Chapter 144: On the Road to Aleppo (9)

Laila’s unreserved praise drew the attention of all present; no matter how deep the hatred the Saracens here held for Christians, before this treasure forged by the Hand of the Almighty, their expressions softened involuntarily.

No, wait—perhaps not everyone, for in this room, one man still lay half-asleep in the embrace of “Qiyan,” seemingly indifferent to everything happening around him.

Not even Cesar, but even Geoffrey now furrowed his brow; the situation had grown complicated. This man was precisely their target—Razis.

Geoffrey and Cesar had encountered many Saracens, whether on the battlefield or in court, yet this Saracen utterly defied all prior impressions—Saracen men were typically solemn, stoic, and unsmiling, their beards coiled like iron wire, their heads wrapped in turbans with not a strand of hair exposed, clad in plain black robes, cinched with leather belts a palm’s width wide, and bearing nothing but a single silver ring.

But Razis… look at him now: his turban had vanished, his hair disheveled, his face flushed. Like all Saracen men, he wore a beard—but it was short, almost flush with his skin, more like a shadow of bluish-black. He lounged with arms spread, one leg propped atop a mound of silk pillows, his chest open, even his innermost long undergarment askew and misshapen.

This posture was not merely careless—it could just as well be called reckless, decadent. To claim he knew nothing of Cesar and Geoffrey’s origins, given his stature in Damascus, would be absurd; yet he still assumed this stance—as if to plainly declare their mission would not proceed smoothly.

Razis chuckled first, his voice hoarse yet strangely melodic. At over forty, he could still be called young and handsome, with eyes like honey. Though he pursued Laila, her willingness to accept his affection and invite him into her home proved he had indeed won the favor of “Qiyan”—when he opened his eyes to look at them, there was little annoyance at being disturbed, only a lethal clarity.

“I’ve heard of you,” he said. “They say you are the chosen of the Christians, a squire to the King of Arasal, who trusts and values you deeply. People say you may become the youngest Grand Vizier.” He stretched lazily. “Perhaps true friendship, pure as springwater, does exist. Or perhaps each of you has ulterior motives, merely using one another. Or worse—among you, one is a fool, either deceiving you or being deceived by you.”

“He uses you to gain Christian approval, convincing all that his leprosy is not the Almighty’s punishment, but a rare trial—that after enduring this hardship, he may one day become a great king, even a saint.”

“And you? Only recently you were a slave of the Ismaelites. Your origins have always been scorned by Christians. Their court differs utterly from ours. Unless you carry the blood of a knight or noble in your veins, even if you seize Damascus or Aleppo for them, you will never earn their respect.”

He smiled. “We are different. As long as virtue, wisdom, courage, and piety are recognized by the Almighty, even if he becomes Sultan or Caliph, no one would find it strange—or oppose him.”

He gestured to the cup tipped beside him; “Qiyan” immediately righted it and refilled it with deep red grape juice. He lifted it, drained it in one gulp, and sighed deeply. “I don’t know if your legends are true, but they sound like a fine tale. Yet you have a king-brother and friend vouching for you—so they accept you, let you walk the world as the son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa.”

He glanced sidelong at Cesar. “You do possess a face worthy of such a tale. But so what? Whether King Arasal or Count Joscelin III of Edessa—they are Christians, enemies of the Saracens. I may lament them, mourn them—even compose poems for them when their heads grace the wine table.” He raised his cup to Cesar. “And you too—beauty, youth, life—all so fleeting.”

“But while he still lives, I will give him nothing—not even a glance. Though you are Kamal’s guest, you should know—I have no good relations with Kamal. As a minister, he is too naive, too dull, too indecisive. He even shows mercy to enemies.”

“But Christian knights,” he declared with finality, “I know you came to borrow those medical texts on leprosy for your close friend and sovereign. The Almighty did not grant him mercy—he granted punishment. Yes, he may be innocent himself, but he is King of Arasal, commander of the Crusaders—he is destined to burn in Hell. What you call illness is merely the early onset of his torment, ten years ahead of schedule.”

“I will not give you those books to save him. I will not let him live healthy, long enough to raise his lance and ride upon the battlefield—for he will kill Saracen soldiers, my friends and brothers.”

“Of course, you may say you once purified our Sultan Nuradin’s body—I don’t know if you did it intentionally or not. Yes, even the Sultan’s son or wife would thank you for sparing his corpse from enemy desecration. But if you use that favor to demand repayment, to blackmail or coerce—do you not find it shameful?”

Many may have thought these words in their hearts, for they are mortal enemies. No matter how vile or base one imagines the other, it is never excessive.

