Chapter 91: Fustat (Part II) (Bonus Chapter: 13,000+ Collection!)

Cesar knew full well that leaving the palace in secret, without anyone’s knowledge, just for a brief message to meet a single encounter with a Saracen, was an utterly irrational act—even foolish.

Not to mention the troubles Queen Elena’s party had previously endured—just days ago, while besieging Fustat, a knight had fallen from his horse during patrol after it was startled; the horse immediately bolted into a valley and vanished in an instant. He chased after it in panic, his servants and retainers close behind, their distance no more than a few hundred paces—yet when they arrived, they found only the horse, bleeding and moaning, and its headless corpse.

But he hesitated only an instant—he could have risen immediately and returned to the noisy hall, yet he was certain that if he turned his back, this eunuch and those behind him would vanish without a trace.

And how could a mere commoner possibly deliver this message to him, at this time, in this place?

He decided to take the risk.

He still remembered the silver ring the Saracen had given him—he had asked Heraclius and Baldwin, and they said Saracens, especially warriors, wore no ornaments at all: no earrings, no necklaces, no bracelets… but they often wore a silver ring.

Because when their prophet Muhammad needed to send letters to foreign monarchs, someone told him foreign kings would not read letters without seals, so the prophet had a gold ring made, engraved with “Muhammad is the Messenger of God.”

But he never expected others would follow him and make gold rings too; when the prophet saw this, he threw the gold ring away and said, “I shall never wear one again.” Yet since official duties still required seals, he had a new silver ring made, still engraved with “Muhammad is the Messenger of God.”

After his death, Caliph Abu wore the ring, then Caliph Umar, then finally Osman. But Osman accidentally dropped it into a well; even after draining the well, they could not find it, so he had another silver ring forged and wore it on his finger.

Since then, all Saracen men wore only silver rings on their fingers—they did not wear gold, for it disgusted the prophet; nor copper or iron, for those were materials symbolizing the fires of hell.

These silver rings often served as their seals, just as their most revered prophet Muhammad’s had; in their faith, an eagle often represented dominion and power—like “Eagle’s Nest.”

The man entitled to wear this ring could not possibly be a mere merchant or craftsman. Cesar had already vaguely guessed who he was—compared to this man, he himself was now an insignificant nobody.

If this man came alone to meet him, what right did he have to refuse meeting him alone? His weight was far greater than Cesar’s.

And in Cesar’s heart stirred a thought: since joining the Crusade, all he had heard were bitter complaints, violent shouts, hateful screams; all he had witnessed were vile crimes, base betrayals, agonizing struggles—and yet he could not confide in anyone. Who could understand him? And even if they were willing to listen, what could a few people possibly change?

And what thoughts did that Saracen, who once discussed human good and evil with him, hold?

He followed the young eunuch silently through a fig grove, where the sweet scent of ripened figs filled the air; beneath his feet, soft, plump fruits still lay crushed, bursting softly with crackling sounds—so fragile, almost tempting one to crush more.

Then they reached a dock, rowed a small boat upstream along a narrow river; the banks still teemed with endless fig trees, moonlight filtering through dense branches to fall upon them, upon the boat, upon the water; startled fish leapt constantly, even onto the boat. Cesar reached out and caught one, finding its body covered in leopard-like spots.

“Leopard fish,” the eunuch glanced and said indifferently. “From Gambia. Three gold coins apiece.”

Cesar released his grip; three gold coins sank into the water.

If he were Caliph Adid, he would have turned all these into soldiers’ gear, siege weapons, and the third wall—or, at the very least, bestowed them upon Nur ad-Din’s generals.

They landed, then walked a long stretch amid pomegranate and myrrh trees—even if Cesar returned immediately, someone would notice his prolonged absence.

Then they saw him.

His attire remained unchanged from when they first met in the market: no jewels, no silk, only thick cotton, dull chainmail, a wrapped turban, and a wide black robe. He tightened his leather belt, hanging a curved saber and a long sword; on his finger, only a silver ring glowed.

A pure red Arabian stallion stood beside him. Aside from the young eunuch who had brought Cesar here, no one else was present. The moment the eunuch saw the man, he prostrated himself fully, then slipped away silently.

“May I know who you are?” Cesar steadied himself and asked.

“Saladin. Saladin ibn Ayyub. Call me Saladin.” The man said. Cesar sighed softly—it was him, indeed. Heaven was stingy; the treasures it bestowed upon earth were never many, especially not in such a place.

“I found this on your servant. Did you draw it?” Saladin showed Cesar a cut piece of parchment. Cesar recognized it at once—it was part of the discarded blueprints.

He thought Longinus had burned them all; he never expected one fragment remained. Yet this scrap bore no signature, no handwriting—no one could trace him from such a tiny scrap.

But sometimes judgment requires no evidence.

“Yes,” Cesar did not hide it. He lifted his gaze to Saladin. “The Saracen Longinus met—that was you.”

