Chapter 146: Resolution (Two Chapters Combined)

With Kamar making this conclusion, what followed became much simpler.

The Viceroy of Damascus, Hilku, is now one step away from rebellion. Any decree issued by Sultan Nuradin or his son, directed toward Egypt, might as well have sunk into the sea—utterly silent. His agents left in the city were already in an awkward position; moreover, the one who killed him was an Assassin, not someone with personal grudges or conflicting interests—making it even harder to pinpoint the killer, since what brought him to death was merely a “weapon.”

Has he not made enemies in this city? The merchants plundered and slaughtered, the Isaians who served him only to be betrayed, the Saracens who blamed him for Hilku’s actions…

So he was quickly placed in a coffin. People hired his servants to perform the purification rites and subsequent funeral arrangements. After a brief and meager burial, the crowd gathered, pleading with Kamar to choose a new reliable agent for Damascus before he departed.

“Why would you think of choosing me?” Raziis scrutinized Kamar with suspicion. They were classmates, yes, and even close friends—but that didn’t stop them from playing tricks on each other: “I’m not clever, nor hardworking. I have no desire for power. I only wish to spend the next few decades comfortably in the arms of ‘Qiyan.’” Even his decade-long dedication to collecting and copying books was merely to fulfill his ancestor’s lifelong wish.

Though Raziis had received divine revelations from the Prophet, he never wished to join the army or the court. He was perfectly content with his current life and desired no change.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Kamar said, sitting across from him. A small table between them held delicate pastries and candied fruits, along with two water pipes. Smoke curled upward through the colorful stained-glass windows, like the veils of dancing courtesans spinning in the air—yet the room held only the two of them, no servants, no slaves. After all, this was their rare, precious moment of relaxation, especially for Kamar.

Raziis still didn’t want to replace these servants—so he wouldn’t leave anyone nearby to overhear what shouldn’t be heard.

“Damascus never needed a master,” Kamar understood the current situation clearly.

Damascus’s social strata could be divided into three tiers. The highest were officials, scholars, and generals; the second tier, merchants, artisans, and farmers—Damascus was not merely a city, but also included the rugged peaks and open wastelands around it; the third tier were Christians, Isaians, and the extremely delicate group—the city’s guards. They were unpopular among the people, even regarded as the wolfhounds driven by the first and second tiers. They even had a unique prefix: shuār, meaning “malicious,” revealing just how infamous they were.

Yet all three tiers shared one identical desire—they uniformly despised the taxes and laws imposed by the Sultan or Caliph, and longed for Damascus to become an autonomous city, like Florence in Apennine or Laon among the Franks.

But such demands could never be satisfied in the Saracen world—beneath the Sultan, there were only slaves. Even the Grand Vizier and Emir could not escape this curse, let alone Damascus’s mere merchants.

In fact, over a hundred years ago, the people of Damascus had risen in several rebellions that tormented the Caliph. He could not abandon the city, yet their stubbornness remained a thorn in his throat.

The people of Damascus only became obedient after Nuradin’s conquest—but clearly, this compliance would not last long. Thus, if Kamar placed someone like Hilku or Saladin here, the outcome would surely be disastrous—it would be like pouring a cup of ice water into a pot of oil that appeared calm but was boiling beneath, instantly causing flames to erupt. On that day, Damascus might fall into chaos even before Aleppo.

Precisely because of this, a mediocre, unambitious man would be accepted by the people of Damascus.

“Before the situation in Aleppo is settled, you need make no decisions. Even the bandits outside the city and the Isaians within—if they wish to use their soldiers to clear the thorns along the trade routes, let them. Don’t interfere, don’t suppress them. If they offer you gifts, accept them. But don’t meddle with taxes. Even if they delay or omit payments, it doesn’t matter. After all, that money doesn’t belong to you—it belongs to the Sultan.”

