kingdom of nations

Chapter 277 Goodbye Busla

For César, this was almost a return to familiar territory.

During his mission to Apollo, Damascus left a deep impression on him no less than that on Apollo; in fact, one could say that he had a much better impression of Damascus than of Apollo.

At Apollo, the Saracens initially tried to bribe them, then enslave them, and finally tried to kill them. Everyone said it was a miracle that he was able to bring ninety knights back to Arazari intact.

In Damascus, whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was treated like a prince.

Saladin was very generous to him; he guaranteed Cesare's safety, granted him his freedom, and sent his own scholars to treat him.

Otherwise, his recovery wouldn't have been so quick. During his convalescence, whenever Saladin was awake and had time, he would often drink coffee, play chess, or discuss literature or politics with him.

He could see that in Saladin's presence, he was indeed just a child, and many of his thoughts and ideas would make Saladin laugh.

But this smile contained no contempt. The elder gazed at him with joy, as if he were seeing a sapling full of life, or a fledgling bird taking flight. Although they stood on completely opposite sides and would inevitably become enemies in the future, César would very much like to have such a friend if possible.

When he heard that the only one who responded to the plea for help from Damascus Governor Lazis was Saladin, the Sultan of Egypt, Cesar found it difficult to discern his feelings—he admired Saladin, was grateful to him, but was mostly wary of him.

Saladin was not a simple general. He was not afraid of fighting with his enemies on the battlefield, but he was also not afraid of using tricks and schemes.

It can be said that Amalric I's death was orchestrated by him, and through Shavar's final, frenzied actions, he even purged most of the local forces that might have become opponents. For this, he even abandoned Fustat, even though he had already established his new capital in Cairo. But to watch such a vast city turn to ashes in flames is not something just anyone could do.

But when Cesar heard from Baldwin that Saladin had been attacked by Assassins, seriously wounded, and was near death, he felt not only relief but also indignation and sympathy. He knew he should be grateful, since without Saladin, the Saracens would hardly pose a real threat to them, and thus, the knights, squires, and laborers of the Crusade would have a much greater chance of returning to Arathi Basin.

But similarly, he saw Baldwin in Saladin—Cesar was not naive enough to believe that Saladin's assassination in his heavily guarded camp was truly due to the extraordinary abilities of the Assassins.

His opponents were as many as Baldwin's.

If even a renowned general could be like this, then Baldwin, a prince residing in the heart of Arrassa Road, under the protection of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and within the Fortress of the Holy Cross, was to contract leprosy—a disease almost exclusively seen in the poor—which was already an unbelievable thing.

Not to mention, after that, the Crusaders and the Church put continuous pressure on the King to depose Baldwin. This was also because Amalric I did not have a second son, so he was able to continue to enjoy his father's protection and love. But now, he has come of age, been knighted, and led his army to several impeccable victories, but the doubts about him have almost never subsided.

They were even willing to tolerate Princess Hibil and her husband's disrespect towards the king—simply because the king's heir was to emerge from Hibil's womb.

Sometimes Cesar would wonder if he hadn't appeared, or if Baldwin hadn't been chosen, or if he had been chosen—but not through grace, but through a bestowal—he would have been a monk. In that case, in a monastery unknown to anyone, would Baldwin have received more kindness and lived a peaceful life?
But he only thought that if he were a monk, Baldwin would not be willing to spend his life on prayer and work. He would surely reappear before people, like a shooting star that rips through the sky, or a spark that suddenly bursts in the night.

In any case, he will not be content with mediocrity.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

They did not encounter much resistance in Busla.

Here, César met his first acquaintance, Shamsdin, the governor of Laches. He surrendered to the Christians, asking only that they not massacre the people in the city.

“Of course,” he said, feigning humility, “even if you want to kill me, you won’t encounter any resistance.”

At first, Baldwin and Cesar couldn't understand what he meant, but they did after they entered the city.

Once a small but prosperous city, Busra has almost become a ghost town. The bright murals have faded, and there are still filthy bloodstains in the cracks of the bricks in the streets. Collapsed walls can be seen everywhere, and the shops and warehouses with their doors wide open are empty. Even Shamsdin's mansion is in a state of disrepair and ruin, and you can even see traces of fire smoke.

"What's going on here?"

Baldwin asked, and Shamsding waved his hand. Several servants who had been cowering and dared not step forward immediately retreated as if granted a pardon. These servants had nothing to do with being strong or even healthy. They were old, ugly, and dark-skinned. There were no women among them, just like the people who were barely surviving among the ruins, or worse.

Even the women were not much different from the men in appearance and physique—they had clearly suffered from prolonged hunger, and Cesar felt that a knight as tall as Walter could easily grab three of them with one outstretched hand.

“We’re right behind Damascus,” Shamsdin said nonchalantly, personally pulling out a roll of blood-stained carpet from the room—it was clear it had been scrubbed, but blood seemed to leave the most vivid marks on everything. “I hope you don’t mind, but this is all we have. Even those dark-skinned Nubians wouldn’t want it—the Christian king,” Shamsdin said lazily. “Please sit down. You can sit on the floor if you prefer, but it’s not exactly clean.”

César also recalled that when he first came to Busra, Kamal advised Shamsdin to hire a Christian mission to wipe out the bandits outside the city—and they did indeed accept the job.

At that time, Shamsdin could still get gold, silk and spices, and the chess pieces he placed in Cesare's room were carved from ebony and inlaid with gold bases.

