Chapter 99: The Death of the King (7)

Caliph Al-Adid let out a slight whimpering sound in his tent. He knew this behavior was very useless and ridiculous, and he did not know what he was crying for. Was he crying for Fustat, which was burning? Or was he crying for his own unknown fate, or for Shawar?

For Shawar, even Al-Adid would sometimes joke that he was a poisonous snake hidden in his sleeve.

Shawar was originally a merchant. He was always willing to weigh everything on a scale and finally buy or sell them depending on the situation. Countless people hated him, but Al-Adid had never cared. He had never expected to become a Caliph, and he did not think there was any benefit to becoming a Caliph—perhaps there was, but his father died, and his brother died. If he did not seek happiness, what was he waiting for?

Shawar could at least satisfy most of his wishes.

And when this chubby Grand Vizier, his confidant, brought the Christians into his palace and made him bow to these people, his heart was full of anger and anxiety. He did indeed look down on Shawar, but at least he gave him power. Shawar did not hesitate long when he betrayed him.

Until the eunuchs beside him quietly took him out of the palace—he did not want to leave at first, until his eunuch pointed to the dazzling colors that suddenly rose in the darkness. His palace was burning, no, not just his palace, his Fustat, his Egypt were all burning. He had lost them.

He thought the eunuchs would take him to Giza, or other cities in Egypt, where he would still be the Caliph of the Fatimid dynasty, but the eunuchs did not take him far. He saw the army ready to go in the moonlight, and the leader of the army was the two Kurds he was familiar with.

The Caliph had never liked them. He knew very well that Nur ad-Din had never abandoned his ambition for Egypt. After all, ever since the fifth Caliph of the Fatimid dynasty, Al-Aziz, died, the fate of the dynasty had been falling constantly.

First, there was a Caliph Al-Hakim who claimed to be God, then there was a Caliph Al-Mustansir whose mother was a slave sold by a Jew, which allowed the Jews to control the court, and then there were continuous figures like the Baghdad general Basasiri, the Armenian Badr, the Turkic Nasir... everywhere was partitioned, tax revenue plummeted, the treasury was empty, and the Caliph became a puppet of generals and ministers...

By his father's generation, although Al-Hafiz had once had great ambitions, everyone saw the result. Later Grand Viziers even needed to pay tribute to the King of the Christian Kingdom to ensure the stability of the country.

A figure like Nur ad-Din, who had great ambitions, probably had long regarded Egypt as a dish on the plate—when Shirkuh and Saladin were first sent to Fustat, he knew they were his enemies, not just for the sake of faith.

It was just that Nur ad-Din probably did not know that these two subordinates of his also had their own ambitions, especially the young Saladin.

Saladin walked into the Caliph's tent with a plate of figs. Al-Adid shrank back when he saw him. Fortunately, he brought figs, not wine, so the Caliph relaxed a little.

"We may have to stay here for a while," Saladin said.

Al-Adid stared at the figs. The large, deep purple fruits had a few small cracks, emitting a sweet fragrance. Without tasting them, he knew they must be as sweet as honey. But his stomach felt heavy now, and he could not eat anything: "Why?"

"Their King, Amalric I, is going to die," Saladin said. "They asked us to give them seven days so that their King can sleep peacefully without being disturbed."

"You agreed?"

"This is the respect a monarch should receive."

"Who killed him?"

"Shawar," Saladin said, his tone inevitably carrying a bit of indescribable emotion. Now every Saracen had to praise Shawar, because he had indeed done what an army of thousands could not do.

He not only killed a Christian King but also destroyed his achievements at the same time, greatly frustrating the morale of the Christians. Perhaps in the next few years, they would not launch a third crusade.

"How is that possible?"

"Why not?" Saladin said. "Shawar is also someone who has received the prophet's revelation."

"No, I mean..." Al-Adid heard the displeasure in Saladin's words. He hurriedly made up for it in a panic: "I just meant that Shawar is not a brave warrior."

