Chapter 143: On the Road to Aleppo (8)

When people read history, they always develop a delusion, stubbornly believing that people of that time acted, lived, and amused themselves like puppets, strictly following the laws set by the Church and the king.

Of course, reality was otherwise—they were flesh-and-blood, emotional, desire-driven beings, just like us. When someone seeks to achieve their goal, they always find excuses or exploit inevitable loopholes.

In Islamic law, rulers and scholars have always maintained a cautious and conservative attitude toward the exposure of women—not only physical exposure, but also their minds and thoughts were strictly regulated.

Even when Arabs permitted girls to read and write, and praised women of exceptional talent and deep learning, they did not hope these girls would become warriors or scholars, but rather better daughters, wives, and mothers. Their talents, like the jewels adorning them and the silk wrapped around their graceful figures, served only to enhance their own value.

Like Christian or Isaacite women, they were forbidden from entering temples and could never be chosen ones; most women spent their entire lives confined to their homes or harems, and even when permitted to host banquets, only women of equal status were allowed to attend.

When they went out—if such a need arose—they had to wear veils and loose outer robes, be accompanied by male relatives or eunuchs “for protection,” and were forbidden from freely interacting with unrelated men—otherwise, they faced severe punishment or even death.

No matter how much the Arabs claimed to respect women, these harsh laws ensured their respect remained superficial—or even that this shallow respect applied only to upper- and middle-class Arab women; for lower-class Arab women, their lives held little that could be called sweet.

Moreover, no matter how strict Islamic law was, its power could not reach non-believers or slaves. And the “Qiyan” occupied both these identities—most were non-believing women captured in raids, often with a master who might be rich or poor—yes, even a farm owner might possess five or six female slaves.

These female slaves served their mistress as concubines served the Sultan. They always claimed there was love between these slaves and Arab women—but we all know that when a blade is pressed to your throat, it’s best to bow your head.

In major cities like Damascus, keeping female slaves had become a highly profitable trade.

These women—the “Qiyan” we mentioned earlier—were selected by astute Arab merchants from slave markets as the most promising specimens. After purchasing them at a fair price, they needed only two or three years of training to become popular courtesans or poetic slaves.

As the name implies, courtesans were female slaves with melodious voices or graceful dances. Poetic slaves were superior—they had to sing and dance, but also possess literary cultivation, able to comment on guests’ poetry and even compose their own.

Of course, their poems lacked depth, revolving almost entirely around love and desire; they were less literary works than tools to heighten guests’ interest.

After all, Arabs adored poetry—a habit shared by even tribal folk, for before they had their own script, all history and culture had to be expressed and passed down through verse. Even now, with countless translated and original texts available, they remained passionately devoted to composing poetry.

A general composed poetry, a minister composed poetry, a craftsman, even a farmer—each used poetry to display valor, express devotion, strengthen resolve, or mock enemies. Poetry, like Arab bread and karak tea, was indispensable daily.

At this time, Damascus’s most famous poetic slave was Layla, the “Qiyan” fiercely adored by Al-Razi.

Layla was not her real name; this name appeared mostly in Arab legends—a tale of a young girl, Layla, who fell in love with a boy she’d known since childhood, but her father deemed their love contrary to doctrine; though their statuses matched and their hearts aligned, he insisted she marry another.

The boy was heartbroken, thereafter either enduring desert asceticism or reciting his poems until death. Though this story might be a nightmare for Layla, all agreed that to inspire a man’s enduring love for decades, she must have been breathtakingly beautiful.

Thus, many “Qiyan” in Damascus adopted the name Layla, yet none matched this Layla in the admiration and pursuit of scholars; she once composed a poem—for a former guest who died on the battlefield.

“I swear, since his death,

I shall no longer weep for heroes fallen in war,

If a youth lived without reproach,

Then death is no shame to him,

All that is new and young shall perish,

Everyone shall one day return to the Almighty.”

Though this poem still clung to the theme of love, its emotion and meaning were undeniably moving; men vied to gift her gold, silk, and treasures, hoping to meet her—but Layla did not grant every request, not even to those who merely wished to share tea, see her, hear her play the oud, or recite a verse.

In her words, meeting another man once was betrayal of her master; even for his sake, her heart burned as if on fire, unbearable in its pain.

This was, of course, a common tactic among “Qiyan” to raise their value and stir male rivalry—and it worked. When Cesar and Geoffrey arrived at Layla’s house seeking an audience, the gatekeeper politely refused them.

They said Layla had accepted Al-Razi’s request: tonight she would admire the moon, sip honeyed water, and appreciate poetry with him. From within the house, faint sounds of oud, nay flute, and daf drumming drifted out; flickering firelight and shifting shadows signaled the banquet had begun. Any uninvited intrusion now would spoil the evening.

