Chapter 147: The Sultan

This was Geoffrey’s second time entering Aleppo; the first time he came here, he arrived as an envoy of the Knights Templar to pay homage to Sultan Nur ad-Din and negotiate the purchase of Edessa.

Although when he stood before the Sultan and made this request, Nur ad-Din had merely laughed and flatly refused them, he had still generously called them distant guests and offered them lavish hospitality.

This experience left Geoffrey with an indelible impression: the ancient city, the bustling streets, the throngs of people, the majestic castle, the solemn Sultan, the submissive ministers, and the opulent chambers—bronze chandeliers, pools and fountains everywhere—but even while staying here, they could not feel safe. After all, they were enemies of the Sultan—Crusader knights—as one of the accompanying monks had said, like huddling in a dragon’s lair, surrounded by glittering gold, translucent gems, and priceless scrolls, yet overshadowed always by the dragon’s vast wings and the fire and smoke it belched forth with a roar.

This visit came at an even more dangerous and unfavorable time.

The Lady of Aleppo and the princes had not wished for too many to know that Sultan Nur ad-Din’s coffin would enter the city today; the people walking beside them cast only curious glances, but this was after all a thriving city, and the presence of Christians in the procession was not surprising. They passed silently through the city with the ministers and generals come to greet them, arriving before the Triple Lion Gate of Aleppo Castle.

Did Aleppo Castle have only one entrance? Yes, on the southern wall—a long, steep staircase without ramparts led to the first gate—after all, this massive structure stood atop a height, and the surrounding crowds had already been cleared away. The eldest and second princes, both adult, stepped out with their attendants and soldiers; their faces bore genuine grief—at least it seemed so—and as soon as they saw the coffin draped in coarse black cloth, tears streamed down their cheeks. They drew their daggers and slashed their cheeks.

Crusaders had done the same when mourning the death of Amalric I, though they followed the ancient Roman tradition, while these men followed Turkic custom; then they competed to place their bloodied hands upon the coffin, leaving streaks on the black fabric—faint but thick with the scent of blood.

The youngest prince was held in the arms of a eunuch; a servant symbolically cut his arm—and wiped the blood onto the black cloth—he was too young to control his strength.

Next, Sultan Nur ad-Din’s body would be mourned and commemorated by relatives and friends in the great hall of Aleppo Castle; their clerics would chant sutras for him, his sons would repair and change his garments. The First Lady, Second Lady, and Third Lady would each place simple burial items into his coffin—usually those he had loved most in life: daggers, rings, books, and the like.

In addition, the Sultan’s favorite steed would also be buried with him underground. Although Saracen doctrine did not advocate human sacrifice, when an old ruler passed and a new one rose, some young women in the Sultan’s harem always died silently. You could see this as the First Lady—future Empress Mother—cleansing the harem, or as their sincere concern for their husband and sovereign: they truly believed these slaves could ascend to paradise with the Sultan and continue serving him there.

Of course, personal grudges were surely involved as well.

The Christian delegation was stationed behind the second gate.

Aleppo Castle was not merely a military fortress; it was also the Sultan’s outer court and inner harem, and thus vast beyond measure—its area equaled roughly nine Arassalos.

Without having come here in person, it was hard to grasp the sheer scale; those visiting for the first time could scarcely believe their eyes— their quarters lay between the second and third great gates; from above, they could see the entire Aleppo Castle: a boundless sea of stone, layered walls like fine brushstrokes in a miniature painting, courtyards filled with green and blue, golden or white domes like pearls scattered throughout, shimmering in the glow of the setting sun—it was no longer a castle, but a city.

“I can hardly imagine how many lives, how much time, how much Qian Cai it would take to capture this place…” sighed a Crusader knight.

“Even if we poured every army from Francia and Apennia into this, we might still fail to take it. You might move the stones blocking the road, but how do you move a towering mountain?” his companion added.

“Don’t speak such gloomy words,” another knight countered. “How many strong fortresses or citadels have fallen not by their own weakness, but by outside forces? Now Sultan Nur ad-Din is dead, and his legacy will be divided among his three sons. If even one of them develops greed, even if they pour iron into the walls and cast gates from brass, and summon devils to serve them, it will only hasten the collapse of this fortress.”

“We’ve seen the three princes today—who do you think will be the final victor?”

“That’s beyond our guesswork. The Saracens are absurd and impulsive in these matters. In Francia, the eldest son would unquestionably become Sultan. But according to their faith, they choose the most capable—this is awkward. These two—no, three princes won’t settle this without a proper fight.”

“That’s good for us.”

“It might also be bad,” said a more sober knight. “When will the Sultan’s funeral end?”

“The ceremony may last seven to eight days. Afterward, he will be buried in the place he chose—perhaps behind a temple in the city—only then will the victor be decided.”

“Do you think they’ll settle territorial claims through negotiation?”

“Perhaps.”

“Do we have to wait for the victor to emerge before we can complete our mission?”

“Yes.” A knight touched his face. “I only hope the new Sultan will be a man who keeps his word.”

(End of Chapter)