Chapter 139: On the Road to Aleppo (4)

The Viceroy of Damascus was originally a Kurd named Hilku; out of both fear and esteem for him and his nephew Saladin, Sultan Nuruddin placed them here to guard the southern gateway for him.

But now we all know he betrayed Sultan Nuruddin’s trust—he has become the Grand Vizier of Caliph Adid of the Fatimid dynasty in Cairo, far away, and it is clear he will likely never return here; if he ever reappears before the gates of Damascus, his identity will certainly not be that of a vassal to the Sultan, but another Sultan himself.

The man who came to greet them was merely a hastily appointed proxy left by Hilku when he departed Damascus—a military officer under Hilku, a short but sturdy middle-aged man with streaks of gray in his beard, his eyes blazing with ambition no less fierce than that of a youth. The moment he saw Sultan Nuruddin’s coffin, he leapt from his horse, knelt in the dust, and wailed loudly, tearing off his headcloth and flinging it to the ground, then slashing his face with a dagger, letting blood stream down his cheeks and neck.

He performed with such agony, as if a lion had torn open his chest alive, yet neither the Saracens nor the Christians watched him with more than lazy indifference—if he were truly so loyal, he would not have allowed bandits outside Damascus to roam so freely.

“He’s probably amassed a fortune through this,” Jofroi muttered lowly. Indeed, if trade routes were open and the town peaceful, he would receive nothing beyond the fixed taxes (head tax, land tax, customs duties). But if both inside and outside the city were in crisis, he could easily demand money from merchants under the pretense of recruiting soldiers, arming them, or acquiring horses.

Kamal also noticed the faint shimmer of silk beneath the seemingly plain cotton robe—the Kurd, for his own pleasure, dressed like a woman in silk. He felt an unbearable irritation, his whip nearly lashing the agent’s face, but he held back. “Take us into the city,” he said. “We need more salt and ice.” To prevent Sultan Nuruddin’s body from rotting in the coming days.

The officer scrambled to his feet, daring not to offend Kamal—he even sought to flatter him. His earlier desperate performance was meant to leave a good impression on Kamal, hoping that once Kamal returned to Aleppo, he would recommend him to the new Sultan as the true master of Damascus.

For the same reason, when passing the Christian contingent, he behaved with arrogant disrespect—neither speaking nor bowing. He perhaps thought this was the perfect moment to display steadfast piety.

Jofroi couldn’t help letting out a sharp laugh. Compared to Shams al-Din, the timid, obsequious governor of Bosra, this man was not only stupid, incompetent, and shameless—he refused to believe the Christians’ knights had not already destroyed several bandit bands outside the city walls. Yet if those bandits had been deliberately raised by this scoundrel, perhaps they had indeed done something to anger him.

Kamal was also observing the Christians. Cesar’s face was hidden in the shadow of his nasal helmet, but his calm expression remained unchanged. Most of the knights, like Jofroi, paid no mind—even laughed aloud.

What made the officer feel both embarrassed and furious was that Kamal did not accept his flattery; instead, he rode closer to the young Christian knight, not even riding side by side—he fell behind Cesar. “This is the Knight of Bethlehem, son of Joscelin III, Count of Edessa, and brother to King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem. In Jerusalem, he performed the ‘Purification Rite’ on the Sultan’s sons. You must show him respect.”

The officer had never expected this. He opened his mouth, seemingly at a loss for words. But Kamal did not need his reply. The Sultan’s coffin led the way; they followed closely behind, passing through the gate, walking through the dark tunnel, and into the bright light—Kamal squinted slightly.

He did not yet know that the most pleasant surprise was still ahead.

Beyond the tunnel lay an open field. It was neither a square nor a place for grand ceremonies, but a site where soldiers and townspeople once assembled large siege engines during city defense—normally quiet and empty, it was now deafening with noise, as a crowd dragged out stored timber and swiftly erected wooden frames.

They had seen these frames before, along the road connecting Damascus and Bosra—they resembled empty doorframes, with two legs deeply driven into the earth, standing about one and a half men tall. Several already completed frames bore ropes with hanging nooses.

At the same time, they heard wailing from all directions—men and women, old and children, some distant, some near, as people were driven, insulted, and injured.

Gradually, people poured out from alleys and streets, all disheveled and gaunt. Most shameful of all: besides women and children who still wore ragged long tunics, the men wore nothing but short breeches.

It should be noted that during this period, whether Christian or Saracen, few wore undergarments; most wore only a long tunic, which served as both nightwear and daytime underclothing. Only the Ishmaelites wore these knee-length pants, which thus became one of the markers of Ishmaelite identity—and were called Ishmaelite pants.

“Is this part of the welcome ceremony?” Jofroi exclaimed. Kamal’s lips tightened. At that moment, the officer, breathless, ran up from behind the procession. “Yes,” he explained. “I’ve heard what happened in Bosra—I was shocked and furious. Knowing there are so many Ishmaelites in Damascus, I grew fearful. So I arrested several of them for interrogation. Alas!”

