kingdom of nations

Chapter 276 The Sultan's Repayment (Part 2)
The Crusaders continued north, while the Saracen army was forced to retreat south.

When they arrived, they were like a newly sprouted vine, stretching its branches and leaves freely in the spring sunshine and rain, constantly growing stronger. Before the war, it was already lush and verdant, covering the sky, and everyone firmly believed that they would win.

As they left, the vine seemed to be suddenly attacked by a biting wind. As if overnight, the leaves fell, and the branches curled up or broke, leaving only a lonely branch.

Some of those who left the army were able to take with them livestock, cloth and furs, slaves, wheat and barley, and precious salt and sugar, while others left empty-handed, with nothing but sorrow and hatred.

The Emir of Fayoum watched from the sidelines. When he saw the look in these people's eyes, he couldn't help but feel terrified.

Are they hating Christians? Obviously not.

What they hate are the Emirs or Viziers who lured them here, made them bleed, and then offered them no favors. But what can he do? Although he is the governor of Fayoum, it is already good enough that the Emirs of Egypt have maintained a semblance of peace and have not attacked each other—look at the chaos that has ensued in Syria.

He couldn't interfere with the decisions of those generals and officials, but he could understand their thoughts. These tribes had always lived a very difficult life, after all, in the vast wilderness and sandy land, they didn't have much to rely on for survival, and after suffering this calamity, it was hard to say whether their tribes would be able to survive the next winter when they returned.

And when their tribes are destroyed, new tribes will be born. At that time, the treachery of these viziers and emirs will also disappear into the rolling dust and be forgotten.

They don't even need to worry about immediate retaliation from the other side.

These are all small tribes. Even when they were powerful, they couldn't compete with the emirs. How could they possibly compete when they were broken and devastated?

"What are you looking at?" A vizier passed by, hunting in the surrounding mountains with his entourage. Falcons kept shifting their claws on the servants' arms, and hunting dogs barked incessantly around their horses' hooves. Their horses were laden with bloodied catches—wild goats, waterfowl, and rabbits.

"Are you still hunting?"

"Any questions?"

"Your wagons and tents are piled high with food, but the tribespeople who have already left—their sacks are empty..."

The vizier, upon hearing this, merely sneered. Clearly, he did not want to hear such words. From the bottom of his heart, he said they would rather the tribespeople they had driven out had starved to death on their way home.

In this way, their crimes not only lost witnesses, but also eliminated future threats. Of course, he couldn't say it so explicitly.

“What nonsense are you spouting?” He showed no mercy. Fayoum was indeed a large city, but he was also the vizier of the ancient city of Memphis. Not to mention, the Emir of Fayoum had already suffered a great loss of prestige due to his excessive compromise and cowardice in the negotiations with the Christians. Now, almost no one in the army respected him. Some were even planning to rush to Sultan Saladin to accuse him of incompetence, and even to falsely accuse him of acting as an inside agent for the Christians before the war, which led to their irreparable defeat in the previous battle.

Seeing this, the Emir of Fayoum said no more. He spurred his horse back to his tent and saw many noisy hunting parties returning to the camp along the way.

Those tribesmen who left the army were able to travel and hunt to avoid going hungry on their way home.

But now... regardless of whether the hunting party can catch all the prey here, their disturbance will certainly cause the prey to hide or move to other places.

However, something even more unfair has already happened.

Campfires blazed throughout the army's camp, simmering with meat broth, roasting meat, and spearing fish. The rich aromas rising from the fires did not whet the appetite of the Emir of Fayoum; instead, they made him nauseous.

He returned to his tent, drank a glass of grape juice, and then fell into a deep sleep.

Even in his dreams tonight, he could not find peace. His soul seemed to have left his body and risen above the tent. He saw the dark camp covered by a layer of silvery moonlight, and the surrounding valley was also illuminated by the skylight, with countless stars leaping in the river.

A dark wind flowed through the endless dense forest—no, it wasn't wind, but the wind of the expelled tribesmen, almost all of them wounded and exhausted. But what disturbed the Emir of Fayoum was that there was little despair or hopelessness on their faces, and even an indescribable tenacity…

What are they so fixated on? The Emir of Fayoum doesn't know.

But these people were clearly converging on one place. Indeed, the Fatah, whom the viziers and emirs considered worthless, had not managed to retain many warriors. However, there were always ten or twenty survivors in each tribe. They had been through the battlefield, and the blood of their enemies and comrades had tempered their hearts and enriched their experience. They themselves were a considerable asset. Unfortunately, the lingering influence of the Shavar still permeated the ruined palace. This "wealth" was far less likely to move those guys than a chest of gold coins.

