Chapter 143: On the Road to Aleppo (8)

When people read history, they always have a misconception. They always wishfully think that people at that time would act, live, and entertain themselves like puppets, strictly according to the laws formulated by the Church and the King.

Of course, the facts are not so. Like us, they are also people with flesh and blood, emotions, and desires. And when a person wants to achieve his goal, he will always find all kinds of excuses, or drill through the gaps that will always exist.

In Saracen law, monarchs and scholars have always maintained a cautious and conservative attitude toward the degree of women's exposure. The exposure here does not just refer to the body; what is also strictly controlled is their hearts and thoughts.

Even if Saracens allow girls to read and write, and will praise women with outstanding talent and profound learning, they do not hope that these girls can become warriors or scholars in the future, but hope that they can become better daughters, wives, and mothers. Their talent is no different from the jewelry worn on them and the silk wrapped around their graceful figures; it is just used to enhance their own value.

Like Christian or Isaac-women, they are not allowed to enter temples, let alone become Chosen Ones. Most women spend their lives in their families or harems. Even if they are allowed to hold banquets, the people who come to the banquet are noblewomen of equal status to them.

When they go out—if there is such a need—they must also wear veils, put on loose robes, and be "protected" by male relatives or eunuchs. They cannot contact men without blood relations at will—otherwise, what awaits them is extremely harsh punishment or even death.

No matter how much Saracens claim to respect women, just these few harsh decrees are enough to determine that their respect will always float on the surface, or rather, even this shallow respect is limited to upper-class Saracen women. For bottom-layer Saracen women, there is not much sweetness in their lives that can be called sweet.

And no matter how rigorous Saracen law is, its power cannot spread to pagans and slaves. And the Saracen "Beautiful" occupies both identities at the same time. Most of them are pagan women who have been plundered, and they often have a master. This master may be rich or poor—yes, even the owner of a farm may own five or six female slaves.

And these female slaves will serve her just as concubines in the harem serve the Sultan. They always say that there is love between these female slaves and the Saracen people—but we all know that when swords are pressed against your body, you had better be able to bow your head.

In large cities like Damascus, keeping female slaves has even become a quite profitable business.

These women, that is, the "Beautiful" we mentioned earlier, are all the best seeds with potential picked out from the slave market by Saracen merchants with excellent vision. After they buy them at a suitable price, perhaps they only need two or three years of training and education, and she can become a popular songstress or a poet-slave.

As the name suggests, songstress refers to female slaves with melodious voices or light dance postures. Poet-slaves are a notch higher than them. She must not only be able to sing and dance but also have a certain literary literacy, be able to comment when guests recite poetry, and even write poems herself.

Of course, their poems often don't have much depth and basically revolve around love and desire. Rather than literary works, it is better to say it is a means to increase the interest of guests.

After all, Saracens like poetry very much. This is a habit that tribal people will have—after all, before they had their own writing, all history and humanities needed to be expressed and passed down through poetry. Even now that they have a lot of translated classics and classics that belong only to them, they are still very keen on writing poetry.

A general will write poetry, a minister will write poetry, a craftsman, or a farmer will also write poetry. They use poetry to show their passion, dedicate their piety, or firm their will, and may also use it to mock enemies—poetry is as indispensable as Saracen flatbread and Karak tea.

The most famous poet-slave in Damascus at this time is the "Beautiful" Laila, who is being fanatically obsessed over by the scholar Razi.

Laila is, of course, not her real name. This name appears more in Saracen legends—it is a love story. The young girl Laila and a boy who had known each other since childhood fell in love, but Laila's father thought their love violated the doctrine. Although the status of the two was equal and they were in love, he still insisted on marrying Laila to someone else.

The boy felt heartbroken because of this. Since then, he was either practicing asceticism in the desert or reciting his own poetry until he died. Although this story might be a nightmare for Laila, people unanimously agreed that being able to obtain a man's persistent love for decades, Laila must be an incomparably beautiful woman.

Therefore, there are many "Beautifuls" in Damascus who will use the name Laila, but no one can be more loved and pursued by scholars than this Laila. She once wrote a poem—for a former guest who lost his life on the battlefield.

"I swear, since he died,

I will no longer cry for the hero who died in battle,

If the youth is blameless in life,

Then, death is by no means a shame for him,

Everything new and young will perish,

Everyone will return to Allah one day."

Although this poem still could not escape the rut of romance, it had to be said that the emotions and meanings contained within it were enough to move the hearts of men. They vied to present her with gifts, from gold to silk, hoping to meet her, but Laila would not grant everyone's request, even if they only wanted to have a cup of tea with her, meet her, listen to her play the oud, or recite a verse.

In her words, meeting other men once is equivalent to betraying her master once. Even for the master, her heart still feels as painful as being placed on a fire.

This is, of course, a common saying used by "Beautifuls" to increase their value and stimulate men's competitive spirit, but it is indeed effective. When Cesar and Geoffroi came to Laila's house and wanted to see her, they were politely refused by the gatekeeper.

They said that today Laila had agreed to the scholar Razi's request. She would enjoy the moonlight, taste honey water, and appreciate poetry with him. And from this house, the ensemble of oud, nay flute, and daf drum could indeed be heard faintly. The firelight flickered, and shadows moved. The banquet had already begun. At this time, if uninvited guests came to disturb, it would inevitably make the people present feel disappointed.

