Chapter 428: Her Glory! Above All

Chapter 428: Chapter 304: Her Glory! Above All

Antioch was located between the Orontes River and the foothills of two mountains—Mount Silpius and Mount Staurin.

In the 6th century, the Byzantines fortified these natural defenses by building a magnificent set of enclosed city walls (3 miles long and 60 feet high) that included some 60 towers. The walls ran along the banks of the Orontes River, crossed Mount Staurin, and followed the steep slopes of Mount Silpius.

Hundreds of feet above the main city, near the summit of Mount Silpius, stood a formidable citadel at the very apex of the fortifications. By the late 11th century, this defense system had been eroded by time and damaged by earthquakes, but it remained a terrible obstacle for any invader.

The Counts led their army and encamped on a gentle slope outside Antioch City. Eric, representing the Counts and the King of England, was to conduct the preliminary negotiations with Sultan Suleiman of the Ottoman Empire.

Normally, for negotiations of this Level, Robert should have at least been informed beforehand.

But Eric surmised that Sultan Suleiman of the Ottoman Empire would not stay here for long. He was likely anxious to return to Anatolia and teach his rebellious brother a lesson.

The Gold Eric had seized was very likely the ‘peace gold’ intended to seal a treaty with the Seljuk Empire, ending their conflict over the lands of Syria.

If Eric were to mention needing to consult King Robert of England, who was far away in Cyprus, Suleiman might assume the Normans had no intention of negotiating. He might think that the cross-bearing Normans were loyal allies of the Greeks, and that this “consultation” was merely a stalling tactic to buy time to summon more Knights and troops to besiege Antioch.

Therefore, Eric informed the Turk that he was acting with the full authority of the King of England.

At the same time, Eric dispatched Belem by ship to Cyprus to inform Robert of the matter, although by the time Robert found out, the negotiations would likely already be over.

—

Within Antioch City, a slow, damp winter day was passing. Fortunately, the winters in Antioch were much milder and rarely cold.

As evening approached, the residents of Antioch had a habit of gathering in a dead-end alley next to the Pepper Market—Twin Taverns Lane—to while away the last hours of daylight.

They didn’t come for the musky Sogdian wine, but rather to watch the drunkards stumble in and out.

Occasionally, they would stop a staggering drunk, shove him to the ground, humiliate him in every way possible, and use vicious curses to make him remember: when his life ended, the fires of Hell would ignite the blood-red memory of his wine.

Now inside this great city, Eric was observing his surroundings. The damp city felt both new and strange to him.

The Turk had gone to consult his uncle, Sultan Suleiman of the Ottoman Empire, while Eric and a few Knights were settled in a tavern. The one responsible for receiving Eric was none other than Turandot, the man who had single-handedly rescued his master that day.

Turandot was incredibly enthusiastic toward Eric, recounting Eric’s mercy on that day over and over. His profuse thanks made Eric feel a bit embarrassed.

However, Eric was also able to confirm that Turandot had fulfilled his promise well. At the very least, everyone now knew that a cross-bearing Norman had unconditionally released a noble Seljuk Prince.

Eric also asked Turandot about the captive Frank Crusaders, but Turandot knew nothing, other than that the captured Frank nobles were of very high standing.

Eric had no intention of staying in the tavern; he planned to take a walk through the streets.

After the sun sank behind the clouds, a damp, cold freshness filled the air, and the cobblestone road reflected a faint light.

While passing through Olive Field Street, a little boy suddenly darted out. He was barefoot on the slippery stone slabs, tightly clutching an apple he had just stolen from a stall.

In a small shop on the corner, a group of people were playing backgammon around a stove. The sound of dice rolling, followed by curses and laughter, blended into the cold air, making the scene feel particularly alive.

Under a vaulted gallery by the river, a mule driver stopped beside a clear pool of water. He took off his frozen gloves and dipped his hands into the icy water, murmuring a prayer of thanks under his breath.

Then, he bent down and cupped the cold water to his lips, sipping it carefully, as if kissing the forehead of a sleeping baby. His mule nickered softly beside him. He took out a hollowed-out gourd, filled it with water, and offered it to the animal, allowing the faithful beast a moment of warmth and refreshment on this cold Winter day.

In the market square where cooked food was sold, Eric’s gaze was drawn to a pregnant girl of fifteen or sixteen. Her veil was lifted, and her unadorned lips showed no hint of a smile. Without a word, she gently took a few roasted almonds from his hand, which he had just purchased.

The passersby on the street paid it no mind.

Turandot explained to Eric that this was because of an old custom among the Turkic People: when an expectant mother met a stranger on the street who pleased her, she had to boldly ask to share his food. This way, the baby in her womb would grow up to be handsome, with a tall stature and a noble, dignified bearing like the stranger’s.

After watching the woman leave, Eric continued his stroll, chewing on the remaining almonds with a slight sense of pride.

Suddenly, a commotion pulled Eric back to reality. He realized he had wandered into a noisy crowd at some point.

In the middle of the crowd, an old man with thin, spindly limbs sat on the ground. Only a few strands of white hair remained on his dark brown head. The roar he mustered with all his strength was nothing more than a series of faint whimpers.

Near this pathetic old man, one group of men brandished clubs, showing off their beards to one another, while another group watched everything with excitement.

Someone in the audience noticed the horrified expressions on some of the foreigners’ faces and loudly reassured them, “Don’t worry! That’s ‘Skinny Jaber’.” Kaiyum took a step back, feeling somewhat ashamed. “Jaber! A disciple of Abu Ali,” he muttered under his breath.

Abu Ali was an exceedingly common name. However, any scholar from Bukhara, Cordova, Bari Black, or Baghdad would show immediate reverence at its mention. The Abu Ali they knew was none other than Abu Ali Ibn Sina, known to the Franks as Avicenna.

Eric had never met him, as the sage had passed away forty years ago, but he was still a respected master, a profoundly knowledgeable wise man, and a champion of reason.

Turandot whispered softly, “Jaber! Abu Ali’s most beloved disciple. Abu Ali had originally designated him as the heir to his medical and philosophical teachings; he admired Jaber’s eloquence.

He only ever rebuked Jaber for his arrogance. This arrogance and outspokenness earned Jaber several stints in prison and three public floggings, the last of which was one hundred and fifty lashes in the great square of Samarkand, in front of his family. After that humiliation, he never recovered.

It’s said that after his wife died, he went mad. Since then, people have seen him wandering around in tattered clothes, his steps unsteady, constantly roaring or shouting unbearable curses.

He is often followed by a group of mischievous children, who clap their hands and throw sharp stones at him until he wails in tears.”