Chapter 145: On the Road to Aleppo (10)

The officer returned to his residence.

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

Damascus belonged to Sultan Nur ad-Din; even the former Viceroy Shirkuh possessed only the authority granted to him by the Sultan, a power the Sultan could reclaim at any moment—perhaps along with his life.

He was merely one of Shirkuh’s officers; though he possessed talents and courage beyond ordinary men, he was not the best. Otherwise, he would now be in Cairo, Egypt, not Damascus. When Shirkuh ordered him to stay behind to manage Damascus, he knew he had been abandoned.

Whether in the future he was favored by the Sultan—unlikely—or suspected, exiled, and executed, it was all fated.

But how could he accept it? He had followed Shirkuh since early days, watching the Kurd rise step by step from a hired tribal cavalryman to become the Sultan’s general and minister.

And when Shirkuh rose to power, he never forgot his kin and friends—he elevated them one by one, placing these pawns in key positions. The officer was one of them—only one. Shirkuh’s greatest trust lay with his nephew Saladin, the young man who, upon arriving in Aleppo, won Sultan Nur ad-Din’s favor; he truly deserved it.

Yet to acknowledge Saladin’s worth was one thing; to envy him was another. The officer’s age matched Saladin’s, and he stood at the prime of his life. He had also heard that Shirkuh had become the Grand Vizier to Caliph al-Adid of the Fatimid Dynasty. Everyone knew the Fatimids were a dying giant, barely clinging to the dust of history, ready to collapse at any moment—only Shirkuh and Saladin’s will determined when.

And when it fell, its rich, succulent flesh would feed them for years—they would seize the vast empire and all it represented. The officer burned with resentment; he had even once wildly considered abandoning Damascus to join Shirkuh, believing he could at least become a true master of a city.

But Shirkuh might recall old ties; Saladin would not. He had seen Saladin’s methods. Though this hypocrite always appeared humble, tolerant, and merciful, had he truly been so, he could never have become Shirkuh’s chosen heir.

Saladin would kill him.

And if he wished to remain here, he must find a way to dispel the Sultan’s suspicions—but he was no Kamal, a scion of generations of court servants in Aleppo. He carried a deadly identity: Shirkuh’s confidant.

If the current Sultan were still the wise Nur ad-Din, he might kneel before him, plead for mercy, expose Shirkuh and Saladin’s crimes. Even if the Sultan doubted he had truly abandoned his former master, he might still grant him a chance. He believed he was no worse than Shirkuh.

But the greatest trouble came: no one expected that a campaign, universally deemed well-prepared and full of momentum, would break its banner before even seeing the walls of Arsal, collapsing at the Sea of Galilee. They suffered a crushing defeat—and Sultan Nur ad-Din was dead.

Nur ad-Din’s three sons were all mediocre, unworthy of his life’s legacy—but perhaps this was not entirely bad. Shirkuh had often complained to him: around the three princes swarmed greedy, short-sighted fools. If he bribed them, satisfied their insatiable appetites, many crises could be resolved.

The problem? He had no money. When leaving Damascus, Shirkuh seemed to foresee his own fate—he took everything he could carry, leaving behind only an empty city.

But given enough time, he could amass great wealth, as Shirkuh had. Yet why had he been given so little time? This time was not even enough to uncover the tangled, intricate web of hidden and open alliances within the city.

He did not know who was friend or foe, who was bound by secret yet unshakable political or economic ties—this was not something one could learn by watching or listening. People could remain silent, or feign loyalty.

He stood like a man without a net, without a boat, without hooks or rods, staring helplessly at the golden river of Damascus, watching others greedily haul out riches while his hands remained empty.

Using the Ismailis as tools and puppets to do what one could not do oneself had become a common tactic among monarchs and nobles.

He had seen Shirkuh do it—even when exposed, the risk was merely a scolding from the Sultan, followed by the execution of a few scapegoats.

Would the Ismailis refuse, or pretend obedience under such risk? No. The officer found them even more foolish than camels crossing the desert.

When camels suffer extreme thirst in the desert and see a mirage, they still stretch their necks, sniffing the air to judge if water exists, whether it’s worth the effort to turn, walk, or run. But the Ismailis? Place a chest of gold before them, and they would do anything—even weave the rope to hang themselves.

Besides, the merchants of Damascus were so wealthy—they were mighty bulls. All he needed to do was slit the artery in their thigh and catch a cup of blood—no serious harm, and they would recover fully in two or three years. Yet this sum would secure his later life, even allow him to rise further.

But Kamal’s gaze today had stirred a flicker of unease in him.

He had heard of Kamal’s name—a brilliant “scholar.” People said he possessed eyes and ears that could discern lies from truth. He was also a lone minister under Nur ad-Din, obeying no command but the Sultan’s. He showed little interest in wealth or beauty—the most difficult kind of man to handle.