But Cesar and Geoffrey had little time—they departed tomorrow. If they failed to find Al-Razi tonight and secure permission to copy the medical texts on leprosy, they would have to wait until their return.

And by then, Damascus might no longer welcome or tolerate them. After all, they were now guests of Kamal—Geoffrey hissed beside him; he was a veteran of brothels, having visited every establishment in the city before joining the Knights Templar—he knew the “Qiyan” inside and out.

They did have to consider that disturbing Layla and Al-Razi’s rendezvous might backfire—Al-Razi was a scholar, and his grandfather was Ibn Sina, the most famed physician among the Arabs, who single-handedly laid the foundations of Arab medicine; his works—The Canon of Medicine, The Book of Healing, The Book of Knowledge—were preserved even by the Church, though unknown to most.

As the descendant of this renowned scholar, Al-Razi had not inherited his ancestor’s medical genius, yet he still earned respect through Ibn Sina’s legacy and his devotion to preserving medical texts. For Kamal’s sake, he might overlook their intrusion—but don’t expect a displeased man to open his vault and let them choose freely.

Geoffrey, however, was confident. He knew gold, jewels, and silk were the keys to a “Qiyan,” but one other thing could stir their interest, turn anger to delight, and grant unexpected favors.

He subtly shifted his body, shoving Cesar—who stood in shadow—forward into the torchlight. The gatekeeper’s pupils widened; like every man seeing Cesar for the first time, he was stunned into silence.

“We don’t ask you to let us in immediately,” Geoffrey said politely. “But if your mistress learns you turned away such a guest, a sharp little thorn may grow in her heart—and who knows when it might pierce you.”

I suggest you inform her, and let her decide what to do.”

This was reasonable. After his shock, the gatekeeper pondered, then whispered to a companion and hurried inside to report to his mistress.

Soon—perhaps only a quarter of a candle’s burn later—the gatekeeper emerged and invited them in.

As Damascus’s most famous “Qiyan,” Layla’s residence was opulent, lavish, and decadent—though like most buildings, it opened onto a square courtyard, its center featured a glittering fountain, above which grew a cherry tree, its branches and the pool’s edge dotted with plump, feathered birds.

As they approached, they realized the cherry tree was not real: its trunk was black iron, its cherries glass, each painted a vivid red, each with emerald silk leaves and gilded stems.

The birds were clay inside, but covered in real feathers. Though faded after death, under moonlight and candlelight, their colors still gleamed with vivid luster.

The courtyard floor was not ordinary earth or brick, but marble and intricate mosaics—patterns resembling octopus tentacles or vine tendrils, radiating from the fountain to every corner.

The surrounding colonnade was a splendid ribbon; arched doorways revealed hanging brass lanterns, some lit with pure olive oil, others filled with fragrant incense.

Light, shadow, and smoke transformed the space into a dazzling labyrinth, as if one had entered another world—so beautiful, so intoxicating, no one could bear to leave.

Guided by slaves, they entered a hall large enough for a hundred people, its floor covered in thick, plush carpets with intricate, vivid patterns; walking on them, one barely felt the cold, hard stone beneath. Walls bore geometric decorative motifs and carved wood panels depicting scenes and texts.

Like temples, but where temples displayed solemn scriptures or maxims, here they displayed naked, fiery love poems and their associated tales.

Of course, Layla was not alone—her maids or other invited “Qiyan” lay on soft, downy velvet pillows, chatting with male guests, playing the oud, beating small drums, or lazily sharing a hookah. About a dozen male guests filled the room; it was hard to identify Al-Razi, but Layla was unmistakable.

She stood at the room’s center, taller than most women. Her features were sharp—truly sharp, an adjective rarely applied to women—her nose high, lips full and moist. Like all “Qiyan,” she wore no veil, no robe to obscure her figure, no headscarf—her white hair shimmered with pearl-like luster, her eyes a terrifying crimson.

She was an albino.

Layla might not have been the most beautiful among the “Qiyan,” but her unique color and bearing confirmed the truth: she fully deserved a scholar’s obsessive devotion.

Layla was equally astonished to see Cesar; she had glimpsed him from the terrace earlier, thinking him like a miniature painted with precious pigments—so vivid, even after centuries, still radiant.

But we know that in dim light and from afar, flaws can be hidden. Now, their distance was mere arm’s reach—and still, Layla found no flaw in him.

She remained silent for a long moment, then sighed softly, smiling charmingly toward the man reclining in a slave’s arms: “I once heard of the famed courtesan Flora of ancient Rome, who escaped punishment through beauty—but I never believed it. How could mortal beauty atone for sacrilege? Now I believe.”

(End of Chapter)