Chapter 157: Reunion

Black field, white eagle—when this banner first appeared over the barren wastes near Damascus, no one paid it heed, and no one believed in it; all were filled with doubt and speculation.

They could never have imagined that, over the next twenty years, its master would traverse nearly the entire Arabian Peninsula—whether the Seljuk Turks’ half-empire, the descendants of the Zengids, the feared Assassins, the fierce Crusaders, or the remnants of the Fatimids—all failed to shake his throne.

Later generations, upon seeing this banner, could not help but feel reverence—even his enemies were no exception—not merely because its master was a devout believer, a wise ruler, and a valiant warrior, but also because he was a merciful sage whose pardoned lives far outnumbered those he took.

Some would even say that without Saladin, there would have been no later Holy King.

Though this claim drew much silent resentment, they could not deny that it was King Amalric I of Arassal who first unearthed the gem from the sand, but it was Sultan Saladin who carved it, set it upon the crown, and presented it to the world.

Of course, at this moment, neither Saladin nor those around him knew that the Christian knight they were watching would one day forge such a great miracle.

They merely stood on a hill not far from the battlefield, looking down upon the sandy ground about to descend once more into brutal combat.

Saladin said nothing, but several of his closer generals had begun whispering among themselves in confusion; even his nephew could not help asking, “Has he failed to recognize your banner?”

Indeed, this was a brand-new banner—he looked up, and even in Egypt, Saladin had never unfurled it until they reached Damascus, when he finally gazed upon it—upon close inspection, you would notice the white eagle on this black banner, proudly spreading its wings, differed from all others previously used in coats and banners.

It faced both enemy and ally alike, its wings stretched wide, talons pointing downward, tips reaching skyward; those familiar with hawks could easily recognize this as the precise moment such a raptor prepares to seize its prey.

Saladin gently stroked the silver ring on his hand.

His own ring bore the same eagle. If the boy had ever pressed his silver ring onto paper to imprint its shape, he would have recognized the banner at a glance—would he? Given the boy’s carefulness and caution, he would—though he would surely lock the ring away and burn the paper bearing the design, he would never easily forget it.

The generals beside Saladin raised this question for good reason: according to their thinking, this force was exhausted, starving, and thirsty, and had already clashed with some of Sultan Nur ad-Din’s most troublesome Uighur Turks—they had seen how the Crusader knights carelessly trampled precious silk beneath their horses’ hooves, using greed to hinder the enemy, and hung broken bronze mirrors on their bodies to turn the enemy’s advantage into disadvantage—these were indeed brilliant, admirable ideas.

But their choice to avoid direct combat, instead, indicated from another angle that they were likely at their last breath; their leader had to preserve his knights’ strength to the utmost—and he had succeeded—but the enemy was not limited to these—they had been pursued by another thousand Uighur Turks.

Now they numbered only three or four hundred, disadvantaged in every way, and yet here came reinforcements—why would they not turn, charge toward them, and beg for protection?

Even if doing so meant becoming Saladin’s prisoner, it was better than dying beneath the blades of these savage Turks.

But to their surprise, the force did not draw near, dismount, or kneel in supplication; instead, they raised their banner once more, and their young leader drew his longsword, holding it aloft—the sunlight glinted on the bright tip, as if a new sun had risen.

Even the knights themselves showed no trace of cowardice or shame; they followed him without hesitation, charging straight into the dark, looming enemy ranks.

“Are they mad?” the earlier Saracen general questioned: “They need not have done this!”

In the war between Saracens and Crusaders, becoming each other’s prisoners was not necessarily shameful.

Some Crusader commanders even took pride in having been held in Saracen prisons. Kings, dukes, and counts—like Count Joscelin II of Edessa, his son Joscelin III, Prince Bohemond of Antioch, and his stepfather Raymond—had all spent years as Saracen captives; Raymond still had not returned to Antioch.

Earlier, Amalric I had once angrily executed twelve Templar knights—do not assume that knights who joined the Order and became “Warriors of God” were truly fearless of death—perhaps most were, but some had no shame in groveling to the enemy for even a sliver of life.

Especially now, joining the Templar Order had become a profitable venture.

Leaving aside the young man’s long future, he had only recently regained his status and identity; though the County of Edessa no longer existed, he was the cousin of the King of Arassal—and through this connection, he could at least become a powerful minister in time, and he already held his own fief—Bethlehem, small yet prosperous.

If so, why should he pay such a heavy price for a moment of humiliation?

“If he truly did that…” a voice answered—but not Saladin; it was Kamal, weary in expression, though he did not continue, leaving the general bewildered.

They had been discovered by Saladin’s army earlier than Cesar’s group. At first, they were terrified and desperate, thinking they had been found by another army from Aleppo; the other side was equally puzzled—by their clothing, age, and appearance, they did not resemble peasants or herders, yet they were gathered behind a dune, aimlessly waiting—as if awaiting some outcome.

Fortunately, one man in this small group had seen Kamal before—he called out Kamal’s name, and from the minister’s lips learned the identities of the others.

He immediately turned back to inform Saladin. Saladin had come here partly because of Kamal, and partly because he had long eyed several of these ministers.

From Kamal, he learned the current state of Aleppo—and this made him hesitate.

“How many troops do you have?” Kamal asked.

“Three thousand,” Saladin replied—a number delicately balanced between defense and offense.

But after hearing Kamal’s advice, Saladin ultimately decided to temporarily abandon his plans to advance on Damascus or Aleppo.