But Razis was the first to voice them plainly. If Cesar were truly a naive youth, still in the phase where dignity and others’ opinions mattered most… even Geoffrey behind him felt his stomach churn, unable to rest.

His meaning was clear: he accused them of exploiting a long-planned favor to squeeze every last drop of value—not once, not twice.

“You’ve sold this favor over and over again. The gifts aside,” Razis said listlessly, “you gained an unprecedented victory. The young king secured his power. The Crusaders’ honor was restored. And Count Edessa—your father… You seem to have forgotten: Sultan Nuradin died by your swords. A band of murderers, yet because you granted the dead a final shred of dignity, you rejoice, boast, proclaim your boundless mercy—isn’t that absurd?”

“When you reach Aleppo, besides your father, you’ll receive gifts from ladies and princes—gifts enough to raise your own army. Is that not enough? Greedy thing!” Razis said coldly. “You remind me of fruits whose skins are intact but whose insides are rotten. When people don’t know you, they treat you as a treasure. But in truth… your heart is as black and foul as the Christians’.”

“Enough. Go. For Kamal’s sake, I won’t harm his guest—but you do bore me.”

This dismissal was blunt indeed. Even Geoffrey now considered retreating. After all, it was only a few medical texts. If they couldn’t get them in Damascus, couldn’t they find them in Aleppo? The great library there wouldn’t refuse them—or they could buy them from merchants—if they paid well enough. Even Razis’s books were copied, weren’t they?

Even Laila’s gaze toward Cesar carried a hint of pity. Some “Qiyan” stirred, eager to comfort this pitiable young beauty—they all assumed Razis’s conversation with the Christian had ended. Razis’s stance was clear: no matter what promises or efforts the boy made, he would not grant his request. And they had little time—tomorrow they would depart for Aleppo.

But contrary to all expectations, this youth—whose very face could move countless hearts to pity—did not flee in shame or anger. He remained calm, as if the words spoken were praise, not condemnation.

Indeed, if Cesar were truly a child of fifteen or sixteen, he could never endure such humiliation.

But before coming to this world, he had already been an adult. In hospital rotations, he had witnessed countless partings, countless human dealings. What in this world could be more important than life? Nothing—he had long understood that.

Moreover, he had been here six or seven full years. He had seen that Razis was deliberately displaying this attitude, speaking these words.

Perhaps Kamal had already warned Razis—he knew that if Cesar persisted, he might truly have to lend those precious books for copying. But as a Saracen, he was deeply unwilling. He admitted he was not a broad-minded man; he could never feel pity or show respect toward his enemies.

He hoped his cold words would drive the boy away—but the boy walked forward, sat cross-legged before him, and Razis could only turn his head away. Then he saw the boy reach to his side, pull out a money pouch, untie its cord, and withdraw a gold coin, placing it before him: “Can I have the right to copy your medical texts for one gold coin?”

Razis was stunned, then nearly laughed in fury—he thought this was a crude mockery, implying his cherished books were worth no more than a single coin. “So you refuse,” Cesar said, then added another coin: “What about two?”

Razis’s hand had already gripped his tiger-tooth dagger. If the boy sought to humiliate him, he had no objection to treating him as a true Saracen would treat a Christian.

Then Cesar placed the tenth gold coin upon the carpet. “What if I offer ten?”

Razis had sat upright. The “Qiyan” beside him had swiftly moved away. The room fell silent, save for their voices. Some faces showed worry; others shifted to more strategic positions. Geoffrey had already placed his hand on his sword hilt.

He knew Razis was chosen—he had received revelations from the Prophet. Among Saracens, “scholars” could grant knowledge—or death. For their first and greatest Prophet had established rule through sword and blade.

Cesar stopped. They had not come to buy anything. Even if they had, they would use contracts and documents—not real gold. His pouch held only dozens of coins. “A hundred?” Cesar gazed calmly at the stern middle-aged man. “A thousand? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? Even a million? Would a million make you feel humiliated?”

Though people call books the crystallization of wisdom, and say wisdom is priceless, that is only talk. Scholars who taught the Caliph, translated texts—all received generous rewards. If Razis’s books could truly fetch a million gold coins, no one would call him a traitor or a fool—they would say it was the Almighty’s blessing.

A million—what did that mean? It could rebuild a nation. Razis stood there, but his expression had gradually calmed.

Of course, not for the phantom million gold coins. He realized what the boy was getting at.

Everything has a price—though the price need not be gold, nor even something visible or tangible. If Razis agreed, what would he sacrifice for those coins? Not merely books—more: his honor, his dignity.