"Some people are hard to see their inner self from the outside," Saladin said. "And flawed fruits are just as sweet." He held a fig in his hand, not eating it, just sniffing its fragrance.

"Then the Christians... have they left Fustat?"

A glimmer of hope appeared on Al-Adid's face. He longed to return to his palace, but Saladin just gave a light "hmm." "They left, but no one can continue to own Fustat, Caliph—it has become a hellfire."

Al-Adid knew the palace was on fire, but he still maintained a ridiculous fantasy. "We can put out the fire, Saladin, we can. If you want, or your uncle, I can immediately issue a decree to let you become my Emir, or Grand Vizier! Whatever power you want, I can give it!"

Saladin looked up at the Caliph. Although he had long known what kind of person Al-Adid was, he still could not help but feel some disappointment—especially compared to the successor of the Christian King.

"It is impossible, Caliph," he said. "Shawar prepared ten thousand barrels of naphtha and thousands of incendiary devices."

Fustat was burning, and he did not know how long it would burn.

Shawar carefully hid the jars containing naphtha in the corners of the palace, the cellars of apartments, and the warehouses of merchants, mixed among palm oil and olive oil. Even if someone discovered them, they might not be alert in the first place. After all, in a besieged city, these things would inevitably be stored in large quantities.

And who would have thought, who would unhesitatingly destroy Fustat, such a precious treasure?

At least before Shawar proposed this strategy, even Saladin had not thought of it, or he dared not think of it. That was Fustat, a city created and managed by the Saracens for five hundred years.

This large city had 100,000 residents, two temples with golden domes, a huge palace complex, and three huge markets.

When there was no war, the streets were bustling, and the crowd was mixed with camels, horses, and mules, their shoulders carrying all kinds of goods.

Timber and fur... iron, silver, gold, and copper... linen, silk, wool, and cotton fabrics... sugar, wine, porcelain, and glass... alum, soap... and spices, camphor, rhubarb, coptis, cloves, sandalwood, cardamom, agarwood... right, and the most important food, wheat, barley, rice...

All kinds of faiths, all kinds of skin colors, all kinds of identities, people from all directions crowded here. They spoke each other's or their own languages, doing big and small trades and businesses. Countless gold and silver flowed here, and documents and contracts were like fish swimming in a river.

Fustat originally meant tent, but later people used the City of Gold to describe it. This was not just a virtual word, but now it was all over.

Al-Adid stared at Saladin, as if he did not understand what he was saying at all, until Saladin pulled him up and out of the tent to let him see for himself.

The firelight illuminated the Caliph's eyes.

Saladin also gazed at the city. This was also one of the important reasons why he agreed to negotiate with the Christians.

Or rather, Saladin was not the kind of person who was keen on slaughter and plunder in the first place.

Although the revelation given to him by the prophet allowed him to step out of the threshold that separated mortals from the extraordinary, he never thought that the gift of God and the prophet was to let him be above others.

He was still a person, just like some people were always smarter than others, stronger than others, and kinder than others—but still a person.

He stood on the earth, looking up at the sky and the stars. He was willing to give everything for his faith, from money to status, from life to honor, but unlike others—he was not willing to impose this cognition on others. Even if they were willing, he hoped they could cherish their lives instead of wasting them for a moment of recklessness.

He persuaded his uncle to accept Shawar's strategy. Although being able to defeat the Christians uprightly on the battlefield was a glorious and pious act, what was the price?

The price was that more Saracen warriors would lose their lives on the battlefield and under the hooves. The wailing of their widows and children would startle the birds in the city. Their souls could certainly ascend to heaven. But those who remained on earth, how could they get rid of that pain and sorrow?

That was an unnecessary sacrifice.

And things did develop as they had hoped. In the first day of negotiations, the Christians proposed that they could abandon Fustat and Bilbeis.

Fustat did not need to be mentioned. Even if the fire went out, it would only leave charred wooden beams, scorching sand, and collapsed city walls. If they wanted to continue to stay here, they would have to rebuild a city, which was definitely not something these Christians could afford.