Who were they going to see? The Emir of Fayoum had a vague guess in his mind, but he still followed them involuntarily until they arrived at a flat valley.

Here lies between two small tributaries of the Jordan River, a place with abundant water and a flat terrain. In the center of the area stands a huge, gray-white tent, more than enough to accommodate a thousand people.

Saladin's eagle banner stood in front of the tent. The Emir of Fayoum watched the scene intently—they had come to see Saladin—but he was not surprised, even as Saladin walked out of the tent. He was as tall and thin as ever, full of energy and upright, showing no signs of his previous serious injuries and near death.

The tribesmen burst into tears upon seeing him. They knelt down and bowed to him from dozens of feet away, kissing the hem of his robe.

Although the Emir of Fayoum could not hear their voices, he could still guess the gist of what they were saying from their expressions and the shape of their lips—they were saying that they regretted their words and were confessing to Saladin, asking for his forgiveness.

Saladin spoke to them, and the men grew increasingly agitated. Then a group of Saladin's Mamluks came out. They led the Fatahs and their warriors to the other end of the camp, where there was steaming soup, flatbread, and even meat. The men were exhausted, and they ate and drank heartily before lying down on the ground.

And such teams continue to arrive.

When Emir of Fayoum woke up again, he felt numbness in his fingers and toes. This feeling was obviously wrong. Even if he was too tired or too sad, it shouldn't be like this. He wanted to shout, but found that he could only make a murmur-like sound. He reached for the scimitar on the side of his pillow, but found nothing.

His struggle caused some noise, and his servant—the tribesman from Babi—saw the intimidating light in his master's eyes, but instead of panicking, he stepped forward and took his hand: "Don't panic, sir, you will not be harmed or humiliated."

The Emir of Fayoum, finding himself able to speak in a low voice, calmed down considerably. "What did you do to me?"

"To let you sleep?" the servant said. "It's become very dangerous outside, and this is the only way we can keep you in the tent. And this is also because of that..."

"Forget about that one, was it really necessary?" the Emir of Fayoum said curtly. "It was Sultan Saladin, wasn't it?"

“It’s Sultan Saladin.” The servant simply sat cross-legged beside him, lifted his hand, put it back in the blanket, and gave him some water. Meanwhile, the Emir of Fayoum finally heard faint shouts, the clash of swords, and the flickering light on the tent. “What time is it?”

“It has been three days since you returned to the tent, sir. Please do not be angry. If you were sober, if you could stand up, lift your scimitar, and mount your horse, could you stand idly by? Could you watch your former colleagues and friends die? You cannot, even if you know they deserved it, you still cannot convince yourself otherwise.”

"That's the downside of being a good person," the servant said, as if talking to himself.

"My colleagues and friends?"

“Some of them. And some others, like you, either followed Sultan Saladin’s orders, or, like you, Saladin didn’t want you to face such a difficult choice.”

"He is killing Saracens, killing those who share his faith in God. God will not forgive him; he will surely be punished by God and fall into purgatory..."

“Please don’t say that,” the servant interrupted him immediately, clearly displeased with his curse. “A great tree stands tall and lush, yet a serpent nests in its heart, its venom dripping down and corroding its body, causing it to wither and weaken. A wise man would dig out the serpent and the corroded parts together and throw them into the fire, instead of hesitating because the decayed parts also belong to the tree. Every day, no, my lord, every hour, the harm that sinful and greedy people do to God’s inheritance grows ever greater.”

Moreover, Saladin did give them opportunities; if they could defeat the Christians, or even if they couldn't, if they could hold out for a while—Saladin wouldn't have made that decision.

"What nonsense!"

The Emir of Fayoum said angrily that he could see that his servant was a spy planted by Saladin, but that spy was indeed doing the job Saladin wanted him to do.

He was held captive by his former servant, unable to move, and could only silently await the final outcome.

Fortunately, this agonizing period did not last long. Before dawn, he finally regained some strength, his vision became clearer, and he could hear more. As the tent door was opened, a familiar smell—the smell of burning wood, leather, and human bodies—was entering the tent.

But then a slightly chilly mountain breeze blew in, and they quickly dissipated as if they had never been there.

"Have some coffee, or perhaps some grape juice," the servant said.

The Emir of Fayoum looked up at the second person to enter his tent, the man Fatah, whom he had just bid farewell to not long ago. At that time, the Emir of Fayoum thought that he was the one who had been forgiven, but now it seemed that he and his master Saladin were the ones who had been forgiven.

