Chapter 149: The Sultan

Kamal felt utterly drained.

He had successfully completed the vital task entrusted to him by the Grand Vizier and the First Lady: bringing Sultan Nur al-Din’s sacred body back from distant Alasal to Aleppo.

Though the weather was not yet scorching, and cities along the route had provided them with salt and ice, preventing the Sultan’s body from decaying or swelling remained no easy feat—but he had ensured it suffered minimal damage. Though inevitable dark bluish spots had spread to the corpse’s neck and forehead, when the coffin was opened, all saw still a dignified elder.

Then the Sultan’s three sons wiped their father and sovereign’s face and body, changed his garments, wrapped him in two layers of pure white cotton, and sprinkled incense. The process was not overly difficult; they truly owed gratitude to that Christian knight—but Kamal guessed they had no such thoughts, as the eldest and second princes had already quarreled repeatedly over who should do what.

And behind them stood others—each with their own designs: the Grand Vizier had already aligned with the eldest prince, while the second prince was surrounded by several emirs and the Second Vizier.

Every time night fell and silence settled, Kamal was disturbed—various emissaries came to him, some coaxing, some threatening, urging him to side with their master before the Sultan’s burial.

When they received no answer, they even angrily warned: “Once Nur al-Din lies beneath the earth, a scheming opportunist will only be strangled by a bowstring before the new Sultan’s eyes.”

An opportunist? Kamal had no intention of accepting such a label. No matter his thoughts, he had no desire to kiss the robes of these three incompetent men—not even the youngest prince, Salih.

His guardian was the First Lady, and his biological mother had a father who was a Fatih—both were considerable forces. But one look at the boy, and Kamal knew he had been deliberately raised as a puppet. He had no understanding of his own worth, only saw himself as a noble-born son. He did not crave power—he didn’t even clearly understand what power was.

And the emissaries of the eldest and second princes spoke nothing but lies—yet one thing they said was true: if Kamal chose the third prince, he would one day kneel beneath a woman’s skirts, obeying only her commands.

But were the eldest and second princes worthy rulers? Leaving other flaws aside, the eldest prince was a drunkard—that alone was a fatal weakness. Though they might occasionally sip grape juice for alertness or relaxation, that was all.

The eldest prince… he thought he hid it well. In truth, everyone in the court knew: when he claimed he needed to meditate or pray, he was locked in a small room, drinking wine until he passed out, again and again—his slaves and servants would drag him out and douse him in ice and cold water to bring him back to sense.

His mother had once hoped he would slowly overcome this terrible habit, but the eldest prince disappointed her—he did not improve; instead, he deepened it with age. The day before the Sultan’s burial, Kamal’s spy reported that the Second Lady had stormed into the eldest prince’s palace and erupted into a furious argument with him.

Then the eldest prince struck his mother—a blow that left her face swollen and teeth broken. No need to guess: he had been drunk again that day. Other times could be excused. But if people saw the eldest prince, drunk and reeling, at the funeral of his revered father and sovereign, Sultan Nur al-Din—who would ever acknowledge him, bow to him?

Worse still, this was no mere vice. The eldest prince’s drunkenness and violence against his own mother the day before the burial proved he had lost all self-control. If he became Sultan, one could imagine what kind of ruler they would face—a man lost in endless debauchery and indulgence. Under his rule, how would Aleppo decay? How many secret conspiracies, how many whirlpools of rebellion would rise in the shadows?

You might still say: what of the second prince? He was the one who most resembled Nur al-Din in appearance, and he had always pretended to be generous and magnanimous. He had even declared that after Nur al-Din’s death, they should emulate their forebears (meaning Nur al-Din and his brother) and divide their father’s lands equally, avoiding fratricidal strife.

But was that true? In fact, he had been bribing emirs and Fatih, and under his mother’s—Third Lady’s—support, building his own guard. If he possessed the ability to match such ambition, perhaps it wouldn’t be bad—after all, like Christian kings, the Saracens needed a Sultan who could lead them in conquest.

But all Kamal could do was smile bitterly—recent intelligence reported that Joscelin III was dead.

Joscelin III had once been housed in Aleppo Castle as a special guest. Nur al-Din had said he should be treated as a son or nephew. But this period was brief—perhaps only a few years. In 59, Joscelin II died in a Turkic prison; Nur al-Din seized Edessa, and Joscelin III became useless, his status and treatment plummeting.

In 64, he was moved out of Aleppo Castle—but not immediately imprisoned. Nur al-Din gave him to his second son; Joscelin III and his wife were confined in a castle that had been part of his mother’s dowry.

The events in Alasal—the Christian knight’s act of mercy and compassion in performing the “purification” of Sultan Nur al-Din—had already been reported by Kamal in a letter to all in Aleppo Castle, and the reply had promised due reward to the knight. Here, “all” included the second prince.

In Kamal’s view, since they had promised to return Joscelin III unharmed to his son, as thanks for all he had done for their father, they should have prepared long ago—at least moved Joscelin III and his wife into their own palace for proper care.

But today, when Kamal inquired about this, the second prince calmly replied: “Joscelin III is dead. His wife too—poisoned.”

Kamal was stunned. The second prince, however, showed no concern. Who killed him? Christian? Ismaili? Arab? Why? Humiliation? Betrayal? Revenge? A barrage of questions earned only the second prince’s impatient frown.

He knew nothing, and cared even less. To them, Joscelin III had long been worthless. To show devotion to their father and sovereign, they had no objection to releasing a few useless slaves—but of course, this outcome was their oversight. Still, they could thank the Christian knight in other ways.