Syria would soon descend into chaos; everyone was stirring, and as long as he still had money and troops, the First Lady and Sultan Nur ad-Din’s youngest son, Salih, could not hold Aleppo—they would likely be driven from their castle soon.

But that did not mean the next man to sit upon the Sultan’s throne could rest easy. He would face watching eyes, hatred, and ceaseless attacks from all sides; everyone would reach out to pull him down and repeat his fate.

“But Saladin, you are different—you and your uncle already hold Egypt, though…”

“Hirku is dead,” Saladin answered calmly. “Perhaps you do not yet know—before I departed, my uncle Hirku succumbed to sudden illness and ascended to heaven to meet the Almighty. I am now the Grand Vizier of Caliph Adid of the Fatimids.”

“Perhaps I should offer congratulations,” Kamal said quickly after a brief shock—though the words sounded hardly respectful, he could not yet shed his identity as a minister of Sultan Nur ad-Din.

And from Sultan Nur ad-Din’s perspective, Saladin was nothing less than a traitor.

Yet Saladin was not one to dwell on such petty matters; moreover, he admitted that he and his uncle had indeed committed betrayal—he did not deny it—and Kamal’s analysis of the situation had convinced him. Though he was now Grand Vizier of Caliph Adid, if he remained in Syria and joined this chaos, it was uncertain whether Adid and the Fatimid remnants around him might entertain dangerous ambitions.

If so, leaving Syria behind, using the Sultan’s throne as bait to make these hungry hyenas fight among themselves and exhaust their strength, might be a wise choice.

They had originally intended to return directly to Damascus, but Kamal had not forgotten Cesar. Though he did not know where Cesar’s battle with the Turks lay, it must be near where they had been found—and Saladin’s cavalry soon located them.

To his answer, Saladin merely smiled. Indeed, if the young man had truly led his men to surrender, though Saladin might have pardoned them and allowed them to return to Arassal—for the sake of Sultan Nur ad-Din, or for himself—he would have felt deeply disappointed.

No matter the noble reason—whether for his parents’ final peace, or for his men’s safety—none of these reasons could persuade Saladin.

Perhaps precisely because he had rarely held such high expectations for a man—let alone a Christian—he wished Cesar to remain forever as pure, steadfast, and flawless as when they first met. Though he knew this was an unreasonable demand, he firmly believed he would repay it in kind.

Compared to Christians, the Saracen court had never lacked figures of foreign origin; even if they clung to their own faith, they could still become officials or generals, and the Sultan even permitted them to maintain their own priests and churches within the city. In this regard, the Saracen Sultan and Caliph were far more tolerant than Christian kings.

The questioning general now understood Kamal’s meaning—he could not help but draw a deep breath.

That he had come to Saladin’s side meant he had earned Saladin’s favor—and Kamal’s words first stirred jealousy in him, then sent his heart racing—thinking of the price the Christian knight must pay for such favor, he shuddered; this was not asking for a man at all, he muttered to himself, as his companions gasped in low astonishment.

They expected to see a band of desperate beasts fighting to the death, wounded or slain by a moment of pride—but instead they saw only a bolt of thunder—racing across a black sea, piercing dense forests, its sharp blade slashing through the Turk ranks, where heads and limbs flew like fish leaping, or fruit falling.

Leading this thunder was the young man Saladin had noticed—and the knights following him miraculously did not fall behind. Though too distant to see their faces, Saladin and the others seemed to glimpse their clenched jaws, wide eyes, and taut muscles; even as mere spectators, many warriors clenched their fists tightly, nearly rising from their saddles, leaping into the vortex of death that swallowed the battlefield.

The scene the Turk soldiers had never witnessed before repeated itself—his usual tactics now utterly useless; their horses could not outrun the Christian knights enhanced by Cesar’s power. Without the advantage of speed, the Turks clad only in lamellar or leather armor could not withstand the knights’ onslaught—they screamed, falling unwillingly.

Even when they desperately tried to organize a counterattack, the Christian leader was too alert and sharp—he would immediately charge down with his pure white Arabian horse, scattering and trampling them the moment they gathered.

This was not a great or decisive battle, yet it left the onlookers breathless with tension—how had they done it? All wondered the same question: a small band, outnumbered, outpowered, undersupplied, had turned and devoured a large pursuing force—and clearly, by the battle’s end, the Turks had utterly lost their will to fight, desperate to flee, yet helplessly drawn back again and again into the slaughter.

The entire battle lasted over an hour; when it finally ended, all realized their bodies had grown stiff, limbs numb, and the deep breath held in their chests could finally be released.

Saladin too felt a subtle relaxation after the tension; his smile deepened. On the bloody battlefield, Cesar looked up—he had indeed recognized the white eagle on the black banner, unlike any he had ever seen, and he guessed the rider was Saladin; after Sultan Nur ad-Din’s death, with warlords circling and waiting for their moment, how could a man as ambitious and far-sighted as Saladin remain idle in Cairo?

Even to learn the state of affairs after Nur ad-Din’s death, he would have come in person. Moreover, Kamal had ordered them to escort these ministers out of Aleppo but had not specified where—they might be cautious, but Cesar suspected it was because Kamal had already made an agreement with someone—and who else could that be?

If Kamal could truly endure fools, he would not have fled Aleppo in such disgrace.

Saladin spurred his horse down the hill, reining in just a few hundred paces from the battlefield. Cesar waved off Geoffrey’s follow, riding alone toward Saladin.

Saladin saw the young knight bow slightly in the saddle—then, suddenly, the boy leaned forward and tumbled from his horse.

(End of Chapter)