Chapter 145: On the Road to Aleppo (10)

The officer returned to his residence.

This residence was not his, just as Damascus did not belong to him.

Damascus belonged to Sultan Nur ad-Din. Even the previous Viceroy Shirkuh only had the power granted to him by the Sultan, and the Sultan could take back this power whenever he wanted, perhaps with his life attached.

And he was just an officer under Shirkuh's command. Although he also possessed talent and courage that ordinary people could not reach, he was not the best. Otherwise, he should be in Cairo, Egypt, now, not Damascus. When Shirkuh asked him to stay and manage Damascus on his behalf, he knew he had been abandoned.

No matter whether he would be reused by the Sultan in the future—this was unlikely, it was more likely that he would be suspected, exiled, or executed by the Sultan—it was all destined.

But how could he be reconciled? He followed Shirkuh very early. It could be said that he watched this Kurd grow from a tribal cavalryman who was hired to climb up step by step, and finally became the Sultan's general and minister.

And when he became successful, he did not forget his kin and friends. He pulled them up one by one and placed these chess pieces in important positions. The officer was, and only was, one of them—Shirkuh still valued his nephew Saladin the most. That young man got Sultan Nur ad-Din's favor as soon as he came to Aleppo, and he indeed had this qualification.

But acknowledging that Saladin had this qualification was one thing, and being jealous of him was another. The officer's age was the same as Saladin's, and he was in the best years of a man. And he had also heard that Shirkuh had become the Grand Vizier to the Caliph al-Adid of the Fatimid Dynasty. Everyone knew that the Fatimid Dynasty was a giant beast gasping for breath in the dust of history. It could fall at any time, depending only on the will of Shirkuh and Saladin.

And after it fell, those tender and delicious flesh and blood could be eaten by them for a long time. They would possess this vast country and everything it represented. The officer was full of unwillingness. He even once crazily thought about abandoning Damascus and going to Shirkuh's side. He believed that he could at least truly become the master of a city.

But Shirkuh might miss some old feelings, but his nephew Saladin would not. He had seen Saladin's methods. Although this hypocritical guy had always performed very humbly, tolerantly, and mercifully, if he were really like this, he could never have become the successor Shirkuh valued.

Saladin would definitely kill him.

And if he wanted to stay here, he had to find a way to eliminate the Sultan's suspicion of him. But he was not a descendant of a eunuch official who had served the Sultan in the Aleppo palace for generations like Kamal, and he had another fatal identity—Shirkuh's confidant.

If the current Sultan was still the wise Nur ad-Din, he might try to kneel before him to state his case, begging him to forgive himself, and expose the crimes of Shirkuh and Saladin. Even if the Sultan might not believe that he had abandoned his former master, at least he would give him a chance, and he believed he was no worse than Shirkuh.

But the biggest trouble came. No one expected that just a mission that everyone thought was well-prepared and sharp would break its flag before even seeing the walls of Lazarus. They not only encountered a crushing defeat, but Sultan Nur ad-Din also died.

Sultan Nur ad-Din's three sons were all mediocre, not worth his life to entrust. But this might not be a bad thing. Shirkuh had complained to him many times that the people around the three princes were all greedy and short-sighted fools. As long as they tried to bribe them and satisfy their big appetites, many crises could be solved.

The problem was he had no money. When leaving Damascus, Shirkuh seemed to have sensed his future, took away everything that could be taken away, and left him only an empty city.

But if the time was long enough, he could also accumulate a huge fortune like Shirkuh. But who let him stay here for only such a little time? These times were not even enough for him to investigate the intricate and intertwined relationships in the city—this was not something you could know by looking and listening. People could keep their mouths shut or pretend to be something else.

He did not know who was friends with whom, who was enemies with whom, or who had what kind of unspeakable yet unshakable political or economic ties—these were not things one could know just by looking and listening; people could always keep their mouths shut or put on a facade.

Using Isaac-people as tools and puppets to let them do some things he couldn't do had almost become a common means for monarchs and dignitaries of various countries.

He had seen Shirkuh do this. Even if the matter was exposed, the risk he had to bear was just a scolding from the Sultan, and then pushing those scapegoats out to be beheaded.

You want to say that with such a big risk, those Isaac-people would refuse or disobey? Not at all. The officer found that they were even stupider than camels walking in the desert.

When camels in the desert endured extreme thirst, if they saw a mirage, they would still try to stretch their necks to smell if there was moisture in the air to determine whether it was true or false, and whether it was worth spending physical strength to turn, walk, and run. What about those Isaac-people? As long as a box of gold was placed in front of them, they would do anything without hesitation. Even if they were asked to weave a rope to hang themselves, they would do it.

Moreover, the merchants of Damascus were so wealthy. They were strong bulls. All he did was cut the artery on the bull's thigh and take a cup of blood, which wouldn't hurt the muscles and bones. It might only take two or three years for them to recover quickly. And this money was enough to make his second half of life worry-free, and even go further.

It was just that Kamal's eyes today made him feel a trace of worry.

He had heard of Kamal's name. He was an excellent "scholar." People said he had ears and eyes that could distinguish lies from truth. At the same time, he was also a lonely minister under Nur ad-Din. Except for the Sultan's orders, he would not obey anyone's orders, and he was not keen on accumulating wealth, nor did he like beauty. He was the kind of person who was most difficult to deal with.

The officer was also considering preparing more retreats for himself. If any of Sultan Nur ad-Din's eldest son or the other two sons became the new Sultan, and Kamal was still retained, he would immediately find a way to escape and run to Egypt or other places.

