kingdom of nations

Chapter 145 On the Road to Apollo (10)

The officer returned to his residence.

This residence is not his, just as Damascus does not belong to him.

Damascus belongs to Sultan Nur ad-Din. Even the former governor, Shirku, only possessed the power granted to him by the Sultan. The Sultan could take back this power whenever he wanted, and perhaps even take his life with him.

He was merely an officer under Shirku, possessing talent and courage beyond the reach of ordinary people, but not the best. Otherwise, he should be in Cairo, Egypt, not Damascus. When Shirku asked him to stay and manage Damascus, he knew he had been abandoned.

Whether he was given an important position by the Sultan in the future—which is unlikely—or more likely he was distrusted, exiled, or executed by the Sultan, it was all destined.

But how could he be content with that? He had followed Shirku for a long time and had watched this Kurd rise from a hired tribal cavalryman to a general and subject of the Sultan.

Even as he rose to prominence, he did not forget his people and friends. He promoted them one by one, placing these pawns in important positions. The officer was one of them, but he was only one of them. Shirku valued his nephew Saladin the most. The young man had won the favor of Sultan Nur ad-Din as soon as he arrived in Apol, and he certainly deserved it.

But acknowledging Saladin's qualifications was one thing, and being jealous of him was quite another. The officer was about the same age as Saladin, in the prime of a man's life. He had also heard that Shirku had become the Grand Vizier of the Fatimid Caliph Atid, and everyone knew that the Fatimid Caliphate was a giant beast clinging to life in the dust of history, its collapse at any moment depending on the will of Shirku and Saladin.

And after it falls, its plump, delicious flesh and blood will sustain them for a long time. They will possess this vast country and everything it represents. The officer was filled with resentment; he had even once foolishly considered abandoning Damascus and going to Shirkul, believing that he could at least truly become the master of a city.
Shirkul might have some sentimentality, but his nephew Saladin wouldn't. He had seen Saladin's methods firsthand. Although this hypocritical fellow always appeared very humble, tolerant, and kind, if he were truly like that, he would never have become the successor that Shirkul favored.

Saladin will definitely kill him.

If he wanted to stay here, he had to find a way to dispel the Sultan’s suspicions about him. However, he was not a descendant of officials who had served the Sultan in Apol’s court for generations, like Kamal. He also had a fatal identity—a confidant of Shirku.

If the Sultan were still the wise Nur ad-Din, he might try kneeling before him, pleading for forgiveness, and exposing the crimes of Shirku and Saladin. Even if the Sultan might not believe he had abandoned his former master, he would at least be given a chance. And he believed he was no less capable than Shirku.
But the biggest trouble came. No one expected that an expedition that everyone thought was well-prepared and full of vigor would end in disaster. Before they could even see the walls of Arazari, their flags were broken on the Sea of ​​Galilee. They suffered a crushing defeat, and Sultan Nur ad-Din was killed.

Sultan Nur ad-Din's three sons were all mediocre and not worth entrusting his life to, but that might not be a bad thing. Shirku had complained to him many times that the three princes were surrounded by greedy and short-sighted fools. If he could bribe them and satisfy their insatiable appetites, many crises could be easily resolved.

The problem was that he had no money. When he left Damascus, Hilku seemed to have a premonition of his future, taking everything he could with him, leaving him with only an empty city.

But given enough time, he too could amass a vast fortune like Hilku. But who told him to have only stayed here for such a short time? Not even enough time to investigate the intricate and complex web of relationships within the city.

He didn't know who was friends with whom, who was enemies with whom, or what kind of unspeakable but unshakable political or economic ties they had—things that couldn't be known just by looking or listening. People could simply keep quiet or pretend otherwise.

He was like a man without a fishing net, a boat, a hook, or a rod, standing blankly on the banks of the golden river that flowed through Damascus, watching people recklessly and unrestrainedly reap the benefits, while he himself remained empty-handed.

Using the Isaacs as tools and puppets, making them do things they themselves could not do, has become a common tactic for monarchs and nobles in various countries.

He had seen Shirku do this before, even if things were exposed. The only risk he would take was a reprimand from the Sultan, followed by the execution of those scapegoats.

Given such a great risk, would the Isaacs refuse or feign compliance? Of course not. The officers found them to be even more foolish than camels traversing the desert.

When camels endure extreme thirst in the desert, if they see a mirage, they will stretch their necks and sniff the air to determine if it's real or not, and whether it's worth the effort to turn, walk, or run. What about the Isaacs? If you place a chest of gold in front of them, they will do anything without hesitation, even weave a noose to hang themselves.

Besides, the merchants of Damascus were so wealthy, they were like strong bulls. All he had to do was cut the artery in the bull's thigh and collect a cup of blood; it wouldn't cause any serious injury, and they would likely recover quickly in two or three years. And this money would be enough to ensure a worry-free life for the rest of his days, and perhaps even allow him to go further.

But the look in Kamal's eyes today made him feel a little worried.

He had heard of Kamal, a brilliant "scholar" who was said to have the ability to distinguish between lies and truth. He was also a loyal subject of Nur ad-Din, obeying no one except the Sultan's orders. Moreover, he was not particularly interested in accumulating wealth or women, making him the most difficult person to deal with.

The officer was also considering alternative plans for his future. If either Sultan Nur ad-Din's eldest son or one of his other two sons—whoever it was—became the new Sultan, and Kamal was still retained, he would immediately try to escape to Egypt or somewhere else.

