Chapter 152: Breakout

Where are the people you brought?

Faced with this question, Kamal—who was always called an old fox by his political rivals—hesitated for a moment. Indeed, in Aleppo, only a handful could match his acuity, and none could surpass his decisiveness. Since the Sultan’s coffin had first been carried out through the southern gate of Aleppo Castle, he had felt a dread foreboding.

Such a solemn and grand occasion—actually, it should not have been difficult to handle. They had scholars, they had scriptures, and Nureddin had made his own arrangements in life.

Yet they still made a mess of it. At such a time, no matter how defiant a vizier or emir might be, they would hold their breath, bow their heads, and obey—not only out of respect for the ruler and the deceased, but to avoid suspicion and being attacked by all.

As for what happened during the first funeral procession—Kamal saw little evidence of human manipulation—but even if it wasn’t a conspiracy, as one of the heirs, they should have anticipated that, given Sultan Nureddin’s immense popularity among the people, and given the influence of past traditions and the Ismailis and Christians, such an event was possible.

Yet they were utterly unprepared beforehand, and even when signs first appeared, they remained as dull as pigs, helpless and paralyzed, thinking only of their own safety. If this had been a battlefield, he had no doubt they would have abandoned their father’s coffin, the people, and the army to flee.

The funeral the next day disappointed him even more. It was the Grand Vizier and the Grand Scholar who stepped forward to correct the mistakes—not one of the three princes. If you said they were young and inexperienced, what of the King of Jerusalem? And the young knight who came with him? They had only recently defeated Nureddin’s tens of thousands.

Can these two useless wastes truly lead the Saracens against the Crusaders?

When Amalric I died on campaign, Kamal had rejoiced. He saw it as another clear sign of divine favor upon the Saracens, for Nureddin was already old. Amalric I, however, was in his prime. His death not only caused the failure of the Crusaders’ second expedition to Egypt, but also foretold the decline of Jerusalem and other Christian states.

After all, his heir—a young man barely come of age—had contracted leprosy. Even if he had received divine revelation and God’s blessing, his illness had not receded. How many years could he live? Could he even lead an army against the Saracens? This undoubtedly gave the Saracens after Nureddin’s death a precious breathing space.

He didn’t want to say it, but he had to. He had even considered that among Nureddin’s three sons, they need not produce another Sultan like the Light of Faith (Nureddin)—just a ruler who could maintain the status quo would suffice. He himself was only in his fifties; he could wait quietly until a new Sultan matured and then guide him.

Unfortunately, these two princes were utterly useless outwardly, yet inwardly as cunning and ruthless as wolves. Their methods were brutal: they simply divided people into two categories—usable and unusable—and disposed of the latter.

If you confronted them, they might boldly claim their father Nureddin had done the same. But they never considered that Sultan Nureddin was universally recognized as a brave and wise ruler. Even after his great defeat at the Sea of Galilee, no emir or vizier dared defy him while he lived.

Look at those Kurdish uncle and nephew—Shirkuh and Saladin. In Syria, they held high rank and great power, with glorious military achievements—Shirkuh was even Governor of Damascus. Yet even with such authority and merit, after Shirkuh became Grand Vizier to the Fatimid Caliph al-Adid, he still dared not approach Nureddin.

They knew full well that if Nureddin saw them, he would order his soldiers to seize and execute them—and not a single soldier in their own army would raise a weapon against the Sultan for their sake.

These two princes saw only the glittering, illusory surface of glory, dazzled by it, lost in reverie, unaware of the violent whirlpools and profound depths beneath. And ironically, because they were Nureddin’s sons, whether people truly supported them or merely wished to use them as puppets, there were still no few who backed them.

Kamal knew that if he were willing to bow his head, choose one of these two fools, kneel before them, and kiss the hem of their robes, he could preserve his life and family—and perhaps even rise higher, perhaps even become Grand Vizier. But the thought of having to endlessly clean up the messes of the “Sultan” on the throne made him nauseous.

His decision was right.

If he had chosen the eldest or second prince, he would now have to betray his conscience and deal with former colleagues. They might not have been friends—even enemies—but whoever the two princes saw as thorns in their eyes would inevitably be the most upright ministers and generals.

Some among them had not even been in Aleppo (they served as governors and officials in other cities), returning only to complete their final act of loyalty. They likely never imagined that merely refusing the princes’ recruitment would now bring them brutal persecution—or perhaps they had foreseen dismissal or exile, but never death.

Clearly, someone close to the princes had incited them—perhaps those vultures waiting to feast on their flesh.

Kamal had gathered so many together precisely because they had been imprisoned in Aleppo Castle’s dungeons. Even so, several too-stubborn ministers had either been killed by guards in the clashes or had chosen to follow Nureddin into death.

Kamal had no time to mourn them—he first sent his family out of Aleppo, then used every means at his disposal to rescue these men from the dungeons. Fortunately, at this moment, the followers of the eldest and second princes were still killing each other in the Throne Hall, the Audience Hall, and the palaces of the Second and Third Ladies, leaving them temporarily unattended.

