kingdom of nations

Chapter 279 Goodbye Damascus (Part 2)

The aroma of cooking livestock quickly reached the city of Damascus, and the soldiers and civilians guarding the city could hardly resist turning their gaze to the grayish-white smoke that gathered above the camp.

Damascus had indeed made preparations well in advance, even harvesting wheat ahead of schedule, but the devastation inflicted on the city by previous wars was real. If Damascus hadn't always been a center for the flow of countless goods, they might not have been able to hold out until the Crusaders arrived.

Even so, the city's supplies were already in dire straits. While not yet at their worst, the daily rations were only enough for the soldiers still capable of fighting. Some elderly people, women, and even children had begun to refuse food, either voluntarily or involuntarily. The food they managed to get was barely enough to sustain the defenders' most basic needs.

At that moment, a Saracen soldier suddenly smelled the aroma of broth—an aroma that wasn't coming from outside the city. He looked back in confusion and saw that equally mouthwatering plumes of smoke were rising from within the city.

His confusion was soon resolved when one of his comrades (off-duty) was walking around the streets, looking for something that might have been "overlooked." Many soldiers did this, or rather, it was deliberately tolerated—even when they entered some locked mansions.

Whether those who left were officials or merchants in Damascus, from the moment they left, Damascus had nothing to do with them anymore.

The soldier's companion brought good news: "The governor has ordered all the cattle and sheep in the city to be slaughtered—they will soon be boiled into soup, and the women are baking bread... We'll be able to have a good feast soon!"

The soldier tried to smile to comfort his simple-minded friend, but his smile was so unsightly that the other man immediately saw through his act.

The smiles of their companions vanished. They smelled the aroma of meat coming from outside the city and knew that the Crusaders besieging the city were slaughtering cattle, sheep, and even mules and horses. This meant that they were about to launch a thorough and resolute attack—the last and most frenzied one.

Their meals suddenly changed from thinner wheat porridge to meat soup, which also meant that they might be about to have their last full meal.

The problem was that they couldn't retreat. These soldiers were recruited from local merchants, artisans, and farmers by Damascus's new governor, Lazis. Compared to the foreign troops, they had a stronger attachment to Damascus and were more willing to give up their freedom and lives for it.

But when that day actually arrived, a sense of fear still arose in the young soldier's heart.

“We die to protect the Kingdom of God that He left on earth,” the soldier said in a trembling voice. “Even in death, we will immediately ascend to Paradise. There, a paradise a hundred times more beautiful than Damascus awaits us. We will reunite with our families and enjoy pleasures unlike any on earth.” As he spoke, he unconsciously clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “We will lie among flowers, feast on delicacies served by virgins, and play music. We will live among the prophets, listening to their golden teachings for all eternity.”

He murmured to himself, both to convince himself and to reassure his companions.

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"My lord, please have some soup too." Lazis glanced at the silver bowl that had been brought to him, which contained chunks of meat that looked coarse and greasy.

Horse meat used to be something Lazis would never touch, but now it's a rare delicacy.

Damascus is not as devastated as Bosra, where people are starving everywhere. But after these years of suffering, it is no longer the prosperous place it once was.

Although Lazis managed to raise a sum of money from officials and merchants in Damascus—more like extortion and blackmail than fundraising—he did manage to do so.

These people were not very willing to pay money. They had decided to leave Damascus and develop elsewhere. All their resources were the foundation for their survival.

But Lazis was never one to care much about methods or reputation—if they weren't willing to give him money or supplies, he wouldn't give them passes or letters of guarantee—letters that could be described as a "pardon" used to cover up their shame and make excuses. In short, with these letters, those people weren't fleeing, but rather being "sent on missions," "transferred," or "entrusted"—in short, an excuse to get away from this troublesome place.

Some people might be thinking of seeking employment in Homs, Apollo, or Mosul, hoping to gain the trust of the sultan or emir there before they would be willing to buy the letter.

Some people no longer care about their own honor or others' doubts about their faith; they flee without hesitation, even though they often boast about the saying, "Only those blessed by God can settle in Damascus."

In response, some generals asked Lazis whether they should intercept them.
But after much deliberation, Lazis still refused.

These people also have their own soldiers and slaves, and once a conflict breaks out, Damascus's already crumbling defenses will inevitably become even weaker.

Moreover, he had a vague feeling that he might not be able to protect Damascus this time, and that it might be a good thing if they were willing to leave and take some people from the city with them.

Lazis had initially placed his hopes on the Emir of Holmes, the Emir of Apollo, and the Sultan, but now it seems their promises are as fleeting as bubbles blown by fish in water, and are simply unreliable.

Even the governor of Holmes boasted that he was sent by God to protect and rule the city when attacking Damascus, but when he actually had to face tens of thousands of Crusaders, he didn't utter a word—even though they knew that if the Crusaders occupied Damascus, it would be a heavy blow to the entire Saracen world.

Lazis' last hope, Saladin, turned to despair after hearing of the Sultan's assassination.

When Lazis occasionally looked in the mirror, seeing his once plump cheeks become angular and his thick hair thin and gray, he wondered when he had really become a responsible and good person.

