Chapter 99: The Death of the King (7)

Caliph Atid emitted a soft sob inside his tent. He knew this behavior was useless and ridiculous; he did not even know what he was crying for—was it for Fustat, now burning? Or for his own uncertain fate? Or perhaps for Sawal?

As for Sawal, even Atid sometimes joked that he was a venomous snake hidden in a sleeve.

Sawal had once been a merchant, always willing to weigh everything on a scale, then buy or sell according to circumstance. Many hated him, but Atid never cared—he never expected to become Caliph, nor did he believe becoming Caliph held any advantage—perhaps it did, but his father was dead, his elder brother was dead; if not now, when would he seek joy?

Sawal could at least fulfill most of his desires.

But when this fat Grand Viceroy, the man he thought was his confidant, brought Christians into his palace and made him bow before them, his heart filled with rage and unease. He truly looked down on Sawal, yet Sawal had granted him power—and when he betrayed him, he did not hesitate long.

Until his eunuch quietly led him out of the palace—he initially refused to go, until the eunuch pointed to the sudden, blinding glow rising from the darkness: his palace was burning. No, not just his palace—Fustat, his Egypt—were all burning. He had lost them all.

He thought the eunuchs would take him to Giza, or some other Egyptian city, where he would still be Caliph of the Fatimid Dynasty—but the eunuchs did not take him far. He saw an army, fully assembled under the moonlight, its leader the two Kurds he knew well.

The Caliph had never liked them; he knew well that Nuradin had never abandoned his ambition for Egypt, for since the death of the Fatimid fifth Caliph Aziz, the dynasty’s fate had steadily declined.

First came Caliph Ayp, who claimed to be God Himself; then came Caliph Maad, whose mother had been a slave sold by the Isa people, allowing the Isa to control the court; then came the Baghdad general Basasiri, the Armenian Badr, the Turk Tairil... Various regions broke away, tax revenues plummeted, the treasury was empty, and the caliph became a puppet of generals and ministers...

By his father’s generation, though Hafiz had once harbored grand ambitions, the outcome was clear to all—afterward, even the Grand Viceroy had to pay tribute to the King of the Christian Kingdom just to ensure the state’s stability.

A man like Nuradin, with such ambition, had likely long viewed Egypt as a dish already on his table—when Shirku and Saladin were first sent to Fustat, he knew they were his enemies, not merely for faith.

Yet Nuradin probably did not know that his two generals also had their own ambitions, especially the young Saladin.

Saladin entered the Caliph’s tent carrying a tray of figs. Atid shrank back upon seeing him—luckily, he brought figs, not wine; the Caliph relaxed slightly.

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

Atid stared at the figs—large, deep-purple fruits split open in a few small cracks, emitting a sweet fragrance. Without tasting, he knew they would be as sweet as honey. But his stomach was heavy—he could not eat anything: “Why?”

“Their king, Amalric I, is about to die,” Saladin said. “They have requested seven days’ grace, so their king may rest undisturbed.”

“You agreed?”

“It is the respect due a king.”

“Who killed him?”

“Sawal,” Saladin said, his voice tinged with indescribable emotion. Now every Saracen praised Sawal, for he had accomplished what thousands of soldiers could not.

He not only killed a Christian king, but also destroyed his achievements at once, severely crushing Christian morale—perhaps for years to come, they will not launch a third crusade.

“How is that possible?”

“Why not?” Saladin said. “Sawal, too, has received revelation from the Prophet.”

“No, what I mean is…” Atid sensed Saladin’s displeasure and hastily added: “I only mean Sawal is not a brave warrior.”

“Some cannot be judged by appearance,” Saladin said. “Even flawed fruit can be sweet.” He held a fig in his hand, not eating it, only inhaling its fragrance.

“Then the Christians… have they left Fustat?”

A flicker of hope appeared on Atid’s face—he longed to return to his palace—but Saladin merely murmured, “They have left. But no one may keep Fustat, Caliph—it has become a hellfire.”

Atid knew the palace burned, yet he clung to a foolish fantasy: “We can put out the fire, Saladin—we can! If you wish, or your uncle, I will issue an edict at once making you my Amir or Grand Viceroy! Whatever power you want, I will give you!”

Saladin looked up at the Caliph. Though he had long known what kind of man Atid was, he still felt a pang of disappointment—especially compared to the Christian king’s heir.

“Impossible, Caliph,” he said. “Sawal prepared ten thousand barrels of naphtha and a thousand incendiaries.”

Fustat was burning—and no one knew how long it would burn.

Sawal had carefully and meticulously hidden jars of naphtha in corners of the palace, in the cellars of apartments, and in merchants’ warehouses, mixed among palm oil and olive oil. Even if discovered, they might not immediately raise alarm—after all, in a besieged city, such supplies would naturally be stored in vast quantities.

And who could imagine that anyone would unhesitatingly destroy Fustat—a treasure beyond price?

At least before Sawal proposed this plan, even Saladin had not thought of it—or dared to think of it. Fustat was the city the Saracens had built and nurtured for five hundred years.

This great city held over a hundred thousand residents, two temples with golden domes, a vast palace complex, and three enormous markets.

In times of peace, its streets teemed with crowds—camels, horses, and mules laden with all manner of goods.