The castle was in chaos, hearts trembling. Gold had become the most persuasive thing now—since the princes’ fates were still uncertain, no one knew who would become Sultan. If Kamal spoke to the guards of promotions or rewards, they would sneer. But gold was different. Gold could buy many things, especially when few had faith in the future.

——————

While the Christian knights joyfully stormed the adjacent palace to seize gold and jewels, Kamal brought the survivors inside. Cesar glanced quickly and saw they were almost all men—young and old alike. Some ministers had completely white beards, yet their spirits seemed strong.

The worst cases were those who had been tortured. Cesar saw obvious mutilations—he knew the Saracens had people with extraordinary abilities, called scholars; in their culture, healing and combat were not rigidly separated: one could be both physician and warrior. “Do any of you have ‘scholars’?”

“Yes,” Kamal said. Without these men, he could never have brought out those who had been tortured. Damaged limbs could not be restored, but at least the bleeding had been stopped, and they could move on their own.

“Once we start riding, we may not stop again,” Cesar reminded Kamal. Kamal nodded silently. To gain the Crusaders’ mercy and aid was already an unexpected blessing.

Before stepping through this door, he had expected to spend hours persuading this young knight with his eloquence. After all, the knight should have been overjoyed to welcome his father and mother—yet now he faced only this tragedy.

Kamal brought him the bones of his two relatives not as a favor, but as reparation. He was no fool; he never dreamed of bargaining with him. He only hoped this might slightly soften the blow of this devastating news—and he held this desperate hope because along the way, he had observed Cesar to be consistently rational and calm.

Even if Cesar fell into a rage over his parents’ deaths, Kamal had prepared to extinguish his hatred with his own blood—only asking that Cesar quickly remember his promise to the Christian King Baldwin IV. Compared to the dead, what mattered more was himself and the knights.

He had never imagined Cesar would make his decision so swiftly, so precisely.

Cesar had already cast aside all complex thoughts—the deaths of Count Joscelin III of Edessa and his wife, the Saracens’ plea for help, or the reckless acts of Nureddin’s sons.

Though he had never experienced it, he had read countless times in history—such explosive, sudden power struggles could instantly destabilize a city, even a nation. And they were infidels, enemies—they could expect no protection from either side, and might instead become targets of all. Their only task now was to escape this place as quickly as possible; everything else could wait.

He had to thank Kamal. If Kamal had brought only that sorrowful news, Cesar had only two choices. First, risk total annihilation to search the palace complex—nine times the size of Jerusalem—for two bodies with no precise location or distinguishing features. Second, abandon everything, take nothing, and leave immediately.

If he had done so, returning to Jerusalem, he would face endless accusations—even the knights who escaped unscathed would resent him, for he would have made them out to be cowards, willing to endure such shame just to drag them out of Aleppo.

Now Kamal had solved his greatest problem. Their only possible—and necessary—choice was to leave at once.

This place would become a meat mill.

Cesar agreed with Kamal. He did not believe Nureddin’s two sons could control their emirs and Fatihis. Their soldiers could not possibly be restrained by public opinion or law as soldiers would be a thousand years later—even with strict orders. When they saw women, gold, and silk, would they remember?

Once looting, rape, and murder began, the evil within men would swell without limit. At that point, not even Nureddin’s sons—no, not even if Sultan Nureddin himself returned to earth and stood before them—would stop them. They might slash at him without hesitation.

Just as preparations were nearly complete, the knights returned. Kamal looked over and saw they had truly obeyed Cesar’s orders: they took only precious jewels and gold coins. None carried women. A few bold female slaves followed behind, begging the knights to take them.

But these knights were made of iron. Facing their pleas, they drew their swords. They did not immediately fall to blood only because the knights were preparing to depart and wished to avoid further trouble.

“If I were you, I’d hide quickly,” Kamal said—just that brief warning.

He brought about forty people, forty-one including himself. The Christian knights could easily take them along—half the squires or knights could simply carry one extra person on their mounts.

This meant they would have to transfer part of their loot to other knights or packhorses.

The Saracens were tense. Even if they hadn’t been Fatihis themselves, they had dealt with many. They knew Christian knights valued their private property as fiercely as Saracen soldiers. And yet they made this sacrifice not to save Christians, but to rescue former enemies. To their astonishment, not a single knight protested or refused. Their absolute obedience made the subsequent actions flow as smoothly and swiftly as water.

When Cesar pulled Kamal onto his horse, less than an hour had passed. Kamal felt dazed.

The young knight before him bowed his head. Cesar whispered a prayer. Then they saw silver melt—or stars pour down—a brilliant river flowing among them, draping each Christian knight in chainmail like dragon scales.

The Sultan’s minister turned to look around and saw many others doing the same. Yes, without exception—in this quiet courtyard, a miracle was unfolding. They had never seen such a magnificent sight. How dearly God favored this beautiful young man! Such glory Nureddin himself had never known.

(End of Chapter)