Chapter 477 King of Levant

Eric handed Mahmud and the Mountain Castle over to Brinyos and Belem. His own credibility was shot, so for now, he would have to borrow some from Emperor Alexios.

Eric walked through the streets of Hama City. The bustling scenes he had witnessed upon first entering the city were gone, replaced by ruins in many places.

The fires in the streets had mostly been extinguished, leaving behind only charred wreckage. The air was thick with the smell of charcoal and blood.

Last night, the Crusaders had stormed the city. The massacre had lasted for three hours until Eric put a stop to it, at which point it turned to looting.

Hama City held a significant position in Syria and Palestine. Economically, it was second only to Damascus, Antioch, Jerusalem, and Aleppo, serving as the most important trade hub in central Syria.

Hama City had a full seventy thousand citizens. It administered twenty-two surrounding villages and six small towns with populations over a thousand.

Yesterday’s massacre had claimed the lives of nearly eight thousand citizens, with close to three thousand more wounded.

The looting had now mostly ceased, though sporadic acts of extortion continued.

The Knights were taking stock of their spoils and organizing the surviving citizens to rebuild homes and the city walls. Some Knights were keen to plant their family banners at the highest points, letting them flutter in the wind. Eric ordered them that after planting their own flags, they must also raise the banner of Emperor Alexios.

The Christians of Hama City were the most ecstatic. They immediately ran to taunt the Muslim citizens, retaliating for the discrimination they had suffered in their daily lives.

Now the tables had turned.

Some Muslim citizens gritted their teeth, cursing the Christians as ungrateful and roaring that they should have killed all of them long ago.

But other, more shrewd Muslim citizens had no interest in such talk. Without hesitation, they took off their turbans, shaved their beards, and embroidered crosses onto their robes. They swaggered about, setting up businesses amidst the ruins; makeshift taverns and bathhouses were quickly erected.

Many of them were Armenians and Persians who had been forced to convert to escape high taxes and social discrimination. Others were simply realists and pragmatists who knew little or cared little about faith, being more concerned with worldly interests and their own survival.

After assigning guard duties to a few Knights, Eric intended to return to his camp and get some rest.

He had been busy all night.

However, just as he was about to leave, he saw four or five Pisans leading more than twenty shackled Muslims. Trailing behind them were several old men in black robes. Though the old men weren’t in chains, they were chasing after the Pisans, as if trying to make them stop.

"I said that here, under my command, no one is to be taken as a slave. Did you not hear me?" Eric drew his longsword and laid it against the Pisan’s neck.

"No, no, no, Marquis, I... w-we didn’t. They-they were already slaves!" The Pisan, terrified by Eric’s sudden outburst, hurriedly explained. He grabbed one of the Muslim’s hands and pointed at his wrist. "Look, Marquis, his wrists are covered in shackle marks. Those don’t form in a short time. It wasn’t us who shackled them; they were already in chains, put there by their own brethren."

The Pisan continued to explain, "Here’s what happened. A Muslim merchant of some standing gave them to us to save his own skin. I even asked him for proof of ownership. Look, look."

Saying this, the Pisan hastily pulled a thin booklet from his clothes and held it out to Eric.

The booklet was bound in thick, coarse leather. Its cover had markings resembling a peacock’s tail feathers, and the edges of the paper were worn and curled irregularly.

Eric withdrew his sword and opened the booklet. There were no pictures, borders, or patterns inside—only dense lines of Arabic script.

To hide his excitement, the Pisan adopted a merchant’s tone. "This booklet uses paper invented in the East—*kaghaz*, they call it in Persian. It’s the best paper that can be made right now. I heard from that Muslim merchant that his paper comes from Damascus, where they make the finest paper in the entire Muslim World.

It was first brought to Damascus by a Jew from the Samarkand Matulid District, and it’s made entirely from mulberry trees.

Feel it, Marquis. The texture is almost like silk.

The Muslims in Sicily and Andalusia can also make paper like this, but it’s nowhere near as good.

If we could get our hands on the recipe for this paper, we’d make a fortune.

Parchment would become worthless overnight! We could monopolize paper sales throughout the entire Catholic World! This is far more profitable than the slave trade."

Eric held out his hand to the Pisan. "Give me the keys."

"What?"

"I said, give me the keys to the shackles. If you’re worried about your spoils, I’ll compensate you for them later."

"But... my lord, this isn’t right. They were already slaves... I... very well. If you insist." The Pisan conceded, voluntarily taking out the keys and unlocking the Muslim slaves’ shackles.

At this, the Muslim slaves froze. They hadn’t expected this outcome. They stood there dumbfounded, their eyes fixed on Eric.