As a seasoned and experienced general in his prime, he believed that he would be welcomed by many sultans or emirs.

Of course, the best outcome would be if the turmoil in Apollo led to Kamal's downfall or death, then he wouldn't have to worry anymore and could simply continue with his original plan. Remarkably, this soldier, more accustomed to the battlefield, pondered deeply for a long time, his thoughts shifting from the rosy clouds to the bright moon. He leaped from his low couch, only then realizing he was drenched in sweat—the sticky, suffocating feeling was unbearable.

He immediately called out loudly to the servants to prepare a bathroom. He wanted to take a bath.

This palace, which once belonged to the Caliph, Sultan, and Governor, indeed has several exquisitely beautiful bathrooms, with soaring domes, marble walls, perforated doors, gilded capitals and bases, cold pools, hot pools, steam rooms, and massage rooms.

The same diligent slaves worked day and night in the boiler room to ensure that their masters could enjoy a pleasant bath anytime, anywhere.

Although the Saracens do not advocate excessive indulgence in pleasure, bathing is certainly an exception. For them, it is a religious ritual to keep the body and mind clean. No matter how many times a day or how they bathe, it is in accordance with the doctrine and will not cause any criticism.

The officer first washed himself simply with cold water and soap, then entered the warm water pool. After the scalding water turned his skin bright red, he jumped into the cold water pool. The pores, which had been opened by the steam, suddenly contracted upon stimulation, causing a slight but pleasant tremor.

After enduring a few breaths, he stepped out of the cold water pool and returned to the warm water pool. This time, the soft yet scalding water brought him a deeper and more thorough comfort. He felt as if he were floating on air. He stayed in the pool for a while until the slave beside him gently reminded him, before he lazily stepped out of the pool and headed towards the steam room.

The steam room was already filled with steam. He lay naked on the smooth marble slab, which had been repeatedly washed and heated to ensure that it no longer had the coldness of stone. It was like a piece of hard sunlight—heat bursting out from the inside, making every inch of skin touching it feel incredibly hot.

At this point, a slave should come forward to scrape off the dead skin and grease, and then give him a full-body massage.

He had a female slave who was very skilled at this, a burly Nubian. Although she did not have a pretty face, she was plump, with large hands and feet, and was as strong as a man, which perfectly matched the officer's requirements for a massage slave.

The officer tilted his head and glanced at the Nubian woman who was walking towards him through the thick steam. She seemed to be the same as before, but with an indescribable charm—she wore only a linen scarf around her waist and was bare-chested. This reminded the officer of the plump berries he had stolen in the foggy vineyards at night, round, supple, and elastic, with a few small wrinkles that tempted his teeth and tongue.

The officer's heart stirred slightly, wondering if he should do something first to relax, but the other's hands had already gently pressed onto his shoulders, the fingers firmly and skillfully pinching the deltoid muscle connecting his neck and shoulder blades. A wave of soreness came, making the officer abandon his original thought. He groaned, relaxed his limbs, and waited for a thoroughly enjoyable stimulation—although it wasn't the kind of stimulation people were familiar with, the stimulation provided by his Nubian slave wouldn't be much less intense.

Her skills had improved further; the pressure, placement, and frequency were all just right, making the officer drowsy. He could feel a palm pushing up his spine, the aroma of fine olive oil and Damask roses blooming on his rough skin. She smoothly pushed all the way to the base of his neck, gently massaging the back of his head.

Then a second hand reached for that dangerous spot—decades of battlefield experience finally sounded a sharp alarm bell in the officer's mind. He wanted to scream and tried to jump up, but that was just a dying delusion—before he could react, the Nubian woman on top of him, or rather, Leila disguised as a Nubian woman, had already swiftly snapped his neck.

With enough strength and understanding of the human body, even a woman wouldn't need to exert much effort to do this—and in the bathroom, the victim is naked, drowsy from the heat, and limp, making the task even easier.

Leila didn't leave immediately, but completed the entire massage process. Her movements were so secretive and swift that even though the officer's servants and slaves were standing in the corner of the steam room, they didn't notice anything amiss.

She also covered the dead body with a large linen cloth and told the slaves that their master wanted to rest for a while. No one doubted her, and the high temperature in the massage room ensured that the body would not stiffen so quickly.

By the time the officer's servants discovered that their master was already dead, Leila had already returned to her residence. In her bathroom, she washed off the flaking dark ointment and hair dye, and with the help of her maid, she dressed and put on her old clothes.

When Lazis woke up feeling dizzy, he found himself still nestled in Leila's arms. "What time is it?" he asked.

“It’s not that late. Darling, we still have most of the night to spend,” Leila replied gently.

What happened next is self-evident; they revelled to their hearts' content, and the chaos in the outside world did not affect them in the slightest.

Although it sounds absurd, Kamal, who was just passing through, suddenly became a pillar of support for the people of Damascus. The people of Damascus didn't care much about this agent left behind by the Kurds, but they didn't like him either. They were just too lazy to do anything to this fool. After all, they had once rebelled against the Sultan (Damascus had once tried to pursue its own freedom), so what reason did they have to respect a mere officer?
But the sudden murder of their agent, especially during such a turbulent time, was indeed a troublesome matter. Fortunately, they didn't need to pursue the killer, because the murderer had left behind a dagger belonging to "Eagle Fortress."

"They are Assassins."

Kamal said.

(End of this chapter)