He wore an expression of profound grief: “My lord, they are a pack of vultures feeding on carrion, hyenas dragging their own entrails. They conspire with bandits outside, have cost countless lives, brought ruin to countless families, and stained Damascus, this jewel of the world. So I issued orders: today, all Ishmaelites shall be expelled from Damascus, forbidden to take anything—money, clothes, food, or water. Their assets will be seized to compensate for the harm they inflicted upon this city and its people.”

He spoke with righteous indignation, yet even Jofroi stared in disbelief—did he take them all for fools?

Even though Hilku had left Damascus, since he left this officer behind to govern the city, the man could not possibly be a fool.

If he was neither foolish nor incompetent, how could he have been deceived by these unarmed Ishmaelites for so long?

The only explanation: either he conspired with the Ishmaelites, or he was their true master. Had Kamal not come—or had no other emissary arrived with so many knights blessed by the Saint—the bandits’ profits would have flowed on, and he would have continued to “sleep,” blind and deaf to the changes right before his eyes, until he had drained every last coin.

Now that things looked dire, he immediately threw the Ishmaelites—his puppets—forward, seized their wealth, like slaughtering a pig already plump and white. For him, it caused no harm: the wealth the Ishmaelites had amassed in the city would still secure his position, no matter who the new Sultan was.

He could even wait until the dust settled, then use this money to bribe the new Sultan’s ministers, to truly become the master of Damascus.

Kamal’s expression twisted into a faint, cold smile—those who knew him recognized at once that the Sultan’s minister had decided to kill. He did not care for the Ishmaelites. But he cared for Bosra and Damascus.

Damascus is a holy city—the birthplace of Abraham, visited by Moses, Jesus, Lot, and Job (saints to Christians, prophets to Saracens).

After Nuruddin conquered it in 1154, he rebuilt its fortresses and walls, erected new schools and hospitals. He loved this city deeply, called it the Garden of Heaven on Earth, the most beautiful, most beloved city, and even considered moving Syria’s capital from Aleppo to Damascus.

And now that he has just died, his minister dares to so cruelly trample and humiliate this city—if Kamal were not still burdened with the duty of returning Sultan Nuruddin’s body to Aleppo, his blade would already have pierced this Kurd officer’s chest.

Cesar remained silent. As a Christian, he had no right to speak in the feud between Ishmaelites and Saracens. And since these Ishmaelites had willingly served as this agent’s blade, they should have known that blades always break—whether by others or by their master. Their fate was not wholly innocent.

Even the women and children—if they were innocent, what of the merchants and their kin murdered by bandits?

At that moment, from among the men clad only in Ishmaelite pants, a neatly dressed man suddenly leapt out. “Seize him! He’s an Ishmaelite too!” someone shouted. Strangely, he was neither Saracen nor Christian—the informer was himself an Ishmaelite. His eyes bulged, teeth clenched—he hated his own kin more fiercely than he hated the Saracens who had killed his family.

Immediately, four or five soldiers rushed toward him. Though tall and thin, he was surprisingly agile. Like a gazelle surrounded by wolves, he seemed doomed yet moved with calm precision—elbowing one charging soldier to the ground, slipping between two spears, then fixing his gaze on a squad leader mounted on horseback.

In Damascus and other cities, Ishmaelites were forbidden to ride horses—they could only ride donkeys or mules; horses belonged to warriors. But this Ishmaelite clearly knew horses intimately. He leapt from behind the horse, landing behind the squad leader, who had no time to react before the man seized his throat. The leader gripped the Ishmaelite’s arm, yet collapsed unconscious within a breath.

He was thrown off the horse. The animal let out an uneasy whinny, pawing the ground, trying to shake off the stranger. But the man simply covered its eyes with one hand and barked a commanding shout. Before others could react, he spurred the horse’s flanks and struck its rump hard—the horse reared, leapt forward, clearing the soldiers rushing toward them, and in a few strides reached the city gate.

The officer snorted softly—he was greedy and cruel, but Hilku would never have left him in charge of Damascus if he were useless. He casually took a javelin from a subordinate, turned, and hurled it with force—it struck the Ishmaelite squarely on the back. He flew from the horse and crashed to the ground; soldiers rushed forward, raising their spears.

“Wait!” Cesar suddenly called out.

The Saracen soldiers would not obey his order, but their blades and spears struck the struggling Ishmaelite and bounced off as if hitting a stone—some soldiers even stumbled from the force.

The officer whirled around, fixing Cesar with a murky, fierce, and wary gaze.

“I know this man,” Cesar said. He dismounted, walked through the Saracen soldiers, and looked down at the pale, fallen Ishmaelite. “What are you doing here, Haredi?”

(End of Chapter)