As a general in his prime and rich in experience, he believed that there were many Sultans or Emirs who would welcome him.

Of course, the best thing was that the turmoil in Aleppo led to Kamal's loss of power or death, then he wouldn't have to worry anymore. He could just go on according to his previous ideas.

It was very rare that this soldier, who was more accustomed to galloping on the battlefield, thought for a long time, from the clouds filling the sky to the bright moon hanging high. He jumped up from the low couch and realized that he was sweating profusely—that sticky, suffocating feeling made him unbearable.

He immediately called the servants loudly and let them prepare the bathroom. He wanted to bathe.

In this palace that once belonged to the Caliph, Sultan, and Viceroy, there were indeed several exquisite bathrooms, with towering domes, marble walls, multi-lobed hole doors, gilded capitals and plinths, cold water pools, hot water pools, steam rooms, and massage rooms.

Similarly, diligent slaves worked around the clock in the boiler room to ensure that the master here could enjoy comfortable bathing at any time.

Although Saracens did not admire overly decadent enjoyment, bathing was definitely an exception. For them, this was a religious ritual to keep the body and soul clean. No matter how many times a day they washed and how they washed, it was in line with the doctrine and would not trigger criticism.

The officer first simply washed himself with cold water and soap, and then entered the warm water pool. After the boiling hot water made his skin turn red, he jumped into the cold water pool again. The pores that had been steamed open by the heat suddenly tightened after being stimulated, triggering a slight and comfortable tremor.

After enduring a few breaths, he walked out of the cold water pool and returned to the warm water pool. This time, the comfort brought by the soft and scorching water waves was more profound and thorough. He only felt that the whole person was floating like an immortal. He stayed in the pool for a long while until the slave beside him reminded him softly, and then he stepped out of the pool lazily and walked toward the steam room.

The steam room was already filled with water vapor. He lay naked on the smooth marble slab. This slab had been repeatedly cleaned and heated to ensure it no longer had the coldness of stone. It was like a hard sunshine—the heat burst from the inside, making every inch of skin attached to it feel extremely comfortable.

At this time, a slave should step forward to scrape off dead skin and oil, and then give him a full-body massage.

He had a female slave who was very good at this, a sturdy Nubian woman. Although she didn't have a beautiful face, she had a plump figure, large hands and feet, and strength as strong as a man, which just met the officer's requirements for massage slaves.

The officer tilted his head and glanced at the Nubian woman who was walking toward him through the thick steam. She seemed to be the same as before, but had a few more indescribable charms—she only tied a linen cloth around her waist, her upper body was naked, which reminded the officer of the plump berries he had stolen in the vineyard shrouded in night mist—round, flexible, full of elasticity, with some small wrinkles, tempting your teeth and tongue.

The officer's heart moved slightly, thinking about whether to do something first and then relax, but the other party's hands had already pressed on his shoulders gently. Her fingers, powerful and nimble, pinched the triangular muscle connecting the neck and shoulder blades. A burst of soreness came, making the officer dispel the previous thought. He let out a groan, relaxed his limbs, and waited for a hearty stimulation—although it was not the kind of stimulation people were familiar with, the one brought by his Nubian slave would not be inferior to that kind of stimulation.

Her technique had improved again. Whether it was strength, position, or frequency, it was just right, making the officer drowsy. He could feel a palm pushing up along his spine. The top-grade olive oil and the fragrance of Damascus roses bloomed together on the rough skin. She pushed smoothly all the way to the root of his neck and massaged lightly at the back of his head.

Then the second palm also supported that dangerous position—more than ten years of battlefield experience finally sounded a sharp alarm in the officer's mind. He wanted to scream and tried to jump up, but this was just his delusion before death—before he could react, the Nubian woman who was leaning over him, or rather, Laila who was disguised as a Nubian woman, had already neatly broken his neck.

As long as there is enough strength and understanding of the human body, to do this thing, even if it is just a woman—and in the bathroom, the victim is naked and has been steamed by the heat to be drowsy and limp, completing this work is even simpler.

Laila didn't leave immediately, but completed the entire massage process. Her movements were so secret and swift that even the servants and slaves of the officer standing in the corner of the steam room didn't notice anything wrong.

She also covered the deceased with a wide linen cloth and told the slave on the side that their master wanted to rest for a while. No one doubted it. The high temperature of the massage room also ensured that the corpse would not stiffen so quickly.

By the time the officer's servants discovered that their master had long since died, Laila had already returned to her residence. She washed off the dark oil ointment that had begun to fall off and the dye on her hair in her own bathroom, dressed up with the help of her maid, and put on her previous clothes.

When Razi woke up dizzy, he found that he was still leaning in Laila's arms, "What time is it?" he asked.

"Not very late. Dear, we still have half a good night to spend," Laila answered gently.

Subsequent things need not be said. They indulged in revelry, and the chaos outside did not affect them in the slightest.

Although it sounds a bit absurd, Kamal, who was just passing by, instantly became the pillar of the people of Damascus—for this agent left by the Kurd, the people of Damascus didn't care much, but they didn't like him either, just too lazy to do anything to this stupid person—they had once resisted the Sultan (Damascus had once tried to pursue its own freedom), so what reason did they have to look down on a small officer?

But the agent was suddenly killed, and it was such a turbulent time, which was indeed a troublesome thing. Fortunately, they didn't have to look for the murderer. Because the murderer had already left a dagger belonging to the "Eagle's Nest."

"It's an Assassin from the Assassins."

Kamal said.

(End of Chapter)

(End of chapter)