“If the future Sultan is a man like Nuradin, only the people of Damascus will suffer…”

“What if he isn’t?”

“Then you needn’t worry. They’ll refuse the Sultan’s orders on your behalf. These people aren’t foolish enough to welcome a stranger they can’t control.”

“You speak in a way that’s truly discouraging,” Raziis protested. “At university, my studies weren’t worse than yours. I, too, received the Prophet’s revelations in the mosque. If needed, I’d mount a horse, wield a curved blade, and fight Christians for the glory of the Almighty.”

“But you have no ambition,” Kamar bluntly pointed out. “You may be pious, diligent, even wise—but you lack the drive to rise. You’re not that kind of person. You can’t understand their thoughts. Once pulled into the whirlpool, you’ll be shattered.”

In fact, Nuradin had once mentioned Raziis’s name, wanting him to serve in the court of Aleppo—but Kamar had managed to refuse.

“I told him: if you were by his side, you might become a fine physician, a warrior, or an official—but never a competent minister. Don’t think merely doing your job well is enough. If you block someone’s path, they won’t hesitate to sabotage your work, frame you, and have you thrown into prison or executed.”

At that point, everything would be over. The matter—and you.

But now, Damascus is indeed a peaceful place for you to live out your days. If the new Sultan sends a Viceroy, don’t worry—simply hand over your authority calmly. Let the people of Damascus handle what comes next.”

“What if they rally behind me to oppose the new Viceroy?”

“Then come to Aleppo.”

“Are you sure?”

Kamar fell silent. “…If you truly refuse…”

“Forget it,” Raziis said, placing a honeyed apricot in his mouth and chewing slowly, tasting only bitterness. He knew why Kamar had chosen him—because there was simply no one else left.

Hilku’s former agent had proven how disastrous it was to entrust the city to a man of low character. If Kamar refused to point to someone, once he left, the people of Damascus would fight over the position until the city tore itself apart.

“And you? Will you return to Aleppo?”

“If I could stay in Damascus, I’d be the agent myself,” Kamar said. “But I must return. It’s my duty, my obligation, my right. Until I see Sultan Nuradin forever asleep in his resting place, my heart will never find peace.”

At the mention of Sultan Nuradin, Raziis lifted his head: “The Christian knight I was told to probe… he came to me. How did you know he’d come?”

“I heard some things about him—in the Christian castle, I saw with my own eyes how much the Christian king loved and trusted him,” Kamar could understand this—though a Sultan like Nuradin, or a Caliph like Atid, would never have the sons of Grand Viziers or Emirs beside them as children (their fathers wouldn’t allow it).

But from childhood, they were accompanied by slaves of similar age—slaves purchased from slave merchants or markets, just like the women in the Sultan’s harem. They were like dogs or birds, always at the prince’s side. Though their lives were controlled by others, once the prince became Sultan or Caliph, they could gain power—even if they could never become true landowners, never be allowed to own property, even their lives and honor belonging to their master—they often stood second only to the ruler himself.

Their loyalty to the Sultan or Caliph was unquestionable. After all, no one else had ever given them the same trust and regard as the master they’d grown up with. If someone else ascended, they faced only death—or worse.

But in the Christian court, this rarely existed. Their roots lay elsewhere. Even if the Count of Edessa had lost his lands, as long as he bore his name and coat of arms, he could still be a honored guest of other monarchs, and hundreds of nobles would seek to befriend him. Especially since he was young, handsome, and the “Chosen One”—where couldn’t he build a new future?

Kamar, who had spent his life in the treacherous intrigues of the Sultan’s court, found it hard to believe such a pure and kind man truly existed—his compassion extended not only to his king, brothers, and fellow Christians, but even to his enemies.

In Bosra, he’d heard this young knight had visited the local library and managed to borrow several books on leprosy to read and copy.

