The Restoration of Rome: In the Name of Augustus

Chapter 93 Same Destination, Different Paths

The dry, cold wind, carrying sand and dust, lashed against the weary faces of the Ayyubid soldiers. Saladin's army, like a wounded python, slowly advanced along the winding road from the east bank of the Yarmouk River to Damascus.

This once spirited army now moves with a heavy heart in every step.

Because of the need to accommodate the wounded and sick at the rear of the column—hundreds of soldiers weakened by diarrhea and fever, either carried on stretchers on camel backs or supported by their comrades—the column could only advance about four farsachs per day, less than half of its normal marching speed.

The army would take a short rest every two farsakhs. Water was strictly rationed, with each person receiving only a small cup of slightly salty date wine at a time—a drink that could both quench thirst and replenish energy.

The army's rations mainly consisted of dried mutton strips, rock-hard wheat cakes, and a small amount of dates. Food shortages were beginning to appear, with rations reduced to only two-thirds of the usual amount.

Just as the army reached the vicinity of the iron mine site in Ajron Town, Farouk led a dozen or so Ghulam's personal guards in pursuit from behind.

Saladin raised his hand to signal, and the well-trained army immediately slowed down, their formation gradually thinning out to make way for Farouk.

Farouk spurred his horse forward, initially accelerating until he was almost alongside Saladin's steed, then suddenly slowed down, maintaining a delicate distance from Saladin, seemingly close yet distant.

"Farooq!" Saladin stared straight ahead, without turning around. "Come here!"

Farouk lowered his head and approached cautiously, not daring to look up at his uncle.

"Look up!" Saladin roared. "As my nephew, the Great Emir of Damascus, Salah Yusuf, do you lack even the courage to admit defeat and face the truth?"

Farouk abruptly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot. "Uncle, I... I have let you down. My recklessness has cost the lives of hundreds of warriors and thwarted God's cause..." His voice began to choke. "I couldn't even conquer Beitshean..."

Saladin paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the wounded soldiers being helped in the distance: "Look at those soldiers, Farouk. They are not just numbers; each one is a creation of God, with families and dreams."

"The first lesson for a general is not how to win, but when to retreat for the lives of his soldiers." Saladin's voice deepened. "From the moment you first tested the Franks' crossbows and witnessed their power, you should have considered withdrawing the soldiers from the ladders and patiently waiting for the catapults to be assembled."

"Farooq, know that God is with the patient." Saladin's words contained no reproach. "Failure is not terrible; what is terrible is not learning from failure."

Farouk took a deep breath: "I understand, Uncle. I made three mistakes. First, I underestimated the enemy and attacked without waiting for the catapults to be assembled. Second, I failed to adjust my strategy in time when my army suffered setbacks. Third... I was overconfident, which led me to fall into the Frankish trap."

Saladin nodded slightly: "Remember, a true jihadist is not one who acts rashly. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, 'The strong believer is more lovable in the sight of God than the weak believer.' Here, strength refers not only to the physical body, but also to the strength of wisdom and will."

Farouk nodded emphatically, seemingly lost in thought.

The uncle and nephew rode side by side. Farouk, as if remembering something, said to Saladin, "Uncle, there's something else. Almorin came to the camp, saying he was sent by you to help me capture Beitshean. But he hasn't appeared since, and I don't know if he's infiltrated the castle... Has he returned to report to you?"

Saladin suddenly reined in his horse, his expression turning unusually serious: "Almorin? I never sent him to assist you."

A gust of cold wind blew by, stirring up sand and dust.

"I, Salah Yusuf," he said, emphasizing each word, "have never deigned to tarnish the sacred jihadist cause with such despicable means as assassination. True victory comes from a direct confrontation under God's protection, not from daggers in the shadows."

Farouk was taken aback: "But he did show up at the camp that night, and even claimed..."

"There's no need to bring this up again," Saladin interrupted, raising his hand sharply. "Almorin and I are neither ruler nor subject, nor master and servant. Although I nominally bring the Assassins of Egypt and Syria under my control, they are like wolves in the wilderness, lions and leopards in the oasis—never truly under my control."

"They are dangerous. Don't contact or even talk to them casually in the future. Don't mention to anyone that Almorin was at your camp that day. I will handle Almorin's matter personally." Saladin's expression was uncertain. "But our top priority right now is to get the soldiers back to Damascus safely. You go to Ajron first and ensure that supplies are sufficient, especially medicine and food."

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.

Meanwhile, Almorin, whose whereabouts were unknown, as Saladin and Farouk had described, was walking along the main road between Beitsheian and Galilee. His white robes were covered with dust and grass clippings from Beitsheian Castle, and the cuts on his knees from pitchforks throbbed with pain.

After trekking through the desert for two days and two nights, Almorin finally found an opportunity at an oasis that caravans always passed through—a caravan consisting of five Frankish merchants and more than thirty mercenaries was resting there.

Almorin quickly changed his demeanor, rummaging through his turban and rolling around in the sand to make his robe look tattered.

He staggered out from behind the sand dunes and pleaded in Arabic with a Persian accent: “Merciful gentlemen, I have been robbed by Bedouin bandits and all my possessions have been stolen… Please give me a ride, and God will bless your business.”

The caravan leader was a stout middle-aged Frankish man. He squinted at the "poor" pilgrim for a moment, and finally nodded in agreement.

"Come on up, poor old man. We're going to Antioch; we can give you a ride to the border."

Almorin thanked them profusely and climbed onto the camel cart loaded with spices. He deliberately maintained a humble demeanor, sharing his provisions and water with the merchants, occasionally recounting fabricated pilgrimage experiences to Jerusalem. The merchants trusted him completely and even invited him to share dinner.

However, as the caravan approached the mountains where Masyard Castle was located, Almolin's eyes gradually turned cold.

On a dark and windy night, the caravan camped for rest in a narrow valley. Once everyone was asleep, Almorin moved silently.

He first slit the leader's throat, the movement swift and clean, leaving the man no time to even utter a groan. Then, he dealt with the remaining four caravan members and all the mercenaries one by one. The entire process took only a few minutes, without disturbing any creature in the valley.

Almorin calmly searched the caravan for all its valuables, dragged the bodies to a distant rock crevice to bury them, and then drove the caravan's goods and camels into the depths of the desert.

After completing all this, he gazed at the dawning sky in the east, his face devoid of any emotion.

"Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

He shook the blood off his hidden blade and turned to walk towards Masyard Castle, deep in the mountains.