Even with the help of coffee and grape juice, Fayoum's Emil still had to catch his breath for a while before he was finally able to stand up.

"Is Saladin already here?" he asked.

The other man nodded, then turned to the servant. “Are you still my servant? If not, that’s alright. Consider this a request for a friend’s help—please bring me some clean water, change my clothes, and put my headscarf back on.”

"You're going to see him?"

"He's waiting for me... us."

The Emir of Fayoum said that he had completely calmed down, and only after everything was in order did he walk forward with difficulty. His servants tried to help him, but he refused.

He walked slowly and steadily, step by step, toward the place where the eagle flag was flying.

Just as he had seen in that dream, which he didn't know if it was a dream or not, he saw a row of corpses covered with white linen on one side of the camp, and people were cleaning and wrapping them according to Saracen tradition.

"Scholars" are reciting scriptures for them.

For some reason, looking at them, the Emir of Fayoum was reminded of the prey he had seen not long ago on their saddles and the backs of their camels. Those birds and beasts, once with their bright coats and sharp claws, now lay lifeless on the ground, their blood seeping through their fur and feathers into the loose sand.

He walked on and on, and the camp was filled with young Mamluks, the most trusted young men around Saladin, who had once mocked him for it—because no Saracens were willing to follow him.

Although these young men were merely Saladin's slaves, the light in their eyes was no less than that of the Christian knights. They held their heads high, their gazes cold and indifferent, showing almost no tolerance for anything other than their master Saladin.

The tall, thin figure in black stood at the end of the road. Further ahead, he saw familiar faces, most of whom had heeded his advice, while a small number turned away in shame when he looked over.

They were Saladin's inside men, or rather, his spies. The Emir of Fayoum had kindly warned them, but they never told him a single truth.

"Are you alright?" Saladin asked.

“I am well, Sultan, thank you for taking care of me all this time,” replied the Emir of Fayoum.

The words were rather harsh, and he was not surprised to see the Mamluks looking at him with hostility.

“I’m keeping you here because you’re not rotten to the core yet,” Saladin said clearly, making no attempt to cover up anything for the Emir of Fayoum—although, in the court previously controlled by Shavar, truly upright and virtuous people simply couldn’t survive.

The Emir of Fayoum can only be said to have done his best to ensure the stability of the city and the safety of the army while satisfying his own desires. But apart from that, he also made many mistakes.

"By doing this, you are essentially handing Damascus over to the Christians, Sultan."

"It seems you're still somewhat unwilling, but that's alright. I can tell you that I won't take Damascus at this time. She is indeed a beauty, but she is also coveted by countless people. Anyone who gets her will face a series of challenges."

As for me, if I were to actually occupy Damascus, in addition to the siege by Christians, I would likely also face the betrayal of the Saracens. At best, they would refuse my request for help, just as they are refusing Lazis now.

You're betting that I'll stop Christians for the sake of my faith and honor, but that's incredibly unfair to me, don't you think?

The Emir of Fayoum opened his mouth, but in the end, he couldn't say anything.

The Saracens' infighting played a significant role in the great success of the First Crusade. Had Saladin been besieged in that city, there would have been even more opportunists, not fewer. In fact, even before the war ended, the remaining Fatimid forces in Cairo would have seized the opportunity to instigate rebellion, turning Egypt into a second Syria.

“I’m keeping you here because you at least possess this quality that the prophet expected. Although you’ve gone with the tide and done wrong things, it was out of necessity for an official of the Fatimid dynasty. So here I can give you another chance. Are you willing to pledge your allegiance to me?”

The Emir of Fayoum stood there, thinking that a long time had passed, but to others it was only a short moment.

Countless thoughts flashed through his mind, finally settling on the two faces: the King of Arrasar and his most beloved minister, Count Cesare of Edessa. What young faces they were!

He finally stopped hesitating and knelt down. He crawled to Saladin's feet, lifted his robe, and brought it to his lips.

This is the last person he needs.

Saladin's brows remained furrowed. He no longer focused his gaze on the respectful officials, but instead turned his attention towards Damascus.

It is highly likely that Damascus will fall into Christian hands. Yes, it is regrettable, but it is not without a chance of redemption.

Christians are not united. On the contrary, their court is not even comparable to that of the former Fatimid or Zengid dynasties, and such signs have long been evident. Otherwise, Zengid would not have been able to reclaim Edessa so easily, and in the future—perhaps in the not-too-distant future—he could conquer Damascus again.

But before that, he also wants to give his child a gift.

(End of this chapter)