Razis fell silent. If someone truly placed such a reward before him, he would accept—just as this boy did. Let them call his past kindness hypocrisy, his greed insatiable, his demands an abuse of a minor favor, his character suspect—not only toward Saracens, but toward Christians too: his loyalty to friends, brothers, and sovereign—he would not care, would not change his mind or actions.

He came here for one result alone. Even if he did not know whether those books could truly cure the King of Arasal’s leprosy, even that sliver of hope was enough to drive him to spare no effort.

Razis had to admit—in that instant, he wavered. Such sincerity, like beauty, could shake and subdue. Especially when he imagined himself in the boy’s place—he could not be certain he would endure such humiliation and misunderstanding for the Sultan. Sometimes, living humbly is harder than dying nobly.

“But you don’t have a million gold coins,” he said—meaning not coins, but questioning whether the boy had the authority to fulfill his promise.

“I don’t have them now,” Cesar replied with a smile. “But how do you know I won’t have them later?” Compared to Razis’s tension, hesitation, and fury, Cesar remained utterly relaxed. He kept his hands gently on his knees, fingers dangling. From him, not a trace of fear or doubt showed—even as Razis rose, forcing him to look up, his voice remained steady and clear.

“As you said, among the Saracens, those with true talent can become generals, officials, emirs, even Grand Viziers—or Sultans and Caliphs.”

“Then how do you know I cannot repay the debt I owe you here?”

“You are indeed arrogant,” Razis said. “You have no lands, no army—only a squire to a king as young as you, whose life is a candle in the wind, ready to snuff out at any moment. Beneath your feet are not solid rock, but loose sand… yet you still—”

He suddenly fell silent. “Look at what I’ve done tonight… Christian, I still believe I will regret this decision. I will lend you those few books. You may copy them—but you must not leave my house. And if you truly use them to heal your brother and sovereign, remember—you owe me.”

“I remember,” Cesar said. After a moment’s thought, he pulled from his robe a gold chain bearing a cross, set with a large ruby. This chain had once been worn by Baldwin IV. When Count Etienne vanished, he had sent Cesar to gather intelligence and gifted him this gold cross and a sable fur cloak, hoping they might save him from death or capture.

Gifts given are not taken back. Cesar had carefully preserved both items. Until this mission—he had reluctantly agreed to travel in disguise. From clothing to ornaments, all were Saracen—except this gold cross.

“I offer this as collateral,” he said. “Do not sell or give it away. When you believe I have fulfilled my vow, come to me—with this token.”

“Will you fulfill all my requests?”

“I cannot promise that,” Cesar said frankly. “But I promise I will spare no effort.”

This time, Razis fell silent for a long while. Most thought he would retract—but he still reached out and took the cross.

If Cesar had promised to fulfill any wish, he would have refused.

“I’ll have my servant show you to my house,” Razis said. “He’ll show you where the books are. Copy them—but leave before dawn. And don’t spread word of this—I would be shamed.”

He spoke plainly. Cesar naturally agreed. When they left the room, Razis finally revealed a troubled expression. “The Almighty should never have let such a child be born in a Christian castle,” he muttered.

“But what good would it do if the Almighty had placed him in Aleppo or Damascus?” Laila waved her hand, signaling the “Qiyan” to resume singing, music, and dance. She glided toward Razis, replacing the previous “Qiyan,” and gently drew his head into her arms.

“Do you think any of Sultan Nuradin’s three sons are worthy of your service?”

Razis fell silent. Indeed—he hated Christians, yet he could not deny the young King of Arasal had already revealed extraordinary brilliance. In recent negotiations, he had shown mercy and gentleness unseen in previous kings.

Nuradin’s three sons… forgive me—if such a pearl fell into their hands, it would be crushed into dust within days. “I refuse to believe the Almighty would treat the Saracens so cruelly,” he muttered. Razis’s longer, stronger hand, finer than any woman’s, stroked his head. In this gentle comfort, he soon closed his eyes.

Razis did not know that after he fell into deep sleep, Laila left the room. She entered another chamber, sat before her vanity, wiped off her makeup, then began coating her body and face with dark ointment—every inch thoroughly applied. She used a special solution to temporarily dye her hair brown, then braided and tied it.

Next, she shed her shimmering silk, donned a coarse black tunic, wrapped herself in a cloak, and pulled up her hood. When she stepped barefoot from the house, she had become a complete Nubian woman—stripped of all distinguishing features, so utterly transformed that even face-to-face, no one would guess she was Laila, Damascus’s most famed “Qiyan.”

(End of Chapter)