Timber and furs… iron, silver, gold, and copper… linen, silk, wool, and cotton… sugar, wine, porcelain, and glass… alum, soap… and spices: camphor, rhubarb, coptis, cloves, sandalwood, cardamom, agarwood… and above all, grain: wheat, barley, rice…

People of every faith, every skin tone, every status, from every direction, crowded here, speaking each other’s or their own tongues, conducting all manner of trade. Countless gold and silver flowed here; documents and contracts swam like fish in a river.

Fustat originally meant “tent,” but later people called it the City of Gold—not merely a metaphor. But now, all was ended.

Atid stared at Saladin as if he did not understand a word—until Saladin pulled him up, led him out of the tent, and made him look for himself.

The firelight illuminated the Caliph’s eyes.

Saladin gazed at the city too—this was also one of the key reasons he agreed to negotiate with the Christians.

Or rather, Saladin had never been one who relished killing or plundering.

Though the Prophet’s revelation had led him across the threshold separating the ordinary from the extraordinary, he never believed God’s and the Prophet’s grace meant he should tower above others.

He was still a man—just as some are wiser, stronger, kinder than others—but still a man.

He stood upon the earth, gazing at the heavens and stars. He was willing to give all for his faith—wealth, status, life, honor—but unlike others, he did not wish to impose this conviction upon others. Even if they wished it, he hoped they would cherish their lives, not squander them recklessly.

He persuaded his uncle to accept Sawal’s plan. Though defeating the Christians on the battlefield was a glorious and pious act, what was the cost?

The cost would be more Saracen warriors dying on the battlefield, beneath hooves—their widows’ and children’s wails would stir the birds of the city. Their souls might ascend to paradise, but those left behind—how would they escape their grief?

It was unnecessary sacrifice.

And things unfolded exactly as they hoped: on the first day of negotiations, the Christians proposed abandoning Fustat and Bilbays.

Fustat needed no explanation. Even if the fire were extinguished, only blackened beams, scorching gravel, and collapsed walls would remain. If they wished to stay, they would have to rebuild an entire city—something these Christians could never afford.

As for Bilbays… few wished to remain.

After all, in Amalric I’s army, most were distant guests—come for faith, for wealth, perhaps a small fief. Now they could gain only the first two—and even wealth, if they lingered, would slip through their fingers like sand until not a grain remained.

Fiefs were out of the question. Without new conquests, Amalric I could not grant them any land.

Moreover, knights typically served their lords or kings for only four months. Upon completion, they could demand to leave—or demand extra pay.

But to organize this crusade and maintain discipline, Amalric I had never been stingy. Now his funds could not possibly support the knights’ future wages.

Even if he borrowed, the knights who had already amassed wealth would be eager to return—they had no intention of staying, let alone guarding a lonely city on Saracen land.

Yet to make the Christians withdraw from Bilbays, they demanded a ransom of one million gold coins.

The Saracens replied that though they did not wish to restart war, one million was too much—Fustat was gone, Bilbays was a hollow shell, drained dry, needing years to recover. Nor did they believe the Christians still had the courage or will to fight them.

So the Christians countered: they could remain in Bilbays. Bilbays was a rich, prosperous, fertile city—it could become a new Acre or Jaffa.

“Is this the king’s wish?”

“Probably.” But after only one day of negotiations, the Christians suddenly requested a delay. Clearly, Amalric I had believed he could survive until the talks ended—but fate had turned against him; his condition was rapidly worsening.

Saladin and Shirku had not mentioned a single word of the negotiations to Caliph Atid.

Atid drew a cruel conclusion: these two Kurds had no intention of preserving his throne or the title “Caliph,” nor would they send him to Bilbays, Giza, or any other Fatimid city—lest someone use his name against Shirku and Saladin.

“Why did Sawal hand me over to you?” he murmured.

Saladin heard him but did not answer.

Sawal was still a Saracen—he would never hand his nation to a Christian. And whether Saladin and his uncle belonged to which faction, they were still Saracens. Moreover, Sawal could see that among Saladin and his uncle, Saladin was clearly the more respected and far-sighted.

Would he become a good Caliph—or a good Sultan?

Sawal could not be certain. But the Fatimid Dynasty was already a crumbling, rotten palace.

Though all cursed Sawal, when he truly stood up and looked around, he found none were much better than he—like that man who fancied himself a loyalist of Ruzik, his political enemy, who denounced Sawal for bringing Saladin and Shirku from Zengi—yet when he found himself powerless against Sawal, did he not also seek Christian aid, hoping they would send troops to help him?

Sawal held no hope for himself or the entire court. He handed Caliph Atid to Saladin, hoping a new, thriving branch might sprout from the ashes of this great city. He no longer cared about sects or ethnic identities.

He would not send Atid elsewhere, lest he become a banner for others to oppose Shirku and Saladin. The Saracens of Egypt could no longer afford internal losses—they must unite outward, against the Christians.

Otherwise, today it was Bilbays and Fustat; tomorrow it might be Giza and Alexandria—and more cities.

Atid knew his fate. He saw the cruelty in Saladin’s eyes. Saladin might need him only for one or two years—perhaps only months. Once the Egyptians accepted his rule, Caliph Atid would die. He would give no one the chance to use him.

Atid wept in despair, his tears falling into the tray of figs.

——————

The same sobbing echoed inside Amalric I’s tent.

(End of Chapter)