He now looks like a piece of charcoal that's about to burn out; if you rub it a little, it will turn into grayish-white embers, and you can't even feel any warmth on him.

"They always come. I'm talking about those who want Damascus, and for them, Busra is the best place to settle down. At first, we could offer gold, slaves, wheat, or beans, but then the people of Apol came, the people of Homs came, the people of Raqqa came, and then Hama, Idlib... After Sultan Nur ad-Din died, it seemed that everyone saw Damascus as a piece of delicious meat and wanted to take a bite. And while they couldn't get Damascus, little Busra could temporarily relieve their hunger."

They peeled away Busla layer by layer, like peeling an onion.

Your Majesty, in truth, whether it is you or anyone else who comes, all I can do is open the gates to welcome you in and beg you not to kill the few remaining inhabitants of the city. Those who could escape have all escaped, leaving behind only some poor souls like myself, too old to move. Do with them as you see fit; send them to hard labor or drive them out as you please.

Or, if you were willing to show mercy and allow them to meet Allah sooner, it wouldn't necessarily end well.

"A good ending?" Baldwin asked. "And what about you?"

Although Shamsdin said he was so old that he could hardly walk, this was purely an exaggeration. He was not that old; he was only about fifty years old.

It has only been three years since César was sent as an envoy to Apollo. Three years, not thirty.

A strange, indescribable expression crossed Shamsuddin's face. He seemed to want to laugh and cry at the same time; his lips were twisted horribly and clenched tightly. Although he had surrendered to the Christians on behalf of Busra—an act that almost certainly meant his future descent into Hellfire and the contempt of all Saracens—he still possessed that innate pride.

“I have heard of it before,” Baldwin said after a long pause, “that there was once a king of a small country whose kingdom was attacked by an enemy, and he had few knights and soldiers, and his people were so weak that they were powerless to resist.”

In the end, he was left with only a poor farmer, and all he owned was a simple thatched hut. Even so, he vowed to defend this place, even if it meant giving his life and his honor.

Shamsdin could have left, even earlier, or after the first army attacked and occupied Busra.

Even if he could never become a Vizier or an Emir again, he could still live a comfortable and carefree life as a wealthy man in Apollo, in Alexandria, or even in Constantinople, instead of being like this, almost all alone, guarding an empty city, willingly enduring the humiliation of the enemy for the sake of less than a thousand Saracen people, and facing death that could come at any moment.

“I did have a selfish motive, or you could say I was lucky,” Shamsdin said unexpectedly candidly. “Who wouldn’t want to continue living, even though things in this world are never perfect. If it had been the Knights Templar or the Grand Duke of Antioch or the Count of Tripoli, I wouldn’t have made this decision so quickly—they are not you…” He turned his gaze to Cesar.

"Christians call you a little saint, and among the Saracens, you deserve the same respect."

You are a pagan, but you once showed enough respect and care to a former enemy, a Saracen who could no longer give you anything in return, and sent him back to his homeland so that he could rest in peace.

After that, you brought back my friend Kamal from Apollo, along with others.

Even if you are a Christian, no Saracen will be condemned by God if he praises you in prayer because of what you have done.

And we believe that a hunter followed by an eagle cannot be a monstrous demon.” Shamsding glanced at Baldwin. “I hope you are not offended by this; before you arrived, someone had indeed vouched for you with their own reputation.”

“I have no ill feelings.” Baldwin shook his head, looking at Shamsding with genuine admiration. “Then,” he stood up, “Cesar, help me remove the scimitar from his belt.”

Cesar stepped forward and took the scimitar from Shamsdin's belt.

The scimitar wasn't even made of Damascus steel; it lacked any elaborate patterns, and the scabbard was dirty and broken, completely inconsistent with the status of a governor. Shamsuddin's original scimitar, "Tiger Fang," may have also been used for bribes or to purchase grain.

Cesar presented the scimitar to Baldwin, a necessary procedure. "You are now my prisoner," Baldwin declared. "Your safety is guaranteed by me—but what about your wife and children?"

“I have told them to leave and never come back.”

They might be in Apollo or Naibk now, I'm not sure—I've already told them that once they get out of here, they should never contact me again, just pretend I'm dead. He looked at Baldwin, implying that they shouldn't expect any ransom from him, but Baldwin just smiled and strapped the scimitar to his waist.

“You will be treated like a duke here,” he said, then ordered his attendant to take Shamsdin away. “What about the commoners, Cesar?”

Those people are unable to work at all; they're afraid they'll collapse and die at any moment just walking on the street.

“Send them to Damascus as part of the letter,” Cesar said.

Although Damascus will inevitably become a purgatory filled with blood and fire, driving these people out of Busra now will mean that all they will see in their lives is howling winds and the desolate wilderness, and even if there are no wild beasts, there will be thirst and hunger.

Bandits wouldn't even rob them, and slave traders wouldn't want these shriveled and unassuming "goods."

But in this era and in this place, being able to do this much is already the greatest tolerance and generosity.

They didn't even offer their ransom money, and if Cesar were to offer them livestock and food, some would surely think he was possessed by a demon.

“Then let’s do it this way.” Shamsding and the others couldn’t let him go, especially since Baldwin had said he would be treated like a duke, so at least he would be well-fed and clothed in prison. “By the way, let him write a letter to the governor of Damascus, Lazis.”

This is also a necessary procedure before a siege—the attacking side will assert all rights to the city, whether given to them by God or Allah.

Of course, more often than not, such claims will not be recognized, and a siege will be inevitable.

(End of this chapter)