The officer was considering securing more escape routes. If Nur ad-Din’s eldest son—or any of the other two—became the new Sultan, and Kamal remained in office, he would flee immediately—to Egypt or elsewhere.

As a seasoned general in his prime, he knew many Sultans or Emirs would welcome him.

Of course, the best outcome would be if the turmoil in Aleppo led to Kamal’s downfall or death—then he would no longer need to worry. He could simply follow his original plan.

Rarely, this soldier, more accustomed to charging across battlefields, pondered long and repeatedly—from the crimson clouds of dusk to the high moon. He leapt from his low bed, only then realizing he was drenched in sweat—the sticky, suffocating feeling unbearable.

He shouted for his servants to prepare the bath. He would bathe.

Within this former palace of Caliphs, Sultans, and Viceroys stood several exquisite baths: towering domes, marble walls, multi-leafed doors, gilded pillars and bases, cold pools, hot pools, steam rooms, massage chambers—all present.

Equally diligent slaves worked ceaselessly in the boiler room, ensuring the master could enjoy a luxurious bath at any moment.

Though the Saracens did not favor excessive indulgence, bathing was an exception—it was a religious ritual for them, a means of purifying body and soul. No matter how often or how they bathed, it was doctrinally acceptable, never criticized.

The officer first washed himself with cold water and soap, then entered the warm pool. When the scalding water reddened his skin, he leapt into the cold pool. Pores opened by steam snapped shut under the shock, triggering a faint, pleasant tremor.

After enduring a few breaths, he stepped out of the cold pool and returned to the warm one. This time, the soft, scalding waves soothed him more deeply, thoroughly. He felt weightless, euphoric. He lingered in the water until a slave softly reminded him. Reluctantly, he stepped out and headed for the steam room.

The steam room was thick with vapor. Naked, he lay on a smooth marble slab, repeatedly cleaned and heated until it lost all chill—it felt like solid sunlight, radiating heat that seared every inch of his skin.

Now, a slave should approach to scrape off dead skin and grime, then give him a full-body massage.

He had a female slave exceptionally skilled in this—a stout Nubian. Though not beautiful, she was full-figured, with large hands and feet, strength like a man—perfect for his massage slave’s requirements.

The officer turned his head, glancing at the Nubian woman approaching through the thick steam. She looked unchanged, yet now carried an elusive allure—she wore only a linen loincloth, her upper body bare. The officer recalled the ripe, plump berries he had stolen from a vineyard under night mist—round, supple, elastic, faintly wrinkled, tempting his teeth and tongue.

His heart stirred. He wondered whether to act first, then relax. But her hands had already gently pressed his shoulders, fingers strong and deft, gripping the trapezius muscle connecting neck and shoulder. A sharp ache surged—he abandoned his thought, groaned, relaxed his body, awaiting a thorough, exhilarating stimulation—not the kind others knew, but no less potent than what his Nubian slave offered.

Her skill had improved: pressure, placement, rhythm—all perfect. The officer grew drowsy. He felt one hand tracing his spine upward, fine olive oil and Damascus rose scent blooming across his coarse skin. She glided smoothly to his neck, gently massaging the base of his skull.

Then the second hand settled on that dangerous spot—years of battlefield experience finally screamed a warning in his mind. He wanted to scream, to leap up—but it was a dying man’s delusion. Before he could react, the Nubian woman above him—or rather, Layla disguised as one—had cleanly snapped his neck.

With sufficient strength and knowledge of the human body, even a woman needed little effort to do this. And in a bathhouse, the victim was naked, drowsy from heat, limbs limp—making the task even simpler.

Layla did not leave immediately. She completed the entire massage. Her movements were so secret, swift—even the officer’s servants and slaves standing in the steam room’s corner noticed nothing amiss.

She draped the corpse with a wide linen cloth and told the nearby slave their master wished to rest. No one doubted. The steam room’s heat ensured the body would not stiffen quickly.

By the time the officer’s servants discovered their master dead, Layla had returned to her residence. In her own bath, she washed off the dark ointment beginning to flake and the dye from her hair. With her maid’s help, she dressed and adorned herself in her previous clothes.

When al-Razi awoke, dizzy and disoriented, he found himself still nestled in Layla’s arms. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Not late, my love. We still have most of the night ahead.” Layla replied gently.

What followed needed no words. They indulged in wild revelry; the chaos outside affected them not at all.

Though it sounded absurd, Kamal—merely passing through—had instantly become Damascus’s pillar. The people cared little for Shirkuh’s proxy, nor did they like him; they simply found him too dull to bother with. After all, they had once rebelled against the Sultan (Damascus had once sought its own freedom). Why should they respect a mere officer?

But the proxy’s sudden murder, at such a turbulent time, was indeed troublesome. Fortunately, they need not hunt the killer—the killer had left behind a dagger bearing the mark of “Eagle’s Nest.”

“An Assassin’s blade.”

Kamal said.

(End of Chapter)