today. They are not allowed to take anything—money, clothes, or food and water—their assets will all be confiscated to compensate for the harm they brought to this city and its residents."

He spoke righteously, but let alone Kamal, even Geoffroi couldn't help but be stunned—did he take them all for fools?

Even if Shirkuh had left Damascus, since he had left this officer here to manage the city for him, this person could not be a mediocre person.

Since he was neither mediocre nor stupid, how could he have been deceived by these unarmed Isaac-people for so long?

It could only be said that he was either in collusion with the Isaac-people or was simply the manipulator behind these Isaac-people. If it weren't for Kamal or someone else on the mission, and if there weren't so many knights favored by saints around, and if the benefits brought by the bandits were still flowing, he would probably continue to "sleep," turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the changes right under his nose, until he had scraped away everything he could scrape away.

Now that he saw things were going wrong, he immediately pushed out the Isaac-people who were his puppets and confiscated their assets, just like slaughtering a pig that had long since grown fat and round. For him, this also did no harm. The wealth accumulated by the Isaac-people in this city could still ensure that his position would not be shaken—no matter who the new Sultan was.

He could even wait for the dust to settle and then use this money to bribe the new Sultan's ministers, so that he could truly become the master of Damascus.

Kamal showed a smile that was not a smile. Those who knew him well knew that this important minister of the Sultan had already had the intention to kill—he didn't care about the Isaac-people, but he cared about Bosra and Damascus.

Damascus was a holy city. It was the birthplace of Abraham, and Moses, Jesus, Lot, and Job had also visited here (they were saints to Christians and prophets to Saracens).

After Nur ad-Din conquered it in 1154, he rebuilt the fortresses and walls here, and built new schools and hospitals. He loved this city deeply and praised it as the garden left by Heaven on earth, the most beautiful and lovely city, and even had the idea of moving the capital of Syria from Aleppo to Damascus.

And just after he passed away, his subject dared to trample and humiliate this city so wantonly—if Kamal hadn't still been burdened with the heavy responsibility of sending Sultan Nur ad-Din's remains back to Aleppo, his knife might have already pierced the chest of this Kurdish officer.

Cesar remained silent. As a Christian, he had no right to speak in the grievances and conflicts between the Isaac-people and the Saracens. And since these Isaac-people had willingly acted as the knife for this agent in the first place, they should have known that there would always be a moment when the knife would break—by others or by their master. They had this end, and it could not be said that they were entirely innocent.

Even for those women and children, if one said they were innocent, what about the merchants and their relatives who were brutally harmed by the bandits?

Just at this moment, from among the men wearing only Isaac-pants, a man in neat clothes suddenly leaped out. "Catch him! He is also an Isaac-person!" someone shouted loudly. Surprisingly, he was not a Saracen or a Christian; the informant was also an Isaac-person. He saw his eyes wide open, gnashing his teeth, actually hating his own kin even more than the Saracens who wanted to kill him and his friends and family.

Immediately, four or five soldiers surrounded him, but although this man was tall and thin, he was unexpectedly nimble and agile. He was like an antelope trapped in a pack of wolves, seemingly dangerous but calm and composed. With a flick of his elbow, he knocked down a soldier rushing toward him, and then sidestepped through the gap between two spears. Subsequently, he looked at a squad leader—he was riding a horse.

In Damascus and other cities, Isaac-people were not allowed to ride horses; they could only ride donkeys and mules. Horses belonged to warriors—but this Isaac-person was clearly very familiar with the habits of horses. He leaped up from the back of the horse and landed behind the squad leader. Before the squad leader could react, his neck had already been grabbed. He tried hard to grab the Isaac-person's arm, but fainted in less than a breath.

He was thrown under the horse, and the horse immediately let out an uneasy low cry, kicking its hooves in place, seemingly wanting to throw off the stranger on its back. But the other party just reached out and covered its eyes, letting out a majestic shout. Before more people could react, he had already clamped his legs around the horse's belly and fiercely slapped the horse's rump. The horse reared up, leaped, instantly crossed the few soldiers rushing toward them, and approached the city gate in a few big strides.

The officer hummed softly—although he was greedy and vicious, since he could be left by Shirkuh to manage Damascus, he could never be useless. He casually took a javelin handed by his subordinate, turned around, and threw it fiercely, hitting the Isaac-person's back at once. He flew off the horse and fell heavily to the ground. The soldiers on the side rushed over and raised the spears in their hands.

"Wait!" Cesar suddenly called out.

Those Saracen soldiers would not listen to his orders, but as soon as their swords and spears touched the struggling Isaac-person, they bounced off instantly as if hitting a large stone, and one soldier even fell because he used too much force.

The officer turned abruptly, staring at Cesar, his eyes murky and unclear, carrying a hint of ferocity and wariness.

"I know this man," Cesar said. He leaped off his horse, walked among the Saracen soldiers, and looked at the Jew lying on the ground with a pale face: "Why are you here, Haridi?"

(End of chapter)