He wasn’t sure whether this was a performance for others, or genuine sincerity—and if genuine, how firm it truly was. He sent a servant to tell Raziis: if this Christian knight came seeking those precious medical texts, he should humiliate, belittle, and question him—see whether he would rage, be ashamed, or feel guilt…

Raziis continued, without restraint, recounting every detail of the night before.

“It’s so strange,” Raziis said. “You know? I thought even one-tenth of what I said would have made a boy his age turn and walk away immediately—even his older servant looked furious. Yet he acted as if he hadn’t heard a word…” He gestured in astonishment. “He simply sat down before me and offered to buy my books with a gold coin.”

“Of course, when I first heard that, I thought he was mocking me. But then he kept raising the price—until he reached one million gold coins. One million—enough to buy Damascus itself. My anger vanished then. I suddenly understood,” he looked at Kamar, “he wasn’t showing off his wealth—he was showing his unwavering resolve. To achieve his goal, he’d convert everything into tangible assets. My books, my dignity, my life—all had a price. So did his. That’s why he didn’t care about my words.”

“I admit I felt fear then. I couldn’t understand—just a few books. He couldn’t even be sure they’d help him. Yet he threw all his chips down like a reckless gambler,” he took a deep breath. “I didn’t dare gamble with him—he won. Was he always like this?”

“I didn’t know before, but I know his brother, King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, is indeed a bold gambler. Yes, you probably don’t know the full details of the Battle of the Sea of Galilee,” Kamar slowly drew on his water pipe. “They defeated a Sultan’s army ten times their size—with just over a hundred knights, a few hundred attendants, and armed servants. The decision to fight came from their young king—and perhaps from the knight we now see.”

“He is indeed arrogant,” Raziis nodded. “But such a man isn’t the type to turn kindness into a conspiracy. Though good men can do bad things, using the death of a great ruler as a pawn has crossed the line—whether for Saracens or Christians.”

Kamar nodded. “He told me himself he performed the Sultan’s purification rites without seeking reward. We never promised to repay him. He acted only out of human compassion for another human being.”

“A Christian knight with great love?” Raziis laughed, finding the idea amusing. “Then why did you ask me to do this, Kamar? I’m not prying into your secrets—if you won’t answer, don’t. I’m just curious.”

The boy was a Christian. If he were a young Saracen, even a Kurd, or a Nubian, Kamar would assume his friend intended to draw him into the Sultan’s court. But he was a Christian—the enemy of the Saracens. Though some Christian knights had served the Sultan or Caliph, he was also the envoy and close advisor of King Baldwin IV, and the heir to the Count of Edessa—his chance of betraying his faith and lord to switch sides was vanishingly small.

“I was entrusted by someone else,” Kamar said. He didn’t name the person. Raziis wisely didn’t press. But Kamar’s thoughts drifted back to his time in Jerusalem, when he received a secret letter from Cairo, Egypt—when he was uncertain of his own path, unsure where to go.

He had once served under Sultan Nuradin, the Light of the Saracen Faith, and had been deeply devoted to him.

After Nuradin’s death, he looked around and found no one who could match him—not even half as worthy. Nuradin’s three sons couldn’t even compare to the new King of Jerusalem.

He couldn’t go to Jerusalem.

Compared to the Saracen court, Christian lands were harsher, more dangerous. Their obsession with bloodline and surname meant even the son of a common farmer or artisan struggled to gain a foothold in their power circles—let alone a Saracen. He’d go there and likely end up as fuel for their pyres.

Then, in the following days, he received a letter from Saladin. He’d had little contact with Saladin himself—mostly dealing with his uncle Hilku. And Hilku was merely a crude warrior. He might have petty schemes, but in Kamar’s eyes, they were childish tricks.

They had marched south to become masters of Egypt only because Nuradin was old, unable to control these two unruly hawks. Once released, he could no longer recall them.

In Kamar’s heart, they were outright traitors.