“It was me,” Saladin said. “I heard fighting there and went to see. What I found was—a Christian fighting three other Christian knights for the sake of a Saracen girl, nearly dying in the process. The girl was not saved, but the debt of mercy remained unpaid—even though the one who helped her was a Christian.”

He passed before me, so I saved him.” Saladin asked with interest, “And you? Did you see the cattle that passed before you?”

“I saw them,” Cesar answered calmly and steadily. “I saved them too.”

“I heard,” Saladin smiled with satisfaction. “The people of Bilbays told me what happened to them.” He would not question Cesar why he did not stop the knights’ actions, return the villagers’ property, or allow them to remain in the city instead of being expelled. Nor would he accuse or suspect him for not repeating in Fustat what he had done in Bilbays.

No one snatches blood from the jaws of a starving lion without readying themselves to be torn apart and devoured.

And this courage, this ability—neither Cesar, now merely a squire, nor Baldwin, nor even Amalric I, could achieve: “You did well. You fulfilled your duty.”

“May I ask a question?” Cesar asked coolly. “Have you never left Fustat?”

“Or our army? Yes, we have not left. Though our Sultan Nur ad-Din ordered us back to Damascus, we did not—well, we did not depart immediately. And if you mean leaving Fustat, we did leave—otherwise, how could your king have arrived here?”

Cesar felt fear seize his heart. Saladin and his uncle Shirkuh had handed over the city. Why? If they had not abandoned their ambitions and power, once the Christians entered, capturing Fustat would no longer be possible with just a few thousand Saracen cavalry…

He looked at Saladin, but saw only a mocking smile and eyes brimming with pity. A strange thought rose in his mind, impossible to suppress—he recalled the strange scenes since entering the city. Back then, he had thought—those residents were either dead or hiding.

But now it seemed…

“You bribed Shawar’s men.”

“No, no need,” Saladin said. “Sometimes we must never underestimate those vile, despicable creatures.” He nodded firmly. Watching the boy think for a moment and deduce the truth, he saw unspeakable fear swallow the boy’s beautiful face.

What kind of man was Shawar?

From Christian to Saracen, from king to the lowliest servant, no one held him in esteem. He groveled, fawned shamelessly. He could invite wolves into his home for selfish gain, then, after doing so, try to drive out the wolves by summoning tigers. He was short-sighted, reckless, and made promises he could never pay.

He deceived Amalric I and Nur ad-Din far away in Syria. He manipulated these lofty figures as if they were chess pieces on a board. He controlled Caliph Adid—everyone knew the boy was merely a puppet in his hands, doing whatever he commanded.

Yet could such a man truly do this? How could he dare? Did he not care for his own life or future?

“Why care? He is still a Saracen, the Fatimid Grand Vizier. His meanness and baseness were all for this position. Without status and power, he loses all hope—you know the Christian king has no Grand Vizier position, and even if he did, he would never give it to him.”

“Then,” Saladin’s lips curled into a smile, “to sink with those cruel, vile Christians into the fires of hell—that would be a pleasure.”

Cesar spun around sharply, staring at the distant palace. It still lay in darkness, only a few lights flickering. It looked so calm, birdsong and lovely melodies floating over the still lake.

He turned to leave at once. Saladin called out to him: “Are you certain?” he said. “You vanish without reason, then return suddenly—and when you arrive, it’s already done. You can do nothing. Nothing can be undone. Your abrupt departure and sudden return will make people suspect you’re involved. Can your prince protect you?”

I could even say—if you and he somehow survive, might he not be among those who question you?

Do you want to see his eyes? That look of disappointment and suspicion? Perhaps he will order you imprisoned himself. What awaits you will be torture and death.”

He waited. But Cesar said nothing. He sprang up swiftly and dashed back along the path. Saladin watched his retreating figure in silence—whether in relief or regret, no one could tell. Soon, the young eunuch who had brought Cesar to him emerged from the shadows, puzzled: “My lord, why didn’t you keep him by your side?”

I’ve seen him—he truly is a good man. Though young and weak, he often frowns, sighing for the innocent victims. Don’t demand anything of him. He was born low, nearly as low as I am. Though he serves Baldwin, he holds no power.”

People praise his beauty, his good deeds—but secretly despise his birth. His words are light, powerless.”

“Christians are always so greedy,” the eunuch continued. “They find a gem fallen to the ground, pick it up, clean it, set it in a ring, a crown. Yet whenever they admire its beauty, feel the miracle bestowed by God, they still say: ‘Ah, if only it had never fallen to the ground.’”

Is that not an extremely foolish act?

A common stone, even if it had been venerated on a sacred altar since birth, remains a stone—it will not suddenly become a gem. Lose those external adornments, and it instantly becomes ordinary, trampled underfoot.”

“Are you speaking of your caliph?” Saladin asked.

The eunuch smiled. Clearly, he was among those who held no respect for the current Caliph Adid. “I see no movement there yet—if he returns…”

“Don’t worry,” Saladin said. “Those you despise have already caught fire.”

(End of Chapter)