But Cesar and Geoffroi didn't have much time. They would set off tomorrow. If they couldn't find Razi tonight and ask him to borrow those medical classics about leprosy and copy them, they would have to wait until their return trip.

And on the return trip, Damascus might no longer welcome and indulge them like this. Now they were guests of Kamal after all—Geoffroi hissed on the side. He was an old hand in the wind and moon scene. Before he joined the Templar Order, he had walked through all the large and small brothels in the city. He knew the temperament and preferences of "Beautifuls" like the back of his hand.

Although they did indeed have to worry that if they disturbed Laila and Razi's date, it would be counterproductive—Razi was also a scholar, and his great-grandfather was the most famous physician among the Saracens, Ibn Sina. This person could be said to have laid the foundation of medicine in the Saracen world with his own strength. He wrote "The Canon of Medicine," "The Book of Healing," and "The Book of Knowledge," which were even preserved by the Christian Church, but not known to most people.

As a descendant of this famous scholar, Razi did not inherit his ancestor's medical talent, but he could still win people's respect by virtue of Ibn Sina's shade and his love and protection for medical classics. For Kamal's sake, he might not care about their recklessness, but don't expect a guy who is full of displeasure to open his treasure house and let them choose.

Geoffroi was confident. He, of course, knew that for a "Beautiful," gold, jewelry, and silk were the stepping stones, but there was also something that could arouse their interest, make them turn anger into joy, and even generously give various conveniences.

He tilted his body slightly and pushed Cesar, who was standing in the shadow, forward, exposing him to the light of the torch. The gatekeeper's pupils instantly enlarged, just like everyone who saw Cesar for the first time. He was even shocked to the point of being unable to speak.

"We don't ask you to let us in immediately," Geoffroi said politely. "But if your mistress knows that you refused such a guest, a sharp little thorn might grow in her heart, and it might prick you at some point.

I say, you might as well report this to her, and then let her decide what to do."

This remark was indeed reasonable. After the shock, the gatekeeper came to his senses, chewed on it carefully, and said something to another companion, then turned back and walked into the house to report to his master.

Soon, perhaps only a quarter of a candle had burned out, the gatekeeper walked out of the house in a hurry and invited them to meet.

As the most famous "Beautiful" in the city, the house where Laila lived was, of course, extremely magnificent, luxurious, and decadent—although like most buildings, what came to the face was a square courtyard, there was a shimmering fountain in the center of the courtyard, and a cherry tree grew above it. Small birds with lush feathers landed on the tree and by the fountain.

When they walked closer, they found that this cherry tree was not real. It used black iron as branches, and bright red cherries made of glass were hung on it, each with emerald silk leaves and gilded stems.

Although the hearts of those small birds were clay, they were covered with real bird feathers. These feathers became duller after leaving the living body, but under the moonlight and candlelight, they still revealed gorgeous colors and a different luster.

The ground of the courtyard was not paved with ordinary mud and bricks, but marble and exquisite mosaics. The patterns were like octopus tentacles or vine tendrils, centered on the fountain and extending to every corner.

The corridors surrounding the courtyard were like a gorgeous ribbon. Through the multi-lobed arches, one could see the hanging brass lamps. These lamps were either lit with pure olive oil or filled with fragrant spices.

Light, shadows, and smoke turned this place into a gorgeous maze, making people feel as if they had come to another world. This world was so beautiful that everyone would linger here and find it hard to give up.

Guided by the slave, they came to a large room that could accommodate a hundred people. It was covered with carpets with complex patterns and gorgeous colors, overlapping, thick and soft. When you walked on it, it was even hard to feel the hardness and coldness of the stone below. The walls also had geometric decorative patterns of different colors as well as wood-carved pictures and characters.

This was similar to a temple, except that in the temple, these characters were solemn scriptures or proverbs, while here they were naked and hot love poems and related stories.

There were, of course, more than just Laila as a "Beautiful" here. Her maids or other "Beautifuls" invited were lying on soft and plump velvet pillows, or chatting with the male guests beside them, or playing the oud, or beating small drums, or lazily sharing a hookah with their guests—there were about a dozen male guests here. For a moment, it was hard to identify who Razi was, but as for who Laila was, it could be seen at a glance.

She was standing in the center of the room, her figure taller than ordinary women. Her eyebrows and eyes were sharp—indeed sharp, an adjective that was hard to put on other women. Her nose was high, and her lips were plump and moist. Like all "Beautifuls," she did not wear a veil, nor did she wear a robe that would cover the curves of her body. Even less a headscarf—her white hair shone with the luster of pearls, and her eyes were a terrifying bright red.

She was an albino.

Laila might not be the most beautiful among these "Beautifuls," but that special color and posture made people know that what people said was true as soon as they saw her. She was completely worthy of a scholar's fanatical obsession.

Laila was also quite surprised when she saw Cesar. She had already looked at this young man from afar on the terrace before, and at that time, she only felt that he was like a small portrait that used precious pigments, so that even after a long time, it was still as gorgeous as ever.

But we all know that in dim light and at a long distance, some shortcomings can be covered and blurred. But now the distance between them only needed to reach out to touch each other, and Laila still couldn't find any flaws in him.

She remained silent for a long time, and then sighed softly, turning to the man who was lying in the arms of a female slave with a smile, "I once heard that there was a famous courtesan Flora in ancient Rome who was acquitted because of her beauty, but at that time I didn't believe it. How could a mortal's beauty offset the sin of blaspheming the gods? Now I believe it."

(End of Chapter) ===== CHAPTER 144 =====