Had Nuradin not lost the Battle of the Sea of Galilee and died, he might have conquered Jerusalem and then invaded Egypt. Kamar had even imagined himself in Nuradin’s army, watching the Sultan’s eunuchs strangle those two rebels with bowstrings.

Now one of the rebels had written to him—and the letter’s content was blunt, straightforward. Saladin was trying to recruit him. When Kamar read those lines, he laughed aloud. It was ridiculous.

How could Saladin think a member of the most prominent and arrogant family in Aleppo, whose lineage had served there for generations, would submit to a Kurd?

But this wasn’t the only letter. Every night afterward, another letter appeared on his desk, each different.

Sometimes Saladin merely described the scenery along the Nile, the people’s lives, and his nascent new army. Sometimes he introduced Kamar to Cairo, his new capital, where he was building a massive fortress as the first line of defense against the Christians. He spoke of Aleppo, of Nuradin’s three sons, of his nephew in Mosul, even of the Armenian prince and the Byzantine emperor. Some of his analyses surprisingly aligned with Kamar’s own.

But the parts that contradicted his views made Kamar impulsively want to unroll parchment, dip his quill, and write his opinions to send back to Saladin. Yet such an act would mean admitting he was willing to serve Saladin. He barely restrained himself.

While they were in Bosra, the secret letter ended with a small request from Saladin: go see that black-haired, blue-eyed boy.

Saladin had heard the boy’s lineage had been revealed—he was the only son of Count Joscelin III of Edessa. Suddenly, from an unknown slave, he became one of the heirs to the Four Holy Kingdoms (according to Christian claims)—a shocking turn.

But unlike Kamar’s assumption, Saladin didn’t believe this was a deliberate move by King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem. Even without this identity, the boy’s future would be brilliant and noble.

But Saladin wrote that he had spoken with the boy and sensed qualities in him no ordinary man possessed. Yet under such sudden change, even an experienced man might reveal ugly flaws. Could this youth withstand such a test?

Raziis joked that Kamar’s intense interest in the Christian knight meant he wanted to recruit him into the Aleppo court. Kamar had no such plan—but he couldn’t help feeling Saladin’s attention toward this young man was excessive. This Kurd, who might one day become a Sultan, might indeed harbor unusual intentions—perhaps like a dragon, drawn to treasure and wanting to claim it for himself—just as Nuradin once was.

Of course, if the boy disappointed him, he’d discard him without mercy.

“If he were a Saracen, I’d be pleased and relieved. But he’s a Christian,” Raziis murmured as if to himself. “Have you never considered letting him die during this mission?”

Though King Baldwin IV would surely rage. Given the boy’s nature, we might even face a brutal war. But so what? Christians and Saracens are destined to slaughter each other until the end of the world.”

“…He’s still just a man,” Kamar said after a pause. “And our journey hasn’t reached its end. Let’s wait until we reach Aleppo.”

——————————

“In three days and two nights, the Christian embassy will arrive in Aleppo,” the First Lady said calmly. Her eunuch stood silently beside her.

Salih, the youngest son of Sultan Nuradin, curled in his mother’s arms, wide-eyed, watching the First Lady—within the Sultan’s harem, there was a peculiar rule.

Aside from the First Lady, Second Lady, and Third Lady, every concubine and female slave in the palace, though technically the Sultan’s property, had only one true master—the First Lady. She decided who served the Sultan, unless he personally chose someone (a rare occurrence). How often they served, when they served, even whether they could conceive—all depended on her will.

If a concubine served the Sultan without the First Lady’s permission, she could be executed for adultery—a rare punishment, but if it happened, the Sultan would not pursue it.

Salih was born under the First Lady’s watch, and he and his mother were her natural allies.

Salih’s mother held him tightly. He might not understand, but she knew: the night before, Count Joscelin III of Edessa and his wife had been moved from their isolated prison fortress to the Aleppo Castle—and that same night, the First Lady’s eunuch had taken poison to end their lives.

(End of Chapter)