“Who doesn’t love women and gold?” the second prince said lightly. “We can give him all of that. Let these Christians take Joscelin III’s corpse back. They were our enemies. I won’t stir up war over two Christians.” He made his stance clear: he had no intention of pursuing this, fearing it might harm his inner circle.

But is this about pursuit or non-pursuit?

Someone murdered a person under your protection within your own castle. Do you think the next poison won’t be slipped into your wine jug?

Kamal felt a sharp pain in his chest, yet could not speak a word. The second prince, however, kept pressing him about the ninety Christian knights—he had heard they had been hired by the Viceroy of Bosra, Shams al-Din.

“If so, would they be willing to serve me?”

Kamal had forgotten how he answered him—or how he had staggered out of Aleppo Castle and returned to his own residence. For the first time, he looked hopefully at his desk, wishing for a sealed letter—but found nothing. When he lay down, he felt Aleppo’s night colder than ever before.

He forced himself to sleep. The next morning came the Sultan’s burial. Sultan Nur al-Din had long decreed he would rest eternally in the Umayyad Mosque—the largest mosque in Aleppo, built in the eighth century.

The Sultan’s coffin would be escorted by his male relatives, officials, and personal guard, circling all of Aleppo once, so he might see once more the land he had loved and defended. Thousands of scholars would walk behind, praying for him. Emirs, viziers, and countless lesser officials could only follow behind the coffin—including Kamal, who had not even been chosen as one of the bearers.

This was revenge from the princes and their backers—he had given no answer, or rather, he had made his decision, but kept it hidden. He could have fled the day before the burial—but he stayed. Even if it meant losing his head, meeting a miserable end, if he did not, his remaining life would know no peace.

The massive procession emerged from the southern gate of Aleppo Castle, marched down the streets, where countless crowds packed every alley, eyes wide, watching Aleppo’s greatest scholar, clad in black robes with a white turban, standing on a high platform, solemnly reciting scripture. Then came the enormous coffin, lifted by sixteen bearers, draped in black and red cloth. Leading the bearers were the two princes most familiar to Aleppo’s people—only Sultan Nur al-Din could be carried by two princes.

Nur al-Din was dead. Only now did the truth settle upon them. No one knew who cried first—but soon, wails spread like plague, rising and falling like tides between Aleppo’s layered walls and houses.

Kamal wept too, deeply mourning his sovereign. He had built such glorious achievements—and left behind not one worthy heir.

Dust rose, the air burned hot. He heard complaints, frowned, and turned toward the sound—a fellow official trailing behind him was muttering curses, for overexcited crowds had shoved into him, knocking him into the procession, then into Kamal.

He apologized to Kamal, but Kamal’s mind was elsewhere. He took a deep breath and realized the funeral procession had grown thin—on both sides surged agitated crowds, moving like slow waves behind the procession.

“Send for help!” Kamal grabbed a man and whispered urgently, “Go ahead and tell the eldest and second princes! Order more guards immediately!”

The man only stared at him—whether he couldn’t hear, couldn’t understand, or simply didn’t dare disturb the princes at this moment—no matter who became the new Sultan, if he angered them now, he wouldn’t just lose power and status—he might lose his life.

Kamal grew desperate. He forgot the princes’ dislike of him and rushed forward. But a Fatih blocked him—a follower of the second prince, who had heard Kamal had refused the second prince’s overture. He shoved Kamal hard into the crowd behind. Kamal fell into the dust, humiliated. He heard a few snickers—he didn’t know who made them.

He screamed in despair—but the change had already come.

Falling seemed a signal. Suddenly, one man burst forward, pressing both hands onto Nur al-Din’s coffin, crying out in ecstatic joy: “I touched it! I touched his coffin! I’ve received blessing!” His cry was like a battle horn. All erupted—rushing forward, frantic, desperate to lay hands on Nur al-Din’s coffin.

Even as the cavalry guards drew swords and raised bows, they could not stop the mob’s reckless charge.

One bearer fell—he was Nur al-Din’s Grand Vizier. He too realized the danger. He turned to the princes—but these noble princes made no timely response—they were only focused on escaping the coffin themselves, desperately reaching out for slaves to pull them free and flee the scene.

More surged forward, trampling the bearers’ bodies, forgetting these were once revered figures no one dared even glance at. They tore off the coffin’s drapes, then pried open the lid. Nur al-Din’s body lay exposed under the sun—thousands of hands reached out, all wanting to touch it.

The Sultan’s personal guards wanted to kill these blasphemers—but they had already covered the entire coffin. If they struck, the blood of these lowly people would defile Nur al-Din’s sacred body. They hesitated a moment—and were swallowed by the tide.

At first, people only touched—but touching was not enough. In an instant, the two layers of burial cloth were ripped away, torn into countless fragments midair, even mere threads snatched up by Aleppo’s people, clutched tightly, taken home as holy relics.

Kamal was nearly mad, watching Nur al-Din’s body slip beyond preservation. He knelt painfully on the ground, praying to Allah and the Prophet for protection. Light shimmered across his body—some scholars suddenly understood.

Some scholars raised the coffin; others erected invisible shields and walls; others unleashed thunderous roars. Aleppo’s most honored and powerful scholar raised his hands—and thunder struck. It pierced the bodies of the reckless, one after another collapsing.

In an instant, chaos ceased. Silence returned to the streets, followed by reason. People stared at each other, bewildered—how had they done such mad things?

The chief scholar’s face was grim, yet he had no words. The people of Aleppo had acted out of excessive love for Nur al-Din—not out of malice to desecrate their great sovereign. Though the result was nearly the same.

He could only order scholars to swiftly gather Nur al-Din’s coffin and remains. “Return to Aleppo Castle,” he said wearily. “Rehold the burial ceremony tomorrow.”

(End of Chapter)