"You are free now. You are no longer slaves. Go wherever you wish, and live the lives you want to live," Eric said to them in Arabic.

The old men in black robes behind him quickly knelt and cried out, "Allah be praised."

Not facing Eric, of course, but toward Mecca.

Then the old men in black robes ran to the back of the slave line, found a young man with curly brown hair bound in a slave’s yoke, and immediately urged the Pisan to hurry up and unlock his fetters.

The slaves expressed their thanks to Eric in a mishmash of languages, the most common being, "May Allah bless you." Of course, some, noticing Eric’s Christian Identity, cleverly amended it to, "May Christ bless you."

"Thank you for your mercy, but... but... my... my lord, w-we have nowhere to go," a slave knelt before Eric.

"Then stay. As free men, this city will be governed by us. It will soon be reborn, and there will be many opportunities for work.

Do not worry about becoming slaves again, for our Imam, the Pope of Rome, has warned us that Christians do not enslave Christians.

A Christian who heeds the teachings of Catholicism will never be bought or sold."

Eric hadn’t finished speaking when he was interrupted by a scream of pain.

The young man with curly brown hair was brandishing a sword, one he had just snatched from the Pisan when he wasn’t looking.

Before him, a slave clutched at the side of his head in agony. A bloody ear fell to the ground.

The young man raised the sword and laid it against the slave’s neck.

"Stop," Eric commanded.

"Stop? Why?" The young man looked up at Eric and smiled, his face sincere and guileless.

"You are about to kill a free man. You are all free men now. The penalty for killing a free man is death," Eric said.

"A free man? No, he’s a slave. His shackles haven’t been removed yet. He’s still a slave." The young man was adamant, showing no fear of Eric.

The young man with the curly brown hair was not tall, and his face could almost be described as beautiful. He wore tattered clothes, his skin was tanned dark by the sun, and his eyes were an unusual shade of green with pale lashes. His features seemed carved from stone, hard-set, yet he wore a pleasant expression, as if he had just discovered that life was a wonderful surprise.

"But if you take his life," Eric continued, "then I will have to take yours."

The young man considered this trade, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

"Why? Don’t you know he’s a bad man? All these people can testify. He’s the Slave Master. Even though he was a slave himself, he was more hateful than any master. The evil things he’s done..." the young man asked, not in a panic, but as if he genuinely wanted to know.

"Because that is the law," Eric said.

"The law? Why don’t you ask this guy if he understands the law?"

"This is my law," Eric said. "And I want him to carry a message to all the people of Hama and the Levant."

"What message?"

"Christians do not enslave Christians. There are no slaves in a Christian city."

The young man tilted his head thoughtfully, seeming to mull over this message. Apparently satisfied, he tucked the sword under his arm and fumbled with the drawstring of his pants.

"You can carry a message to the people of Hama, too," the young man said to the ’Slave Master’. "This one." After speaking, he began to urinate on the ’Slave Master’. "This is all you deserve, you piece of scum."

The young man urinated for a long time, deliberately aiming a precise stream that thoroughly soaked the ’Slave Master’s’ hair. When he finally finished, he tied his pants back up and flashed another brilliant smile at Eric.

"You’re the leader of these Christian soldiers?" the young man asked.

"I am." Eric didn’t mind letting him speak.

"Stop your whining," the young man said to the ’Slave Master’, then smiled at Eric again. "Then perhaps you would be honored to serve me?"

"Serve you?" Eric asked.

Eric was starting to find this amusing.

"I am Shansi," the young man said, as if that explained everything.

"That name means nothing to me," Eric said with a smile.

"Oh, I forgot. I thought you were from around here. I am Shansi, son of Damascus Bey Aziz." The young man scratched his head. "How about you pledge your allegiance to me? I think you’re a good man."

"Why should I serve the son of Aziz?" Eric said deliberately.

Eric knew of Damascus Bey Aziz. Aziz was finished. The Damascus Duchy that Aziz himself had founded had been usurped by Tutush.

"Because until you arrived, I was just a slave," Shansi said. "But now—well, because you came, now I am the Great Bey! No, I should be King, because I pledge allegiance to no one. Others pledge allegiance to me."

Shansi spoke with great passion, so excited that the words tumbled out of him.

"You’re a King," Eric said teasingly. "But of what country?"

"Of Syria and Palestine, of course! What you Franks call the Levant. Levant... Levant. I like that word. I will rule every inch of this land," Shansi said, a brilliant smile on his face.

"He is, my lord. He is, he is," one of the old men in black robes behind Shansi said gravely.