As for Bilbeis... there were not many people willing to stay.

After all, in Amalric I's army, there were more guests from afar—they came here for faith, for money, and perhaps for a small fief, but now what they could get was only the first two, and even for money, if they continued to linger, it would leak out like sand between their hands until not a grain was left.

Fiefs were even more out of the question. Without newly conquered areas, Amalric I could not possibly take out fiefs to give to them.

There was another problem, which was that knights fighting for their lords or kings usually only had a four-month service period. After the service period expired, knights could ask to leave or ask the initiator of the campaign to pay extra commissions.

But in order to organize this expedition and ensure the discipline of the army during the expedition, Amalric I had never been stingy. Now the funds in his hands could not support the salaries of the knights later.

Even if he could borrow, the knights who had already gathered a sum of money were probably eager to go back. After all, they were not prepared to stay here, not to mention guarding a lonely city in the Saracen territory.

But if they wanted the Christians to withdraw from Bilbeis, it was not without a price. They demanded that the Saracens pay a ransom of one million gold coins.

And the Saracens meant that although they did not want to start a war easily, one million was too much. After all, Fustat was gone, and Bilbeis had been squeezed into an empty skin, which would take several years to recover, and they did not think the Christians had the courage and perseverance to fight them.

So the Christians said in turn that they could stay in Bilbeis. Bilbeis was also a wealthy and prosperous city with fertile land everywhere. Perhaps it could become a new Acre or Jaffa.

"Is this their King's meaning?"

"Should be." However, the negotiations had only been going on for one day when the Christians suddenly requested a delay. It seemed that Amalric I had originally thought he could persist until the end of the negotiations, but things went against his wishes, and his situation was deteriorating rapidly.

And Saladin and Shirkuh had not even mentioned a word about the negotiations in front of Caliph Al-Adid.

Al-Adid drew a cruel message from this, which was that these two Kurds were not prepared to retain his throne and the name of "Caliph" like the previous powerful ministers. They would not let him go to Bilbeis or Giza, or any city ruled by the Fatimid dynasty, to avoid others using the name of the Caliph to fight them.

"Why did Shawar hand me over to you?" he muttered.

Saladin heard it but did not answer him.

Shawar was ultimately a Saracen. He would not hand his country to a Christian—and no matter which faction Saladin and his uncle belonged to, they were at least Saracens. And he could see that among Saladin and his uncle, Saladin was clearly the one with more prestige and foresight.

Would he become a good Caliph or a good Sultan?

Shawar could not be sure, but the Fatimid dynasty was already a decaying palace that was crumbling.

Although everyone was cursing Shawar, when Shawar truly stood up and looked around, he found that they were no better than him. Just like that person who thought he was a direct descendant of Ruzik, his political enemy, he cursed Shawar for bringing in Saladin and Shirkuh of Zengi, but he found that when he was unable to fight Shawar, did he not also ask the Christians for help, hoping that they could send troops to help him?

Shawar had no hope for himself or the entire court. He handed Caliph Al-Adid to Saladin, hoping that a new branch could sprout from the ashes of this great city. As for faith, faction, or ethnic identity, he did not care anymore.

He would not send Al-Adid to other places to avoid him becoming a banner for others to fight Shirkuh and Saladin. The Saracens in Egypt could no longer afford internal consumption. They must be united against the outside, against the Christians.

Otherwise, today it was Bilbeis and Fustat, and tomorrow it might be Giza and Alexandria, and more cities.

Al-Adid also knew his future fate well. He saw the cruelty in Saladin's eyes. Saladin might only need him for a year or two, or even just a few months. Once the Egyptians recognized his rule, Caliph Al-Adid would die. He would not give others a chance to use him.

Al-Adid cried despairingly, his tears flowing into the plate containing the figs.

——————

The same crying sound appeared in Amalric I's tent.

(End of chapter) ===== CHAPTER 100 =====