He used to be so carefree, even unwilling to follow in his father's footsteps and become a doctor, only willing to rely on the blessings left by his ancestors to seek pleasure in the rest of his life—how did he end up like this?

Even though he became the governor of Damascus under Saladin's so-called "support" but in reality "coercion"—he had neither talent nor power. He led the people of Damascus to resist to this day, which can be said to be more than enough.

He should have left, but for some reason he didn't. And Shamsuddin of Busla seemed to feel the same way. While people angrily condemned Shamsuddin for handing Busla over to the Crusaders, Lazis wasn't surprised at all. What was there to say?
How many people are left in Busra now? He and Shamsuddin are not prophets, how could one person possibly defend an entire city?

“No, I’m not the one who needs these right now,” he said weakly. “Take these to Wumaiye Temple.”

In 706 AD, the Saracens drove out the Romans from Damascus, and the Umayyad Caliph I, Walid ibn Abd al-Malik, vowed to build a temple that was more beautiful, larger, and more sacred than the Christian churches.

Thus, the Umayyad Monastery came into being. It was the largest monastery, even surpassing those in Apollo and Holmes—it housed hundreds of scholars and their students. Reassuringly, while many left Damascus, almost none of the monastery's inhabitants left, and it is thanks to them that Damascus has been able to survive to this day.

“The livestock in the city have all been sent over,” the servant boldly advised. “N, you should have some too, otherwise…” He looked at his master with pity. Although he also ate only one meal a day, he ate much more than his master. Whether it was because the food was becoming increasingly coarse or because of his inner turmoil, Lazis had been eating less and less lately.

Lazis himself came from a family of doctors, so he knew this was an ominous sign, but it was not something he could control.

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the spoon from the bowl and took a sip of soup. Instead of putting the spoon back in the silver bowl, he placed it on the table. "Alright, I've already eaten." His stomach was churning wildly from that spoonful of soup. "Take this to the soldiers guarding the city and pour it into their soup pots. I'm a useless man; I don't deserve such good treatment."

Seeing the servant's hesitation, he smiled and said, "Don't worry. I know my physical condition. I can still hold on, at least until the end."

When the curtain falls, there is only one thing he can do: either hand the city over to a trustworthy person or to their enemies.

The servant left the room.

Lazis opened a drawer in his desk and took out a letter. It was a letter that Kamal had written to him after the Sultan's assassination.

Camar was his friend. Lazis had once followed Camar's advice to test the Christian knight. He was impressed by the young knight's loyalty and sincerity, and nipped the cruel test in the bud. But it seemed as if fate had its own arrangements—now he was going to add the final chapter to this unfinished poem, hoping that it would still be as harmonious and beautiful as it was at the beginning, and not become a regrettable failure.

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After the scholars and students at the Umayyad Mosque finished their meal, they began to pray to Allah and the Prophet.

The scholars still here had already foreseen their future—Razis was not a harsh governor; as early as when the first emir arrived at the gates of Damascus, he allowed those who wanted to leave the city to do so—although those people had to leave behind money and supplies, at least they regained their freedom and lives.

He treated scholars equally, without giving them any special treatment because they had received revelations from the prophets. He did not, like the emirs or Fatahs, demand that they be buried alive in Damascus.

Some scholars have indeed left, and those who remain have made vows to God.

The oldest scholar, the one known as "the Elder," raised his head and gazed for a long time at the gray-yellow stone pillars and the towering dome. The once magnificent colors and decorations, the solemn minaret, the stone slabs, copper and silver plates engraved with scriptures, and the exquisite carpets had all disappeared.

This wasn't someone taking advantage of the chaos; rather, they feared that if Damascus truly fell into Christian hands, they would destroy or defile these sacred items.

So they were all dismantled and then handed over to a trustworthy merchant to take away.

It can be said that the Wumaiye Temple is now an empty ruin. Its most precious assets are these scholars and their students, and these most precious assets may be exhausted today.

They stood up and walked outside, across the empty street.

The people of Damascus—even the dying—were helped to kneel and pay homage on both sides of the street to see them off.

People kept prostrating themselves at the scholars' feet, begging for their blessings. No scholar would hesitate to do so at this moment. When the "elder" removed his hand from the top of a person's head, his expression was solemn.

Unlike the small town of Busla, Damascus has a permanent population of around 200,000. Even though many people have left, there are still some who are unwilling to give up their homes—there may still be tens of thousands of people here.

Their staying here means they may perish with the city. As people who have received prophetic revelation, they will not betray their faith, but such a requirement will not be applied to ordinary people—but will those Christians be willing to lay down their swords?

Surrounded by soldiers, they climbed the city wall and watched the siege tower advancing towards it in the morning light. Even the "elder" couldn't help but change color slightly.

The siege tower was larger than any he had ever seen before. The walls of Damascus were not much less impressive than those of Fustat, and this siege tower was even more astonishing than its counterparts from Amalric I's expedition to Egypt—it almost blocked out the rising sun.

The Peace Gate, Damascus's most important city gate, and the adjacent city walls were completely shrouded in its shadow.

This siege tower could not even be moved by manpower. The "elder" only needed to look down to see a set of pulleys connecting the city wall and the Crusader lines. It required eight oxen to pull it at the same time to make this behemoth move slowly forward.

(End of this chapter)